‘How was he supposed to help?’
‘I thought some of those new dodgy pictures people can do, you know, digital alterations and shit. Something that’d show the prick in a bad light.’
****
Dench and Fowler met in an eastern suburban bar, the other side of town from the T & D offices. They both ordered steak, chips and double whiskies and headed for a dimly lit booth of dark brown wood and red cushioning that opened out to the service bar.
Television screens perched over the bar: one screen showed a soap opera with no sound, another a chunk of teletext stuck on racing cards and a third showed racing results. A race commentary droned quietly in the background and as they sat, a steady flow of coins hitting a metal tray were accompanied by anonymous whoops of delight.
‘No entrees?’ asked Fowler.
Dench’s wisps of white hair were in disarray at the whim of the Christchurch easterly. The thin lips on the wolf face slipped open. ‘You gannet. I’m watching my weight. Prefer the amber ahead of the grub.’
‘You’re joking. All of sixty-five kg? You’re in danger of being mistaken for a refugee.’
‘Seventy-six actually and don’t take bloody liberties. Anyway, since when’ve you been interested in my personal welfare? It’s Titman we’re here for, not a fuckin’ Weightwatchers meeting.’
Fowler smiled as he unscrewed the silver top on the salt shaker, caught a foul look from Dench and retightened it.
Dench looked around. ‘Our friend Mr Titty will develop a penchant for gambling and we’ll make him a star in child porn. Know the old saying, Freddie? What happens when you live by the sword? First, we need to get him one of these new internet service providers. You’re the expert in that field – why I hired you.’
‘Choice isn’t great, but it’s already attended to.’
‘You can use my printer but your new computer will be best to do the work on. It’ll be faster.’
‘Agreed. Wouldn’t dream of using yours.’
‘Good lad. I’ll be wiring funds to Switzerland, which in turn will funnel funds for you to a different account in the Caymans. There’ll be a trust where you’re a beneficiary. We need to get you a legitimate alternative identity with birth certificate, passport, all the crap. If it’s done right, the authorities won’t have a clue.’
Fowler had access to Dench’s only computer so he knew this was all bullshit. ‘Sounds great. How long will it all take?’
‘Most of it’s done. My identity specialists in Europe need to confirm a few things before we use the accounts.’
‘Identity specialists! Very impressive.’
‘In the meantime, treat yourself to some high-class hookers. Maybe some nights in the casino. But don’t go overboard attracting attention. We also need to keep making the monthly interest payments for a while, establish a good payment record before we go back to the broker and get more. I want to clean him out of all equity in the property before we start defaulting on payments.’
‘Good as done,’ Fowler said, shovelling a side of beef into his mouth. ‘But what about you?’
Dench winced at the gluttony. ‘Don’t worry about me.’
‘Titman’ll be shitting bricks when he finds out.’
A euphoric roar erupted near their booth and both men turned to see an unshaven guy, a red and black bush shirt over his jeans, wearing a beanie, fist pumping his tote tickets in the air. Next to him, a well-dressed man, tailored beige trousers, navy blue jacket, had succumbed to the weight of the world.
Dench said to Fowler, ‘See that loser with the bottom lip hanging like a limp dick? That’s how I want Thomas to look before he has a heart attack.’
Fowler smiled, almost in admiration. For a small man, his employer packed away unlimited hate.
Dench finished chewing a mouthful of steak. ‘Look, it could take a while to burn all that dough on porn. So make him one of those internet high rollers we hear about. Round out his addictive personality a bit. But whatever you do, you need to remain anonymous and keep my arse clean. When we default on the repayments, the bank will continue to send the statements to the post office box.’
‘And when the bank gets no response, they’ll send stuff to his house?’ queried Fowler.
‘Correct. They’ll threaten a mortgagee sale. I’d love to be a fly on his wall when that happens.’
‘Why do you despise these blokes so much? This is a lot more than tit for tat.’
‘Those pricks’d be nothing without me. I supplied all their business contacts. I built that company with my skills and know-how and they destroyed it with their pettiness and jealousy. Expensive loafers and free loaders. And then the low bastards shaft me? A man has to show some backbone, eh?’
Fowler mumbled his assent through a mouth full of food.
‘The good thing,’ Dench continued, ‘is that all the frivolous expense will be in Titman’s own name. He’ll claim to be the victim of fraud but he’s the only one who’ll have benefited. Besides, who’d be dumb enough to steal all that money and give it back to him?’ Dench grinned. ‘If he doesn’t drop dead with a heart attack, his bitch wife will have him committed to an institution with a bit of luck.’
‘You don’t think it’s a bit hard on her, his missus, I mean?’
Dench’s voice got louder and he thrust his chin forward. ‘She was the start of it. She knew those bastards were funnelling money out of my business in the first place. Wormed her way in using Titman to get rid of his secretary. Muggins here went along with it. She’s getting what she deserves and they deserve each another. You mess with Jack Dench at your peril.’
Fowler spoke through another mouthful. ‘And the fat prick?’
‘He’ll get his treatment in due course. When he sees Titman fall apart, that’ll be enough to make him fill his nappies. He’s so dependent on Titman, the worry’ll kill him. If not, he’ll be an even bigger psychological disaster than he is already. I have to tell ya, I don’t miss his unique stench around the office.’
Fowler raised his glass. ‘I’d drink to that.’
Chapter 15
When Donaldson answered the phone in his apartment with ‘Yeah’ Black immediately disconnected. He had what he wanted.
‘Bazza, I was talking to forensics. Henry Spiers fast-tracked Donaldson’s hairs and made a match,’ said Black.
‘That fat prick at Apsley’s place?’ replied Hart.
Barry Hart had been Black’s sidekick for three years. He had three chins and, at the behest of his wife, had made just as many attempts at dieting. He’d take to counting calorie points with religious zeal but he couldn’t go without his beloved steak pie and a pint. At the moment, with a police fitness test in the offing, he was back to the maths.
Black said, ‘Yeah. One chance in sixteen-million of it not being his. Fancy coming to put some heat on the guy?’
‘What do we like him for?’
Black rubbed his half-ear. ‘The PM’s pointing to self-harm but Donaldson’s covering something. Reckons he’s never been to the pervert’s house and denied receiving a kiddie porn email from him. He and Apsley are both reclusive types so I wanna know how his hair got there and find out what else he’s frightened of.’
The car park behind the Montreal Apartments had plenty of spaces. Donaldson’s Kingswood was still there. Black asked Hart to take the lift to Apartment 101 while he took the stairs. Both exits covered.
Outside the door Black knocked. No answer. Black looked at Hart, unconcerned. Black said, ‘He’s a big bastard, takes him a while to shuffle around.’
Donaldson eventually appeared and started to chuckle. ‘Detective Black, I must be popular. What can I do ya for?’
‘It’s Detective Sergeant Black actually and this is Detective Barry Hart. Can we come in?’
‘Sure. I’m havin’ a brown one for brekky. Can I get you blokes one?’
The two detectives looked at each other. Hart raised his fair eyebrows.
‘Kind offer, Mr Donaldson, but this is an official visit,’ replied Black. ‘Might have the beer later.’
Donaldson shrugged and let them through. The place smelt of stale beer and sweaty socks. Even the flies were having a hard time staying conscious.
Black sucked in a mouthful of stale air behind his hand. ‘You remember when we last spoke about the death of Neil Apsley, you gave me some hair samples?’
Derek tipped up his stubbie. ‘Yep.’
Black looked at his notebook. ‘According to my notes, Derek, you also indicated you didn’t even know where Apsley lived.’
As he said ‘No’, Donaldson gave a bear-like belch. The sound was like a bear roaring in a cave. ‘Still don’t, mattera fact.’
‘And you had no email reply or return phone call to your email to Apsley.’
‘Correct.’
‘Can you explain why the hair samples you gave me are an exact match with hairs found in Apsley’s bedroom?’
Another loud belch. This time Donaldson winced and rubbed his stomach. ‘No idea.’
‘Look Derek, there’s no point pissing us around...’
Agitated, Donaldson interrupted, ‘Hey, I’ve told you. It’s the bloody truth, I haven’t been in Apsley’s house.’
Black shook his head, disappointment on his face. ‘Let me tell you what we think, Derek. Apsley was known to us for involvement in child porn. We think the business you mentioned in your email to him involved child porn. We’ve seen his computer and we know he emailed you a sample. So we already know you’ve lied to us, okay?’
Donaldson shook his head. ‘Chances of me being involved in child porn are as good as me rootin’ the Queen.’
‘Well, tell us then. You can drop the crap about finance or marketing. What were you really doing with him?’
‘Confidential, can’t say. Nothin’ to do with child porn.’
‘It’s not confidential now he’s dead, is it?’ said Black. ‘You’re covering up something. We’re going to need to take your computer here and your computers at the office.’
‘You’re wastin’ your time, fellas. Sure, I’ve got a few blue attachments, but my guess is, no more than you guys.’
‘We reckon for your hairs to be in Apsley’s bedroom, you were assisting him in his autoeroticism,’ said Black.
‘Auto what?’
‘While you’re having sex, you turn off your supply of oxygen. It heightens orgasm. Or so I’m told,’ Hart added, shooting a glance at Black, who was suppressing a grin.
‘Getoutahere. You’re bullshittin’ me.’ Donaldson looked amazed. ‘Not my cuppa tea, fellas.’
‘There must be some reason your hair was found in his bedroom, Derek,’ said Black.
‘As I keep sayin’, I wasn’t there.’
‘Okay, what’s left, Derek? Gay sex. With Apsley.’ Black made it sound straightforward.
‘Fer Chrissakes, give me a break. I’m no fudge packer. Got me own arse problems to worry about without playing with some other bugger’s. Wanna’ave a look for yourselves?’ Donaldson made a show of undoing the worn belt on his shapeless trousers.
‘Look,’ said Black, ‘give us your bloody computer and we’ll go. We’ll get it forensically examined and if you’re clean on the child porn front, we’ll leave you alone.’
Donaldson screwed up his pudgy face. ‘You gotta warrant, DS Black? If you haven’t you can clear off now. I’m done talkin’ to you sick buggers. I’m just outa hospital, you know. I don’t need this bloody grief.’
‘You realise if you delete anything between now and when we come back with a warrant, we’ll know.’
‘I don’t need to. Now for Chrissakes, bugger off, will ya.’
****
An uninjured Simon Apsley and his wife Emma took a taxi to the Millennium Hotel, then attended an appointment with Toby Latham, of Latham & Longman Lawyers, to sign papers for the administration of the late Neil Apsley’s estate. Next came a hastily arranged private funeral service held later in the morning. Also there were the managers of The People, Rod Black and a smattering of St Peter’s School staff and board members, with whom Apsley had parted on good terms.
Su Lee sat on her own at the back of the funeral director’s chapel near Ben Tyler, who, like Black, was keen to see who had come along. After the usual platitudes, exaggerations of truth and downright lies about Apsley’s character, the curtain closed on the cardboard coffin chosen by Simon and Emma, and the mourners filed out.
Ben caught up with Su Lee just before she reached her car. He explained his former connection with Apsley and enquired about hers. ‘Mista Alpa good boss, very kind but very unhappy man. He hang himself, eh?’ She mirrored the journalist’s sympathetic tone.
As Ben continued to question her, she told the story of the photos and the rope. ‘Probry, how you say, wank off.’ She giggled with embarrassment. ‘I go now.’
As Su Lee drove away, Black approached Ben. ‘Get any sense out of her?’
‘Autoeroticism, not suicide. Frankly, you guys could’ve been more helpful and told us that yourselves instead of shrouding his death with mystery.’
Black shrugged. ‘Not our job. You going to run anything along those lines?’
‘Not my call but I can’t see any public interest angle. Autoeroticism doesn’t change the fact he’s dead, does it?’
Chapter 16
Mac was off to London that night. He was very familiar with the city. Privy Council eight times; five seeking leave to appeal criminal cases and three civil judgements. Successful in four appeals was as good a record as most. But this visit was different: the private investigator he and Sasha had hired had been arrested for burglary. Eric Chalk, Chalky, had come highly recommended. A former Scotland Yard man for over twenty-five years, he was very good at pushing his nose into others’ business when most others couldn’t. He’d seemed an ideal choice to track down any living relatives of Albert Fraser-Clark.
Eileen’s return to the UK with Michael was the logical place to start. With his skills, contacts and good working relationships with police, it had seemed unlikely to Mac that a savvy former DS of the Yard would get himself into a compromising situation. Business class didn’t change the drone of the jet engines but a soul-warming glass of Hawke’s Bay cabernet sauvignon helped to dull the noise pollution.
Mac knew there must be more to this arrest than met the eye. Why did Chalky believe that he was close to finding Michael? Why did he think that his arrest was intended to slow down their investigation?
Why did the police successfully oppose bail on a charge of burglary when the prisons were already creaking with overflow and when Chalky was obviously not a flight risk. The answers to all these questions were not, Chalky had said, to be discussed over the phone.
****
Sasha was in her soundproof room. That she played the drums would’ve been no surprise to anyone who knew she liked counting, but only Mac, Ben and the few musos she jammed with were aware of her hobby. Other than a sound system she could drum to, she had little else in the room apart from her kit and a second stool behind her for a water bottle.
Her mind replayed the last few days with Ben, and her avoidance behaviour. Yesterday, for instance. Breakfast hadn’t gone well. She and Ben had been quiet over their cereal, tea and toast. None of the usual banter about extortionate lawyers’ fees or unproductive journalists, or even conversation about the day ahead. Sasha had felt him glancing at her as she read the paper.
Taking the offensive she’d said, ‘Well, come on. Out with it.’ His reply had sounded sullen. ‘You didn't come to bed last night. Again.’
‘I worked on a file. You were asleep and I was restless. I didn’t want to wake you.’
‘I'd rather you tossed and turned in my bed than on my couch.’
There had been a pause, pregnant with tension. Then Ben had said, ‘It’s been nearly two weeks. A record for us. Not one we should be proud of, Sash.’
She knew he was ri
ght. The last time they’d had sex was a week before Niven. The burden, the responsibility, for making it right seemed to push down on her, an anvil on her head. The blame was hers. ‘You know I’m not…’ she stumbled, the words not coming. ‘When I’m stressed.’ She felt physically weak, emotionally feeble.
‘Maybe you should see someone – a professional – do something constructive about it.’
Last night he’d eaten at work, then gone to his place. Nothing in that except yesterday breakfast was the last time they spoke.
Now she faced her kit: ride cymbal, floor tom and tom elevated from the base drum to her right. On her left, the other elevated tom off her bass, the snare drum and the hi-hat cymbal. She’d grabbed Law Soc photos of Niven from the office, enlarged them and tacked them to the toms. She obliterated them with ease and speed. But she wasn’t taking the same satisfaction from the violence – the sicko was no longer worthy of her grief.
Larry Mullen Junior lifted her spirits as she drummed along to ‘With or Without You’. It was a relief to have a workout with no tears, to wipe away only perspiration and she’d eased back on the vodka.
Sasha showered, applied make-up and set about preparing a candle-lit dinner for two. She’d bought lamb shanks, Ben’s favourite and decorated the table with flowers. She’d told him seven and it was 6.59 PM when he pulled into her drive. She liked that about him.
He walked in with pinot noir and lilies, which he placed on the bench. She clearly wasn’t the only one feeling bad. As he turned to embrace her, Sasha held him tightly and he relented easily.
‘I’ve missed you,’ she said softly.
Later, when he climbed into bed, Sasha was facing him, naked and smiling.
‘You’re a lot happier tonight than you’ve been in a while,’ he said as he leant over to kiss her.
She placed a kiss on his neck and whispered, ‘You know what it’s like to file a story on a tight deadline?’ He nodded. ‘Well, it’s always good when I clear a few things away at work as well.’
‘You can always, you know, see someone when things get a bit overwhelming.’ Ben spoke tentatively.
‘A shrink?’