Starlight Peninsula (26 page)

Simon twitched his shoulders. ‘Christ. Half a woman?’

Eloise drew in a breath, and tried to speak on the exhalation. Breathe Eloise!

‘Arthur’s file is gone. Someone has taken it. It means something.’

‘Means what? That you got drunk and dropped it down the back of the couch.’ His tone was harsh.

‘No. Someone’s taken it. It means it matters, Simon. It
matters
.’

‘Nothing matters except I’m going to be seen out here with you and people are going to talk.’

‘Someone wanted that file.’

‘I’ve had enough. I need to go.’

‘Simon. I’ve realised something.’

He had his hand on the door handle. He looked at her.

‘Someone took our coffee cups.’

Silence. He glanced over at the security guard.

‘There was a pair of blue coffee cups at the flat. I bought them, they were special. His and hers. They were gone after Arthur died and I never saw them again. Someone must have taken them. I could be mistaken, but since the file’s gone too …’

His face was screwed up with weariness, irritation. He licked his dry lips. ‘Coffee cups? But what does that mean?’

‘It means someone visited Arthur that morning, and then took the cups. I feel sure of it. And there’s something else.’

He waited.

‘It was a man.’

He let out a strangled little laugh. ‘Sherlock Holmes. How do you know that?’

‘I know. Somehow. It’s not mystical. Nothing supernatural. It’s to do with the subconscious. Information came to me, and I’ve only processed it recently.’

His face was hard, his eyes held a glint of mockery. ‘Did you have a séance?’

‘I think it was a smell.’

‘Oh. Are you a dog?’

‘Yes. I’m a dog. We’re all dogs.’

Another silence, after which he delicately rubbed his forehead and repeated, ‘We’re all dogs.’

She was angry, stung by his tone, but she was too tired to rouse herself more than to say, ‘That morning, I arrived at the flat very soon after Arthur died. It was sheer bad luck I didn’t turn up earlier.’

‘I see.’

‘I’ve never told anyone this: I changed my booking. I caught an earlier flight from Sydney without telling Arthur. I’d been nagging him about having too many projects. We’d argued about him using personal stuff in his writing. I felt he was up to something, that he’d started hiding things from me. I thought he might be seeing someone else. I was suspicious, and when I landed in Auckland I didn’t text or ring him, I just got in the cab. I sensed a stranger had been in the flat. But I didn’t tell the police because I didn’t know then that I’d sensed it.’

‘But you could “smell” it was a man? Or, you couldn’t then, but you know now.’

‘Yes, there was a smell. My theory is: aftershave.’

Simon looked at her.

‘Arthur never wore it. Perfume gave him asthma.’

She leaned forward and put her head in her hands. ‘A person visited Arthur the morning he died. The person was a man. He took our special blue cups.’ She looked sideways. ‘A layer of the world was hidden from me —
those facts
were hidden from me. Now, someone’s taken Arthur’s file.’

Simon sat in silence, not moving. A sudden gust of wind smacked the side of the car; paper rubbish blew up over the asphalt and whirled
around in the air. In the neon light of the lobby, the security guard slowly paced from wall to wall.

Finally he looked at the back of his hands and said, ‘Have you related any of this speculation to your policewoman friend?’

‘No. I wanted to tell you first. I’m so tired and I don’t know who to trust. Will you help me, Simon?’

‘But how can I help you?’

‘Can you drive me back to the peninsula? I can’t get back there alone. You’re right, it’s terrible to drink and drive. I’ll end up killing someone. You’re a doctor. You know what’s right.’

He looked at his watch. ‘I need to get home.’

‘Your wife will be asleep. She won’t know the difference. You must stay the night at the hospital all the time. You could drive my car.’

He sat without speaking, deep in thought. After a while he rolled his shoulders, rubbed his neck and turned to her. His expression had changed; it was earnest, weary, troubled. He scratched the stubble on his chin and said,

‘Eloise, I’m going to be frank with you. Up until now I’ve been inclined to think you’re a bit nuts.’ He crinkled his eyes, put a hand on her arm. ‘I mean that in a caring way, as a friend, okay? Can I say we’re friends? Good. I’ve thought you were strung-out, full of grief, needing help for your mental state, all that. And that you were probably not seeing things clearly. But what you’ve been telling me tonight, and the last time we talked, is really making me wonder. I’m starting to think maybe you’re right to be worried. That you’re right to be worried about
trusting
people. I think you and I need to work this out before we go telling anybody about it. Including the police. I mean, think about it. We’re talking about matters that involve, although very indirectly, an ex-prime minister and a justice minister who used to be Minister of Police. These are powerful people, with powerful interests and a lot of reach. Let’s not forget Ed Miles used to
run
the police. And now
he’s justice, he’s got even more power. And worse, you’ve managed to mention Arthur’s calling Rotokauri to Kurt Hartmann, which just makes me shudder, frankly. That’s the craziest thing you’ve done — it’s the fucking
definition
, excuse my language, of playing with fire. Hartmann is a complete wild card. No one knows who he really is, or what he’s up to. And I’m sorry, but to me he’s not an internet freedom-fighter or any of that bullshit, he’s a pirate and a criminal, and he’s going to end up in a US supermax. I’m glad you’ve come to me, that you trust me. I’m honoured by your trust, even though you’re making me very worried. I want us to be friends, and I want to help. Okay?’

Eloise assented, with a watery sigh. Oh Arthur, the exquisite relief of not being alone.

At Simon’s instruction, she started the car and drove out of the hospital parking lot. In the street, under the flame trees, they got out. She stumbled on the grass verge and he guided her around the side of the car into the passenger seat. She felt how tall he was, how strong and competent his big hands.

High in the branches, the tui were puffing out their feathers, starting up their repetitive early morning dirge. Simon folded himself into the tiny car, and cranked back the seat.

He looked at her, his face waxy in the grey dawn light. There were shadows under his eyes; his expression was fixed, intent.

‘Tuis,’ he said. ‘What beautiful birds. I love their song, don’t you?’

‘Sure,’ she said. Her eyes were closed. They listened to the tuis’ morning song, five short piercing notes followed by three long liquid ones.

‘Buckle up, Eloise.’

He started the engine, and began driving the small car carefully towards the harbour. In the east the wind had ploughed a track across the clouds, like the swipe of an animal’s claw, and the city skyline was a honeycomb, shot through with liquid light. In the west, over the Starlight Peninsula, the night was still hanging on, inky black.

‘What’s all this?’ Simon was looking at the material strewn over Eloise’s kitchen table.

‘I’m researching mass hysteria. Roysmith’s doing a piece on it.’

He held up a page. ‘Outbreaks of mystery illness are more common than we think.’

Eloise shuffled the pages into a rough pile. ‘I’ve been reading about the Phantom Gasser of Illinois. People believed a man was spraying a poisonous mist into the bedrooms of teenage girls. In Washington in the 1950s, people who were worried about nuclear testing developed mass hysteria about cosmic rays. When groups of people are stressed out, they can catch psychosomatic illness from one another.’

‘Why choose that subject?’

Eloise, who, along with everyone else at Q, had received management’s slightly threatening plea for ‘discretion’ on the static shock issue, said, ‘Human interest, sort of thing.’

Simon went to the ranch slider. ‘Look at the sunrise.’

Beyond the dog park, the distant buildings were covered with a shawl of fire.

Eloise sighed. ‘No point going to bed now.’

Simon said, ‘Elke, our adopted daughter, never slept. When I was head of obstetrics at Auckland, I’d come home in the night and she’d be up. We spent a lot of night time together.’

‘How many children do you have?’

‘Two sons, two daughters.’

‘Lot of kids.’

‘One of my sons grew up elsewhere. William. He has a different family.’

‘Oh?’

‘Typical story. Nothing unusual.’

‘When Arthur rang you …’

‘He wanted to know about our daughter. That crossed a line. Journalists, writers of whatever kind, need to leave the children out of it.’

‘He believed in the ruthlessness of the artist.’

‘He wasn’t ruthless,’ Simon said.

Silence. They looked out at the sky, the clouds bleeding red light.

Eloise pointed, ‘Those shafts of light, Maori call them the ropes of Maui.’

Simon put his hand on the glass. ‘Politicians — now
they
can be ruthless.’

‘Tell me about Rotokauri.’

‘The place? It’s more than a big house; it’s a compound. The main house is called the Wedding Cake, on account of being big and white and three storeyed. There are smaller houses grouped around
it. That summer, Karen and I were there with the Hallwrights, Miles and his wife, and the Cahanes. A big staff. The help, plus security. Roza Hallwright spent a lot of time telling her kid
Soon and Starfish
stories, which drove me up the wall. Who knew she was creating herself an empire. They’ve made more money out of the
Soon
franchise than David’s made in business.’

‘They had a housekeeper, a Chinese woman.’

‘Yes, they did have a rather formidable Chinese housekeeper, although she left at some point. And a beautiful Niuean nanny. Roza disliked her.’

‘Why?’

‘She was lovely, kind, religious, and Roza’s son loved her. Roza was jealous.’

‘So, a ruthless group?’

‘Well Miles is, obviously. Hallwright was so popular, he could afford to do a lot of smiling, and let Miles and Cahane be the assassins.’

‘So there you were on holiday, and Arthur rang you. On your cell phone? How did he get your number?’

‘No idea. Any number of ways he could have got it, through my office maybe. I was still going into work during the holiday; I had to be on call for patients.’

‘Arthur had the housekeeper’s cell phone number. It was in his notes.’

Simon gave her a forbearing look, as though he’d just swallowed something unpleasant. ‘Did he. How enterprising.’

‘He also wrote in his notes that Roza Hallwright used to be an alcoholic and drug user.’

A flash of irritation in his eyes. ‘How did he know that?’

‘So it’s true? There was a reference to an old friend of Roza’s, and a cell phone number.’

‘I told you. He crossed a line.’

‘It’s true he always went too far. But that was one of the reasons I loved him. He was daring and fun; he was into everything. Kind of unstoppable. If you’d met him, talked to him properly, you’d know he was a good person. He was humane, interested in people.’

Simon said, ‘Unstoppable. Really?’

He stood in front of the plate-glass window, looking out towards the city. The wind had died, and the sky was striped with long, delicate feathers of cloud. Over the dog park, a single star hung next to the thin curve of the moon, a ball of blackness edged with silver. The flax bushes and cabbage trees were motionless in the strange aquarium light.

He said, ‘You’re alone here.’

‘So?’

He came towards her. ‘Does it bother you?’

‘Yes, it bothers me. Especially now someone’s taken Arthur’s file.’

He sat down on the sofa, winced, drew something out from under himself and held it up.

‘Sorry. One of Silvio’s bones. Just chuck it on the floor.’

His voice was slow, intent. ‘There’s something, what’s the word, compelling, about talking. Remembering Rotokauri. I can see it must be a relief for people to go to a shrink.’

‘I recommend it,’ Eloise said. ‘My shrink’s great. I’ll give you her card if you like.’

Would you like a new patient, Klaudia? He’s a doctor. I may be slightly in love with him.

‘No, thanks.’ He rubbed his stubbly chin. A long pause. ‘I’ve never told anyone about what it was like, those times when we were living right up against the Hallwrights. The pressure, the tightrope we had to walk. There was tension between Roza and my wife about our daughter. Hallwright’s court was a minefield; Miles and Cahane were fighting for favour the whole time; Hallwright was playing them off against each other. Miles is such a mindreader he’s practically clairvoyant. He finds
people’s weak spot and homes in. Cahane’s an arrogant, smooth bastard, with a very scary wife. Roza’s complex and a handful, and David, well, he’s a phenomenon.’

‘Are you still Hallwright’s best friend?’

‘I’d like to think so.’

‘Do you visit them in France?’

‘Sure. All the time.’

‘St Tropez or whatever?’

Simon’s smile was genuine, full of pleasure. ‘Actually, they have a fuck-off big mansion on the Corniche, just outside Monte Carlo.’

She smiled back. ‘Do they now. Fancy.’

‘Yeah. Makes Rotokauri look a bit rustic.’

‘I’m sure.’

‘At Rotokauri back then, I was totally out of my depth, but I had this position, it kept me above the fray. It’s still the most surprising thing that’s ever happened to me: David chose me. He just decided — I was not only his friend, I was his “best friend”. There I was every morning, having breakfast with the prime minister. No one else was allowed to join us, not even Miles. I felt … it’s hard to describe. I have to admit, I was thrilled.’

‘So he appointed you. You didn’t have to earn it.’

Simon’s smile vanished. ‘I did actually. I very much felt I earned it.’

‘Were you the greasiest courtier, the biggest fan?’

‘No. The opposite. I was the one who never grovelled. I treated him as an equal. Only Roza and I managed that. Everyone else was star-struck, insincere, tip-toeing around him. I was straight with him. If he tried any tricks, I ignored him until he came round.’

‘Tricks?’

‘He had power moves. He used to freeze people out, isolate them, things like that. Play on their nerves. Divide and rule. I never responded. I had a father who used similar tactics, used to play power games with
me and my brother. I was ready for that kind of bullshit.’

‘So you were the tough guy.’

‘I had to be. I needed to look after my family, my kids. I had to keep my practice going. My patients were depending on me. It was up to me to keep it together.’

‘Sounds like a stressful holiday.’

‘It had its moments,’ Simon said.

Beyond the glass the sky was mottled, red and black.

Eloise said, ‘You managed. And now life is less fraught.’

‘It has been. I find
you
rather stressful.’

‘Who is Mereana Kostas?’

‘I have no idea.’

‘Did Arthur talk about her on the phone?’

‘No.’

‘The detective said someone told her Mereana Kostas left the country years ago. But
she
thinks Mereana’s dead. She said it’s hard to disappear unless you have resources, and ordinary people who vanish are usually dead.’

‘No doubt.’

‘Who do you think took Arthur’s file?’

‘Well, Eloise, we don’t know who you’ve stirred up with your enquiries. You’ve talked to the police …’

‘The woman cop’s not interested. She told me, she’s overworked and it’s a dead file.’

‘And yet she may have a passing interest in what you turn up. Also, if she’s made any noise herself as a result of your visit, she could have alerted other people.’

‘Noise?’

Simon chewed his nails. ‘And there’s Jack Dance, threatened by Miles.’

‘I thought you didn’t follow politics.’

‘Everyone knows Miles and Dance are out to get each other. The question is are you safe because you’ve spoken to the police?’

‘Why would I not be safe?’

‘If you weren’t, you are now. That detective may not be interested at the moment, but she’s not stupid. She’s going to wake up smartly if you come to any harm.’

‘I thought you didn’t remember her.’

‘She’s come into focus, since you reminded me. Young. Crazy stack of blonde hair. Funny eyes.’

‘And who would harm me?’

‘I don’t know. I suppose I’m thinking of Hartmann. The
uber-criminal
.’

‘Hartmann wouldn’t hurt a fly.’

‘Oh sure, he’s been teaching you to feed chickens and play computer games. Actually, he’s a fugitive wanted by the United States. You seem extraordinarily naïve about him, if you don’t mind my saying.’

‘He’s fine. He’s a big softie. With his golf carts. His chickens.’

‘Think he roasts his chickens for dinner?’

‘No! They’re his Zen.’

‘His Zen. Christ. We all need some Zen.’ Simon sighed and lay back with his feet up on the arm rest, as if he’d forgotten himself for a moment.

Look, Klaudia. His stubble, his curly hair, his big, steady hands
.

‘What a sky,’ Simon said. ‘Red sky in the morning. I used to see in the dawn all the time with Elke. My little insomniac. She’d ask me strange questions. She said, Since you’re a doctor and you cut people open, would it be easy for you to kill someone? I told her, I
fix
people. When they’re hurt, I make them better. It was as if she were trying to work out what makes us human.’

‘I couldn’t be a doctor. I’m too squeamish.’

‘But when you know you’re doing good, fixing people, there’s no need for squeamishness. There’s great satisfaction.’

‘You can obviously stand the sight of blood.’

He said, ‘Yes, I’ve seen a lot of blood. I can stand it.’

‘The only dead person I’ve seen is Arthur.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘I can see him now. He had a triangle of broken skull sticking up out of his head. His lips were sort of pursed. His neck was bent right over. There was stuff coming out his ears. And he had deep purple shadows under his eyes.’

‘He would have fractured his skull, broken his neck.’

‘It’s terrible to think of, isn’t it. Dying on the concrete, alone.’

‘Yes, it’s terrible.’ Simon said. ‘But he wouldn’t have suffered, and no doctor could have helped him.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Because of that triangle of skull you describe, the angle of his neck and the fluid from his ears. An ambulance wouldn’t have saved him.’

‘Really? Are you sure?’

‘Yes, I’m sure. You have this idea you should ask questions. I think you feel a kind of guilt. But you shouldn’t torture yourself.’

‘I didn’t do enough.’

‘You couldn’t change anything. We all do our best. We do what we have to do.’

A tui started up in the flame tree by the stucco house. They listened.

Simon was lying on his back, his forearm over his face. After a long moment he said, ‘Want to know what I think?’

‘Sure.’

She waited.

He said, ‘You were angry with Arthur. He had this idea of being a “ruthless artist”. It meant he used things, private details, in his writing. You said he wrote caricatures of your mother. He used details from
your
life, too. Maybe he made light of stuff that was important, personal. And even though you understood the concept of the artist
using material without fear or favour, you still felt invaded and hurt by it. You argued with him, and he started being a bit evasive. He stopped telling you what he was up to. You worried he might be cheating on you, right?’

Eloise listened. His voice, and behind it the chorus of the tui in the flame tree.

‘You felt insecure, uncertain about him. So you booked an earlier flight back from Sydney, and when you’d landed at Auckland, you didn’t ring or text to say you were coming home early. You wanted to catch him out. But here’s what troubles you most: if you’d rung or texted him, he might not have died.’

Eloise’s throat closed over.

‘If you’d rung or texted him, you could have changed the course of events. But you didn’t, because you were angry, and you were checking up.’

She wanted to speak, but she went on listening.

He carried on, ‘You have to accept, what happened was not your fault. You did what you did partly because of
his
actions. You didn’t ring him from the airport because you didn’t trust him. You felt he’d somehow crossed a line, and you were trying to deal with that. You were acting in good faith. Events took a bad turn, outside your control.’

Simon lifted his arm from his eyes. His words had taken on a kind of rhythm. ‘Imagine if something different had happened. Say you’d arrived earlier at the flat, you were angry, the pair of you argued. You told him he’d invaded your privacy by writing about you, that he’d damaged trust by keeping things from you. Say your dispute took place on the road outside and you decided to storm off, and there was some kind of tussle and he tripped and fell against the fence; it gave way, and he went over the wall. It wouldn’t be your fault. It wasn’t
his
fault either, it was a combination of circumstances. He played a part in it as much as you. It could have been
you
who fell down the wall,
and in that case it wouldn’t have been his fault either. We’re all at the mercy of fate. The gods decide what’s going to happen.’