Osborne looked at the list on the computer. Among the dozens of guests, he didn’t see a single Maori name.
He printed the page. Culhane watched him, intrigued.
“Where are you going?” he asked, seeing him putting his jacket on.
“To question Toby.”
* * *
Julian Long lived in an opulent-looking house some way back from the bustle of Ponsonby Road. Flowering frangipani peeped over gates. Osborne had no memory of their scent, or anything else. All he remembered was the swimming pool.
There was no security camera or guard at the entrance, but there were gates, and they were closed. Osborne had just parked at the curb outside when the gates swung open and a silver-gray sedan came roaring out. He didn’t recognize the driver, but he did recognize the man sitting in the back seat: Michael Long, the mayor’s communications advisor. He must have just paid a little visit to his good-for-nothing son to tell him how the investigation was going. Osborne took advantage of the gates being open to slip into the garden.
The bees were gathering pollen along the drive. He thought he recognized the front of the house, then decided he didn’t. Two girls in bikinis were bustling around the swimming pool.
Julian Long was lying bare-chested in an exaggeratedly large garden armchair in the shade of a terrace of exotic wood. A cocktail within easy reach, he was reading the latest Harry Potter, seemingly without a great deal of concentration, and was immediately distracted by the sight of Osborne crossing the lawn.
“Who are you?” he said, sitting up.
Julian Long was about thirty, redheaded, thickset, his shoulders covered in freckles. From his glassy eyes, it was clear to Osborne that he was drunk. So far, so good: he hadn’t recognized him.
“I have a few questions to ask you,” he said, showing his badge.
“What about? I told your colleagues everything a hundred times.” Julian had a voice as thin and reedy as the birds chirping in the garden.
“It won’t take long,” Osborne replied.
Disturbed by Osborne’s strange smile, Julian consented to put down his book but not his glass. Behind him, the bikini-clad girls had been watching the scene. They whispered something to each other, laughed nervously for a moment, then dived into the turquoise water. Osborne peered at the huge picture windows that led into the living room. Again, he had no memory of them.
“Was that your father who just left?” he asked.
“Is it him or me you want to see?”
“What does he think about the death of Ann Brook?”
“Why don’t you ask him?”
Julian was determined to say nothing. His father had been categorical: this whole murder thing was sordid enough without his blabbing to anyone.
“Your father’s harder to get hold of than you are,” Osborne said. “Did he know Ann?”
“He was her boss,” Julian replied with a shrug. “But you know how things are in a big company.”
“No, I don’t.”
“Too bad.”
Julian Long sipped a little of his cocktail, then put it back down on the arm of his chair.
Osborne stuck the list under his nose. “Did you do this?”
“Er . . . yes.”
“Where are the two Maoris?”
Julian frowned. “What Maoris?”
“The ones who were here the night Ann Brook was murdered,” Osborne said in a toneless voice.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Osborne was bluffing. The two Maoris he had glimpsed by the swimming pool that night might well have English names, but this idiot wouldn’t be able to lie to him for long.
“Don’t try to be clever with me, Julian,” he said, changing tone. “You might live to regret it. There were two Maoris with tattoos here the other night and they’re not on your list. Why?” He moved closer, until his shadow fell over Julian.
Julian raised his paranoid little eyes. “I . . . What makes you say that?”
“You didn’t put them down on your list because they supplied you with drugs, is that it? You and your friend Ann.”
He dropped the pack of datura on the garden table.
Julian went red, like a little boy caught doing something wrong. He knew he was drunk, it was as obvious as the nose on his face, and he’d never been good at lying, maybe that was why he’d never amounted to anything, and now this cop, who seemed to know a hell of a lot about him, had come here to harass him.
“Hard, soft, or both?” Osborne insisted.
