Starlight Peninsula

by Grimshaw, Charlotte

  ‘Jaeger’s act for the Hallwrights.’

  ‘Yeah. The Soon franchise. Soonworld. All that.’

  ‘All that,’ Simon repeated. A look of intense calculation in his eyes.

  ‘Here,’ Eloise said. She turned over the photo of Arthur sitting on a rock, the green West Coast bush behind him. The intensity of his expression. His pale, young face and startling eyes.

  Simon made a sound in his throat. He swallowed.

  Eloise frowned. ‘He always wore that shirt. It was his favourite.’

  His thin legs crossed, one pale ankle visible, a boyish sock. His face was pale, his lips blue. Faint purple shadows under his eyes. Rain had slicked his hair down across his scalp, and his arms were folded tightly across his chest.

  ‘He’s cold,’ Simon whispered.

  ‘Yes. It was freezing. The rain was bucketing down. But it was beautiful, in a, you know, melancholy, atmospheric way. We were somewhere near Greymouth. We walked along a river that was banked by big grey stones. And we came to a kind of mystery, a pile of deers’ feet, heaped on the bank. Left there by hunters. It was eerie.’

  ‘He’s so young.’ Simon reached out as if to take the picture, drew back. ‘I have a son looks about that age.’

  Eloise traced the edges of the photo with her finger. ‘I’d like to have a son.’

  ‘Maybe you will, one day.’

  ‘I need a man first. At least briefly. Or I could do an Anita O’Keefe. I’m conducting a poll, by the way. Asking everyone. Who do you think’s the father?’

  Simon looked straight at her, searching her face.

  ‘Of Baby O’Keefe?’ she prompted.

  ‘No idea,’ he said.

  Eloise thought for a moment. ‘Most people make a guess. One out of the front bench. Jack Dance. Colin Cahane. Ed Miles.’

  He shrugged.

  ‘Funny. For some reason, you’ve made me imagine you know the answer.’

  ‘I told you, I’ve got no idea.’

  ‘Maybe you do know, since you’re friends with the Hallwrights.’

  ‘Why would they know?’

  ‘As political insiders. Members of the inner circle. Is Ed Miles a friend of yours?’

  He made a slight face. ‘No.’

  ‘Oh, you don’t like him?’

  ‘I didn’t say that.’

  ‘I’ve met him up at Q, when he’s been in for interviews. He’s unnerving. His eyes bore into you.’

  ‘That’s true. He’s very observant.’

  ‘What was it like being on holiday with him?’

  ‘Fine. Very pleasant.’

  ‘Pleasant! You know, I met him in passing, at Q, and it was strange, he knew my name.’

  ‘Why is that strange?’

  ‘I hadn’t been dealing with him directly. We hadn’t been introduced. Why should he know my name?’

  ‘Maybe he makes it his business “to know everything”. Part of his scary aura.’

  ‘So you admit he’s scary.’

  ‘Well, sure. He’s about as cuddly as a lizard. But he’s trying to soften his image.’

  ‘Because he wants to take over from Jack Dance.’

  ‘So they say. Dance is low in the polls, and Miles wants the job.’

  ‘And Miles is maybe fuelling the illegal spying allegations against Dance? Secretly helping the Opposition fan the flames.’

  ‘Possibly, but I don’t follow politics closely.’

  ‘And your friend Hallwright’s helping Miles. Hallwright, back from Monte Carlo or wherever. He’s supposedly been meeting with Miles. Plotting.’

  ‘I wouldn’t know.’

  There was a silence. They were looking hard at each other. Eloise put her hand on his arm. ‘Simon. If there was something funny about Arthur’s death …’

  He drew back. ‘It sounds like a tragic accident.’

  ‘But if there was something odd about it … Arthur rang you at Rotokauri while Hallwright and Miles were there. The fact that he called you was investigated …’

  ‘It was nothing to do with Miles or David … with Hallwright. The only tenuous link is between me and Arthur, because the records showed he rang me twice. He was looking for gossip. Simple as that. The police made a quick inquiry, found nothing. End of story.’

  ‘It’s just, I was thinking, Jack Dance would like to find something on Ed Miles and Hallwright.’

  Simon folded his arms across his chest. ‘I understand you’ve got caught up in this idea of looking back. Now that your marriage has ended, and you’re on your own, brooding perhaps. And you’ve got these ideas about “something funny” and “digging dirt” and “mysteries”. But from what I’ve seen, politics doesn’t work like that. Not in our boring little country. Jack Dance will be trying to save himself in the usual way. Shoring up support. Rallying his base. Whatever they do. No black ops. No cloak and dagger.’

  ‘Brooding? How very patronising.’

  ‘Sorry. I just mean politics isn’t like that here. You don’t get secrets and mysteries. From what I’ve witnessed — in the time I spent at Rotokauri, for example — it’s all incredibly humdrum and tedious. Admin. Bureaucracy. Committees.’

  Eloise sifted among the photos. ‘Here’s the one I wanted to show you.’

  It was an old photo, the colour mostly bleached out of it. The pretty Maori girl on a park bench among lupin bushes, swinging her thin bare legs, gaps in her teeth, hair flying up on one side as if caught by a gust of wind, dark hair, pale eyes.

  Simon reached for the photo. He didn’t say anything.

  ‘Any ideas?’

  ‘No. Who is she?’

  ‘Look, on the back it says: Mereana. It’s not a common name, it’s got to be Mereana Kostas, whose name’s next to yours in Arthur’s note.’

  ‘Me and her and a forward slash. Well, whatever he had in mind, it doesn’t mean anything to me. I’ve never seen this little girl.’

  ‘It’s an ancient photo. She won’t be a little girl any more.’

  ‘I suppose I could ask Karen, my wife. You could lend me the photo, and I could show her.’

  Eloise leaned closer. ‘What’s that next to the bench? I didn’t notice it before. It’s a golf club.’

  Simon’s mouth turned up on one side, an odd, pained smile. ‘Yes, well, look just below her feet.’

  ‘Are they golf balls?’

  He said, ‘Someone’s been hitting balls into the dunes.’

  ‘Do you think she’s at a beach?’

  ‘Those bushes are lupins. They only grow at the beach I think.’

  ‘Do you think Detective Da Silva should see this? The thing is, I didn’t want to admit I had the file after all this time. I shouldn’t have taken it. I should have given it back ages ago. I hid it; I didn’t even look at it until recently.’

  Simon shook his head. ‘No need to mention it. It wouldn’t tell the police anything new.’

  ‘But it would confirm there really is a Mereana somewhere, and what she might look like now.’

  ‘They’ll mark the photo as evidence and you’ll never get it back. They’ll take the file and you’ll have nothing of Arthur’s to keep. You still won’t have any answers.’

  ‘I suppose.’

  ‘That’s my opinion. What else is in there?’

  ‘Notes for his screenplay, and on who was staying at Rotokauri that summer.’

  ‘The police already know that, too.’ He was looking at the picture of Mereana again. ‘How about I take this. Ask Karen.’

  ‘Would your wife know anything?’

  ‘Maybe she’d remember this girl.’

  Eloise hesitated. ‘I’d like to keep the file together.’

  ‘I could take the whole thing.’

  ‘Your wife could come here. Have a glass of wine, take a look.’

  He thought about this, rubbing his hand hard over his face.

  ‘On second thoughts, maybe we should keep it between ourselves. My wife’s a lovely person but she’s not very discreet.’
>
  ‘Is it a secret?’

  ‘You said yourself, you stole the file from the scene, from under the noses of the examining forensic team. You withheld evidence.’

  ‘So I should hand it in?’

  ‘No. You shouldn’t. Technically you should, but in human terms, it’s your memento of Arthur, and you should keep it. Not have it taken off you by some pen-pushing cop who wants to stick it in a file and let it gather dust. It’s not going to tell them anything new.’

  ‘That’s what I thought. I’m glad I showed it to you. I thought of mentioning it to my therapist. Asking her what to do.’

  ‘No need. Stash it. I imagine a house belonging to a member of the Rodd family would have a safe?’

  ‘No. What would we put in it?’

  ‘Well, put it wherever you put your valuables. Your heirlooms.’

  Eloise shrugged.

  Simon got up and walked to the window. He looked across the deck to the creek and the dog park.

  ‘Does your neighbour come around often?’

  ‘Quite often. He’s new. I like him. We met each other when another neighbour’s house was raided by the police. There was a whole lot of noise and screaming and he came over. I’d got such a fright I was glad to see him.’

  ‘It must be lonely here at night.’

  Eloise waved a hand. ‘I love it. The peace. The tides. The … seagulls.’

  He smiled, although he looked pained. ‘You sounded like my daughter when you said that.’

  ‘The one you share with the Hallwrights.’

  ‘No, the other one. Claire. She’s my biological daughter. The other, Roza Hallwright’s daughter, is adopted of course.’

  He looked around the room. ‘Life’s so strange. You’re here all alone in this stone house …’

  Eloise waited. He seemed to have lost his composure.

  ‘You arrive out of the blue at my house, you’re describing this dead boyfriend of yours, you’re talking and drinking my wine, you’ve got me driving you across town and you’re talking intensely and showing me pictures until you’ve almost got me convinced it all does have something to do with me. And yet I have no idea who you are, or who he is, or who the girl in the picture is, or why I’m here.’

  His expression was strained.

  She faltered, ‘But there is a connection.’

  ‘There is no connection.’ He came towards her. ‘There is no connection between us.’

  Eloise stepped back.

  ‘Did you tell anyone you were going to contact me?’

  ‘No,’ Eloise said.

  ‘No one?’

  ‘Absolutely no one. It was an impulse.’

  He put his hand on her shoulder, intensity in his eyes. His face was damp; she could smell sweat. Sudden memory: a dream, red light, sunset over the park, a dog crossing the horizon.

  She said, ‘Only Nick knows you’re here.’

  Silence.

  He stepped away.

  ‘I’m sorry, Eloise.’

  She stared. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Nothing.’ He sat down on the sofa and briefly put his head in his hands.

  She sat down next to him. ‘Why are you sorry?’

  He looked up. ‘Because you’re alone.’

  She thought about this. The statement was mildly pleasing; it made him seem kind. She said, ‘Oh well.’

  Finally he said, ‘Listen, there’s something I need to explain.’

  ‘Okay.’

  He paused, thinking. She waited.

  ‘It would be helpful if you didn’t tell anyone about our meeting.’

  ‘Why?’

  He put up his hands. ‘Just wait. Let me explain. I have a family connection with the Hallwrights, right? My adopted daughter is Roza Hallwright’s biological daughter. As a family, as a group, we’ve had to negotiate that. Over the years we’ve got very close, gone on holiday together. We’ve become friends. During some of that time, before David Hallwright retired, my wife and I had to take into account the fact that he was the prime minister. So we had to behave accordingly. Which is why I hung up on Arthur when he rang me. We did everything we could not to make David’s life more difficult than it already was. Now, he’s not PM any more, but his friends and colleagues are still in government, and the rules still apply. Arthur’s death was nothing to do with me, but he did ring me when I was at Rotokauri, and that fact was investigated by the police. It’s the most tenuous connection, but one thing I do know is that in politics even tenuous connections have potential for inconvenience.’

  ‘Potential for inconvenience?’

  ‘It’s the kind of thing that can be picked up by the media. You can imagine something like, Police Investigated Death of PM’s Stalker.’

  ‘Arthur wasn’t a stalker!’

  ‘Yes, but this is a set of facts the media would enjoy playing with. You know that Arthur was a good person. I believe you. He was perfectly pleasant on the phone, as far as I can recall. But he “took an interest in the prime minister”, and then he was found dead. You can see how the media, and David’s opponents, too, could have spun it back then. Imagine the internet conspiracy theories. Man stalks PM, is then found dead. It would have been totally unfair on the Hallwrights, but that’s how it could have been characterised. And let’s not forget it would have been unfair on Arthur, too — his name, the memory of him. I’m not sure anything’s changed.’

  ‘Hallwright’s not in politics any more.’

  ‘He’s not in government but he’s still very much involved.’

  ‘With trying to get rid of Jack Dance. For Ed Miles.’

  ‘Who was at Rotokauri at the time. You can surely see why I feel that you and I should be discreet. I’m the only actual link to them because I’m the one Arthur called.’

  ‘Is backing Ed Miles Hallwright’s way of gaining power again? Without having to be elected himself?’

  Simon shrugged. ‘Who knows? I really don’t follow politics. David Hallwright is my friend. And so is Roza. All I’m saying is that, for them, this is the kind of non-story that could be turned into a story.’

  ‘Arthur’s death is a non-story.’

  ‘I’m sorry, don’t look bitter. I know it’s not a non-story to you, to everyone who … loved him, but what I’m saying is it’s a non-story as far as the Rotokauri group are concerned. It could have blown into something, and they would have had to spend a lot of energy calming it down. Fortunately, it didn’t.’

  ‘Fortunately …’

  ‘It was my fault. He rang me. It was my fault. Not theirs.’

  There was a silence. Eloise looked at him.

  She said, ‘Why do you say it was your fault?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘Why do you say it was your fault, when it was Arthur’s idea to ring you? You didn’t call him.’

  ‘Okay, not my fault. But he rang me, so I had to deal with it. I had to try not to let the fact that he was dead five minutes later damage them. I mean, Christ, that’s all we’re talking about. A couple of calls. It’s ridiculous. I don’t even know why the police came to me. I remember thinking at the time maybe they were just indulging their curiosity. You get a vague link to the PM’s circle, so you go poking around just so you can get some more interesting work stories. Talk to more glamorous people than you usually interrogate.’

  ‘Do you really think that?’

  ‘Well, what was Arthur doing? All he wanted was to spy on the beautiful people.’

  ‘To spy? He wasn’t a gossip columnist. He was an artist. He wanted to find things out. To research. Arthur was interested in the truth.’

  ‘In the course of which he came on like a gossip columnist.’

  ‘That’s not true.’

  ‘How do you know? Were you there when he called me?’

  ‘No. I didn’t know he’d done it.’

  ‘The Hallwrights were all over the gossip magazines. Especially that summer. There were journalists jumping out of the bushes. David and Roza had t
he extra exciting detail about them that they were — are — so wealthy. But, no, your Arthur was engaged in something “higher”.’

  ‘Yes, he was. He’d written a screenplay. He was going to write a novel. He wasn’t interested in gossip magazines. He wasn’t doing it for money.’

  ‘But it was all about him. He didn’t care who he hurt. People were just his material. Fodder.’

  ‘That’s not true. People were his subjects, but he loved his subjects. He was a kind person.’ She stared. ‘Anyway, why are you talking about him like this? You said you just hung up on him.’

  Silence.

  ‘Did you meet him?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why are you angry?’

  Simon made a quelling motion again. ‘I’m not angry. I can just see the potential for inconvenience, all over again.’

  She looked at his big hand. Rock steady.

  ‘Inconvenience,’ she repeated.

  He said in a heavy tone, ‘Look, I know you loved Arthur, and I know this is painful. I’m just asking if you and I can keep this between ourselves. We have to be aware that our actions can hurt other people. People are not just subjects. They’re not just material for screenplays or novels. People have private lives. They have interests. Loved ones. Secrets.’

  He put a hand on her arm. ‘People have a right to privacy.’

  A long pause. Finally Eloise said, ‘Which Arthur sometimes didn’t appreciate. That’s what you’re saying.’

  ‘Yes.’

  She looked down at her hands, twisting in her lap. ‘He was a kind person. A good person.’

  ‘But in his enthusiasm …’

  ‘Sure, maybe he barged in at times when he could have been more sensitive. Maybe he used people’s details when he shouldn’t have.’

  He looked at her keenly. ‘Oh? Did he use you as a subject?’

  ‘Only a few times. In his plays. Not as often as he used my mother. He had a running character, this battle-axe … Anyway, it doesn’t matter.’

  His hand was still on her arm. He lowered his voice. ‘How did that make you feel?’

  ‘When he used things I’d said or done? Flattered sometimes, other times annoyed.’