The One That Got Away Read online

  Praise for The One that Got Away

  ‘A rollicking good read.’

  - Waiheke Weekender

  ‘… a good yarn, very well plotted, and interesting characters.’

  - John Lapsley, columnist, Otago Daily Times

  ‘A fun enjoyable story. There’s a failed assassination attempt and a secret coverup ...the investigation goes beyond the cold case …and takes on the people who are still around and willing to murder to cover their tracks. A ripping yarn, definitely worth a read.’

  - Lisa Finucane, Nine to Noon, Radio NZ

  ‘I very much enjoyed entering Lauren’s world. It was a good, fast paced read and I loved the political intrigue!’

  -Hon Grant Robertson, MP

  Copyright © Lois Cox and Hilary Lapsley, 2019

  The right of Lois Cox and Hilary Lapsley to be identified as the authors of this work in terms of section 96 of the Copyright Act is hereby asserted.

  Published by Town Belt Press, New Zealand

  Created with Vellum

  Cover designed by James McDonald: JAMESMCDONALDBOOKS.COM

  Cover photograph by Constance Fein Harding: www.cfeinphotography.com

  ISBN: 978-0-473-50008-5

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owners and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. References to historical events, real people or real places are used fictitiously.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the National Library of New Zealand.

  Created with Vellum

  The evil that men do lives after them; the good is oft interred with their bones.

  William Shakespeare, Julius Caesar, Act 3, Scene 2

  1

  ‘Honour is the subject of my story’

  They walked down the curved marble stairs and emerged from the theatre into bright sunshine.

  ‘So deliciously wicked to go to a movie in the morning,’ said Lauren as they stood outside on the footpath.

  ‘I wouldn’t usually spend time inside on such a beautiful day. We should be outdoors.’ Pam’s weathered complexion suggested she usually was. ‘Hard to resist a National Theatre Julius Caesar, though.’

  Lauren’s mind was still full of the play and its images. She didn’t mind squandering sunny weather for such a rich return. ‘Don’t you think the way the stage jutted out into the audience was brilliant? You couldn’t tell which were the audience and which the actors in the crowd scenes.’ Lauren shivered as she recalled how the yelling, pumped-up actors seemed to encircle the spectators, so that they were included in the mob.

  ‘The modern dress brought it all too close to home,’ Pam said. ‘Creepy. The rabble. The power struggles. That guy playing Julius Caesar wearing a baseball cap. A take-off on Donald Trump. I bet he wouldn’t have minded being an Emperor.’

  A truck squealed to a halt at the traffic lights, drowning out their words. Lauren had to repeat herself, raising her voice. ‘His career ambition, no doubt. But when will people notice he has no clothes?’

  Pam laughed. ‘Rich men vying for power and ultimately betraying each other. Times don’t change, do they?’

  Lauren agreed. ‘I liked it that they had women playing a couple of the conspirators.’ Pam nodded. ‘But I couldn’t help remembering that the real Cassius was a man. Women were kept right out of politics then. Unless they were Cleopatra, of course.’

  ‘I guess the women knew what was going on and tried to use their influence,’ said Pam, stepping out of the way of a young man walking along the pavement directly towards her, earphones insulating him from his surroundings.

  ‘Yes, but in the play Caesar took no notice of his wife’s warnings. And Brutus’s wife killed herself by swallowing fire.’ Pam shuddered and Lauren said, after a moment’s thought, ‘I think that was true historically, not just something Shakespeare came up with.’

  Pam picked up her backpack, preparing to leave. ‘Well, here we are in the twenty-first century on the other side of the world. At least New Zealand politics aren’t that bad. I don’t think our election campaign will involve murder and mayhem.’

  ‘You might think we’re more civilized now,’ Lauren said. She grasped her handbag to her chest. ‘But I don’t call it civilized when we’ve got people sleeping in cars and on the street. And kids going to school hungry. And-’

  A steady series of ringing tones interrupted her. Lauren groped for her phone. ‘Must have forgotten to turn it off, just as well this call didn’t come while we were in there.’ She turned away. ‘Hello, Lauren here?’

  ‘It’s Ro. Lauren, I need to see you urgently. Are you free now?’

  ‘Not really, I’ve just come out of Julius Caesar with Pam, and I guess we’re both heading home.’ She turned back to Pam, raised a questioning eyebrow and Pam nodded.

  ‘Can you meet for coffee at Clark’s, then, say about three?’

  ‘What’s it about, Ro? I have a batch of editing I was hoping to complete this afternoon.’ She put her hand over her free ear as the lights turned green and the traffic surged forwards.

  ‘I can’t tell you over the phone. Please, Lauren, it’s really important.’

  Lauren sighed, agreed and rang off.

  Pam said, ‘Sounds like that’s your afternoon mapped out.’

  ‘Certainly does, you know Ro, no use arguing, she can be pretty fiery. Those stereotypes about redheads being hot-headed may be right.’

  Pam smiled, ‘No stereotypes about people like me with mousy brown hair, alas! But with Ro, it’s not so much that she’s hot-headed, she’s just so focused on what she’s doing, she forgets about the niceties.’

  ‘She’s certainly absorbed in her current project. Women in the fourth Labour Government. I’m surprised she’s got the energy to think about anything else. I wonder what it’s about. An affair of the heart, perhaps?’

  ‘Could be. That’s not my area of expertise. You’ll find out soon enough.’ Pam checked her watch. ‘I’d better run, get my bus.’ They hugged goodbye, Pam hurried across the road just as the ‘cross now’ signal turned red and Lauren began walking swiftly up Marjoribanks Street.

  She made a striking figure as she strode up the hill. Tall, sleek grey hair shaped in a neat cap, stylish black boots, blue jeans and a bright yellow top. She was still thinking about the play by the time she reached St Gerard’s monastery. Brutus was the real hero, such a sad muddle of a man; wasn’t the woman playing Cassius fantastic?

  She paused for breath and took in the view. The city and close suburbs ringed the expanse of sparkling water before her. The red Harbour Board tugs were busy shepherding a container ship into port. It was a stunning pocket city, all spread out before her.

  Halfway home and now she had the vista of Oriental Bay. The high footpath took her past grand houses with harbour views; even their carports had views. She stepped onto a track that took her through regenerating bush, her favourite part of the walk. Another twenty minutes saw her at the apartment block, only slightly out of breath. She retrieved her mail from the letterbox, took the footpath down and the steps up two at a time, unlocked the door and once inside, switched on the kettle.

  Waiting for it to boil, Lauren gazed fondly around her apartment. When she retired from full-time work, she’d finally got round to selling the family home and downsized. But she was determined not to have an apartment that constricted her. She loved hers: the living room and the main bedroom both had expansive view
s over the harbour, and the whole place was full of space and light. She had spread oriental rugs across a glowing matai timber floor. (And what a mission restoring the floor had been.) And built-in bookshelves everywhere–the living room, the study, the bedroom–to house her extensive collection. Well, almost. The books still tended to spill out, even encroaching on to her rimu table, the centrepiece of her kitchen-dining room, good for working at, eating at, entertaining friends.

  Her home felt as right as a snail’s shell does to a snail. The only lack, a garden, to get her hands into the soil. Pam’s allotment on Mt Vic dealt to that–lots of Pam’s friends helped with the work there.

  Lauren spooned tealeaves into the pot and made herself a tomato sandwich as she waited for the brew to steep. She poured tea into her favourite mug, then sat down with her lunch at the table. She flicked through the mail. Begging letters from Forest & Bird and Save the Children, an invitation to Megan’s sixty-fifth (Sixty-fifth! Help! But why a letter? Even the sixty-five year olds usually sent invites by email these days…) and a letter in a cream deckled envelope. From her old Cambridge college. No doubt another plea for funds. They’d save money if they spent less on their stationery. She slit open the envelope.

  Dear Alumna

  You are invited to a special event from September 25th to 27th, 2017. It is the launch of Cambridge Women Ageing Well. This life course study will explore the lives of our women graduates as they age. Trinity College alumnus, Mr Brett Wilson, has generously provided support for the initial stages of the research. His kindness will allow you to travel to Cambridge, all expenses paid. The research is described further in the attached document. We do encourage all alumnae who completed their Tripos at the college between 1970 and 1975 to attend. Travel arrangements can be made using the enclosed form, which should be returned to the Bursar.

  Yours sincerely

  Mary Lashley, PhD

  President

  Lauren gasped. ‘Wow. Not a begging letter after all, what a surprise!’ she said aloud. What a good idea the research project sounded: baby boomers would do ageing differently.

  Great that the study included her year. It meant they were all getting older, though. University days seemed a long time in the past. Lauren had been an undergraduate in Cambridge courtesy of a Girdlers’ scholarship which her enthusiastic Latin teacher had urged her to apply for. Lauren was thrilled and her parents tickled pink when she was awarded one. It had been scary too, but she was a robust seventeen- year-old, up for the challenge.

  What a great opportunity to see her old student friends, and her daughter Julia and the grandchildren in Brighton. And free travel! Brett Wilson though–surely that wasn’t the Brett she’d known as a student–she wouldn’t have picked him as someone likely to give money to a women’s college, even though she’d heard he was filthy rich now. Australian, parents rich Sydneysiders (or was it a cattle ranch?), good-looking, charming, bright–but overly pleased with himself and ran through a hell of a lot of girlfriends.

  Damn! The dates clashed with the holiday Kirsten and her friends were planning in Greece. Lauren saw little enough of her girlfriend, now that Kirsten had moved to Auckland. And Kirsten hadn’t made it clear if she was really keen on Lauren joining them. But Lauren felt that if she didn’t go, it wouldn’t be good for their relationship.

  She couldn’t stop looking at the letter. The fourth time through she realised the dates also clashed with the general election. Damn and double damn! She wouldn’t be able to help on election day. She would have to remember to vote before she went.

  Hmm, all somewhat problematic. She drained her cup, looked at the time and realised she needed to hurry, to get to Clark’s by three.

  She angled her jaunty red Jazz out of the tight apartment car park and wound her way down the hill to Oriental Parade. The weather held. It was still a clear crisp winter day. Oriental Bay was clogged with people out to enjoy the sun. A pair of poodles stalled her at a pedestrian crossing, their owner fitting the mould of looking just like her pets, all of them with tightly curled apricot hair.

  Lauren parked in the library basement and caught the lift up to the mezzanine. Clark’s was busy as always, with chatty groups and solitary readers oblivious to their surroundings. Lauren spotted Ro easily enough–her red hair helped–and waved. Ro had already got herself a coffee and had papers strewn around the table. She waved back to Lauren, a wide smile breaking out. A tall, shambling woman, she gave the impression that she had just wandered in from the paddocks. Thank goodness it wasn’t the eighties, Lauren thought, or Ro would have been wearing overalls. But it was the same look. Checked shirt, blue jeans, boots made for rougher ground than Clarks or the library stacks.

  Lauren was held up by the queue at the counter, which gave her plenty of time to consider adding a very large slice of lemon meringue pie to her coffee order. She thought of her waistline, fought with herself, lost, and decided she would offer Ro half.

  ‘Good to see you, Lauren. Thank you so much for coming.’ They embraced rather clumsily; Lauren was trying to put a tray on the table at the same time.

  ‘Good to see you too. So what’s all the urgency? Girlfriend trouble?’

  Ro was indignant. ‘Don’t be silly, I haven’t got time for that sort of thing. I’m getting desperate about my book, there’s a deadline coming up.’ She paused, took a sip of her coffee, and then plunged in. ‘You’ll never guess what I’m onto, Lauren.’ She lowered her voice, looked around and whispered, ‘Something’s come up in one of my interviews. I’ll bet you didn’t know there was a plot to kill David Lange in 1988.’

  2

  ‘A woman well-reputed’

  Lauren shook her head, then laughed. ‘A plot to kill the prime minister? You’ve got to be joking. Surely I’d remember hearing about that. Sounds unlikely!’ She frowned at her friend.

  ‘Shh. Someone might overhear you.’ Ro leaned forward again and whispered, ‘Must have been hushed up. It’s not on the record. Will be soon though, if I’ve got anything to do with it.’

  Lauren stared at Ro. Surely her friend wasn’t being dragged down into the dark world of internet conspiracies, that spiderweb of rumours, half-truths and outright lies. Perhaps she had been interviewing gullible people and actually believed them? ‘Oh come on, Ro, you’re supposed to be a historian not a fantasist. Use your judgement! We’re in New Zealand, not some banana republic. We don’t do political murders, assassinations or the like.’

  Ro reddened, bit her bottom lip and stirred her coffee again. ‘Lauren, it’s true. You need to hear me out.’

  ‘It had better be good.’

  Ro ignored the sceptical tone. ‘You’ll know that the atmosphere around Parliament in ’88 was poisonous.’

  ‘Of course I do, I remember it well. I was around at the time, don’t forget. With Government Print, the job I came back from the UK for.’

  ‘Of course. So, it wasn’t about the opposition, it was open warfare between the two different factions in government. The Labour caucus was really split–Lange thought their radical economic reforms had gone far enough–but Douglas and his mob had got carried away and wanted to keep going.’

  ‘I know all about Douglas and his asset sales programme, Ro,’ said Lauren. ‘I hadn’t been in my job two months when we were told Government Print was being sold to a private bidder and our jobs were on the line. Then the sale ran into delays. It was a horrible process, uncertainty for all of us staff for months and months and I was senior management, had to try to keep up morale.’ She was vehement.

  ‘It was pretty hateful,’ said Ro. She slipped back into lecturing mode. ‘When Lange started voicing doubts, his so-called friends didn’t like it. They turned on him like wolves, tried to topple him in ’88, finished him off in mid-’89, and so he resigned as prime minister. You’ve just seen Julius Caesar? It was a real et tu Brute situation.’

  Lauren gave a wry smile. ‘But, Ro, you’re talking heavy politics, not assassination.’

 
‘That’s where you’re wrong,’ said Ro. She dropped her voice again. ‘You should have been a fly on the wall when I was interviewing a woman at Karori Gardens last week.’

  ‘Isn’t that the rest home for the blue rinse brigade?’

  Ro glared at Lauren. ‘I think she did have a blue rinse, but no need to be sarcastic. She was well known in her time, a very lively politician. A butt-kicker of the old school.’

  Lauren hmmed sceptically. She would have known at least the names of all the women in Parliament at the time, there were so few of them. ‘Who was it?’

  ‘Confidential.’

  Lauren was irritated. What was the point of telling her then? Ro went on. ‘I was asking her about her split life, in Wellington all week when Parliament was in session. Late sittings, all the intensity, how that contrasted with her family life back in small town New Zealand. She had a husband and teenage kids.’

  ‘Probably no contrast, she’d have handled the male MPs just like teenagers?’ Lauren couldn’t resist the quip. She pulled the lemon and meringue pie towards her, sliced it in two and put a fork on each side.

  Ro scarcely smiled, she was keen to get on with the story. ‘Don’t distract me, Lauren. Anyhow, she had an affair–it’s amazing, so many of the women I’ve spoken to had affairs with their colleagues. Ugh, what an unprepossessing bunch most of the men were, too.’

  ‘High pressure environment, I guess. But I agree, back then I often heard rumours and we all found them most amusing.’

  ‘The guy was a backbencher and she didn’t tell me his name–she wasn’t easy to draw out, I got the impression she was still feeling guilty about it. But she made the most extraordinary claim.’

  She leant forward again, brushing her elbow against the slice of lemon meringue pie that lay neglected on the table, and almost whispered. ‘Apparently this guy got drunk one night–not so unusual–and started bragging to her about nearly managing to off David Lange. Her guy was right behind the so-called reforms. She was sitting on the fence–like quite a lot of the women I interviewed. Anyhow, he hung around with a lot of Business Roundtable types, and it was something to do with them. She implied that there was some kind of plot to get rid of Lange. To kill him.’