Death on Demand

by Paul Thomas

  “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?”

  “He says the investigation’s reached the point where there’s a risk of a leak and he didn’t want me to hear it second-hand.”

  Ihaka nodded. “He’s got a point. I’m sorry you had to find out, but you don’t owe me anything.”

  “You were right all along,” she said, “and my father tried to destroy you. My brother and I said some terrible things.”

  “What happened, happened. There’s no need to apologize for believing your old man – any kid would do the same. And for what it’s worth, I think the guilt got to him.”

  “Why are you defending him?”

  “I’m not defending him,” said Ihaka. “I’m just saying he repented. In my book that counts for something. It’s certainly a lot better than not giving a shit.”

  Sandy shook her drooping head, as if Ihaka’s forbearance had undermined another comforting assumption. “Don’t you even want to say ‘I told you so’?”

  “Oh, I’ve said that to a few people around here, don’t worry about that. Can I ask you a question? You’ve probably already answered it, but did your father tell anyone he’d talked to me?”

  “Sergeant Firkitt asked me that. I don’t know, I’m afraid. All I can tell you is he was hardly talking to anyone at that stage. He’d told everyone who needed to know and been visited by the people he wanted to see, and he really just wanted to be left alone.”

  “What about you?”

  “Well, not as such. Denise Hadlow rang to speak to him that afternoon and I was so steamed up I just blurted out that you were there. Apart from that, I didn’t mention it to anyone.”

  “Did Denise ever get hold of him?”

  “She said she’d try again. I was out for a while that night, so she might have. Why do you ask?”

  “If your father was killed because he was talking to me – and right now there aren’t too many other theories – then anyone who knew that is a suspect.”

  Denise Hadlow emailed through a list of eleven names, none of which Ihaka recognized. He briefed Beth Greendale, and sent her off to talk about sex and blackmail.

  He invited Ron Firkitt out for a sandwich, his shout. Firkitt shook his head. “No way. If you’re paying, I’m having more than a lousy fucking sandwich.”

  He was as good as his word, loading his tray with a sausage roll, a beef and mushroom pie, a slice of bacon and egg pie, a smoked chicken panini, a cream bun and a Coke. Ihaka had a chicken salad sandwich and a short black.

  As they sat down Ihaka said, “So much for the theory that smoking kills your appetite.”

  “Oh, I probably won’t eat half this shit,” said Firkitt, “but you’ve got to show willing. So what’s this in aid of?”

  Ihaka told him about Arden Black’s gigolo sideline and Helen Conroy being blackmailed.

  “Two questions,” said Firkitt. “Why the fuck didn’t you tell us earlier, and why the fuck are you telling me now?”

  “I wanted to keep a lid on it for the same reason that women like Helen Conroy – and I’ll bet she’s not the only one – are vulnerable to blackmail: if it gets out, there’s a reasonable chance her marriage will fall over, her kids will get screwed up and half the people she knows will treat her like she’s the Whore of Babylon. She doesn’t deserve that.”

  “You’re a great big softie, aren’t you?” said Firkitt.

  “You know,” said Ihaka, “I’ve always thought the difference between us and the scumbags is they don’t give a shit what they do to innocent people.”

  “She’s not innocent.”

  “That’s between her and her husband. Anyway, I’m telling you now because it’s getting too big for me to freelance.”

  Firkitt nodded. “You going to tell Charlton?”

  “I have to, don’t I?”

  “He’s down in Wellington today, probably getting his arse punted around the Beehive. Look, why don’t you let me tell him? The thing with Charlton, timing is everything. If you give him bad news at the wrong time, he’ll rip you a new arsehole. I can read the bloke, so I’ll slip it in his ear when the time’s right – or as right as it’s ever going to be.” Firkitt paused, baring his wrecked teeth. “Of course, you’ve got to ask yourself: is this just a ruse on Firkitt’s part to really fucking drop me in the shit?”

  Ihaka shrugged. “I don’t think it matters either way. There’s something else. I’m bringing in Denise Hadlow this afternoon; I want you to interview her.”

  Firkitt’s eyes narrowed. “Why don’t you do it?”

  “I’m compromised.”

  “You mad fuck. How bad?”

  “Bad enough.”

  “Don’t blame you, mind you. She’s got the X factor, that sheila. What about that one on the plane? You get anywhere with her?”

  “Well, we had a drink the other night.”

  “What the fuck is it with you?” said Firkitt, scowling. “I mean, you’re a fucking lard, you’re as ugly as a pugdog’s bumhole…”

  “Not to mention being a brownie.”

  “Hey,” said Firkitt, “I don’t go there anymore, all right? I don’t say that stuff. I still think it, of course, but I don’t say it.”

  “As you do.”

  “Course you do. Christ, some of your mob are
the biggest fucking racists in the country, except it’s not racism when whitey cops it.”

  “Be fair. We’ve got a lot of ground to make up.”

  “I’ll have to tell Charlton about that too. Better he finds out now than down the track. So what are you going to tell this bird, that you’ve been pulled off the case again?”

  “I’ll tell her the truth.”

  “Will you now? Okay, I’ll do it, I’ll interview her but I’ll do it my way. It won’t be pretty.”

  “We’re way past pretty.”

  “She’ll hate you for it.”

  “As someone said to me just this morning: c’est la vie.” Ihaka stood up. Firkitt had scoffed everything but the cream bun. “I’ll leave you to your pudding and go and get things organized.”

  “Just because I’m giving you a hand here, doesn’t mean anything’s changed,” said Firkitt. “You understand that, don’t you? I’m still going to get you.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “And I still think you’re a cunt.”

  “Then we’re on the same wavelength, because I still think you’re a cunt. And I still think your mate Charlton’s a cunt. Huge cunts, the pair of you.”

  Firkitt shoved half the bun in his predator’s maw. “I bet you say that to all the boys.”

  Denise Hadlow bounced to her feet as Ihaka entered the interrogation room. “Tito, what the hell…?”

  “Sit down, please,” said Ihaka.

  After five seconds of silent defiance she snapped, “Fine,” and sat down, mimicking the bright-eyed attentiveness of a Year 10 teacher’s pet.

  “Last night—”

  “Yeah, let’s talk about last night,” she said. “Did last night happen, or did I imagine it?”

  “Last night I asked you what happened to Craig. You said the last you’d heard, he was in Phuket. I’m going to ask you again, and I suggest you think real hard before you answer.”

  “Oh, shit.” Hadlow sighed heavily and dropped her chin. “Okay, I’m sorry. He did go to Phuket and other places, but he came back. Can I just…?”

  “Where is he now?”

  “Here, in Auckland.”

  “Doing what?”

  “He runs a nightclub,” she said. “The Departure Lounge.”

  “What’s he call himself?”

  “Danny Howard.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Can I just explain?”

  “Before you do,” said Ihaka, “let me explain something. In everyday life, people tell lies all the time, so a bit of bullshit here and there isn’t that big a deal. In an investigation, if a cop catches you telling one lie, he’s going to assume he can’t believe a fucking word you’ve said. You understand what I’m saying?”

  “I promised Craig I wouldn’t tell anyone he was back. I don’t make many promises, but when I do, I stick to them.”

  “Even if it means lying?”

  “Sometimes it just works out that way,” she said. “A promise is a promise.”

  “Let’s hear it.”

  “Basically, Craig split because he owed money all over town. He was away for, I think, three years and came back a different person. Even to look at. He’d always been big on the weights, but he’d got into swimming and cycling so his body shape had changed. And the whole act had been toned down – he was just a lot less in your face. He wanted to start over, but some people have long memories when it comes to money, so he made me and Warren and I guess a few others promise that if his name ever came up, we’d stick to the story that he was gone, over the horizon, no forwarding address. It didn’t seem too much to ask.”

  “So he’d got over you and Warren?”

  “It wasn’t an issue. We went out one night, he admitted he’d made a dick of himself, we had a laugh about it and that was that – the subject never came up again. I mean, he got Warren the nightclub gig, and he and I get on fine. In fact we get on better than we did when we were a couple.”

  “Changing the subject, did you speak to Lilywhite after I’d been to see him?”

  “You mean in person?”

  Ihaka gave her the stare. “Don’t play games.”

  “Jesus,” she said indignantly. “Touchy. Yeah, I rang him. I wanted to go and see him. He said maybe in a week or two, but as it turned out he didn’t have a week or two. That was it. It was like a two-minute conversation.”

  “You’d rung earlier and talked to Sandy, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And she told you I was there, with Lilywhite?” Hadlow nodded. “I find it hard to believe you didn’t raise that when you spoke to him.”

  “Sorry, yes, you’re right, I did. I was pretty blown away when Sandy told me, so I asked him what was going on. He said he was making his peace.”

  “That sort of intrigue, you’ve got to share it with someone. So who did you tell?”

  She shook her head. “No way, it was private.”

  “You didn’t tell a soul?”

  Ihaka’s stare pressed into her eyeballs like a pair of thumbs. “Apart from Craig,” she said. “He was the only one.”

  “Why him?”

  She shrugged. “Because we told each other stuff. I’ve never been one to confide in women. I don’t know what that says about me.” There was no response to her collusive smile. “And he knew the background.”

  “The affair?”

  “Yeah,” she said. “The whole scenario appealed to his sense of humour. He used to ring me for updates.”

  Ihaka hunched forward. “You see where this is going, don’t you?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Lilywhite hired a hitman, right? We figure the hitman found out he was talking to me and killed him to shut him up. Only five other people knew that: his lawyer, the Auckland District Commander, Sandy, you and Craig. You’d have to say there’s a couple of names there that kind of jump out at you.”

  Hadlow frowned, still not sure how seriously she should be taking it.

  “Go back to Joyce,” said Ihaka. “The hitman approached Lilywhite. You don’t ring up a bloke and offer to take out his wife unless you’re pretty fucking sure he wants to get rid of her. Who knew that Lilywhite was cheating on Joyce? Who knew how much she pissed him off? Well, we know for a fact you did, and now we know for a fact that Craig did.”

  She flinched as if she’d been backhanded. “How can you do this?”

  “It’s my job.”

  “Oh, I get it.” She looked away, not wanting Ihaka to see the hurt in her eyes, or pretending as much. “So last night was just—”

  “Last night was last night. This morning I came in to work and found out you’d lied to me.”

  She gave him a bitter half-smile. “Just like that?”

  “You’re now a suspect in two murder investigations,” said Ihaka. “At least two. We have reason to believe—”

  “Oh God, now he’s even starting with the cop-speak.”

  “—that Joyce wasn’t this guy’s only hit.”

  “You don’t seriously think Craig’s the hitman?” she said with a jarring laugh. “Sorry, but that’s just fucking ridiculous.”

  “Why? Because Craig’s a model citizen? Like fuck he is. He knew Lilywhite wanted Joyce out of his life, he knew Lilywhite was talking to me, he’s never had enough money. I’d have to say he’s looking pretty good.”

  “And how do I look?”

  “You and Craig were a couple, you operated your little scams together and you still share secrets even though the relationship turned to shit – according to you. Maybe it never really stopped, it just went underground. If he is the hitman, you’d be a handy set of eyes and ears looking out for prospective clients. Lilywhite’s a given; now we’ll have to see whether you had a tie-up with the other cases.”

  “I can’t believe this is happening.” She put her head in her hands, dragging her palms down her face. “I can’t believe what I’m hearing.”

  “Put yourself in my shoes,” he said.

&nb
sp; She brought up her chin. “Okay, let’s say for the sake of argument Craig is the hitman. Why would he need me?”

  “I told you. To look out for potential—”

  “Why the fuck would he need me to do that? Running that nightclub, he’d be meeting potential clients every second night. He’s always going on about how people latch onto him when they’ve had a few drinks and tell him all sorts of shit. There’s that false intimacy thing, like this guy’s your best buddy but actually he’s not part of your life at all, so it’s safe to tell him you’re screwing your secretary. Warren said Craig was really good at it. He couldn’t believe how patient he was.”

  “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?”