Prodigal

by T M Heron

  I’m heartily sick these days of the ongoing daily anti-climax of opening the paper and not seeing Michelia’s abduction on the front page. It’s like every night is Christmas Eve, only Christmas never follows.

  Suddenly Jo’s unwieldy bulk frames my door. She’s wearing a loose-fitting wool smock, leggings, and genuine suede boots. Ava has the same boots. The corollary of which is that they would have cost a fortune. That a fat, unattractive woman has the audacity to treat herself to the sort of luxury deserved only by the beautiful never ceases to infuriate me.

  Jo looks more self-important than usual, if that’s possible, and has an ill-concealed buzz of eagerness about her. She nods at the paper and says piously, “I’m sure you’ll appreciate this is wearing heavily on me, Jackson. But I have an obligation to report it. I wouldn’t rest well if I didn’t.”

  “You’ve an obligation to bill a forty-hour week, Jo,” I say snidely, “and you seem to rest well with consistently failing that. So as much as I love it when you’re obscure, perhaps you could just land the plane.”

  Something inside Jo laughs. Maybe I’m getting an enhanced ability to read people’s inner dialogue from being around Helena? All I know is, I can. Something’s happening. I’m changing.

  “I’m sorry,” she says. “I didn’t realize you hadn’t read it.”

  “No, you’re not sorry,” I say. “But in the interests of both of us eventually moving on to something vaguely resembling productivity, why don’t you put it out there.”

  Jo’s eyes harden. She squeezes into one of the two antique leather wingbacks I’ve only just purchased to celebrate the demise of my father.

  “That girl you raped,” she says from out of nowhere. “She’s dead.”

  I have a flashback of Belinda telling me that Emma Morris killed herself. God almighty, had Belinda told the cops? She said she hadn’t, and I’d believed her.

  “Raped?” Oh God, which one? “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “The young girl from the other day.”

  “What?”

  “Who threw the paint.”

  Belinda’s death must have finally made the papers. Relief floods over me, followed by a chaser of righteous professional fury. “Let’s get one thing straight, Jo. Just because some daft bitch, who’s probably on drugs, turns up here calling me a rapist, does not make me a rapist.”

  I put an elbow on my desk and rest my chin on my hand. “Where’s the article?”

  Jo angles her head in an appraising manner. My beleaguered wingback moans as she leans forward and puts her own copy of the Dominion Post on my desk. It’s been turned over, folded then refolded to show one article:

  Teacher aide found murdered in flat

  The body of a 22-year-old woman was discovered yesterday at her flat in Wilton. The woman, identified as Belinda Louise Goodluck, had been strangled to death. Ms Goodluck was a second-year teacher aide at Wilton Normal. Police have estimated that Ms Goodluck has been dead for at least five days, but probably closer to a week. A more accurate time of death will be established once forensic testing is completed.

  Ms Goodluck’s body was discovered by a fellow teacher, Kaleb Perry. Mr Perry became concerned when Ms Goodluck did not show up for work or contact the school on Monday morning. Ms Goodluck had advised the school she was unwell and would be taking the rest of the week off the previous Wednesday. Ms Goodluck had a history of health problems so this did not raise alarm. However, her not making contact on Monday was seen as uncharacteristic.

  Ms Goodluck is described as having been a serious and trustworthy teacher, with family, friends and colleagues at a loss as to why she would end up the victim of a homicide. Police are interested in talking to anyone who may have seen Ms Goodluck on or after Wednesday . Ms Goodluck flatted at 119C Wiltonbrook Road and police are also interested in speaking to anyone who may have seen anything suspicious in that area over the past week.

  The photo of Belinda beside the article is all but identical to how she looked the day she accosted me at Bakers. Slightly crazed. But a whole lot better than she looked when I left her.

  “Jo, I have a real problem with what you’ve just said regarding rape.” My voice remains level. Quieter than normal.

  “I was just repeating what she said.”

  Jo looks obstinate and the aura of her hoggish excitement envelops both of us to the point where I feel squeamish.

  “Freedom of speech,” she says stridently, mistaking my queasiness for hesitance. “It’s what she said. Are you saying I’m not allowed to talk about an incident I saw with my own eyes?”

  I wish right there and then that I could kill Jo. Or even better, that she would just self-combust, so I wouldn’t have to touch her. “I’m saying the exercise of personal judgement, and appropriate discretion are fine things to have in an EA. But you’re not much of an EA, are you Jo? So I probably should have talked to you about discretion after that incident.”

  “You can’t dictate who I talk to and what I say!”

  The woman’s on fire. Only figuratively, unfortunately.

  “I shouldn’t have to,” I say. “But my greatest concern now is how you’ve chosen to interpret that specific event. And I’m picking up you’ve already discussed it with other people. Exactly how many people would that be?”

  “I don’t have to tell you that. I have rights.”

  “So do I,” I say. I’m fuming and struggling to keep from picking up my laptop and bashing it across her face. “And you’ve just crossed the line.”

  I pick up my phone and dial Lesley Quince in HR. Lesley is not only our most experienced HR consultant, but she also has a reputation for being hard on administrative staff. She knows which side her bread is buttered on. This rape allegation must be eliminated immediately. “Lesley, Jackson Ray. I was wondering if you had a minute. I have Jo Johnson with me and we’re discussing a misconduct issue I’d like to address formally. Are you able to make your way up?”

  “That’s no problem, Jackson.” Lesley has a pleasant, calming voice.

  “Don’t say a thing,” I say to Jo. “We’re not going to discuss another word of this until there’s a third party in the room.”

  “I was just repeating what she said, I didn’t mean to call you a, that you actually are a, rapist—”

  “Be quiet.”

  ◆◆◆

  It’s an hour later and I’m once again sitting in Anthony Hartman’s office. It’s not nearly as amiable as this morning’s meeting.

  “So Jo’s been given a written warning, and the secretaries she discussed it with have also been spoken to, by Lesley,” I finish. “It might be nice if you’d also have a word.”

  Anthony raises his hand dismissively. “I’m not wasting my time on a secretary.”

  I like this new side to him. It’s a side I never would have suspected. “She took the rest of the day off sick.”

  “Huh, make sure she charges it to annual leave.”

  “I want her gone,” I say flatly.

  “We can swap her for someone.”

  This would have been a fine thing right up until Jo stampeded into my office victoriously waving her newspaper this morning. But now I want her to lose her job. I don’t just want her away from me. I want her unemployed and humiliated. I want everyone to know you can’t just fuck with me like that.

  “I’m not just going to parcel her off to someone else,” I mutter. “She needs to go.”

  “We can’t just fire her, you know that.” Anthony gets up and closes the door. “We need to advise the police their murder victim is a crazy who broke into our premises. Bloody inconvenient. If we’d known it was going to go this way I would’ve talked to Phillip the day it happened. It’s a shame you hadn’t take out that protection order.”

  Phillip, of course, is Anthony’s brother-in-law, the Police Commissioner. Anthony picks up what is probably a $1000 fountain pen and taps randomly at his desk.

  “It would’ve looked better if I’d calle
d it through first thing this morning,” I say, annoyed. “But I barely looked at the article, let alone the picture.”

  “Don’t worry. If we’re going to have police swarming all over us, the Jo issue had to be dealt with anyway. Besides, if you call now at worst it’s a two-hour delay. We’ve got a firm to run, and what that stupid girl did in her spare time is hardly going to make her any less dead than she is already.”

  Again, I’ve never seen this side to Anthony.

  “Go give the police a call now, through the normal channels. I’ll contact Phillip and give him the heads-up. But don’t, whatever you do, lose sleep over it. You’ve got far more important things on your plate.”

  ◆◆◆

  The truth is I’m not that worried. The night Belinda was murdered I was cooking lasagna, then frolicking intimately with my girlfriend, the ever-desirable Ava. As soon as the police establish a time of death this will all be uncovered.

  My main concern is the whole rape allegation. I want to be as far removed as possible from our city’s real problem, which is not the random murder of a lowly teacher aide but the ongoing work of a team of serial rapists.

  I decide I’m long overdue in taking Ava somewhere obscenely expensive to dinner. I’ve been really working the girlfriend angle as I’ve waited for Belinda’s murder to unfold. After what happened this morning with Jo, I’m most relieved I’ve done this.

  Ava stays nightly now. I hate every minute of it — from my first dawning awareness each morning of having her snuggling up to me, to fading out of consciousness each night to the sound of her voice telling me how much she loves me.

  I hadn’t realized I can’t sleep in a bed with another person until now. So I take handfuls of Zopiclone to get to sleep these nights, then still sleep badly and subsequently require a little something to perk me up for work the following day.

  Tonight, instead of something going into my bloodstream, it will be going into Ava’s, via the champagne at dinner. When we get home and she passes out I’ll bed down in one of the guest rooms and get my first decent sleep in what feels like months.

  With this soothing thought at the forefront of my bothered mind I wander back to my office, via a coffee station, to call the cops.

  13

  Jo’s newspaper is still on my desk. I can’t help myself. I have to read it again. I’ve been craving this. Well, more to the point I’ve been craving Michelia’s news breaking. But this is fruit of the same tree. God knows I’ve earned it.

  The article is infinitely more enjoyable unaccompanied by the heavy and slightly congested breathing that seems to be typical of most fat people. No wonder that woman’s mere presence agitates me. It’s virtually harassment. Now, for the first time in a long time I feel content, just sitting reading the front page and sipping my coffee. It’s pouring with rain outside.

  It is at this point that Detectives Aubrey Pacitto and Richard Grayson appear at my office door. They don’t say a word and it’s not until I get the feeling I’m being watched that I look up and see them, by which stage I have no idea how long they’ve been watching me.

  The great thing about this is, when I see them and I immediately know what they’re here for, that I don’t startle or even feel alarmed. The first thing I think is that I’m glad I’ve worn this particular suit today. I even have the presence of mind to assess my office.

  For the first time, instead of comparing my office to how it used to look, the old-school leather and walnut, I look at it with fresh eyes. It’s a large office, with a great view, decorated by one of the country’s leading design companies. And although I don’t share their propensity for chrome and glass, it is obvious the materials are of the highest quality. The cost of the decor was staggering. This is not something that could be overlooked by even the most casual observer.

  I don’t know much of the interior design of Wellington police station, but I picture it as a hive of cubicles, a bit like where we house our solicitors. The cubicles are probably separated by partitioning, cheap but practical, and the only things up to date are their computers. The lighting would be those despicable eco-save white bulbs. And there won’t be any windows unless you’re near the outside of the hive, in which case you will be cold.

  In the silence I feel my heart vibrating. Warmth that has nothing to do with the commodities of my office washes over my body. The feeling is not dissimilar to taking too much speed in one hit. This involvement I’m about to have with Belinda’s murder investigation, the physical interaction with the cops, is something I never had with the Park Rape Team. An unanticipated bonus, an exciting diversion from the drama of orchestrating the reunion with my mother, and all the unwelcome emotional demands it has placed on me. It will be an entertaining respite to be back in a situation where I am in control.

  I phone reception and speak to someone called Jacqueline who materializes and relieves the detectives of their saturated coats. Jacqueline also provides them with warmed towels to dry their faces and necks.

  It’s a good start. Neither of them looks inbred. Formal introductions are made. Jacqueline returns and carries in the standard silver “Bakers” monogrammed tray with its exquisite china and finely pressed linen. I’m not expecting this to impress them. From what I understand, cops live on a diet of takeaways and instant coffee, unless they’re alcoholics — care of the job, of course.

  I help myself to coffee and cream and a rich-looking slice of ganache that is more icing than cake.

  “You’re here about this?” I say, holding up the paper.

  “We are,” says Pacitto. He has taken my lead and poured himself a coffee.

  “Excellent,” I say. “That saves me the call I was just about to make.”

  “Your executive assistant called us earlier this morning. She told us Ms Goodluck had had some recent involvement with the firm.”

  I don’t think I’ve ever felt such instant or intense rage. Hidden, of course, behind a benign smile. She’s ruined my special moment. Not only that, but she’s gone behind my back and already reported the incident before she even mentioned it to me.

  Grayson must be studying me more than his casual stare implies. “You didn’t know she called the incident in?” Grayson has a critical irritating voice.

  “I’d hardly have been about to call it in myself if I’d coordinated the effort with her, would I?” I say coolly. “Not that this surprises me. Jo thrives on drama.”

  Pacitto and Grayson exchange looks. “She seemed genuine to us,” says Pacitto.

  And they call themselves detectives.

  “Of course she did,” I say drolly.

  I’m back in control again and I find my mind isn’t scrambled in the slightest by this ambush. The rage pushed down until I can find a suitable outlet.

  I take a sip of my coffee. My mind is so lucid it’s even got time to wish I had Anthony Hartman’s Turkish rug on my desktop, start thinking of ways in which I will vent my wrath on Jo, and wonder where I should take Ava to dinner tonight.

  “I have, if you like, a strange history with Ms Goodluck. Do you want me to tell you about the most recent encounter, or should I start from the beginning?”

  Pacitto frowns. “We weren’t aware of more than one encounter.”

  “Why would you be?”

  Pacitto flips open his notebook. “Your EA called earlier about the incident on Monday 4 June where Ms Goodluck came to your office. That’s the only encounter we were informed of.”

  Pacitto reads out the basics of the paint-throwing incident. His words are unemotive so it’s obviously a sanitized nuts-and-bolts version of whatever Jo has spieled out. I listen carefully for purposely omitted bits, lest I fail to add them thereby appearing suspicious.

  “Does that match up with your sequence of events?” says Pacitto.

  “It does.”

  “Was there any truth in it?”

  “Any truth? As in, did I rape her? Do I look like someone who needs to rape women?”

  “Rape’s no
t about sex,” says Grayson. “It’s about control.”

  “I’ll take your word for it.”

  “Any idea, then, why she’d brave her way into these offices and accuse you of being a rapist?”

  “Should I have to?”

  “Humor us,” says Grayson, who is clearly an absolute tool. “We’d be really grateful if you could turn your mind to it.”

  Pacitto pours himself another coffee. He holds up his cup. “This is great coffee.” The cup looks tiny in his hand. That’s probably how they look in mine, come to think of it. I wonder if they’re starting to play good-cop bad-cop but guess that would be a bit too much to ask.

  The beginnings of an impromptu lie are stirring in my mind. I won’t know what it is until the words come out of my mouth. I relax back in my seat, quietly amused that two of Wellington’s finest are here interviewing the mastermind behind the Park Rape Team for the inconsequential murder of a bipolar misfit. I may be able to screw Ava on the memory of this later. Ah, here come the words.

  “Okay,” I say, “Fine. I don’t like to speak ill of the dead. But as I was trying to say at the start, the assault in my office was the accumulation of a series of events that started a long time ago. I was hoping it was the grand finale.”

  I look at my watch, although I don’t really have anywhere to be. It just seems like a good thing to do. My watch is a 1931 Rolex collector’s item. It momentarily saddens me neither man has the refinement to appreciate this.

  I take a sip of coffee. “If she’d bothered me again, I was going to take out a protection order. I’d discussed it with Anthony Hartman, our managing partner. He can confirm.”

  “You were going to take out a protection order against her?”

  Grayson’s mind was clearly made up before he even laid eyes on me. He has listened to Jo blubbering for a couple of hours: she probably reminds him of his wife, so he identifies with her. I could hardly expect him to identify with me.

  “Ms Goodluck has been making my life a living hell for quite some time now. She’s mad as a meat axe and she’s been harassing me and stalking me. That’s it, in short.”