Melrose shook his head. “Never heard of him,” he said with aristocratic disdain. “Why, do you suspect this Zinzan Bee of being the burglar? For what motive?” His eel-like eyes had narrowed.
“I don’t know,” Osborne admitted. “But not everyone’s a fan of your books.” He pointed at the laptop. “Have you ever received threats?”
“What do you mean, threats?” Melrose said, turning crimson. “From elements in the Maori community, is that what you’re getting at?”
“Yes.”
Melrose showed his teeth, which were so white they were like something out of a commercial. “What I think of the Maori community is nobody’s business but mine,” he said, testily. “I don’t care if people approve of my ideas or not. This is a free country, as far as I know, and everyone’s entitled to express his opinion.”
Osborne had clearly hit a raw nerve. “Your books attack the workings of the Waitangi tribunal and the ministry dealing with the negotiations,” he said, deliberately trying to needle him. “That’s something else that must make you a lot of potential enemies, especially among the Maoris. A good reason for this Zinzan Bee or one of his Maori comrades to bear you a grudge.”
He was trying to lure Melrose onto dangerous ground, and Melrose was only too ready to oblige.
“You want to know what I really think? Well, it’s quite simple. Listen carefully to what I’m going to tell you, Lieutenant Osborne. When the Maoris landed in New Zealand, they found the Morioris, the first natives of the island. You know what they did to them? They exterminated them, then ate them. Yes, ate them. All of them. Do you understand? They ate them!” He had started talking more quickly now. “The Maoris are a warrior people, incapable of blending into our society, let alone our civilization. When we think of the Maori wars, we often forget that the worst massacres were committed by the Maoris themselves, through disputes between tribes that had no other purpose than to wage war. The reason the musket proved more effective than the hatchet was that our technology was already superior to theirs. That’s a historical fact, and I don’t see how anyone can question it. The Maoris were so fascinated by our weapons that they sold their lands to get hold of them and subjugate their neighbors. Some tribes even formed alliances with the Whites to exterminate the neighboring tribes! Violence is second nature to them. They carried out systematic massacres followed by what amounted to orgies of cannibalism, and it took the coming of European civilization for cannibalism and all those other bloodthirsty practices to be banned. We bought some of their land, we assimilated them, we brought them progress and wealth. Without us, they’d still be tearing each other to pieces on one pretext or another! The Maoris have taken advantage of our system for decades, but the welfare state’s over. Our society has evolved, and the Maoris have to evolve with it, like every other community. The problem is that they’ve been given too much special help over the years, and now they prefer to get drunk rather than work; they barely feed their children, which means we have to provide a glass of milk for them at school; they beat their wives, when the wives themselves aren’t squandering their welfare money at the casino or on the lottery. They steal, they deal drugs, the most violent of them rape and kill old ladies, and as for the so-called activists, the defenders of Maori rights, all they’re fit for is to demand money through the Waitangi Tribunal. That ridiculous tribunal is a real meal ticket for them! And who foots the bill? The taxpayer, of course! I’m saying out loud what everyone thinks but keeps to themselves, and nothing and nobody is going to stop me! The Maoris are parasites. The proof of that is that they don’t produce a thing! Not a thing!”
His eyes were flashing with unsated anger. He reminded Osborne of the Beauceron at the gate.
“Maybe the Maoris have something else to offer,” Osborne said simply.
Melrose shook his head as if they weren’t talking about the same thing. Now was the moment to provoke him.
“You also speak at conferences and other revisionist events,” he said, “especially in South Africa.”
This time, Melrose went really crimson. “What is it you want?” he growled. “Trouble? I don’t like your methods, Lieutenant. Who exactly are you investigating? Me, or the burglar who robbed me?”
Osborne dodged the question. “Whoever carried out the burglary knew the layout of this place and had a copy of the keys. I’m trying to find out how he stole them from you or your daughter, and if the woman washed up at Karekare was part of your circle. Did your daughter know Joanne Griffith?”
Melrose’s anger was making his temples throb. “My daughter doesn’t associate with accountants!” he roared. “And since you brought up the subject, let me just tell you that the next time you try it on with my daughter, I’ll have you prosecuted for sexual harassment and corruption of a minor! I don’t know what you said or did to Melanie the other night, but you won’t get off so lightly next time!” As a father, he clearly regarded this as a key point. “In the meantime, I want results. You’re a Maori specialist, aren’t you?”
No doubt about it: the man was an impressive speaker, if nothing else.
* * *
A few girls were shouting themselves hoarse at the bar of the Debrett Hotel. Osborne put his elbows on the counter and ordered a vodka from Kieren.
“How’s the nose? Any better?”
Only the bridge was still covered by a Band-Aid, but the nose was still swollen and had started to turn yellow.
“I can breathe.”
Osborne sucked a few lemon slices and drank half the glass.
It was a Friday, the employees of the Central Business District were showing their credit cards, and the girls their cleavages, but he wasn’t feeling any better. He felt tired, dead beat, all in. The case wasn’t progressing, Hana and her grandfather had disappeared, the Maori community had clammed up about Tukao and Zinzan Bee, he had managed to turn everyone, or almost everyone, against him, the pills were making his skull itch, there was a vague sense of menace in the air, and his whole life was vanishing before his very eyes, like those wreaths of cigarette smoke.
“By the way,” Kieren said suddenly, sliding a brown envelope across the counter, “a girl dropped this in for you. A bit on the small side, but pretty as a picture,” he added, with a wicked smile.
Osborne opened the envelope.
Dear Paul Osborne, he read.
As you may know, I’m a conscientious and far-sighted young woman. If you’re reading this, it means you weren’t at your hotel when I dropped by. I’d have preferred to talk to you about all this in person, but it was not to be. So much for my far-sighted side. As far as my conscientious side is concerned (don’t worry, I take good care of myself), I ran your tests personally. You know, the hair taken from that poor Miss Griffith. Just imagine, it took me ages to find what it was. I mean, the unusual substance contained in that hair. Have you ever heard of tutu, Paul? It took me a whole night to figure out its chemical composition! For your information, tutu is a plant, a kind of shrub native to your country, from which a fruit is extracted. Inside the fruit, very concentrated, is a substance that in large doses is a poison. The hair was soaked in it, so I think we can be pretty certain that Miss Griffith absorbed a certain amount, enough to knock her out, or even kill her. But did that happen before or after she drowned? It’s important to bear in mind that there’s no way that absorbing tutu in a fruit, even a lot of fruit, could have caused such a high level of toxicity. So she must have ingested it in a concentrated form. I also found traces of food (fish, tomato, onion) and a small quantity of alcohol (white wine from a local vineyard). No drugs.
I’m not sure what difference it makes to the case, as it’s now Lieutenant Gallagher who’s in charge. But anyway, I thank you from the bottom of my heart for making me stay up all night over my microscopes (the house is full of them, I keep them instead of pets), I hadn’t said hello to them for a while. Don’t thank me, it’s not your style.
No hard feelings.
It was signed A.
Amelia.
Osborne put the envelope back down on the bar counter and ordered another vodka. A double—it was certain now, Joanne Griffith had been murdered.
8.
Hana had found him first. Paul didn’t know what she was trying to tell him with her stone, but she hadn’t come to the Kmart in Newmarket by chance. For two days he turned the question over in his mind, without result.
At noon on the third day, after work, as Paul was recovering the books he’d lifted a while earlier, the head of personnel caught him red-handed. Gibson couldn’t stand him, everyone knew that, so he wasn’t going to let this opportunity pass him by.
