But in the spirit of the times, they had tried to bandage the wounds. Those Maoris considering themselves downtrodden could now register their complaints with the Tribunal, presided over by a Maori judge, which had been given the task of interpreting the famous Treaty of Waitangi, in both its two versions. Complaints dating all the way back to the colonial period were taken into account. The conclusions had to be submitted to Parliament for legislation, but the tribunal reserved the right to impose the application of their recommendations. In spite of this process of national reconciliation, some still considered themselves wronged and continued to claim their ancestral lands. Zinzan Bee was one of them.
Osborne had put Culhane on the case. He was interested to see what the sergeant came up with.
* * *
“Hello, Josie?”
“Hello, Captain!”
Why did she always insist on addressing him by his rank?
“Is Mark alright?” Timu asked.
“Oh yes! We had a painting workshop today. He loves it! Do you want me to call him? He’s in the TV room with the others, but it’ll only take me a couple of minutes.”
“No, no, don’t disturb him! Just tell him I’m dropping by later. About six.”
“No later than that, all right?” she said cheerfully. “We eat at seven and you know Mark doesn’t like to be disturbed at mealtimes!”
“I’ll be there at six.”
Timu said good-bye to Josie and hung up, teeth clenched—his bladder was hurting. He took one of Dr. Beevan’s pills, and was soon able to walk normally.
At the age of fifty-three, Jon Timu didn’t feel old, just sick. But that was all old age was. That latent state that gradually excludes you from the community of the healthy, the living. Even though everyone has to die one day, disease introduces a kind of countdown, the end point of which only those who’ve been sentenced to death really know. Timu felt as if he was under fire. Apart from Beevan, nobody knew about his cancer. Not even Mark—especially not Mark. It was a secret as jealously guarded as the circumstances of his wife’s death.
The sun was shining on the headquarters parking lot. In spite of everything, it was a lovely day. Timu was just approaching his old BMW when he saw Osborne leaning against the door, his hands in the pockets of his black suit.
“I need to talk to you,” Osborne said.
“I’m in a hurry,” Timu replied. “What do you want to talk about?”
“Fitzgerald.”
As Osborne clearly wasn’t in a good mood, Timu assumed a vaguely paternalistic tone. “You’re having difficulty accepting his death, is that it?”
Osborne had no intention of beating about the bush. “Don’t piss me around, Timu. Fitzgerald suspected Zinzan Bee of being Malcolm Kirk’s accomplice. Kirk himself practiced some kind of blood ritual. The corpses found in the mass grave where he buried his victims had had bones removed. Femurs. Don’t tell me you weren’t aware of that. I’ve heard a pile of bullshit about this Zinzan Bee, now I’d like to hear what bullshit you come out with.”
Timu frowned, but held back his anger. “You were given the job of tracking down a burglar, not digging up the bodies Fitzgerald left behind.”
“I don’t believe he killed himself.”
“But it’s the truth.” Timu laughed. “Is that why you agreed to come back? My God, if it is, you’re barking up the wrong tree. Fitzgerald killed himself with his service revolver at the Medico-Legal Institute in Devonport. There were several witnesses, not to mention the ballistics report. It was a premeditated act! Fitzgerald shot himself, Osborne. As painful as it may be for you to admit that, you’re going to have to get it into your head!”
A breeze blew through the deserted parking lot.
“In that case, why get rid of the bodies?”
Timu sighed noisily—this guy really was stubborn. “We didn’t get rid of any bodies, as you put it, all we did was keep quiet about some especially nasty details that would only have made people more scared than they already are. I don’t like the media stirring things up. Private security firms and alarm manufacturers are already doing enough business as it is.”
Timu opened the door of the BMW, but Osborne wouldn’t budge. “On the one hand you preach zero tolerance, on the other you hide facts vital to the case. Why?” His eyes flashed in the sun.
“What case?”
“Fitzgerald.”
Timu shook his big head. “You don’t get it, Osborne, you really don’t get it! There is no Fitzgerald case, there’s a Kirk case with some loose ends and a suspect at large, Zinzan Bee. I’m keeping some information to myself so as not to alarm the public needlessly with stories about a Maori shaman out for blood. I’m planting seeds and seeing what grows. You’re one of those seeds.”
Osborne didn’t trust him. Timu had sick eyes.
“Is Melrose’s hatchet another of your seeds?”
“Possibly,” Timu replied. “How far are you with that?”
“Zinzan Bee is nowhere to be found,” Osborne conceded. “All I know is that he was one of the protesters at Bastion Point.”
A group of police officers was approaching. Timu looked at his watch. Six o’clock: he was already late. He threw himself down on the front seat of the BMW.
“What I’ve just told you is confidential,” he said, conspiratorially, “and I’d like it to stay that way. The other reason the press hasn’t been told some things is that I don’t want my predecessor’s memory sullied.”
And with that, Timu switched on the ignition and drove off to see his son.
* * *
