One more minute. At that point, there was a sound of hurrying footsteps behind them. Well known for his strong nerves, Lieutenant Gallagher felt two blue veins bulging on his temples. Osborne. He didn’t know who had let him through the security cordon, but he had joined them now behind the wall, his head covered in scabs, a .38 in his hand.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” Gallagher growled, ready for a fight in spite of Osborne’s stitches.
“I was in the area when I heard the call go out.”
“I don’t need you.”
“Neither do I. Let’s go.”
There was no time to argue with this idiot. Gallagher cocked his revolver, put on the gas mask he was handed, and ordered his men to be ready—fifteen more seconds. Hoping a stray bullet would send Osborne back to Australia in an air ambulance, he gave the signal.
Two grenades were thrown through the windows, and expelled thick smoke on exploding. Gallagher was the first to leap forward, followed by the two young cops, who kicked the front door in. There was nothing to be seen in the smoke, just hurrying figures. The Maori crouching behind the window made a move to escape, but a high-caliber bullet fired by Gallagher perforated his stomach and neatly broke his spine. He rolled over a garden table, before a second bullet projected him against the wall.
At the back of the house, the men of the special unit were smashing in the windows. Head down, Gallagher advanced through the smoke and the shards of broken glass. Running upstairs, he met the shooter from the upper floor coming down, panicked by the tear gas, screaming incomprehensibly and waving a submachine gun. Gallagher dispatched him with a bullet full in the chest. The force of it whirled him around and he fell sideways and slid all the way downstairs, leaving a trail of blood on the wall.
Gallagher was just straightening up again, gun in hand, when a shot broke his clavicle. He let out a stifled cry and doubled over.
The third man, who was huddled against the closet, holding an iron bar, was no older than twenty. His eyes were wet with tears, and he was shaking all over. Osborne appeared just as the special unit was entering the house. He fired two shots: the first in the right shoulder of the young Maori, who dropped the iron bar, and the second into Gallagher’s knee.
* * *
The wind was quivering in the trees of the cemetery. Amanda Brook tightened her shawl around her shoulders.
A handful of the faithful had gathered before Ann’s coffin. Her face ravaged with tears, Amanda was sniffling into an already soaked handkerchief. Those who supported her huddled beneath the century-old trees, as grief-stricken as her. The coffin was lowered into the hole.
Amanda swayed for a moment, but a dozen people caught her. That black hole made her feel dizzy and at the same time attracted her. She would have liked to join her daughter, leave with her, or even take her place, she didn’t know anymore. The scene she was living through seemed so unreal, not to mention the journalists waiting outside. A few handfuls of earth fell on the coffin. Ashes to ashes, chanted the duty priest, solemn in his robe, but neither that nor the flowers decorating the grave were any consolation for her distress. Her daughter was gone, brutally raped and then beaten to death with iron bars and dumped in the rubble on a stretch of wasteland, like a human castoff.
Osborne was following the scene from a distance.
Ann’s mother had wanted her daughter to be buried in the strictest privacy, and had obtained the help of the authorities. That was why the local press had been told to keep away from the cemetery, but it was the jet set of Auckland that was most conspicuous by its absence. None of them had bothered to come. Fear of photographers? The questions he had asked Amanda hadn’t gotten him very far. Their worlds were strictly compartmentalized, and Ann hadn’t said anything to her mother about the “excellent company” she kept—he remembered the words she’d used with him on the way in to Julian’s party. Osborne would have welcomed the opportunity to say a few words to Michael Long.
Irritably, he threw away his cigarette and left the cemetery. A little earlier, taking advantage of the tear gas and the confusion that had followed Gallagher’s attack on the house, Osborne had gone to take a look at the wounded Maori. His pupils were glassy—it was obvious he was high—and he had a tattoo on his biceps. It was a very ordinary one, nothing at all like those worn by the Tagaloa brothers.
Osborne got in the Chevrolet and set off for South Auckland.
* * *
A sign for Steinlager beer was flapping weakly in the evening breeze. Osborne threw his cigarette in the gutter and walked toward the Backstreet, a bar the size of a converted hangar that looked the kind of place where brawls were the order of the day.
According to their father, the Tagaloa brothers hung out at a South Auckland bar called the Beverly. Osborne had gone there, but it had proved a fruitless visit. The brothers hadn’t been there in weeks and nobody knew what had become of them. So he had started off on a tour of crummy bars and seedy clubs, where everyone had given him the runaround. The Backstreet didn’t look much different than the others. The sidewalk was strewn with fish-and-chip papers and cigarette butts smoked down to the filter. There were also a couple of heavy-breasted Polynesian women walking up and down in front of the grimy window.
“Hi, beautiful,” he said to the larger of the two.
“Sweet Jesus!” she laughed. “It’s been a long time since anyone last gave me a compliment! Tell me, handsome, you’re new around here, aren’t you?” She dusted down her spangled mauve T-shirt: her body had vanished beneath the fat, but she had nice hands. “Name’s Pamela.”
“Congratulations.”
Pamela let out a loud laugh, soon echoed by her colleague, whose name was apparently Cindy, another girl from the islands; it was best not to talk to about love under the coconut trees. Guys with faces like bulldogs were coming out of the Backstreet. On the sidewalk, Osborne was looking at Pamela, considering the scale of the damage.
“Do you know the guys who hang out in this bar?” he asked, slipping a hundred-dollar bill into the top of her blouse.
“Wow!” she said, pocketing the money. “Well, I see them coming in and out, if you know what I mean . . . ’
“I’m looking for the Tagaloa brothers,” he said, showing her the family photograph.
She immediately lost her brave smile. “Why are you asking that? Are you a cop?”
“Yes and no,” replied Osborne. “You know them, right?”
Pamela was chewing her gum as if it was very tough. “If it’s trouble you’re looking for, you’ll find it,” she said, stiffening. “Now be good, darling, and go. Or it’s me who’s going to be in trouble if I carry on talking to you.”
Her face had collapsed, suddenly revealing her years. Thick figures could be seen behind the smoke-stained window. Music overflowed into the street. Osborne waved good-bye to Pamela, who replied with a cautious look.
Osborne felt a strong sense of trepidation as he walked into the bar. The place was full to bursting, and there was a sense of excitement in the air. The music was deafening. Up on the smoky stage, an ageing female rocker with big black Ray Bans swallowing half her alcohol-stewed face and a Stetson with silver buckles pulled down over her head was singing herself hoarse. Osborne made his way to the bar counter. There, a fat barman, shouting to make himself heard over the pounding decibels, asked him what he wanted. A beer, he shouted back.
“I’m looking for the Tagaloa brothers,” he continued, as he was being served. “I’ve been told they hang out here.”
The barman didn’t even reply. It wasn’t yet eight o’clock but most of the customers had already drunk a good half dozen pints. Osborne felt a tingling in his shoulder blades: he was sure that everyone was looking at him behind his back. This seemed like the perfect place to get your face smashed in. He paid for his Steinlager and sat down, somewhat to the side.
On the stage, the star of the evening said that she was happy to be there, that she was going to set the place on fire, that all they had to do was have a ball with her. Then the granny in cowboy boots made a signal to her guitar hero, whose name was Jacky Beelight, asked if everyone liked rock’n’roll, shook her baubles and launched into an old country standard.
