Read Online Death on Demand by Paul Thomas - Free Book Online

certainly can be for others. But I get the message: you’re wondering why on earth, given the resources of the Auckland district, you’ve had to rush up here at such short notice. Remember Hamish Bartley?”
    â€œThe QC, right?” said Ihaka. “He represented that prick whose wife got run down.”
    McGrail nodded. “Last Friday Bartley took me to lunch at his club. The Northern Club.”

    â€œI didn’t think it would be the Panmure RSA.”
    â€œI’m pleased to see the heartland hasn’t softened your sense of humour,” said McGrail. “Anyway, we had a pleasant lunch and talked about everything except what we were there for, as you tend to do when a third party is paying. When the coffee arrived, he finally got to the point: Christopher Lilywhite wants to see you.”
    â€œThe guy whose wife…”
    â€œGot run down. Yes, that Christopher Lilywhite.”
    Ihaka sat back, staring at McGrail. “Why the fuck would he, of all people, want to see me, of all people?”
    â€œBecause he’s dying.”
    Â 
    The doorbell was answered by a thirtyish woman, shapeless in baggy track pants and an oversized T-shirt. Her hair was clipped into an untidy holding pattern, and red-rimmed eyes and nostrils glowed angrily amidst the pallor. Before he could introduce himself, she said accusingly, “You’re Ihaka.”
    He nodded.
    â€œYou’re the last person who should be here.”
    â€œIt wasn’t my idea.”
    Her head vibrated with pent-up anger. “He’s got this weird idea about making peace with you. I tried to talk him out of it, but he wouldn’t even discuss it. I suppose that’s his privilege, but he’s dreaming if he thinks I’m going to be polite to you.” Her voice rose. “How you can still be a police officer is beyond me – you behaved like an absolute fucking Nazi. You hounded a man who was at the end of his tether, and what you put him through is the reason he’s back there dying right in front of my eyes.”
    â€œAre you a doctor?” asked Ihaka politely.
    â€œNo,” she snapped. “I’m a daughter.” She turned and walked away. “The room at the end of the corridor,” she said over her shoulder. “You can let yourself out.”

    Ihaka walked down the corridor into a sunny living room. There was a well-stocked cocktail cabinet, a wall-mounted television, a sideboard stacked with framed family photographs, and several paintings including the inevitable Central Otago landscape. The flat surfaces were abloom.
    Christopher Lilywhite lay on one of two long black leather sofas, his head sunk in a bank of pillows. Although the room was warm, almost stuffy, he wore an old-fashioned heavy dressing gown and had a cashmere blanket pulled up to his chest. He wasn’t as gaunt as Ihaka had expected, but the year-round playboy tan had faded, exposing skin the colour of office equipment.
    Lilywhite put a bookmark in a slim paperback and found a space for it among the bottles and glasses and pill containers on the coffee table beside him.
    â€œ The Outsider by Albert Camus,” he said in a smaller voice than the smug honk Ihaka remembered. “I’m trying to work my way through the books I always meant to read, but never got around to. I do find myself drawn to the short ones, though.”
    â€œThat’s understandable,” said Ihaka. “How long have you got?”
    â€œPut it this way: we’re counting in weeks now. I hope Sandy – my daughter – didn’t give you too hard a time. I asked her to be civil, but got the distinct impression that that was one dying man’s request which wasn’t going to be granted.”
    Ihaka shrugged. “I’ve had worse.”
    â€œWould you care for a drink?” asked Lilywhite. “That cabinet over there contains most alcoholic beverages known to man. I also nagged Sandy