The One That Got Away

by Jennifer Palgrave

  Lauren made sure she was listening when the interview came on that Saturday morning. Ro had done well. Great publicity for her book.

  Lauren wasn’t the only one listening. Kevin Driscoll had been sussing out some opportunities in Palmerston North for one of his clients, and was driving a rental car through to Wellington on Saturday morning. He switched on the radio. It was tuned to National Radio. He didn’t care for Kim, too brash and ball-breaking. But he couldn’t be bothered finding another station. When he realised what the topic was he was suddenly interested. Who the hell was this woman Kim was talking to? Politicians in the Lange government and their affairs? He squirmed in his seat and took a corner too fast. Get a grip, he told himself. The woman was spouting some rubbish about emotional labour, which he didn’t understand at all. Then she dropped a bombshell. Some of the women had told her about affairs going on around the House. Confidences that were often spilt across the pillows.

  When the speaker referred to a revelation that would be published in a book Kevin was so shocked that he pulled suddenly to the side of the road. A car behind him tooted and its occupant gave him the finger as it swerved and passed. He felt sick. He remembered spilling the beans about Lange to that old bird he’d had the affair with, Judith Butler, God, what a mistake. He must have been missing his mother! He’d been drunk when he told her, but the next morning he’d realised he’d said too much. He’d given her a good whack across the face to teach her a lesson and to remind her to keep it to herself. Nothing came of it, so that must have worked.

  Nothing until now, that is. Had Judith been talking to that fucking historian? The interview ended and Kim said, ‘I’ve been speaking with historian Rowan Wisbech.’ Kevin turned around, grabbed his briefcase from the back seat and pulled out a notebook. He wrote the name down carefully. She was someone who needed a good lesson, too. He’d think about how best to make it happen.

  14

  ‘Set honour in one eye and death i’ the other’

  Lauren was packing a small bag, fussing more than usual. Surely she wouldn’t need anything formal for a weekend in the country. The Wilsons were renting a place in the Wairarapa not Downton Abbey. Gumboots were the most likely prerequisites. But how could you tell with a woman like Darya, who was elegance personified. She threw in some slip-ons, black trousers and a designer top, just in case.

  She had just zipped up her bag when there was a knock on the door. A man in a dark suit stood outside. ‘Miss Fraser? I’m your driver.’ She followed him to the road above where a large white car blocked the driveway to the apartments. Lauren chose to sit in front with the driver, a small act of rebellion to differentiate herself from the super-wealthy.

  The discreetly luxurious vehicle purred down the hill towards the waterfront. ‘Who do you work for?’ she asked the man. If he were Brett’s employee, perhaps she could pump him for information.

  He gave her a friendly smile. ‘Executive Chauffeurs. We don’t have signs on the cars,’ he confided. ‘It’s just a glorified taxi company. Get to meet some well-known people, mind.’

  There was no point in pursuing the conversation, so Lauren sat back and enjoyed the drive. From Jervois Quay they turned into the wharf. The driver pointed a remote at some bollards that sank gracefully into the asphalt. Open sesame, she thought, private cars weren’t allowed onto the waterfront. The tune ‘Money Makes the World Go Round’ drifted into her mind and stayed there, like an earworm.

  A helicopter was waiting behind a fenced-off section of the wharf, its doors open. The pilot, dressed in overalls, stood at the entry gate. He issued Lauren with a life jacket and took her over to the machine, escorting her into the cabin via the rear door. Darya was already on board, dressed in immaculate casual clothing, although the chic impression was spoiled a little by the bulk of her life jacket. Lauren took the seat next to her. There didn’t seem to be anything to say after perfunctory greetings, so the women sat in silence. Lauren couldn’t make her out. She hoped the weekend wouldn’t prove too awkward. She reminded herself that she was there to do a job, not to make friends.

  Shortly afterwards two men in business suits clambered in and took the remaining seats in the rear of the cabin. There were no introductions and Lauren had managed only a glance at them. The one nearest the door had looked vaguely familiar, so she turned briefly to get another look. Both were occupied with their seatbelts and so neither met her gaze. Damn, who was that? She definitely had seen him before. It took a few seconds for the memory banks to deliver and the result horrified her. Surely it was Kevin Driscoll! She recalled the awkward drive they had shared to Oxford in the 1980s and how pleased she had been to be shot of his company. He must be over sixty now, but he still looked indefinably sleazy. Slightly too sharp a dresser with his loud suit and clashing tie. She was right in suspecting Brett had been lying when he had denied knowing the man.

  A second pilot hoisted himself into the front left hand seat and began to examine the controls, while the pilot who had greeted them closed the rear door and jumped up into the front right. He turned and asked the passengers to check that their seatbelts were fastened and to don the headsets, which were hanging from hooks behind their seats. The pilot on the left then turned to address them. Another surprise. It was Brett. ‘Everyone buckled in and…? Oh, hi, Lauren.’

  Lauren nodded to him, struggling to keep her expression neutral. She had assumed that the Kiwi guy who met them would fly it. She wondered how much experience Brett had as a pilot. She hoped this wasn’t a training run! Darya didn’t seem worried, so Lauren advised herself to just sit back and enjoy the ride. No point in spoiling it by thinking about Kevin Driscoll, would-be assassin. Or about putting her life in Brett’s hands.

  The engine started with a roar, the blades whirred and the cabin shuddered as they took off. The chopper rose and seemed to hesitate for an instant before choosing a direction. Looking down through the floor to ceiling windows Lauren saw the sparkling blue of the harbour beneath her, a bit too close for comfort. They rose steadily and as they left the city and Oriental Bay behind, the coastline settlements across the harbour came clearly into view. She could see that the ranges of the Remutakas held traces of fog.

  As the harbour receded and they gained height to pass over the peaks, the bush-covered wilderness seemed very close. She glanced behind again. The men seemed relaxed enough, pointing out sights through the windows. Darya also looked out the window, but with no apparent interest. It was still noisy despite the headsets, but Lauren was able to hear the pilots chatting through the intercom. There was another voice, too, identifying itself as from the control tower at Wellington’s airport.

  In less than fifteen minutes they were over the peaks of the mountain ranges and descending, a glimpse of farmland showing beyond the ragged edges of bush. The fog was thickening fast. She heard weather information coming through and the co-pilot speaking to someone about conditions further on. Then as he turned to speak to Brett, someone must have thrown a switch as communication from the pilots was shut off. The headsets cancelled out any noises from inside the cabin. She watched the pilots closely but all she could make out from trying to lip-read side on was the word ‘fog’. Looking out again, she could see the view clearing a little. The helicopter was following a line of power poles that marched into nowhere, but remained well above them.

  The power poles vanished from view as fog thickened again and Lauren’s stomach tensed. Wouldn’t do to tangle with power lines. A hot air balloon went down in a burst of flames in the Wairarapa a few years before. She looked at Darya who remained impassive. Looking around again, she saw Kevin and his companion exchanging glances. Kevin was fingering his seatbelt and the younger man grasped his knees together, knuckles clenched tightly. She turned back and saw the co-pilot speaking urgently to Brett who replied, shaking his head and looking angry. Lauren tensed as the fog swirled and the helicopter moved sideways and descended further. This was no longer a joyride.

  Darya surprised her by s
uddenly unclipping her belt and pulling herself upright. She leant over and banged Brett’s shoulder, lifted his headphone and yelled in his ear. The helicopter rose again and headed onwards. The fog dispersed and a small aerodrome came into view.

  The ‘copter landed safely. With the engine switched off and headsets removed, Lauren realised she was trembling. She tried to hide any signs of distress and her rapid breathing gradually returned to normal.

  ‘Masterton airport, folks.’ said Brett. He didn’t look particularly concerned. ‘I was going to take her down at our place, it would have been safe enough. We’ll be late for lunch.’

  ‘You’re a stubborn man,’ said Darya. ‘Late for lunch is better than early for the devil.’

  ‘He likes to get his own way,’ she said to Lauren. ‘So do I.’ The co-pilot still looked tense. He spoke to Brett in a low voice, though he could be heard. ‘You don’t want to risk the New Zealand endorsement on your licence. It’s not a good idea to neglect control tower advice, even though we were in uncontrolled airspace once we breasted the Remutakas.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ Brett responded. ‘I was relying on my own judgement. Anyhow, call us up a couple of taxis–pronto.’

  ‘I’m not a bloody taxi service,’ said the co-pilot. ‘I’m back off to Wellington as soon as I’ve helped the passengers out.’

  By the time Brett had organised taxis they had all been introduced. Lauren thought Kevin had given her a funny look as they disembarked. Perhaps he had recognised her too, although there was no reason for him to have done so. She certainly wouldn’t have if she hadn’t been thinking about him recently. Travelling with Brett and Darya in the first taxi, she asked about him. ‘I met him briefly in the 80s when he was an MP. I don’t think he remembers. I thought you told me in Cambridge you didn’t know him?’

  ‘I may have met him back then.’ Brett was casual. ‘He’s helping me with our residency application and with a land purchase. He and his offsider need to get some information about the land from the local council on Monday. It seemed sensible to bring you all over together. That way, you all got to ride in the ‘copter.’ Yes, thought Lauren, an experience she could have done without.

  After a short drive in the direction of Martinborough both taxis stopped outside security gates. Brett used a remote on his key ring to open them and they pulled into the driveway of an imposing house. Darya still seemed cross with Brett who ignored the vibes and was cheerful and expansive.

  ‘Here we are, girls.’ He turned to face them. ‘Let’s have half an hour before we leave for lunch.’

  Lauren made a complimentary remark about the appearance of the property, but Darya sniffed and said, ‘This was all we could get for the summer.’ The house was set in what appeared to be several hectares of land, with paddocks around and cows grazing. Other newish houses with a similar look could be seen spotted across the flat rural landscape. Over the years Lauren had known a few people living in the Wairarapa but they had usually been sampling country life in much less assuming properties.

  Kevin and his colleague Jason were in the second taxi. They emerged and all made their way into the large foyer. Darya appeared to have met Kevin before, but not his companion. She said to Brett, ‘Show the men their rooms and I’ll take Lauren.’

  Lauren followed Darya into the kitchen where she offloaded the contents of a Moore Wilson shopping bag. Condiments, sauces, olives, cheeses and specialty breads. ‘We’re going out for lunch and I’ve arranged a cook for dinner this evening. Staff have been so difficult to find here.’ Lauren raised her eyebrows. It was starting to sound like Downton Abbey. Darya went on, ‘Brett expects me to cook if there is no one else, which is very annoying. Just getting a cleaner to come in every day is difficult.’

  Lauren wasn’t sure how to sound sympathetic. ‘I suppose it’s not what you’re used to,’ she said.

  Darya shrugged. ‘I’ll show you your room so that you can–what do you say–freshen up before we go out.’

  The house was laid out with a huge living area off the entrance hall and a large bedroom wing. The hallway leading to the bedrooms was expansive; a couple of elegant little chairs sat by an occasional table holding a large arrangement of peonies. They passed the open door of a study and then what Darya said was the master bedroom. Lauren was shown into the room next door. Further down the hallway she could hear the men’s voices. She put her overnight bag on a stand, Darya left the room and Lauren shut the door with relief.

  It was late afternoon when they arrived back at the house after lunch at one vineyard and tastings at a couple of others. Brett had bought a dozen bottles from each. Lauren was relieved to find that Kevin and Jason weren’t included in the lunch party–she felt she could hardly bear to be civil to Kevin. She had enjoyed the meal and the wine and now she felt a little sleepy. Lying on the bed in her room with a book which might drop from her fingers as she dozed felt like a great plan.

  But Brett had other ideas. The wine had apparently had no effect on him and he was keen to show off his collection of antique maps.

  ‘Come into the study and see what I’ve bought so far.’ Lauren followed him into the large room with an imposing desk in the middle. The desk had beautifully finished oak panels on the one side and on the other a roomy space for a desk chair between a double set of drawers. It needed a large room to show itself off. Spread out on the desk top was a pile of maps of different sizes.

  ‘Here we are,’ said Brett. ‘I need to put them away; I’ve just bought a map cabinet.’ He waved at a wide old-fashioned filing cabinet with multiple narrow drawers. ‘I know you’ll appreciate them. Look at this, it’s a late eighteenth century Italian lithograph of Captain Cook’s first map of New Zealand. It’s known as the Cassini map and it’s hand coloured. You can see that if you look closely. Of course, Cook didn’t spot Wellington’s harbour on his first voyage, sailed right past it.’ He pointed out the beautifully decorative features of the map, including the cartouche featuring Māori apparently abasing themselves at Cook’s feet. Lauren thought that was fanciful, no doubt the mapmaker had never been anywhere near the Pacific.

  Brett moved to the other side of the desk. ‘And this one, right underneath, is an early lithograph, D’Urville’s rendering of the Bay of Islands. That’s quite a valuable one.’ He was handling the maps carefully as he moved them from one pile to another.

  Lauren said, ‘This isn’t your whole collection, just New Zealand maps?’

  ‘Nothing like,’ said Brett. ‘I like to have ones that capture the country I’m in. Not that they’d be much good for finding your way around now.’

  Lauren marvelled that in the brief time he’d been back in New Zealand he’d managed to acquire all these important historical maps. He answered her thoughts. ‘I’ve had someone looking about for me for a while. And when one comes up for sale they let me know and I tell them if I want it.’

  The last one in the pile was a historical map of the Wairarapa. ‘This one was a real find. It’s the original illustration for a book on the missionary William Colenso in the Wairarapa. He mapped this area in the early nineteenth century when the land was being parcelled out.’ Lauren looked at it with interest. ‘So where are we now?’

  ‘Round about here.’ Brett put his finger on what appeared to be a sizeable farming block, named in the map as the Robertson Station.

  ‘Look at this,’ Lauren pointed to the inset of Palliser Bay, ‘He’s called the mountain range the Rimutakas. Did you know that the original settlers got the name wrong and it should be Remutaka? It’s recently been changed back because the original name has meaning and what the settlers called it was nonsense.’

  Brett shrugged. ‘I don’t hold with all that political correctness.’ Yes, Lauren thought, Brett wasn’t one to have any sympathy with indigenous rights. He came from colonising stock. As if to prove her point, he continued. ‘We’ve had plenty of trouble like that in Australia. History is the propaganda of the victor. Rightly so. However, in future years tha
t might just add to the map’s value, if it’s the first mistake. Have you heard of da Verrazano’s discovery of the Pacific?’

  Lauren pleaded ignorance. Brett was enjoying instructing her, she could tell. ‘He was an explorer who sailed from Europe to the eastern seaboard of America in the sixteenth century. Sailed into a sound and decided that when he sailed out the other end he had reached the Pacific, which was actually 3,000 miles across the continent. He mapped the mistaken passage. They’re quite valuable now. Profiting from others’ mistakes, that’s the way to go.’

  He lifted the map off the desk. Underneath there were two battered passports.

  ‘Oh, they shouldn’t be there.’ He pulled open a drawer, thrust them in and shut it again firmly. ‘Had to bring my old passports over. To prove a longstanding relationship with New Zealand.’

  Lauren smiled politely and thought, ‘Yeah, the relationship of a hawk with the roadkill it’s picking over.’

  15

  ‘Cowards die many times before their deaths’

  Lauren, dressed for dinner, stopped in her tracks as she reached the grand dining room. It was like a film set, a film starring Darya, whose glittering jewellery competed with the sparkling chandelier. Thank goodness she had put in some formal clothes. The high-backed chairs boasting embroidered seats and backs matched the formal mahogany table. Each place was set with heavy silver cutlery on fine linen table mats, three glasses by each setting.

  Darya’s “cook” turned out to be a catering company brought in for the occasion. There was lots of bustle in the kitchen and a nervous-looking young woman brought in and cleared away dishes.

  Conversation was awkward to begin with. Darya showed no interest in Kevin or Jason. Brett tried to steer the talk towards subjects where all could participate but Lauren, sitting down to a meal with someone she thought was a would-be murderer and a host she was increasingly suspicious of, felt unusually tongue-tied.