Death on Demand (27 page)

 

Hadlow got refills. Ihaka's cellphone message alert went off. It was Miriam Lovell. They'd talked earlier about meeting for a drink. Was he was still up for it? He texted back, saying definitely, he'd be in touch as soon as he finished, probably half an hour or so.

“Anyone I know?” asked Hadlow. Ihaka ignored her. “Well, now you know the whole story.”

“I doubt that, somehow. So you knew from the start Warren was making money off these women?”

She held his gaze. “No. He fessed up at some stage, I don't remember exactly when. I told him I didn't want to know – consenting adults and all that.”

“It didn't stop you introducing women to him.”

“You make it sound like a crime. It's called social intercourse.”

“You got that half-right.”

“Look, if I was meeting someone for coffee, I'd usually suggest Warren's place, not because I was thinking ‘Oh, you look like you could do with a decent fuck, dear', but because I wanted to support his business. Okay, there might've been a few times I hoped something would happen, like if I felt sorry for them because they were married to an arsewipe who I happened to know was screwing around, or I liked the thought of some stuck-up bitch screeching at the ceiling then going home to hubby and pretending she'd been at her book club. But if the question is how many of his clients found their way to him via me, the answer is I have no idea. I didn't ask and he didn't tell.”

“But you were okay with it?”

She shrugged. “They were all grown-ups. Knowing Warren, he would've delivered on his side of the bargain, and I'm not
just talking about pressing the right buttons. He would've made them feel special, put some excitement and intrigue in their lives. As for the money, well, most of them would've spent a lot more on clothes and beauty treatments, and I bet they didn't make them feel half as good as he did.”

“One of his clients is being blackmailed. I bet she's not the only one.”

Once again her eyes didn't slide away from Ihaka's hard stare. “I'd put this house on him having nothing to do with it. Look, no one would accuse me of being naïve. I knew Warren, I knew his weaknesses, better probably than anyone. But he didn't shit on people. Being a good person was important to him.”

“I wasn't necessarily thinking of him.”

This time she did look away, but slowly, disdainfully. “Oh, thanks a lot. You don't expect me to respond to that, do you?”

“You might have to at some stage.”

“I can do it right now. Go fuck yourself.”

Ihaka nodded. “I'll put you down as refusing to answer on the grounds it might incriminate you. So if Warren was Mr Nice Guy, why was he murdered?”

“Hey, you're the detective. I'll tell you this, though: he wasn't someone who made enemies. You could accuse him of being vain and superficial, possibly even a bit emotionally retarded, but he didn't treat people badly. I don't know, maybe they just got the wrong guy. Maybe it was as fucked-up as that.”

“Drugs is the popular choice.”

She shook her head decisively. “No way. You obviously think you're dealing with some kind of sleazebag here, but you're way off. Here's an example. Warren and Chris, no contest. Warren had a much stronger sense of right and wrong.”

“Seeing Lilywhite had his wife killed, that's not saying a hell of a lot.”

“Except everybody but you thought he was such a pillar of society it was outrageous to suggest he might've had something to do with it. But all those fine, upstanding people, Chris's friends, would probably believe the worst of Warren, just because he was different.”

“And because he was fucking their wives.”

“They didn't know that,” said Hadlow. “What you don't know can't hurt you.”

“What happened to Craig?”

“He kept moving,” she said with a dismissive gesture. “Someone was saying they saw him in Phuket.”

“Okay,” said Ihaka, “I need you to write down the names and contact details if you have them of every married woman you know or think or suspect Warren was knocking off. Err on the side of the opposite of caution. Start with the most recent and work back.”

“Promise you'll be gentle with them?”

“I'll get one of my colleagues on it. She's a good operator.” He stood up. “I'll be in touch.”

She sat there, legs crossed, idly swinging a foot, looking up at him. “You don't have to go.”

“What does that mean?”

“What do you think it means?”

“Are you offering me your spare room?”

“I don't have a spare room,” she said.

“What brought this on?”

“Excuse me?”

“You just can't resist my charm, is that it?”

She laughed, throwing her head back. “You're not completely without charm,” she said, “but those little bursts tend to be cancelled out by bigger bursts of anti-charm. But charm's overrated.”

“Warren's clientele obviously didn't think so. Sounds like he had charm coming out his arse.”

“Oh, he did,” she said, “which kind of proves my point. If I'd wanted to, I could've had him all to myself.”

“So what have I got that he didn't have?”

“So many questions,” she murmured. “It's like a job interview. Warren was a sweet guy, but he lacked… substance, I suppose you'd call it. He was pretty self-absorbed, just floated through life looking terrific, pleasing himself, having a good time, being everybody's friend. But if you're everybody's friend, chances are you're nobody's best friend, you know what I mean? You, on the other hand, you're a bit of a driven man, aren't you? So what drives you? Do you see yourself as a knight in shining armour, riding to the rescue, or do you just hate people getting away with it?”

“You're telling the story.”

“I remember when you were hounding Chris – well, that's how I saw it at the time, I thought you were just out of control – he'd have these rants: ‘That fucking Ihaka, he's messing with the wrong man, I'm going to have his balls for breakfast, blah, blah.' He'd go on about all his friends in high places he had lined up to cut you off at the knees. One time I said something like, ‘Is Ihaka too thick to realize what's going to happen?' And Chris said, ‘Oh, he's not thick, he knows he's sticking his neck out, big-time.' ‘So why's he doing it?' I said. He kind of shrugged and said, ‘Well, I guess he must really believe I killed Joyce.'”

She paused, emphasizing what was coming next. “I admire people who go out on a limb – especially when they're right.”

“So all these years,” said Ihaka, “you've been burning a candle for me?”

Hadlow laughed again, perfect teeth lighting up her face. “Hey, buddy, I don't want a sympathy fuck.”

“I've got to go.”

The glow of amusement faded from her eyes. She got up and stood right in front of him, their faces centimetres apart. “What's the matter, Tito?” she asked, teasing but a little curious.

“I'm a cop and you're a—”

“Suspect?”

“You're involved. And this is serious shit.”

“Not so keen on going out on a limb these days?”

“It's got to be worth it.”

She grinned lazily. “Oh, you have no idea.”

“I'll see myself out.”

 

Ihaka sat in his car staring at himself in the rear-vision mirror. He said out loud, “What the fuck are you doing?”

He got out of the car and retraced his steps. Hadlow answered the door, trying to keep a straight face, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “Forget something?”

“There's just one other thing.”

“Yeah, yeah,” she said. She pulled him inside, pushed him against the wall and fitted her body against his. An arm slithered around his neck, pulling him down into a kiss from which there was no escape. Not that he tried.

Tito Ihaka sat in a commandeered office at Auckland Central deciphering Miriam Lovell's text: “Gess u gt tyd up lst nite. Say la v bt a heds up wdve bn nice.”

Last night was a bit of a blur, but he was pretty sure he hadn't been tied up. He would've remembered that. He couldn't argue with the rest of it, though.

It wasn't in Ihaka's nature to dwell on what-might-have-beens or wallow in regret. He knew that the correct, proper, professional thing to do was walk away from Denise Hadlow, so that's what he did. But on giving it further thought, he decided he didn't give a shit what was correct, proper and professional, because there were only so many Denise Hadlows in a man's life. That's how it worked: you made a choice, you went in with your eyes open, and then you lived with the consequences. You didn't blame it on her feminine wiles or a moment of weakness, because you weren't Joe Vanilla from the suburbs who should've been at home watching some wankathon on TV with the wife and kids.

Even so, it was an uneasy morning after, partly because he hadn't played fair with Miriam, partly because he was sailing close to the wind. Even if he believed every word Denise had said – which he didn't – she was a person of interest in two murder cases.

Partly too because Denise wasn't quite what he'd expected: not better or worse, different. He was expecting a serious sack-artist with lots of energy and very few inhibitions. She was certainly accomplished, but her lovemaking was leisurely and affectionate, almost tender, rather than theatrical. As he slipped into unconsciousness, having set his phone alarm for 6 a.m. so that he'd be up and away before her son awoke, she'd burrowed into him. “Billy's playing cricket on Saturday,” she'd murmured. “Why don't you come along? He'd be really stoked.”

But it was mostly because he knew he was missing something. Talking to her, he'd had the feeling that an answer, maybe even the answer, was there in his head, in among the jumble of information, intuition and suspicion. But his mind wouldn't give it up. Now he could feel it sitting there, taunting him, the way a cat sits on a fence taunting a dog. You want a piece of me? Well, come and get it. But when you get there, it's gone.

If he hadn't gone back, he might've had it; it was that close. If he'd gone home, sat out on the veranda with a glass of wine and methodically thought his way through it, it probably would have come to him. But once Denise Hadlow got her hands on him, it went the way of everything else.

 

Glen Smith rang, sounding pleased with himself. “I've tracked down a photo of Donna.”

“Well, thanks for that,” said Ihaka, “but I've tracked down the woman herself.”

“Shit, really? Where?”

“Here in Auckland.”

“How's she looking these days?”

You're asking me, thought Ihaka. “Not too bad at all.”

“I wouldn't mind catching up with her,” said Smith. “Just for old times' sake.”

“I can't give you her contact details, but I'll mention it to her.”

“That'd be good. I guess she put you on to Craig?”

“No, that didn't turn out so well. Last she heard he was in Thailand.”

“Well, maybe he was,” said Smith, “but he's back now.”

“Eh?”

“Yeah, a mate of mine saw him in Auckland not that long ago. I rang round the old crowd to let them know I'd seen Warren off and see if anyone had a photo of Donna. One bloke did. He didn't even have to look for it because he'd dug it out after he'd seen Craig – he's in the photo too. See, what happened was, he went into this nightclub called the Departure Lounge, and there was Craig – he works there, apparently. He said gidday but Craig said, ‘Nah, mate, you've got me mixed up with someone.' Reckoned his name was Danny something. It's been a few years and my mate had had a few, so he was thinking, shit, maybe I've got it wrong. Then he remembered the photo. He had to hunt high and fucking low, but he found it in the end. No question about it, he says. The bloke looks a bit different these days, but it was Craig all right.”

 

Ihaka rang Jason Gundry, a detective sergeant in the Wait-emata district who was overseeing the crackdown on The Firm.

“I hear Scholes is up for parole next week,” he said.

“In his fucking dreams,” said Gundry. “Don't worry, mate, we kept the fat prick behind bars last time round, and we'll do it again. Just been reading our submission as it happens – he hasn't got a shit show.”

“What if I said we should do a deal, offer to let him walk?”

There was a long silence. “You're shitting me, right?”

“No, I'm serious. I'm pretty sure he can help us out with a couple of these murders. I saw him the other day. You know Scholes, he always puts on a front, but he's had enough.”

“Fuck you, pal. You know bloody well we're talking about a real piece of shit here. You won't get any help from us, I can tell you that right now.”

“Well, if you're going to be like that, I guess I'll just have to get McGrail to acquaint you fucking bogans with the facts of life.”

 

Beth Greendale poked her head around the door to say that Christopher Lilywhite's daughter was in reception.

“What does she want?”

“She wouldn't say.”

Ihaka groaned. “Here we go again.”

But the fire had gone out in Sandy Lilywhite. “I owe you an apology,” she said, unable to look him in the eye. “I've just seen Inspector Charlton. He told me what my father did.”

Ihaka came out from behind his desk. “Why did he do that?”