“If there is one, it’s in Moore’s desk. And don’t think I’m going to get it for you. I’ve already done too much that I shouldn’t.”
“A pity.”
“Why, what are you thinking?”
“Poison. Is it possible to see the body?”
“Joanne Griffith’s body? It was taken to the crematorium this morning.”
“Already?”
“You’re forgetting how badly decomposed it was.”
That also meant that there wouldn’t be any other tests. There was a brief silence on the telephone.
“Can we meet?”
“Meet? Er . . . yes. When?” Amelia’s heart was pounding.
“How about in an hour?” he said. “On the beach at Devonport, near the fastfood stands. It’s only five minutes from the Institute.”
“I’ll be there.”
She would go anywhere.
* * *
Auckland lay on the other side of the bay. Osborne was sitting on the warm sand, smoking one of his chemical cigarettes, well away from the little group of holiday-makers that had formed in front of the steps. The breeze was sweeping the beach at Devonport, taking away the smells of fried food from the nearby stand. He was thinking about Ann, what they had been through, the ditch that had swallowed her . . .
“How are you?”
Amelia Prescott was wearing tight pants and a blouse that held in her wasplike waist. Osborne hadn’t even heard her coming. It was as if she had been flying on the back of the sand.
“You should get more sleep,” she said, seeing his face. “I don’t know what you’ve been up to, but you look ten years older.”
“That’s ten fewer years to worry about,” he replied.
Amelia’s smile was so light, it wafted away on the breeze. “You wanted to see me?” she said, sitting down on the sand.
“Yes. It’s about Joanne Griffith again. I read your test results, but I just can’t put the pieces together.”
“What pieces?” Amelia was sitting very close to him, as if seeking shelter from the wind.
“I’m investigating a burglary at the house of Nick Melrose,” he said. “He’s a businessman with lots of irons in the fire. One of the companies he owns is Century, the construction company Joanne Griffith worked for. You and I both know that Griffith was poisoned. I don’t know how the killer managed to get hold of such a large quantity of tutu, but he clearly knew her habits and timetable. The killer or killers transported the body all the way to Karekare before throwing it in the sea. I think she was bled to attract the sharks.”
“Bled?”
“The sharks ate her up to the trunk but no wounds were found on her upper body. Griffith was bleeding, though. There must have been a wound on her legs.”
“The femoral artery?
“It’s possible.”
Amelia frowned: she, too, lacked enough to go on. “Do you think Joanne Griffith was bled to make sure the sharks would dispose of her body?” she asked.
“I don’t know. Probably. I’m also investigating the Kirk case. That’s the serial killer who was shot down some time ago. Did you hear about that?
“Of course. I heard it was quite a disaster for the police here. In fact it was after the internal reorganization that I was transferred to Auckland. But what’s the connection with Joanne Griffith?”
“Kirk removed bones from his victims’ bodies,” Osborne said. “A mass grave was found with several bodies but the femurs had disappeared.”
Amelia was starting to follow his logic. “And you’re wondering if Joanne Griffith could also have fallen into Kirk’s hands. That’s forgetting one thing: he’s dead.”
“Which means he had accomplices. Kirk had protection from someone, and he wasn’t the only one. The police officer leading the investigation was on the trail of a former Maori activist named Zinzan Bee, but he killed himself before the case was fully solved.”
Now they were getting there!
“Do you mean Fitzgerald?”
“Yes,” he said. “Did you know him?”
“No, but I heard you worked with him,” she said, evasively. She really didn’t talk to talk about it. Tom Culhane had told her that Osborne hadn’t yet gotten over his friend’s suicide.
“I’ve been following Fitzgerald’s lead,” he said, “but Zinzan Bee has dropped out of sight.”
