A CONFIDENTIAL AGREEMENT: A Frida Delaney Mystery, #1

By Rita Ann Ryan

A small community, broken families, a bloody murder, and an ending you won’t see coming …

When Frida Delaney returns home to New Zealand, after a self-imposed exile, the last thing she expects to find is her neighbour’s bloody body and to be caught up in a murder inquiry.

It’s an inquiry that reaches into the darkest side of politics,

Into a complicated financial intrigue, and dysfunctional families.

She just wants to sort out her own life after her mother’s death,

but can’t stand by and let someone she thinks is innocent

be unjustly accused. 

But the closer Frida gets to the truth

the more dangerous she is to the murderer.

Now she wonders -  is there one killer or a conspiracy of many?

Her ex-policeofficer father, Jack, had often told her that people and places were irretrievably broken after the crime squad came through. Secrets were unearthed and lies exposed.

Lives dismembered.

Would the sleepy seaside village of Kawa Bay ever be the same again?

A small community, broken families, a bloody murder, and an ending you won’t see coming …

When Frida Delaney returns home to New Zealand, after a self-imposed exile, the last thing she expects to find is her neighbour’s bloody body and to be caught up in a murder inquiry.

It’s an inquiry that reaches into the darkest side of politics,

Into a complicated financial intrigue, and dysfunctional families.

She just wants to sort out her own life after her mother’s death,

but can’t stand by and let someone she thinks is innocent

be unjustly accused. 

But the closer Frida gets to the truth

the more dangerous she is to the murderer.

Now she wonders -  is there one killer or a conspiracy of many?

Her ex-policeofficer father, Jack, had often told her that people and places were irretrievably broken after the crime squad came through. Secrets were unearthed and lies exposed.

Lives dismembered.

Would the sleepy seaside village of Kawa Bay ever be the same again?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Purple House Books
• Release date: Dec 4, 2016
• ISBN: 9780473367923

Book preview

Chapter One

Saturday 24

On the last night of his life Simon Arthur Burton prepared carefully for his death. He washed the dishes from his last meal, cleaned all the kitchen surfaces, and precisely hung the tea towel on its rail. Instinctively he knew if the towel edge was the length of his thumb from one end then it would be equally balanced from the other.

Balance was important. Balance, order, duty, taking responsibility for one's own actions. All these things added value to a life and substance to the world. He'd formed his own standards to live by, now he had to die by them.

He washed the cat's bowl, put out three tablespoons of fresh food, and filled up the automatic feeder until it reached an inch from the top. It would be two days before Mrs Wratten came to clean and he wouldn't want Sweetpea to go hungry in the meantime. Although his body should be found by then, if things went according to plan. His body. He took pleasure in his calm acceptance of the words.

Simon's last act seemed to trigger some feline sensor as the big fluffy cat slithered through the pet door and wound her way through his legs. He picked up Sweetpea and stroked the silky white coat, snuggling his nose into her throbbing body, feeling the comforting warmth. He would have liked to stay there suspended in the moment, not having to make the next move, but he had his list to complete. The cat stretched in his hands and then slithered down.

His iPhone buzzed to remind him it was nine o'clock. He picked it up and dialled. The voice that answered was breathy, as if they had to hurry to pick up.

Hello.

He spoke quickly, concisely. Each word enunciated. Unusually for him this was a statement of intent with no hint of negotiation. I can't do it your way.

There was a sharp intake of breath.

For fuck's sake, Simon.

I'm sorry for all the trouble I've caused. Sorry seems derisory I know, impossibly inadequate, but it's all I can say.

You selfish bastard, you won't ....

He put the phone down.

A deep breath. No time to waste. There were still other calls to make and a letter to compose. He picked up the phone again.

Two more calls later he moved to the table and started to write. After a minute he screwed up the page and threw it in the bin. He started again. Writing frantically, letting the emotions spill out. No, no, no. That wasn't right. He got up and paced.

In the living room the large sliding doors to the deck were open despite the chill of the autumn air and he stepped out to absorb Kawa Bay for the last time. A full moon illuminated the familiar outline of the Pohutakawa trees that lined the beach front. He would never see them in their full scarlet bloom again but he believed intensely the memory would be imprinted on his soul forever. The spicy, salty smell of the sea drifted on a gentle breeze and he drew it in, holding the taste in his mouth. Savouring it.

The front garden looked satisfyingly architectural in the moonlight. He'd placed every plant carefully himself. The Pene Kihitu sculpture still took pride of place, its bold fishing hook outline with the traditional Maori carving design highlighted by the outdoor lighting he'd painstakingly laid. He smiled. He'd not had to sell it because Vivien had never realised how much it cost.

He wasn't aware that time had passed until the reminder on his iPhone buzzed again. The next act was number 47 on his list. The list of 50 things to do before he died. His last action was to be at midnight.

One hour had been allocated to contemplate his life before he completed his last tasks, went to his drawer and took out the medication he had collected for this purpose. Meaningful or self-indulgent? It had seemed appropriate when he wrote it down on his list. A necessary part of his plan.

Suddenly the unfairness of what he was about to do rose up inside him and choked off his throat. He put his hand to his neck and rubbed it ferociously until he could breathe easily again. He had been told incontestably if he did not take responsibility, they would. He believed in the Christian God who offered everlasting forgiveness for terrible misdeeds. This was a belief he expected to provide him with a spiritual security in his sacrificial action. But at this moment, as panic grew inside him, he could feel no awareness of a connecting forgiving spirit.

He moved to his stereo and with shaking hands shuffled through a stack of CDs. He chose one. Within a few seconds the comforting strains of Mozart's 'Presto from string Quartet K' filled the air. He closed his eyes as he remembered.

Breathing deeply he sat down in one of the twin armchairs custom made to his own design. His eyes were drawn to six pale rectangles on the wall. The wall where his six early Robin White numbered screen prints had sat until a few months ago. Sold, at a bargain price.

His fingers began to tap on the arm of the chair. The layer of Valium he had taken in preparation seemed tissue thin and with each passing minute shredded a little more by edgy stomach juices. The large clock on the wall ticked another second by. His eyes flickered around the room before coming to rest on the three small statues brought back from a school trip to South Africa. He went to his bag and pulled out a small plastic ruler. He adjusted the distance between each statue until the spacing was once again pleasing to his sense of equilibrium and composure.

He rechecked the bedroom. Earlier that day he had washed and ironed the sheets and remade the bed. He straightened the cover and picked a tiny loose thread off the pillow and carried it through to the rubbish bin.

Comforted he sat again in the chair in which he planned to quietly, and with dignity, end his life. There was a knock at the door. He felt annoyed. This was not on his list.

He could see a shadow through the glass. He opened the door. It was the last person he could have been expecting.



In the house next door Frida Delaney couldn't sleep. She'd tossed and turned for the past hour, legs aching and restless, her body exhausted. The mattress felt hard and soft in all the wrong places. As if it was new, not familiar. And it was quiet, too quiet. The party at the old fire station down the road seemed to have broken up and only the occasional slammed car door broke the night's stillness as the last few stragglers left. The boy racers who had spun along the beach front earlier with their loud pounding stereos and backfiring exhausts had also gone home, or gone somewhere else. It was noise that was unsettling, unfamiliar. She lay on her back and attempted a relaxation technique she'd once been taught, feeling each limb in turn become soft, heavy and then sink into the mattress. She'd reached her right toe when the rattling blind that had irritated her for the past half hour stirred once more on the salt laden breeze. It whacked with a crack against the window frame and brought her crashing back to the surface.

Frida groaned. This was not working. Do something. She got up and closed the window, shivering in the old, thin flannelette pyjamas that were too short in the legs and arms. Iris had bought them when Frida was 14. Pointing out the little pink bunnies that frolicked across the cloth, her face flushed with delight. Frida had been mortified, embarrassed. But wore them to please her mother anyway. I love them, Iris, she'd said. At four she'd begun to call her parents by their first names. Jack and Iris. Perhaps even then she'd had an inkling her life would not be a normal one.

She wrapped herself in her father's old dressing gown and pulled a woollen cap over her head. Her fingers brushed her scalp as she did so and the unfamiliar prickliness of it confirmed her hair was starting to grow back. Her eyes glimpsed the corner of the old leather suitcase she'd shoved under the bed a few days before. Packed away with everything brought home with her and anything that would remind her of that life. How little it was. She'd resolved to not think about it, wonder about it, worry about it. Until it was time for a decision about her future.

Frida turned on the light at the top of the landing so she could navigate her way and tentatively squeezed past the boxes piled in a ramshackle fashion on each stair. A light cloud of dust rose as, despite her best efforts, she bumped into a pile of packages with each step.

Maybe the stairs tomorrow. Today she'd cleaned the kitchen. The satisfying smell of bleach and lemon scented cleaners greeted her as she entered. Frida opened the cupboard marked 'drinking stuff' and reached for the tin labelled 'Dilmah – loose'. The teas were lined up on one shelf and the coffees on the other. In colour order. She could have changed them around but found herself putting them back the way they’d been. A familiar disorderly order. The whole grain Vogel's bread, butter and Manuka honey were in a grocery bag on the bench. Jack had left them for her today, thinking about the practicalities as always and desperate to please. The milk was in the fridge - the label on the door almost gone after half an hour of scrubbing earlier in the day.

Twenty minutes later Frida licked the last crumbs of the toast from her lips and warmed her hands against the still hot cup. She nestled back against the cushions on the window seat and propped her head against the window frame, absorbing the tang of the sea air drifting through the open window.

If she allowed herself she could almost feel Iris' feet against hers. They would sit here last thing before bed, bare toes against bare toes, backs against the facing walls of the window seat. Barely able to reach at first and then later having to bend her knees to fit. Tell me a story, Iris, she'd say. Tell me about Pania.

And Iris would tell her the story of Pania of the reef. The beautiful maiden who lived in the sea by day but after sunset would creep on shore at night to meet with her lover Karitoki. But the other sea creatures became jealous and they came from the depths and surrounded her. They drew Pania down to the caverns of the sea, never to return to the land of the mortals. Frida shivered. For years she wouldn't swim in the sea for fear of the sea creatures until Iris convinced her they were just like large knobbly pumpkins with tentacle like stems.

As a treat they would take the 30 minute bus ride into Napier to see Pania, her arms outstretched calling for her lover. They would stand holding hands at the foot of the statue and Iris would sing the song of Pania. Her voice loud and untuneful. People stared but Iris didn't take any notice. Frida hadn't taken any notice then either.

She could almost see the sea from her bedroom window. The cabbage trees silhouetted against the night sky and the Morepork calling, couldn't for her be anywhere else but Kawa Bay. This indelible scene from her old bedroom window had sustained her soul with the ineradicable burn of home sickness through the past five years. It had welcomed her when she was four years old and 28 years later it still felt like home. The familiarity of the place enveloped her but the newness jarred. In the distance where there had always been green paddocks the orange brown of a new subdivision scarred the landscape. People wanting to be near the sea but not being able to afford a beachfront property. When she was growing up there were only a few hundred residents and she was sure she knew every one. Now, Jack said, there were more than two thousand increasing to ten thousand in the summer time. Things had changed.

She was not even sure if the same people still owned or used their baches or had sold up to add to their retirement savings. Her eyes scrolled across the streets in front of her and she wondered if she would be able to remember the street names and who lived there. She knew the Burtons were still next door and that old Doris Wratten was living around the corner at 17 Pipi Street. They had come to the funeral. The two ramshackle board and batten shacks next to the Wrattens had been knocked down and an elaborate adobe style house was being constructed. The building next door to that was still being used as a volunteer fire station and a community hall. It looked quiet now with only a couple of cars parked along the street. One of the vehicles was a dark coloured station wagon and the other an old Hillman Hunter. She recognised the Hunter's shape instantly because it was the only car she had ever owned. It could even be the same year, 1972, the number plate letters were the same. She'd loved that car. Jack had bought it for her in her last year at school, causing a stir. No other student had a car then and she'd delighted in parking it in Principal Hollowfield's car park until he threatened to have it towed and confiscated. She told 'old hollowballs' she'd take him to court if he did until Jack made her back off, telling her not to be so bloody stupid. She'd listened to Jack then.

A gate squeaked, jarring the night air. A late night visitor came out of the Burton's back gate and onto Pipi Street. The figure staggered a little dropping car keys on the road then scrabbling around to retrieve them. Had they been drinking? Should she do something? But she couldn't imagine Simon Burton allowing anyone to drive home drunk. He had always seemed the epitome of worried responsibility. As she watched the figure opened the station-wagon door and got into the driver's seat leaving the car door ajar so the light slightly illuminated the inside. She could see now the profile was feminine, the hair blonde long and curly, as the head bent and rested on the steering wheel. She wondered again whether she should do something - take the number plate perhaps - when the car door slammed, the engine started and the car drove away. It gathered speed as it moved down the street and disappeared into the darkness.

Moving away from the window she ran her hands over her face as a yawn crept up on her, soothing her body as it flowed through. She turned out the light and the clock face was illuminated in the darkness. 1.15 am. Later than she'd thought. This time her body relaxed and her mind start to drift comfortably away.



There was a glint of light and the flash of steel. Simon Burton tried to hold up his body, but couldn't help falling forward as the blade thudded into his chest. It was his promise – his part of the bargain. He struggled to sit upright. A silvery tasting stream of blood squeezed from his mouth. In some dark crevice of his mind he was surprised that there was so little pain, just the sense his body was closing down on him.

Words floated in the air. We've got to do this. It's the only way. This will be better for everybody. The voice was shaky, high pitched. The knife thrusts at first tentative and shallow, then faster, deeper. Gaining courage, seeking vindication.

The chair he was sitting in was now wet and sticky. He wanted to shift his nose away from the smell of blood and urine that rose from beneath him but lacked the capacity to move.

There was a pause. The voice changed. You're a selfish bastard. The knife glinted in the air again. The anger behind it righteous, self justified.

His attacker stood as a monster over him, grown vastly in size, inflated by power and rage. Everything you did was about you – you never thought about what it would do to anyone else or the damage you caused. You selfish, perverted, disgusting bastard.

Simon didn't want to show his fear, his unwillingness to take his punishment, but his body reacted instinctively. His mouth opened to scream but the sound never reached his lips. The noise that spurted from within him was like the last burst from a cappuccino steam spout, the milky, pinky froth resting on his lips. A trickling stream of blood ran gently through the bubbles. He coughed and the stream became a river, bursting forth and coming to rest in a pool on his lap. He looked down and wondered how he would ever get the stain out of his new merino wool jersey. It was only the second time he had worn it.

His mind was foggy, the pain dulled. A sensation of becoming weaker, of his spirit leaking out with each drop of blood. He wanted to stay upright but his sense of preservation was overwhelming. Instinctively he fell from the chair and tried to crawl out of the way of the blows.

There was a kick in his ribs, and then another. That surprised him. The stabbing he could understand, there was a purpose to it but the kicking, that was sadistic, cruel, vengeful. The metal toe caps gauged into his flesh, bruising and tearing, and he wondered if they had been put on especially to further hurt and humiliate. Desperately he wanted to cry out, to explain, to plead. But no sound would come. He tried to curl out of the way but that just seemed to infuriate his attacker further.

Out of the corner of his eye he could see the white coated figure moving with a new weapon in hand. His eyes opened wide in terrified anticipation before most of his head was blown away.

Chapter Two

Sunday 25

Hello. Frida fully expected a dial tone by the time she scrambled to the phone. She rubbed her shin where she'd whacked it against a particularly large box which had stubbornly refused to move as she launched herself across the room at the ring.

Frida. The voice was nicotine husky and familiar. Frida, it's Vivien. Sorry to bother you but just wondered if you could do me a favour. She'd last seen Vivien Burton the week before at Iris' funeral, one of the few people who'd known her mother as a young, vibrant, normal woman - and that had been comforting somehow.

Of course. Frida paused for a moment as she put the tip of one of her rubber gloves into her mouth and pulled it off. What can I do to help?

It's Simon, he should have been home by now and we're expecting people for lunch. I've tried to ring his mobile but there's no answer which could mean he's still on his way, but he's just as bloody likely to have forgotten to charge it. Just wondering if you can see from your place whether his car's still there?

Frida moved as close to the window as the cord would allow. She could just see the front of a car's bonnet through the hedge. There's a car in the drive way. She put her finger to her mouth and sucked the blood from a small paper cut that had bled relentlessly earlier and was still oozing a little.

Damn, the bugger's probably got buried in paper work and lost track of time. Would you mind popping over and giving him a hurry up. He's going to be too late for lunch but we're supposed to be going out later this afternoon.

There was a sharp intake of breath and Frida could picture the other woman blowing smoke into the receiver. Vivien, like her mother had been, was never without a cigarette in one hand and more often than not a drink in the other. They'd been unlikely friends. Iris, the rich farmer's daughter, and Vivien, one of 10 children of the casual farm labourer. But if Iris had the money, Vivien had the street smarts. They'd done everything together. Knew each other's secrets.

After promising to get Simon to ring, Frida put down the phone and looked again out the window. She'd briefly chatted with him yesterday when they'd both been out in their backyards. Simon had been burning rubbish while she'd been filling up another skip. They'd exchanged pleasantries but he'd appeared quiet and distracted. But then he'd always been the antithesis of his wife with her rural bawdiness. The odd couple, Jack had called them, in one of his kinder comments about the Burtons.



Frida took the side gate her father had built years before to allow easy access between the two properties. She put her hand on the bonnet of the car as she walked past – it was cold and evidently hadn't been used this morning. It was a quiet Sunday with only the roar of a lawn mower in the distance marring the peacefulness. She wandered up the back path to the kitchen door and knocked. She listened for any movement but there was none. Knocked again. There was a sudden sound inside and Simon's cat came hurtling across the kitchen floor and through the pet door. There was a dark patch on Sweetpea's usually white back which rubbed off on Frida's legs as the cat burst through them. A dark red stain stood out against the paleness of her legs and felt strange to her skin. Was it paint? She wiped it off with her hand and stood looking at her palm as a faint odour rose to her nose. Her next breath caught in her throat as she recognised the smell. A faint, sickening, whisper of the past. The door handle turned when she twisted it. The door opened. She stood for a moment consciously suppressing the urge to turn and run. She stepped through the door.

Another pause. She called out, Simon, hoping for an answer. There was none. The silence overwhelmed her. Engulfed her. She took a step into the kitchen and looked around. The house seemed as it usually did apart from the dark red of the cat's paw prints leaving a trail to the living room across the gleaming white kitchen floor tiles. There was no sign of disorder otherwise. Everything was as tidy and clean as it normally was when Simon was staying there. The kitchen bench was spotless. The only things marring its sleek expanse were stainless steel containers for tea and coffee and a large glass jar in which, for as long as she could remember, Simon had collected coins for charity. It was half full.

It was an open plan area with the L-shaped dining living room opening directly off the kitchen. The dining table was round polished glass with a bowl of fruit exactly in the centre. A square rug lay precisely in the middle of the polished floor under the table and four black and white prints sat perfectly balanced on the wall beyond. There seemed nothing unusual from where she was standing. She would have to move closer to the living room opening to see around the corner. She called out again. Silence. She hesitated. Move. Her legs felt like concrete blocks and she had to purposely lift one limb after another to move forward. There was a growing tightness to her head and she swallowed several times trying to ease her constricted throat.

The scene she confronted was far worse than she could have imagined. She had a sudden fleeting image of Sister Veronica attempting to kill a rooster. Frida had held it down while the Sister had chopped off its head with an axe and then they watched in horror as the headless chook raced around the yard splattering blood in every direction. But there was no headless chook here, only Simon.

The frenzied attack had left blood splattered high up the walls and soaked in large patches on the carpet from the armchair to the front door. There was so much blood she couldn't imagine there could be much left in the body. Simon was lying face down with one leg drawn up beneath him and the other extended behind him. His right arm was stretched out towards the glass sliding doors as if imploring for help. More blood was pooled around his disintegrated head and underneath his body. She didn't know if you could lose this much blood and still be alive but she had to make sure. The smell –the mingling of the odour of a butcher's shop and the stench of a rarely cleaned men's public toilet – brought bile to her throat. She swallowed. One more step, two more steps, then take his pulse. She reached down and picked up his wrist. It was cold, damp and floppy. There was no pulse.



Vivien Burton grasped her left hand around her right wrist to steady her clasp of the brush and painstakingly stroked a shadow from the bottom to the tip of the Hellebore petal. She took a risk and stroked another, and another. Perfectly. There was a flicker of feeling that she found hard to recognise. Hope? Joy? Fulfilment? Maybe the medication would work after all. She'd taken extra this morning, willing it to take effect, to give her a brief sense of normality. She adjusted the bowl of flowers slightly to gain a better view of the yellow stamens that nestled in the ruby centres of the rose and cream blooms. Winter roses, that's what Iris had said they were when she gave Vivien the plants and somehow the courage to paint again.

God, she missed Iris. They'd never had to explain anything to each other, a shared history had seen to that. They'd had disagreements, of course they did. Screaming rows even. But then they'd laughed and hugged. Had a drink, a fag together and it was all over. Vivien put the brush down and searched for a cigarette. It was becoming a lonely occupation in an increasingly politically correct world. They were the new unclean. Rachael's disapproving attitude was a carbon copy of her father's; whether by genes or cultivation she'd never been quite sure.

Vivien moved to the window and looked out at her daughter industriously weeding in the garden. Rachael had stormed out there after they'd had a row earlier. She couldn't even remember what started it. Although to be honest it was probably one-sided like it usually was. She yelled at Rachael, who simply stood quietly with a martyred expression on her face. Which only made things worse. There was something about that solid silence that seemed to bring out the fishwife in her. Vivien had spat out curses that she'd no intention of saying, just to get a reaction. She would say sorry later but Rachael was like her father, repeating after him, If you were really sorry you wouldn't do it in the first place. Like a religious litany.

She stubbed the cigarette out and turned back to view her painting. It wasn't perfect, but there was a hint of the Vivien Burton style. Her unique way of seeing the world of plants. It was Simon who first called it a gift. Introduced her to the right people. Displayed to her the world of possibilities. Her - the girl from Opoutama who didn't know how to talk properly, to dress properly, to behave properly. It was a long time before she realised he hadn't fallen in love with her but with what she could do with a pencil or brush. Her mother called it time-wasting. Simon called it magic.

For years she had believed if she got that magic back that Simon would come to love her again. Now she knew it was never going to happen. If she painted again it would have to be for her and her alone.

She could see the bloom needed a touch of dark shadow in the background to make the cream petals pop on the canvas. She gave herself directions. Squeeze out the tube of paint, dab the brush into it. One handed, it felt so good. First stroke – strong. Second stroke – delicate. She could do this. Instinctively she held her breath as her hand placed the brush a millimetre away from the outline of the petal. Then she could feel it. Like an earthquake. A distant rumble that seemed almost to come from beneath her feet. Then a tremor through her arm. Fuck. She could only watch, paralysed, as her hand, seemingly with a mind of its own, like a grotesque science fiction creature, flicked black streaks across the face of the canvas.

It was a least two minutes before she could move and stumble hesitantly to the armchair where her stick lay across the wooden arms. She fell just as she reached the seat and landed painfully on her knees, her arms grasping the chair legs for support. It was another minute or two before she hauled herself up using her stick to steady herself. Breathing heavily she sat erect until her body stilled, words tumbling through her mind. Crippled, decaying, hopeless, useless. Failure. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

It was another five minutes before she had recovered enough to wipe the teardrops from her stick with her handkerchief. She stood up. Strongly this time.

The first blow split the canvas, the second knocked over the easel, while the third sent them both flying against the back wall.



Rachael Bennett-Jones worked on a dogged piece of oxalis that had wiggled its way into the roots of the lemon tree. She knew if she didn't find each tiny little bulb they would multiply and spread everywhere and would only cause more work later on. Sometimes you just had to stop something in its tracks before it got out of hand. She knew that. She stood up and stretched her back where it ached across the shoulders. Some days, she had long realised, you just felt older and more tired than others and those were the days you should curl up in bed and forget about the world. But she knew she couldn't face the reaction from her mother if she did that. She was tetchy enough this morning as it was. Mummy would say sorry later for screaming at her, she always did. But if you were really sorry you wouldn't do it in the first place.

This was what she did every Sunday, so this is what she had to do this Sunday. Come across town to Raumati Beach, tidy up the garden and then lunch with her parents. Or parent as it was mostly now, with Daddy spending nearly every weekend up at the bach in Kawa Bay in the last few months. Since the last big fight. Most weekends Rachael didn't mind the outside work especially now that David had bought them a city apartment with no garden. But it would be nice to think she had a choice. That she could go out to lunch with a girlfriend, or even spend a weekend away with David. Although that seemed less and less likely as politics filled up all his spare hours with only a few months to the national elections. She hadn't been surprised when David told her was putting himself up for his local seat when the National Party candidate resigned after he'd broken the nose of a constituent who'd accused him of sleeping with his wife.

Damn good luck, David had said. Almost speechless with delight.

She'd often wondered whether he got more excited about politics than he did about their sex life. Not that it was going to be easy. David was going to have to fight to get the nomination. Wellington central was a prized seat. Her parents were appalled when they found out that he wanted to stand for National. Being on the other side of the political fence was one thing but having a daughter whose husband was an opposition candidate was quite another, especially when he was standing against their friend, Eddie Fortune. She smiled and looked up at the living room window. Mummy was standing there looking out. Watching her.

Rachael, Rachael. Come in here now. The voice, muffled by the glass, was hard to hear but the words were clearly distinguishable.

Her mother tapped against the pane with her walking stick. Slowly at first and then more ferociously. Rachael unhurriedly put down her tools and made her way inside, heading for the bathroom to wash her hands. Her mother followed her in.

It's time to ring her back Rachael, it's been half an hour. Frida should have seen your father by now, we can't wait all day.

She dried her hands on the towel. Give her time Mummy, she'll ring.

No, no. Do it now. It's getting late. Vivien poked her daughter with the end of her stick.

Why don't you do it?

No, I want you to. The voice raised a pitch.

Rachael walked back out to the living room her mother tapping behind her. The stick was Vivien's main accessory now. The way high heels and short skirts used to be. The way pencils and paper, canvases, paints and brushes used to be. A Dalon series 77 brush cracked under her shoe. She moved her foot only to step on a tube of Daley-Rowney water colour which oozed its black goo onto the carpet.

Her mother was screaming at her now. Pick up your feet, you lazy slag.

Don't talk to me like that Mummy or I won't tidy up and then where will you be. But she bent down anyway and screwed the lid back on the tube of paint. You shouldn't have tried to paint today. You know the shaking is always worse when you're tired. Tubes of paint and paint brushes were scattered across the floor, the easel tipped over with a canvas lying drunkenly off its edge.

Vivien fumbled inside the packet for a cigarette. I took extra medication this morning, thinking it might help. And it did for a while. Then the fucking shakes came back. Her face contorted with determination as fingers gripped the end of the smoke and started to pull it out. The packet shook ferociously.

Rachael finished picking up the brushes and paints from the floor and put out a hand to her mother. Let me do that.

No. No, no, no. I'm not totally useless. The least I can do is support my own habit. The snarl turned to a triumphant smile as the cigarette manoeuvred its way out and was grasped and lit. Vivien drew a smoke-filled breath in before she spoke again. If you want to do something useful then try ringing Frida again.

Rachael picked up the phone and dialled the number. She could hear it ring at the other end. There was no answer phone to pick up the call so the phone just kept on ringing. After a few minutes of just letting it go she put the phone down again.



Frida could hear the phone but didn't want to answer. It was either Vivien ringing back or Jack calling to check on her. Either way, she couldn't act normally neither could she adequately explain what she had just seen. She'd rather leave that to the police. She sat on the steps of home, not wanting to go inside, not wanting to go back. Just waiting. Next door a body lay stiffening in a pool of its own blood, battered and mutilated. Almost theatrical in its grotesqueness. While here there was still a sense of normality. The sound of a lawn mower growled in the distance while down on the beach in front of the house laughter drifted towards her as three young boys kicked a football around on the sand.

From her spot on the front porch she could see the police car making its way along the beach road, not speeding, just proceeding normally. She'd imagined that once she'd called 111 that police cars would turn up from all directions: flashing lights, sirens blazing, walkie-talkies blaring. Did they still use those in these days of cell phones? The two officers slowly got out of the solitary police car and made their way up the path towards her. One in police uniform, one not.

The taller, larger, plain clothes officer spoke first. Good morning, Frida. We understand that you called in a suspicious death. I'm Detective Tom Davis and this is Constable Rangi Walker.

The young constable smiled at her. They seemed so calm, so matter of fact. As if they received the news that someone had been murdered every day. Or perhaps they didn't really believe her. She wasn't sure she could believe herself. She had a sudden, disturbing thought. That perhaps she'd dreamed it. That the nightmares had returned. That they'd walk over to the Burton's bach and everything would be perfectly normal.

Frida stood up and then had to grab the porch railing to steady herself. The muscles in her legs suddenly lost all power and her heart hustled and pounded relentlessly against her chest wall.

The older policeman caught her arm to stop her falling. I'm not sure if you remember me. I worked with your Dad a while ago.

Frida nodded in acknowledgement as she used his arm to support herself. He looked familiar but couldn't really place him. All her father's police colleagues had looked the same when she was young. Large and overpowering.

Do you need to sit for a minute? His concerned face peered at her. Too close.

No, I'm fine now. Her strength was starting to return and her heartbeat to retreat to normal so she just wanted to get this over and done with. It's the next door neighbour's bach. We can go through the side gate. She led the way down the path squeezing past the overgrown hedge. The scent of the white jasmine which had begun to strangle the red leaves of the Photinia hedge was overpowering, nauseating. She walked past Simon's car and stopped at the edge of the lawn. The house loomed large in front of her. I really don't want to go in again. The back door's open to the kitchen. He's in the living room.

Davis answered. OK. We'll take it from here. Do you mind just waiting for us, we'll still need to speak to you when we've had a look.

Frida watched as the two policemen opened the front door and went inside. She could hear the mumble of voices, some movement and then the young constable staggered out the door his face now looking more grey than brown. He propped one hand against the side of the house and threw up into the garden. She turned and looked the other way.

She stood there for what seemed like an hour, but was probably only ten or 15 minutes, while the two police officers, converged, separated, muttered into their mobile phones, converged again. A few people had walked down the road, slowly, whispering to each other. Some had now gathered in groups. It had not taken long for the human instinct for tragedy to kick in. It had seemed like a mild morning but now she needed to wrap her arms around her to keep warm. She wanted to go home to get a coat but wondered if that was appropriate. She shivered instead.

Eventually it looked like Constable Walker had clearly recovered enough to ask her some questions. He wanted to know how she knew the deceased and for how long.

All my life really, she told him. My mother and Simon's wife Vivien were childhood friends, and the two families built the baches side by side. We lived in Napier and came out most weekends, and then my parents moved here permanently. The Burtons moved to Wellington about 15 years ago so I expect they came less frequently then.

The constable wrote down what she'd said in his notebook and then asked. Do you know where Mr Burton worked?

She watched over his shoulder as two more police cars drove up and three officers got out of each. Still no sirens. Simon used to work for the NUT, and I think he still does.

The young constable looked blank.

It's the National Union of Teachers, he's manager of the union organisers there –, still blank, they help teachers when they have employment problems with their schools.

He urgently scribbled in his notebook, then asked. Do you know if Mr Burton had any enemies?

They were obviously stock questions but she almost laughed. She'd always thought only passionate people ended up with enemies, those who polarised others, and Simon was far from that. He was one of those mild mannered, ready to please, fairly boring people who tried terribly hard not to cause anyone any offence. Enemies? No, she couldn't imagine it.

Now a large police van drew up next door and officers in white coveralls went inside. A sudden replay of Simon's bleeding and battered body fluttered across her mind. A wave of nausea crashed into the pit of her stomach and dizziness overwhelmed her. She leaned back against the car to steady herself.

The constable put his hand on her arm. Come on, let's go back to your house and I'll make you a cup of tea?

Her arm burned where he held it. She shook it off abruptly. I'm fine thanks. I'm sure you've got better things to do. She wanted him to leave her alone.

He hesitated for a moment then went back inside the Burton's house. She started to walk back home but within seconds Walker was with her again, hovering, clearly having been given instructions to stick to her side. The prime witness.

He wanted to know how she came to find the body. Frida explained about Vivien's phone call. She could hear her phone ringing again in the distance. It eventually stopped. I think I should call Vivien back – she'll be worried that she hasn't heard from me. She felt her face flush. What a stupid thing to say. As if hearing that your husband had been murdered was going to be less worrying, less devastating.

The young constable was taking his job seriously. I think you should leave it to us Mam, we'll send our Wellington people around to see Mrs Burton if you can give us the address. It's not a good thing to hear something like this over the phone.

They had got to her back door and walked down the passage way into the kitchen. How soon will you do that?

He seemed to cast around for the right words. I'm sure the family will be told by the end of the day.

She wondered if she'd heard right. By the end of the day? You must be joking? How long do you think it will take for the word to get around in this small community? Or the media to find out. They probably know already.

He flushed. There are proper processes to go through Miss Delaney. It's important that you leave it to the police to handle everything now.

Frida caught herself before she snapped back. He was young and clearly desperate to do the right thing. Yet to learn that rules were made to be broken. An hour. That's all she'd give them before she rang Vivien to tell her she'd never see her husband alive again.



The small quiet street had slowly changed shape through the afternoon. Mesmerised by the unfolding investigation Frida sat on her porch and watched as an assemblage of vehicles, a herd of uniformed and plain clothes police, and a flock of plastic suited forensic investigators took over Kawa Road. They set up tents and streamed yellow police tape around the house and grounds like they were preparing for a garden party. The young constable politely invaded her kitchen and brought out a cup of stewed and unbearably strong tea. She thanked him as she stoically took a few sips to prove her appreciation.

Several people had gathered outside her front gate talking earnestly and gesturing but it was not until one walked up her front path that she realised she knew her.

Hello Frida.

The last time Frida had seen Dr Aroha Griffin was at her mother's funeral a week before. Sitting by Jack's side. She'd barely spoken to the woman, barely acknowledged her. Now she stood before Frida solid in confidence. Tall, strong, and grounded to the earth. Everything her mother had not been.

I was visiting a patient down the road and saw the police cars. They told me what happened. Aro moved to sit on the step beside her. Cautiously. Leaving a space between them. I've called your father. It's best not to be alone at a time like this.

You shouldn't have bothered. I'll be alright. There was an uncontainable surge of irritation. She didn't need Aroha to connect her with Jack. Who did she think she was?

I'm sure you will, you're a strong person. But it doesn't hurt to have your family around you when things get difficult.

They sat there silently for a while. Not looking at each other.

You don't have to stay with me you know. I'm sure you have better things to do. Her tone and words sounded churlish and juvenile and she wished she was above such emotions. She should be above them. Tolerance, forgiveness and understanding were the tenets of her culture, her social order. Gallingly it was always Aro who was understanding and good humoured. Traits that should have been Frida's.

Tom Davis asked me to. Aro added quickly, and I'm happy to do it.

Well, I don't need you. I'm ok on my own.

Aro didn't take offence. Frida desperately wished she would. She wanted to fight with her, to have reason to cut her off. Not to talk to her.

Someone has to, it's police procedure, and it might as well be me. You might be Jack's daughter but you're also the person who found the body. I'll give you some space as soon as your father's here.

By the time Jack Delaney arrived several reporters with their cameras and notebooks had boosted the group of onlookers. He manoeuvred his large station wagon up the driveway and Aro went to help him get his chair out of the back. Jack used his sticks with the proficiency of experience as he eased himself into the wheelchair and rolled across the path to pull up beside Frida.

Mate, he said, a world of expression in that one little word, before swinging himself out of the chair and sitting on the step next to her. Jack didn't have to add more, his strong arms around her enough to dampen her eyes. He held her without asking permission and she was grateful for that.

After a moment Jack gently released her and leaned back against the porch post. That was a bit of a shock for you, mate, finding Simon like that. He rummaged in his pocket and pulled out a pack of smokes. You mind?

Frida smiled weakly. Of course I do, but that's not going to stop you is it.

I'll give up some day.

Yeah, right.

He lit up. So old Simon actually did the deed. I'm amazed he had the balls.

What do you mean? How could you think Simon killed himself? She closed her eyes, still seeing blood. The broken body.

He rang me in the middle of the night. God, it was after midnight wasn't it Aro?

Aroha nodded. It was just before one because I looked at the clock when the phone rang, thinking it was some emergency.

What did he say?

Well, that was the strange thing. He rambled on about being sorry, about wishing that Iris hadn't been hurt. I just told him to get off the bloody phone and ring at a reasonable hour. Never occurred to me the bugger meant to top himself. He let a stream of smoke into the air.

He didn't, Jack.

Her father raised his eyebrows.

That body was swimming in blood. He was shot in the back of the head. There's no way he could have done that to himself unless he was a practised, self-flagellating contortionist.



Rachael Bennett-Jones watched through the window as the two police officers climbed up the rocky steps to her mother's front door and knocked. She'd seen them drive up and park on the side of the road so had time to prepare herself. Behind her Vivien sat calmly in the armchair, stick across her knees, face firmly set. As always she was flawlessly made up and her hair was perfectly arranged but this time she'd dressed carefully and appropriately for her age and circumstances. A band of pearls settled around her neck and the knee length grey skirt with its soft green silk top was a faultless outfit for the shocked new widow hearing the news