Chapter 7

It is Monday. I had arrived at work early and am in urgent need of a cup of coffee, even though it is barely 10 am. McDuff is there in the tea room, as he usually is, and he asks after my weekend. I tell him I went to Aroha’s place in Tuakau. He says I am very privileged. Then he says something quite extraordinary, that he had heard the rumour that the Chancellor, Sione Latu, had called me ‘a little tart’. What? That’s like calling me ‘a hooker’ in the States! This immediately resonates with the events of the weekend and, for a moment, I imagine that tales of my night with Hemi are all over the university. I clearly show I am upset, for McDuff, little realising what is in my mind, backtracks, saying, “Don’t worry about it, there may be nothing to it.”

I compose myself. Of course, it is much too recent for such a rumour to have spread and, anyway, there is little to no chance that Aroha would say anything. Could Sione Latu really have said such a thing?

Back at my office, I worry over the ‘little tart’ phrase. I consult my office neighbours. Marion had not heard of it and doesn’t believe for one moment that Sione Latu would say such a thing. Carolyn says she had heard it from McDuff and is cross that he would repeat such nonsense. I try to get on with some work, but then set off for Sammy’s for some lunch. Oddly the cart is all shut up and there is no sign to say why. Disappointed, I instead go to the cafeteria,where I choose a perfectly acceptable slice of quiche with salad.

I have not been back in my office very long when there is a knock on the door and a pākehā woman of about 40, dressed conservatively in a grey skirt and jacket, asks if I am Professor Makkonen and can she speak with me. She closes the door behind herself and, sitting, presents her credentials, Detective Sergeant Hope Wilson. “I understand you know Samuel Becker-Lau.”

“I don’t believe so.”

“You would know him from Sammy’s food cart.”

“Oh Sammy. Of course. I went there for lunch today, but he isn’t open.”

“Yes.” Hope paused. “Mr. Becker-Lau was found dead on Saturday morning.”

“What? Really? What did he die of?” I ask.

“We are treating it as a suspicious death.”

“You mean you think he was murdered? How?”

“We are not releasing any further details at present. When did you last see him?”

“Oh it would have been on Friday, I suppose. No, I didn’t go on Friday, it would have been Thursday.”

“Did he say anything in particular to you then?”

“We sometimes chat, but I don’t remember anything in particular.”

“Would you mind telling me where you were on Friday night?”

“I was staying with the Dean of Arts, Aroha McLean, in Tuakau.” I decline to elaborate that I have the perfect alibi for all of Friday night.

“Do you really suspect me?”

“We are speaking to all Mr. Becker-Lau’s regular customers and you are one of them, is that correct?”

“Yes I suppose I am …. or I was, but I have only been in the country for a few weeks.”

“Thank you, Professor Makkonen. That is all for now, but we may need to speak to you again.”

This is just extraordinary. What is going on? Sammy was always a bit of a mystery, but murdered? They are certainly doing their interviews very promptly.

It is Tuesday. I am managing to do some work, but it is a very confusing time. It is lunch-time and I wander over to the cafeteria. Strangely, I run into Sione Latu, though I don’t think that is where he is heading. He recognizes me, but he seems to be searching for my name. I remind him who I am. He seems friendly and asks me how I am getting on. I know I shouldn’t say anything, but I can’t resist raising the topic, tactfully. “You won’t believe this funny story I heard, that you described me as a little tart.” I end with a chuckle. He is obviously taken aback, and says that is a term he would only apply to a food item. I say that when we met we were discussing Finnish food and in fact he was eating something at the time, but stewed fruit, not a tart.

“Oh that would have been Beryl’s Black Doris plums. I found them a bit sour.” There is a flash of recognition and he bursts out laughing. “I think I found them a little tart. Oh but I do apologize, it must have been most upsetting.” At that, seeing I was heading for the cafeteria he insists he take me out to lunch. “Do you have a car? No? I will get Beryl to drive us.” It turns out that Beryl, his PA, often drives him around in his old Jaguar, a big sedan from about the 1970s. He makes a call, and soon Sione and I are sitting in the deeply padded leather seats of the large vehicle with Beryl acting as driver.

Beryl drives us to Mount Eden, another part of Auckland to the north, and we arrive at an English style restaurant, The Beekeeper’s Arms. She leaves us and arranges to pick us up later. The restaurant is styled in the manner of an English pub with wooden panelling on the walls and English beer on tap but it is clear from the well spoken staff that it is no ordinary pub, and that Sione is a regular. Sione orders steak, kidney and mushroom pudding, not a dish known to me, while I order some pan fried fish, pan fried potatoes and salad. After we settle into our drinks Sione brings up Sammy’s death. I don’t imagine Sione frequenting Sammy’s pie cart but he seems to know about Mr. Becker-Lau, as he prefers to call him.

“What do you make of him?” he asks.

“I don’t know. He seems a bit out of place.”

“Do you think he had another job?” he asks.

“What do you mean?”

“Pie cart proprietors aren’t usually murder victims,” he remarks, plausibly.

“I suppose not. What is your theory?”

“Oh, I am just speculating.”

Sione then drops the topic and we talk in general about the University. Thinking back, it was a pleasant, unexpected and slightly strange lunch.