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‘You sure the house wasn’t locked?’

  She nodded. ‘I put key in door, turn it and door not open. I lock door doing that. Had to unlock before open door.’

  Black asked the woman to show him where she’d been in the house and what she’d done. She’d done an impressive clean-up job. They finally arrived at Apsley’s room.

  ‘The door was closed?’ Black asked.

  She nodded and demonstrated how she’d tapped on the door and called. Inside the room, police had bagged up bedding and a rope and were leaving. Black confirmed they were done. ‘Show me where he was when you found him,’ he said to Sue Lee.

  She removed her shoes and knelt on the end of the bed, her back facing the head, her front facing an oak wardrobe with a full-length mirror in the door. Black noticed a set of scales on the floor nearby and a chart with date and weight recordings made in pencil.

  Su Lee leant cautiously over the end of the bed, indicating with one hand how the rope was around Apsley neck. ‘He held by rope like this. Uffer end of rope tied back there,’ she said, indicating the bed head. ‘And pitcha of men and boys.’ She pointed to a door behind Black. ‘He has many pitcha in there, his office.’

  ‘You ever see any boys in the house, stay here overnight, perhaps?’

  Su Lee shook her head.

  ‘You ever know of Mr Apsley having any visitors to the house? Anyone at all?’

  Another head shake. ‘I think he lonely man.’

  Black nodded. ‘And the pictures of the boys?’

  ‘Down there.’ She pointed to the floor. ‘Sorry for untying him. His eyes frighten me.’

  Black saw her out, after checking that they had her contact details.

  ‘Have a look at this, Blackie.’ Hart was in Apsley’s study, his eyes glued to a computer screen. He handed Black the printout of an email.

  Dear Simon

  I know ours has not been an easy relationship. While I blame myself in part for placing you in foster care after your mother died, I worked hard to find the right kind of home for you. At the time, I believed there was no other option. I simply wasn’t equipped to be the father you needed. Understanding all this, you have no idea how much it meant to me that you sought my contact ten years ago.

  But since then, it has been deeply distressing to have seen you only once in all that time, despite my repeated requests. Even with Dench & Co.’s financial blunders I can still afford a trip to Australia. My investment losses are little more than a minor set-back to the style of retirement I’d enjoy. And I wouldn’t be a drain on you. We could have our own space.

  Below the type were handwritten lines that Apsley had crossed out.

  If I just arrived on your doorstep, how hard could one week be? But no, your beloved did everything she could to prevent us reconnecting.

  You’ve been too soft, Simon. I know that’s not all your own fault. But you’ve made a rod for your own back. You left your first wife for this mad bitch and now she’s got her claws well and truly into your back and she ain’t letting go.

  Black frowned. ‘Any of this whining drivel actually sent?’

  ‘Not that I can see,’ said Hart.

  ‘This other stuff, here.’ Black stabbed a finger at the scrawl. ‘Notes of a phone call, you reckon?’

  Internet Nazis

  Alexander Trembole – admin manager

  Si attacked – coma – bitch nowhere

  Business partner Alaska

  Power of attorney.

  ‘Looks like it to me,’ Hart said. ‘But there’s no Trembole in his son’s business. There’s no PoA here or anywhere in the house that I can see. And I broke the sad news to his son who’s in Queensland and has never been to Alaska. I’d say a hoax call, a wind-up maybe, followed by cutting his phone. Someone wanted to cause our Mr Apsley some discomfort.’

  ‘Can’t imagine why,’ Black said, tone sardonic. He looked at the draft letter again. ‘You reckon he needed a bigger high, stuffed up his little act of autoeroticism?’

  ‘You know not to use big words like that on me, boss. The brass have told me I’m not a well-educated man.’

  ‘They might be educated, Bazza, but it’s an unsolved case whether that’s of any fuckin’ value to the force.’

  Hart grinned. ‘The coldest case’ He pointed at Apsley’s screen. ‘Have a look at this email.’

   

  Chapter 4

  Black folded his arms while Hart drove. He said, ‘If that bloody cleaner had intended to tidy up after a murder, she couldn’t have done a better job.’

  Hart smiled.

  ‘She’d even turned on the dishwasher. Christ knows what saliva and other evidence might have been left in there. We’ll have to check the bed cover and contents of the vacuum cleaner.’ He removed his glasses and huffed breath over the lenses. ‘You can manage the forensic examination of the computer.’ He glanced at Hart. ‘Where’s that smile now, Bazza?’

  Hart stared ahead. ‘Even if it looks like he fucked up his little sex act, the brass’ll still require some consideration of a staged killing. Maybe the parents of some paedophile victim conned Apsley into letting them in his house, killed him, then arranged the scene to look like autoeroticism.’ He paused. ‘I’ll do the computer if you check out that suspect list. Should be limited to about ten thousand suspects.’ He started to chortle.

  Black glared at him.

  They pulled the CIB car into the yard. Hart layered it on. ‘His employment dismissals had never become an issue for us – not a single complaint against the sick bastard from anyone.’

  ‘All right, all right. That’s enough.’ A hint of a smile tugged at Black’s mouth. ‘With everything else that’s going on it’s good we’re ninety per cent to a quick result. Bit of luck, the autopsy and final forensics will get us over the line.’

  ****

  At the day’s end, forensics told Black, weary from paper pushing, that two grey human hairs had been found in Apsley’s bedroom, one on top of the bed cover, the other by the bed head. Neither appeared to belong to the deceased. Apsley dyed his hair black. Though not conclusive in itself, the finding was an indication that someone else may have been present.

  Black also now had a printout of another email from Apsley’s computer. The message was from a Derek Donaldson of Thomas & Donaldson. According to the time on the computer, Apsley returned a porn image to Donaldson the same night he died.

  Gidday Neil

  Long time no speak. Couldn’t reach you on your mobile so left message. Trev & I have a bit of business for you if you’re interested. How bout we meet at that cafe in Oxford Tce we used to go to with TT to discuss – if it suits. Call me on 025 688302 ASAP or email back.

  Regards,

  Derek Donaldson

  What would Thomas & Donaldson want with Apsley or vice versa? A front for pornography? Financial? As a general manager? Apsley would’ve been paid a reasonable salary. But in this investment market?

  Black scored nothing from his phone call to The People. Apsley’s boss confirmed that it had been a hasty retirement, ‘for medical reasons’. Black pushed him to concede the dark cloud over the departure but the company knew nothing else.

  Apsley’s last will and testament, executed in 1989, recorded Simon Apsley as the only beneficiary of his father’s estate. Black sighed. In theory he could have arranged for a contract hit on his father but after the losses Apsley senior had sustained, Black thought it unlikely that a small inheritance would be a motive. But he would need to check out Derek Donaldson. If he could clear off the Donaldson email and get the patho’s report right, he could still laser this for the filing system. Plenty of other inquiries to consume police resources.

  He threw his head back against his worn chair. Scarcity of bloody resources was all he heard about these days. Meetings, such as they were, were all about efficiency of clearance. More and more conflict between penny-pinching acronym advocates and those responsible for arresting offenders. It wasn’t good eno
ugh only to have the detective mind-set.

  He had to be an accountant too and a bloody school teacher writing reports for the DCs. It slowed them up, but none of the brass could see it. Removing glasses, Black knuckled eye sockets. He’d get someone to dig into Donaldson’s past.

   

  Chapter 5

  Sebastian Peter Niven had been a Queen’s Counsel for five years, a High Court judge for five days. He’d overcome a reputation for successfully defending people who imported and dealt in illegal drugs. There was a posh Law Society function for him tonight.

  Sasha had been to this type of thing before – chandeliers, pristine white tablecloths, silver candelabra – and enjoyed herself. It had been at such another function, two years earlier, that Niven pawed her buttocks. ‘I do beg your pardon, Sasha, I tripped. Profound apologies.’

  Yeah, right. But it would be churlish not to go this time. Forgive and forget, move on. And if she was with Mac, Niven would stay away from her. He’d never have been her type. Not with the nicotine-stained fingers and the cream hair.

  The standing joke was that he needed no wig when he appeared in court, just a few curlers and a hair extension down the back. Well-connected outside the law, he looked after himself, except for the tombstone teeth that resembled an unkempt cemetery. When he smiled, he looked deranged. No one could understand why he didn’t do something about it.

  Since her lunchtime discussion with Mac, Sasha had found it difficult to focus on anything other than that old case her father had prosecuted. She couldn’t shrug off a recurring thought that she needed to do something. Your father had a reputation worth protecting.

  If anything, hearing more from Mac was the deciding factor in attending Justice Niven’s function.

  ****

  Mac the exception, she hadn’t enjoyed the evening. Sasha found it difficult to relax: people swapping old legal war stories, gossiping about bar relationships, tidbits of salacious scandal, vicious dressing downs by judiciary of young lawyers in packed courtrooms who’d come unprepared. There was a time when she’d have participated in these conversations, but not tonight.

  Mac fitted more pieces into the Fraser-Clark jigsaw: Albert’s quick temper; Mary’s feisty personality; evidence of assaults; a suspicious fire in the kitchen in which Michael believed his mother had tried to kill his father; Albert saying she was a crazy bitch; Mary leaving all her belongings and Michael behind. ‘What sank us,’ said Mac, frowning, ‘was that insurance policy Albert had taken out. ‘Fifty thousand quid, taken out only a short time before her death.’ His eyebrows took a ride up. ‘With Mary gone he was the sole beneficiary.’

  Sasha nodded her understanding.

  ‘Our case,’ continued Mac, ‘was that Albert tried to be cooperative, not misleading. We accepted there’d been normal marital disagreement but denied violence. We thought Mary, who was attractive and flirtatious, may have got herself into a situation that led to her disappearance and death at the hands of someone else.

  Signals misinterpreted, things getting out of hand – that sort of thing. That was a more credible scenario than Albert killing her.’

  Her own father on her mind, Sasha asked, ‘Did she have other family?’

  ‘A sister in Australia. Albert told us she’d been a prostitute in Kings Cross. We speculated Mary could have gone there, but the police checked every shipping manifest leaving Lyttelton and found nothing. And even though she didn’t have the means to fly they checked that as well.’ He shook his head. ‘Not conclusive, and we said so. The jury no doubt thought she hadn’t the ability to leave, legally or otherwise, but I wasn’t so sure. She was feisty and independent when she wasn’t morose.’

  ‘Did Albert give evidence?’

  ‘We wouldn’t let him. Well, we counselled him against it. John would have destroyed him in cross-examination. We said he could if he insisted, but he’d have to instruct us in writing to call him, understanding it was contrary to our advice. We told him the line we’d take in our closing and I put him through the mill as John would have. He might not have been the sharpest knife in the drawer but after an hour with me cross-examining him, he saw the danger he was in.’

  Other guests stopped by and chatted before Mac fixed his companion with a stern gaze. ‘What I want to know from you, Sasha Stace, is where you’ve got to on the matter we discussed over a month ago?’

  ‘What was that then?’ said Sasha, teasing.

  ‘C’mon, Sasha.’ Mac wasn’t playing. ‘We both know what I’m talking about.’ He paused and looked around him to see if anyone else was listening. ‘Taking silk, that’s what.’

  She sighed. ‘Honestly Mac, look at last year’s class. You think I’m in that league but…’

  ‘You don’t,’ he interrupted, annoyed.

  Sasha said, ‘Besides, how many women QCs are there? Sian Elias, Judith Ablett-Kerr – that’s about it.’

  ‘That’s not the point, Sash.’ He leant towards her. ‘You know I wouldn’t be encouraging you if you weren’t up to it. And I happen to know the Chief Justice has been keeping an eye on you and would concur with the Attorney-General’s recommendation. The Law Society and the Bar Association would all be happy. I think the timing…’

  ‘Is right. I know, Mac. You’ve said all this before.’

  ‘Well, my dear, make an old friend happy.’ He kissed her good night and left.

  ****

  In the bathroom, Sasha looked into the wide mirror framed by small light bulbs that seemed to lighten her blonde, shoulder-length hair. Despite being a few weeks over forty, she retained an athletic body, desired not only by her partner Ben, but by half the male colleagues in her profession and a small proportion of the female ones as well. Her height, a nudge over six feet, was another by-product of her father’s genes, as was her general muscle tone and physique.

  Though not a serious swimmer now, she still calculated time per stroke and time per length. No one would guess she’d had a baby at seventeen, and only Mac and Ben knew. She’d heard women say there wasn’t a day that went by when they didn’t think about the baby they gave away. Her mother wouldn’t have permitted that sentiment, those feelings, as she drove her down Adoption Road. Neither then nor now.

  ‘Sasha Stace QC,’ she said to the mirror.

  Exiting the bathroom, she was considering a quiet departure when the man of the moment arrived from nowhere, a glass of bubbles in each hand. She was sure he’d been eyeing her up, waiting for his moment.

  Shaking her head but forcing a smile that amplified the few lines around her brown eyes, she said, ‘Oh, not for me thanks, Judge.’

  ‘It’s Peter to you, especially tonight. And the night is young. We haven’t talked in ages. I thought we’d have had the chance during the Follett case but you passed it on.’

  His challenging tone seemed to be mixed with disappointment. ‘I’m sure it would have been fun crossing swords,’ she lied. ‘But conflict of interest for me in the end. Arose during briefing the plaintiff’s evidence.’

  ‘Too bad.’ He half smiled, one straight tooth on show.

  ‘Are you going to sit in Christchurch?’

  ‘It’s the establishment’s preference that I don’t. At least to start with. Auckland for three years and then we’ll see what happens from there.’

  Relieved, Sasha took a decent swig from the champagne he pushed her way.

  ****

  Sasha rolled onto her back, propped herself on an elbow and looked around. She wasn’t in her own bed and the green floral curtains weren’t familiar. The cream duvet on the other side had been thrown back. She blinked and took in a long rimu desk with a black television on top and a small fridge underneath. A hotel room.

  The voice came from behind her. ‘You were magnificent, Sasha.’ Justice Niven stood at the end of the bed. ‘A perfect end to a wonderful night.’ He gave his demented smile, all graves on display. He’d just showered and was naked, a beer barrel awning over his shrivelled penis.
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  Sasha turned to face him, angry eyes flashing. ‘What the hell are you talking about? What have you done?’

  ‘You don’t remember?’ His well-modulated voice was full of false incredulity.

  ‘I’d remember if I’d come voluntarily. How could you?’

  ‘I don’t know how often you came, but it was very good for me.’

  He moved to the bedside table and held up a condom containing his semen as if it were a trophy, then disappeared back into the en suite. Sasha looked under the bed covers. Naked. She jumped out, aware she had no hangover headache, and quickly wrapped herself in the fluffy white gown at the end of the bed. Christ, what have I done?

  He reappeared, still smiling. ‘You popped your head into my lap last night. At the table. Something about wanting to taste me.’ He smiled. ‘I suggested privacy. Out of deference to both our future careers of course, not just mine. Discretion and all that. You managed to get to the lift okay. Didn’t disgrace yourself at all.’

  Struggling to absorb the situation, Sasha said, ‘I need a shower.’

  ‘Of course. Be my guest. Look, I realise it was a one-night fling. I’m very flattered. But don’t misunderstand me when I say it might be best if, you know…’

  Sasha clutched the duvet but sat up straight. ‘You need have no fear on that score.’

  ‘Mum’s the word then,’ he said, making the finger over lips sign.

  Sasha glared, said nothing.

  ‘I’ll have gone by the time you get out,’ said the new High Court justice airily. ‘Got to catch a plane. But breakfast is coming.’

  He adjusted his tie in the bedroom mirror, stole a glance at Sasha standing behind him. Suit coat on, he turned to face her, puckered his lips and moved forward.

  She drew back.

  Message received. ‘Cheerio then, Sasha. See you in court, eh?’

  Sasha closed the bathroom door behind her and turned on the shower. She dry retched, nothing in her stomach. In the shower she examined herself – tender labia, but no bruises on her legs and inner thighs or on her wrists and arms. She could remember Mac left. Then it came to her: the champagne. A Mickey Finn. The only way he could get his rocks off.