Death on Demand by Paul Thomas Read Free Book Online Page B

well,” Ihaka told the others. “This is like therapy for him. It’ll get worse before it gets better.”
    Having had a brief but vivid reminder of why she didn’t miss being a cop one little bit, Greendale couldn’t wait to get out of there. Van Roon offered to see her to her car.

    Firkitt was in full, toxic flow before they were even out of earshot: “Do you ever think about what a fucking loser you are? I mean, mate, you had everything in your favour: you were the man on the spot, you’d put in the hard yards, you had the new DC on your side. On top of all that you’re a Maori and, as we all know, it’s not a level playing field these days. Three capable white blokes and a deadshit Maori go for a job, Hori gets it every time. That’s what the fucking world’s come to. So you have to ask the question: what sort of a cunt would you have to be to have all that going for you and still blow it?”
    Firkitt rocked back on his heels, hands in pockets, awaiting Ihaka’s response with an expectant half-smile. He’s had a few, thought Ihaka, but he’s not pissed. He knows what he’s doing: he’s seeing how far he can push me.
    â€œI’ve got to take a piss,” said Ihaka.
    â€œMe too.”
    Firkitt followed Ihaka into the toilet, hovering on his shoulder. “You know what really fucked you, right? Harassing that poor bastard whose missus got cleaned up by a boy racer. Christ, that would have to be the dumbest fucking thing I’ve ever heard of. Even you brownies can’t get away with that sort of shit. I mean, you can have your little sluts on tap, bone them up the arse with a baton if you want. That’s fine; we understand you people like that sort of thing. But deciding you don’t need a scrap of evidence to know some eastern suburbs big shot took out his wife, following him around, barging in on him at some ungodly hour, fuck me.” The diatribe ended in a jarring cackle.
    Ihaka registered that none of the stalls were occupied. He stepped up to the weeping wall. Firkitt followed suit, still snorting with amusement. As Firkitt unzipped, Ihaka threw a hard, fast elbow, spearing it into the side of his jaw, just below the ear. Firkitt bounced off the wall, his knees gave
way, and he slid face first into the trough of the urinal. Ihaka unbuttoned his jeans and took a long, leisurely piss. The drainage flow encountered an obstacle, but the obstacle didn’t seem to notice.
    Ihaka washed and dried his hands and walked out of the toilet. Firkitt still hadn’t moved.
    Â 
    He left the bar without looking left or right and got a taxi home. Home was an Edwardian bungalow in a quiet cul-de-sac near Eden Park, one of a number of houses in the streets between Dominion and Sandringham Roads which were built for troops returning from the Turkish campaign. He went into his shed, found a hammer, and pulverized his cellphone, partly because he wanted to be incommunicado, partly because he blamed the cellphone for the way the evening had turned out. He had a ham and cheese sandwich, made a thermos of coffee, and threw a few items into an overnight bag. Forty minutes after leaving Worsp’s farewell, he reversed his car out of the drive and headed for the harbour bridge. He was almost certainly over the limit but his head was clear. Besides, he firmly believed that he drove better with a few beers under his belt than most civilians did stone-cold sober.
    Ihaka went north to his family’s bach, an authentically dilapidated pole house at Tauranga Bay on the south head of Whangaroa Harbour, where he spent the next thirty-six hours sleeping, fishing and sitting in the sun. He didn’t think about the Firkitt incident or the likely consequences because he was a fatalist and it wasn’t in his nature to fret over things that couldn’t be undone or potential developments that he couldn’t control. On Sunday afternoon he drove