Some kind of threat was looming over him, like those storm clouds over the sea. Inevitably, the image of the truncated woman on the beach was superimposed over the image of Hana. Osborne had talked to the Maoris fishing from the rocks. According to them, the currents must have brought the body back to land. As for the sharks, there were some out at sea, small ones, and, if the woman had been bleeding, it was quite possible they had fed on her. But as for tearing her legs off . . . The anglers looked dubious—this wasn’t Australia!
Osborne rolled a joint. On the TV screen above the bed, the presenter of the evening news was introducing a phone-in survey on the subject of immigration. The question was: Should New Zealand remain a country of refuge? To illustrate it, there was an item about an Asian family: the story of how they’d fled their country to escape persecution, how they’d arrived in the promised land, the official steps they’d had to go through to be allowed to stay, how they’d learned the language and adapted to the culture, how the children had started school. There were images of friendly faces in the schoolyard, and of the father, who had been a teacher in Manila and was now a gardener in Auckland, ending with a close shot of the whole family sitting together on the living room couch, smiling, full of confidence in the future.
Osborne had just finished rolling his joint when the window of his room opened wide. A pair of whiskers passed through the gap, then a nose.
“You again.”
The cat put her paw down on the window sill, had second thoughts when she saw the man on the bed, then jumped anyway. She threw him an anxious look, then, as he didn’t react, gave a miaow and moved her sluggish belly about the room. She was searching for something, but she couldn’t find what she was looking for either.
On the TV screen, the presenter’s jovial face had turned to a grimace. To the question Should New Zealand remain a country of refuge? 11% of respondents had answered Yes, 87% No—the other 2% was made up of idiots who’d phoned in just to sat that they were undecided.
Osborne channel-hopped for a bit, noting in passing that Aetoraoa, the Maori-language TV channel, wasn’t there anymore, then switched off. The cat had jumped on the coffee table and was now staring at him dumbly with her big yellow eyes. He gave her a name—Globule—patted her head and put her outside. After which, he looked through his notes.
The hatchet that had once belonged to the chief of the Ngati Kahungunu had been stolen, in spite of Nick Melrose’s security system, without leaving any sign of a break-in. Zinzan Bee belonged to the same tribe. Just a coincidence? In his last radio message to headquarters, Fitzgerald claimed that he’d killed him, but his body had never been found. Osborne didn’t believe in ghosts. That was all bullshit. No, whoever had carried out the robbery must have had keys.
Auckland was going to sleep, cradled by the Pacific. Culhane had offered to pick him up and take him to the reception, but Osborne had refused. He sat down on the window sill and smoked his joint, waiting for the sun to fade.
* * *
Osborne parked the Chevrolet. It was a mild night. His hands in his pockets, Osborne walked to the entrance hall of the Sky Tower.
Like a control tower keeping watch over the sleeping city, the building was a little higher than the surrounding skyscrapers, a long stalk of glass and concrete topped by a kind of flying saucer containing restaurants, a casino and a conference center. This was Sky City, a popular meeting place for the local jet set.
Two limousines with tinted windows were waiting at the foot of the tower. Osborne showed his newly acquired invitation to the heavies who were screening the people entering, then threw it down on the reception desk, where a guy with a bullethead pointed out the way to the elevator. Being so late, he assumed he was the last to arrive, but a large Maori woman in a smock and a younger woman were already inside. The larger woman had rivers of varicose veins on her calves, the other one had lovely bronzed legs and an attractive voice.
“Hi!”
“Hi.”
The large woman, who was standing at the back of the elevator, didn’t bat an eyelid: she had converted her welfare payments into coins and was going to gamble it all at the casino. Osborne focused on the face of the girl with the pretty legs. She was a statuesque mixed-race girl with brown skin and tied-back hair, wearing an evening dress that suited her in spite of the fact that it was quite tight on her. But what he noticed most of all about her was her expression, an expression he had seen before in other women, a kind of greedy look that whetted a man’s appetite.
She smiled at him, showing off her white teeth, as they ascended. “Going up to the top?” she said, in a surprised tone.
“Why, aren’t you?”
“Oh, yes!” She was as tall as he was, and had a very direct way of speaking. “But I can’t really see someone like you at that kind of reception.”
“Why not?”
“Have you seen your eyes?”
She gave a little laugh that ricocheted off the walls of the elevator. Osborne looked at himself in the mirror—yes, they were a bit red.
The big Maori woman got out at the casino level.
The girl grew bolder. “What’s your name?”
“Osborne.”
“Lawyer?”
“I’d have to want to defend something.”
This little conversation seemed to amuse her—her pupils were as bright as his. “Don’t tell me you’re a cop,” she said with a touch of irony.
“Don’t you like cops?”
“I don’t usually find them sexy.”
“You know a lot about the subject.”
She was still smiling. “Yes, I do.”
Her tall body was bombarding him with pheromones. He enjoyed the onslaught. There was a brief silence in the elevator, then a jolt—they had reached the top floor.
“Ann,” she said, shaking his hand.
She looked at him for a moment longer, then rushed off into the reception room, carrying a multitude of desires under her dress. Yes, lovely legs . . . Floating on a cloud of powder, Osborne joined the crowd pressing around the buffets under the eyes of uniformed waiters.
The plate-glass windows on the top floor offered a splendid view of the city, thousands of splinters of light that, given his already stoned state, seemed to him to glow with an icy phosphorescence.
Phil O’Brian, the city’s mayor, was standing by the platform with his father, Steve, a former minister in Allen’s Labor government of the eighties. His first term was coming to an end, and it was common knowledge that he was seeking a second term. The point of this little reception was to launch his campaign, at least that was what the journalists around him were expecting. His father was smiling to all and sundry, visibly proud to see his son follow in his footsteps.
The mayor was still due to speak, in what would be the media event of the evening, but for the moment Captain Timu was up on the platform, delivering a speech on the subject of law and order, supported by incontrovertible statistics, to which people were listening politely.
