Best Served Cold Read online

  ‘Do what that head-shrinker says,’ Hart replied sardonically. ‘When you’re feeling low, reframe things.’

  Black chuckled. ‘Of course. I’m not a downtrodden cop who’s required to breathe toxic fuckin’ waste on both sides of the law. I’m in the bloody waste management business.’ He gave a decisive nod and spoke with false cheer. ‘Cheers, Bazza. Much more uplifting.’

  As Hart grinned, Black flopped back into his chair, his defeated tone returning. ‘What’ve you got on Donaldson?’

  Hart took out his notebook and handed Black a picture of three men. ‘Left to right, Trevor Thomas, Derek Donaldson, Jack Dench. Donaldson and Dench live on their own. Thomas, with his wife and adult daughter in Park Terrace. Known each other since the mid-fifties when they got together in business. Investments and insurance, mostly for the rural sector.’

  ‘These guys had a big bust-up, didn’t they?’

  ‘Yeah, that’s an old photo. Thomas and Donaldson split away after about twenty years and word is they’ve been taking pot shots at each other ever since.’

  Black, still studying the picture, said, ‘We know why?’

  ‘All sorts of shit, from allegations of rooting the other’s missus to stealing clients.’

  ‘Donaldson part of that?’

  Hart shook his head. ‘Word is he had the role of peacemaker. Tried and failed to get them to kiss and make up.’

  Black looked disappointed. ‘Nothing tying him to Apsley?’

  ‘Apsley lost some money with them. Probably too many years ago to get worked up about it now.’ Hart rubbed his cheek. ‘But there’s been a development in the Thomas and Donaldson business.’

  Black glared. ‘You want me to play twenty questions?’

  Hart flicked through pages in his notebook. ‘Nah mate, give me a sec, wanna get it right. Here.’ He stabbed a cigar finger at the page. ‘Some outfit in Sydney – Financial Recovery Limited. They’ve been advertising for disgruntled investors and their stories of losses with Dench, Thomas & Donaldson.’

  Black frowned. ‘You think Apsley was involved in that, peddling an old grudge? Unresolved hatred?’

  Hart shook his head, cheeks wobbling. ‘His computer should tell us.’

  ****

  While Derek Donaldson’s life was under scrutiny, the man himself had been in the city’s hospital. He’d failed to get his Holden Kingswood to start after work, had no money for a taxi and, as dusk approached, knew it was pointless calling for the car rescue service. Plenty of others in the queue ahead of him at that time of day. It all led to an unexpected and unwanted walk to his one-bedroom Montreal Street apartment after another unrewarding day at the office, including yet another sudden collapse of a chair. And when he’d arrived, the lift wasn’t working. He’d had chest pains throughout the day, something he attributed to reading about Albert Fraser-Clark’s posthumous pardon.

  Forty years ago, he’d been on that jury with Trevor Thomas and Jack Dench. It was an event that led to them forming their business together. Despite Trev’s assurances that there could be no repercussions for them, he’d felt guilty and unsettled. When he finally hauled his big frame up the stairs, it was all too much. He wasn’t a sook but pain in his chest was ten out of ten.

  The trip to the Christchurch Hospital Emergency Department was followed by Donaldson spending all of the next day ‘stabilising’ in a ward. He hadn’t had a heart attack but severe angina and responded when the ambos administered nitro-glycerine.

  A second admission within days of the first, but still no obvious damage to his heart. Stents were required in several occluded arteries. Donaldson was prepared for the lecture on diet and exercise and he got it.

  ‘Oh hell, Doc, it was bloody exercise that made my ticker play up in the first place. Never had this problem before.’ He shook his head solemnly and withheld what had really worried him.

  Avery Albertson stared at his patient. ‘Mr Donaldson, I’m sure that neither of us is a stupid man. You know as well as I do that it was a matter of time before you suffered these events. You currently weigh 191.5 kilograms. I don’t know about your lifestyle but the way you present, your gender and your age, are all things that made your angina inevitable. You could say you’re into your third life now.’

  The surgeon pushed on. ‘Frankly, if you want to get the benefit of the stents and live another ten years you’ll need to lose many kilograms of weight and change your lifestyle to keep that weight off. I’m not talking about diets. They don’t work. People lose weight and then gain it again because they don’t lock the benefits of different eating into their life and soon resume their former bad habits.’

  ‘I believe there’s an op you can have?’ asked Donaldson.

  ‘It’s what most people know as stomach stapling. They’re not yet available in the public health system. But if you’ve got ten to fifteen thousand dollars, it could be performed privately when you’re recovered. But you’d have to lose some weight before they’d operate.’

  Donaldson nodded and excused himself the silent pun – ‘Fat chance.’

  Albertson continued. ‘In the meantime we’ll arrange a visit from a dietician as part of your rehab and assess you for diabetes as well. Sadly, you’re a high risk for that. I’ll see you later this afternoon. We’ll soon have you feeling a lot better and you’ll be out of here before you know it.’

  ‘Thanks, Doc,’ replied Donaldson.

  At this point Thomas arrived and nodded his hello to the medical man.

  ‘You get on that bloody thing,’ said Donaldson, pointing to the scales by his bed.

  Thomas grinned and took up his mate’s challenge. ‘Ninety-six.’

  ‘Shit,’ said Donaldson.

  ‘That gives you some idea of the challenge ahead, Mr Donaldson.’ Albertson left the room.

  From admission to discharge, Thomas had been Donaldson’s constant companion. In fact, his only visitor, apart from the hospital social worker. An ex-wife of decades past wouldn’t have been the slightest bit interested and, like Thomas, Donaldson was an only child. Without children of his own, or nieces or nephews, he realised, as an aging man facing mortality, just how isolated he was. It was a matter never discussed between the two business partners, but Donaldson felt his only real mate appreciated what it was like for him as he lay in his hospital bed.

  ****

  His first day out of hospital and back in their office, Donaldson realised he didn’t know the result of the court case involving Trev’s daughter. A worried look on his face, he asked, ‘How did it go at court with that prick Fowler?’

  Thomas was slumped at his desk beneath fading rugby photos of himself and one in which a skimpily clad bunny girl was perched precariously on each of his thighs. A three-year-old Playboy calendar remained on one wall. ‘Don’t get me started. When did it become okay to put curry munchers on the bloody bench, Derk? I missed that little change in our judicial system. It’s a disgrace.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Bloody judge tossed the case out, didn’t he? Told that idiot prosecutor that no jury could convict. He let Fowler walk free. Jury didn’t even get to do their job. That bloody Stace woman did a real number on Christine.’

  ‘Chrissy okay, Trev?’

  For a few seconds, Thomas didn’t answer. ‘Where have I gone wrong, mate?’ he said.

  Donaldson looked confused. ‘Christ, you weren’t the bloody judge, Trev.’

  ‘Not talking about that. I’m talking about opening up our place to Christine after her separation, supporting her financially. Told her to stay away from that prick Fowler and then she’s at it behind my back.’

  Donaldson looked sympathetic. ‘She’s grown up, mate. Not that little girl in pig-tails anymore.’ Donaldson looked down at his worn shoes. ‘Least you’ve got a kid.’

  Thomas sighed. ‘Feels more like I’ve got someone who hates me. She always takes her mother’s side. Everything I say or do’s a bloody drama. I’m a prisoner in my own hom
e. If it wasn’t for you, mate, I dunno what I’d do.’

  ‘You and Michelle all right?’

  Thomas rolled his eyes. ‘Together those two are a force to be reckoned with. I’d like to say that with a smile.’

  ‘Won’t last, mate. Chrissy just needs a port in a storm. You reckon this Fowler bloke conned her?’

  ‘Too, too clever for her. She reckons he swiped the key to the house, got it copied, and then planted evidence to discredit her. I wouldn’t put it past him. And it didn’t help that bloody O’Leary let us down big time. He should have told Fowler he was filing an appeal. Instead, he did a runner with our ten grand. No one’s seen him since.’ Thomas grimaced in disgust. ‘Still, Fowler was shitting himself for a while, eh? That’s gotta be worth something.’

  ‘Too bloody right. Mouthing off about our business like that. Bastard had no right.’

   

  Chapter 11

  Fowler celebrated his courtroom triumph at an Italian restaurant in the centre of the city. When he staggered out of bed the following morning, the note he’d left on the kitchen bench of the old villa he rented with his partner looked untouched.

  Scratching his balls with one hand, he tugged on the fridge door with the other. ‘No decent food again. Jesus. Do I always have to do the shopping?’

  He spotted a can of beer. His new employer, Jack Dench, reckoned the best cure for a hangover was a hair of the dog. Sound theory. He downed several swallows that created immediate chemistry between the carbon dioxide and the malodorous toxic residue in his gut. He shuddered as he forced out the ensuing explosion.

  Fowler noted the time on one of his pre-paid mobile phones as he dialled a number: most bars in town had been open for thirty minutes. When he heard Dench answer, he said, ‘Back on track.’

  The response was curt. ‘I’ve read the paper. What about that smart-arse lawyer you got? She going to be a problem?’

  ‘Clear there. Reckons I had a narrow escape. She was asking how her fees were going to be paid. Real curious about how I was earning a crust.’

  ‘Hmm. Keep an eye on the nosy bitch,’ said Dench. ‘She might forget you after she’s been paid. Equally she might need dealing to. She say how much?’

  ‘Seven grand, but that includes the preliminary shit.’

  ‘Christ! Oh, shit, we’ll get it back soon enough. When can you go to work on the plan?’

  ‘I’ll get the licence ASAP. Then it’s off to the broker.’

  ‘Keep in touch.’

  Standing in front of the long wall mirror, Fowler applied some filler and concealer to his chin. Despite not being in court before, he’d had his share of trouble. The concealer helped to hide facial scars – some from scrapping, others from acne. He checked the alignment of the black moustache that would be part of his disguise and darkened his fair eyebrows. The hand-crafted hairnet over his strawberry blond hair already made him unrecognisable but the black wig was the coup de grace.

  He put on the pin-striped suit Dench had chosen for him, over a white shirt and navy blue tie. He went for black lace-up shoes. The wig and moustache already made him feel like a pimp. Grey slip-ons would have been too much.

  Fowler’s first stop was the Armagh Street post office. Although the sun was out, the cold easterly wind funnelled down the street and scythed through him. Fastening all the buttons of his suit coat, he hurried toward the entrance. No queue. Excellent. He hated aimless and uncontrollable waiting.

  He glanced at the attendant’s name tag and then, with a broad smile, told Melissa he wanted to open a post office box as soon as possible. He frowned when he took the blank form and asked her if he could share something in confidence.

  He leant across the counter and half whispered, ‘Computers make my dyslexia a lot easier. Spell check and all that. If I told you the details, Melissa, you could write them for me, yes? It’d save me the embarrassment of getting it all wrong.’

  Melissa blinked big brown eyes and quickly dismissed company policy. First hurdle overcome: no handwriting sample. Fowler told her that the name of his business was Thomas & Donaldson. He was one of two directors. Melissa needed the details of one.

  ‘Trevor Thomas. I’ll be the authorising signature.’ He’d practised it to perfection. The man himself wouldn’t be able to tell the difference. ‘Most people call me Trev, though.’

  She looked up at him and smiled. Fowler asked whether the invoice would be in the box at the end of the month.

  Melissa apologised and said advance payment was required as a precaution against the ‘fly-by-nighters’ they often got. Fowler forced a smile and paid cash. Second hurdle jumped: no evidence of electronic payments.

  He braced himself for the wind and hurried towards another office, this one in Latimer Square. A queue. Waiting in line, he forced a distraction on himself. He thought of Christine. She wasn’t preferred orgasm material but not a bad root as far as women went. But an attempted rape charge wasn’t on the agenda. The old bastard Thomas acted swiftly when Fowler let his guard down. He mentally kicked himself over his indiscreet comments about the man’s unsound investment decisions. What a backfire.

  Kidnapping Christine was the original plan: maximum psychological pain for the Thomas family. But Fowler’s dating history might have made him a suspect. Perhaps even Dench himself would have been suspected, given the bust-up of the old firm. But with no ransom demand, a series of alibis that couldn’t be broken and an unbreakable hiding place for Christine, the plot was fool proof. They wouldn’t have been discovered.

  Thomas’s vengeful strategy put that plan to bed. Fowler allowed himself a wry smile at the thought that the full course hadn’t been run. Was Titman, the creative name Dench had given his former partner, Trevor Ivan Thomas, a better or worse father than Fowler’s own? His old man, Harold Long, dead now, was a sad loser. A drinker and a bitter complainer. He saw those traits in Titman. The reward for his father living through the Depression and active war service was a personality change. He would have been twenty-seven when the war ended, young enough to start again after killing Japs in the Pacific, but he was damaged goods and the only skills he’d acquired from military service were either bullying people or killing them.

  Fowler, who took his mother’s maiden name after his father committed suicide by cop, grew up on a North Canterbury farm after a short stint at St Peter’s. Rural boys coped, adaptability in their blood. He couldn’t remember his mother and had no photos of either parent and only vague memories of Oxford Country School.

  Without thinking, he rubbed the scar on his left shoulder, a lightning injury. His old man found him lying wet and unconscious under a smouldering tree. He didn’t know the uncle, some big shot he met once around the time of the pervert problem, who’d never had much to do with his family.

  Fowler sensed his employer, Dench, wasn’t a lot different to Titman. He had the same deep-seated entitlement to rule the world, particularly when the piss had taken hold. Dench believed he deserved special treatment where normal rules of business and relationships didn’t apply. Perhaps that’s why Titman and Dench hated each other so much.

  Fowler rang him again.

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘You were right about these paper pushers. Useless. I queued up for at least half an hour and the best the dopey bastards can do is three days and a temporary licence on their system if I’m pulled over.’

  ‘You offer something for his favourite charity?’ asked Dench.

  ‘More success pushing shit uphill with a bit of string.’

  ‘Forget about it, Freddie. It’s not a big setback in the scheme of things. We’re not operating to an emergency timetable here. Titman’s time is near, and all good things come to those who wait.’

   

  Chapter 12

  It wasn’t long before Professor Pat Cadveron became known as Cadaverman among police. The forensic pathologist, one of two in the city, could see the joke. Short in stature and big on reputation, the
lean professor had a complexion the colour of uncooked pastry, much like his refrigerated charges. He prided himself on being right and didn’t enjoy beginning a phone call with an apology.

  ‘Sorry to have taken so long, Roderick. I was about to start and got called away on another PM. I didn’t pass the info on to my colleague as I understood the injuries were self-inflicted.’

  ‘Sort of hoping that’s still the case, to be honest,’ replied Black.

  ‘Okay. Sixty-nine-year-old man, death due to asphyxia resulting from the application of a ligature. No surprises, given how you found him. I’d estimate he died between midnight and 2 am. No other serious or notable physical injuries to his limbs or torso, nothing that might be construed as defence wounds. His organs were a different matter. Liver – moderate to high cirrhosis. The result of many years of regular consumption of alcohol. Blood alcohol count at 400 milligrams. May well have been higher earlier in the evening if he’d stopped at some decent time interval before death.’

  ‘So, no signs of foul play?’ asked Black. ‘He got pissed and buggered up his little act of autoeroticism?’

  ‘It seems that way. But there’s one thing that may not be accounted for yet.’

  Concern in Black’s tone, ‘Oh?’

  ‘I found what appeared to be a fine needle mark in his neck leading to a vein. More or less a straight line down from his left ear lobe where one finds a clear pulse. Almost hidden by the rope burn. I nearly missed it. The dissected tissue showed the vein beneath the skin had been punctured. But it’s possible there was something in the rope that could have caused this. A pin, for example, or even a very fine, sharp wire.’

  ‘Can you tell how old the puncture was?’ asked Black.

  ‘I reckon less than an hour before death. But in the box, I’d be more constrained. This sort of puncture, like a needle mark, becomes absorbed within a few days. I can only speculate on why it was there but I can say it’s an unusual place for an injection. Despite his alcoholism, it’s not as though his other veins weren’t functional for a legitimate purpose.’

  ‘Could he have had something to enhance the autoeroticism?’