The Jaded Spy

by Nick Spill

“You were invited to talk at the demo? About Maori land? Who by?”

  “Oh, you know. Connections. Besides, I had my megaphone. Shit.”

  “You and your megaphone! Heard you on the radio at the hospital. Probably going to be on TV tonight. I’m sure you’re going to get a lot of calls.” Annie headed towards her house in Greenlane. “But they haven’t mentioned you in the demo yet. Have to wait for the Star. How come you didn’t get arrested during the raid but got nabbed in the park?”

  “You’re asking me how cops think? I’m going to go into hiding and don’t want anything to do with anyone but you. I need a bath and a massage, at least.”

  “You’re pushing it.”

  “Baby, you have no idea.” Mark gave her his million-kilowatt smile, all he had. His attorney had worked out an agreement with the Crown not to prosecute, in return for Mark’s silence. If he talked to the media the deal was off.

  “So do tell, why did they let you out? Aren’t they pissed off?”

  “Justice is its own reward.” Mark lost his smile as he estimated that all the money Nikolai Raganovich had given him would go to Alan Crispfeldt, his expensive but effective counsel. He sighed. “They vandalized everything and won’t pay for any of the damage. The reason I wasn’t arrested was they were searching for the lost painting, the Captain Cook we saw on Saturday night. Nothing about drugs in the warrant, so they couldn’t charge me. They made an illegal search, but heaven forbid they return my stash! Of course, it’s disappeared. It’s highway robbery! I got tackled walking across the park for no reason, and my megaphone stolen. I got released on condition I don’t talk. To anyone. I’m muzzled.”

  Annie smiled. “Perhaps I can unmuzzle you tonight. After you’ve showered.”

  Mark sank back into his seat and thought about the raid on his house and who had ratted on him. He kept coming back to the image of the small white government van and its driver, Alexander Newton.

  Chapter Forty-six

  Grimble had a copy of the Auckland Star on his desk when Cadd returned to his office with lists of garages and warehouses where Raganovich could have stored the missing painting. Cadd was about to admit he could not find a direct link to the Russian.

  “Seen this?” Grimble pointed to the headline COPS BEAT JOURNALIST IN LUNCHTIME RIOT IN ALBERT PARK. “I can’t begin to imagine what the commissioner is going to say. Lucky for us we weren’t present until the end. And look at the photo—recognize anyone?”

  “Christ! Is that Wiremu Wilson? He was there? And the other guy from the photos?”

  “Yes.” Grimble had read the article twice and was still digesting the information.

  “At least I got to arrest Mark Rose again. Well, I put him in the van,” Cadd smiled. “Seemed like old times.”

  “Did he appreciate it?”

  “Not in the least.”

  “If we had arrested him earlier on our raid perhaps the whole riot wouldn’t have happened?” Grimble pulled a face. “We’ve got work to do.”

  Cadd nodded.

  Grimble picked up printouts from the Wanganui computer. Natasha was the Russian’s daughter and rented the apartment at the Castle in her own name. “Here’s the plate number. All you have to do is find it nearby. It’ll be in Parnell, give or take a few side streets between where Mark Rose lives and the Castle. Oh, and one other thing. She’s enrolled at Auckland University as a what? Masters student by now? In the Russian language department? Do they have one? Chat up the secretary, chat up everyone and find out where she is, where she studies, what courses she’s enrolled in, anything you can—but I don’t think we should contact her yet. We should work out our approach. And there’s Alexander Newton. I’ve yet to work him out. Is he just a curator, or a plant? Is he related to Catelin and his department? Is he SIS as well and they’re not telling us?”

  “He seemed at ease in the gallery and at the opening,” said Cadd. “I think he’s in it for the girls and the glory.”

  “We were all young once. Well, I was. Once. Let’s go for a drive.”

  “All the garages will be closed but we can check parking areas and, anything we can see from the street.”

  “Yes. Nothing else to do. Haven’t you got somewhere to go? It’s just gone seven.”

  “No, I’m single. And I need to find Captain Cook if I want my career to advance.”

  “No girlfriend? What happened to whatshername, Donna? You haven’t talked about her in ages.”

  “Thanks for asking, but after Titirangi she left. Couldn’t stand the stress, she said.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t know. We get too engrossed in our work, or at least I do. We forget about the real world. Makes you wonder why we do our job. I should be taking my daughter to violin practice tonight, but the wife understands. I think. Before I forget, Jarvis approved you getting out of uniform and working for me, but the other bureaucrats haven’t signed off on you yet. It must be frustrating.”

  “It’s why I want to find the painting. I feel like I should have had it handcuffed to me the whole night.”

  Grimble drove his red Honda through the side streets of Parnell and Cadd crossed off each block they cruised past.

  “Do you still think of what happened in Titirangi, Cadd?”

  “Not any more. I was annoyed when Donna left, but I think I told her too much. What did you say?”

  “Don’t bring your work home. It will stay and poison any real relationships you have.”

  “Do you tell your wife anything?”

  “No. She knows not to ask. Besides, she isn’t interested in police work. She has her own job to think of.” Grimble glanced at Cadd as he turned back into Parnell Road. “She’s a teacher, head of her English department. Very busy and hasn’t time to bother me, thank goodness.”

  “Do you think about what happened to you?” Cadd asked, after a silence. “It’s been six months but feels longer, doesn’t it?” They were now driving through deserted industrial streets.

  “Well, I still get headaches, but not as much.”

  “You get headaches? From when you were knocked out?” Cadd sounded surprised.

  “Yes, Cadd. Remember the head bandage? They called me the sheikh at HQ for weeks.”

  “I thought it was the Sikh.”

  Grimble turned into another side street and stopped outside what appeared to be an auto repair shop. “You should come back here tomorrow and see what’s inside. We could break in now, but, after what happened, I don’t have the stomach for a little B and E anymore.”

  Cadd looked at his boss, puzzled.

  “Let me explain, Cadd. We used to believe anything was okay, as long as we got the collar. We would bend the rules. Hell, there weren’t any rules but the ones we wrote. So, anything would stand up in court. We didn’t have to lie as leave out certain details. What magistrate would rule against a cop? The house fire really threw me, and you too, I think.”

  “You mean Hone Wilson?”

  “Yes.” Grimble drove on as Cadd made marks on the map.

  “I don’t want to be that cop anymore, and I don’t want you to turn into that type of cop either Cadd. You have a bright future ahead of you. If we can find the bloody painting.”

  Chapter Forty-seven

  Mel checked the bedroom. Henry’s clothes had gone. His books were no longer by his side of the bed. She was in no mood to change out of her work clothes, a simple black trouser suit and a plain white shirt. She kicked her shoes into a corner and checked the bathroom. Shaving kit, toothbrush, all gone. She walked into the living room. The huge speakers and turntable were intact, but a few of the LPs were missing. She opened the refrigerator and poured herself a full glass of a white wine she had saved for cooking.

  She felt abandoned. All her work on trying to reform Henry over the last six months was in vain. Why had he returned the jade piece, the Tear of Tane, to Wiremu? To save Wiremu or undermine himself? Mel saw it as an act of self-destruction. She sensed again he was going to return to America, and she
would never see him again.

  She should have been thinking of her amazing night with Alexander, she knew. She could find no sensible answer for her new infatuation. She didn’t feel guilty about the tryst on a bare mattress. She, a respectable doctor, having great sex in the back of a van, on top of Mount Eden, at her age? With a man at least ten years her junior, she calculated?

  Then an extraordinary thing happened. The doorbell rang. Mel ran to answer, hoping it was Henry back from the airport to confess he had made a big mistake and he was going to live with her forever, marry her and they were going to have a lot of kids, well, two would be nice. But as she flung open the door, she saw Alexander, with his dimples. He held a dozen red roses, a bottle of wine, and a bottle of Southern Comfort. “Oh god! It’s you!” she gasped.

  “Were you expecting someone else?” Alexander asked. He saw Mel’s body melt. What had he done? She’d thrown him around, seduced him in his small white government van and now he was standing before her smiling, bearing gifts and wondering how she would respond.

  “I’m sorry, you caught me off-guard. Come in. I was drinking crappy wine but …” She opened the paper bag. ““Penfold’s Cab Sav. Private Bin. Looks expensive. But you kept the price tag on. So it’s not.”

  “Did I?” Alexander gasped. “You can’t take me anywhere!”

  “How did you know where I lived?”

  “Simple. I’m a spy, remember?”

  “You. Don’t stand there. Come in. And didn’t you tell me you were a curator?”

  He followed her into the kitchen where she arranged the roses into a vase. Alexander thought she kept looking at him as if to figure out what to do with him. He had ideas as well but did not want to over play his hand. He was still unsure about what had happened the night before and doubted events could happen so quickly again. But he kept hoping.

  He felt giddy to be in her presence as they drank the good red wine in her living room. Her boyfriend, whom Alexander had met at the gallery opening, wasn’t in the house, and she seemed excited to see him. We’ll always have Mount Eden, he thought, but dared not say it aloud. She squatted over the albums, went past the new Rolling Stones album and placed Mental Notes by Split Enz, on the turntable. She turned to show him the painting of the group on the cover and caught Alexander looking at her rear.

  She did have a great bottom, he was thinking, not too big or too small. Perfect, like everything else about her. He was sitting in her living room, a glass of wine in his hands, about to listen to an expensive sound system and with a kickboxer doctor, all to himself.

  “I hope you don’t mind me dropping in,” he said. “But I was drawn here.”

  “I can’t remember the last time someone bought me roses,” Mel murmured. “They’re beautiful.”

  “After last night, I thought I should. I, I’m not good at these sorts of situations. I guess I have no experience and I had to see you again. It’s not like I’ve thought of anything else. God. What am I saying?”

  Mel scrutinized him over the rim of her wine glass.

  “I just, I just wanted to see if what I felt was real. After last night, I mean, I was swept off my feet and, well, you know. Who’s playing? I’ve never heard them before.”

  “Split Enz. You like it?”

  “I’m sitting next to you sipping wine, listening to music. What’s not to like? I still don’t think it’s real. This is stranger than fiction. Hit me.”

  Mel did.

  “Oh. That hurt.”

  “You told me to hit you.”

  “I should have said pinch me.”

  Mel pinched him on the same arm.

  “Ouch! That hurt too! Now I know it’s real. Wow.” Alexander finished off his wine. “Can we change the album? It’s the first time I’m hearing it, and I need to concentrate. I can’t with you sitting next to me.”

  Mel finished her wine and got to her feet to select another album. She flicked through Patti Smith’s Horses, Joni Mitchell’s The Hissing of Summer Lawns then came to Supertramp’s Crime of the Century. She bent over to put the needle on the opening track, turned to face Alexander and caught him staring at her again. He did not seem to be leering; he looked to be in awe. “I’m going to change,” she said. “Can you pour me more wine? And don’t move.”

  Alexander refilled both their glasses and sat back. He emptied his glass and poured another. He had lost track of time. Then the lights went off and before him was the outline of Mel’s body and her curly hair looking wilder. She dropped the needle and turned up the volume. She switched on a floor lamp near the door.

  When Alexander adjusted his eyes, he needed to be hit or pinched again.

  Mel stood across from him in black high heels, a garter belt and black nylon stockings. She swayed to the music. Her hair swept across her face and her shoulders. Her breasts bounced from side to side. Her skin was a luminescent white. She did not take her eyes off him. He didn’t know where to look. He just soaked in the music and Mel dancing in front of him.

  When the piano solo kicked in with swirling chords, the rhythms overwhelmed him. He got to his feet and held her by the hips. He could feel the garter belt. She responded by holding his waist and gazing into his steel grey eyes. They began to move in a clockwise direction, slowly, gaining momentum as the music became more intense. The room spun. Mel took small steps in her high heels, but Alexander was shuffling his feet in wider arcs, as he tried to keep his balance while holding her gaze. When the song ended, he lost his balance and she fell on top of him. The carpet broke his fall and he wrapped his arms around her and with her hips and breasts pressing into him began one breathless deep kiss that lasted for the rest of the album.

  “I shouldn’t do this.” He kissed her on her other breast. “And I shouldn’t do that.”

  “Don’t stop,” Mel moaned. He thought they were the two greatest words in the English language.

  Alexander woke in the middle of the night. He had no idea of the time. He was not alone. He was naked below the waist, like last night. Mel had a duvet covering them. She had taken off her lingerie and they shared a pillow. He could feel the heat of her body and her slow breathing. He wanted to wake her again and make love to her, but he moved his legs and felt how sore his knees were, as they rubbed against the duvet. He closed his eyes and remembered he had not called Tsara. Mel put her arm around him, and he moved closer to her. He fell into a deep sleep.

  Chapter Forty-eight

  “Damn! The Mini isn’t in Parnell or anywhere. We’ve cruised around every single street, right?”

  “Yes, sir. I’ve marked them on the map. Nothing.”

  “There’s a pie cart on Queen Street and Shortland. Care for a pie?” Grimble asked.

  “You’re driving,” Cadd replied.

  They headed to Shortland Street and parked opposite the long white cart, really a converted bus made into a kitchen with stools for customers, a serving area with a canopy and a few drunks nearby, eating pies or drinking sodas. “Haven’t been here in years,” Grimble said. “Only things changed are the girls’ skirts are shorter and the guys’ hair is longer.”

  The two plainclothes policemen stood by the counter and ate their meat pies. Other men with long hair kept their distance.

  “Cadd, there’s something I’ve been meaning to talk to you about,” Grimble said between mouthfuls. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was.

  Cadd stopped chewing. He lifted his right arm and smelled his armpit.

  Grimble almost smiled. “Not that.”

  “About your boss? Jarvis? And the riot?”

  “No. We’re going to enjoy that fiasco later.”

  “You mean the explosion on the Southern Motorway?”

  “How did you know?”

  “You trained me. And it’s unlike you to take the official line. The explosion just happened and the two biggest crooks in Auckland just happened to get wiped out? Got to be more to it. Maybe they were planning the crime of the century and blew themselves up by mist
ake. I don’t know and, like you taught me, I don’t want to jump to conclusions.” The sergeant took another bite of his pie. “And I just didn’t want to ask.”

  “I see what you mean. Once Cook is found, we need to rethink the whole trail of events through. You’re right, it does seem too neat. I don’t think the commissioner is buying the official line either. He just doesn’t want to say anything officially.”

  “Or unofficially?”

  “Yes, Cadd. You’re beginning to understand cop politics.”

  “What can we do? Unofficially, of course. We have to bring solid evidence to the table to get it reopened. You know Terry Turner’s wife Barbara is one or two steps ahead of us in her investigation.”

  “A scary thought. We need to go over all the traffic accidents around the explosion. I do believe no one ever looked at them, tried to find any links, names, anything related to the truck. I don’t think it blew up on its own. A high explosive, probably C-4, according to our expert’s report.”

  “Probably?” Cadd raised his eyebrows. “You would never let me use that word.”

  “The expert said it, not me. We need to talk to this expert. They don’t always put everything into written reports for a number of reasons.”

  “You want me to get all the accident reports?”

  “Yes. The truck was heading to Auckland when it exploded. Where had it come from? What was it carrying? Did they know they had explosives on board, or were they set up? Which begs the question, who was following them? Hard to imagine Turner was fooled.”

  “It happened at the same time as the shootout. Didn’t you always say there is no such thing as a coincidence?”

  “Yes, Cadd. We need to pull every phone call logged, every accident, any record we have, including further south. The two events are connected somehow.” He rubbed his eyes. “Let’s call it a night. We have an early start tomorrow.”

  Cadd glanced at his watch. “It’s already tomorrow.”