The Plot to Kill Peter Fraser: The Dan Delaney Mysteries, #2

By David McGill

Prime Minister Peter Fraser is back in New Zealand in 1945 before he continues to lead the small counties pushing to remove colonialism and great power veto from the fledgling United Nations. A plot is under way to kill him. If successful, New Zealand's influence on the international stage ends and the country could descend into chaos, a divided country ripe for international manipulation.

Detective Dan Delaney has returned from the war seeking a peaceful life with his refugee bride, but his old boss Inspector Biggart needs his help tracking down shadowy would-be assassins in Wellington's black market underworld, a defensive Italian fishing village and an upmarket yachting haven. Prodded by the Commissioner of Police, Dan reluctantly involves his wife in a dodgy cabaret scene, as former alien internees are killed and British and Soviet spies Dan has previously clashed with arrive to assist a suspected American undercover operation. Dan and his wife risk their lives as they race to identify the threat before a prime minister refusing security is struck down. 

'It's a rollicking read. It's got all the great elements of a  spy novel, including a nice little twist at the end.' Grant Robertson, NZ Finance Minister.

'This is a "hard to put down" book . The reader REALLY wants to know what happens next.' Professor Roger Boshier

'The plot unfolds with twists, turns and lots of action … What I really loved about this book is the way it presents New Zealand plonk in the middle of international political history.' Alyson Baker, Crime Watch

• Language: English
• Publisher: Silver Owl Press
• Release date: Jun 25, 2023
• ISBN: 9780992262266

David McGill

David McGill is a New Zealand social historian and fiction writer who has published 60 books. Born in Auckland, educated in the Bay of Plenty and at a Christchurch seminary, he trained as a teacher and did a BA at Victoria University of Wellington. He worked as a feature writer for The Listener, Sydney’s The Bulletin, London’s TVTimes, wrote columns for the Evening Post in Wellington and edited a local lifestyle magazine before becoming a full-time writer in 1984. His book subjects include Ghost Towns of New Zealand and the country’s first bushranger, local and national heritage buildings, Kiwi prisoners of war, the history of the NZ Customs Department, a biography of a criminal lawyer, a personal history of rock music, a rail journey around the country, historical and comic novels, several thrillers and six collections of Kiwi slang and recently seven Dan Delaney Mysteries. He collects owl figurines and reads thrillers. His website www.davidmcgill.co.nz includes blogs related to his books and synopses and reviews by clicking on covers.

Book preview

Chapter One

Auckland 5 July 1945

Pride and panic were the go as the crowd propelled us out of the chill evening air into the packed vestibule of the Auckland Town Hall. I’d lost hold of Rina’s hand in the scrum of excited faces. Most of them were men, a goodly portion like me in the old lemon-squeezers and army greatcoats, most in the grey felt hats and grey gabardine coats that serve as the Kiwi male peacetime plumage. I was a tad panicky because crowds usually meant trouble, which tightened up my sub-par internal bellows. This was offset by the swelling of pride at the presence of my wife. In her scarlet beret and matching coat with fur trim I reckon she stood out like a ruby in a tray of sprouting spuds.

‘Get a move on, will ya, mate,’ a rabbity little joker whinged, making his point with a sharp elbow in my midriff. Bit of a sucker punch, it knocked the pride out of my sails.

I swung around, anxious to locate Rina. She was talking to my brother. The crowd’s momentum swung me back and inside the hall. My father was motioning from the left aisle. I went that way, which was some respite from the surge of people calling out to each other. It was hard to tell how many were in the hall, it had to be a full house, maybe 2000. There was the buzzy anticipation of an Eden Park crowd before a test match. Not a bad turnout considering the papers reckoned Peter Fraser was losing his grip, fiddling away for months overseas while his government floundered, trying to get a better shot at peace with this organisation that was going to replace the failed League of Nations. Give them their Tory due my father would not have a bar of, the papers were effusive about his achievements as a leader among the 50 nations at the San Francisco Conference.

My father tapped my arm. ‘You round them up, I’ll hold us some seats.’

Rina spotted us and was waving, a lily-white hand above the lemon-squeezers. She and Sean joined us crammed into the end seat.

Sean leaned across Rina. ‘Didn’t know Pious Peter was still this popular. Hey!’ He pitched forward, scrabbling to hold on to his glasses. He turned to his attacker. ‘Take it easy, will ya. You could’ve broken my specs.’

‘You take it easy, chum,’ the man sneered, standing up and repeating his push into Sean’s back. ‘Next time I will break your blimmin specs. Show some respect.’

I had an arm around Rina as I eyed this angry man. Sean would be advised to heed the fellow, given he was the size of a top-of-the-bill wrestler. It was all moot as somebody shouted ‘Good old Peter!’ and a fusillade of foot-stamping, clapping and piercing finger-and-thumb whistles greeted a line of senior citizens filing on to the stage.

Rina squeezed my arm as we recognised Peter Fraser in the centre of the group, tall and stooped and shuffling in his short-sighted fashion. Round, rimless specs, round and almost bald head, he was vague and turnip bland as the Minhinnick cartoons in the Herald. There was also presence, as we knew when we met him briefly a matter of months ago at the convalescent home in Kent.

I asked my father who the other gents were.

‘Right then,’ said Dad, relishing the opportunity to contribute. ‘See the chappie in the thick glasses, he’s the mayor, Jack Allum. You remember old Ernie Davis. He was his sidekick, inherited the job. Next to him is Parry, Minister of Internal Affairs. Mr Fraser’s other side is Sullivan, Minister of Supply.’

‘Minister of No Supply,’ Sean sneered out of the corner of his mouth, not too loud for the man behind to hear him. Sean had changed his political spots, came presumably with the territory as a Truth reporter.

‘That enough names for you?’ Dad asked.

‘For sure,’ I said.

‘The others, they’re local bigwigs in the law, diplomats, bureaucrats, a few dog collars, some of our trade union officials, obviously the services. And a quorum of us elderly, all invited.’

‘Our Peter,’ Sean confided carefully. ‘He knows where his votes are.’

‘Too damn right,’ Dad said vociferously. ‘Allum would be the only character up there from the other side.’

The worthies sat facing the audience. Allum got first dibs, reading out an apology from Leader of the Opposition Sid Holland. Comprehensive booing proved Dad right.

‘That exhibition,’ Allum objected, ‘will grieve the prime minister greatly.’

The jeers from all corners clearly indicated most of the audience did not think Peter Fraser would grieve in the least. The man himself maintained a poker face as the mayor stubbornly expressed the hope such behaviour would not be repeated.

The mayor took a deep breath, probably knowing he was on a loser. ‘Mr Fraser,’ he said, ‘has demonstrated his courage, he has brought praise to our nation, and he has written his name and our name in an imperishable chapter of the world’s history. The ideals he sought to translate into realities revealed true statesmanship. From the opening of the San Francisco Conference to its close, Mr Fraser gave unremittingly of his long experience and ripe judgement and showed himself a champion of the cause of the smaller nations.’

Allum won a smallish round of applause. He looked over the top of his thick glasses, maybe a warning of what I already feared was a lengthy script:

‘Outstanding in his work was his chairmanship of the Trusteeship Committee. Under his guidance, the task of planning machinery by which the administration of dependent territories was to be supervised made steady progress. The skill and patience with which he guided deliberations of the committee brought high honour to him, and placed him in the front rank of the statesmen …’

The mayor continued to speak, but the rising level of coughing, shuffling, muttering and rumbles of dissatisfaction drowned out his words. Sean called out loudly ‘Windbag’, safe in abusing the non-Labour mayor in this company, particularly the big man behind us. The mayor may not have heard Sean over the din, but he did get the message, inviting Mr Fraser to address the audience. The mayor sat and the prime minister rose, to sustained ovation. He held his hands up and finally the audience quietened.

‘During the whole of the San Francisco Conference,’ he said, ‘the New Zealand delegation acted as an All Black international team.’

Loud and lengthy applause. When it subsided, he launched into a long eulogy on the late President Roosevelt, whose spirit he said was present at the conference he inspired when he met with Winston Churchill and framed the Atlantic Charter. There was nothing showy about the prime minister. He was much as he was when he visited us former prisoners of war in Kent, sincere, earnest, parsonical. It was the other Roosevelt said a leader should speak quietly but carry a big stick. Fraser certainly spoke quietly, but I’d not seen him wield a stick.

His voice did harden as he told us a gentleman had erroneously claimed the war was fought to keep things as they are. Millions of soldiers who died, he said as he looked around the hall, did not understand that to be so. We fought for democracy, for progress and freedom, not for stagnation.

My father was one of many on their feet clapping and cheering. The prime minister resumed speaking while the audience was still subsiding, so I missed his first few sentences. He was saying it was easy to stir up feelings which ended in the cruelty and the concentration camps in Germany. I am glad, he said, leaning forward to emphasise his message, that in both the Atlantic Charter and the San Francisco Charter racial discrimination is not to be allowed in our countries.

If I was a cynic like my brother I’d say Peter Fraser had tried out his charter speech on us convalescing soldiers, free from the Nazi camp but captive of a conniving politician. As it was, we really appreciated that our prime minister had gone out of his way to visit us. He said exactly the same things as he was now about the provisions in the charters to save succeeding generations from the scourge of war. His visit meant a great deal to us. Ru in particular. He lost a leg in North Africa, he knew about the scourge of war more than any of us. He was a fervent Labour man. The visit from Peter Fraser made him a proselytiser to the extent the National supporters got fed up to the back teeth with St Peter and the Holy Labour Grail. I sat on the fence. I had not lost my father’s socialist faith, like Sean, because I never shared the belief in a workers’ paradise. I didn’t believe in another unrealistic version of the Garden of Eden. But I was not going to tell my father. I agreed to come to the rally to please him, and Rina, who was keen to see Peter Fraser in public action.

I tuned out on the Peter Fraser speech. It was our first full day back in New Zealand. I reckon I could be forgiven for thinking about other things, like Rina.

She nudged me. I might have been dozing, hopefully not snoring. The overhead lights are bright and the atmosphere warm, particularly in a heavy khaki overcoat. I’m sure I’d only closed my eyes for a moment. Peter Fraser was assuring us he and Mr Berendsen, whoever he was, believed every word. There was no need to ask what he believed. ‘When Parliament ratifies the charter,’ he said, ‘we shall be pledged as a nation to uphold these principles. I hope that nowhere will any section of the community or any individual make any attack upon any of our people, and particularly on the strangers in our midst to whom we have given refuge.’

Amidst the thunderous applause, Rina let out an involuntary sob. I squeezed her hand, the soft hand of my darling wife, of a Jewish refugee from certain execution in Germany who nursed me back to health and, for reasons I cannot begin to understand, agreed to marry me and return with me to New Zealand, making me the happiest Kiwi camper. It was surreal, sitting under the hot lights with the applause caroming round my skull like ball bearings in an empty oil barrel, my head suffering and my heart at peace.

A man was walking down the central aisle, up the stairs to the platform. Nobody intercepted him. Mr Fraser was shaking his hand, seemed to be reassuring him. The man turned and made his way back down the centre of the hall. Nobody tried to stop him, not the police, none of the soldiers. He resumed his seat not far from us. I could see a badge in his lapel. ‘RSA,’ my father said.

Mr Fraser was saying the gentleman he had just spoken to wanted assurances about pensioners. ‘I was happy to oblige,’ he said. ‘We will never forget our senior citizens.’

More clapping, including from my father. More cries of ‘Good old Peter.’ There was no way of knowing as he approached Peter Fraser whether the man was friend or foe. It showed I suppose the country was truly at peace.

And polite too, at least this audience was. Mr Fraser resumed his speech, telling us at great length all the various responsibilities of the charter. We were going to provide armed force where necessary. New Zealand was to transfer its mandate for Western Samoa to the Trusteeship Council, as would other countries holding mandates over colonial territories. All countries would ensure full employment or the equivalent minimum family income, and New Zealand Parliament planned to take steps in this direction in the present session.

Yet more clapping and cheers. Sean said something about vote-catching.

Mr Fraser moved inexorably on to how he led the efforts to deny the Great Powers a right of veto, but alas the motion was lost. The Great Powers would not sign the charter without that veto power. Now the charter was signed, the world was placed on the road to lasting peace.

‘There was an effort made to whittle down the term full employment,’ he said indignantly. ‘We succeeded in retaining the term. We pledged ourselves to do the utmost to avoid depressions, but if one comes, the whole burden will not fall on the working people of the world.’

Huge applause.

The charter was not perfect, he said, but it would be improved when they met in London for the first General Assembly.

When the applause had ended, Sean said, with a glance behind him, that Fraser spoke for 45 minutes. ‘He probably bored the other delegates into signing the darned thing.’

Rina was on her feet. ‘Why you speak like that? Mr Fraser is goot man.’

I too had suffered her indignation, usually in a thickening German accent, when I said something flippant, like nein was the word Hitler used most often.

‘Sure he is,’ Sean said insincerely. ‘I heard the shouts of Good old Peter. Anyway, I’m off, got a job to do.’

‘Don’t take any notice of him,’ Dad told her. ‘He couldn’t serve in the war, eyesight problems. Now he’s with that wretched newspaper.’

‘I understand, Mr Delaney,’ Rina said, looking at me. ‘It must have been difficult.’

‘Paddy, please. My wayward son’s in a minority about Mr Fraser. Even our Tory press rate what he achieved for small nations at San Francisco. He’s a true socialist.’

‘Yes,’ she agreed. ‘Good socialist.’

I put my arm around her. ‘Show’s over. Let’s get back to my parents’ place.’

She leaned into me, giving me a knowing look. She knew what I really meant. I still couldn’t figure how nursing me became so much more, or what I had done to deserve it. If she’d gone off to the States with the Yank officer who was so keen on her, she’d probably have ended up in Hollywood.

We were among the last to leave. In the foyer Dad had found a comrade to chat to. I guided Rina to one side, away from those clambering on to trams and hailing the line of taxis. This was the shadowy side of Upper Queen Street. One of the anonymous buildings on this side was where the Auckland German Club conducted its pre-war plans, drawing up lists of Jews in New Zealand and those of German origin who would be drafted into the Third Reich’s forces. It was my first police job, trying to keep track of those subversives.

I said nothing to Rina about it. Instead I suggested it was high time we took in a movie. I gestured in the general direction of the St James, the Civic and the other major Queen Street theatres. We had not got the chance to see much of London, let alone its entertainment, we had a boat to catch.

‘I don’t even know what flicks you like,’ I said.

She tossed her thick auburn hair. ‘Oh, I am easy to please. The Oz Wizard, you know. Gone with the Wind. That Humper-phrey Bogart?’

‘Casablanca. Bogart and Peter Lorre are on in something about Marseilles. That could be okay.’

‘Perhaps. So long as it is not about the war, liebchen.’

I knew what she meant. Most of the current movies were about the war, or worse. Currently screening were The Master Race and The Hitler Gang. I had no desire to see that demented runt and his mad race theories and I could not understand the market for it, so soon after the horrific revelations of the concentration camp mass murder. I said there was a movie with Rita Hayworth and Fred Astaire on at our Ponsonby fleapit.

Rina looked alarmed. I assured her the film was harmless. Fred dances, he doesn’t do war stuff. Rita, I added, is pretty good at the old light fantastic. I could have said Rina looked like Miss Hayworth, without the red hair.

‘What is fleapit?’

I laughed. ‘So that’s what you’re worried about. It’s a joke. It’s what we call the local picture palace.’

She jabbed me in the ribs. ‘Always joking, you English.’

‘Huh,’ I said. ‘Kiwis you mean. We’re not ruddy Poms.’

‘Poms? Speak English, please.’

‘Hang on,’ I said, peering along the shady side of the town hall where several cars were lined up by the side entrance. ‘Sean is up to something. I think I know that joker.’

‘Joker? Daniel, where are you going?’

I turned, told her to wait. There were drivers leaning against the sides of the cars, but the man I was interested in was talking to Sean. He was my old boss Stan Biggart, inspector when I last saw him before the war. He was even thinner than I remembered him. He was bent over, coughing. As he straightened, his gesture indicated Sean should leave. I called out to them as I approached. Biggart looked my way, gave me a nod, again ordered Sean to leave. ‘Now is not the time,’ I heard him hiss.

People were emerging from the side door. Further up the road, where the German Club premises had been, a large man was running towards us in a frantic fashion.

Biggart moved to block his path. The drivers and Sean were standing there. I saw something glint in the man’s left hand. Biggart had no weapon. I ran at the fellow as he swung his hand towards Biggart. The fellow sensed me coming and switched with a snarl, the knife raised. Biggart grabbed his arm, causing him to bellow with rage, flinging Biggart to the footpath. I took the opportunity to launch myself at his legs and got lucky, hitting him with the old hospital pass tackle. He went down hard, howling as he cracked his head on the edge of the gutter. It was the knife that worried me. It was thrown clear. I grabbed it as several policemen appeared and cuffed the dazed assailant.

‘Sorry, sir,’ one of the policemen said to Biggart. ‘We expected trouble round the front.’

Biggart was trying to clear his throat. He growled at them to get the blighter down to the cells. ‘Get a wriggle on,’ he said. ‘Before the PM appears.’

I moved to help him. ‘I’ll be fine,’ he croaked. ‘Better give me the knife.’

Sean was saying he wished he had his camera. Several men from the side entrance were getting eye-witness accounts from the drivers, who were pointing at me. Rina was asking was I hurt, what was happening, I should leave it to the police. Biggart asked if this was my wife.

He didn’t wait for my answer. I was telling Rina everything was fine, it was all over in a flash, as Biggart ordered the men from the side door to keep the PM inside while this was sorted, to keep the door closed until they were given the all clear. They retreated, closing the door behind them. Biggart turned on Sean, said there was to be nothing in his rag and to get lost.

As he stepped back, Sean was looking at me, as if I might intervene. I shrugged. Dad appeared, asking what on earth was going on. Biggart looked up from conferring with the drivers, waved his arm in an arc that included Sean, Rina, myself and my father, said he would have us taken home by car.

‘Daniel,’ he said firmly. ‘I will speak to you in the morning. Now off you go.’

The pounding on the front door woke me out of a deep, blessedly nightmare-free sleep. Any harder and I expected to hear glass shattering. There were voices and a tap on our door. Rina was asking what was happening. I had no idea. We were in pitch dark with the blinds down, as if the blackout was still in force. My father provided light and the answer, speaking from behind the slightly open door that a constable was here to take me down to Central, an Inspector Biggart was waiting there.

‘I don’t work for him,’ I said. ‘I’m not in the police anymore.’

A piece of paper was being waved around the door.

‘Come in,’ Rina said. ‘We are respected.’

‘I wouldn’t go that far,’ I objected. Her satin nightie at best covered half of her.

‘Are you going to leave your father to the dangle?’

I grunted and swung out of the converted bunk we shared. ‘Close your eyes,’ I said as I switched on the overhead light and took the telegram from my father. He said he would put on the kettle, and Constable Frame would no doubt welcome a cuppa while I got dressed. I squinted at the telegram. Approve co-opt Delaney given last night development. Swearing in here. It was from Police