‘Who were these men, do you know?’
Judith frowned, trying hard to remember. ‘He didn’t say. And I’m hopeless with names these days, so I probably wouldn’t remember anyway. I didn’t mix with the business types, they weren’t interested in talking to women in those days, not about finance.’
Lauren leaned forward. She needed the details. ‘So, tell me, Judith, what did Kevin actually do?’
‘I’m not sure, I got the impression he might have slipped Lange something in a drink. I asked him to tell me more, but he clammed up. Next thing he was terribly cross with me for asking questions. In fact he took it out on me. He was a nasty drunk and I had to explain a cut on my lip to Tom the next weekend. I broke it off with Kevin then and I didn’t see him after that, except when I had to.’
Judith slumped down in her chair. ‘I think I’ll just take a little nap, dear.’ She seemed to doze off. Apparently the interview had ended.
Lauren left the room. She realised she was literally in shock. She paused in the corridor and put a hand on the wall to steady herself. She was convinced by Judith’s tale–though it was frustratingly short on detail. She nearly blundered out through a fire exit door–no doubt it would have set off alarms. That would have matched her jangled thoughts. Extraordinary. An assassination attempt. A plot to murder a prime minister. Exactly who was involved, how near they came to pulling it off, all still murky. But the why was clear enough: greed on the part of the plotters, anger that they might not make the money they expected.
She got into the car and drove home on autopilot. Her thoughts were whirling around. Kevin Driscoll? Kevin Driscoll, the name was familiar to her. Ah yes, he was the son of her parents’ friends. Charlie Driscoll, the trade unionist and his wife lived in Wellington for a time. They’d long left the capital, and gone back to their home in Mangere. Her mind wandered. She remembered her mother’s sage plant, a special sort. Hadn’t Mrs Driscoll given her the cutting? She was a great gardener, keen about herbs. Of course, they had a son called Kevin, younger than Lauren so she’d taken no notice of him, if they did meet at all.
Scary, she didn’t really want any connection with a would-be murderer. At least she’d never seen him again as a grown-up. Then a memory struck. A trip to hear David Lange speak at Oxford in 1985–five in the car and one of them was Kevin Driscoll. She’d thought he was a real creep.
Lauren tried to concentrate on her driving. So, Kevin Driscoll. She wondered what he was doing now. What should she do? Her thoughts were still racing, so was her pulse. But by the time she had parked the car, she’d worked it out. She would ask Phyl O’Donnell’s advice. Who better than an ex-cop?
Lauren walked down the path, then up the steps towards her own apartment on the first floor. She stopped before she got there, knocked on her neighbour’s door. She wasn’t sure if Phyl was in, then she heard the clip clip of paws up the hallway and a voice saying, ‘No, Monty.’ Phyl edged the door open and looked comically horrified when she saw who it was. ‘Oh, Lauren, I’ve just brought Monty home from a walk! Had we arranged that you’d take him?’
‘No, it’s not the dog, Phyl. Can I come in?’ She patted Monty absentmindedly as Phyl led her into the living room. ‘Tea?’
‘Yes, please,’ said Lauren and, while Phyl moved methodically around in the kitchen, thought how lucky she was to have her living next door. Phyl looked out for her–everyone in the group of six apartments looked out for one another, but Phyl was the nearest, the most likely to see Lauren’s comings and goings. She had the extra attraction of owning Monty, her friendly mutt with a touch of Staffordshire.
Now, as Lauren waited, he came and leant against her. She was sure he sensed that she was upset. She ruffled his fur and enjoyed the weight of him. He looked up at her and she said automatically, ‘Good dog, Monty.’
Lauren enjoyed walking with Monty. All the pleasure of owning a dog and none of the expense. Phyl was well retired from the police force but sharp as she’d ever been, and fit with it–except for times when her arthritis was bad. Then, Lauren was happy to step in and take Monty on outings.
She couldn’t think of better neighbours than the pair of them. She still remembered how she first met Phyl. She’d just taken possession of the flat and in the bustle and stress of moving in, managed to lock herself out. She’d knocked on Phyl’s door, hoping to use the phone to call a locksmith. Instead the sprightly grey-haired woman had produced a ladder, used it to balance precariously on top of a neighbour’s back porch roof and pulled out the old-fashioned louvres from Lauren’s lavatory window. Then she climbed in, retrieved Lauren’s keys and met her at the front door. Lauren tried to thank her, but was interrupted with a lecture on security. Phyl told her to get rid of the louvres (she did) and entertained her with stories of burglars she’d known.
This was much worse than a burglary, though. She eased herself away from Monty and ran her hands through her hair. Phyl was bringing the tea and looked concerned. ‘So, what’s on your mind?’ she said.
‘Attempted murder, actually. My friend Ro and I have stumbled across something.’ Phyl had just sat down, and now she half rose, interrupting. ‘You need to phone the police straight away.’
‘No, no,’ said Lauren, ‘I guess it’s one of those cold cases, something that happened back in the eighties, when you were making your way up the ranks.’
Phyl sank back into her seat. ‘Good heavens. Tell me about it then.’
Lauren explained what she had discovered from Ro and the interview with Judith Butler. ‘Plotting to get someone out of office is one thing,’ she concluded, ‘Attempted murder another!’
Phyl frowned and tapped her fingers on the arm of her chair. ‘Yes,’ she said slowly, ‘There was something about a plot. Let me think…it wasn’t my area, you understand, but of course there was a lot of gossip. Apparently there was an incident at Lange’s flat, when the fire brigade was called–a pot on the stove smoking and Lange there, asleep and out to it. That might have been suspicious. I think the Diplomatic Protection Service investigated.’
‘Weird,’ said Lauren. ‘Why didn’t the public hear about it?’ She examined her fingernails, lost in thought for a moment. ‘I don’t see how Kevin Driscoll could have been involved with that. He wouldn’t have been in Lange’s flat. They wouldn’t have been bosom buddies. Kevin was a backbencher and a hanger-on to the Douglas lot. Anyhow, Judith said she thought that Kevin had slipped something into a drink.’
‘Well,’ said Phyl, ‘a tape from an old woman who says someone she used to know tried to off Lange isn’t evidence of anything. But if there was a case, it won’t have been closed. I’ll tell you what, I shouldn’t really do this, but I’ll ring my friend Deirdre Nathan and ask if she could check. She might read through any case notes and remind me of the details. I can’t give you anything, mind, but I think Deirdre would talk to me. She used to work in my section.’ She added, ‘She’s an inspector now.’
‘Thank you,’ said Lauren, ‘I said to Ro that I wouldn’t do more than interview Judith. I’m quite busy before I head off overseas in a few weeks. But I must say, I feel like finding out more now.’ She rose to go. ‘In fact, now I remember Kevin Driscoll, I’m feeling really angry about it. How dare he try to get away with killing the prime minister. In New Zealand! I want to know what really happened.’
Lauren left Phyl’s, still fired up. She scarcely took the time to hang up her coat before she went and switched on her computer. She googled Kevin Driscoll. She established that he was still alive and kicking, and owned an immigration consultancy on Auckland’s North Shore. It had been set up not long after he left Parliament in 1990. The website looked professional, there were several staff and it was aimed at the business sector. No doubt Kevin had made good use of his government contacts to get overseas cronies through the immigration hoops. Lauren recalled various scandals of recent years involving wealthy off-shore business people who sought to buy property in New Zealand but had dodgy grounds for residency.
She wondered if Kevin had been involved in any of those.
The Wikipedia article on Kevin was brief, not surprisingly. It detailed the terms he served as MP for Birkdale. It mentioned that his father, a trade unionist, had also been active in the Labour Party, the implication being that Kevin had followed in his father’s footsteps. There was a mention of his mother’s involvement in a trial for illegally procuring an abortion away back in the 1960s. A journalist had dug that out when Kevin was standing for Parliament and though it had proved an embarrassment, he still won the seat.
Lauren googled Charlie Driscoll as well and recognised him, standing with trade unionist Ken Douglas in a photograph of a picket line. He had died in 1978. Perhaps Kevin’s mother was still alive? She must be very old, but Lauren could perhaps use her family connection to talk to her, find out more about Kevin? The White Pages online gave her an address and phone number for a Driscoll in Mangere, where their family home had been.
That would do for now, she thought, plenty to tell Ro about.
4
‘Let us swear our resolution’
Ro was about to leave the house when her phone rang. The landline. Hardly anyone used it now, she’d been thinking about getting it disconnected, but it had been there for ever. She ran back up the hall.
It was Lauren. ‘Ro, I interviewed Judith Butler yesterday. You were right,’ she said, ‘there was a plot. I apologise for being sceptical! I’d like to come and talk to you about what next. Are you home this morning?’
Ro jigged up and down on the spot with excitement. ‘Lauren, that’s fantastic. Thank you so much. Who was it?’
‘Steady on. I’ll fill you in when I see you; this is too important to do over the phone. I can come over now?’
‘I was just going in to the university library, but don’t worry. I’ll do that later.’
It was half an hour before Lauren arrived. She couldn’t find a place to park at the top of Ro’s street in Wadestown, so left the car a couple of streets away and walked down the steep public footpath to Ro’s house.
She was wary as she negotiated Ro’s property. A cat sauntered up to the gate when Lauren pushed it open and rubbed itself against her legs. The narrow footpath to the back of the house was mossy and overgrown and she sighed as she had to step over a fallen branch. Ro’s house was a perfect example of a working class villa from back in the early years of the twentieth century, but Lauren wished she would give it a bit more attention. She wondered if Ro had done anything to it since her father died? Not that he’d done much either–the suburb gentrified around him and his daughter, and their house stayed true to its roots. And now Ro was far too absorbed in her academic work to worry about the house. At least it wasn’t raining, so there was no danger of slipping.
The back door was wide open so Lauren called out. A shouted acknowledgment and Ro emerged from the living room, pushing a kitty litter box out of the way so that Lauren didn’t have to step over it in the hallway. ‘Come in, come in. Come and sit down. Tell me all about it.’
They went into the living room. Ro lifted another cat off a very old and scratched armchair, and they sat down. The place smelt of cat but it had a settled, comfortable feel. The walls were lined with towering bookshelves.
Lauren sat and said nothing for a moment. She realised how tired she was: sleep hadn’t come easily the night before–but she knew that once she shared her news with Ro, she’d feel better.
‘The interview?’ Ro prompted again.
‘I liked Judith; I’d say she was a pretty good politician in her day. You were right, though, it was quite hard to winkle the story out of her.’
‘Lauren!’ said Ro. ‘Will you please tell me what you’ve found out.’
‘Sorry, I’m not really trying to be annoying, it’s just all so hard to credit.’ She put her hand up to ward Ro off, as Ro looked ready to get up and shake the name out of her. ‘Okay, okay, this is the story. It was a guy called Kevin Driscoll, he was the one she had the brief affair with.’
‘Kevin Driscoll,’ Ro repeated. She screwed up her face in thought. ‘A nondescript backbencher?’
Lauren nodded, and went over the whole interview with Ro, and her web search, and Ro listened enthralled.
‘That’s great, Lauren, let’s have a coffee and talk about what next.’ They both went into the kitchen, Lauren opting for a cup of tea instead of Ro’s drink of choice, instant coffee. Then they returned to the sitting room.
They both clutched their drinks, warming their hands. The room was chilly. Lauren said, ‘What I haven’t told you, Ro, is that Mum and Dad were friends with Kevin’s parents, his father was a unionist–and I actually met Kevin years ago in the UK, when he was a backbencher.’
‘That’s weird. How come? What was he like?’
‘He was awful, I couldn’t believe he was Charlie Driscoll’s son. Rodney and I were invited to go and hear Lange at the Oxford Union, the famous nuclear weapons debate. When our friends arrived to collect us in their car, Driscoll was already sitting in the back seat. He was wearing dreadful clothes, suit too bright, tie too in your face. And he kept licking his lips and his mouth looked wet and flabby. I had to sit next to him and he smelt of stale sweat and alcohol.’
‘Good heavens, he clearly made a lasting impression.’ Ro grinned. ‘But I guess we can’t condemn the man for his taste in clothes or his appearance.’
‘I suppose not.’ Lauren was almost reluctant to agree. ‘But it was all of a piece. I asked him if he was kept busy with his constituency work and he said they were a pack of moaning Minnies!’
‘What a bastard!’
‘At least we didn’t have to put up with him on the way back. He was staying in Oxford for a day or two, and we managed to avoid him for the debate. We were invited to drinks and then the official dinner before the debate. Even got to meet Lange and he made one of his jokes.’
‘Oh?’
‘Yes, he said if another New Zealander hadn’t got to Cambridge before Rodney and me, none of us would be in Oxford for the debate–you know, Rutherford splitting the atom.’
Ro nodded appreciatively, ‘Typical Lange, always had a quip ready.’
Lauren continued. ‘He was marvelous at the debate itself. The union hall was impressive. Big stained-glass windows and galleries upstairs, and about nine hundred people crammed in. And there was our clever witty prime minister, the star of the debate. I felt really proud and I loved it when he said New Zealand wouldn’t be part of a nuclear alliance.’
‘That caused huge ructions with officials back home and with the Americans,’ said Ro, ‘even though ordinary Kiwis loved it.’
‘Well, I loved it.’ They were both silent for a moment, recalling those halcyon days before all the bickering and backbiting–and perhaps worse.
Lauren shook herself and said, “So had you heard of Kevin, Ro?’
‘Yes, I think so.’ She hesitated. ‘As I said, nondescript, insignificant. Associated with the Auckland group around Roger Douglas. Did she say who else?’
‘She didn’t seem to know, just talked about money men,’ Lauren said.
Ro was still trying to process it all. ‘Did she say when it happened?’
‘No specific dates, she couldn’t remember exactly but her memory of what happened was vivid. She told me all about Kevin hitting her. Anyhow, I’ve been talking to Phyl, the ex-cop who’s my neighbour.’
‘You’ve what? Why did you talk to her?’ Ro bounced on her chair; its springs already seemed rather the worse for wear. ‘Lauren, this could be a great coup for me, a piece of history no other historians know about. We have to keep it quiet until I’ve found out more about it.’
‘Don’t worry, she won’t say anything. She said we haven’t got enough evidence.’
‘She’s right,’ said Ro, ‘a lot more research is required. Once I’ve got my manuscript off to the publisher I’ll get onto it. I’ll mention the plot in the book, but not the specifics. You shouldn’t talk to anyone else about it.
It’s sensational gossip and there are plenty of historians out there who wouldn’t respect the fact that it’s my story.’
‘Ro,’ said Lauren, ‘that’s not what I mean. It’s evidence for the police that Phyl and I were discussing. This isn’t a history scoop we’re talking about, it’s a crime.’
Her voice was stern and she kept her blue eyes firmly fixed on Ro’s. She wasn’t glowering, but she wasn’t smiling either. ‘Ro, someone tried to kill a New Zealand prime minister. And that someone–or those someones–are probably still alive and still at large. They can’t be allowed to get away with it. I’m keen to help you find out more, so that we can bring them to justice.’
‘I see what you mean,’ Ro looked uncomfortable. She pulled her eyes away from Lauren’s and stared at her worn carpet. One of her cats was walking past and she bent to stroke it. Then she conceded. ‘Well, good on you! Of course I’d love to have your help. I’ll get the recording from you and listen to it carefully, and we’ll work on it when you’re back from your trip. I should have my book off by then. In the meantime, promise me you’ll keep quiet about it.’
Lauren promised to keep it to herself, and lightened the conversation. ‘I’ve always loved that painting,’ Lauren said, pointing to a picture over the mantelpiece. It showed a lamplit street corner in the rain, with a typically old-fashioned dairy, a Cadbury’s chocolate advert in its window, a newspaper dispenser outside and some figures hurrying past, battling the weather.
‘Yes, it’s a John Ramsay–Dad was a friend of his. It’s always been here. I can’t bear to get rid of the things Dad loved. I suppose I should get a declutterer in.’
‘Unlikely!’ Lauren looked at her affectionately. She noticed that one of the bookcases was crammed with books that surely must have been Ro’s father’s–novels from the 1960s and earlier, books on New Zealand birds, geology, maritime history, tales of exploration.
The One That Got Away Page 3