Death on Demand

by Paul Thomas

  “Did he actually go to Picton?”

  “Shit no, that’s when he took off. Turned out he bullshitted everyone. His olds thought he was with us, we thought he was camping with his sister, buggered if I know where she thought he was. By the time everyone realized they’d been had, he was fuck knows where.”

  “So you came up for the funeral?”

  “No, no, I work in the market gardens out at Pukekohe – Mum sent me the death notice from the local paper.” He shrugged awkwardly. “With Eve gone and Sheila – that’s Warren’s old girl – pretty much wiping him, I thought if I don’t front, there won’t be anyone from the old days. Not that he gave a shit about them, obviously. Or us.”

  “Did you have a sense of that back then?”

  “Not at all.” Smith was relaxed now; he didn’t mind going back in time. Perhaps adulthood had been a letdown. “That’s why it was such a bloody shock. Far as I knew, he was the same as the rest of us – pretty keen to get away from home, but it wasn’t like Greytown was the arsehole of the universe. I’ve always wondered if the shit we gave him over the woman in the café had something to do with it.”

  “What was that about?”

  “Well, Warren was a chick magnet, right? I mean, he just took his pick of the girls our age. He had a part-time job at a café run by this couple, Donna and Craig. Donna was pretty bloody choice, but in her mid-twenties I guess, so she was out of his league. Warren might’ve been too cool for school and all that, but he was still a kid. Anyway, Warren started going on and on about Donna, plus he was hanging out at the café even when he wasn’t working, so a few of us were saying, ‘Jesus mate, what’s up with this Donna? Are you in love with her or what?’ He’d be going, ‘No, no, I’m just saying she’s really cool,’ or whatever. Then one day Donna and Craig shot through; didn’t say a word to anyone, including Warren. He tried not to show it, but you could tell he was gutted. Everyone gave him fucking heaps. You got to remember he was the man, different girlfriend every second week while the rest of us were wondering where our next hand-job’s coming from. The sheilas ripped into him as well, because he’d given most of them the old bum’s rush at some stage. You’d have to say he handled it okay, but it must’ve pissed him off. Here’s a guy, ever since his balls dropped he’s had chicks all over him and guys envying him, now suddenly he’s copping shit from everyone. So as I said, I wondered if that had something to do with him buggering off.”

  Ihaka was looking at it another way. Donna and Craig just up and disappear. Warren follows suit. Was it copycat, or did he know where they’d gone and go after them?

  “You remember their surnames?”

  Smith shook his head. “Don’t think I ever knew.”

  “Would anyone in Greytown?”

  “Doubt it. I’ll ask Mum, but it’s a long time ago now. Most of that crowd have scattered.”

  “How well did you know Eve?” said Ihaka.

  “Well, she was Warren’s big sister. I had a bit of a crush on her to tell the truth, but as far as she was concerned I was just one of Warren’s little mates. She probably couldn’t tell us apart. Christ, she bloody doted on him, though. I used to say to my sister, ‘Why are you such a bitch? Why can’t you be more like Eve?’ You can probably guess what she came back with.”

  “Why can’t you be more like Warren?”

  “Spot on.”

  Ihaka never saw Finbar McGrail’s old house, but from what he’d heard it was exactly what you would have expected back then: a modest family home in an unremarkable street in a suburb notable only for having more Bible-bashers per capita than any other in Auckland. Now that he’d moved up in the world, home was a gracious villa on a leafy section on the slopes of Mt Eden.

  Ihaka stood on the wide veranda, waiting for someone to answer the door and having second thoughts about his spur-of-the-moment decision to drop in unannounced on the Auckland District Commander at 9.30 p.m. The door was opened by a lanky teenager in baggy surf shorts and a singlet, with a baseball cap on backwards keeping heavy-metal hair off his face. Apart from all that, he was the spitting image of his old man.

  Before Ihaka could introduce himself, McGrail Junior said, “You’re Sergeant Ihaka, right? I met you a few years ago when Dad took me into Central. We arrived just as you were giving someone a blast. It was quite an eye-opener.”

  “I remember. You were just a little squirt.”

  “Well, it must be seven or eight years ago now. I’m David, by the way.” They shook hands. “Come in. You’re here to see Dad?”

  “Is he around?”

  “Yeah, he’s in his study.”

  Ihaka followed David down the corridor. “I suppose you picked up a few new words that day?”

  David threw a grin over his shoulder. “I was straight onto Google as soon as we got home.”

  He knocked and put his head around the door. “Sergeant Ihaka’s here.”

  From within: “Really?”

  Ihaka thanked David and went in. McGrail was sitting at what looked like an old farmhouse kitchen table surrounded by stacks of documents, each a foot high. Bookshelves covered one wall and the curtains were partially drawn over the French doors which opened out to the rear of the section. Behind McGrail was a sideboard with framed family photos and some bottles and glasses on a silver tray.

  McGrail got up, peeling off his reading glasses. “This is an unexpected pleasure. Can I offer you a nightcap?”

  Ihaka shrugged. “Well, if you’re having one.”

  McGrail directed Ihaka to a chair and handed him a glass of port. “To be savoured.”

  “As opposed to drunk?”

  “As opposed to swilled.”

  Ihaka took a sip. “I don’t suppose you get this by the cardboard box at the local Pak’nSave?”

  “I shouldn’t think so,” said McGrail. “Nineteen ninety-four was an outstanding vintage.”

  “Speaking of the finer things in life,” said Ihaka. “Nice place you’ve got here.”

  “We like it.”

  “Be worth a bit, wouldn’t it?”

  McGrail smiled thinly. “Have you had your house valued lately?”

  Ihaka shook his head.

  “You should. You’d probably find it’s worth quite a lot more than it was five years ago. But I don’t suppose you called in at this hour to compare property portfolios.”

  “I’m still curious about Blair Corvine.”

  McGrail looked down, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Oh, we’re back on that subject, are we? I would’ve thought you had enough to be going on with at the minute.”

  “You know I’ve talked to people, I’ve read the report, I’ve kept my ear to the ground, but I haven’t seen or heard any mention of what Corvine told you, presumably in this very room, just before he was shot.”

  “About thieves stealing from other thieves?”

  “And the whisper that a cop was in on it.”

  McGrail went through his routine: sniff, sip, swirl, swallow. “Corvine had no names, no details, just a rumour he’d heard from one of his outlaw acquaintances. As you know, Sergeant, the criminal fraternity accuses us of all sorts of things, knowing that there’ll always be some useful idiot who’ll give it credence. Having said that, I didn’t dismiss it out of hand. I asked Charlton to look into it.”

  “And?”

  “Well, as you can imagine, information was hard to come by because the victims weren’t filing into Central to lay complaints. He established that there’d been an uptick in what one might call dog-eat-dog activity, but found no evidence of what Corvine was talking about.”

  On his way home Ihaka rang Detective Inspector Johan Van Roon in Wellington.

  “You seen where McGrail lives these days?”

  “Yeah, I have,” said Van Roon. “Not too shabby, is it?”

  “In my subtle way I invited him to put a ballpark figure on it. He ignored me, of course. What would you say?”

  “I’m no expert, but I wouldn’t have thought
you’d get much change from one and a half mill.”

  “Fuck me, nice for some. And his beverage of choice is 1994 port, an outstanding vintage, so he tells me.”

  “What did I tell you?” said Van Roon. “It’s all changed up there, mate. Every bastard’s looking after number one.”

  14

  Ihaka was having breakfast – porridge, boiled eggs, Vogel’s with cholesterol-free spread, tea with two fewer spoonfuls of sugar than he used to have – when Helen Conroy called to say she’d tracked down the woman who introduced her to Arden Black. She’d lost touch with Margie Brackstone when Margie and her husband moved to Akaroa, where they had an apparently charming bed and breakfast.

  He told her there’d be a press conference in an hour’s time to announce arrests in connection with Black’s murder, but so far that hadn’t led to progress on the blackmail front.

  “Well, it’s only been a few days,” said Conroy. “I know I shouldn’t expect miracles, even if I can’t help praying for one.”

  “Let me know if you hear back,” said Ihaka. “I prefer to work alone, but I’m prepared to make an exception for God.”

  When Margie Brackstone answered the phone, Ihaka told her, “Listen carefully, Mrs Brackstone. I’m Detective Sergeant Ihaka, calling from Auckland. I need to talk to you about Arden Black, but I’m picking that’s a conversation you won’t want to have if your husband’s around.”

  “Uh, no. Not at all.”

  “Is he there now?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay, here’s what you do. When I finish talking, you say, ‘I don’t think we’re really interested, thanks all the same,’ and hang up. If your husband asks, tell him it was someone wanting you to take part in a survey of drinking habits, or whatever. Get yourself sorted so you can talk, then ring me at Auckland Central. What do you say now?”

  “Look, I don’t think so, thank you. I’m rather busy just now. Goodbye.”

  “I thought I’d put all this behind me,” said Margie Brackstone three hours later. “I just heard on the radio that two men have been arrested.”

  “There’s still a few loose ends,” said Ihaka.

  “Did Arden’s death have anything to do with his love life, for want of a better term? Not that love had much to do with it.”

  “One of the loose ends is motive. We don’t know why he was murdered. Are you okay to talk?”

  “Yes, my husband’s having lunch with some friends over at French Farm vineyard. I pulled out at the last minute. The only good thing about being prone to migraines is that they’re very useful when it comes to getting out of things. Just as a matter of interest, how did my name crop up?”

  “I asked a client of Arden’s how she got involved; she put me onto Helen Conroy, who put me onto you.”

  “I see.”

  “No one else knows about this, Mrs Brackstone. As I told Helen, I can’t make promises, but I’ll do my best to keep it just between us.”

  “That would be enormously appreciated.”

  “So how did you meet Arden?”

  “I was walking the dog in Cornwall Park one Saturday morning and ran into this woman I vaguely knew, who was there watching her little boy play cricket. It was a bit awkward, really, because she’d had an affair with a friend of ours who was quite a bit older than her, and the general consensus was that she wasn’t smitten by his looks and personality, if you get my drift. As it turned out, we did her an injustice because she walked out on him. Anyway, while we were chatting, Arden appeared and she introduced us.”

  “That friend of yours,” said Ihaka. “The older bloke wouldn’t have been Christopher Lilywhite by any chance?”

  “Well, yes, as a matter of fact, it was. But how…?”

  “Which I guess makes the woman Denise Hadlow?”

  “My God,” she said. “Ihaka. I was so thrown when you rang I didn’t place you. You’re the one who gave Chris such a hard time when Joyce was killed. Weren’t you packed off to the wop-wops?”

  “I’m back.”

  “I suppose it’s all academic now.”

  Oh, no it fucking isn’t, thought Ihaka. It’s just starting to get real. “Did you get the impression Denise and Arden were an item?”

  “I just assumed so. We swapped phone numbers and I rang her the next day, overcompensating, as usual, to congratulate her on a good catch. She said no, he was just a friend, someone she’d known for ages. I said something like ‘He’s not gay is he? That would be a waste.’ God no, she said, he’s straight as a die and, what’s more, he’s into older women. Every time I think of this conversation, I wish to God I’d ended it right there instead of making some facetious remark along the lines of ‘Too bad I’m married’. She laughed and said that wouldn’t bother Arden and, besides, you can still window-shop when you’re on a budget, so why don’t we meet for coffee at his café in Newmarket? No harm in that, I thought – my second mistake. I turned up – no Denise. Next thing Arden comes over. Denise had texted to say she’d been held up so he’d keep me company. The rest, as they say, is history.”

  Denise Hadlow checked Ihaka out through the peephole, which was sensible seeing it was dark and he’d hadn’t rung ahead.

  She opened the door, striking a pose: head on one side, knee bent, hand on hip. She was barefoot with her hair pulled back into a ponytail, wearing skintight black leggings and a precarious white singlet. He was reminded of the models in those women’s health and fitness magazines which tell you how to live to be a hundred and have sensational sex all the way there.

  “Excuse the outfit,” she said. “I was exercising.”

  “I didn’t notice.”

  “So much for Pilates then.” She checked her watch. “I guess coffee doesn’t keep you awake?”

  “It’s not a social call.”

  “Oh, well, in that case I’ll put some clothes on.” She led him through to the living room. “Make yourself at home.”

  Hadlow reappeared in an oversized hoodie that ended mid-thigh, shaking out her hair. She sat down opposite him, tucking her legs underneath her. “I’m afraid there’s no beer.”

  “As I said, this isn’t a social call.”

  “Fine.” She pulled a cushion onto her lap. “Billy will be sorry he missed you. He’s just gone to bed. He took quite a shine to you.”

  “He doesn’t know me.”

  “Oh my God,” she exclaimed. “I get that it’s not a social call, but does that mean you actually have to be antisocial?”

  “I was surprised I didn’t see you at Arden Black’s funeral.”

  She held his stare. “Is that what this is about? What’s the big deal? I’m not that into funerals, okay? One a month is my limit. And especially with what happened to Arden – that really creeped me out.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me you knew him?”

  “You didn’t ask.”

  “He was murdered. I’m a cop. Most people would’ve mentioned it.”

  She shrugged, affecting boredom. “I didn’t realize you were working on it, and I wouldn’t have had anything useful to say.” She disentangled her legs and stood up in one fluid movement. “I’m having a glass of wine. Sure I can’t tempt you?”

  “I’m okay. I thought you didn’t drink at home.”

  “I never said never. I never do.”

  She returned with a glass of white wine, settling back on the sofa. “Cheers,” she said, laying on the irony.

  Ihaka aimed his cellphone camera at her. “Say cheese.”

  Instead she said, “What the fuck?”

  He put his phone away. “A guy called Glen Smith turned up at the funeral. He grew up with Arden – let’s give him his real name, Warren Duckmanton – in Greytown.” Hadlow raised so-what? eyebrows as if she had no idea where this was going. “He told me Warren got hung up on this woman, Donna, who ran a café with her boyfriend. Not long after Donna and the boyfriend skipped town, Warren followed suit. The reason I took your photo is that I have this theory you and Donna are
one and the same. Glen can tell me whether I’m right.”

  Hadlow shook her head slowly, eyes wide. “This is all based on me not telling you I knew Arden, even though I had no reason to?”

  “Not quite. You’re the right age and you fit the bill. Glen thinks Warren shot through and never came back because his mates gave him such a hard time over this Donna, but I reckon he knew where she was and went after her. See, I doubt the Warren-Donna thing was all one-way traffic.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “The fact that Warren couldn’t stand cricket.”

  Hadlow put her glass down and plonked her chin on the heel of her hand. “Right,” she said, drawing the word out. “You know, it’s a real privilege watching a master detective at work.”

  “I spoke to Margie Brackstone today. Ring a bell?”

  Something stirred in Hadlow’s eyes. She shifted on the sofa, ironic detachment giving way to fidgety distraction. “You introduced her to Arden, as he’d become, at Billy’s cricket. I was wondering why a guy with zero interest in cricket would watch a kid’s game, and I came up with another theory: Arden’s the daddy.”

  Hadlow threw the cushion aside and swung her legs out from under her, sitting up straight. “Well, whoop-de-do, you win a set of steak knives and your choice of soft toy. Would you like the bunny rabbit or the teddy bear? So you’ve found out I went by another name in a former life and made up a story to fob off those nosey pricks who thought it was their business who Billy’s father was. Correct me if I’m wrong, but neither of those things are against the law, are they? Which makes me wonder, why exactly are you here?”

  “I’m coming to that. Arden fucked older women for money. You obviously knew that. In fact, I reckon you were in on it. That’s my third theory: you were the finder. You got him together with bored women looking for excitement and prepared to pay for it; he provided the excitement, you took a cut. Everyone’s a winner, baby.”

  “You have a very low opinion of me, don’t you?”