Molloy hooked the kickstand over the edge of the half-open window, took a photograph, wound the film, took another and then another. He reframed to the left and got what felt like a good snap of the driver. It would be grainy but there was still enough light. The two men walked quickly to the Plymouth. Molloy slumped in his seat as the sedan turned and drove off down Chamberlain Street. He put the camera on the seat and started the ignition. He did a fast U-turn and almost crashed into the butcher’s red panel van, which was backing out of a driveway. The driver got out and glared at Molloy.
“Got a licence to drive that thing?” he said.
“Sorry, cobber,” said Molloy.
“Yeah, well.”
Molloy put his car into reverse and backed up a couple of yards, changed into first and drove round the van. There was no sign of the Plymouth. When he got to the junction at the bottom of Chamberlain Street the road was empty in both directions.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Molloy parked in front of the Premier Building on the corner of Wyndham Street and Queen Street where he had an office on the fourth floor. It wasn’t much of a place — one room with a desk and a filing cabinet, and a framed photograph of Phar Lap winning the Melbourne Stakes, left by a previous tenant — but it was somewhere to go during the day. He had the key to a tiny shared kitchen with an electric kettle and a compact Frigidaire, which had somehow made its way there from the US Navy Hospital in Victoria Park after the war. The plastic door on the freezer cabinet was shot and there was rust appearing around the rim, but it kept the milk cold.
He had set up a darkroom in an unused cupboard in the hallway. He closed the door, pulled a curtain across and turned off the safelight, took the roll of film from the Voigtländer and got to work. A few minutes later a strip of negative was clipped to a line with a wooden peg. He set the timer and went into the kitchen and made a pot of tea. He returned to his office and found the number of the Grey Lynn RSC in his notebook. He had applied for a phone line in May the previous year and Post & Telegraph had installed one four months later. It didn’t ring very often but Molloy knew it was the future. He picked up the receiver and dialled, turning the pot twice as the phone rang.
“Are you there?” said Bones Harrington.
“G’day, Bones,” said Molloy. “Johnny here.”
“Who’s that?” said Bones. “You’ll have to speak up.”
“Johnny Molloy.”
“Oh, g’day, Johnny,” said Bones. “It’s chocker tonight. Cops raided the Dublin Club on Sunday. Closed it down, the bastards. Roughed up Basil and them. All their members seem to have come over.”
“That’s no good,” said Molloy. “Is Billy Burgess there?”
“He is,” said Bones. “Want me to get him?”
“If you wouldn’t mind.”
“Hang on a tick.”
The receiver clattered onto the bar.
“Billy! You’re wanted on the telephone!” Molloy heard Bones shouting. “Hey, Steve! Get Billy for me, willya?”
Molloy poured a cup of tea.
“Are you there?”
“Hello, Billy,” said Molloy. “It’s Johnny Molloy.”
“How can I help you, son?” said Burgess.
“Wondered if there were any overseas sailings tonight. Auckland or Mangere?”
“There’s nothing scheduled for the next two days,” said Burgess. “The Moana’s going to Sydney on Thursday from Napier but she’s just stopping for crew. Otherwise everything’s stuck in the channel.”
“Thanks, cobber,” said Molloy.
“That’s all right, son.”
“Sounds like quite a show in there tonight,” said Molloy.
“Aye,” said Burgess. “All those bastards from the Dublin Club. You heard what happened?”
“I did,” said Molloy. “See you later, Billy.”
“’Night, Johnny.”
Molloy checked his watch, stirred his tea, put his feet on the desk, and opened the previous day’s Auckland Star. American, French and Dutch troops were fighting around the Han River near Seoul. The timer rang. He went back into the broom cupboard and unpegged the negative from the line. He got a sheet of glass and a piece of marine ply the same size from under the sink — a do-it-yourself printing frame, something he’d learned from an article in Popular Mechanics. Soon he was wiping a proof sheet with a sponge. The telephone rang. Molloy took the sheet into his office.
“Are you there?”
“Hello, Johnny,” said Toomey, the police sergeant. “Pat here.”
“Hello, Pat.”
“I have some information on your friend O’Flynn,” said Toomey. “Also known as O’Phelan.”
“Fire away,” said Molloy, opening his notebook.
“He was arrested for gross public intoxication and common assault on St Patrick’s Day last year, and found to be in the country without permission,” said Toomey. “I’m surprised he wasn’t deported. He wasn’t even charged in the finish.”
“Any clue why he wasn’t?”
“No,” said Toomey. “The file was sealed.”
“Is that unusual?”
“It’s not usual, put it that way,” said Toomey. “Particularly since the person he assaulted was a policeman. We look down on that sort of behaviour.”
“I bet,” said Molloy, taking a magnifying glass from his drawer. He looked closely at the images on the proof sheet. There were some good ones of both the Irishman and the Maori.
“On the matter of the licence plate, J328,” said Toomey. “The motorcar is registered to a Miss C. Cotterill of Marine Parade, Herne Bay. She’s owned it since new. 1947. And before that she had a Whippet, which she had owned since 1927. I’m picturing a mature woman of a conservative bent.”
“Thanks, Sherlock,” said Molloy, hanging up. He wrapped the proof sheet in newspaper, locked his office and walked to Furst’s hotel.
“That’s him,” said Furst. “As a cop you get a feeling. Little hairs on the back of the neck?” O’Phelan’s Merchant Marine ID, the Bulletin story and the proof sheet were lined up on the writing desk in Furst’s room. “You’re sure he didn’t see you?”
“Pretty sure,” said Molloy.
“Any chance he’s skipped the country?” said Furst.
“Only if he walked,” said Molloy. “There are no sailings till Thursday.”
“What about Pan American?”
“Nothing till Thursday.”
“Maybe he swam.”
“Yeah,” said Molloy. “He’s known to the police. Public intoxication. They tried to get him for assault on a policeman too, but the charges were dropped.”
“Know why?”
“Not yet.”
Furst picked up the proof sheet and ran the magnifying glass over it again.
“What do you want me to do?” said Molloy.
“Keep looking.”
“It’s your money.”
“Spend it,” said Furst. “I want this feller found.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Molloy tried the front door of the RSC but it was locked. He stepped back and looked up. The building was in darkness. He lifted the letter slot and could hear the low rumble of conversation. A red wire from an electric buzzer ran up the side of the door frame and through a hole drilled in the wall. Molloy pushed the button. He lit a smoke.
The letter slot opened. “Bugger off,” a voice said. “We’re closed.”
“Bones, it’s me, Johnny.”
Locks turned and the door cracked open. Bones squeezed out and looked up and down Francis Street. “All right, Johnny,” he said, stepping back. “In you come.”
A heavy blackout curtain was hanging across the alcove.
“Bloody hell,” said Molloy. “Expecting the Luftwaffe?”
“It’s no joke,” said Bones. “The police are threatening to come down hard. Committee’s even talking about restricting this place to legal hours till things blow over. Plus the jokers from the Dublin Club. We might have to clea
r out the chairs and tables for a bit. Just one step away from the vertical swill. Bloody hell.” He bolted the door.
The room was full of men talking in low tones. Smoke hung above them like cumulus. Tim was back on deck. Molloy ordered an eight.
“Really sorry to hear about Paddy, Tim,” said Molloy, reaching across the bar to shake Tim’s hand. “Bones told me.”
“Oh, thanks, Johnny,” said Tim. “Yeah, it’s a bit of a bugger.”
“Are you going to have a service of any sort?”
“Well, he’ll be buried over there in Korea somewhere, of course,” said Tim. “In one of them military cemeteries, I’d think.” He took a deep breath. “We’re having a do at St Joseph’s on Friday morning. It’ll just be small, Johnny, don’t feel you have to.”
“Wouldn’t miss it, Tim,” said Molloy. “Paddy was a good bloke.”
“He wasn’t a bad little bugger, was he?” said Tim, concentrating hard on the pour, some movement in his chin. “Good halfback.”
“Bones and I were saying the same thing. Would’ve played for Auckland if it hadn’t been for the war.”
“The Kiwis even,” said Tim. “That’s what Scotty McClymont reckoned.”
“He’d know,” said Molloy. “I’m going to drop in and say hello to your mum tomorrow.”
“She’d like that, Johnny.”
Tim slid the beer across.
“Cheers,” said Molloy, putting a shilling on the bar.
Tim leaned forward. “Strange thing, the same day she heard he’d copped it, she got a postcard from him. Sent a couple of weeks before Christmas.” Tim drew words in the air. “Ended with something like, ‘Please don’t worry, Mum, and lots of love. Paddy.’” His eyes filled with tears. “And in her other hand she’s holding the ‘Regret to inform’ telegram from Fred fuckin’ Jones, pardon my French.”
“Hell,” said Molloy, at a loss.
“Hell’s right,” said Tim, blowing his nose into a tartan handkerchief. “Ah, well. Offer it up, as the nuns used to say. Anyway.” He got change from the cash register. “Friday at ten. But don’t feel obliged.”
“Very good,” said Molloy. “I’ll be there.”
Bones put a tray of dirty glasses and ashtrays on the counter next to where Molloy was standing.
“Billy still here?” said Molloy.
“Got the last tram,” said Bones. He lowered his voice. “Maori boy in the corner’s looking for you, though.”
“Where?”
“Behind me,” said Bones. “By the radio.”
Molloy looked at the reflection in the mirror above the bar. “How did he get in?” he asked. “All those locks and buzzers?”
“Size of the bastard, who was going to stop him?”
The Maori had one hand on a leaner and was sipping beer from a five-ounce glass.
“G’day,” said Molloy. “Johnny Molloy.”
The big man put down his glass. It was an eight, Molloy realised, but in his big fist it looked like a five.
“Sunny Day,” he said.
Day had a thick neck and broad shoulders. His skin was dark and his eyes were pale green. His nose was smeared across his face, brows held together by scar tissue. There were faded blue swallows tattooed on the webbing of both hands. His fists looked like hammers, knuckles large and misshapen and several shades of red.
“You’re looking for a cobber of mine,” he said. “Frank O’Flynn?”
“Am I now? What makes you say that?”
“Auckland’s a small place,” said Sunny, hooking a thumb. “He wants to talk to you, too. Car’s out the back.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Sunny’s Plymouth was parked across the other side of the yard. The passenger door faced away from the RSC and was shadowed by a dark line of macrocarpas. There was a figure in the passenger seat.
Sunny opened the back door. “In you hop,” he said with a mock salute. As Molloy lifted his arm to take off his hat Sunny punched him hard in the side below the ribcage. Molloy’s world turned red. Sunny spun him round and punched him with his other fist, this time in the solar plexus.
Molloy’s legs gave way and he slid down the side of the car, toppled to his knees, and pitched slowly forward onto the bitumen, trying to suck in air through a pinhole.
The passenger door opened. “Need a hand, Sunny?” said a high-pitched voice.
“No. I think it’s under control, thanks, Lofty.”
Sunny squatted down and waited for Molloy’s diaphragm to stop cramping.
“What do you want with Frank O’Flynn?” he said, eventually.
“Who?” said Molloy, somehow.
Sunny grabbed Molloy’s hair, wrenched his head back and slammed his face into the ground. He rolled him over, picked him up by the lapels and sat him down against the left front wheel. Molloy slumped forward with his chin on his chest, his ribcage feeling cracked and on fire. Sunny’s actions seemed effortless, as though Molloy weighed nothing at all. And Molloy was not a small man.
“One more time,” said Sunny. “What do you want with Frank O’Flynn?”
“He’s been cited as secondary party in a divorce suit,” said Molloy, the words bubbling out around the blood that was filling his mouth and dribbling down his chin. “This solicitor wants me to get a photograph, that’s all.”
“Go on. What solicitor?”
“Furst,” said Molloy, grasping at straws. “Something Furst.”
“Who’s he with?”
“He’s got a practice down the line,” said Molloy, hooking his thumb in a southerly direction.
“Down the line?” said Sunny. “Can you be more specific?”
“Napier,” said Molloy, the first place he thought of.
“Napier. That’s good. I know people in Napier.”
A dog barked.
“Hey, you fellas! What’s going on?” said a beery voice.
The passenger door opened.
“Bugger off, Grandad,” said Lofty.
“What did I say, Lofty?” said Sunny.
“No, Sunny, I was just . . .” Lofty’s voice trailed off. The door closed.
“Is that young Molloy?” said Davey Coulson. The old boy had both hands on his walking stick and was swaying on the spot in a slow, circular direction as though he was churning butter. His fox terrier stood stiff-legged beside him, furious.
“Is that you, Davey?” said Molloy.
“It is,” said Coulson. He nodded towards the macrocarpas. “I was just going for a, you know, a piddle in the trees there,” he said. “The latrine gets pretty busy this time of night and I don’t like to be rushed and that annoys people, banging away on the door and that, so.” He took a deep breath. “Anyway, I seen you fellas here and I thought, jeez, that doesn’t sound too good. Can’t see who in the dark, but I could hear someone gasping away like billy-o. And then I seen it was you, Johnny. You know, once me eyes adjusted?” He paused. “Everything all right, son?”
“Good as gold, thanks, Davey,” said Molloy. “Got a bit carried away on the booze and had a big spew all over this poor bloke’s white sidewalls. But we’re all right now, aren’t we, Mr Day?” He leaned to one side and spat a mouthful of blood onto the ground.
“I think we’re putting two and two together, yep,” said Sunny.
Coulson’s dog growled.
“Geddown, Skip!” said Coulson. “Take no notice of him. He’s a foxy.” Coulson squinted at Sunny. “You’re a Maori, aren’t you? Foxies don’t seem to care for you fellas too much. Funny thing.” He pointed. “I grew up on the Hokianga. Knew a fair few Maoris. Good people, most of them. Ka pai this and that and so forth. But foxies seem to have this animus towards them.” He gestured vaguely. “Any of your people from up that way?”
Sunny paused. “Not from up that way, no,” he said. “More down that way and across.”
“I see,” said Coulson, after a moment. “Ah, well. Better go and, you know.” He pointed towards the tree line. “I’ll see you later, Johnny.”
“See you later, Davey,” said Molloy.
They watched Coulson and Skip walk away.
Sunny shook his head. “Jesus Christ almighty,” he said. He turned back to Molloy, his voice low. “I’ll check up on this Furst fella,” he said. “Secondary party in a divorce, eh? O’Flynn’s a lady’s man, that’s for sure. He’s called Errol O’Flynn sometimes, so could be.” He put his hand under Molloy’s chin and jerked his head up. “But if you’re making it up, by crikey you’ll be sorry.” He dropped Molloy’s head and wiped blood and snot from his hand onto the detective’s jacket. “Meanwhile, stay away from Frank. I find you sniffing around him again, you’re dog tucker.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Molloy woke up feeling like he had spun out of control at seventy miles an hour and crashed into a wall. He was lying on his bed, on top of the blanket, in his shirt and underpants. He couldn’t remember how he got there. He couldn’t remember getting undressed. There was blood on his shirt and the buttons were missing. He brought his hand up to his face. There was dry blood caked on his chin, and the tip of his nose felt as if it had been scraped off.
He tried to sit up but the effort made him squeak with pain. He lay back, counted to ten, rolled to his left, ended up on the floor on his knees.
“Oh, Jesus Christ,” he said out loud, not praying.
He put his hands on the edge of the bed and heaved himself up. His jacket and strides were in a pile on the floor, ripped and bloodied. He couldn’t see his hat.
He stood. On his wall there was a small square mirror with bevelled edges hanging by a thin chain. He looked at his face. What a mess. His nose and chin were bloody and lines of dry blood connected the two. He scraped gently at the scab. Parts of it came away in large black flakes and fresh blood appeared immediately. He took a handkerchief from his drawer, dipped it in an enamel bowl and cleaned himself up as much as he could.
He took his other pair of strides from a hanger and put them on, wincing over each inch. He put on his socks and shoes, took off his shirt and singlet and got clean ones from his drawer. It took ten minutes. There was a knock on the door.
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