Melanie was trying, in a gesture of impossible modesty, to hide herself from him, in vain—the bonds were too tight. The twins stood there speechless, their pants around their ankles. Osborne screwed the silencer onto his gun.
“Listen, I—”
“I said shut up!”
He passed a pair of handcuffs over the gas pipe above the window and, threatening them with the revolver, motioned them to put them on.
“One hand each,” he said, teeth still clenched. “And hurry up.”
The mayor’s sons tried to pull up their pants but with a click of his tongue, Osborne spared them the necessity. Rising on tiptoe, the twins imprisoned themselves on the pipe. Each now had one arm raised, the other trying in vain to reach his pants, his hairy legs shaking with fear. Stupid idiots. Still on the table, Melanie Melrose was trying to cross her thighs but was a long way short of being able to manage it.
Osborne untied the scarf. “Now you’re going to tell me everything you know,” he said in a toneless voice. “One lie, just one, and I’m calling your father.”
Cheeks red with shame, Melanie held her breath. Anything but her father! Nick Melrose had only one daughter but in his way he loved her enough for two. From a distance, some saw this as a kind of Victorian throwback, a stern but fair paternalist upbringing. From close-up, others regarded it as quite normal. Melanie was his treasure, his property. He had a right over her, the right to judge her, to do with her what he wanted, and also to show her the right way. She’d be grateful to him one day. In the meantime, apart from him, nobody was to touch her. She was, though, allowed to go out with the mayor’s sons, two young people from the same stratum of society, whom he considered genuine and decent. The idea that she might one day marry one of them would certainly be to his liking. Phil O’Brian, too, looked kindly on this friendship. Of course, they’d never spoken about it, but there was a kind of tacit understanding . . . A fine bunch of hypocrites, and completely without a clue.
“Is it to piss off your father that you humiliate yourself like that?”
Melanie was looking at him with eyes full of panic, still unable to speak.
Osborne leaned over her. “I’m talking to you!”
“Yes,” she replied at last.
He nodded, knowingly. While Melanie Melrose was settling scores with her father, Will Tagaloa had had all the time in the world to look through her things in the cloakroom, make a copy of the keys and burglarize her house at the earliest opportunity, either alone or with accomplices.
Osborne sat down on the edge of the table and looked closely at the girl. “I know pretty much everything about your contacts,” he said. “You, the two morons over there, Ann Brook. I know what links your parents and their respective employees. Now stop shaking like a scared virgin and answer yes or no. Starting now—was Ann Brook Michael Long’s mistress?”
Melanie bowed her head, tears in her eyes.
“Answer or I’ll wake your idiot of a father!”
“Yes.” Her voice was a mere breath.
“Did Ann talk to you about her relationship with Long?”
“Yes!” She was already at breaking point.
“Michael Long had enough money to treat himself to a young model without making waves,” Osborne went on. “Apart from a few knickknacks, Ann wasn’t the kind to ask him for too much, let alone a child. Only she had one big defect. She talked too much. Is that why she was killed?”
Melanie burst into tears.
“Was she killed because she knew about their schemes? What about you, did you know? Schemes that had something to do with the mayoral campaign. Did Ann talk to you about that, too?”
She was stammering but her eyes were an open book.
“Your father is financing O’Brian’s reelection campaign with the proceeds from the land at Karikari Bay,” Osborne continued. “A deal worth tens of millions of dollars, which should generate a few suitcases full of cash, shouldn’t it?”
Melanie shook her head. “I . . . I don’t know how exactly that works.”
With shared interests and shared ideas—such as zero tolerance—Melrose and O’Brian were a natural match. But, in accordance with the spirit of the times, the tone was becoming harsher. Security, repression, criminalization, the strong against the weak, the rich against the poor, those who make the lies and those who swallow them: the same phenomenon was appearing all over the West. New Zealand certainly wouldn’t escape it.
Melanie was still pulling on her bonds, to no avail.
“Why’s the Phoenix under surveillance?” Osborne insisted. “Because of the VIPs that sometimes pay it a visit?”
“I don’t know!”
She started moaning and writhing on the table. At the other end of the room, the twins stood there with clenched buttocks.
“You went to the Phoenix. You and who else?”
“Not many people know about it,” Melanie muttered. “Michael went to the club with Ann but not very often. She usually went with us.”
“Why?”
“We met through Julian Long. It’s a young person’s thing. My father doesn’t know, nor does theirs”—and here she looked toward her two friends.
“You saw Ann the night she was murdered.”
It wasn’t a question.
“Yes,” Melanie said. “At the club. I was afraid I’d be questioned, but nothing happened.”
She seemed genuine enough but she was sadly mistaken. The Phoenix was under surveillance. Timu and Gallagher were working hand in glove with the mayor. O’Brian knew that his communications adviser was involved with Ann Brook and frequented a swingers’ club. Ann talked too much, and so did Long. There was a danger she’d screw everything up.
“Do you know who killed Ann?” Osborne asked.
Melanie shook her head, but at the same time bit her lips. She must have had her suspicions.
