Ro made an effort. ‘Congratulations, Lauren, fantastic work. I’m sorry I was tied up yesterday.’
Lauren could hardly remember how euphoric she’d been when she’d rung Ro on Monday evening. Before she rang Phyl and the appointment with Deirdre. Huh! She’d told Ro they’d got him for sure. And then Ro had crowed into the phone, full of congratulations and appreciation.
Now, Ro was coming back into the present, her thoughts no longer on her work. She said, ‘I’ve been thinking about your new findings. We should take them to the police, don’t you agree?’
Lauren confessed. ‘I know you were keen to keep it a secret till you could write up everything, but I thought the police should know what we’d found, and you were so busy. I’ve told them. And they knew it all already!’ She gave Ro a blow-by-blow account of her talk to Michael and subsequent visit to Mrs Driscoll, talking to Phyl about it and her interview with Deirdre. She ended on a plaintive note. ‘I think we’re stuck. I’m not sure what to do next. And where are you at?’
Ro looked at her sympathetically. ‘You’ve done well. The Butler interview was good stuff. And great to get that material from Michael. I’m keen to do more ferreting now that I’ve finally got the book in. I can chase up that little swine Kevin a bit more. I think he’s mentioned several times in my interviews, not in relation to the plot of course, but what say I go and see a couple of my informants again? There’s Moana, the other woman Judith said Kevin was having an affair with, and Catherine, Judith’s flatmate.’
Lauren sighed. ‘But how could they help?’
‘You never know, he might have said something to Moana about the plot. Judith might have said something to her flatmate. I can only ask.’
‘I suppose politicians are terrible gossips. It seems like a long shot.’
Ro looked at Lauren, slumped in her chair. ‘Don’t be so gloomy.’
‘Sorry.’ Lauren sat up straighter. ‘I know, thinking of long shots, I could try to follow up on that registrar Deirdre mentioned, the one who picked up on the aconite in Lange’s system. He might have something useful.’
‘Good luck finding him, it was over thirty years ago. I’ll start doing the research for what to write if we do get the details of the plot uncovered. The business end first, I think, because that’s the most likely source of Kevin’s fellow plotters. Do you think your Brett would have been in the Backbone Club?’
‘I thought that was just Labour MPs who backed Douglas?’
Ro put on her lecturer’s hat. ‘No, there were Douglas’s business backers as well. It turned into the ACT party.’
‘In that case, he probably was. I might well hear from him soon. Damn! I really don’t want to entertain his wife, I can’t imagine I’d have much in common with anyone who wanted to hook up with Brett. Student days were different, but you’d expect mature women to have more sense.’
Ro laughed. ‘Money talks. It also probably breeds affection, or perhaps she’s a gold digger.’
‘I’m just gloomy about relationships at the moment. I think Kirsten and I are on the way out.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that.’ Ro looked concerned but perhaps not sorry. ‘What’s been going on?’
‘She’s caught up in an Auckland crowd. They’re younger, glamorous, work hard, play hard types. I’m sure she fancies one of them–Bee used to be a star netballer.’
‘I don’t see how anyone could compete with you, Lauren.’ Ro blushed, though Lauren didn’t notice.
‘Oh well,’ Lauren wanted to change the subject. ‘Que sera, sera.’
‘Maybe Brett’s wife will be a new interest for you.’ They both laughed. Ro said more seriously, ‘Now you’re not to be off-putting with Brett’s wife, being friendly could help with our investigation.’
When Lauren got home, she couldn’t settle to any editing, and she decided to follow up on the registrar who’d ordered the aconite tests all those years ago. Perhaps he was still living in Auckland.
She found it was easy to look up doctors on the New Zealand Medical Council’s searchable database online. Within thirty seconds she found that Dr Anthony Waddell, whose scope of practice was cardiology, was currently in the Waikato District Health Board area. The White Pages again, and she found a likely phone number.
She phoned the Hamilton number. It wasn’t right, but the woman who answered was helpful. She knew of a Dr Waddell, not related, who’d done a difficult operation successfully on a friend. Lauren listened patiently while it was described and then asked the woman if she knew his phone number.
‘He lives in Tamahere, I believe,’ said the Waddell woman. ‘I know that because my friend lives there and helps out at the local church. She said that he came with his grandson to look at their nativity display and told her they’d recently moved onto a ten-acre block.’ Lauren interrupted. ‘Thanks so much, that’ll be enough information to find the number, if he’s listed.’
And listed he was. She dialled, not expecting to find a medical specialist at home during the day, but she got straight through. She talked of a quest to understand David Lange’s illness back in 1988 - she didn’t mention a plot but did refer to her historian friend who was suspicious about the circumstances. The doctor proved surprisingly forthcoming.
‘I’m glad someone’s looking into it after all these years. I spoke to the police at the time but it didn’t go anywhere. All hush hush, I suppose. But back in those days, when I was an ambitious young man,’–there was a hint of false modesty–‘I wanted to publish in scientific journals. I had just been to a conference on toxicology and cardiac events and recalled something that was said about aconite’s effect on the heart and the other symptoms it produced, including unusual visual symptoms.
‘Look, I’m not going to break patient confidentiality even at this distance, but I can send you an article I wrote. I was confident that Lange had ingested a large dose of aconite. I understood that the police located a herbal tonic he was taking that contained traces of it, but not enough to make a person ill. As a young doctor, I found it all very interesting and I published a case history, anonymous of course. In a rather obscure journal of toxicology, but I can find a reprint in my files and scan it and send it to you.’
Lauren thanked him profusely and gave him her email address.
An hour or so later, the email came through. Essentially, the article concluded that because the patient already had a heart problem, it would have been easy to miss the signs of aconite poisoning. Identifying it meant that steps were taken to purge the patient’s system of any residual poisons before a surgical intervention to fix the cardiac problems was carried out.
Lauren sighed. An interesting paper, she supposed, but she was still no further ahead. What she wanted was proof that Kevin had somehow got hold of a lethal amount of his mother’s aconite powder and added it to a flask of Lange’s tonic. And that seemed out of reach.
13
‘Hearts of controversy’
Her phone chirped a few days later with a text from Brett. ‘Just making contact. My wife would like to get in touch.’ She’d replied civilly and shortly afterwards another text followed from a different number. ‘Hi Lauren, this is Darya, Brett’s wife. I’m in town on Wednesday. Could we meet in the afternoon?’
Lauren suggested Te Papa. New Zealand’s national museum was where she usually took visitors when they first came to Wellington. She and her friends could not settle their argument about its architectural merit, but no one could contest the fact that its setting on the waterfront was glorious. The whole harbour frontage improved each year with sculptures, walkways and plantings.
Now Lauren hovered inside Te Papa’s entrance. It was a typical Wellington day, windy, with clouds scudding fast across the sky, and patches of sunshine in between. The harbour rippled and waves slapped against the nearby wharves. Lauren looked up as an elegant woman carrying several shopping bags came through the entrance looking around. Lauren had said she could be identified by her short grey hair with a pur
ple streak in it.
The woman inspected her and then approached. ‘You are Lauren?’ she said, in an accented voice, tripping over Lauren’s name and pronouncing it as ‘Lorne’.
‘Yes. Pleased to meet you, Darya.’ Lauren showed her the cloakroom where she could offload shopping bags. They took the escalator up to the information desk on the first floor, but not before Lauren had noticed Darya taking in the shop on the ground floor.
‘Shall we look at an exhibition and then have a coffee, or coffee first?’ she asked. ‘There’s New Zealand art on the top floors, permanent Māori, Pacific and natural history displays and a special exhibition of ceramics in New Zealand. What would you be interested in?’
Darya’s expression was difficult to read and Lauren wasn’t sure how good her English was. Perhaps she found the New Zealand accent difficult, although Lauren’s time in England had ironed the Newzild out of hers. And she prided herself on speaking clearly. But it seemed Darya was considering the question, not puzzling over what Lauren had said.
‘The ceramics,’ she replied. ‘My family back in the Ukraine manufactured china. As a child, I used to visit my grandfather’s factory. Most of what they made was for the peasants, cheap and crude dishes.’ Her watchful expression was supplanted as her face came alive. ‘But grandmother had great taste. Nothing but the best of German fine china at her table.’
As they walked around the exhibition, Lauren noticed that Darya certainly had an eye for quality. The exhibition was organised as a series of table settings, laid out by decades and including Crown Lynn, Temuka stoneware and New Zealand’s traditional craft pottery. It also featured imported Meissen, Wedgwood, Portmeirion and Rosenthal tableware. Lauren was transported through time, remembering meals from childhood. Her own grandmother, though clearly not wealthy like Darya’s, had treasured some Wedgwood pieces which reminded her of ‘Home’. That was how her grandmother had referred to England, Lauren recalled, even though she had been born in New Zealand and had never had the opportunity to see the villages in Kent and Sussex where her parents had been born.
Lauren couldn’t help bristling when Darya made critical comments about the earthenware pottery. Although she had not been in New Zealand in the seventies, visitors had sometimes brought Lauren gifts of the artisanal hand-thrown mugs so popular then. A few choice pieces were amongst her own treasures now. ‘A country of peasants,’ Darya said with a sigh. ‘I suppose I will feel at home.’
Lauren didn’t expect conversation over their coffee to be easy, but they found shared interests. A true cosmopolitan, Darya spoke of Wagner’s Ring cycle in Munich, the Bolshoi Ballet in St Petersburg and the Chinese terracotta warriors at their home site in Xian. The conversation veered to more personal topics and Lauren learnt that Darya’s family had been out of favour–and hence out of pocket–under communism, but that since then, Darya had clawed her way back to what she considered her rightful sphere through at least two advantageous marriages, the second to Brett. Not that Darya put it like that; but she made it plain that she considered herself a cut above most people. She seemed prepared to give Lauren the benefit of the doubt–Lauren, too, had seen the warriors at Xian–remarking that Brett remembered Lauren from his student days as a clever, cultured girl.
Darya finished her coffee, looked around, and said almost offhandedly, ‘Brett has some men friends coming over some weekend soon to the house we have hired in the Wairarapa. They are looking at the piece of land we will buy. I would be pleased if you would join us. I think there are vineyards there to inspect?’
Lauren knew that she should take this opportunity to find out more about Brett, although her heart sank at the thought of a whole weekend with the couple and whoever Brett’s friends might be. She agreed that there were indeed vineyards in the Wairarapa and accepted the invitation with as good a grace as she could muster. Providing, of course, that she had no other engagements. The talk turned to what they should look at next and Darya thought she would have time before meeting Brett to inspect the New Zealand paintings.
They walked up to the fifth floor and through the New Zealand art on display. Lauren thought it would have been more helpful if the collection had been displayed by decades, so that visitors could get a sense of trends. She said to Darya, ‘You need to see more of the country before you can appreciate our art. It reflects our surroundings. The light is very strong here and colours are brighter.’
Darya made her way through several of the art spaces and said little, until she stopped in front of the Rita Angus painting of two sisters. She seemed quite taken with the look of the blonde chubby children in gingham dresses and green cardigans. ‘Here is an interesting work,’ she said. ‘Tell me about this artist. Is she living?’
Lauren said, ‘No, that painting dates from the 1950s. She is an important New Zealand artist, but no longer alive.’
‘I will look for her work in other places. If she has other paintings like this, I might collect her.’
Lauren was astonished.
‘Brett collects books and old maps which I find boring, but he has a nice Hockney. I have a couple of Picasso sketches from a previous marriage, but I am keen to add to my collection. It would give me an interest while I am in New Zealand.’
Lauren tried not to smile at the idea of Rita Angus and Picasso displayed somewhere side by side. She wouldn’t mind having a couple of Picassos, though, and then buying some good New Zealand art to go with them. She said, ‘I would be happy to come with you if you are looking at art works in private galleries. There might be other artists whose work you would enjoy.’
‘Thank you,’ said Darya, ‘I will probably hire an agent. However, I would enjoy looking at some more art with you, but please not that brown earthenware.’
Lauren laughed, promised, and they parted. She started her walk home. Darya wasn’t so bad, just on a completely different planet. Though the idea of spending a whole weekend with her was unappealing. And Brett! How was she to get anything out of him about the 1980s? She thought he had lied to her about Kevin and he was such a smooth liar. Perhaps she could trip him up. But how? A seagull screeched, disrupting her train of thought. She paused and glanced over to see it diving into the water. That seagull would have more luck than she would, when she fished around to winkle something out of the smooth-talking Brett. Suddenly the harbour looked vast with its unimaginable hidden depths.
She shook her head and walked on. She wondered what Ro was up to. Perhaps she was having some success, re-interviewing the Labour women MPs who might have more to say about Kevin. But then she remembered. Ro was preoccupied.
Ro had been surprised to receive a call from John Barwood, a researcher on the Kim Hill radio show. ‘We got a press release about your Stout Centre conference. Kim picked out your work as maybe worth an interview. Do you mind if we have a chat so that I can give her some background?’ Ro was a fan of Kim Hill from way back. And an interview would be great publicity for her book. Many of her friends sweetened the pill of Saturday morning chores by listening to Kim.
‘I’d love to talk to you–and Kim,’ she said. ‘I’m flattered.’ She told Barwood that the theme of the conference had been gender and the history of emotions. ‘Please do explain,’ he said politely. ‘I have no idea what that’s all about.’
‘Psychologists argue that emotions are socially constructed, that is, they differ across time and place depending on culture and circumstance.’ Ro was in lecturing mode. ‘Historians have picked up on that idea and investigate how emotions are expressed in different historical eras.’ Shut up, she told herself. She’d better get to the point or the interview would be down the tubes. ‘My work is on women in the Lange government, I’m writing a book about them, which will be out next year. The history of emotion angle is that the women politicians did what feminists call “emotional shitwork” ’–John audibly drew breath.
‘Perhaps I can’t use that term on public radio,’ Ro laughed. ‘You can advise me on that.’ She went on, ‘It m
eans that women in politics do the same kind of emotional work that they do in a marriage. They offer a listening ear, soothe the men, smooth out conflicts and so on. And men in politics seem to need a lot of emotional soothing. Sometimes that takes the form of affairs.’
‘Really?’ Barwood sounded interested.
‘Yes,’ Ro said. ‘In any job where people spend a lot of their time away from home, affairs are common. And life in politics is so full of ups and downs, it’s a breeding ground for affairs. And affairs are a great conduit for exchange of insider information. Historians who ignore pillow talk miss out on a lot.’
They went on to discuss specific examples of emotional labour and Barwood said he was sure that Ro would make a good interviewee. ‘Don’t lecture, though. Radio audiences like to hear dialogue, not monologues. Of course Kim is masterful when it comes to getting a word in edgeways.’
So true, Ro thought. They agreed on a time during the week for Kim to interview her–it would be pre-recorded, not live–and he told her it would be broadcast next Saturday, barring any big news events getting in the way. Hanging up, Ro did a little dance of glee. She would tell all her friends so that they could listen in. Not bragging, of course. Lauren would be first to know.
The interview went smoothly, although she was unaccountably nervous. Kim Hill asked her about her work and was particularly interested in Ro’s point about affairs and pillow talk. Ro explained that with affairs in politics, it’s the women who soothe raging egos, damping down the testosterone flying around when men are squabbling. ‘Men confide intimate details to women–and my book will contain surprising revelations about what was going on at the time of the Lange-Douglas split. I can’t say more at the moment. There are some matters we have to get a legal opinion on before publishing. There’s a particular accusation that hasn’t been made before.’
The One That Got Away Page 11
