Death on Demand (29 page)

“Jesus and bartenders,” said Ihaka.

“What?”

“It's a country and western song: ‘Anger, depression, tearful confessions, Jesus and bartenders hear it all.'”

“That's what I'm talking about.”

He stood up. “Are we finished?” she asked. “Can I go now?”

“Detective Sergeant Firkitt's going to interview you. By the book. That's the way it's going to be from here on.”

“Getting him to do your dirty work, eh?”

He nodded. “I've done my share.”

 

Ninety minutes later Firkitt blew in to Ihaka's office without knocking, dropped heavily into a chair and lit a cigarette.

“You don't mind, do you?” he said, exhaling a metre-long plume.

“Not my office,” said Ihaka. “How did it go?”

Firkitt filled his lungs again before stubbing the cigarette out on the sole of his shoe. “I got no change out of her.”

“You went in hard?”

“Fucking oath.”

“How did she handle it?”

“She didn't like it, but she didn't crack. Maybe it's what she says it is.”

“Where is she now?”

Firkitt jerked his head. “Out there. Wants to talk to you. You're the fucking expert on women, but I don't think she wants to whisper sweet nothings in your earhole.”

“I just got off the phone to Phil Malone's widow. Guess what his favourite after-hours haunt was?”

“The Departure Lounge? You're fucking kidding me.”

Ihaka shook his head. “I'm not kidding. Tell me what you think of this idea.”

 

A constable escorted Denise Hadlow into Ihaka's office.

“Behind closed doors, eh?” she said. “Scared I'd cause a scene? Scared I'd blab your dirty little secret, Ihaka sluts around with murder suspects?”

“Actually, that'd probably do wonders for my reputation. I've got a proposition for you. How would you feel about ringing Craig and telling him pretty much the truth – that the cops are giving you a hard time?”

“What would that achieve?”

“If he's not the hitman, he'll probably say something like, well, as long as you tell the truth, you've got nothing to worry about. On the other hand, if he is the hitman, he'll probably try to kill you.”

“Put your life where your mouth is, eh?”

“Well, if you're so sure…”

“Yeah, well.”

“Having second thoughts?”

“No, I was just thinking. Remember I said you could say Warren was a bit emotionally retarded? Same with Craig. They both walked away from their families and friends and never looked back. Craig's the least sentimental person I've ever come across, and that's coming from someone who's not exactly sentimental herself. Like if I died tomorrow, he'd be upset for a couple of hours then life would go on. So he's unsentimental. So what?”

“Something you should know: one of the cases Lilywhite put us on to involved a guy called Phil Malone, whose business partner was murdered. The partner didn't want to sell the company. Malone did. Once the partner was out of the way, Malone sold the company for a shitload. A couple of days ago, someone threw a hairdryer into Malone's bathtub. He was in it at the time. Here's the kicker: Malone used to hang out at the Departure Lounge. So will you do it?”

“You'll be there, right?”

“Yeah. And the street will be crawling with cops.”

“So what could possibly go wrong?”

“Are you up for it tonight?”

“You mean am I up for it after that session with your pet gorilla?”

Ihaka nodded.

“You should take a look in the mirror, Sergeant. He wasn't half as rough on me as you were.”

 

Hadlow made the call: “Hi there, it's me. What's up? Not great, actually. It's kind of why I'm ringing. The cops are getting really heavy, and I don't know what to do. About Chris Lilywhite. Yeah, I know he's dead, so's his wife. Remember I told you Chris had a heart-to-heart with that cop, Ihaka?
Well, apparently he confessed that he hired someone to kill Joyce. Now they're giving me a hard time because they reckon I might've egged him on and put him in touch with a hitman. How the fuck I'm meant to have done that, I've no idea. Also, they've found out from his bitch daughter that I spoke to Chris after he'd seen Ihaka. Why? I'll tell you why: because they're saying if Chris was killed to shut him up, the killer must've known he was talking to Ihaka. Jesus, Craig, just settle down, I'm getting to that. When I say I had nothing to do with it, they come back with well, who did you tell? I keep saying no one, and they keep saying I'm full of shit. I was down at Auckland Central all fucking afternoon getting abused and screamed at by Ihaka and this other goon, and they say they'll keep doing it till I tell them the truth. Well, the only thing I'm not telling them is that I told you. Yes, I know, I can imagine it'd be a real pain in the arse for you, but I can't take much more of this shit. I'm telling you, it really sucks. I've got a nine-year-old kid, for Christ's sake. I fucking hate it when Billy comes home from school and there are cops here, or when he has to go next door because I'm down at the police station. You there, Craig? Oh yeah, and they've also connected me to Warren. Right, they've gone all the way back to Greytown, and because I wasn't upfront about it, that's another black mark. Yeah, I know they've arrested a couple of guys. I don't know – believe it or not, they don't share that sort of information with me. Anyway, I just wanted to give you a heads-up. Sure, come round by all means, I'm not going anywhere. I think there's still a bit of that bourbon left. No, he's having a sleepover. Okay, see you soon. Ciao.”

She put the phone down. “Was that all right, sir?”

“Yeah, good,” said Ihaka. “Okay, this room's wired for sound and vision, so the boys in the van across the road can see and hear everything, and I'll be hooked up to them.
Just act normal. If he sees you're nervous or not yourself, he'll get suspicious. Where does he usually sit?”

Hadlow shrugged. “The sofa, I guess.”

“Okay, I'll be on the other side of that.” He pointed to the door leading to the stairs. “So if he's on the sofa he'll be pretty much in front of me when I come in. Whatever happens, when I come through that door, just get the fuck out of the way. You got that?”

She shrugged, giving him a look that said, what do you take me for?

“You're very relaxed.”

“I don't think he's a killer, remember?”

“He's coming, isn't he?”

“I more or less asked him to.”

“Why did he want to know if Billy's here?”

“Gosh, let me think. Maybe he likes Billy.”

“Sentimental old Craig.”

She made a sarcastic face. “You really think it's him, don't you?”

“You can feel when you're getting close,” he said. “Things start to fit.”

“And you have an instinct for this stuff?”

“Yeah,” he said. “I have an instinct for this stuff. I don't know what that says about me.”

 

He had Firkitt in his ear, from the surveillance van with blacked-out windows parked across the road: “Car coming. Slowing down. Gone past. Pulling up now. Lights off. Driver getting out. Single male, coming your way. Why didn't he park right outside? Cagey bastard, eh? Wearing a polo and board shorts, so unless he's got a derringer up his arse he's not carrying. Here we go. At the door now.”

Denise Hadlow led Craig into the living room and offered a drink. He declined.

“There is some bourbon there.”

“Still no.”

“That's not like you.”

“Maybe you're seeing another side of me,” he said.

“Oh?” She poured herself a glass of wine. “Would that be a new side or an old side you've kept hidden?”

“Bit of both.” He studied her, taking his time. “Have you ever thought about what it would be like to kill someone?”

“Jesus, Craig, where did that come from?”

“Have you?”

“No, I can't say I have. I can safely say the thought's never occurred to me.” Craig was slumped on the sofa, head resting on the arm, staring at the ceiling. “Are you okay? You want a Panadol or something? You seem a bit—”

“A bit what?”

“I don't know, just not your usual self.”

“What is my usual self?”

“I've known you for sixteen years, Craig: this is not your usual self.” He sat up, tilting forward, elbows on his knees, hands loosely clasped. “And if this is the new you, I've got to say I preferred the old one. Can you get him back?”

“Oh, you won't be seeing that guy again.”

“Can you knock it off? You're making me nervous.”

“You know, at the club, it took me a while to get used to people who didn't know me from Adam telling me stuff they wouldn't tell their best friends. They certainly wouldn't fucking dream of telling their wives or girlfriends, because nine times out of ten it involved them. Booze has got a bit to do with it, but I worked out it's mainly because they can't tell their best friends. There's something going on in their lives that's eating away at them, and they've got to let it out. So they tell me. Believe it or not, I've been asked if I know anyone who could take care of a troublesome person. Permanently.”

“What did you say?”

“‘Maybe'. Which of course means, ‘You bet I do'.”

Hadlow sat very still, holding eye contact. “Who's that?”

“Ever since I was a kid I had this thing, this question always in my head: what would it be like to kill someone? Before we met I was seriously thinking about becoming a mercenary, would you believe? The places those guys operate, you could do any fucking thing. No one gives a fuck. Trouble is, it cuts both ways in your Third World hell holes, and that bit – other people trying to kill me – never had much appeal. When I was away, I had this brilliant idea: to become a hitman. Best of both worlds: you get to kill people, and you get paid for it. I'd be Mr Invisible. The client would never set eyes on me, and there'd be nothing to connect me to the client or the victim, so I'd be sweet as long as I didn't fuck up in the execution – if you'll pardon the pun. But you know what? If it hadn't been for you, it would've been just another daydream, something you think about to pass the time when you're on a train for eighteen fucking hours, or hanging around some shitbox airport. When you hooked up with Lilywhite, it was like a sign from above.” He spread his arms, beaming at her unnervingly. “This is your destiny, my son.”

“Did you kill Joyce?”

“Uh-huh. Pretty good job, if I say so myself. The cops didn't even call it murder.”

“One of them did.”

“Oh yeah, good old Ihaka. Look where it got him.”

“Did you kill Chris too?”

“Yep. Too late, as it turned out. The damage had been done. Bit of a fucking tragedy all round, really.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, first off, I didn't get paid for it – major bummer. And if he hadn't had an attack of conscience, or if I'd got to him in time, I wouldn't be here.”

“You don't have to kill me, Craig. You know you can trust me.”

He chuckled, a throaty, self-satisfied sound. “Darling, if I didn't have to kill you before I came over, I sure as hell do now. Look on the bright side: it'll look like a rape that got out of hand, so you'll get some action on the way out.”

Craig stood up, producing a flick knife from the pocket of his shorts and popping the blade with a casual snap of the wrist.

“Go, mate, go,” barked Firkitt.

Ihaka threw the door open and came in with a Glock semi-automatic in both hands. “Police,” he bawled. “Drop the fucking knife. Do it now.”

Craig stared at Ihaka and the pistol, rock steady, pointing at the tip of his nose. Then he slowly turned his head towards Hadlow. “You set me up,” he said, his voice tinny with disbelief. “You fucking bitch.”

Craig lunged at Hadlow. Standing side-on, Ihaka shot him in the chest, dead centre, knocking him flat on his back.

The front door crashed open. Firkitt came in so fast he almost tripped over Craig. He steadied himself, gulping in air. “Holy fucking Jesus.”

Hadlow, eyes glazed, was pressed back into the chair with her knees drawn up and her hands balled into fists. She looked like she'd been in a car crash. Firkitt stepped over Craig to brush her shoulder with his fingertips. “It's okay, sweetie. You did good. You did real good.” She looked up at him like a grateful child, her eyes clearing.

Ihaka squatted on his haunches beside Craig, the pistol dangling from his right hand. “Better get the medics,” he said. “This prick might live.”

Firkitt looked at him oddly. “They're right outside,” he said. “I'll get them in.”

As he left the room, Hadlow said to Ihaka, “Believe me now?”

He nodded, “Yeah, I believe you.”

“So I'm not a suspect any more?”

“No, you're not.”

“Good,” she said. “In that case you can get the fuck out of my house.”

Superintendent Finbar McGrail told Tito Ihaka to take a couple of days off. As he put it: “Creating messes is your forte, Sergeant. Best leave the cleaning up to others.”

On his way home from a long weekend at his family's bach at Tauranga Bay, Ihaka dropped into Auckland Central for an update from Beth Greendale.