Darkness Looking Back, The (12 page)

Rees's voice startled his mind away from the door it was opening. 'I'm going for lunch. Want to come?'

Paynter was already nodding a yes, as Rees met Stirling's eye. At Stirling's hesitation, he looked hurt. Shrugging, he turned for the door, while Paynter gave Stirling a puzzled glance.

'What's up? Never known you to turn down a lunch.'

'Nothing.'

Stirling forced a smile and followed, not even trusting himself to find the right answer.

LENA HAD LEFT him at ten that morning, after Mandy rang. It felt like an omen to Paxton. He'd said something nasty, and Lena had snapped back at him. They spent a lot of their time scrapping these days, when they weren't lapsing into long silences. The honourable thing to do was walk away.
Walk away! Give her her life back
! But just as when he'd met her, he couldn't bring himself to do it.

None of them wore badges in the bar any more. It was actually Brent's idea. Too many people were coming in just to stare, making it really hard for Paxton to focus on his work. However, the ruse fooled no one. Paxton drew the line at putting on a Kiwi accent — he couldn't, anyway — and as soon as he opened his mouth, they knew at once who the English psychic was. At quarter to seven, Paxton saw Tanya enter the bar and head for the TV.

'Sorry Brent, but there's something on those murders tonight. That psychic woman's on again, James. I thought you might want to see it.'

Before Paxton could issue an emphatic denial, Tanya was gone again. Knowing her, the decision to change channels was nothing to do with satisfying Paxton's curiosity, and everything to do with keeping the customers drinking. Nothing gave the punters a thirst as much as tales of blood. Paxton tried to ignore it, but Mel waved him over to the TV. Eventually he gave in when people trickled in, watching him expectantly. He could feel the eyes of several tables flicking between him and the screen during the news. If he admitted it to himself, he too wanted to know.

Before
Cross
came on, Paxton caught a preview. The DJ's escape was the number-one item.

Burgess gave the rundown.

'Radio personality Curtis Webb is familiar to all New Zealanders from his days as a music presenter on C4 before he was involved in a bit of a drunken punch-up at Zanzibar. These days Curtis is a morning host at JaFM, the Auckland pop-rock station, along with his late colleague Alicia Schofield, and when the police called round on routine inquiries, he'd disappeared from the studio . . .' Burgess inclined his head noncommittally. 'Where is Curtis Webb? Following those infamous drug-fuelled brawling incidents, Mr Webb has made no secret of his contempt for the police . . . Although police say Mr Webb is not a suspect at this stage, members of the public are invited to call the Auckland Central police if they see any sign of the DJ.'

Paxton found himself wishing he could get hold of the man first, and know for certain. Not to mention
that
bitch.

Cristiana Austin's face was back on the screen, professional and friendly as usual. She'd had a three-page spread in the woman's magazine she was hired by, and seemed to be an almost permanent addition to the Burgess show. She was telling Burgess's fortune. The man was obviously sceptical, but you could tell he was flattered. Of course, anyone who didn't know every detail of Burgess's life story had to be living in another country. Paxton found himself hating her, filled with an irrational distrust that only increased when they got on to the subject of the murders. To Burgess's obvious disappointment, Cristiana didn't believe either of the two suspects had done it — she stuck by 'George' or 'Jordan' — so Burgess asked her what she thought of Paxton, and why he might have been thrown off the case.

Cristiana sucked in a breath. 'I hate to put someone down just because I don't know them, but the fact is, I
don't
know James Paxton. I've never heard of him, and neither has anyone I've spoken to, either in New Zealand or in the UK, where I've got many friends in the Institute of Spiritualist Mediums. I think that says a lot.'

'All it says is I don't want to be a member of your stuck-up, poncy little club,' Paxton spat at the screen.

'You think he's a fraud.'

'Oh, I wouldn't want to say
that
, Simon. But if someone's not with an established organisation, you have to ask yourself why. Be very, very cautious, that's all I can say.'

'Speaking of someone with important credentials, you're related to the novelist Jane Austen, aren't you?'

Cristiana smiled. 'Distantly, yes. Of course spelling wasn't too standardised back in those days. And I do feel a really close connection with her books. I loved
Pride and Prejudice
when it was on TV.'

Paxton gave an incredulous snort. 'Yeah, okay, then I'm related to the Pastons,' he said to Mel, who was watching beside him. 'They documented half of medieval history, and
I
come from a medieval town. And I did like history at school . . .'

'What a bitch! She was totally slamming you. You should go on the show and get back at her.'

'No thanks.'

Cristiana finished by adding that two more people were going to die before the killer was caught.

'Had enough of the High Priestess of Doom for one evening?' Paxton flipped the channel back to sport.

'Oi! What are you doing?'

Paxton turned to see Tanya in the opening between the bar and the restaurant. 'The programme was finished. I didn't think there was any reason to keep it on this channel.'

'Well just ask me before you do anything like that again, will you? People were still watching.'

Paxton went closer towards her, trying to keep his voice low despite his irritation. 'What's with making me a tourist attraction? I thought you were on my side — you got rid of the reporters.'

'Oh, don't be silly. I am on your side. But the reporters were one thing, and this is another. They were blocking customers and they weren't buying anything. But let's face it, numbers have been up ever since people found out you were involved in all this stuff. And so have the profits, for that matter. Of course I'm on your side. You're one of our biggest assets. What's the harm in trying to cash in, if they're going to be that stupid?'

'How about my feelings? I don't particularly like being stared at and whispered about. Would you?'

'You're a celebrity!'

'I'm reliving my damn adolescence. It's
not nice
. Please don't do it any more.'

'I thought you'd be happy to get the publicity,' she said stiffly. 'I even sent a few reporters your way when they called.'

'That was you!'

'What's the big problem? I'm drumming up clients for you.'

'I don't give readings, Tanya. And it's ruining my girlfriend's life.'

'Well, if she can't handle being with you, she should just leave you then,' said Tanya with a shrug.

Paxton turned and walked back to the bar. Her voice followed him.

'Rule number one of hospitality, James. Give 'em what they want and they'll leave you alone.'

FRIDAY ENDED NOT with a bang, but a feeble bubbling sound. It was the sound of a group of detectives standing round the water cooler wondering what the hell else to do. Despite the patchy air-conditioning the temperature fell just below boiling at CIB, and it wasn't doing much for anyone's temper either. Kirkpatrick had requisitioned the one cool spot in the room, which was right under the air-conditioner. No one got too jealous, because they knew the spot would open up in a few minutes, when icicles starting forming in the senior's cup. The position wasn't so much cool as Siberia.

Stirling was spending his time talking with and second-guessing everyone else, and trying to avoid Rees's eye.

Rees was blithely chatting with Coleman, Paynter and a few of the others, apparently sharing more gossip.

'You all right?' Nielsen asked Stirling, passing by to fill a plastic cup from the cooler.

'Yeah. No. I've put on three kilos since this case started. Interviewing the café owner. I've been trying to put off going back there again.'

Nielsen looked around the crowded space, full of sullen expressions, blank stares and the odd detective rolling their sweating cup against their forehead to soak up the cold. 'Want to go for a coffee? Or an
iced
coffee. Somewhere else?'

Stirling shrugged. 'Sure, why not?'

Never take a secret to someone else's grave
. It was drummed into them all from day one. Failure to share your intuitions could mean that another person died. Maybe if he spoke them aloud, his thoughts would show themselves for the fragile little ghosts they were.

The café was less than a two-minute walk away but his shirt was sticking to his back by the time he sat down. His discomfort increased at the astute look in Nielsen's eyes.

'So, are you going to tell me what's on your mind?'

Stirling weighed it up for a while. 'Better out than in, I guess. I'm beginning to have doubts about the café owner. Not
this
café — I mean Arthur Wong, the one whose café all the victims went to.'

Nielsen looked thoughtful. 'It is a bit of a coincidence, isn't it?'

'He knows them all and he's so
interested
in being helpful, so chatty . . .'

'I see where you're going.'

'He sounds like a Kiwi over the phone too. Crazy thing is, I'd never have put him down as a murderer. He definitely ain't the Triad type. He bakes his own shortbread, for Christ's sake.'

'Well, homicidal maniacs don't always froth at the mouth, Andy.'

'You sound like Gardner.'

'Yeah, but in my case I'm not speaking from personal experience.'

Stirling laughed. 'I thought you were telling me to lay off him the other day.'

'Oh, I'm hot and cranky and I've used up all my goodwill for one season. I might not openly argue with the guy, but that doesn't mean I have to like him. What about the DJ? Bit suss, his running like that.'

'Definitely suss. He's hiding
something
. That's what's so wrong with this case. We're beating suspects off with a stick. I'm surprised the cat wasn't in on it.'

'Thanks.'

Nielsen's drink was being set down on the table. It was an iced chocolate in a sundae glass garnished with a chocolate fish and piles of whipped cream. Stirling looked back at his sparkling mineral water. It was already half gone.

'Sorry. Shouldn't be drinking this in front of you, should I?' said Nielsen, pulling off the fish's marshmallow tail with her teeth.

'That's all right. I've got gingerbread men waiting for me at home.'

'Some cops would get an unlisted number.' There was a twinkle in her eye. 'Hard men waiting for you at home . . .'

'Well done, Sarge. Well, it's scary the damage they can do to your body, even if they are only gingerbread.'

'Don't make them then.'

'I don't. It's Nicola — she knows I have a sweet tooth.'

'Your wife is a sweetie. I don't know how she puts up with you. If Brad wants me to do any baking, I give him ten bucks to go to the supermarket and buy a few packets.'

'And here I thought you were Superwoman, juggling the husband, the kids and the career.'

Nielsen burst out laughing.

'Well, just look at your kids! They're not normal.'

They were the most well-behaved children he'd ever met. The eldest was six and the youngest had just started daycare, and last time she'd brought them to work every damn crayon had been back in its box within half a minute of her saying 'Time to go'. Stirling had almost fallen off his chair when four-year-old Damian gravely looked up at the cop offering him a biscuit and said, 'Thank you very much. Would you like some?'

Stirling had been quietly shamed into greater politeness until the little freaks went home.

'They're good kids,' said Nielsen with a little smile.

Stirling knew damn well that Nielsen's nonchalance was just an act, to ft in. She may not have done the baking, but her kitchen would be as sterile as a forensics lab. Probably more so.

'I'm afraid to have kids,' he blurted out. He instantly wished the words back.

Nielsen was looking at him in surprise. Stirling shrugged awkwardly. 'Nics would be great at it, but . . .'

'You wouldn't need to worry about having any gingerbread men left over.'

Stirling didn't smile. 'I'm a bit — selfish, I guess. I mean, when Hiscocks was talking about his wife . . . How she was out at all hours, he didn't get to see her much . . .'

'Have you discussed this with Nicola?'

Stirling met her eyes and guiltily shook his head.

'Do you
want
kids?'

'Well, yeah. Although at times like these I do wonder.'

Nielsen nodded, and was silent for a while. 'The time I saw a boy who fell out of a first-floor window, I wouldn't even let the kids go up the stairs alone. Not for six months. And we have security bars on our windows.' She gave a rueful smile. 'Once you have kids, Andy, you'll find the job doesn't come first any more.'

The straw made a slurping noise as she reached the bottom of the glass. 'Better go back, I guess.'

She stood up, stretched and sighed. 'Well, run it past Graeme, but it couldn't hurt to go and check Arthur out again. As long as you don't eat anything while you're there.'

'Oh hell. He's been so nice to me.'

'How about you get Tony to go with you again? You can't buy him with pastries.'

She noted his unresponsiveness.

'What's up with you and Tony, anyway? You've been a bit funny lately.'

'Oh, just the weather, probably. No, I'll take Tony with me tomorrow. It's a good idea.'

Nielsen gave him a suspicious look, but didn't push it. They walked back to CIB in silence.

That's right, Andy. Nark on a harmless old man, but not on your best mate.
And he never would either. He'd be in his own grave first.

They both pricked up their ears at the sound of a siren. Stirling could retire today, and thirty years later his pulse would still rise at the sound of a police car. His anticipation built as he realised it was heading straight towards them. Then he saw it, roaring along Mayoral Drive. Changing left to avoid a slow-moving van, the car abruptly braked and slewed to a halt beside them. Rees was in the driver's seat.

'Quick! Get in!'

Stirling ran for the back door. 'What is it?'

'Curtis Webb. They've found him.'