Death on Demand

by Paul Thomas

  He ate dinner on the veranda with family noises floating over the back fence. Lately, he’d also revised his attitude to other people’s kids. They used to be bratty little attention-seekers; now they were a reminder that the normal world was a very different place from the war zone he worked in. In the normal world people did an honest day’s work and watched their kids grow up and died of natural causes.

  He’d just finished cleaning up when the doorbell rang. As a rule he ignored the doorbell on the basis that the few people he didn’t mind turning up unannounced would just let themselves in, while the rest could fuck off. Sensing this caller wouldn’t be easily discouraged, he went to the door. His visitor was the Auckland Police District Commander, Superintendent Finbar McGrail.

  They contemplated each other for a few seconds. “The fact you’re not wearing a tie tells me this is a social call,” said Ihaka. “But since when did you make social calls?”

  “It’s not a social call.”

  Ihaka stood aside to allow McGrail into his house for the very first time. They went down the corridor to the kitchen/ dining room. McGrail’s eyebrows arched as he took in the house-proud orderliness, the spotless bench, the fresh basil on the windowsill above the sink, and the wine glass and open bottle of Pinot Noir on the table.

  “If you weren’t here, Sergeant, I’d assume I was in the wrong house. I was warned to expect squalor.”

  “You’ve been talking to Van Roon, right? The day he made DS, he swore he wouldn’t set foot in here again until I’d had the place steam-cleaned.”

  “That was two years ago.”

  “Shit, so it was,” said Ihaka. “I must get him around some time.”

  “What brought about the change?”

  Ihaka shrugged. “Personal growth and development. Either that or a mid-life crisis.”

  “A bit early for that, isn’t it?”

  “Could be a bit late. My old man dropped dead at fifty-one.” He pulled a chair out from the kitchen table. “Take a seat. Can I get you something – a juice or a cup of tea? Or a wine?”

  McGrail, who was virtually teetotal, sat down. “I’m fine, thank you. You obviously know why I’m here.”

  Ihaka sat opposite him and poured himself another glass of wine. “Well, yes and no. I know why someone’s here. I’m surprised it’s you.”

  “Firstly,” said McGrail, “Charlton can’t deal with this because of his relationship with Firkitt. Secondly, it reflects the seriousness with which we’re treating this matter. Thirdly… Well, frankly, Sergeant, this isn’t going to go well for you, and I wanted you to hear that from me. Charlton wants you charged with assault.”

  “He’d have a hard time making that stick,” said Ihaka. “No witnesses, Firkitt’s word against mine.”

  “What’s your version?”

  “He followed me into the dunny mouthing off, had a bit of a turn, fell over, and clonked his head on the way down.”

  “Really?” said McGrail. “So why didn’t you go to his aid?”

  “Because he’s a cunt. I wouldn’t piss on him if his hair was on fire.”

  “Funny you should say that,” said McGrail. “He claims that’s exactly what you did do.”

  Ihaka took a gulp of wine to stop himself laughing. “Well, he’s wrong. But next time he finds himself face-down in the pisser, he might want to be upstream rather than downstream.”

  A pained expression rippled across McGrail’s face. “I’d have to say, Sergeant, that’s a somewhat threadbare account. Fortunately for you, however, a witness for the defence has come forward.”

  “And who might that be?”

  “Ms Greendale. According to her, Firkitt was going out of his way to be provocative…”

  “What’s new?”

  “An element of racism, by the sound of it. Not for the first time, you’re fortunate that your friends look out for you more than you look out for yourself. Ms Greendale would be a very credible witness, should it come to that. But it won’t come to that. No one emerges from this sorry affair with any credit, so it’s in all our interests to put it quietly to rest.”

  “But? There is a but, isn’t there?”

  McGrail nodded. “Charlton’s fallback was to put you through a full disciplinary process with a view to demotion or dismissal. I pointed out that such a process could hardly ignore Firkitt’s conduct or Ms Greendale’s evidence, so he might very well end up killing two birds with that stone, one of them being his pet raptor. His final, non-negotiable position was that you leave the Auckland district, with immediate effect.” McGrail looked at his watch and stood up.

  “So that’s that, eh?” said Ihaka. “I’m gone?”

  “Well,” said McGrail, “one of you has got to go, and I don’t mean either you or Firkitt. I mean either you or Charlton. That’s the way he’s framing it, and I’m afraid you don’t even have a starter’s chance in that contest.” He looked down at Ihaka, who was staring into his glass, swirling the wine. “You know what’s so galling about this: Charlton and Firkitt have won. This is precisely the outcome they wanted.”

  “Yeah,” said Ihaka. “I worked that out a while ago.”

  “So why the devil play into their hands?”

  Ihaka looked up. “Maybe I’ve had enough. Maybe I also wanted this outcome – or something like it.”

  “Good God, man,” spluttered McGrail, “you could’ve just put in a request for a transfer.”

  Ihaka smiled. “Where’s the fun in that? Besides, just more paperwork.”

  McGrail shook his head in wonderment. “The Lord’s not the only one who moves in mysterious ways. So do you have somewhere in mind?”

  Ihaka picked up the wine bottle and studied the label. “Where exactly is Martinborough?”

  2

  It didn’t occur to Ihaka to wonder if promotion and the passing of time would have changed Finbar McGrail. Why would it? During the years they’d worked together, McGrail had changed so little that you had to wonder if he’d discovered the secret of eternal early middle age. Apart from crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes and the odd grey hair, he looked pretty much the same the night he came to Ihaka’s house to cut him loose as he did the day they met.

  There was no magic formula. McGrail stayed trim thanks to relentless jogging and an austere lifestyle. And while some sneered, behind his back, at his drab attire – he had half a dozen cheap suits in various shades of grey, and wore short-sleeved white polyester shirts all year round, donning a cardigan knitted by his wife when it got cold – Ihaka had a sneaking (and undeclared) admiration for his boss’s lack of vanity. Although Ihaka despised meanness and operated on the principle that if you spend more than you earn, someone will eventually bring it to your attention, he soon realized that McGrail wasn’t averse to spending money per se. He was just averse to spending it on himself.

  So when Ihaka was shown into McGrail’s office he couldn’t help gawking at the sleek, elegant figure who emerged from behind the desk with a smile and an outstretched hand. No two ways about it: McGrail had had a makeover. He’d gone management.

  Not a trace remained of the public-service clerk look – the geek specs, the blind man’s haircut, the man-made fibres and pastel shoes from Asian sweatshops. His hair had been cut by someone who didn’t think the object of the exercise was to remove as much as possible as quickly as possible. He was wearing Armani glasses, a white linen shirt with French cuffs, greenstone cufflinks, a navy-blue suit with a delicate pinstripe which fitted so perfectly it had to be tailor-made, and a plush, rich-red silk tie. Ihaka was no expert but he was pretty sure the watch on McGrail’s left wrist was the same one Leonardo DiCaprio had been endorsing in the in-flight magazine. In his former life McGrail had been perfectly happy with cheap digital sports watches that looked as though they were designed by the people who make the plastic junk which falls out of Christmas crackers.

  Equally amazingly, he’d put on weight. The beautifully cut suit couldn’t hide the swell of paunch, and a
fold of throat flab bulged over his collar. His previously chalky complexion now had the pink tinge common among self-indulgent men of a certain age.

  Seemingly oblivious to the scrutiny, McGrail shook hands, led his visitor to a sofa, and evinced close interest in life in Wairarapa.

  “Well, it certainly looks as if it agrees with you, Sergeant,” said McGrail, almost jovially. “Would I be correct in thinking you’ve lost weight?”

  “A bit. I ate like a horse when I first got down there because there was nothing else to do. After a while I found other ways to fill in the time.”

  “Such as?”

  “Tramping, fishing, hunting, cricket – you know, manly outdoor stuff.”

  “Good for you. I, on the other hand…”

  “Well, I wasn’t going to mention it…”

  McGrail sighed. “My knees went wonky and the doctors banned me from jogging. I also have to do a fair amount of networking, most of which seems to take place in restaurants. I’ve discovered that things which supposedly aren’t good for us are rather more enjoyable than some of the things which supposedly are.”

  “Welcome to the human race. Is it also a job requirement to dress like Lord Muck?”

  McGrail leaned back, smiling thinly. “Lord Muck, eh? I haven’t heard of him for a while. Does my get-up offend you, Sergeant?”

  Ihaka shook his head. “I just thought you didn’t have a vain bone in your body.”

  “Don’t dwell on the externals,” said McGrail. “The fundamentals haven’t changed. But I’m in this job to make a difference, and if wearing a nice suit and lunching with politicians helps me do that, so be it. I didn’t invent this world, but I have to function in it.”

  “I don’t,” said Ihaka.

  “You’re not pleased to be back in the big city?”

  “Well, it’s an okay place to visit…”

  “But you wouldn’t want to work here? One would almost think you’ve undergone a Damascene conversion.”

  “Sounds painful.”

  “Well, it certainly can be for others. But I get the message: you’re wondering why on earth, given the resources of the Auckland district, you’ve had to rush up here at such short notice. Remember Hamish Bartley?”

  “The QC, right?” said Ihaka. “He represented that prick whose wife got run down.”

  McGrail nodded. “Last Friday Bartley took me to lunch at his club. The Northern Club.”

  “I didn’t think it would be the Panmure RSA.”

  “I’m pleased to see the heartland hasn’t softened your sense of humour,” said McGrail. “Anyway, we had a pleasant lunch and talked about everything except what we were there for, as you tend to do when a third party is paying. When the coffee arrived, he finally got to the point: Christopher Lilywhite wants to see you.”

  “The guy whose wife…”

  “Got run down. Yes, that Christopher Lilywhite.”

  Ihaka sat back, staring at McGrail. “Why the fuck would he, of all people, want to see me, of all people?”

  “Because he’s dying.”

  The doorbell was answered by a thirtyish woman, shapeless in baggy track pants and an oversized T-shirt. Her hair was clipped into an untidy holding pattern, and red-rimmed eyes and nostrils glowed angrily amidst the pallor. Before he could introduce himself, she said accusingly, “You’re Ihaka.”

  He nodded.

  “You’re the last person who should be here.”

  “It wasn’t my idea.”

  Her head vibrated with pent-up anger. “He’s got this weird idea about making peace with you. I tried to talk him out of it, but he wouldn’t even discuss it. I suppose that’s his privilege, but he’s dreaming if he thinks I’m going to be polite to you.” Her voice rose. “How you can still be a police officer is beyond me – you behaved like an absolute fucking Nazi. You hounded a man who was at the end of his tether, and what you put him through is the reason he’s back there dying right in front of my eyes.”

  “Are you a doctor?” asked Ihaka politely.

  “No,” she snapped. “I’m a daughter.” She turned and walked away. “The room at the end of the corridor,” she said over her shoulder. “You can let yourself out.”

  Ihaka walked down the corridor into a sunny living room. There was a well-stocked cocktail cabinet, a wall-mounted television, a sideboard stacked with framed family photographs, and several paintings including the inevitable Central Otago landscape. The flat surfaces were abloom.

  Christopher Lilywhite lay on one of two long black leather sofas, his head sunk in a bank of pillows. Although the room was warm, almost stuffy, he wore an old-fashioned heavy dressing gown and had a cashmere blanket pulled up to his chest. He wasn’t as gaunt as Ihaka had expected, but the year-round playboy tan had faded, exposing skin the colour of office equipment.

  Lilywhite put a bookmark in a slim paperback and found a space for it among the bottles and glasses and pill containers on the coffee table beside him.

  “The Outsider by Albert Camus,” he said in a smaller voice than the smug honk Ihaka remembered. “I’m trying to work my way through the books I always meant to read, but never got around to. I do find myself drawn to the short ones, though.”

  “That’s understandable,” said Ihaka. “How long have you got?”

  “Put it this way: we’re counting in weeks now. I hope Sandy – my daughter – didn’t give you too hard a time. I asked her to be civil, but got the distinct impression that that was one dying man’s request which wasn’t going to be granted.”

  Ihaka shrugged. “I’ve had worse.”

  “Would you care for a drink?” asked Lilywhite. “That cabinet over there contains most alcoholic beverages known to man. I also nagged Sandy into making a pot of coffee.”

  “Well, seeing you both went to the trouble.”

  Ihaka poured himself a cup of plunger coffee, added sugar, and sat down in the visitor’s chair pulled up in front of Lilywhite’s sofa.

  “I’m sorry you got run out of town,” said Lilywhite. “Of course, at the time I was delighted.”

  “I wasn’t unhappy with how it panned out,” said Ihaka. “And if that’s the worst thing you’ve got on your conscience, you should be at peace with yourself.”

  Lilywhite managed a weak smile. “Good point. We’ll come to my conscience shortly. I don’t think you’ll leave here feeling you’ve wasted an afternoon, but could you do me a favour before we get down to business: why were you so sure I killed my wife?”

  “Instinct, experience, process of elimination. Once you take away the baby bashers and the psychos and the dumbfuck trash out of their tiny minds on drugs or booze, most murders boil down to sex or money. If a marriage is made in heaven, neither of those things comes into it. If it isn’t, one or the other or both generally do.” He paused. “Okay, a man who’s used to getting away with things has a rich wife. He likes the rich part, but she doesn’t do it for him any more. So he gets rid of her making it look like an accident, gets the money all to himself and, after a decent interval, moves the girlfriend into the master bedroom. That’s pretty much how it went down, right?”

  “But the outcome doesn’t prove the theory,” said Lilywhite. “If Joyce had died of natural causes, I still would’ve got all the money and ended up with someone else.”

  “Who said anything about proof? I didn’t have any proof; that’s why the investigation got canned. Come back to the key question: were you happily married? Your wife’s friends thought so because that’s how your wife saw it – or chose to see it – and they got her version. Your mates said all the right things, but I’ve been lied to by experts. A couple of them who tried to tell me it was all sweetness and light sounded like they’d learned the lines off by heart. Why would they have to do that? The truth should speak for itself. I’ve also had to deal with people who’ve had someone precious just vanish from their lives. Grief is a hard act, and you didn’t ring true. And then there were those fucking boy racers. Boy racers race, they do
n’t steal cars to go and see where the rich folks live. If they steal a car, they thrash the shit out of it for a few hours, then dump it. There were street races all over town that night, but no one saw the Subaru. Boy racers aren’t master criminals, either. Most of them are fucking dimwits who’ve sucked up too many petrol fumes. They couldn’t keep a hit-and-run secret if their lives depended on it. The bottom line is that if boy racers mowed down your wife, we would’ve found them inside a week.”

  “When you put it like that, it seems obvious. Why weren’t you able to persuade your colleagues?”

  “In one corner you’ve got a well-connected, white, middle-aged businessman, in the other a couple of phantom boy racers. For some people that’s a pretty easy call.”

  Lilywhite nodded slowly. “I could say that’s a rather cynical point of view, but I suppose you’d come right back and call me naïve – or disingenuous. So you still think I got away with murder?”

  “I wouldn’t be here otherwise. You tell me something. What did your friends, particularly your wife’s friends, think when you hooked up with her PA?”

  “Well, some of them were a bit stiff-necked about it but a decent interval, to use your phrase, had elapsed.”

  “Bullshit,” said Ihaka. “You were sneaking her in here long before you went public.” Lilywhite blinked in surprise. Ihaka gave him a quizzical look. “You think I stopped watching you just because the minister threw a wobbly?”

  “Did you report that?”

  “Jesus, that would’ve got me in the shit, not you. By that stage the investigation was on the back-burner and I was under strict orders to stay away from you. Just mentioning your name was enough to get me in strife. No, it was just for my benefit.”

  “The quiet, private satisfaction of knowing you were right and your critics were wrong?”

  Ihaka shook his head. “No, more the relief of knowing I hadn’t fucked up my career over nothing.”