Chapter 9

It is a Monday, just two weeks after Sammy’s death, well let’s say ‘murder’, and a memorial service is to be held in the university chapel. There had been some muttering amongst staff and students about the absence of a funeral, so the university administration arranged the service. The chapel, needless to say, is another of the temporary buildings but with a cross on top and some effort had been made to produce an entrance porch. The inside has something of a church-like feel, assisted by old wooden pews that had obviously been rescued from a church that had faded into oblivion. The place is packed, in part because Sammy had always been a friendly face on campus but also no doubt in part out of curiosity, as no one really knew anything about him. This curiosity was to be largely unsatisfied.

At the front are the chaplain and the deputy vice-chancellor, who starts the proceedings with due solemnity, beginning with the same Māori greeting I had used at my pōwhiri. In fact, he always speaks with the same solemn tone, but it strikes the right note in the current circumstances. He explains that the authorities have been unable to discover any family members in New Zealand, or indeed elsewhere, that Sammy has a Brazilian passport (Brazilian! That came out of nowhere) and has been a permanent resident of New Zealand for seven years, for most of which time he ran the food cart with which we're all so familiar. We should regard ourselves, members of the university, as his family.

At this point, the chaplain takes over and explains that he is unaware of the specifics of Sammy’s spiritual commitments but, curiously, he had been entrusted with a message on a sound file which was to be played only in the event of his death at a memorial service such as this. On the basis of that connection the chaplain presumes some form of religious faith and proceeds to offer a brief prayer. Good. Let’s get to the message. What are we going to learn? I think I catch sight of the police officer, Hope Wilson, towards the back of the room. She'll be all ears.

“Hi there, this is Sammy. If you're listening to this, you'll know that I have gone to … well I was going to say ‘a better place’ but I'm keeping an open mind at the moment. It isn’t quite as I expected. I didn’t realize that ambrosia is a pizza topping.”

The chaplain had clearly not reviewed this message and seems to be trying to disappear into his chair.

“I am not too sure about all of these open fires. Haven’t they heard about global warming up here? I might have a word about it with the joker with the pitchfork who seems to basically run things. The trick would be to catch him in the right mood.”

The message carries on for a while in a similar vein. After an initial silence the audience starts to titter and then there is more open laughter. What is going on? A man anticipates his own death and leaves a message as if he is a stand-up comic. But here is how it finishes:

“Well I expect I'll see you all up here before too long. No rush. Stay safe. And if you find my death a bit surprising, ask Zoltan.”

Hearing that name takes my breath away. I had dealings with a certain Zoltan, but that was a long time ago. Let’s not even think about it. The name ‘Zoltan’ is the sole clue. Why was it hidden in that comedy skit? Well it was a way of getting it into someone else’s hands, I suppose, and the clue was hidden at the end. At least Hope Wilson has a new lead. The chaplain rallies and covers his confusion with another prayer, which serves to wrap things up. We are invited to refreshments in the whare kai of the marae, which is only about twenty metres away. Many of the staff walk over for the refreshments, basically club sandwiches and small savouries, no Brazilian dishes that I could determine. There is some chat along the lines of: “Didn’t that capture his unique personality?” Other comment follows the line of: “What the f... was that all about?” That we know so little about him is also a strong theme. “Who is Zoltan?” I don’t volunteer the information that I once knew a Zoltan.

Sammy gradually becomes less of a talking point over the following week. Predictably, the concern moves from Sammy’s death to future catering arrangements. I don’t enter into the discussions at all. Then a week later, Hope Wilson turns up at my office with an older male detective, Dave Smithers. Hope takes the lead and asks me if I know Zoltan, the man mentioned in Sammy’s message.

“Well, a long time ago I knew someone called ‘Zoltan’, but there is no reason to think it's the same man. It is, after all, a common Hungarian name.”

At this point Dave intervenes to ask, “What kind of man was he?”

While I'm not always totally frank and candid, I often am, and somehow this is one of the moments.

“Just the sound of that name sent shivers down my spine.”

That is as accurate an account of my feelings at the time as it would be possible to give.

Hope takes over again. “Could you describe the circumstances under which you met him?”

I feel most uncomfortable and am inclined to be defensive but I want to cut to the chase. “I met him when he was trying to recruit me as an agent for the KGB, when I was a second year student at the University of Helsinki.”

“Trying?” asked Dave.

“Well he might have thought he succeeded, and he wasn’t someone you wanted to cross, but I never completed any functions for that organisation. I'm fully prepared to tell you anything you want to know about all of that but shouldn’t we first of all focus on the question whether Sammy was indeed referring to that man?”

Hope pulls an identikit drawing of a man from her bag and shows it to me. “Is that Zoltan?”

The man is bald, or at least has a shaved head, and he seems in a way familiar, but I cannot really say.

“The man I knew had hair.”

“What sort of hair?” Dave asks, producing a lap-top that clearly has the image on it.

“Straight, shortish, greying a bit, balding at the temples.”

Dave spends some time working on the image. When he shows me the result I am sufficiently confident to be able to say, “Yes that could be the Zoltan I knew.” 

Hope says, “We appreciate your cooperation and we'd like to speak to you further. We'd like to interview you at the police station?”

I ask where that is and how far away it is.

“We can pick you up, either from here or your home, whichever is more convenient.”

“I'm working from home on Friday. Any time would work well. I'll give you my address.”

“Don’t worry, we know your address.”

“Well, email me with a time on Friday if that works. I expect you know my email address, too.”

I think they probably know the contents of my email messages as well.

“Yes, we'll email you.”

Dave has now finished his work on the image and shows me the modified image. “Is this the man you knew?”

“It does look a bit like him. I can’t be sure, but it could well be him. Maybe he knows where I live too.”

“Don’t worry. We will look after you.” That is both disquieting and comforting but, on the whole, comforting.