‘Fair enough,’ Da Silva said, amused. ‘Although, that’s what I do every day, Eloise. Barge in places where people don’t want me. Barging in on him was a laugh, I can tell you.’
‘He said as much. That you were doing it for the hell of it.’
Da Silva rolled her eyes. ‘The nerve.’
‘I understood … it’s hard to explain.’
‘Go on.’
Eloise frowned. ‘Arthur was a lovely, kind person. But he used material from people’s lives. Sometimes he might have been a bit insensitive or, I don’t know, ruthless about it. He did barge in. He used everything.’
‘I imagine that’s what writers do.’
‘But now I can see it from Simon’s point of view. He didn’t want Arthur just picking up bits of his life and using them. Or the Hallwrights’ lives. He told me Arthur asked about Roza Hallwright and the adopted daughter. Which seems pretty … Anyway, the point of this is that Simon hung up on Arthur, and that was the end of it. He doesn’t know who Mereana Kostas is, so I guess the forward slash note was just Arthur reminding himself about two unconnected people.’
‘Yes, we established that.’
‘He doesn’t want me to go around talking about it. But since you know about it already, it seems okay to talk to you.’
Da Silva’s tone was faintly incredulous. ‘Oh, good. Glad to hear it. It’s funny, I’m usually the one who decides when it’s okay to talk about an investigation. Into a death.’
Eloise paused to gather her thoughts. Da Silva was making her nervous.
She went on, ‘I wanted to tell you something else. I think there was someone in Arthur’s flat on the morning he died.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘I can sense it.’
‘You can sense it? What does that mean?’
‘I sensed it back then but I didn’t know I had. And now I’ve realised that I sensed it back then.’
Silence. Detective Da Silva’s nose was sprinkled with tiny freckles. Her expression altered as she listened; her small face had now sharpened into a mocking smile.
‘Are you a psychic?’
‘I’m serious.’
‘I’m serious, too. I’m also overworked and short-staffed.’
‘I’ve remembered sensing that someone had been in the flat. Either something was missing, or there was a smell. A scent. I’ve been back to the flat recently. I sat on the hill behind the flat. By the mountain track.’
‘A scent.’ Da Silva sat back, smoothed the top of her coffee with a teaspoon. She looked thoughtful. ‘I remember that morning. It was a beautiful day. Summer. The hillside was all parched. Dry grass — that’s the smell I remember.’
‘You said there’d been an accident. But then I saw the police on the mountainside, looking through the grass. I realised they were looking for clues.’
Da Silva said, ‘Is there anything else you remember or know about Arthur’s death? Anything you haven’t told me?’
‘No.’
‘So, that’s it? You’ve remembered sensing something, but you don’t know what.’
‘Yes.’
‘You remember sensing someone other than Arthur had been in the flat. But surely the forensic team had been in the flat.’
‘No, it was locked, I was the first in. He’d only just been found. You came to the door and told me.’
Da Silva looked at her reflection in the back of a teaspoon. She thought for a while.
‘Maybe you have remembered something. But it’s not enough for me to do anything about it. You know what I’m saying?’
‘Yes.’
Da Silva frowned, deepening the crease between her brows. ‘Sometimes you have to move on. Let it go.’
Eloise sighed. ‘I let Arthur down.’
‘You said that, but it’s a fantasy. He’s dead, right. So you should look after yourself. Get some counselling.’
‘I’ve been seeing this shrink.’
‘Good. There you go. Stick with that.’
Da Silva drank the last of her coffee. ‘Listen, Eloise, I told you I’m overworked. That was a major understatement. Me and my friend Detective O’Kelly, remember him? We’ve got years of files. Normally I wouldn’t have made the time to meet you. But I’ll tell you a couple of things, okay?’
‘Okay.’
‘The first is, Simon Lampton remembers me. There is no way he doesn’t. It doesn’t mean anything that he denies it. He’s presumably got better things to do than talk about the past with you. But he remembers me.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘No question. Also, he says we were investigating him for the thrill of it. That is outrageous. Police do not investigate people for the “thrill” of it.’
‘Okay. Sure. Although cops are human.’
‘He really got you eating out of his hand, didn’t he.’
‘Pardon?’ Eloise said.
‘The prime minister and the police minister, Ed Miles — my boss no less — were at Rotokauri with Lampton when Arthur called him. We couldn’t go barging into Rotokauri like it was some dump in South Auckland. Storm on in there and get the bros up against the wall and see who said something stupid.’
‘And Ed Miles is now justice minister. I know that.’
Silence.
Eloise said slowly, ‘Were you told not to pursue it?’
Da Silva looked at her watch. ‘Put it this way. I didn’t know it back then, but I sensed we were being told we’d asked enough questions. And now I remember that sense. But I have no evidence to show that sense ever existed.’
Eloise felt pressure behind her eyes, warning of a possible headache. ‘What does it all mean?’
‘It means we should leave it alone. Leave Lampton alone.’
‘But he’s nice. I have a good feeling about him, as if he and I could be friends.’
Da Silva’s smile was ironic. ‘Really. I’ll tell you one more thing, even though I shouldn’t. Someone inquired off the record about Arthur’s death.’
‘How do you know? When?’
‘It might have come from somewhere up the chain.’
‘Up the chain?’
‘Of command. From up high.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I was told. I haven’t seen any evidence myself. It might have been an inquiry relating to Arthur’s post-mortem.’
‘Who would have done that?’
‘I don’t know. There’s no proper record. Someone has covered their tracks.’
‘What about Mereana Kostas?’
‘The missing Mereana Kostas had one significant conviction, for a drug offence. She was jailed. She had an ex, a guy she’d had a child with, who told me she might have left the country and gone to the UK or Canada or Australia. But he was probably lying.’
‘She left with a child?’
‘No. The child had died years before. I didn’t believe the ex. I said to him there’s no record of her leaving, and no way she could have got hold of a false passport. And he said …’
Da Silva paused, as if considering whether to go on.
‘He said what?’
‘That Kostas, the name her criminal conviction was recorded under, wasn’t the surname on her birth certificate. That she had a passport in her birth name before her conviction, and she renewed it, and left.’
‘Did you find out more?’
‘No. Because the death was an accident.’
‘Who was Mereana?’
‘No one. Maori mother, Australian Greek father. Five foot nine. Black hair, green eyes. Scar on index finger. She got the drug conviction here, was in prison, got out, didn’t get into any more trouble, probably worked under-the-table jobs in Auckland, vanished. No contact with family. No one reported her missing. This was years ago. She had nothing to do with Lampton or his Rotokauri friends. Completely different worlds.’
Eloise said, ‘Arthur and I used to argue. I said he was taking on too many things at once. I thought there was a risk he’d turn into
a jack of all trades master of none. So he stopped telling me what he was up to. As if he thought I would nag. He never mentioned any Mereana to me.’
‘I’d say she’s irrelevant to Lampton.’
Eloise looked at her watch. ‘I’ve got to go and buy a birthday present. For a kid. What do eight-year-olds like?’
‘I dunno. Lego.’
‘She’s a girl. A friend’s daughter.’
‘Girls like Lego. I did.’
‘Have you got kids?’
Da Silva checked her phone, sent a text. ‘No. No time.’
Eloise thought for a moment. ‘Do you believe Andrew Newgate is innocent?’
‘No.’
‘Who do you think’s the father of Anita O’Keefe’s baby?’
Da Silva smiled. ‘Good question.’
‘Do you believe in ESP?’
‘No.’
‘Is it easy to disappear?’
‘It was easier years ago. It’s not now, unless you have help, resources. I’ll tell you what I think — Mereana’s dead. Most missing people are. Either she died here, or she somehow got to another country and died. She was probably a drug user, moved in nasty circles. Anyway, she’s irrelevant.’
Eloise sighed. ‘At least I’ve asked some questions.’
‘Yeah. Hope you feel better.’
‘I don’t know.’
‘I’ve got to get back to work. I’ve got a gang stabbing to investigate. Just for the “thrill” of it. You go and buy your Lego. Oh, and the father of Baby O’Keefe? It’s the leader of the Opposition. Bradley Kirk.’
‘No! A cross-party baby. A bipartisan baby. He’s married. What d’you base it on?’
‘Months ago, me and O’Kelly watched Kirk and O’Keefe together at the Hero Parade. On Ponsonby Road. He was in his sneakers, you know, trying to look like a youth. We were in the car.’
‘Really.’
‘There was chemistry. You heard it here first.’
‘I think it’s Jack Dance.’
‘No. No chemistry. Wait until it’s born. When it’s a year old, you’ll know. One-year-olds look like their father. It’s a biological thing. In the animal kingdom. So the father doesn’t kill the kid.’
Eloise winced, put a hand up to her forehead.
Da Silva paused. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Headache. I get migraines.’
‘Oh. Are you driving?’
‘No, walking back to work. I’ll be fine.’
They parted on the corner, Da Silva walking away towards Central Police. Eloise saw a jagged silver flare just above the policewoman’s head, as if her blonde hair had burst into flames. Around her body were small, vivid black holes edged with light, the air fraying like a moth-eaten curtain.
The light effects stayed mild enough for her to reach the toy shop, where she wandered through the bright shelves. There was Soon and Starfish merchandising everywhere, from Lego sets to lunch boxes to T-shirts. Blindly, she chose a large and expensive box of Lego.
‘Do you do gifting?’
‘Pardon?’
‘Do you do stuff wrapping up?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘God. Sorry.’ It affected her like this sometimes. ‘Do you do gift wrapping?’
She burst out of the shop carrying a box wrapped in festive blue paper decorated with a bow: some giant droid or Bionicle for little Iris Roysmith. It would probably take her weeks to assemble.
They had the air-conditioning turned up high in the stationery shop. Eloise lingered. The birthday cards were either sugary or frankly obscene; there were few for children. She picked the least awful, came out of the shelves. A tall man with black hair and a hawkish face turned away and headed for the door.
She went after him. ‘You’re following me.’
His face was tanned, his eyes small and very dark. His black hair was exceptionally thick and slicked back at the sides. Silver holes opened up and bloomed in the air around him. She rode out a wave of nausea.
His expression was open, confused. He shrugged. He had no idea what she was talking about.
She said loudly, ‘You were on the bus. A woman fell over on you, dropped her shopping.’
An assistant came out from behind the counter.
‘You were in Nick’s house, on the peninsula. I saw you.’
‘Excuse me. Wrong person.’
‘You’ve got a tattoo. It’s you. I’ve seen you. Show me your hand. Your hand.’
But his hands were in his pockets.
A voice behind her said, ‘Is there a problem?’
‘Wait,’ Eloise said.
But he had edged away from them and was gone.
She followed him outside without paying for the birthday card. No sign of him in the street. The assistant confronted her on the pavement, and she had to trudge back in to hand over the money.
Outside in the heat, the nausea rose. Around the back of the store, in the car park, she stood on tip-toe but the fountain came up higher and was unstoppable, a great gout of hot poison rose and rose …
She wiped her mouth, looking around the sun-struck car park. No one to see. No witnesses except the CCTV: the grainy figure slinking away from the shameful splat on the asphalt. Crossing screens, vanishing into the space between one line of sight and another. She was there, she was not. She was recorded, she was not. She could see, but she was also blind; the silver edges around the black holes were so intensely bright. Her vision breaking up, she managed two things: to text Scott (the word ‘migraine’ was enough — he would understand, he would be incredibly nice about it) and to get in a cab.
The taxi drove her to the peninsula. Standing outside the house was Nick. Upstairs, from the window, Silvio silently watched the dog park.
She lay on the bed with a cold flannel on her forehead and whispered, ‘Thank you for walking him.’
Silvio now jauntily entered the room, waggling his whole body.
‘What have you done to him? He’s not brown any more.’
‘I washed him,’ Nick said. He put a glass of water on the bedside table.
‘That’s amazing. He’s a whole different colour.’
‘He stank,’ Nick said. ‘I’ve worn him out, fed him, and he’s done two shits.’
‘God. It’s so good of you.’
‘Do you want something to eat?’
‘No. Could you … It sounds stupid. Could you just stay here for a while?’
He took off his boots and lay down next to her.
She said, mumbling, glazed with painkillers, ‘When you’re sick, sometimes you just want someone near.’
‘I know what you mean. I haven’t got anyone at the moment, either.’
‘When you’re sick I’ll do the same for you.’
‘Okay. Deal.’
‘Nick? A man’s been following me. A tall, kind of lanky guy, with black hair. I thought he was in your house one night. I was coming across the lawn and I saw him through the glass.’
‘No. I don’t know anyone who would follow you.’
‘He has a tattoo on his hand. Of a dragonfly.’
‘I don’t know him, Eloise. You’re mistaken. Maybe I shouldn’t say this, but living on your own’s not good for you. You’re spooked. Seeing things.’
‘Rubbish. I love being by myself. The Me time. The freedom. I wish I’d done it sooner.’
‘Hmm. There’s one thing …’
‘What?’
He said, ‘I’ve been meaning to tell you, there was a man on your property a couple of days ago, walking around your lawn. He went on the deck, looked through the glass.’
‘Really?’
‘I came over and asked if I could help, and he gave me his card. He was a real estate agent. He said the house was going on the market. He mentioned Sean Rodd.’
‘Oh no. Stop. Talk about something else. Chernobyl. Tell me about the Stalkers.’
He lay back, his head on her pillow. Silvio leapt up and draped himself across their feet. Outside, above
the estuary, the gulls swooped and called, and the tide was running fast in the creek.
‘The men who worked on the nuclear reactor at Chernobyl called themselves the Stalkers. Outside the zone, in a rundown hotel, we drank vodka and ate borscht. That borscht was memorable, I can tell you. The cream in it would kill you faster than the radiation.
‘The Stalkers had no fear. They worked with minimal protection, with skimpy equipment. The land around the plant was returning to the wild. It was a beautiful, eerie, poisonous place. Ten of us entered the zone on a bus. It was only when we were deep inside, driving through a forest that we …’
Silvio blinked his golden eyes, listening.
Over at the park the dogs raced to and fro, chasing each other across the parched ground.
Nick lifted the flannel from Eloise’s forehead, turned it and replaced it, smoothing it down. He pushed the tangled hair away from her face.
He said quietly, ‘Are you awake, Eloise?’
TWENTY-TWO
On the way to the Hartmann mansion there was a small, brief shower, the first in weeks. The traffic slowed, and a rainbow arced down between two dense black clouds. Rain drummed on the roof of the car.
Normally, this being a Saturday, Eloise would have embarked on one of her walks, leaving early, arriving home when the sun was going down over the peninsula. Now she drove with resolve and a faint sense of disbelief: was she really doing this?
At the ornamental gate, a camera turned towards her and a crackling voice enquired: name and purpose of visit?
She gave her name. ‘I have an appointment,’ she shouted.
There was a pause before the gates swung open. After the shower, the grass along the driveway glistened and the asphalt steamed. She had entered a Soon and Starfish cartoon: the toy colours, the mansion with its fantasy towers and giant oaken door.
In the courtyard she parked beneath a white flagpole from which an unidentifiable black and white flag hung limp. The first person to appear was the security man, Chad Loafer. Unshaven, bleary-eyed, and even smaller than she’d remembered, he ushered her into a room with black furniture, in which lollies were arranged in bowls. Instructed to help herself, Eloise distractedly ate a couple of pineapple lumps, some jaffas, two blackberry jetplanes. Loafer hovered, muttering into his phone.
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