Surrender (6 page)

I didn’t expect an answer but I did appreciate the grin. Sean was always generous with those. He forgave easily. Much more easily than I did. We were companionably silent for a while. Then, just as I was about to stand, he hunched forward and ripped out another handful of grass. He had something else to say. I leaned back on my elbows and waited.

‘Listen, Diane,’ he said, running his fingers through his hair and combing in some blades of the Basin Reserve’s finest green. I resisted the urge to pluck them back out. ‘Since you’re back at work, and most likely you’ll be working out of HQ, there’s something you should know, and I thought it was better coming from me.’

I watched his shirt rise and fall as he took in a couple of deep breaths. He aimed his voice towards that guy in the Ladies’ stand.

‘Sylvie’s pregnant. I mean, we are. We’re having a baby.’

My world tipped and that sandwich made its presence felt again.

I think I congratulated him. I know I walked back with him to his car and accepted a ride to town but declined his offer to sign me into Central. I’d sort out my access to HQ tomorrow. I’m pretty sure I even kissed him goodbye on the cheek. Best of all, as I moved the case file from the passenger seat to the back, I managed to read Snow’s last known address. Not bad considering I had to read it upside down — an old party trick of mine that I always knew would come in handy one day. I guess I’d gone on to automatic.

I crossed the road and used the toilets in the public library. Being a multi-tasker I wrote Snow’s address into my notepad while I peed and switched my phone back on. Then I held my wrists under the cold tap and stared at myself in the mirror. I looked pretty much like I always did. So how come I felt like I’d been hit by a train?

I was drying my hands when my phone rang. It was Robbie offering to drop my vehicle off the following night. He would drive it into town and a mate would drive Robbie’s vehicle so they could get back home. Robbie said maybe we could have a drink together and he could hand my car keys over personally rather than putting them back under the front seat where he’d found them. He suggested meeting at The Tasting Room, a bar in Courtenay Place that I knew quite well.

He said maybe I could bring a friend along so his mate had someone to have a drink with as well. He said all this without taking a breath. I said that sounded like a good idea and suggested eight o’clock the following night. It was only after I’d rung off that it dawned on me I’d just agreed to a double date.

They say timing is everything.

T
he library was busy but I didn’t have to wait long for a computer to come free. At Pussy Galore that night, Chloe had told me that Richard Brownlee was the one client she thought would be totally pissed with Niki for deciding to leave the sex business. That he was obsessed with Niki and jealous of any other guys spending time with her. I googled the name, highlighted the New Zealand icon, and hit the search button. Six hits immediately appeared on the screen. I opened them all in separate windows and clicked through each of them.

I learnt that Richard Brownlee was the managing director of a property development company, Brownlee Property. The ghosts of a couple of companies he’d been involved with that had gone belly-up appeared, but I’d need to dig deeper than the internet to uncover what they were all about. They may have been genuine failures or, more likely, created for the purpose of shuffling money across a pack of companies which were then deliberately folded.

A school class photo on a ‘Searching for lost friends’ site didn’t tell me much, except that in year nine he was the shortest kid in the
second row, olive-skinned with very dark, straight hair, and that he, along with every other boy in his class, had struggled with the myriad physical side effects that accompanied puberty.

Richard’s name appeared in a number of applications to the city council, mostly to do with re-zoning issues. There was no R. Brownlee listed in the white pages, but there was a J. and R. with a residential address in Karori. Possibly he’d listed his wife’s initial first to avoid searches, or of course he could be a really modern, liberal, Mr Nice Guy who thinks it’s just fine to have his wife’s name first in the phone book, and who also happens to be a regular client at a strip club where he nurtured an obsession with my now-dead sister.

I was prepared to keep a totally open mind about him, at least until I met the prick.

Brownlee Property had a landline number listed in the white pages but no business address other than a post box which I could tell by the numbers was in the Marion Street post office. It might have been that he shifted his business offices into whatever site he was developing at the time and then moved on as soon as he’d sold it. On the other hand, it could be that he didn’t like being found too easily. You can’t be subpoenaed via a post box.

I gave up my terminal to the schoolkid waiting in line to use it, but not before deleting the history cache. Then I rang Brownlee Property and asked to speak to Richard. The receptionist said he’d gone for the day. I angled my head to see the library clock. It showed five thirty, so he’d cut loose early.

I told her I’d catch him at home then, making it sound like I did that all the time. She snorted a derisive laugh but I didn’t know if it was aimed at my pretence that I had his home number or the idea that Richard would be home any time soon. She told me she wasn’t supposed to tell anyone where he was, not ever, but that I could find
him at a bar in Cambridge Terrace called Charlie’s Angels where he’d be ‘having a meeting with a bunch of other jerks’.

She managed to weight the word ‘meeting’ with a ton of irony. When I said I might drop by the bar now, she told me to knock myself out and that she, on the other hand, was going home to have a very hot, very cleansing shower, and then she was going to find a new job on Job Search and never have anything to do with that cock Brownlee ever again in her entire life.

I guess I got her on a bad day. Or a good day, depending on your point of view. I thanked her and wished her luck finding a new job. She said ta and told me to feel free to tell the arsewipe that she’d quit and pocketed the petty cash as her severance pay.

The bar now calling itself Charlie’s Angels had been operating as a drinking hole under different names for as long as I could remember. It had been used as a money-laundering joint by a series of owners over the years and I didn’t imagine this incarnation was any different in that respect. The room itself was impressive with an eighteen-foot stud and walls painted icing-sugar white. The bar was a room-length sweep of dove-grey Cararra marble behind which the tuxedoed staff, men and women, polished glasses with Irish linen cloths which they tucked into their pristine knee-length aprons.

Remembering I’d been messing around with a decomposing body in a shed in Wainuiomata that morning, and lying on the grass at the Basin Reserve cricket ground being delivered a cruel bouncer from my ex-husband less than an hour ago, I gave my jeans and sleeves a bit of a brush down. That would have to do.

I ordered a Campari and soda from the young woman behind the bar who, I couldn’t help noting, was dressed a damn sight better than me. She had the whole white shirt, bow-tie with starched apron over well-pressed suit pants thing going on. She made it look stylie, androgynous and immaculate. Try me in that number
with the apron, and I’d look like someone’s itinerant grandmother.

The drink was delivered to me with a flourish. When I lifted the glass to take a sip, the tiny circle of pink fizz left on the bar surface was wiped away with a murmured apology. From this close I could see the grey marble was shot through with pale brown capillaries. I swirled my oily pink drink with the swizzle stick and checked out the clientele.

I spotted Richard Brownlee immediately. He was in the middle of a group of suited men at a high table next to the windows. The other guys squatted on stools but Brownlee remained standing. I guessed he didn’t like his legs to dangle. He didn’t look too different from his school photo: in his mid thirties now, he still seemed to be struggling with puberty. Nature hadn’t helped him with the no-doubt much anticipated teen growth spurt. It had sucked his frame up to a lofty five foot five, before cruelly abandoning him.

He was wearing a royal blue, extra-wide pinstriped suit. I could hear the salesman’s pitch that the vertical stripes would give the illusion of added height. They didn’t. He’d used a fair bit of hair gel which gave him a slippery appearance, though I think he would have managed that look without any help from product. My guess was that slippery came naturally to Richard Brownlee. He’d cultivated designer stubble which only emphasised his triple chin. A glass of beer was clutched in one hand, his phone in the other.

I stopped myself from picturing Niki having sex with this guy, but not before I’d imagined his hands on her. I knocked back my Campari in one hit, caught the attentive eye of the bartender, and had another one delivered. When it arrived, I picked up my glass and approached the flock of preening peacocks.

‘Richard Brownlee? I’m Diane Rowe,’ I said, holding my hand out.

His swagger at being singled out by a woman in a bar was
quickly replaced by dismay when he registered our height disparity. No way was standing beside me going to make Richard Brownlee look good, which was fine with me. He hitched his butt cheek up on to a stool and studied me, paying particular attention to my crotch and tits.

‘Have we met before? You look familiar.’ He wiped his beer hand down his thigh before taking my hand. His shake was a damp bone-cruncher. The other guys formed a casual ruck facing away from us, though I could tell from the set of their shoulders they were listening and I caught a couple of winks pass amongst them. Charming.

‘No, we’ve never met, but I’m told you knew my sister,’ I said, getting straight into it.

He looked genuinely confused. ‘Really? Well, I know a lot of people, babe. And if your sister is as good-looking as you are, I certainly hope I do know her. What’s her name?’

‘Niki,’ I said, watching him closely. ‘But you knew her as Bonnie.’

I saw the memory kick in and a fleeting look of fear pinch up his face. It was erased as quickly as it appeared and replaced with a broad smile. His teeth were wide-spaced and resembled little tombstones.

‘Yeah, I knew Bonnie. Nice girl. I was sorry about what happened to her, but, well, you know, she played rough …’ He left the sentence unfinished. I really wanted to knock those little tombstones over. ‘They ever find the guy who did it?’

I took a sip and carefully put my glass down. That way it had less chance of ending up in his face.

‘Actually, Richard, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about. You see, the cops know who killed her, but they believe someone paid that person to do it and I was thinking, maybe that person was
someone who didn’t want other people knowing they’d become obsessed with a young dancer. That mightn’t be good for family relations or it could be bad for business. So I was thinking, Richard, that maybe you might know who that person is.’

During my little speech, the other guys had given up all pretence of not listening and had formed an intimidating scrum around me in support of their buddy. Richard was still grinning those teeth at me but sweat had popped on his forehead.

He held his hands out in an inclusive gesture ‘What do you say, guys? Shall I set this girl straight, do you think?’ They grinned and swaggered, not sure where he was going with this, but prepared to step in no matter what he said.

Richard nodded at them. ‘Look at us. Do you really think it’s bad for business if our clients know we go to strip bars? That we pay good money for gorgeous girls to have sex with us? Honey, I’d be putting it out there that I was living the high life even if I wasn’t — you get my drift? But trust me, I
am
living the life because I’m a successful businessman.’ He moved his sweaty face close to mine. ‘You got it all wrong, babe. Clients love it and you can go ahead and feel free to tell anybody you like that Richard Brownlee buys good booty. I’m not going to deny it. It’s
good
for business.’

He was a cocky little bastard.

‘And having Niki killed? Is that good for business too?’

He tensed his shoulder muscles and dropped the false smile routine.

‘Listen. I understand you’re upset about your sister dying and all, but you’d better be very fucking careful about what you accuse me of, because I’ve got a reputation to uphold and I won’t have you coming in here to a public place making suggestions that I was involved in her being killed.’ He shrugged and threw a peanut in his mouth but that didn’t stop him talking. ‘It’s a dangerous sandpit
that girl played in, but from what I could see no one was forcing her to do it. She made good money on her back.’ He grinned at his mates for support. ‘Hell’s teeth,’ he said, eerily mirroring my observation, ‘I wish that was all
I
had to do to make a buck.’ He popped another peanut. Warming to his subject, he indicated my glass. ‘Listen, let me get you a drink, eh? We’ll raise our glasses to Bon. I don’t mind doing that. It’s on me,’ he offered, all generosity of spirit.

He was about to jump down off the stool but thought better of it and instead raised his arm and yelled at the young woman serving drinks to the nearby table.

‘Hey, babe,’ he yelled, hooking a finger at her, ‘get over here.’

This show of finger-waggling macho seemed to give Richard back his confidence. Now he was including his nearest buddy in the joke. The guy’s jacket was a comedy routine in itself — a baby-blue number with extra-wide lapels and a faux royal-blue-silk hanky in a faux pocket — but I don’t think that was the source of their mirth. Richard had turned to his friends, effectively dismissing me.

I said to his back, ‘One of the girls at the club told me you had a bit of a thing for my sister.’

Richard sighed theatrically and rolled his neck to look at me over his shoulder. ‘What kind of thing would that be, babe? No offence, but she was a whore.’

I was determined not to let him get to me. ‘She said you didn’t like other guys spending time with Niki. That you liked to have her all to yourself. I heard you were jealous.’

Richard barked a laugh. ‘Now that would be pretty stupid, wouldn’t it?’

‘Yep,’ I agreed pleasantly. ‘But then, you see, that would fit nicely with my assessment of you so far.’

A couple of the guys hooted at that but I kept my attention on
Richard who swivelled the stool around and angled his crotch in my direction. He popped another peanut in his mouth. Not many seemed to end up in his stomach — they just got crushed up and filled the gaps between his teeth.

‘I’ll tell you this for nothing — Bonnie was a lot of fun. A lot more fun than you are and that’s for sure. But let me explain something. Your sister and me, we weren’t in a relationship. I paid her. I had sex with her. End of story. I don’t think she had anything to complain about with me. In fact, I’d say she enjoyed it. Maybe you should try it some time. You look like you could do with a bit of enjoying it — you know what I mean?’ All theatre now, he made a show of taking out his wallet and flipping through a couple of hundred dollar notes. ‘What would you cost? Hundred? One fifty? Name your price.’

His mates all roared with laughter and slapped each other on the back. Richard Brownlee only stopped laughing when I poured his beer on to his crotch. I was just doing him a favour. That suit really had to go.

I needed to walk Brownlee out of my system and I knew just the dog to help me do it. I don’t walk in the town belt at night. It’s not because I’m scared: I’m pretty confident Wolf would relish the memory of his police training and attack anyone who thought of harming me. There’s something about walking the streets at night that I’ve always loved and Wolf gets to schmoozle in and out of people’s front yards, which in daylight I can’t let him do. It’s the voyeur in me, I guess. I love to glimpse people’s lives through partly closed curtains, love the smells from dinner, the clanging of dishes, the flickering of television screens or thud of music, the sounds of little kids giggling and running up stairs, probably on all fours. It’s like that old song says, ‘homes full of people’.

When Sean and I first moved in together we used to walk the streets. It started as house-hunting but then we developed this game where we’d each pick out the house we liked and make up a story about us in it. We’d invent a life for ourselves. We were a couple of kids playing house, I guess. Playing mothers and fathers.

After we’d done that for a while we’d go back to our two-room bedsit and crawl under the sheets and make love until we were exhausted and aching, our limbs wrapped around each other, the heady fug of sex enveloping us. No matter how hard we tried, we knew there was no comparison. Our life together was far better than anything we could make up. Even then, right at the start, we’d talked about getting pregnant, but knew we were too selfish. We couldn’t get enough of each other and neither of us was ready to share the other person with a demanding baby. We liked to talk about it though — the idea that what we were doing could create a life made up of the two of us was an aphrodisiac. I always knew when I was ovulating and it was as if Sean’s body knew too. He’d thrust harder and deeper and then just hold himself there, deep inside me, and wait. He’d look at me and we’d both just
know
. Is that how it was with him and the little blonde Sylvie? Did he look at her and did they
know
? I had no right to ask. I had no right to even imagine how they conceived their child together. That’s the terrible thing when you let your partner go — their life’s got nothing to do with you any more.