Fallout

by Thomas, Paul

  Boyle looked sceptical. ‘Not even the cops?’

  ‘Not even the cops. They get first call, but that’s as far as it goes.’

  ‘Well, Jimmy got accused of all sorts of things, but being apolitical certainly wasn’t one of them. Apart from that, you strike me as a chip off the old block. I bet you create merry hell.’

  ‘I move in pretty straight lines — it shouldn’t be that hard to stay out of my way. Tell me about Murray.’

  ‘He’s Scottish,’ said Boyle. ‘Well, he was Scottish. These days he sells himself as a true-blue Kiwi, not the easiest thing to do with that accent. He’s been here thirty years now, so I suppose he’s earned the right to call himself a New Zealander and wrap himself in the flag. After all, patriotism is the last refuge of a scoundrel. He pitched up here in the early eighties, worked at a grog outlet at the bottom of Khyber Pass and became very active in the Storemen and Packers’ Union, which is how he came to Smaile’s attention. Smaile recruited him into the WVP and for a while there he was the golden boy. It looked for all money like Willie was grooming him as his successor. But Murray blotted his copybook and Willie turfed him out on his ear. It was your classic purge: one day he sat at Smaile’s right hand; next day he was a non-person.’

  ‘What did Murray do wrong?’

  ‘Jesus, who knows? You didn’t have to do much to fail the purity test. The comrades took ideology very bloody seriously. If you deviated from the party line or were lukewarm when you should’ve been red-hot, you were in the gun. Mind you, if you look at what’s become of Murray, you’d have to say it was a good call. Smaile obviously saw the signs.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Are you serious? You mean to say you’ve never heard of the Muffin Man?’

  ‘That’s him?’ said Ihaka incredulously. ‘The Scotch prick in that fucking TV ad?’

  Boyle did a passable impersonation: ‘“Hello New Zealand, I’m the Muffin Man and I’m here to tell you a Murray muffin will make your day.” That’s our boy. He’s made a fortune out of muffins, now he wants to run the country.’

  ‘Which party is he?’

  ‘Ah well, when you’re Tom Murray, you can afford your own party — the Prosperity Party. You could say it picks up where Rogernomics left off — flat tax rate, slash red tape, let big business do whatever the hell it wants so the rich get even richer. He’s got this slogan, “The role of government is to eliminate the role of government”. Absolute textbook case of the zeal of the convert. You’d think we’d be once bitten, twice shy, but the pundits seem to think he could pick up enough votes to get himself and maybe one or two others into Parliament, which would give him a seat at the negotiating table. He might even end up being the kingmaker, God help us. That’s obviously what he’s got in mind, which I suppose is why he wouldn’t talk to Miriam either. If you’re making yourself out to be the saviour of the free-enterprise system, you probably don’t want people to know you were once the teacher’s pet in a hard-line communist party.’

  The Muffin Man ran his muffin empire from a plush suite of offices in Ellerslie. There are times, thought Ihaka, when it’s good to be me. You show up at the office of someone who thinks they’re important. Self-important people tend to have gatekeepers, secretaries or receptionists whose mission in life is to ensure that the Special One isn’t bothered by little people. The gatekeepers glance up from their magazines or Sudokus, register the large, unkempt Maori shambling through the reception area and think it’s high time we got some proper security around here. But being professional hypocrites, among other things, the gatekeepers pretend they haven’t pigeon-holed Ihaka on the basis of his jeans, hoodie and sneakers, all of which have seen better days. They greet him with the same smiley mask and honeyed tones they bestow on desirables: gelled, shaved, plucked, exfoliated, fragrant, glossy people in clean underpants (you can just tell) and proper shoes; go-getters with the latest accessories who belong in the marbled foyers where money is made. And they ask him the most insincere question in the English language: ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘I’m here to see Tom Murray.’

  ‘Hmm. And your name is?’

  ‘Tito Ihaka.’

  ‘Bear with me for two ticks.’ The receptionist tapped her keyboard to access the Special One’s diary and confirm what she already knew: Mr Murray hadn’t taken leave of his senses. ‘Did you have an appointment?’ It wasn’t a sentence as such, more like five stand-alone words. The laborious emphasis conveyed a message: ‘It’s not too late. If you walk away now, you can avoid humiliation.’

  ‘No.’

  Still looking down at the screen with a tight, fake smile, the receptionist permitted herself a fractional shake of the head. The only thing missing was a thought bubble: what planet is this simpleton on? ‘Well, I’m afraid, Mr . . . Sorry, what was the name again?’

  All good things must come to an end. ‘Ihaka. Detective Sergeant, Auckland Central. I’m not here to beg for a job picking rat shit out of the muffin mixture, I’m investigating an assault that left a woman in a coma. So why don’t you pick up the phone and tell the Muffin Man I’m coming, ready or not?’

  Two minutes later, the Muffin Man was escorting Ihaka into his office. Murray was shorter, greyer and rougher around the edges than he looked on TV. His body shape suggested a weakness for his product, unlikely as that seemed. His accent was as intact as Finbar McGrail’s. He indicated the newspaper on the coffee table. ‘I couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw it. A few days ago she was sitting right where you are, full of vim and vigour.’ After a decent interval — three seconds — solemnity gave way to resolution. ‘I’ll tell you this, Sergeant, if there’s one thing I intend to achieve in politics, it’s giving the police the resources they need to stamp out this epidemic of violent crime.’

  Ihaka glanced at his watch. ‘What did Miriam want?’

  Murray smiled crookedly. ‘You’d prefer I didn’t practice my stump speech on you, eh Sergeant? Can’t say I blame you. She wanted chapter and verse on my union firebrand phase, particularly my involvement with the WVP. You know what I’m referring to? Because I have zero interest in revisiting that period of my life, I wasn’t able to oblige and we didn’t part bosom buddies. In case you think I was being precious, let me give you some context. Three years ago a reporter from the Herald phoned up wanting to do a feature on me. She pitched it as a feel-good, rags-to-riches story: Glaswegian tearaway leaves school at fourteen, arrives here with five quid in his pocket, builds a multi-million-dollar business from scratch. I thought it’d be good publicity, free advertising if you like. And I’m not going to lie: my ego was all for it. I felt I was overdue some recognition. You pick up the paper week after week and see people you know for a fact are thieves and charlatans written up like they’re Warren Buffett, and you think, what the hell am I doing here? Running a greasy spoon? So I agreed to do it.

  ‘My youthful dalliance with communism came up, almost by the by. I said I didn’t want to go there, I was a different person back then, the product of socio-economic circumstances most Kiwis simply couldn’t imagine, and it wasn’t relevant to the theme of creating something from nothing. The reporter gave every appearance of seeing where I was coming from, then went away and wrote a piece basically saying, isn’t it ironic that the poster boy for self-made capitalist pigs used to be a card-carrying commie? They even managed to dredge up a photo of me giving the clenched-fist salute at some rally. That article caused me no end of grief. I had customers cancelling orders; guys I played golf with suddenly deciding they’d really rather not be seen on the same fairway; even people I thought were mates carrying on like I’d conned them, as if having me round for a barbecue entitled them to full disclosure. In my book a fool is someone who doesn’t learn from bitter experience. Well, that experience taught me there’s absolutely no percentage in raking over those coals, and that goes double now I’m in politics.’

  ‘W
hy were you kicked out of the WVP?’

  Murray sighed. ‘Really? It’s ancient history.’

  ‘Just as a matter of interest.’

  ‘All right, but it’s not much of a story. Like most hard-left groups, the WVP — i.e. Willie Smaile — expected its members to tick all the boxes, ideologically speaking. I struggled with the unquestioning acceptance of dogma; the lack of meaningful discussion, let alone debate; the insistence that, when it came to having a view on world affairs, I had to follow the lead of a bunch of old men in Moscow. With the benefit of hindsight, I’d already set out on the journey that brought me here. I didn’t mind a drink in those days and got plastered the night before the Day of International Solidarity with the Working Class — May Day to you and me. It was a big day in the WVP calendar, standing shoulder to shoulder with comrades around the world and all that bollocks. Anyway, I forgot to set the alarm and woke up around lunchtime to the sound of Smaile’s goons hammering on the door. I was carpeted, denounced and warned as to my future conduct.

  ‘A couple of weeks later, I was well and truly in vino and overdid the veritas. I thought I was in safe company but Smaile had eyes and ears everywhere. There were these ghost party members — only Smaile knew they belonged to the WVP — whose job was to keep tabs on what the rest of us were saying and doing behind the great leader’s back. I got another tongue-lashing. Smaile accused me of being a counter-revolutionary snake in the grass and cast me into the outer darkness, although not before the goons gave me the worst working over of my life. That tin-pot tyrant did me a huge favour, and I’ve never thanked him for it.’

  As he showed Ihaka out, Murray said, ‘I knew an Ihaka in those days.’

  ‘So did I,’ said Ihaka.

  As he walked to his car, Ihaka got a call from Detective Constable Joel Pringle. ‘Sarge, I just talked to that registrar we saw up at the hospital. Ms Lovell’s condition has deteriorated. They’re getting worried that she’s not going to make it.’

  Seventeen

  For someone who didn’t believe in private property, Willie Smaile occupied an enviable chunk of real estate: a secluded, architect-designed two-storey house in Browns Bay with sweeping views of the Hauraki Gulf.

  A variable wind ruffled the screen of trees and skimmed the sea; rain flurries alternated with pale yellow sunbursts. Within this swirl of colour and energy, Smaile was a still life in grey — hair, eyes, skin, clothes, shoes. He observed Ihaka with blank detachment, like a morgue attendant checking in the latest John Doe.

  Smaile’s wife, a tiny Vietnamese, brought green tea, then departed without acknowledging their visitor or, indeed, appearing to notice they had one.

  When he’d rung Smaile beforehand, Ihaka had mentioned the family connection in the hope it would speed things up a bit. Now, in a voice so breathy it was almost a hiss, Smaile said, ‘So you’re his son?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘I seem to remember he saddled you with an odd name.’

  ‘Tito.’

  Smaile bared surprisingly white, well-maintained teeth. ‘Tito. How could I forget? Tell me, how does it feel to be named after a Croatian pimp?’

  ‘I can’t say I’ve ever thought of it that way.’

  ‘I pointed out to him that he’d named you after a degenerate class traitor who loved nothing more than hosting Hollywood movie stars on his private island.’

  ‘I’m sure he was crushed.’

  ‘Actually, he reminded me that Brezhnev’s daughter was a corrupt drunk. Do you know who I’m referring to?’

  ‘Brezhnev was the Russian leader, wasn’t he?’

  ‘Except it wasn’t Russia then, but geopolitics clearly isn’t your strong suit. Your father might’ve been a dilettante, but at least he was a self-educated one. Probably the only thing we had in common was an abhorrence of wilful ignorance.’

  ‘Go fuck yourself.’

  ‘That was uncalled for: I took it for granted you’d inherited his vulgarity, if nothing else. Now if you’re expecting sentimentality, you’re going to be disappointed. Not speaking ill of the dead is a bourgeois concept.’

  ‘A bit like this place?’

  ‘Come on, Sergeant, you can do better than that. If we weren’t living under a system that creates and institutionalises economic inequality, I’d be more than happy in a house that was no better or worse than anyone else’s. As I was saying: your father called himself an anarcho-syndicalist, although he hadn’t read Proudhon or Bakunin. In practice, his half-baked ideas amounted to nothing more than obstructionism and mischief-making. To put it bluntly: he was an enemy of the people.’

  ‘Listen, I could spend all day talking about anarcho whatever the fuck, but duty calls and all that. What contact did you have with Miriam Lovell?’

  ‘I spoke to her just long enough to tell her I wouldn’t speak to her. It was a two-minute conversation, if that.’

  ‘Why wouldn’t you speak to her?’

  Smaile held Ihaka’s stare. ‘Reframe the question: why wouldn’t I validate her falsifications? Because I’m not a fool.’

  ‘So how come you put out the welcome mat for Ethan Stern?’

  ‘That’s a reasonable question,’ said Smaile, nodding slowly. ‘First of all, Stern’s credentials, while not impeccable, were sound. He’d been active in Marxist and student radical circles in the US. It didn’t take me long to realise that, notwithstanding his background, Stern wasn’t and never would be one of us but, as you’d expect of an academic, he was strong on the theoretical side. He also had an insight into the American political system and power structure which I lacked and was keen to acquire. I couldn’t fault my comrades’ commitment and resolve, but they were working people in the main which of course meant they’d been denied a decent education. They were unworldly if you like, and dialectical materialism was, frankly, over their heads.’ He paused. ‘You don’t have any idea what I’m talking about, do you?’ Ihaka gave no indication he’d heard the question. ‘Ask a silly question, eh? Anyway, the long and short of it was that Stern was one of the few people I could have those discussions with. It was as close as I got to self-indulgence.’

  ‘But then he was killed?’

  ‘Indeed he was. While jogging — another bourgeois concept.’

  ‘And before his corpse was cold you were trying to get your hands on his diaries.’

  ‘What’s the basis for that statement?’

  ‘His widow.’

  Smaile’s superiority complex went on the blink. ‘You’ve spoken to her?’ Ihaka nodded. ‘Well, well, you are casting the net wide.’

  Ihaka shrugged. ‘Just retracing Ms Lovell’s steps. Standard procedure.’

  ‘Stern was granted unique access on the basis of his political pedigree and involvement with like-minded groups elsewhere, but I wouldn’t have contemplated it for one second if I’d thought there was any chance of his notes falling into the hands of our adversaries or the state. I was determined not to let that happen.’

  ‘So when the widow wouldn’t play ball, you sent one of your boys around pretending to be a post-grad student?’

  Smaile leaned back, closing his eyes. ‘Did I?’

  ‘That didn’t work either. Someone got hold of the diaries, though. Miriam found the cartons they were in, but someone had got there before her. Does that worry you?’

  Smaile’s shoulders shook with silent laughter. ‘Oh, we got there before her all right — twenty-seven years before her.’ He bared his teeth again as he watched Ihaka work it out.

  ‘A colleague of Stern’s, some woman, I forget her name, volunteered to take his stuff into the department. It was her, right?’

  ‘Julia Prince. She was a sympathiser. We sought her assistance and she obliged.’

  ‘So what happened to the diaries?’

  Smaile raised a thin, fluttering hand. ‘Gone. Vanished into the ether.
I burned them.’

  Ihaka stood up. ‘We’ll leave it there for now. I don’t want to overtax you, Willie — you’re looking a bit grey around the gills.’

  ‘The expression is “green around the gills”. And if I was you, Sergeant, I’d look out for myself. Who knows? Given your genes, it’s not beyond the bounds of possibility that I’ll outlive you.’

  It was dark when Ihaka, without prior warning, rang Johnny Barton’s doorbell. Barton said he had company, so if Ihaka wouldn’t mind coming back some other time . . .

  Ihaka grunted derisively. ‘What do you think I am, a fucking Mormon? It’ll only take a few minutes.’

  ‘But we’re right in the middle of dinner.’

  ‘You can always bung it in the microwave. Works for me.’

  Barton stood his ground. ‘This is completely unacceptable. You turn up unannounced at this time of night and expect me to drop everything —.’

  ‘I thought I’d made myself pretty clear,’ said Ihaka. ‘This time around we’re not playing by Barton rules, we’re playing by my rules. You either talk to me here and now or you’re going downtown. Your call.’

  Barton was still grumbling as he led Ihaka into his study. ‘Put a fucking sock in it,’ snapped Ihaka. ‘If you’d told the truth last time, I wouldn’t be here.’

  ‘What on earth are you talking about?’

  ‘You told me your parents knew before the party that you were poking Tina Best and put the kibosh on the upstairs rendezvous, right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Your mother says that’s bullshit. She says she only spent a few minutes discussing her new curtains with Tina. She says she and your old man didn’t find out about you and Tina till the next day.’

  Barton’s face froze. ‘My mother told you that?’