Lauren again had that naughty schoolgirl feeling. She stood up, and with Ro, followed in Deirdre’s wake, back into the dining room. Deirdre surveyed the room, the half-packed boxes with piles of stuff on the table. ‘Leaving, is he? Perhaps you were here to help him pack.’
‘We were just wanting to know if they were still donating to the Arts Festival,’ Ro blurted. She could see why Lauren said Deirdre was scary (sexy but scary, Lauren had said). She could also see that Deirdre didn’t buy that story at all. She changed it. ‘And I wanted to tackle Brett about the Lange plot.’
‘You what?’ Now Deirdre looked flabbergasted. ‘You have no evidence that hasn’t already been looked at by the police. Why would he tell you anything? Ms Fraser, I have already asked you to step away from police business and the same applies to you, Ms Wisbech.’
Lauren looked at the floor rather than Deirdre. ‘We thought we might trip Brett up into saying something useful. And he did. Ro has recorded it. About the Lange plot.’
‘You were going into a very dangerous situation and you don’t know what Brett is capable of, with or without his wife. Because you knew him from your student days, you probably had a false idea of how far he would go.’ Lauren winced. She recalled again the look in Brett’s eyes just before Deirdre arrived.
Deirdre continued, ‘And you didn’t have access to the latest evidence. Never mind the original plot: we have evidence that someone in this household is implicated in Kevin Driscoll’s disappearance. And now I would like you to leave us to get on with our work. No more trampling over police business. I have told you that already.’
27
‘Ambition’s debt is paid’
‘You must help me, Piotr.’ Darya was ushered into the grand living room of her ex-husband’s palatial house. She had arrived in London a couple of days earlier after an exhausting trip. Wellington to Sydney, fearing all the while that police might meet her on her arrival. Brett had warned her to take precautions, when he had all but thrown her out. An Emirates flight to Dubai was to leave Sydney within the hour and she managed to purchase a last-minute ticket.
She thought it unlikely that the UAE would have an extradition treaty to New Zealand. The Arab countries were well known in her circles. Some might have irritating laws about what women could and couldn’t do, but they were not inclined to allow other jurisdictions to interfere with comings and goings.
At the airport in Dubai, she easily found a last-minute seat on a plane to Heathrow. She used her second passport, her Ukrainian one, in her maiden name. She always kept it up to date and carried it with her as it contained a long-term visa. She had never wanted to rely solely on a husband to guarantee her passage into the UK, which she now regarded as her home. The queue at Heathrow was very long and by the time she got to the immigration desk she was nervous and exhausted. But there was clearly no flag against her maiden name and she was through without incident.
Darya was now staying at a hotel in central London. She could not return home in case the police came looking for her. Brett had sent a worrying email suggesting that she lie low for a while. Then he had phoned, using a newly purchased cell phone, and had asked her to go out and buy a disposable cell phone herself. The conversation that ensued was not a happy one. Darya was tired and angry and Brett was livid. He raged at her about her interference and her recklessness. When he calmed down he told her that she would have to make herself scarce. She’d been spotted talking to Kevin on the jetty and the police had evidence that Kevin had been attacked on the boat and thrown over the side.
Brett was also furious about Judith Butler, telling Darya that Lauren had talked to the police and suggested it wasn’t a straightforward death, and that Darya could have been involved. ‘How dare she!’ Darya had replied. Brett had told her in no uncertain terms that their life together had ended. He was not willing to cover for her and she should just disappear. ‘You’re on your own.’
Now she was entreating her former husband, a tall man with a beard and a full head of curly greying hair. She had taken care with her appearance, and looked as well turned out as ever. But her voice shook slightly. ‘I’m in trouble, the New Zealand police are after me.’
‘Why should I care, Darya? You’re not my charge any more. You were not at all pleasant when we were divorcing.’
Darya gave him an edited version of her sorry tale, careful not to incriminate herself. She described it as police wanting to interview her about “something I have done”. ‘I need a false passport and papers, I know you can procure them quickly.’ Piotr considered her request thoughtfully. ‘I don’t know what you have done, Darya, but I imagine that it was something very wicked.’
‘I was trying to protect my husband,’ Darya protested.
‘Even less reason to help you. I never liked that arrogant man.’
‘I’m not with him any longer.’
‘Hmm,’ said Piotr. He paused and walked around the room, stroking his beard and glancing at her. Then he said, ‘I can probably do it, but exile will be your punishment.’ Darya’s face fell.
‘Wait here,’ he said, ‘while I make a phone call.’ He left the room. She paced around, trying to distract herself by inspecting artworks that were unfamiliar to her, ones that must have been purchased after their split–unless he had had them hidden away. Yes, that would have been just like him, now he felt he could get away with displaying them. It was some time later before he returned. ‘Yes, I can get hold of Ukrainian papers. You will be a schoolteacher in a small village in the Ukraine.’
Darya began to protest, ‘I am not a village schoolteacher! My family are nobility, you know that. Are you trying to humiliate me?’
Piotr took no notice. ‘My associates will procure you a position there. You will fly out in a couple of days. Change your hotel again and I will arrange for the bill to be settled. Do not use credit cards. Here is some cash to tide you over.’ He pulled out his desk drawer and gave her an insultingly small amount to spend for a few days in London. He searched around and found an envelope of Ukrainian banknotes as well. ‘You will be met next Tuesday afternoon at the National Gallery, near the painting of the two Russian peasant women–you know the one. Make sure you are there, I cannot specify the time, just wait.’
He laughed as Darya screwed up her face and looked ready to spit at him. ‘Hold your tongue, my dear, you should be grateful.’
28
‘You hard hearts, you cruel men of Rome’
Lauren was sitting at her desk pretending to work but actually brooding about the abortive trip to the Wairarapa. What had she and Ro been thinking? She was really in Deirdre’s bad books now and maybe they had messed up the police investigation, although she couldn’t quite see how.
She was also fretting about Brett. She had lost any vestiges of respect for him, and that disturbed her. Deirdre was right in thinking that she underestimated his dark side just because she had known him all those years ago. But how pathetic he’d become under the influence of alcohol–until he got angry. She replayed over and over in her mind the moment Brett’s drunken rambling had turned into an attack. If Deirdre hadn’t arrived just then, what might he have done? Probably he would have done no more than shove them out the door, but the cold, impersonal anger in his eyes kept coming back to haunt her.
‘Oh, damn,’ she said aloud, and shuddered.
She thought about him again. Usually, he wouldn’t need to get angry–he left his dirty work to others. Look at Kevin and the Lange plot. And what about Darya? Had he been involved in her crimes? His surprise when she mentioned Judith Butler seemed genuine enough.
He relied on his wealth and prestige to protect him. And Darya was motivated to take risks to defend him, because he was the source of wealth and social standing for her. There was no need for him to get his hands dirty.
She was interrupted from her reverie by the roar of a jet engine, and looked out the window. She’d always loved it that her apartment gave her a view of the flight path to a
nd from the airport. When the wind was strong from the south and planes fought against the headwinds, she would watch them and feel grateful to be safe and warm rather than jolted around. Now the plane made her think of Darya flying out of New Zealand. The police were looking for her but she was well on her way. Would she get away with it?
Lauren sighed. She got up to make herself a cup of tea. She guessed Deirdre was strongly motivated to have Darya arrested. Extraordinary, Darya’s role in the gangland murder of Kevin. But it was Judith’s murder that made Lauren sad. Sure, she’d needed help with everyday things, but there was not much wrong with her physically. Lauren recalled her springy white hair, lively brown eyes and the kind of wrinkles you get from smiling not frowning. Extroverted, keen to talk. And now look what had happened. Lauren felt guilty as well as sad.
As she brought her tea back to the desk, her cellphone rang. Deirdre. More scolding on the way? For a moment she considered not answering it, but curiosity got the better of her.
‘Hello?’
‘Hello, Ms Fraser, it’s Deirdre Nathan here.’ Ms Fraser! Lauren was really in the dogbox. ‘I neglected to get your friend Rowan’s details the other day and I need to phone her. Can you give me her number, please?’
The formal tone chilled Lauren. She swallowed, gave her the number and tried to sound lighthearted. ‘We’re not in more trouble, I hope.’
‘You’re not,’ said Deirdre, ‘and I trust you’ll keep it that way.’
‘Deirdre,’ said Lauren. It took some courage to venture the first name and she hesitated before saying again, ‘Deirdre, I’m really sorry about the other day. We were out of line. We were just so shocked when we realised what Darya had done and we had a pretext to visit Brett and maybe find out more.’
Deirdre’s voice changed, softening a little. ‘I know you’ve had the best of intentions, Lauren. But your impulsiveness put both you and your friend in danger. Just as well Darya wasn’t at the house. She’s clearly a dangerous woman. There’s no doubt she arranged a killing. And I believe you’re right in thinking she helped Judith Butler on her way, not that we’ll ever know for sure.
‘But I don’t know why you thought it would be all right to confront Brett Wilson, just because you were students together a very long time ago.’
‘I know that now, I saw it in his eyes. No doubt he’ll manage to slide out of any responsibility, that’s what he’s always done. But I can’t bear it if Darya gets away with murdering people.’
Deirdre sounded astonished. ‘Get away with it? Of course she won’t, not for Kevin Driscoll’s murder, anyhow. We have Interpol onto it and I’m confident we’ll find her and have her extradited, wherever she’s fled to. The lowlifes she hired to kill Kevin have given us full statements, trying to lay the blame on each other and we have a good case against Darya.’
‘Still nobody from the Lange plot, though, now you haven’t got Kevin to give you a statement.’
‘That’s true,’ said Deirdre. ‘You could say he’s met with rough justice but we’ve not enough evidence to get the people who urged him on.’
‘Even though we gave you the recording of our conversation? So what did Brett say to you?’
‘Lauren, you’re incorrigible.’ Deirdre laughed. ‘Please, no more questions. You’re treading on dangerous ground again and I need to get on with my work.’
Lauren was emboldened by the laugh. ‘Just one more question, then, Deirdre. Do you ever have time off? I’d like to take you out for a drink, let’s say as an apology for the annoyance we’ve caused.’
There was a silence at the end of the phone, just long enough for Lauren to feel she’d put a foot wrong again. Then, ‘Thank you,’ said Deirdre, ‘I am supposed to have time off, but my next two weeks are looking horrendous. Why don’t you call me after that? You can use this number.’
Like Lauren, Ro was at her desk when the phone rang. ‘Inspector Nathan here. Is that Rowan Wisbech?’
‘Yes it is.’ Ro wondered who on earth was Inspector Nathan. Oh yeah, Deirdre. Lauren was on first name terms with her, but that degree of familiarity was obviously not being extended to Ro.
‘I wanted to talk to you for a moment about your book. I gather it’s about to be published shortly?’
‘Yes, I’m putting the final touches on it right now and then it’ll be off to the publisher. It’ll be a few months before it’s out. Would you like a complimentary copy when it’s done?’
There was a pause. Deirdre was nonplussed, then recovered. ‘Do you realise that the courts have the power to make an injunction preventing publication of anything that might prejudice the right to a fair trial?’
‘What has that to do with my book?’ Ro had a sinking feeling.
‘You will not be able to publish any references to the so-called Lange plot. There is a good reason–an ongoing police investigation–that the public should not be given information. We’re prepared to go to court to get an injunction to stop publication if we have reason to believe your book will include such material. We are confident it would be granted. Then, if you go ahead, you and your publisher would be subject to contempt of court and all copies of the book could be seized and destroyed. I wanted to give you advance warning. We’re getting an official letter out to you shortly and I need to know your publisher’s details, so I can send them an official letter as well.’
Ro was blindsided. She had not made more than veiled references to the plot in her book but she was planning to publish separately on the Lange plot. In the mainstream media with all the details. Only the day before she’d spoken to the New Zealand Listener’s deputy editor who had expressed enthusiasm. She had already begun to draft the article. Now what would happen? Would the Listener fight the injunction on behalf of an academic who wasn’t known to them? Think like the journalist Nicky Hager, she told herself. How would the scourge of the establishment respond?
‘That’s simply impossible, Deirdre. This is a story that is in the public interest. You can’t suppress it.’
‘We’ll see you in court then,’ said Deirdre and hung up.
Ro phoned Lauren. ‘Hi Ro,’ said Lauren, ‘has Deirdre got hold of you yet?’
‘Bloody Deirdre, she’s trying to stop me publishing the Lange plot story. There’s not much in the book and I can easily leave it out, but I was jacking up something with the Listener.’ She brushed a tear away. ‘She says they’ll take out an injunction if I don’t roll over. It’s outrageous, I told her this is an important event New Zealanders should know about.’
‘What was her reason?’
‘Oh, I don’t know–something about prejudicing the right to a fair trial. Not that they seem to have any trial going ahead, with Kevin out of the frame and Darya God knows where. The accomplices, I suppose, but that seems quite a tangent.’
Lauren was slow in replying. When she did, Ro realised they weren’t going to agree on this. ‘Ro, it would be terrible if they finally put a case together about the Lange plot and it failed because of something you’d published. She’s told me our recording is still not enough evidence but perhaps something else might turn up. And I’m not sure how it works but if they bring Darya to trial, possibly they’ll want all that material fresh, not pawed over in the media. The plot would come out in the trial.’
Ro had to concede that, and Lauren went on, ‘If it ever comes to court it would be our work that helped bring it there. I’ve always said the Lange plot was a crime, not just history.’
Ro squirmed. Just history? She was still going to try to make a case for the right to publish. People should know there had been a plot to kill a prime minister.
29
‘The evil that men do lives after them’
Lauren was taking Monty for a walk up Mt Victoria. It was a warm sunny day in mid-February, but the northerly was near to gale force. She felt her phone vibrate in her pocket, and called Monty to heel while she fished it out. The sun was too bright for her to see the screen, so she moved beside a tree, shady and s
heltering her from the wind. Monty snuffled around the tree roots. No doubt he was smelling other dogs before him. It was a text from Kirsten.
‘Will you be at home tonight? I need to talk to you.’
She and Kirsten no longer talked virtually every night as they had done in the past. The relationship was heading for the rocks but Lauren couldn’t help nursing hopes. There were still enjoyable times.
She texted Kirsten: ‘6.30 movie then quick meal with Pam. Try me at 10.’ Lauren found texting annoying. They had spoken just the night before and she had told Kirsten of her plans for this evening. She felt like adding, I told you already. But best not to exchange sharp words by text.
After a comedy that involved oldies, lost loves, misunderstandings and canal boat chases through London, and then a kebab with Pam, Lauren was sitting at home wondering what was so important that Kirsten needed to call tonight. The landline rang. ‘It’s me.’ She sounded tense and there was no affectionate greeting.
‘Hello darling,’ Lauren said, mellowed by the movie and the meal.
‘I’ve news. The firm is sending me to Sydney.’
‘That’s exciting. How long will you be away?’ Lauren was trying to recall the date of Kirsten’s next scheduled visit. She thumbed her diary. It was around ten days from now.
‘It’s permanent. They want me to leave in a couple of weeks. I’m sorry, I won’t be able to come to Wellington. I’ll be frantic, packing up my flat.’
The One That Got Away Page 21