Clouds of Witness

15

Clouds Of Witness

Jill’s Narrative

    In a sudden fit of masochism I had accepted Roger’s invitation to Sunday lunch up at his place. Barely had I agreed it would be nice to sit on the verandah with a drink than the phone rang. Unfortunately it wasn’t someone demanding his instant presence far, far away: he came back and reported glumly: “Margaret Prior. She and Derek are heading off to Malaysia and Thailand for his Foundation.”

    “Uh-huh. This is the nice Baptist wife of the bum-pincher you and the unlamented Banks both spotted with the bit of stuff at the Carter’s Bay pub, right? What’s he done now?”

    “Nothing!” he snapped, reddening. “I merely thought that possibly I should tell Mike Collingwood that Margaret apparently knew about both the affaire and the blackmail.”

    “You mean you should have told him about it a month back, like the rest of it. Cor, nearly a month already.”

    “No! I only realized just now, from—from something that she said.”

    “Then in your shoes I would ring Collingwood now. If not yesterday.”

    “He can hardly suspect them, if he’s letting them go abroad,” he said sulkily.

    “No, but possibly he doesn’t know that she knew.” What the fuck was I arguing about it for? “In any case, this discussion is redundant! RING HIM!”

    Looking sulky, he got up and went indoors.

    “He’ll be here in half an hour,” he reported, coming back.

    “I could go away,” I offered politely.

    “No—Um, yes: if you’d rather not stay,” he said, turning a violent puce.

    Much rather, the ’satiable curiosity apart. “Don’t be a clot. It doesn’t affect me one way or the other. Would you rather I stayed, or not?”

    “Much rather you stayed,” Browne admitted weakly.

    “Fine. Shall we have lunch now or wait?”

    “I think we’d better wait.”

    Bummer. “Okay. Only for Christ’s sake don’t invite the fuzz to eat with us.”

    “No,” he agreed, wincing.

    “Have a piece of a Guardian,” I said kindly, offering him a piece.

    “I was saving that!” he cried indignantly.

    “I thought you must have been: it was so pristine and wrapped,” I acknowledged. “All right, then: have a Cahiers d’analyse textuelle.”

    Glaring, he buried himself in a piece of his brand-new Guardian.

    Collingwood arrived something more than half an hour later, with the burly local sergeant in tow, not in uniform but in shabby jeans and a washed-out orange tee-shirt. He looked cross, and in need of a shave—this must’ve been his day off, clearly, poor bugger. The Great Detective was as horribly neat as ever in fawn slacks and an open-necked white shirt.

    Roger showed them into the sitting-room. I came, too, since nobody was stopping me.

    “This time,” said the Chief Tec on a grim note, “I want the whole story. Geddit?”

    “But I only just learnt this!” he bleated.

    Neither of them looked convinced, I was glad to see. But they let him get through it. Then they just let him sit there stewing for a bit. I just sat there in silent glee.

    Finally Collingwood said: “I suppose we’d better get this lot typed up. Anyone you fancy victimising today, Jim? Or shall we make Dave Short’s day for him?”

    The sergeant was trying not to smile. “Depends how soon you want it. Young Jase is on duty this arvo. Or we could leave it till tomorrow morning.”

    “Yes, tomorrow’ll do. And then he can come down and sign it.”

    “Righto,” agreed the sergeant.

    “Where?” bleated Browne weakly.

    The two cops looked at him rather as if he was something nasty that had stuck to their shoes—good on them.

    “The Murder HQ. Pohutukawa Bay Community Hall, to you,” replied Collingwood stolidly.

    “Oh. Is it— Wasn’t it closed this morning? I mean, is it open again?”

    “Operational,” he corrected neutrally.

    I made a strangled noise in my throat, but did manage not to laugh.

    “Um, yes. Very well,” said Roger meekly. “I, um, I suppose you did already realize she knew?”—Crumbs! I wouldn’t have dared! I had a pretty fair idea angels wouldn’t, either. I gawped at him. Sergeant Baxter’s mouth opened and shut once and then he gawped at him, too.—“I suppose that was a stupid question,” he concluded brilliantly. “Sorry, Mike.”

    At that I got up hurriedly. “I’ll see you out.”

    With a parting reminder to the effect that someone would ring Browne tomorrow and he’d better bloody well be home—good on them—they let me show them out.

    “Hearsay,” I noted cordially at the front door.

    “But—” Sergeant Baxter reddened and shut up like a clam.

    “Don’t worry,” I said kindly. “I’m pretty much on your side. I won’t let on, I don’t want the indigestion on top of the self-recriminations. –Ta-ta,” I added airily.

    “Come on, Jim.” Mike propelled the sergeant over to the verandah steps. “Enjoy your lunch,” he said nicely.

    I shot back inside before I could break down and gratify the bugger by laughing.

    Outside in the field Mike said sourly: “Sorry to have dragged you up here for that, Jim.”

    “That’s okay. There was always the off-chance that he might’ve given us something useful, this time. And it’s better than staying at home listening to me son-in-law and the grandchildren fighting over Trivial Pursuit.”

    Mike rather enjoyed Trivial Pursuit. His lips twitched but he merely said: “A Christmas present, was it?”

    “Yeah. Dunno why they bothered to give it to us: they’re the ones that are keen on it.”

    “So as they could come over and play with it, what else? On a par with giving your mum a lovely Philip’s screwdriver for Mother’s Day.”

    “Yeah!” agreed Jim with a chuckle. “Or a penknife: my brother Dave, he gave Mum a lovely one, one Christmas: mother-of-pearl handle, it had.”

    “Yeah.” They grinned at each other.

    Mike wandered over towards the edge of the cliff. Jim Baxter followed cautiously: he wasn’t fond of heights. After some time had elapsed and Mike hadn’t said anything he ventured: “Doesn’t give us anything new, does it?”

    “No-o... How does this sound: Browne and Mrs P. have that famous phone conversation of theirs at quarter to ten, they talk for about fifteen minutes, she gets a bright idea that maybe Carrano’ll cough up the dough to rescue dear Derek, nips into that little car of hers, beetles down here, rings the bell; Oops, dear me, fancy meeting you here, Mr Banks; they pop out the back, nice stroll on the patio: Please spare my beloved Derek, Mr Banks; Not by the hair of my chinny-chin-chin and she gives him a shove. After that, she gets all cunning, puts his watch back to ten, and nips back home. Whole episode takes—uh—forty minutes, tops.”

    “Sounds like total bullshit,” replied the sergeant without visible emotion.

    “Yeah,” agreed Mike simply.

    After a moment Jim said dubiously: “Did Prior say she was in bed asleep when he got home, round ten-forty?”

    “Mm.”

    “Could be lying to protect her, I s’pose.”

    Mike gave a short, unamused laugh.

    They were silent for a moment. They could hear the cicadas chirping in the sunshine, and the sound of the sea shushing on the beach below.

    “You reckon Prior might of got in the car again and gone down to Carrano’s, after he got home?” said Jim doubtfully.

    Mike rubbed his nose. “It’s just possible, I suppose.”

    “Yeah, but would the times fit? Whaddabout the Path. report?”

    “Any time between nine and twelve,” Mike reminded him.

    “Yeah, but... Well, I suppose he could of done it round eleven; but how’d he of known Banks was still there?”

    Silence again. Mike said finally: “We always come back to that, don’t we? Unless Banks told someone else where he was going to be that night, the only people besides his wife who knew he’d be at Carrano’s were the people in on that land deal: Carrano himself and the Jablonski woman; plus the two in the dairy and the taxi-driver, of course.”

    “Yeah—well, those three are out of it.”

    “Mm; so that leaves either Carrano or Ma Jablonski—both of whom were about to make a packet out of Banks. Why should they kill the goose that was about to lay the golden eggs?”

    Jim grunted. They had been over all this a hundred times.

    “Or,” Mike persisted, “someone who came across Banks by chance at Carrano’s place, or—”

    “Or some type who’d been following him that night,” agreed Jim heavily. “Right.”

    “Uh-huh.”

    Jim returned to his earlier point. “What I can’t figure out is why Prior’d imagine Banks’d still be up at Carrano’s round eleven—I mean, supposing he knew he was supposed to be there in the first place. I mean, why would Banks still be there, anyway? Would you wait around for two hours to keep a business appointment? I wouldn’t.”

    “No,” Mike agreed thoughtfully. “That’s a good point, Jim. I can see Banks waiting half an hour, say, if he got Carrano’s note; but... no; he wouldn’t have waited till eleven, however keen he was on closing the deal; that’s absurd!”

    “Points to him being done in earlier, doesn’t it? Which fits with the time on that busted watch.”

    “Mm.”

    “’Course, if he was still alive at har’ past nine,” said Jim slowly, “why didn’t he let Ma Jablonski in?”

    “Mm-hm.” They had already discussed this about a hundred times, too.

    Jim embarked on his pet theory; Mike stifled a sigh.

    “I reckon the murderer was there with him; maybe they were having a row and didn’t hear the doorbell; maybe the murderer wouldn’t let Banks answer it!”

    Holding him In Durance Vile, thought Mike involuntarily. But he didn’t say it; there was just a chance that Jim was right. “Wish she was a bit clearer about the times,” he said with a grimace.

    “What? Oh, Ma Jablonski! Nutty as a fruit-cake, she is—known for it; you can’t rely on a word she says.”

    Mike sighed. “So you keep telling me.”

    The older man glanced anxiously at him. Mike sighed again, and added: “I was going through her evidence again yesterday arvo. Ya know she’s given us three totally different accounts of the times? Nuttier than a fruit-cake, I’d say!”

    “Yeah!” agreed Jim with a relieved grin.

    They got into the car and headed up the cliff top track to the turn-off onto Pohutukawa Bay Road. “You going on back to the motel?” asked Jim.

    “Uh—no,” said Mike reluctantly. “Think I’d better go over the Priors’ evidence again before they take off for Malaysia. Not that Browne’s given us anything new, but...” He sighed. “We did check the Priors’ cars, I know…” He shrugged.

    “’S funny,” said Jim. “Wouldn’t you think the lab boys would of found a trace of pool water in at least one of those cars?”

    Mike grunted crossly

    “Want a hand going through the files?” the sergeant offered hastily.

    Mike looked at him out of the corner of his eye. His plump face looked strained; there were bags under his eyes. Poor old sod: no fun, having a murder on your patch. Not to say a murder that bloody Jake Carrano was mixed up in. And he was supposed to be off-duty today. “No, thanks, Jim. I’ll drop you off at your place, eh?”

    “Ta,” said Jim, unable to conceal his relief. He was bloody late for lunch, but Moana was sure to’ve kept some for him. –Jesus, that Browne was a tit. Talk about your typical Pommy wimp! ...Bugger, maybe he ought to ask the D.C.I. in for a bite. Only, there was Hayley and Ian and the kids—be a bit shambolic. He was pretty sure Mike didn’t have any kids. Was he even married? Somehow, Jim doubted it. Couldn’t have said why. Not that the D.C.I. was a poof, that was obvious enough. But he’d never once seemed in a hurry to nip off home like the rest of them, and since the case started he’d been staying up here at The Blue Heron most of the time... ’Course, maybe his family had gone off on their holidays, maybe the poor joker was missing out on his own holiday. Jim risked a quick glance at the handsome profile beside him. Uh—no, maybe he wouldn’t ask him back to lunch, after all.

    Mike pulled into the drive of a pleasant old wooden bungalow. There seemed to be some sort of scrum going on on the front lawn.

    Resignedly Jim registered that Shane and Evan were fighting again and that little Dana was standing on the front steps in her singlet and no pants, bawling her heart out: great timing.

    “The grandkids,” he said awkwardly.

    “Yeah.”

    Jim hesitated but at that moment his mother-in-law came bustling out of the house and picked Dana up. She started shouting at the boys in Maori—she was getting on a bit, never used to talk it much when Moana was a girl, but she seemed to be going back to it in her old age. The boys ignored her. Jim stuck his head out of his window and roared: “OY! You take some notice of your Granny Tonks when’s she’s speaking to you!”

    The boys stopped fighting momentarily. Shane said sulkily: “She keeps on talking Maori, we dunno what she’s saying.”

    Old Mrs Tonks screamed: “You get in here for your lunch pronto or you’ll feel the back of my hand!”

    “That was English,” noted Mike drily.

    “Yeah, looks as if they understood it, too, little buggers. –That’s my ma-in-law,” he explained awkwardly.

    “Mm. Well, have fun.”

    “Uh—yeah. See ya.” Jim clambered out. He was about to close his door when Hayley appeared in the front doorway.

    “Dad! Shane and Evan are fighting again: can’t you speak to them or something?”

    “Can’t your ruddy husband speak to them or something?” muttered Jim.

    “Put your policeman’s hat on, Jim,” suggested Mike drily.

    “Uh—yeah,” said Jim, grinning sheepishly. He winced as the D.C.I. started up with a graunching of gears, and stood back. “I might pop up the HQ later,” he said weakly.

    Unexpectedly Collingwood winked at him. “If you’re allowed to—yeah.” He drove away before the startled Jim could react.

    Jim stood there feeling a bit of a tit. And also feeling guiltily that he should of asked Collingwood in for a bite, he wasn’t such a bad joker, really.

    “DAD!”

    Sighing, he turned for the house.

Jill’s Narrative

    Browne’s idea of a Sunday lunch in summer was pressed ham and limp lettuce. I didn’t pass any remarks: after all, I’m a Pom, too.

    I did have a sort of think, while he was pfaffing round with plates and cutlery, about whether either he or Rod might be right for Polly after all, if the mad macho millionaire was definitely out of the picture, but as the answer was still a lemon and me brain started to boil the minute I tried to persuade it otherwise, stopped.

    … Besides, I reflected, munching ham, Browne was the type that would give in to her all the time. And Polly, for whatever twisted reason, didn’t need that: she needed someone that could—well, bully her was rather too strong, after all she hadn’t stood up to the dreaded Doc Halliday at all, had she? No... No, what she needed was someone who wouldn’t let her bully him. While at the same time he wasn’t bullying her—geddit? Oops, the brain was boiling again.

    “Pass us that mustard, for God’s sake, Browne.”

    Roger passed the mustard, warning: “Don’t give Polly’s cat any bits of ham with mustard on them, will you?”

    “I don’t intend giving that brute the time of day, it was sitting on my car’s bonnet earlier, you may recall.” I spread mustard lavishly on the ham and added through a mouthful of it: “Putting hairs and dirt all over it, you may not have noticed. –Eat up your nice lunch, you’re caddying for me this afternoon,” I added with satisfaction.

    “What?” he gasped.

    “Yes. Work off all this food.”

    “Look, Jill— Hang on, this is a leg-pull, isn’t it?” he said happily. “People don’t play golf in summertime, do they?”

    My jaw had sagged, yes, sagged, even though I had known him for a year, now. “Rog,” I quavered: “at this very min., as we speak, ‘people’ are flocking from every corner of the globe to play golf with types like Greg Norman and Bob Charles on the country’s most up-market course! –The New Zealand OPEN!” I shouted.

    “Oh,” he said vaguely.

    I breathed heavily. “I’m going to play at least nine holes on the Puriri course—try it out for size. And you, since it’s such a lovely day, are coming with me.”

    “I wouldn’t brood, if I was left at home,” he said meekly.

    “No, you’d read your ruddy Grauniad!”

    “Well, yes,” he said, grinning. “—Is there a Puriri course?”

    I took another of them deep breaths. “You go up past Kowhai Bay—north—take the first turn-off to the left, drive southwestish for two-three miles, and Lo! There it is.”

    “Oh. I don’t think I’ve ever been along there. Er—doesn’t one have to be a member?”

    “Been reading O. Henry?” I returned nastily.

    He looked puzzled.

    “It’s a public course. And you’re coming.”

    “Very well. It is a lovely day.”

    “Yes,” said I with a sigh. “Isn’t it?”

    “That’s not your tea, is it?” said the burly man in the Pohutukawa Bay Dairy.

    Mike looked at him coldly but the dairy proprietor was the sort of person who was impervious to cold looks. Was it because they had an inner conviction of the rightness of their own assumptions, or was it only utter denseness? Or a bit of both? He picked up the small paper bag containing two tomatoes and a round of cheese segments and said shortly: “Yes. So what?”

    “We’ve got some nice ham.”

    “You’ve certainly got some nice reconstituted pink substance consisting mainly of water and salt,” replied Mike sourly, “but I didn’t notice any ham.”

    The man laid a small packet on the counter without saying anything.

    “No, thanks.”

    “I’ve got some of that Reizenstein’s rye bread,” he then said in an offhand way.

    “I haven’t noticed any.”

    The man reached under the counter. He laid a small brown loaf in a familiar wrapping on the counter without saying anything. Mike picked it up and scrutinised it narrowly.

    “The Pohutukawa Bay Poisoner hasn’t been at it, if that’s what yer wondering.”

    “No, I was wondering if it had gone mouldy.”

    There was an offended silence. The dairy proprietor was obviously the sort of person who was good at those.

    Mike looked up and said: “It goes off practically the minute it comes out of the oven, in this weather. Still, I suppose it wouldn’t taste as good if they bunged it full of preservative.”

    “No. Well, is all right?”

    “It looks okay,” conceded Mike.

    “It oughta be, it’s been in the freezer.”

    “Mm. Do you get it in regularly?”

    “Not much demand for it round here. Usually only get in a couple of loaves. Polly Mitchell, she gets it regular.”

    “Oh.”

    “And that Doc Browne that lives next to her—he gets a loaf every week. –He’s one of those varsity types, too.”

    “Yeah, I know him,” agreed Mike.

    “Well, ya would,” he conceded. Probably Mike’s voice had given away more than he’d meant it to, for the man then went on: “Pommy type, eh?”

    “Yeah.”

    The dairy proprietor sniffed slightly. “Well, you gonna take it?”

    “Unless I’m depriving one of your regulars, yes,” agreed Mike.

    “Polly’s away,” the man replied simply. “Gone down her dad’s farm.”

    “Mm.” Mike then allowed him to foist a pound of butter on him—unsalted. Possibly it was Polly’s butter, for he was informed that there wasn’t that much demand for it round here. Louise Watkins, she used it quite a bit for sponges and that, she was a great cook, took after her mum.

    The little Community Hall was hot and stuffy. Mike opened all the windows but it didn’t help much. Sighing, he returned to the files and tapes that covered the Priors’ evidence. Fortunately the place had a little fridge. Mike had forced one of Jim Baxter’s young constables to clean it out thoroughly when they’d set the HQ up—to the young man’s evident disappointment: no doubt he’d expected to be plunged into Real Detective Work. He retrieved his carton of apple and lime from the fridge—strangely enough no-one had drunk it, though the Coke had all gone—and sat down at the big Formica table which, judging by the large stains on its greenish surface, normally bore the community tea urns. For Bingo nights, or something. Saturday hops, like they used to have down home? Mike doubted it: the place was too close to the Big Smoke.

    He buttered rye bread lavishly, firmly not thinking about cholesterol levels, and got down to it.

    He stewed over Mr and Mrs Prior’s evidence for most of the afternoon without making any headway at all. The trouble was, Derek Prior’s evidence was all mixed up with Carrano’s, you couldn’t check on one without checking on the other. Sighing, he got up and hauled out another load of files and tapes. What, exactly, had Carrano’s version been?

    … Bugger. Mike looked up and stared at the bulletin-board on the opposite wall, which boasted a cluster of drawing-pins in assorted styles and colours, a torn poster advertising Bingo nights, a handwritten notice on the subject of Scouts’ Lost Property to be claimed BEFORE XMAS, and three smaller hand-written notices advertising kittens free to a good home.

    “There is a huge and insurmountable fallacy in the Derek Prior theory,” he said loudly and very sourly: “which, being interpreted, is: he wouldn’t have done in Banks later that night, because he didn’t have a reason to any more!”

    “Mighta gone cuckoo,” said a cheerful voice, and Jim Baxter, now looking remarkably well-fed and relaxed, strolled in, grinning. “Here.” He laid two offerings in front of Mike: one was a pudding dish covered with aluminium foil, and the other a small, squarish package wrapped in lunch-paper.

    “Cuckoo yourself. –What’s all this?”

    Jim pulled out a small yellow plastic chair and sat down. “Moana thought your refined sugar intake might be a bit low.”

    Mike took the foil cover off the pudding dish. Tinned peaches with cream. “Ta,” he said weakly.

    “Couldn’t bring any ice cream, it woulda melted. Could pop into the dairy, though, if ya fancy some.”

    “No, thanks,” he said weakly. “Um—thank your wife, won’t you, Jim?”

    “Will do. –That’s Christmas cake, her mum made it. Watch out, it’s got sixpences in it.” He paused. “Five-cent pieces, I mean,” he said sheepishly.

    “Sixpences,” corrected Mike firmly, smiling.

    “Yeah,” conceded the sergeant, grinning. “Your mum do that? Mine always did.”

    “No, she died when I was a baby. Mrs Mitchell always used to, though.” He paused. “I spent most of my Christmases there—Dad’s idea of Christmas was to close the pub up and drink as much of the stock as he could before he had to re-open it.”

    “Your dad kept a pub?”

    “Mm.” Mike began to eat peaches and cream. “Totara Crossing: down the East Coast. About twenty miles from the Mitchells’ place. One of those tiny country towns—you know. The pub, the post office, and a Wrightson’s outlet.”

    “Plus two men and a dog.”

    “Yeah. Last time I was down there the dog looked on its last legs, too—the place seems to shrink every time I go back.” He ate some more peaches. “It’s probably subjective: the farmers are doing okay and the Wrightson’s is about four times the size of what it was when I was a kid.”

    “Mm. –Fair bit of unemployment on the East Coast,” Jim said cautiously.

    “Not round Totara Crossing.” He looked up, and smiled. “For one thing, there aren’t that many people there! And it’s good land. But I don’t think the grocer’s doing that well, most of the farmers’ wives go in to Napier to do their shopping these days.”

    “Oh, is it over that way?”

    “Mm. Well, Napier’d be closer than Gisborne, yeah. And it’s an easier drive. And the shops there are better. Or so they tell me.”

    “Mm.” Jim hesitated. “Near the Ureweras, would it be?”

    “Not that far as the crow flies, yeah,” he agreed. “You know the East Coast at all, Jim?”

    “Not really. We’ve been camping at Waikaremoana.”

    “Mm. Well, if you drive on out towards Wairoa—” He explained where Totara Crossing was.

    “Cripes.”

    “Yeah: two men and a dog, like you said.”

    Jim smiled. He watched in silence as the detective finished his pudding. Then he said: “You reckon Prior’s out of it, then?”

    “Yeah. Well, look at the evidence: Carrano paid this Finlay woman off and sent her off to Sidders, pronto. We know that’s right, her sister confirms she’s gone.”

    “Yeah, she showed us that postcard from her—’member?”

    “Mm. And both Prior and Carrano are quite definite that Carrano was gonna settle Banks’s hash once and for all.”

    “Yeah. Well, he did get on to the Chief Super, eh?”

    Mike grimaced. “Too right. He rang him when he got home. And McElroy rang me straight away.”

    “Lucky you. And that woulda been—?”

    “Just after eleven. Ruddy Browne wasn’t the only one watching the late news. The Old Man rang just after I’d switched it off.”

    “Yeah. Well, I must say I agree with you, Mike: it does let Prior out, doesn’t it?”

    “Mm.”

    Jim looked at him cautiously. “Leaves us with the Carrano theory.”

    “Yeah.”

    “Well, lessee... If he dropped Prior off at his place around ten-thirty, ten-forty, like they both reckon, and started walking into Puriri—Say he did get a lift almost straight away, like he said... He’d still of had to walk all the way to his place from the highway, I reckon he’d of been doing good to make it home by ten to eleven!”

    “Quite,” Mike agreed.

    “Which gives him about two minutes to find Banks, work ’imself into a blind rage, shove him in the pool and hold him down. Then he rings McElroy, cool as a cucumber!” He shrugged.

    “It’s not impossible,” said Mike without conviction.

    “No, but it’s bloody unlikely!” retorted Jim strongly. “And anyway, if Banks was still there waiting for him, why didn’t he answer the phone when Carrano rung from the Finlay woman’s place around ten?”

    Mike shrugged. “In the bog? Too diffident to answer the phone in someone else’s place?”

    “Don Banks?” replied Jim incredulously.

    “Okay, the bog theory,” he said drily.

    “Carrano’s probably got extensions in his bogs,” replied Jim sourly.

    “No, he hasn’t, actually: I’ve checked.”

    You would of! thought Jim, refraining with an effort from rolling his eyes.

    After a moment Mike said: “How definite are those times?”

    “Eh?”

    “Prior’s evidence. When Carrano rang home and Banks didn’t answer. And when they eventually got back to Prior’s place.”

    “Uh... It’s this file, I think. Yeah. Tape fifty-five, you wanna listen to it?”

    “No,” said Mike, with a groan. Jim looked at him dubiously. “Go on!” he said irritably.

    Jim put the tape in the player. “Was this you or Dave Short?”

    “Me. Dave did the first one with him.”

    Jim switched it on.

    … “Is that all that happened at Miss Finlay’s place?” said Mike’s voice wearily.

    Derek Prior’s light tenor, sounding sulky, replied: “Yes. I told you, she’d been drinking. It took ages to get any sense out of her.”

    “So you would have left there around—tennish, would it have been?”

    “No-o... No, later, I think.”

    There was a pause on the tape. Mike stabbed the button irritably. “I near as dammit said what time was it when Carrano rang home. God, he was a hopeless witness!”

    “Bad as Browne,” agreed Jim sourly.

    “I wouldn’t say that. Browne’s trouble apparently is that he doesn’t trust the thick Colonials to sort out the wheat from the chaff.”

    “Thinks ’e’s Hercule Poirot,” grunted the sergeant sourly.

    “More like Miss Marple!” choked Mike. They sniggered. “—No,” he corrected himself heavily: “he’s la-de-da enough, but I’ll be damned if he’s got the head on him. –Where was I?”

    “Not about to ask bloody Derek Prior a leading question,” said Jim with a slow smile.

    “Right, so I was. Jesus.” He pressed the button again.

    “Did anything else at all happen?” his voice said.

    “Uh—no. When we were at Raylene’s, you mean? Um... No. Oh, I think Jake phoned his house to see if his guest had arrived—he was expecting someone, did I mention that?”

    “Yes. Did he say who?”

    “What? Oh—no,” replied Derek without interest.

    “And exactly when did Mr Carrano make this phone call, Mr Prior?”

    “Um... I’ve no idea. I’m sorry—does it matter?”

    “Yes. Think back, please, Mr Prior.”

    —“At that point, for two pins I’d’ve clocked him one,” noted Mike sourly.

    “Yeah,” agreed Jim, grinning.

    On the tape Derek said brightly: “Oh, I remember! Yes, it was after we’d made her drink the coffee. And Jake said: ‘Help, is that the time?’” There was a pause. “Actually, he didn’t say ‘help’, you know what he is!”—Silly giggle.—“Self-made man, of course!”

    —“Starting to feel all chirpy again,” noted Mike sourly.

    “Little rat,” agreed Jim.

    On the tape Mike’s voice was pursuing: “And what was the time?”

    “What? Oh, well, Raylene keeps her clock ten minutes fast, so I looked at my watch and it was exactly ten o’clock. Well, actually, one minute past. I don’t know why I remember that!”

    “And then what happened? What did Mr Carrano say?”

    “Um... I can’t remember. I think he said he’d better phone home in case his guest was waiting for him. He’d left a note, did I say?”

    “Yes.”

    “And he left the front door unlocked, I suppose he was expecting his guest at any minute but I must say...”

    “And did he ring his house?”

    “Yes.”

    “How do you know it was his own number he rang, Mr Prior?”

    “I—Well, of course, I— Why would he have any reason to lie about something like that? He made the call and there was no answer. He let it ring for quite a long time, I remember that.”

    “Miss Finlay’s phone’s in the sitting-room, then?”

    “What? Oh—yes. It’s one of those bed-sitters. Quite roomy, though.”

    —“Tawa Street. One of those little side streets off Riverside Drive, there’s lots of those units round there,” contributed Jim. “They are quite nice.”

    “Mm,” agreed Mike. On the recording his voice was asking: “So you didn’t see what number Mr Carrano dialled?”

    “No, I’ve just explained that, Chief Inspector.”

    —“Uppity little prick,” muttered Jim.

    “And did you use the phone at all?”

    “Me? No; why would I have done that?”

    —“Only to put his poor bloody wife out of her misery!” said Mike loudly, stopping the tape again.

    “Yeah.” The sergeant was looking at the transcript. “That’s about It, eh?”

    “What’s he say about getting home?—No, hang on, let’s get it verbatim.”

    They listened. Derek explained that it had taken only about five minutes for Jake to drive them up to Kowhai Bay from Raylene’s flat in Puriri. Mike asked how long it usually took him and he replied sulkily about ten minutes. But Jake had driven far too fast. Were the roads busy? Derek didn’t think so. They got home just on ten-thirty. How did he know? He’d looked at his watch, he’d been wondering if Margaret would still be up.

    “That rings true,” said Jim.

    Mike grunted.

    “And was your wife up?” his voice on the tape said.

    “No, she was in bed.”

    “And did you tell her what had happened?”

    “No, I said: she was in bed.”

    “Was she asleep?” said Mike’s voice, sounding extra-patient.

    —“Gawdelpus,” muttered the sergeant.

    “Yes, that’s what I’m telling you!”

    —“No, it isn’t,” muttered the sergeant.

    “Mr Prior, in your written statement you will be asked to confirm formally whether your wife was in bed and asleep when you got home that night. Do you confirm that you saw her in bed with your own eyes? Actually saw it was her, not just a mound under the bedclothes?”

    “What are you implying?” he cried.

    —“Stupid twat,” muttered Mike.

    Jim Baxter jumped slightly but murmured: “Yeah.”

    The tape was continuing: “I’m not implying anything, Mr Prior, I’m asking you for your formal confirm—”

    “Yes! She was lying on her back snoring, if you must have it! She always snores when she lies on her back, it’s one of the reasons—” He stopped.

    “One of the reasons what?” prompted Mike on the tape.

    “Why we have separate rooms, if you must know,” he said sulkily.

     —“Never knew people actually did,” muttered Jim.

    “It’s quite a big house.”

    Jim reached out and stopped the tape. “Did you ask what the other reasons were, Mike?”

    “I was tempted to,” he said with a sour grimace. “But the great detective brain deduced that she’s gone off sex. Or that he’s gone off it with her. Or both.”

    Jim scratched his bald spot. “Probably both. She’s not what I’d call a cuddly morsel... Only everybody reckons she’s bats about him. Well, it’s pretty much common knowledge.”

    Silence fell. Mike stared at the bulletin-board. Jim stared at the floor.

    Eventually Mike stirred and said: “Mm... Separate rooms.”

    Jim began sarcastically: “Yeah, she was only pretending to be asleep, see: she leapt outa bed five minutes after he’d pushed off to his own room—”

    “I’ve already had that one from Dave Short, ta very much.”

    “What’s he got against her?” Jim wanted to know.

    “Don’t ask me. Earl Grey tea, I think.”

    “Eh?”

    “She offered him a cuppa that time he went to interview her, and it turned out to be Earl Grey.”

    Jim returned cautiously: “Moana sells a lot of that at The Deli. Reckons the types from up The Hill buy it as well as all the Kowhai Bay nobs.”

    Mike replied glumly: “Don’t knock it. I’d take the bloody Priors’ house lock, stock and barrel tomorrow, if it was offered to me.”

    “You’ll have private means,” noted Jim drily.

    “No! Offered to me on a platter!” said Mike, grinning.

    “Aw, one of them! –Yeah, Browne said pretty much the same thing to me when he came down and signed that ruddy statement. –That other ruddy statement,” he said, grinning.

    “Aw, one of them!”

    Choking, Jim returned: “Yeah! –Well, there you are. Maybe you and Browne are soul-mates, under the skin.”

    “Ta,” he said sourly.

    Silence again. Mike was merely looking blank. “Well, where does that get us?” Jim wanted to know.

    “Exactly where we were before, Jim. Prior might just have done it as far as the times go, but no longer had a motive; Mrs P. might have done it in the time but would be physically barely capable of it and psychologically totally incapable of it, I’d say; and Carrano might just have done it if he’d gone stark, raving loony. –I mean, for God’s sake, Jim! He’s got a huge financial empire, this business with Don Banks was a nothing to him! And I’d say he was fairly fond of Margaret Prior, seems to have known her forever and a day, and they seem to be on some charitable committees and things together; but is he gonna put his neck in the noose for her on the strength of it?”

    “No,” conceded Jim.

    This time there was a very long silence indeed.

    “Cuppa?” suggested Jim at last.

    “Yeah—ta, Jim.”

    Jim heaved himself up.

    “Not Earl Grey,” added Mike: “might fall outa me tree and start seriously suspecting Margaret Prior!”

    Sniggering, the sergeant went out to the grimy little kitchen.

    When they were both sipping he said: “No answer at Carrano’s at ten o’clock, eh?”

    “The bog theory,” Mike reminded him.

    “No—say Don Banks was dead. Who coulda done it by then?”

    “Half the Coast,” Mike reminded him.

    “Yeah, apart from them.”

    Mike sighed. “Young Banks, young Jablonski, old Jablonski—”

    “No, he couldn’t of, he didn’t have the car!” objected Jim.

    “Ah, but there are ways and— No, all right, scrap him. Let’s have Ma Jablonski, instead.” He put down his cup and held up his left hand. Laboriously he began ticking off with his right. “Young Banks, young Jablonski, Ma Jablonski, Gary McNeish from the Chez Basil, Polly Mitchell.”

    “Eh?”

    Mike switched hands. “Roger Browne, Tim Green, Daphne Green.”

    “Bullshit! None of them had a motive!”

    “Banks was a blackmailer.”

    “The Greens have got alibis,” Jim reminded him.

    “Coulda nipped up there on the excuse of going to the— No, all right, I agree: couldn’t have been them, even those idiot friends they had round that night would’ve noticed something odd if one of them had rushed up the hill to do in Banks between poker hands.”

    “Yeah. And anyway they never knew he was up there.”

    “No,” agreed Mike.

    Jim sniffed. “Nor did the rest of them, did they? Leaves Carrano and Ma Jablonski, eh? And if ya believe Carrano, leaves her.”

    “Very logical, Jim,” said Mike with a little smile.

    “We can’t all be great detective brains!” Jim replied indignantly.

    “No, I mean it.”

    Jim looked at him sharply. Mike’s face still wore an odd little smile.

    “Blimey O’Reilly, ya don’t think it was her?” he cried.

    Mike shrugged. He drank tea while Jim goggled at him. Then he put down the mug. “I won’t say ‘nutty as a fruit-cake,’ we’re agreed on that. And forget about motive. What we’ve actually got is, she was on the spot at around the crucial time. I know she contradicts herself: never mind, she went there. And she knew Banks was gonna be there.”

    “And she was just about to make a fortune out of him,” Jim said weakly.

    Mike shrugged. “Got a better suspect?”

    “Young Banks.”

    “Mm...”

    “He admits he thought he might go down there for a dip!” cried Jim.

    “And says he changed his mind.”

    Jim snorted. “The Jablonski kid reckons he never came back that night: so what was he doing?”

    “Being got at by Gary McNeish, what else?” replied Mike with a grimace of distaste.

    The sergeant’s plump face reflected the distaste but he said: “Well, why haven’t either of them come out and said so?”

    “Presumably to spare Miss Cheese Basil’s feelings.”

    “Oh. Drat. Yeah, you could be right.”

    “Yeah, and according to McElroy I’d better make sure of it right smart,” admitted Mike heavily.

    Jim made a face. “Pressing for an arrest, is ’e?”

    “Ya could put it like that. Well, he does play golf with Jake Carrano.”

    “Daphne Green reckons he doesn’t play much,” said the sergeant absently. “Goes hunting when he can manage to get away. Hardly ever uses that ruddy tennis court of his, either.”

    “Mm.”

    The sergeant came to with a little start. “Uh—well, I can’t see why you favour Ma Jablonski, frankly, Mike.”

    “On the spot, and knew Banks was there.”

    “Yeah, but Jack Banks was on the spot and had a whacking great motive!”

    Mike shrugged. “True enough, if you concede that a couple of mill.’ makes a motive to a kid that’s apparently only interested in flaming anthropology. –No, all right, Jim, it’d make a motive to most people, and the whole Coast agrees he couldn’t stand his dad.”

    “What we need is some solid evidence!” said Jim crossly.

    “Yeah. A nice set of fingerprints—off the edge of Carrano’s pool, maybe,” said Mike dreamily.

    “Hah, hah.”

    “All right: chlorinated pool water all over someone’s car seats.”

    “Yeah, that woulda been nice,” agreed the sergeant sourly. “Especially if their excuse for it was that they’d been swimming down at the Teps, or something.”

    “See?” said Mike. “It’s all like that.”

    “Put some pressure on young Banks?”

    “Oh, I’m gonna do that, all right.” He stretched and yawned. “And I’ll—” He looked at his watch. “Ugh. Tomorrow, I’ll ring McElroy and see if he reckons the Priors can push off on this little jaunt to Malaysia, or wherever it is.”

    “Will he ask for your recommendation?”

    Mike got up. “Bound to. McElroy’s never been known to carry a can in the whole of his career. Which probably explains why he’s got where he is today.”—Jim choked.—“You need a lift, Jim?”

    “Uh—oh, yeah, ta, I do: Ian ran me over here, he reckoned he wanted a Sunday Times.”

    “A surfeit of Christmas holidays,” diagnosed Mike.

    “You said it.”

    As they drove up to the highway the sergeant gave a cracking yawn.

    “Shoulda pushed off home earlier,” Mike murmured.

    “Must say I can’t wait to get home and into a warm wife!” he admitted, yawning again.

    “Lucky man.”

    “You married, Mike?” he ventured.

    “Divorced.”

    “Oh. Sorry to hear that,” Jim said awkwardly.

    Mike grunted. After a little he said: “You know how it is. She wasn’t a bad kid, but she just couldn’t take being a copper’s wife.” –This was almost entirely mendacious, but it’d do.

    “Yeah.” They trundled down the hill and over the little bridge into Puriri in silence.

    “Guess I’m just bloody lucky, with Moana,” Jim said, unbuckling his seatbelt as they drew up in the drive.

    There was a light on in the porch. As he opened the car door the front door opened and a plump, curly-haired figure in a dressing-gown appeared, yawning.

    Jim extricated himself rapidly from the little car. “Well—g’night, then.”

    “See ya tomorrow, Jim,” replied Mike.

    “Everything okay, dear?” he heard the woman say.

    Jim’s murmured reply was lost as he gunned the engine fiercely and shot down the drive, reversing with a screech of tires into the road again.

    Jim watched him from the porch, wincing. “Jeez, that joker’s gotta be the worst driver I ever met,” he muttered.

    “Wanna cuppa tea?”

    “Nah—too tired,” he grunted, draping his arm around her shoulders and leading heavily on her plump frame.

    Moana switched off the porch light and closed the door. “Any progress with the case?”

    Jim was yawning uncontrollably. “Na-ah—not really. Well, Mike’s got an idea or two.”

    “How’s he coping, do ya reckon?”

    “Aw—okay. I reckon he’ll solve it—if anyone can. But there’s no bloody evidence: every time we think we’ve got our hands on something solid it—it just kinda melts!”

    Jim was hauling off his tee-shirt when she said: “Jim: you don’t think—?”

    “What?”

    “It—it couldn’t have been a maniac, could it?” she said with a shudder.

    Jim kicked off his jeans and gave her a grin. “Someone gone troppo, ya mean—like Ole Man Finlay, that time? Blasting away full bore down the main road?”

    “Not like that!” she protested, climbing into bed. “But you know what I mean: someone who—who had a brainstorm, or something; you read about these cases; maybe they’ve even forgotten about it now and—and are acting quite normally again!”

    Jim rolled into bed and switched the light out. Ninety percent of the women on the Coast were probably scaring themselves silly with that sort of fantasy. “I’ve never read about a case like that,” he said firmly. “No: I reckon it’ll turn out to be someone with a real motive to do Banks in—you’ll see!”

    “Mm. But this interview today didn’t help?”

    Jim buried his face in his pillow. “Nope. Useless,” he said indistinctly.

Jill’s Narrative

    I wouldn’t have said I was bursting for a further report on the Prior situation but Browne gave me one, willy-nilly. Took off for Malaysia or wherever as planned on the Tuesday. He seemed very relieved, so possibly he had suspected the woman. Or the bum-pincher, one or the other.

    I was subsequently forced to give a full report to Gretchen on the Wednesday. Collect. From the wilds of Waikikamoocow.

    To which the Aryan clot responded: “So it vasn’t one off them? Bother, ve thought you might haff solved the murder by now.”

    “I’m NOT TRYING TO!” I roared..

    “Aren’t you? I am,” she said in surprise. “So iss the whole motor camp, ve all haff lovely discussions in the shower block and over the communal barbecues. –Most off them haff brought their portable TVs with them,” she elaborated unnecessarily

    “Cease this unnecessary Aryan elaboration,” I groaned.

    Ignoring this, Gretchen offered: “Maybe it vill turn out to be Jake Carrano after all.”

    “Look,” I retorted crossly: “it’s bloody bad enough with her being dumped by His Highness: what do you imagine next term’ll be like if he gets hauled in for Murder One?”

    “They do not haff Murder One here, I think. But I take your point: setting aside the hysterical delight off all the hags like Madeleine Depardieu, Polly vill be impossible next term if the mad millionaire iss arrested. So ve had better hope he won’t be. Iss she back yet?”

    “No: only threatening,” I sighed.

    “Ah. And—uh—no amorous reactions from Mr Plod?”

    “Gretchen,” I said heavily—I am not and never have been a betting woman—“I will lay you fifty to one in used bus tickets that whoever ends up as Mr Polly Mitchell, it won’t be Mr Plod the Pleeceman.”

    Gretchen is now and was then a betting woman, and she returned immediately: “Make it five to one in five-dollar notes, and I take it. And I think it’s a bit hard, to imply she’ll rule the roost: I thought you said her mother vas not the Managing Kiwi Mum type?”

    I shuddered. “No, but her Aunty Kay bloody well is! No, well, is there anything on the horizon that in your candid opinion would be capable of controlling her?”

    “Only the mad macho millionaire.”

    “NOT HIM!” I bellowed furiously.

    “Er—no,” said poor Gretchen cautiously.

    “Sorry, Gretchen.”

    “Are you very browned off?” she asked cautiously.

    “Mm. I managed to hold out remarkably well while Polly bawled all over me, but it’s been downhill all the way since then. I’ve only managed to be bracing with Browne.”

    “Giff it all avay: come and join us. Ve haff only got as far as Roto... Moment. Gerhard!” she screamed into the hinterland: “Das ist Roto-wat?”

    “‘Wat’? Du bist ein Berlin bun,” I muttered, sotto voce.

    “Ja: Rotoiti,” she reported. “So you could nip down here easy in one day!”

    “No, I’d better hang on in. I’ve got a norful feeling that something might break.”

    “Hearts?” said Gretchen dubiously.

    I was about to wither her when I realized the Aryan clot had got her colloquialisms mixed again. “No, it means some sort of a dénouement is just around the corner.”

    “I see. Then I shall ring you again tomorrow. And haff more dirt!” She hung up.

    I staggered off and poured myself a stiff restorative. It didn’t help much, ’cos what were the odds Polly was gonna do something bloody silly that would prevent the macho millionaire from ever wishing for anything like a reconciliation so long as they both should live? Ugh.