“Listen, I’m calling because I have some information.”
“ . . . ”
“About Bastion Point.”
“Ah.”
“But listen . . . ” Culhane said hesitantly. “Are you doing anything tonight? I mean, are you free?”
Free?
“Tonight?”
Osborne sighed with irritation, but Tom was disarmingly natural.
“Come to the house,” he said. “It’s a good opportunity to talk in peace. Plus, since you arrived, we never even thought of inviting you. Rosemary has made chicken with lemon. If you’d like to join us . . . ”
Osborne looked at the wall of the room as if the wallpaper was peeling off. An invitation. That was all he needed.
Having climbed on the coffee table, Globule pushed the bullets with the tips of her paws. One fell on the carpet, then another.
* * *
The Chevrolet climbed Mountain Road, passed the university with its vaguely Spanish-style architecture, and turned off into Rockwood Place, a residential neighborhood not far from the center. Osborne stubbed out his cocaine cigarette and, floating on a chemical cloud, walked to the white wooden gate.
Tom Culhane lived in a wooden house with a garden in flower, the pride of his wife. They’d bought the property with money from their respective parents who, although disapproving of the move to North Island, had released funds to help them settle. Rosemary Culhane was waiting on the path in a flowered dress. She was slightly plump and had taken some trouble with her makeup.
Tom had told her that Osborne was a “fine figure of a man,” although a bit strange. She did in fact find him impressive—the way he moved, those animallike eyes of his—but the curious smile he gave her by way of greeting sent her mixed messages.
“Rosemary,” Tom said, “this is Paul Osborne.”
Great.
They shook hands and exchanged a few words of greeting. Too hung up to be pretty, Rosemary took refuge behind her fringe. She had style, though, and nice shoulders, it was just that something had pushed her into a corner, and she huddled inside her body like a frightened animal.
Tom opened the bottle of Chardonnay that had been cooling in an ice bucket—a decent wine, he predicted. A few paces away, Rosemary stood stock-still on her square of lawn as if petrified. Their guest was staring at her as if he guessed everything about her. The situation was extremely embarrassing—you didn’t look at people like that! The embarrassment made her blush. Rosemary hadn’t known many men, let alone men like that. She felt undressed.
Toby appeared at that precise moment, quite determined to jump on the first person who showed up—in this case Osborne. In fact, the Labrador literally threw himself on him.
“Hey! Toby!”
Rosemary tried to intervene, but Osborne had already taken the dog in his arms. In a totally unexpected move, he lifted the animal and sent him flying into the middle of the lawn. Toby rolled over on the soft grass before finding his feet again.
Rosemary looked at Osborne wide-eyed.
“Very agile,” he said.
There were embarrassed smiles all round.
They soon took their seats at the garden table, which was already laid, and tasted the famous Chardonnay. There was also whisky. Toby kept circling them like a spinning top out of control, demanding games and caresses, the tip of his tail bleeding from beating it too much against the furniture. To hear them talk about his pranks, it was clear he was their surrogate child.
The alcohol relaxed them a little. Rosemary, whose shyness faded the more she drank, told a few gallant lies about what a good team they made, and then left them to their own business—she was going to check the chicken, which was apparently marinating.
The sun was slowly setting. Culhane put down his glass of wine and, comfortably settled in a wicker armchair, took advantage of his wife’s absence to open his notebook.
“It took me ages but I finally managed to put together a list of the protesters at Bastion Point,” he said, unfolding a sheet of paper. “More than a hundred Maoris, from several different tribes. But apart from Zinzan Bee, none of them belonged to the Ngati Kahungunu tribe.”
Another lead that went nowhere. His nose in a Lagavulin that tasted stongly of peat, Osborne looked through Culhane’s list, noted that half a dozen of the activists belonged to the Tainui tribe, but soon put it down. There was no mention of Pita Witkaire or Samuel Tukao.
“What exactly are you looking for?” Culhane asked. “Something to connect Zinzan Bee, Bastion Point and the theft of the hatchet?”
A bee was buzzing in Osborne’s empty glass.
“Yes. I’m also looking for Pita Witkaire, a former activist from the Tainui tribe. Six Tainui were involved in the occupation of Bastion Point, according to this list. I need to know what’s become of them.” Tom was scribbling in his notebook. “I’d also like to know if any of them have a connection with Samuel Tukao, a lawyer who practiced in Mangonui.”
“Samuel Tukao?”
“One of the bodies taken from the mass grave. The one Fitzgerald discovered.”
“He was your boss, wasn’t he?”
“Let’s say he was a friend.”
Culhane nodded gravely. “I understand.”
