“Yes. I’m fascinated by the history of my country. I’m very fond of that hatchet, as I am of all the objects here.”
His loud voice echoed around the walls. Culhane followed in silence.
The hatchet had been displayed on the wall of the library, along with other Maori objects. The wide windows were double-glazed and double-locked and looked out on a remote part of the grounds.
While Melrose went over the circumstances of the burglary, Osborne opened one of the windows and saw the fence separating them from the neighbors. About ten feet high, and quite smooth, it didn’t look easy to climb over with your bare hands. On the other hand, the branches of a nikau, a native palm tree, were visible over the top of it.
“Do you have any idea who could have done this?” Melrose asked.
“Not the slightest,” Osborne said, turning. “And you?”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re the one who was robbed, not me.”
Melrose didn’t like innuendo. “No, I have no idea,” he said. “The hatchet has a certain symbolic value, but it’d fetch little or nothing on the art market.”
Osborne was thinking about Melrose’s books. “How come an object like that is in private hands? Isn’t it the kind of thing that should be in a museum?”
Melrose ignored the implication. “I bought it years ago at an auction. The previous owner had just died, and the family was selling his private collection. Tu-Nui-a-Ranga was part of it, and it’s the kind of object I collect. It isn’t my fault if the city didn’t grab the opportunity.” His tenor voice made his silvery hair shake.
“How much did it cost you?” Osborne insisted.
“Thirty thousand dollars.”
“Is that what you call ‘little or nothing’?”
“When you have money, yes.”
“Do you know the name of the former owner?”
“A historian called George Wilkinson, who died peacefully of old age, if you must know.”
The two men were now standing face-to-face. Behind them, Culhane was scribbling in his notebook, and feeling uncomfortable about his partner’s attitude, which, in his opinion, bordered on rudeness.
“The weapon belonged to Chief Te Hoataewa,” Osborne went on, “a symbol of resistance to the British colonists. Do you know what tribe he belonged to?”
“The Ngati Kahungunu,” Melrose replied without the slightest hesitation.
A ray of sunlight came over the fence and flooded the library. The Ngati Kahungunu: Zinzan Bee’s tribe.
“Have you ever had dealings with members of that tribe?” Osborne ventured.
“Of course not!”
Melrose would have said the same thing if he’d been asked about a Neanderthal.
“Does your daughter live here all the time?”
“Yes.”
“Is she still a student?”
“Melanie’s preparing the entrance exam for the Global Business School,” Melrose said emphatically. “The best school of its kind in the country.”
“Apart from you, is your daughter the only other person who has keys to the house?”
“Yes.”
“Can we see her?”
“Who?”
“Your daughter.”
“What do you want with her?” He was almost yelling.
“Nothing specific,” Osborne replied. “Just ask her a few questions.”
“Melanie was quite shaken by what happened last night. She’s resting now. Anyway, she has nothing to do with any of this. She was sleeping upstairs and didn’t hear a thing.”
Melrose’s tone had changed, and so had the look in his eyes.
Osborne lit a cigarette. “I’m looking for a lead,” he said. “Your daughter may be able to help me.”
“How, may I ask?”
Standing in the background, Culhane felt the tension coming to a head. It was at this point that his cell phone throbbed against his hip, and he immediately slipped out.
