Mele Kalikimaka Mr Walker (23 page)

‘Oh beauty.'

‘Anyway, Mick's up to his neck with a serial killer.'

‘Oh terrific, Les. That's all I bloody need at the moment. What's his one doing?'

‘Killing hookers.'

‘Yeah. What with? Kindness?'

‘Not really. A bayonet. Anyway, I'm sure I know something that can help Mick and I want to ask you something, Gary.'

‘Yeah, go on.'

‘Remember we were all pissed down the Diggers one Friday afternoon, about a year ago? We won all those jackpots.'

‘Yeah, I remember all right. It nearly cost me my marriage.'

‘Yeah, right. Well, there was a cop there from up the North Coast, and he told us that story about something he called the “Rhonda Colby” or the “Raisa Klaus murder”, or something. I was that pissed I can only remember bits of it.'

‘Rhonda Colby?' Gary had to think for a moment. ‘Oh, I remember. The Rosa Klebb killing. The bloke got stabbed in a caravan park in Forster. I remember it because the bloke's name was Foster.' Detective Stanton chuckled into the phone. ‘Yeah, I remember it all right.'

‘Well, can you zap that up on a computer and fill me in a bit on the story?'

Ohh yeah, thought Detective Stanton. Anything to break the monotony of what he was doing for a short while. ‘I don't see why not. Hang on a minute.'

Les thought about the drink at the Diggers again and smiled to himself. He took another mouthful of beer and tapped his biro eagerly against the hotel memo pad as he waited for Gary to come back.

‘Yeah, I got it, Les,' he said, staring at the computer screen in front of him. ‘The bloke's name was Albert Arthur Foster. Aged fifty-eight, unemployed, blah blah blah. Yeah, accidental death. He fell on his sword, so to speak. Or in this case a fishing knife.'

‘That's it!' enthused Les. ‘But what's the story behind it again?'

‘The accidental death?' replied Detective Stanton, a little cagily. ‘Well, as you know, Les, I can't say a great deal over the phone.'

‘I realise that, Gary. But can you just… you know?'

Gary thought for a moment. ‘Yeah, all right.'

Les listened intently as Detective Stanton ducked and dived, and weaved and wound his way around the story the North Coast detective had told them down the Diggers that afternoon. Les just nodded his head as he held the phone to his ear but it was hard to hide his enthusiasm.

‘So that's about the size of it, Les. Poor bludger, what a way to go. And let's just say, Les, it doesn't pay to fool around with wives… I mean knives… when you're drunk.'

‘My sentiments exactly, Detective Stanton,' Les smiled over the phone.

Detective Stanton looked across the room and caught the eye of a detective waving at him and pointing to a graph he and some other detectives were staring at. ‘Les, I have to go, mate. I'm being called.'

‘Okey-doke, Gary. Well, thanks a lot for that. I owe you one. How about I catch up with you for a beer and a pie when I get back? I'll give you a ring Friday.' ‘Do that, Les. See you, mate.'

‘See you, Gary.'

Well, there you go, thought Norton, smiling down at the phone. I knew there was something. He took his beer over to the window, sipped it as he stared at the darkened ocean for a few moments, then went over to the photocopies he'd left out on the table along with his radio. That made sense all right. It didn't say who the killer was and it didn't necessarily narrow down the field, but it did point out what could possibly be Mr Walker's ‘modus operandi' as they say in the wallopers. Les chuckled softly and shook his head. And all because of a silly bloody fight in a lift and an even sillier bloody drinking session.

Norton opened the last can of beer in the fridge, turned on the TV, leaving the volume down, and watched it from the table with the radio playing. The first channel he got had film of the volcano erupting and it was quite spectacular, both the day-and night-time shots. People running everywhere, houses and buildings being engulfed slowly by this advancing wall of molten rock. Clouds of steam billowing into the air as the lava flowed into the ocean. Geysers of red-hot molten rock exploding into the sky from a mountain that looked like nothing more than some monstrous, grey ash-covered slag heap. By contrast, the night shots showed the volcano turning the evening sky into an intensely beautiful, iridescent purplish orange colour, lighting up the sea and the surrounding area for kilometres around. It was nature at its worst yet at its most spectacular. Christ, thought Les, that's unbelievable. And to think that running around somewhere in the middle of all that is Warren. No wonder he sounded like he was shitting himself. I
reckon I would be too. The camera zoomed back to the people coming and going, planes landing and more camera crews arriving for the big event. Norton screwed his face up, edging a little closer to the TV set. Hello, there's a familiar face. And looking all concerned and dramatic. But that's only natural. Then Les started to chuckle before finally laughing out loud. Shit! I might not have solved one mystery here just yet, but I think I've solved another. The camera then switched to a helicopter flying over the volcano's crater, through the clouds of gas and smoke tumbling into the sky above a lake of glowing, molten red lava. Les shuddered as he recollected reading how the ancient Hawaiians used to throw virgins into the volcano to appease the Gods. Yuk! What an awful fate. If I was a young Hawaiian tart years ago, I wouldn't be saving my cherry up for the honeymoon. I'd be getting out and having a root as soon as I left kindergarten. And plenty of 'em. They could say what they liked about me. Anything'd be better than that. Norton sipped his last beer and stared absently at the TV as his mind switched back to Mr Walker. Suddenly his thoughts seemed to be in as much turmoil as the glowing lava boiling away in Kilauea. One thought was what was going to happen to poor blasé bloody Andrea. Another had him hoping above all that he wasn't right. Anything but that. But it looked bad. Awful bad. Les turned away from the TV and gazed out the window. It was now pitch black. Shit! Where did the day go? Norton suddenly snapped his fingers. Bloody hell! I got to ring Mick. He rose to walk over to the phone when it rang. It was Mick.

‘Hey, Les. What's the story? You're leaving tonight?'

‘Mick. I got your message. I was just about to ring you. I must have SPC. Yeah, the whole thing's fucked up and we're out of here tonight.' Les told Mick what was going on and how he had to leave at such short notice.

‘Ah shit! What a bummer. I was looking forward to getting on the piss with you.'

‘Yeah, me too,' answered Les.

‘I'm stuck here in the office till seven-thirty. Then I'm straight over to Diamond Head, flat out again. My partner's still off.' Mick paused for a second. ‘But if you're not leaving the hotel till around ten, I might be able to call in for a minute. But I don't like my chances.'

‘Don't worry about it,' said Les. ‘I'll catch up with you next time I'm in town. Listen, Mick, I've been in touch with a cop in Australia — the one you gave me that cap for. And I reckon I might be able to help you with this Mr Walker thing.'

‘You? How?'

‘It's a bit hard to explain over the phone, and you'd probably laugh at me. But I reckon I'm onto something.'

‘Yeah?' Mick sounded sceptical. ‘I don't know. But I'll take your word for it. You haven't been bad so far.'

‘Trust me, Mick. I'm telling you. Now, you've got access to a computer there, haven't you?'

‘Yeah. I'm staring into one right now.'

‘Right. Well, I want you to look something up for me. Was a priest murdered on a bridge around here somewhere, not too far from Diamond Head? All I know is his first name was James and it wouldn't have been any more than two years ago.'

‘James? James?' Mick pondered for a few seconds.
‘Shit! I think I know this one. Hang on, I'll zap it up on the screen.'

Les could hear Mick clicking away at the keyboard while he waited patiently on the phone.

‘Yeah,' Mick's voice came back. ‘Father James Guthrie Conesceau. Male Hawaiian. They buried him with his family on the big island. Aged thirty-seven, et cetera, et cetera. Some nut stabbed him in Ala Moana Park. But hold on, Les. This has nothing to do with Mr Walker. It was a religious nut got him, hearing voices in his head. He's in the funny farm now. In fact, it was Honesto made the bust. He was in the park looking for a flasher when this whacko pulls out a knife and starts letting all sorts of air into this priest. Poor bastard. He was only standing there feeding the fish.'

‘Where was the bridge?'

‘It wasn't a bridge. All it says here is that it was a “concrete arch facing a bus stop on Ala Moana Boulevard”.'

‘And when did the murder happen, Mick?'

‘When?' Mick peered at the screen. ‘Shit! It happened today, actually. Just before Christmas.'

‘But when exactly? Day, night, what?'

‘It was… 9.10 pm, to be exact'

‘Mick, what sort of moon is it tonight?'

‘Moon? Shit! Be lucky if there is one tonight. It was raining and thundering when I came to work.' Mick flicked a page on his desk calendar with a biro. ‘But if there is, it'd be a full one.'

Norton could feel this sense of urgency starting to rise in him. ‘Mick, this is serious. Where will you be around nine o'clock tonight?'

‘Tonight? Like I told you, around Diamond Head. Looking for a burglar. And I couldn't give a stuff about Andrea's travelling bloody brothels.'

‘Mate, do you reckon you could be out at that bridge in Ala Moana tonight around nine? And don't let anybody see you.'

‘Go out there at nine? Why? I mean, it's not even anywhere near my area.'

‘I just reckon that's where Andrea's going to be tonight. And I reckon there's a good chance Mr Walker'll be there stalking her.'

‘Les, come on. Get real.'

‘I am real, Mick. A hundred per cent real.'

‘And what makes you “reckon” Andrea and this Mr Walker dude are gonna be out there tonight?'

‘I… I just got this strong feeling.'

‘You just got this strong feeling. Well, I got a strong feeling this burglar's going to be out at Diamond Head tonight. And I got an even stronger feeling, if I'm not there when he is, I'll get an extremely strong kick up the butt from the HPD.'

‘Yeah, I s'pose you're right,' sighed Les.

‘Look, I'll tell you what I'll do,' said Mick. ‘If I get a chance, I'll take a quick cruise over there. And I'll try and see you before you go. But like I said, don't count on it. Listen, why don't you take a run out to Diamond Head and I'll see if I can meet you somewhere. Give me a bell on the mobile.'

‘I got to take the car back.'

‘Oh! Well, I don't know what to do, mate. I guess if I don't get a chance to see you before you go, it's… aloha.'

‘Yeah, aloha. See you a chip-potater.'

‘Anyway, we'll see what happens.'

‘All right. See you, Mick.'

‘Okay, Les. See you.'

Les hung up and found himself once more staring at the phone. Yeah, I suppose Mick's right, he sighed. He's got better things to do than sneak around some park in the middle of the night just because some half-baked tourist has got a feeling. And the man has got a job to do. As for driving out to Diamond Head in the rain, trying to find some place on a bloody road map just to say goodbye, no thanks. Mick's a good bloke and all that, but it's not as if he's my long-lost brother. But it would be nice if he could get there tonight with his .38 Smith and Wesson or whatever it is they have over here just in case I am right. Shit! Les snapped his fingers again. Talking about the car, I've got to take the bloody thing back. I wonder if the office is still open. America? It'd have to be. Les downed the last of his beer, got his receipts and whatever else he needed and caught the lift to the foyer.

The office of Ala Moana Car Rentals was closed. Les cursed silently and walked round to the front desk. He made a phone call to the head office from there and got an answering service. He left a message as best he could then made arrangements at reception to leave the car in the parking lot and the keys and receipts at the front desk when he checked out. Any refunds they could send to his address in Australia. If not, stiff shit. Les thanked the girl and went back to his room.

The TV was still flickering silently when he walked in and the radio was still pumping out golden oldies. The weather seemed to have worsened outside. Patches
of light rain pattered against the window, helped by gusts of wind rattling the railing on the balcony, and there was violent storm activity out to sea. Les watched more volcano film and weather reports for a minute or two as several claps of thunder rattled above the hotel. Bad luck there was no beer left. But there was enough Bacardi and fruit juice left for a couple of drinks. Les made a delicious, put it on the table after taking a sip and started packing the stuff he had bought earlier in the afternoon, managing to cram it all into his bag somehow. All the time, though, he couldn't stop thinking about Andrea.

Bloody airhead sheila, he half cursed. You can bet your life that's where she is tonight. Andrea's words kept echoing inside his head: ‘I fall in love with a priest. James. The best bloke I ever met in my life. Some bastard stabbed him on a bridge. I got things to do tonight.' The dopey, lovesick look on her face gave her away. She's always been a half-baked, bleeding heart romantic. That's where she'd be, all right — reminiscing old memories. Probably on that bridge throwing flowers or a silly bloody lei in the water. And you can bet your life she'd be dopey enough to go on her own. It's the perfect night to be alone with your thoughts, playing Wuthering Heights. And for getting necked. Maybe one of the girls drove her out there? Terrific. But she reckons she carries a gun with her. Les shook his head. If I'm right, it wouldn't matter if she was carrying an M16. Then again, I could be imagining things. Maybe she's home? Maybe there's a message. Les walked across to the phone and rang Andrea's number; he got the maid again.