Every summer, the media made a big fuss about the latest record temperatures, inviting experts to pronounce on the greenhouse effect, the hole in the ozone layer, the increase in carbon emissions, the atomic tests in the Pacific, any of which might disturb the tropical climate of this country where nothing ever happened. But since the body of a young model had been found on a waste ground on the outskirts of Auckland, the summer heat had been forgotten, and special editions had been devoted to urban violence—with forty-six days to kill before the start of the America’s Cup.
Timu had held a press conference that morning, informing the journalists of how the investigation was progressing. For his part, the mayor was assuring everyone that everything would be done to catch and punish the criminals. These exceptional measures would not only be applied to this case but for the whole duration of his term in office—his next one, that is. The media passed on the information.
In her way, Ann Brook had become a star. The picture being drawn was of a young mixed-race girl from one of the poorer parts of Auckland who, through hard work, had become the icon of Michael Long’s famous agency, Kiwi, which encompassed modeling, advertising, and communications. In spite of being a prominent model, Ann Brook hadn’t denied her origins. She took care of her poor mother, who had brought her up alone and still lived on the outskirts of the city. This model of cultural adaptation had probably aroused the hatred and jealousy of petty criminals from her original environment, since the outrages the unfortunate girl had suffered bore all the hallmarks of a revenge killing, a revenge as blind as it was savage.
Osborne switched off the radio. After four hours’ driving in heavy rain, he was back in Auckland and its smells of asphalt.
He had stopped at Whangarei to have a coffee and read carefully through the bill of sale—two things that had made him nauseous. The lawyer’s jargon was mostly gibberish to him and the whole mechanism of the sale was almost incomprehensible—he would have to ask for help from a specialist. He had questioned the Tukao widow before leaving. Although she didn’t seem to know anything about her husband’s shady dealings, she had ended up by admitting to him that the two cops who had come from Auckland suspected Sam of being connected with a big deal and had told her that it was in her best interests—in fact, in everyone’s interests—to keep quiet until more was known about it.
He had finally arrived.
Night was falling over Khyber Pass Road by the time he parked the car. A grim avenue on the outskirts, a few modest signs, general stores and groceries closed at this hour, and graffiti scrawled on the posters. Osborne walked to the small house on the corner of the street.
Gallagher and his team must have questioned Ann Brook’s mother at length. Amanda—that was her first name, according to Culhane—must be a bit freer now. A small sedan was parked in the drive: the latest Ford. The little garden had only a handful of geraniums, and the shutters had been repainted green. A halo of light filtered through the curtains. Osborne knocked at the door—the bell wasn’t working.
Ann’s mother soon appeared, a solid Maori woman dressed in a threadbare bathrobe. The short nightdress she was wearing under it, on the other hand, was very chic.
“Sorry to disturb you,” he said, gravely. “I’d like to ask you a few questions about Ann. It won’t take long.”
Moths were fluttering under the flyblown lightbulb hanging at the entrance. Amanda sized up the man in black waiting at the foot of the steps.
“Are you a policeman?”
“Yes.” Osborne stepped forward into the light.
“I’ve already told your people everything I know,” Amanda said, her tired features softening a little, although she still didn’t let him in. “Only yesterday, they turned the house upside down. Don’t you think I’ve seen enough?”
There was no resentment in her voice, just fatigue and a veil of sadness over her fine brown eyes.
“I knew Ann a bit,” Osborne said, glancing over her shoulder. “Would it disturb you if I came in for a couple of minutes?”
She pulled her bathrobe more tightly around her and, with a contrite look on her face, invited him in. The living room was quite plain: a threadbare couch, two armchairs with old-fashioned patterns, a Formica table with an empty vase on it. Amanda offered him a coffee, which he accepted. Although the wallpaper dated from the previous century, the TV set was brand new, a flat screen TV with DVD and all the satellite crap that went with it.
“A present from Ann?” he asked.
The question brought tears to her eyes. She nodded and went to get the coffee. Amanda lived hand to mouth, working as a cleaning woman for wealthier people in adjoining neighborhoods. It was clear that as well as the TV and the Ford parked outside, the fitted kitchen and the nightdress were presents from her daughter.
“Ann spoiled you, I see,” he said.
Amanda agreed: she couldn’t have bought all these things with her meager wages and state welfare. They had lived together in this house and, as there wasn’t much of a future in this neighborhood, Amanda had saved what little she earned to pay for her daughter’s studies, so that Ann at least could escape.
“What about her father?” Osborne asked.
“Hah!” she said immediately. “He left when she was born.”
That was one thing they had in common.
“Did Ann come to see you often?” he went on.
“At least once a month,” she replied. “Always with a nice gift. She was generous, I’ll say that for her! I sacrificed myself for her, yes, but she paid me back a hundredfold.” Her eyes clouded over again.
“Do you know the people she saw?” he said gently.
“Oh, not at all,” Amanda said, without hesitation. “But they certainly weren’t people like me, or like anyone from around here. Advertising, that’s something quite different.”
The poor woman didn’t know the half of it.
“Do you have any idea what Ann earned?”
Amanda raised her eyes to heaven. “It must have been nearly two thousand dollars a week. She was starting to make a name for herself. I seem to remember she received bonuses as well.”
She was way off beam. The fitted kitchen, the car outside, the TV set, all that must have come to sixty thousand dollars at the very least, not to mention the coupé and the nighttime excursions . . .
“Did Ann talk to you about her boyfriends?” he asked, taking the cup of coffee she handed him.
“Good Lord, no.”
“Her friends?”
“To tell the truth, Ann mostly talked about her work. It’s such a different world to me.”
Her distress was really painful to witness. Osborne felt uncomfortable. Amanda told him a few anecdotes about when Ann was a child—to hear her, she had remained a child—anecdotes that seemed strangely out of place now. Amanda took her daughter for an angel. That wasn’t entirely false, but was still a long way from reality. Her contacts in the local jet set, her nighttime excursions, the weird club where she dragged her lovers: Amanda knew nothing about any of that, and basically didn’t want to know.
Osborne took his leave of her. It was late, he hadn’t eaten anything all day, and the coffee, the amphetamines, and this woman’s ravaged face were making his stomach churn.
Before he left, Amanda caught him by the sleeve. “Tell me, sir,” she said, pathetically, “do you know who could have hurt my little girl?”
