Death on Demand (34 page)

Scholes dropped the phone into his jacket pocket and started the car.

 

This time Finbar McGrail himself answered the door. “Perfect timing, Sergeant. I was just about to have a glass of port. Come on in.”

He led Ihaka down the corridor to his study and ushered him into a chair.

“Actually, I've been expecting you,” said McGrail, taking care to ensure the measures were exactly equal. “When I heard you were burning the midnight oil at Central, I assumed you were onto something.”

He handed Ihaka a glass.

“Thanks,” said Ihaka. “Heard from who?”

“Beth Greendale. She went through and covered your cyber-tracks, just in case.”

“So Van Roon was right. She was keeping an eye on me for you?”

“Paranoia doesn't become you, Sergeant,” said McGrail primly. “I was conscious both that I'd dropped you into a snake-pit and that, come what may, you wouldn't ask for help.”

Ihaka swallowed most of his drink. “You know what I think? The Lilywhite case was never a priority for you. It just gave you an excuse to get me back up here. You knew I wouldn't be able to resist poking into what happened to Blair Corvine. You wanted me to shake the tree and see who fell out.”

McGrail moved his nose to and fro above his glass, taking his time. “So who did?”

“Why didn't you just say so?”

“You explained it rather well,” said McGrail. “I didn't need to.”

“You mean it gave you deniability if the shit hit the fan.”

McGrail tut-tutted. “Such a cynic. Are you going to keep me in suspense?”

“Didn't Beth figure it out?”

“She had no idea what you were looking for. True to form, Sergeant, you played your cards very close to your chest.”

“Jesus, you're a fine one to talk.”

“Touché,” said McGrail, inclining his head.

“It was Johan.”

“Oh.”

“That's it – ‘oh'?”

“Well, bear in mind when you took everything into account there weren't that many candidates. But I'm very sorry to hear that, partly on my own account. I would've said Van Roon was a good officer and a good man. It turns out he's neither.”

“It's not black and white.”

“Carry on.”

As McGrail refilled their glasses, Ihaka summarized Van Roon's self-defence.

“Artful,” said McGrail, resuming his seat. “And perhaps not without some validity. But I rather suspect he executed Yallop to protect himself, rather than you.”

“So what do we do now?”

“You've done your bit by telling me. I'm sure Van Roon pressed you to keep it to yourself.”

“Okay, so what are you going to do now? He's a bright bastard, Johan, and very careful. It'll be a bloody tough nut to crack.”

“He has two areas of vulnerability,” said McGrail. “One is money. It's difficult for someone on a salary to conceal supplementary income or explain sudden spikes in expenditure which aren't balanced by borrowings. Conversely, it takes an almost inhuman degree of self-discipline to hide it somewhere and forget about it for a couple of decades. The other one is family. My impression would be that he'd dread the impact public disgrace would have on his wife and children.”

“No doubt about that.”

“So my recommendation to the commissioner will be that we offer him a choice: resign with immediate effect, or we publicly announce an open-ended investigation into his involvement with Yallop.”

“And if he walks the plank, that'll be the end of it?”

“Good heavens, no. Murder is murder, Sergeant. We can't sweep that under the carpet. You'll share your theory regarding Yallop's murder with the officer in charge, Detective Sergeant Firkitt, and then let the cards fall where they may. There's nothing new in us knowing who committed a crime but having the devil's own job proving it, although Firkitt is nothing if not persistent.”

McGrail went behind his desk to peer at his computer screen. “On another matter, would the Grant Hayes whom you suspect of killing Eve Diack be the same Grant Hayes who went out to the supermarket last night and never came home?”

“I hadn't caught up with that.”

“I can't imagine there are two private investigators by that name. I assume you issued a ports and airports alert?”

Ihaka nodded. “I wouldn't worry about Hayes. He'll turn up eventually.”

McGrail took off his glasses, breathed on them, polished them with a piece of cloth, put them back on. “Sergeant, I've known you long enough to have the strong sense that you could shed some light on this situation.”

“You know Jonathon Bell had Arden Black done in because he thought Black drove his wife to suicide?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I told Bell who really drove his wife to suicide.”

The intensity of McGrail's scrutiny went up several notches. “Didn't it occur to you… Let me rephrase that. It obviously occurred to you that he might do the same to Hayes.”

“That's exactly what I pointed out to Hayes,” said Ihaka mildly. “He reckoned he could stay out of jail
and
stay alive. I warned him he could do one or the other, but not both.”

“And what about Bell?” said McGrail sharply. “What sort of rough justice do you have planned for him? After all, he had an innocent man beaten to death.”

Ihaka drained his glass. “Bloody nice drop, that. Last time I went after someone in that neck of the woods it didn't turn out too well for me, so I might sit this one out. I'll leave Bell to others, like John Scholes.”

“Why Scholes?”

“Bell wanted blood so badly he sold his soul to the devil. I wouldn't call that getting off scot-free. I'd call it a life sentence, no remission, no parole.”

“I see. Would I be correct in assuming Scholes would have a good idea of Hayes's current circumstances and whereabouts?”

“I'd say so.”

“Well, at the risk of sounding like a broken record, what about Scholes? He's as free as the breeze, thanks to us.”

“I'm not finished with Johnny Scholes. He belongs to me now.”

McGrail felt slightly foolish, which didn't happen very often. He should have known Ihaka would be relentless. One way or another, his justice would reach all those who deserved it.

“That makes it sound like you're staying?”

“I guess that's up to Charlton.”

“It's most definitely not up to Charlton. It's up to you and me.”

“Well, yeah, but—”

“I know what you mean. You're thinking about how it would work. I don't think you should be concerned about Charlton. He's in your debt now, which of course is the very last place he wants to be. Having said that, Charlton's driving force is ambition. He wants people around him who get results, so that he's seen as someone who gets results. Believe me, if you want to come back, Charlton won't stand in your way. He'll swallow hard, grit his teeth and pretend it was his idea. Firkitt's another matter altogether. I'm pleased to say I have no insight into what goes on inside that head.”

“Firkitt I'm not too worried about. One of these days, out of the blue, he'll take a swing at me, and then honour will be satisfied.”

“In that case, welcome back, Sergeant. I think a toast is in order. Goodness me, we seem to have finished the bottle.”

“Sir, I've known you long enough to have the strong sense that you will have planned for just such an eventuality.”

McGrail sighed. “Unfortunately, Sergeant, you're absolutely correct. Again.”

 

Ihaka had dinner with Miriam Lovell, who had a more robust appetite for food and wine than her slim build and vegetarian aura had led him to expect. In fact, as they started their main courses she moved the bottle of Pinot Noir closer to her, telling Ihaka that just because he drank faster than she did, that didn't mean he was going to get more than his fair share. He defused the stand-off by ordering another bottle.

As they waited for their taxis she told him, in a matter-of-fact way because she believed at their stage in life there was no point in not being upfront about these things, that she was open to the idea of a relationship but would want to take it slowly. She'd got to quite like being single and was in no rush to alter her routine. Ihaka said he could relate to that. They agreed to touch base in the morning, with a view to maybe getting together for brunch.

The next morning, a Saturday, Ihaka was awoken by his cellphone's text message alert. The text, sent from Denise Hadlow's phone, said, “Hey sargent ths is Billy. Im playing at the Domain at nine. Be real cool if you could come. Mum thinks so to.”

Ihaka looked at his watch. It was 8.35. He rolled out of bed and headed for the shower.

I'd like to thank my sister, Susan Thomas, for her legal expertise.

This novel contains material from a serial I wrote for the
New Zealand Herald
several years ago. Thanks to
NZH
editor Tim Murphy for his support and to APN News & Media for permission to reproduce the material concerned.

Finally, I wish to express my sincere thanks to Creative New Zealand, whose generous support greatly facilitated the writing of this novel.

 

 

BITTER LEMON PRESS

 

First published in the United Kingdom in 2013 by
Bitter Lemon Press, 37 Arundel Gardens,
London W11 2LW

 

 

First published in New Zealand by
Hachette New Zealand Ltd., 2012

© Paul Thomas, 2012

 

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be
reproduced in any form or by any means without
written permission of the publisher

 

The moral right of Paul Thomas has
been asserted in accordance with the
Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

 

A CIP record for this book is available
from the British Library

 

eISBN : 978-1-908-52418-8

 

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Printed and bound in Great Britain
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