“Wait for me!” Tom cried. “Rosie!”
But she didn’t slow down. It was an embarrassing situation: he did not dare cry out too loudly with all these people watching them.
He caught up with her in the lobby. “Rosie—”
“Where were you?” she said without looking at him.
“In a meeting with the captain that went on forever. I’m sorry, I couldn’t get away.”
“You never can.”
“Listen, Rosie—”
They went out through the double doors.
“Please don’t try to justify yourself. Just go back to work. I can get home without you.”
Rosemary had stopped at the top of the steps. She adjusted her scarf, looking scornful and hurt. Patches of red had appeared on her neck.
“We can have lunch together,” he said. “There’s a little restaurant not far from here.”
In the park next to the hospital, a mother was carrying her baby as if it was broken. Rosemary turned her head away. The cell phone emitted its metallic samba tune. Culhane hesitated for a moment—his wife was on the verge of tears—cursed, and took the call.
“Tom?”
It wasn’t Timu but Osborne. Instinctively, he turned toward Rosie—she was just leaving—and pressed the phone against his jacket. “Rosie! Wait!”
But his wife was fleeing from him. Her little round figure ran down the steps of the hospital, deaf to his calls. He cursed again. If only she knew everything he’d done for her!
“Yes?” he said, still confused. “I’m sorry, what were you saying?”
At the other end of the line, Osborne’s voice sounded slurred. “Any news about the Ann Brook postmortem?
Culhane quickly recovered his composure. “All departments have received copies of the report. It’s dynamite. Ann Brook was raped before she was killed. They found sperm in her vagina. To be precise, three different sets of sperm.”
“Three?”
“Yes,” Culhane confirmed. “That’s why her body was moved. The girl was raped somewhere before she was killed and dumped near the factory. We don’t yet know who did this, but we’re not dealing with petty crooks. With a bit of luck, we can find a DNA match in our database.”
Osborne knew they would find his own DNA in Ann’s body, but sperm from three other men . . .
“They also found hair on her clothes,” Culhane went on. “That’s also gone to the lab. They’ve drawn up a list of ex-cons, criminals, and other psychopaths.”
“Any suspects yet?”
“A few witness statements but, if there is a suspect, Gallagher is keeping him under wraps.”
Not a word about sperm in her stomach. Once having established that Ann had been raped, Moore must have concentrated on her vagina.
“Did you see Ann Brook’s body?” Osborne asked.
“It’s Gallagher and Timu who are dealing with the case. The postmortem is over and Ann’s mother is moving heaven and earth for the funeral to take place as quickly as possible. The poor woman must be desperate to mourn her daughter properly.”
“When’s the funeral?”
“Tomorrow, I think. Why, have you found something?”
“Maybe.”
“You sound odd, you know. Are you OK? Do you need a hand?”
But Osborne had hung up.
* * *
The moon was making circles in the water. On the other side of the bay, the quays of Auckland glittered like fireflies.
Emerging from his fog, Osborne had finally got up. A huge lump had come up on his skull but the stitches seemed to be holding out. Leaving the ice packs and the living room couch, he had stepped out into Amelia’s garden, as far as the wooden guardrail that looked out over the sea. He was smoking, lost in thought.
Questions like so many empty bubbles. The hatchet that had once belonged to the chief of the Ngati Kahungunu tribe had been stolen from Melrose’s house following the carnage caused by the arrest of Kirk and the discovery of the mass grave. Fitzgerald had subsequently killed himself, without giving any explanation, and Zinzan Bee, Kirk’s supposed accomplice, had disappeared. Only Sam Tukao had been tortured before he was executed. Why? Because he had signed the bill of sale of those Maori lands? What had happened to the femurs?
Meanwhile, the mayor’s twin sons and his communications adviser hung out with Ann Brook at the trendiest swingers’ club in the city. Why had she been murdered? Because she was, among other things, Long’s mistress? Had Ann found out something she wasn’t supposed to know? And what about Will Tagaloa, the doorman at the Phoenix? Why was he away at this particular time? Clearly not to avoid being questioned by the police, because no one in the club had been questioned.
Osborne lit another cigarette, then stubbed it out. He was starting to feel dizzy. The events went around in a loop in his tired mind. Karikari Bay was home to ancient Maori pas. Melrose had undertaken the project with the help of the elder O’Brian and the complicity of Tukao. Joanne Griffith had handled the money side of things, but what about Ann Brook? What did a young model have to do with any of this? Osborne must have left her around four in the morning. Death had been estimated around five. That didn’t leave much time for the killers to grab her, rape her and dump her body near the disused sawmill. Unless they had been at Julian Long’s party . . .
