Kneaded between the captain’s thick fingers, the cigarillo was gradually crumbling to pieces.
“I don’t know what more you want!” he cried behind a screen of smoke. “A young girl raped then beaten to death with an iron bar, the media hanging us out to dry, and now Lieutenant Gallagher seriously maimed!”
Osborne lit a cigarette. “Why don’t you just give him a medal?”
That made Timu crush what little remained of his cigarillo. “I don’t know what you’re playing at, Osborne, but you’ll live to regret your insolence.”
Still no reaction. Seized with a sudden coughing fit, Timu loosened his shirt collar, almost strangling himself in the process. “What were you doing there anyway?”
“I heard the call go out on the radio,” Osborne replied, flicking his ash away. “As I was in the area, I thought they might need me.”
“The police don’t need people like you!” Timu retorted, red in the face. “Who gave you permission to go in?”
“The guys holed up in that house were Maoris. Gallagher has his methods, he might have needed mine.”
“Tell me about it!”
“Without me they’d all be dead,” Osborne replied. “Gallagher was out to kill.”
“Lieutenant Gallagher knows what he’s doing!” Timu cried, beside himself now. “That’s why he’s head of the Criminal Investigation Department! You shouldn’t have gone in! And you haven’t answered my question. What were you doing in South Auckland?”
Osborne stubbed out his cigarette in an ashtray always strewn with the remains of Timu’s cigarillos. “I was looking for some Maoris. Three brothers who I suspect of being involved in the Melrose burglary. These could have been the same people. I was on their trail when I heard the call go out.”
“How did you know the men in the house were Maoris?”
“Sergeant Culhane told me.”
Which made Sergeant Culhane an idiot. Unless Osborne was lying. It didn’t matter now, anyway. Either way, Gallagher was out of action.
“Who are these men you’re talking about?” Timu cried irritably.
“I don’t really know. They don’t have records. I went to their last known address, their father’s house, but he claims he hasn’t seen them in weeks.”
“And?”
“I believe him.”
Timu stretched his trunk-like neck. “Are you pulling my leg? Who are these men?”
“Three brothers,” Osborne said again. “One of them worked in a nightclub. I questioned him but he slipped between my fingers.”
Timu coughed again, and gritted his teeth because of his bladder. “Their names!”
“Dooley. Mick, Bruce and Joe Dooley. Three brothers, who’ve all dropped out of sight.”
The two men looked at each other, both on the defensive.
“What about Zinzan Bee?” Timu asked. “Where have you gotten with him?”
“Nowhere.” Osborne’s face was as impassive as it was feverish, but he was lying.
“I want a report on this case,” Timu ordered. “A detailed report. And I want it now! I’d advise you to get down to it immediately, it’ll be your main defense when you come up in front of the disciplinary hearing!”
Osborne didn’t bat an eyelid, barely even nodded.
As he was about to leave the office, Timu said balefully, “Watch out, Osborne. I know you’re a pain in the ass and a notorious alcoholic, but I also know you’re an excellent shot.”
Under his heavy eyelids and his somewhat medieval manner, Timu was no fool.
The vise was closing in.
* * *
Culhane was chewing a snapper, eyes fixed on the computer screen. The corpses of fries lay on the newspaper. He looked up and saw Osborne, who had just come back from his meeting with the captain.
“Well?” he asked.
“He thinks I’m great.”
Two huge lumps were coming up under his dark hair. His eyes too seemed in a bad way. Culhane had asked what had happened to him, and had been told to mind his own business.
“Anything new on the guys in the house?” Osborne asked, leaning out of the open window.
Culhane bent toward the computer. “Ex-cons, all three of them, just out of prison . . . ” He brought up their faces on the screen, and froze the first one. “Joey Umaga. Twenty-one years old. Arrested at the age of sixteen for dealing marijuana, sentenced to six months imprisonment for grievous bodily harm, followed by probation. Nothing since last year and a car theft to pay for his doses. Did another year with his colleague Wallace: twenty-three years old, record as long as your arm, sentenced first for armed robbery, three years without remission, came out after only a year and followed Umaga into the stolen-car business. They both came out last week. The little bastards certainly didn’t waste any time. The third one’s called Jim Murray. Thirty-two, the oldest in the crew. The most dangerous too. Sentenced for rape in ’95. He’d also only just got out. Probably the leader of the gang.”
