Utu

By Caryl Férey and Howard Curtis

A New Zealand detective searches the Maori underworld for his friend’s killer in this Gran Prix Sang d’Encre-winning novel by the author of Zulu.

Former New Zealand detective Paul Osborne has washed up in Sydney, where he has a bad case of sunstroke and an even worse reputation at the local bars. But now his former boss from the Auckland City Police Department wants him back on the job. Osborne’s only real friend on the force, Jack Fitzgerald, has committed suicide in the middle of an important investigation. Despite his current state, Osborne is the only one qualified to take over the case.

Though has no interest in playing policeman, he returns to Auckland all the same—because he’s sure Fitzgerald’s death was no suicide. An expert in Maori culture, Osborne retraces his dead friend’s steps into a world of occult mystery, tribal discontent, billion-dollar backroom deals, and political corruption.

In the Maori language, “utu” means revenge. In this gripping crime novel, the desire for revenge runs deep—and nobody, innocent and guilty alike, will be safe until it has been sated.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media
• Release date: Nov 22, 2011
• ISBN: 9781609458881

Caryl Férey

Caryl Férey’s novel Utu won the Sang d’Encre, Michael Lebrun, and SNCF Crime Fiction Prizes. Zulu, his first novel to be published in English, was the winner of the Nouvel Obs Crime Fiction and Quais du Polar Readers Prizes. In 2008, it was awarded the French Grand Prix for Best Crime Novel. He lives in France.

Book preview

PART ONE

THE TASTE OF STONES

0.

P­aul Osborne felt a sudden, overwhelming urge to urinate. Anywhere would do. He could barely see the masses of people scattered on the sand. There was a white hut at the other end of the beach, the air vibrating in his lungs, and that noise that grabbed him by the stomach and sucked him in, that noise that pulled on his penis and sucked it in. First, the sun subsided, then his knees sagged and gave way. Stifling a cry, Osborne collapsed on the sand. Whether it was hyperthermia or the side effects of pills or old fears, he found it hard to hold back the burning sensation suffusing his stomach, and a trickle of urine ran down his pants.

When he opened his eyes again, the noise had disappeared. But the people were still there, on the beach, in the hundreds.

Bondi Beach was Sydney’s trendy beach. No one ugly allowed, let alone anyone fat. Paul Osborne was neither, but the way he thrashed about in the sand and the smell he gave off made the girls lying there on towels giggle: pretty girls displaying their curves, asses squeezed into fashionable swimsuits, out for a good time.

Dazzled by the sun, he felt in his pockets and found a pair of dark glasses. The arms were twisted, but the glasses stayed on his nose, more or less. The hardest part now was to stand up.

Hey, you! Something wrong?

Rolling over onto his back, Osborne saw a tall lifeguard with a Californian smile towering over him, his hands on his hips. He was wearing close-fitting trunks and a T-shirt with blood-red spatters and the tooth marks of a shark—a great white, in the collective imagination.

Yes, I’m talking to you! What are you doing here?

Damned if I know, asshole, Osborne thought, but, occupied as he was with his bladder, his only answer was a vague groan.

The lifeguard grew bolder, as if buoyed up by the crowd. Get out of here, OK? And for fuck’s sake have a wash. You stink!

One of the girls burst into noisy laughter, and the others, short on ideas of their own, followed suit.

The lifeguard gave his audience a broad smile and leaned over Osborne, who was still sprawling at his feet. Hey! Did you hear what I said?

A woman’s voice intervened at this point. Stop that! Leave him alone!

A short brunette in a saffron-yellow bikini had approached the lifeguard, who looked her up and down as if he was a horse dealer.

I’m a nurse, she said. Leave him be. Can’t you see he’s sick?

Under a straw hat that flapped in the breeze, the young woman’s face was flushed with anger. Osborne had no idea where she had suddenly sprung up from, but she had pretty ankles.

Mary Sparks worked as a night nurse at a public hospital in the city. Although Osborne didn’t recognize her, they’d brought him in to her hospital several times, including the previous week, when a patrol had found him unconscious in a municipal dumpster—not only a stupid place to be, but a dangerous one. A nurse by vocation, Mary liked men in general, and Osborne in particular. She had taken advantage of his coma to undress him and let him sleep it off in a well-ventilated hospital room. His muscular body had been covered in bruises, and his knuckles grazed, but he had beautiful hands, sturdy shoulders, bronzed skin that was remarkably soft—as she had discovered for herself—and the face of a sleeping angel that changed as soon as he woke up. Osborne had tiger’s eyes: that, at least, was the image Mary had kept of him when, suddenly emerging from his coma, he had found her leaning over his naked body.

There was a moment’s hesitation on Bondi Beach. Running out of arguments, the lifeguard burst out laughing. That’s no reason to foul the beach!

Mary Sparks shrugged.

Convinced he’d had the last word, the lifeguard feigned a grimace of disgust, and went back to his silly girls.

Mary finally looked down at Osborne, who seemed very preoccupied about his sunglasses. Listen, Paul, when you’ve pulled yourself together, maybe you should think about making yourself a bit decent? The toilets are just over there, straight ahead of you, about twenty yards. She picked up her straw hat. Do you need help or can you manage by yourself?

Osborne muttered an ineffectual Get lost, then wiped the sand from his lips. How his night had ended was still a mystery to him, and he had no idea where the lingering smell of ether on his jacket came from. How long had he wandered before ending up at the beach? How many hours had he stolen from reality? Three? Four?

By the time he managed to get to his feet, his fairy godmother had disappeared, leaving him with the sand and the breeze.

His black suit stank to high heaven, and his pants were sticky with urine, but he could still stand. Osborne moved away, watched by the crowd. As he walked across the warm sand, he realized he had lost a shoe. The left one, his good foot. Angrily, he shook off his right shoe and took refuge in the hut that served as a toilet.

Memory was like an onion to be peeled off in layers. He staggered a little as he stood over the toilet bowl, caught his glasses just in time before they fell in other people’s piss, and clung to his fly like a shipwrecked man to his piece of flotsam. Between his fingers, his penis was soft, shriveled. Osborne took a deep breath, but the smell of ether made him feel dizzy, and he threw up. Bile, acidity, the stench of alcohol, spittle, blood, bile.

As he rinsed his mouth, he caught his face in the mirror. His eyes were feverish and red with tears, his brown hair a complete mess, his six-foot body one big ruin. Osborne shook his head. After all, people came from all over the world to see the Acropolis. As a ruin, he still had a chance.

He felt weightless as he left the toilet. In his mouth, there was a taste that reminded him the world was dead and he hadn’t bothered to show up for the funeral.

* * *

In the sixties, Bondi Beach had been the last stop for riffraff, no-hopers, delinquents, and surfers, who were sometimes found hanging along the sea wall by their feet. Today, Bondi, with its fashionable cafés and promenades, was the favorite hangout of Sydney’s new rich.

Leaning against a lamppost, Osborne waited for the bus to King’s Cross. Beneath his socks, the asphalt was hot. An old aborigine woman was dozing under the glass shelter, a host of plastic bags spread at her feet like so many stray children.

Got a cigarette?

Osborne looked in his jacket, but couldn’t find any. His head hurt and he had no idea what he was doing here. The aborigine woman seemed to understand. At last, a mustard yellow bus stopped by them. Osborne dug out a few coins for the ticket and found a seat at the rear. The open windows gave him a bit of air, but no escape route. Sitting beside him was a young boy holding a school bag and a bodyboard on his knees. With a cap pulled down over his head and a Walkman in his ears, even the smell of piss didn’t seem to disturb him.

The bus drove alongside the bay, heading for the city center. Palm trees, cars, blazing sun, and still nothing in the spectrum of time . . .

King’s Cross, an area in the heart of Sydney noted for petty crime. Taking care where he placed his socks, Osborne walked past the ready-to-wear stores with their all-year sales. On the sidewalk, the breeze lifted the whores’ skirts. He went in through the doorway of the sex shop and climbed the stairs that led to his place. On the third-floor landing, one of his neighbors, a junkie, said g’day and asked him what he had done with his shoes, then hurried downstairs without waiting for a reply. Osborne stepped over the floorcloth that he used as a doormat and opened the door of the furnished apartment where he sometimes slept.

You live in a real dump, Osborne.

A man was waiting in the kitchen: Gallagher, a cop with a pockmarked face, chewing on a match, his feet up on the table.

It was open, he said, mopping his bald skull. With the heat outside . . .

What are you doing here?

I just arrived from Auckland, Gallagher said, putting his handkerchief away. You’re not an easy person to find.

There’s nothing to find.

Captain Timu sent me.

I don’t give a shit.

Osborne took off his jacket and threw his socks in the garbage chute. The piss may have dried, but his brain was still sticky. Gallagher had a reputation as a tough, ambitious, efficient cop, a guy with a binary, analogue mind—one thing or another, good or bad, rich or poor, dollars, power, results—in other words, a man perfectly adapted to the times he lived in. Osborne had never been able to stand him. There was no reason for that to change.

Gallagher spat out the shreds of matches on the oilcloth. How long have you been off the force? A year?

Ten months.

Osborne drank a little water straight from the kitchen faucet.

Gallagher was still balancing on the worn chair, and still sizing him up. We have a case for you, he said. A case involving the Maori community.

I’m retired, isn’t that obvious?

Gallagher smiled vaguely at Osborne’s bare feet. The information he had on him wasn’t too promising, but he couldn’t do anything about that. Malcolm Kirk, he went on. That name mean anything to you?

No.

Kirk was a serial killer. Half a dozen victims to his name. Your friend Fitzgerald was on his trail.

That’s his business, Osborne replied, not mine.

"Was his business, Gallagher corrected him. Fitzgerald’s dead."

The shock wave threw him back against the edge of the sink.

Jack Fitzgerald.

Dead.

He’d only ever had one friend, and now that friend was dead.

Osborne said nothing, but they were now as pale as each other.

Didn’t you know? Gallagher asked.

No.

Don’t you read the papers?

No.

Didn’t anyone get in touch with you?

I don’t know anyone.

But you knew Fitzgerald?

I hadn’t heard from him for months.

Didn’t he ever try to contact you?

I already said no.

Gallagher stuck another match between his teeth. He still hadn’t taken his keen, dark eyes off Osborne. Basically, he said, the Kirk case was badly handled from the start. Captain Timu can tell you more about that. Fitzgerald may have ended up killing Kirk, but his whole team was decimated during the operation. It was a mess, and we still don’t know all the ins and outs of it. During his last radio message, Fitzgerald mentioned a mass grave in a forest north of Auckland. Among the bodies buried there, there was supposed to be a presumed accomplice of Kirk’s, a man named Zinzan Bee. Know him?

A former activist and a symbolic figure in Maori society.

What about him? Osborne said.

The thing is, we never found this famous Zinzan Bee’s body. It just vanished into thin air. As for Fitzgerald, he killed himself. The day after the operation.

Killed himself?

"Without leaving any report, any information, anything that could fill us in on Kirk’s motives or what Zinzan Bee’s role was. Strange, don’t you think?

Still balancing on his chair with his legs on the table, Gal­lagher seemed to be testing him.

Osborne looked doubtful. Fitzgerald killing a former Maori activist, the presumed accomplice of a serial killer, and then killing himself, a suspect’s body spirited away: none of it made any sense. Fitzgerald couldn’t have killed himself, it was impossible. But who knew that, apart from him?

The funerals of the police officers killed took place this week, Gallagher went on. A big occasion, very solemn. As you can imagine, crimes like that came as quite a shock to people in New Zealand, especially as Kirk seems to have gotten away with it for years. Heads have rolled, the whole administration is under the spotlight, and we have a gap to fill. With Fitzgerald gone, there are pieces missing in the puzzle. That’s why we need a specialist in Maori affairs to help us put the pieces together. That’s you, Osborne. You worked with Fitzgerald for six years, you know his informants, his sources, even some of his methods. Captain Timu wants you back on board. He’s taken over Fitzgerald’s job and . . .

But Osborne had stopped listening. Through the open window, the kookaburras on the square were shrieking their heads off. He shuddered in spite of himself: the thought of going home was as welcome as a bullet in the back.

Hana . . .

1.

Paul had only retained a few fragments of his childhood, a handful of memories ditched in early adolescence, when they had moved to the Red Hill neighborhood to live with Thomas, his future stepfather.

There was a foul smell from the fish factory when the wind was in their direction, but at least he and his mother had their own house now, with a small neglected garden and a future. Thomas said he’d take care of the garden, because gardening was man’s work. The future could take care of itself.

Mary kept saying she’d like to see roses, which would bring good luck to the child she was expecting, and also a few fruit trees, to brighten the place up. Paul would listen to them without saying a word. He wasn’t much of a talker.

Luckily, there was Hana, the clear-eyed mixed-race girl who lived next door. Two black braids down her back, breasts still undeveloped, but already bearing herself like a queen. A barbarian queen. Paul would watch her in the evening through the bathroom window. By climbing on the toilet seat, getting up on tiptoe, and clinging to the sill, you could just see her room. He had to work around the other family members’ use of the bathroom, his stepfather’s what-are-you-doing-in-the-bathroom-all-this-time, not to mention his own hygiene, but every evening Hana was there, at nine o’clock, in her room. She would take off her clothes, leaving only a T-shirt on, and go bare-legged to the window and stand gazing out at the insects buzzing around the street lamp, then draw the white netting that served as a curtain and slip beneath the sheets.

Sometimes, Hana left the window open, and the breeze would blow the netting into the room. Paul would watch her from his pedestal, imagining the smell of her flesh, her skin, her private parts, her hands, her thighs, those thighs she would part for him, one day. She was all he had. He would be all she had. One day.

In the meantime, with the consent of their new neighbors, Thomas planted a series of shrubs that he said would take several months to grow. So Paul had a whole season to spy on his neighbor, standing on tiptoe, and at the age of fifteen he could always hope he’d grow faster than the hedge.

His ankles hurt at first, then he got used to it.

It took Hana ten days to discover his stratagem. It was an evening in October. She was just about to close her bedroom window when she spotted Paul’s nose in the half light on the other side of the hedge. The little devil! She hesitated at first. Should she raise the alarm? Teach him a lesson? Tell her parents, which might end in a thrashing for her? Paul didn’t move an inch, his fingers tense on the window sill. Pretending to ignore him, Hana leaned toward the street lamps and looked for a long time at the orange-tinged clouds fading above the rooftops. When she straightened up again, Paul was still watching her. He knew, though, that she had seen him. She must have seen him. At that point, Hana stopped thinking and calmly took off her T-shirt.

She was wearing nothing underneath, only her smells. Paul breathed them all in as they floated to him on the breeze. From now on, she would be his obsession—because that night, Hana went to bed without closing the curtain. That night, and the following nights too.

Their little game, their secret ritual, lasted one whole season, Paul clinging with one hand to the window still, praying that his mother wouldn’t suddenly decide to use the bathroom, and Hana content to display her nakedness to his crazed desire. Five months touching one another from a distance, five months imagining one another’s bodies. It was a long time and at the same time not long enough.

A long time, because Hana slept naked.

And not long enough, because the hedge kept growing . . .

The sheep in the adjoining field scattered as the Boeing that had left Sydney three hours earlier turned at the end of the runway. A steward announced that the ground temperature at Auckland airport was seventy-three degrees. Osborne closed the novel he wasn’t reading, his mind dulled by the Californian wine served during the flight. After ten months of exile, he was coming home. His feelings about that were still neutral. Among his neighbors, the whites couldn’t wait to get off, whereas the Maoris didn’t look overjoyed. Osborne took his overnight case down from the baggage compartment, switched off his mind, and set off through the different stages of customs.

City of sails, the tourist posters proclaimed. He left the arrivals area and immediately spotted the plainclothes cop in the airport parking lot. The guy must have seen his face somewhere, because he immediately came toward him.

Welcome to the country!

Tom Culhane was a pakeha with Irish skin and unkempt red hair that made him look like a partly peeled carrot. He looked to be about forty and, judging by the lines at the corners of his eyes, a man with more than a few worries.

Sergeant Culhane, he said, shaking Osborne’s hand vigorously. I’m going to be your partner. You can call me Tom. Good flight?

Sergeant Culhane was smiling politely. The knot of his tie was askew and he wasn’t carrying a gun. Hiding his inebriation behind his twisted glasses, Osborne breathed in the surrounding air, a mixture of pollen and kerosene.

Apparently, your baggage has gone straight to the hotel, Culhane went on. So if you have what you need, shall we go?

Osborne lifted his overnight case to show that he was all set.

In that case, I suggest we go straight to headquarters, Culhane said, clearing his throat and motioning for Osborne to follow him. Captain Timu has asked me to introduce you to the department and help you settle in.

No reaction. They took a few steps toward the car.

How long have you been away? A year, right? You know we have a new headquarters, don’t you?

No.

There was a dog in the back of the Ford, a beige Labrador, furiously beating the seat with his tail. Osborne put his hand through the open window, and the dog immediately licked his fingers.

Oh, yes, Culhane said. I took advantage of the car ride to bring my dog along. He’s still young, he finds it hard to stay at home. I hope you don’t have anything against dogs? Lie down, Toby! Lie down!

Osborne caught hold of the nose sticking out of the window, and let the smile die on his lips. Toby, eh?

The Labrador had fallen silent. Not sure what to do, Culhane grabbed the wheel, and they drove out of the parking lot. All right, Toby?

Osborne sat there in his dark suit, impassive. Culhane was on his guard. It wasn’t just a matter of rank. Osborne had a deceptively calm air about him that Culhane found inscrutable, his breath stank of alcohol, and he still hadn’t seen his eyes.

They drove for a while. Nestling between the harbors of Waitemata and Manukau, Auckland loomed on the horizon. White and pink houses, the blue skyscrapers of the Central Business District in the distance, and, everywhere else, the sea.

How was Australia?

His face turned toward the window, Osborne was breathing in the sea spray from the Pacific, in vain—his sinuses were too blocked.

I had tickets for the Sydney Olympics, Culhane went on, but that was when Rosemary fell sick. Rosemary’s my wife. A pity, it would have been a good opportunity to travel. Not that she cares much for sports. I’m the same—I used to follow everything, especially rugby, but as you get older the fascination wears off, and you start to take an interest in other things. Apart from the All Blacks, of course.

Travel, sports, his wife: still no reaction. Through the open window, Osborne was looking out at the landscape, the sailboats crisscrossing the Hauraki Gulf. He could have mentioned the boat people who had showed up the previous week off Brisbane. On TV, you saw them in close up throwing their children in the sea to force the rich country of Australia to let them in, followed by local celebrities expressing their concern for these poor devils, while pointing out that, of course, throwing your own children in the sea wasn’t something people like us did. What you didn’t see on television—that would have required a wider shot—was that there were aid ships there, not so far from the starving boat people, and that they were throwing their children in the sea so that they at least could be saved.

That was the only thing that had stayed in Osborne’s mind from his exile in Australia, but he didn’t say anything about it. He didn’t say anything at all.

With his big paws on the wheel, Tom Culhane decided to drop the chat. They were driving now on the expressway linking the airport to the outskirts of the city. The sky was fabulously blue. Osborne stubbed out his cigarette on the door, picked up his suitcase, laid it on his lap, and searched inside. Toby had sat up in the back and was now yapping and beating his feet on the seat.

He smelt a kennel! Culhane his master said. As the animal was starting to bark, he cried, Quiet, Toby! We’re not blind!

Osborne had taken a small plastic bag from his suitcase, and from it he drew two large cannabis leaves, crushed them in his palm, tipped them out onto a sheet of paper, sprinkled a small quantity of cocaine over them, and rolled the joint with astonishing speed. He smoked the whole of it in a few acrid puffs. The smoke danced for a moment in the front of the car then quickly drifted out through the open window.

Culhane was silent until they reached Auckland.

He didn’t know where they’d found this guy, but things were certainly going to change around here.

* * *

In a city like this, where everything was so new, even the past, any little thing could cheer you up. Police headquarters was a modern building with a view of Freemans Bay, the marina where every yacht apparently dreamed of mooring one day. Glass and new materials competed for the most innovative and expensive effect. Wide plate-glass windows reflected the changing moods of a sky that was too old to recognize itself in them.

So, what do you think?

From the sidewalk, Osborne snorted. It looks like a bank. He looked up at that architectural hotchpotch, his head in the clouds. He wasn’t sure what to think of it. Where are you from, Culhane?

The sergeant frowned. How did Osborne know he wasn’t local? Instantly, the old complex of the country bumpkin arriving in the big city came back to the surface. South Island, he replied. I’ve just been transferred from Christchurch. It’s a lot quieter down there.

The understatement of the year.

In spite of his mechanical smile and impeccable English, Culhane felt increasingly ill at ease. He glanced at his watch. Captain Timu is waiting for you.

Two Maoris were polishing the big marbled lobby of the headquarters building. In accordance with the wraparound architectural style, the interior of the building was neutral, standardized, capable of being immediately reconfigured. Upstairs, uniformed officers ambled along the corridors. The fleeting but converging looks of the female recruits told Culhane he wasn’t the one being stared at. Since Osborne’s arrival, he himself might as well have been transparent.

Here we are, he said, pointing to a polished wooden door.

Osborne took off his dark glasses. The impression Culhane received was a mixed one. He’d never seen eyes like that before.

I’ll wait for you on the second floor. By the coffee machine at the end of the corridor.

Yellow eyes, damn it.

Jon Timu was the new head of the Auckland police department. He had close-cropped hair and a dented forehead that made him look like an exhausted warrior. Although he must have weighed more than two hundred pounds, his gestures were almost graceful. He motioned Osborne to sit down.

The two men knew each other by reputation. According to the file put together by Gallagher, Paul Osborne’s reputation could have been better, but Timu preferred his men a bit rough-hewn. Not only had Osborne joined Fitzgerald’s team while still quite young, Fitzgerald had made him his right-hand man, which was quite an achievement. Under his auspices, Osborne had become a kind of specialist in Maori affairs. He spoke the language and his influence with the community was quite good. Among other things, he had defused a potential riot in the city’s deprived neighborhoods after a young Maori had been shot dead by a police officer. Nobody knew who was behind his sudden fall from grace, but Osborne had been suspected of settling personal scores with some members of the city’s criminal fraternity. By chance or coincidence, the same kind of rumors circulated about Fitzgerald.

Timu lit a cigarillo. He was about fifty, a widower, the rings under his eyes pointing to all the sleepless nights he’d had.

Glad to have you back, he said. As you’ve agreed to rejoin us, I’m going to be straight with you, Osborne. The Kirk case was nothing short of a disaster for the police, and your old boss’s team was wiped out while trying to arrest the killer. Your brother was one of the victims, wasn’t he?

My half brother, Osborne corrected him. We hardly knew each other.

Timu’s eyes narrowed. Didn’t he contact you during the investigation?

Gallagher already asked me that.

It’s just that we don’t have a great deal of information.

I haven’t been in touch with the department for a long time. You ought to know that.

Timu gave a kind of grunt: Osborne had barely said a word so far, and his tortured eyes were completely inscrutable. What were you doing in Sydney?

Nothing much.

Was it Fitzgerald who put you out of the picture?

You could say that.

Why?

Personal reasons.

Meaning what?

Meaning personal.

Really? Timu looked for a sign of weakness in those eyes, found nothing but emptiness. He sighed. Look, you worked alongside Fitzgerald for six years. You know the way he worked, you know how rough-and-ready his methods could be, and how paranoid. The Kirk case was very badly handled. Fitzgerald knew that, he knew he was responsible. Six officers died because of him, not to mention the killer’s victims, and one of his likely accomplices, Zinzan Bee, has vanished into thin air. The press came down on the department like a ton of bricks. I’m not going to allow anyone to sabotage things like that again.

Sabotage?

Fitzgerald worked in a small team, and kept things very close to his chest, especially about the Kirk case. When he and his closest colleagues died, we were left with a whole lot of unanswered questions, which only goes to show the limitations of that kind of method. He looked straight at Osborne. I want transparency, and I want any information gathered to be shared. I won’t stand for solo investigations or cowboy tactics. Is that understood?

Is that all you brought me back to say? Osborne retorted.

Timu puffed at his cigarillo, his little eyes flashing. Fitzger­ald killed himself without handing in a report, he said. Obviously, we investigated, but we didn’t find much. Whatever secrets Kirk had disappeared with him.

Like Zinzan Bee, you mean?

Maybe. There again, we don’t have much to go on. Bee’s known to us as a former Maori activist, but he hasn’t been heard from in years. I don’t know how Fitzgerald got hold of him, whether or not he was Kirk’s accomplice, or even if Fitzgerald killed him, as he claimed the last time we had radio contact with him. A mass grave was found in Waikoukou Valley, filled with Kirk’s victims, but there was no trace of Zinzan Bee. I want you to find him.

Osborne nodded his agreement. From that point on, Timu kept things brief. Osborne would stay at a hotel until they found him official accommodation. Sergeant Culhane would partner him: he was a conscientious man who would familiarize Osborne with the new department. They would share an office on the third floor, working under Lieutenant Gallagher, the new head of the Criminal Investigation Department.

Do you have any questions? he asked by way of conclusion.

Osborne shook his head, then changed his mind. Why do you think Fitzgerald killed himself?

His methods were being called into question, Timu replied. And you know as well as I do that Fitzgerald couldn’t have stood early retirement. We all agreed about that.

Osborne was wandering in the corridor when a voice hailed him. Looking cramped in his beige suit, Sergeant Culhane was standing by the drinks machine, waving.

Lieutenant! Lieutenant! Come here, let me introduce you!

Osborne approached the group that had formed by the machine, tall young men with biceps bursting out of their shirtsleeves. Culhane introduced Osborne as the new officer just back from Australia, but everyone knew about him already. There was Ronny and his Quaker face, Percy and his blond quiff, a guy called James—he couldn’t remember the names of the others anymore. They were Gallagher’s men, and they all shook his hand ingratiatingly by way of greeting.

Ah! Tom said with a laugh. And here’s Amelia Prescott, our young biological genius!

A blonde with candy-pink streaks peered out of a gap between all those well-built men. Hello!

She was so slight, Gallagher’s men had to move aside so that she could be seen, but Amelia Prescott asserted her presence with a kind of feline grace. She was barely five and a half feet tall, with short hair, a complexion like a flower covered in dew, and two round blue eyes that looked Osborne up and down.

Amelia has only just arrived here, but I know her work from when we were both in Christchurch. The paternalism in Culhane’s tone seemed all too typical of him. She’s a real champion! I heard she even takes her work home with her!

The champion smiled sweetly. "Don’t listen to Sergeant Culhane. He believes whatever

Reviews for Utu

[icolford · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Utu means “revenge” in the Maori language and revenge is certainly at the crux of this police procedural by French novelist Caryl Férey. When disgraced New Zealand detective Paul Osborne—self medicating on booze and drugs in Sydney, Australia—learns that Jack Fitzgerald, his only friend in the Auckland force, has committed suicide in the middle of an investigation involving the Maori community, he agrees to return home to pick up where his friend left off. A specialist in Maori culture, Osborne does not believe that Fitzgerald killed himself and once established in Auckland sets out to prove it, doing whatever it takes. Osborne has fixations other than Fitzgerald and getting high, one of which is Hana, a Maori girl he grew up next door to whom he savagely betrayed when she failed to return his affections and whom, as the investigation proceeds, he fears has been drawn into a militant Maori sect. The story is complex and involves official corruption, mass graves, drug use, sado-masochistic sex, grisly Maori ritual killing, and a great deal of brutality, mostly on the part of Osborne. This is a problem because Férey wants us to sympathize with Osborne on his quest to prove Fitzgerald’s death was no suicide, to save Hana, and to get to the bottom of a mystery that as we turn the pages claims an astounding number of lives. And yet he makes his hero not just a compulsive boozer and drug addict but also something of a sociopath who hurts others unrepentantly and uses them to achieve questionable ends without giving much thought to what happens to them. This, along with the unremitting violence that fills page after page of this long narrative, finally has a deadening effect on the reader, who might very well continue turning pages, but not because of any twinges of compassion for a protagonist whose bad behaviour in the end has made him loathsome.

[lkernagh · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Billed by the publishers as part of their "World Noir" category of books, I found myself drawn into the dark, gritty, unflinching story. Osbourne (our cop and leading character) is anything but likeable. He is rude, obnoxious and travels with an overnight bag filled with drug paraphernalia - speed, opium, grass, cocaine, acid, PCP, amphetamines, morphine, ecstasy and even some heroin - not clothing and toiletries like a 'normal' human being. Osbourne also suffers from periods of blackouts - probably caused by the ongoing chemical cocktail he subjects his body to - which makes discovering what is going on even trickier, when Osbourne comes to in settings that would disconcert if not totally freak out most people. The story is somewhat sparse on scenery descriptions, but more than makes up for it by carrying and maintaining an overpowering feeling of negative emotions. Dark, troubling emotions. Nasty emotions. The plot is well managed and I really appreciated how Osbourne would, from time to time, tally all of the evidence like a checklist, to see what was missing or what didn't add up. That helped me as much as it helped him! The reason I read this one was for the Maori angle of the story. The explanations of Maori culture, and the reason behind the choice of "Utu", a Maori term for revenge, as the title gives this otherwise run of the mill Noir crime story a different angle for me to appreciate the story from. Some of the Maori language used through out the story left me a little confused (not all was translated for the reader) but that wasn't a hindrance to following the story.I should probably mention that according to LT, UTU is book two in the Jack Fitzgerald series, book one being Haka. I have not been able to find Haka translated into the English language anywhere, but I think it is safe to say that the two books are probably only connected by the New Zealand Noir crime setting and reference to the character Jack Fitzgerald.... kind of hard to have a two book series if your main character is dead before book two even starts. Overall, a solid read that I flew through, considering the page count, and will be on the lookout for more English translations of Férey's works.

[kylenapoli · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Dark, dirty, despairing. Somehow that's not going to stop me from making a run at -Zulu- next.