Red Herring

Red Herring

Jonothan Cullinane

HarperCollins (2016)

Tags: Literature & Fiction, Contemporary Fiction

Literature & Fictionttt Contemporary Fictionttt

Murder, political intrigue, bent cops and the fate of a nation - a thriller set in the murky underworld of 1951 New Zealand.

A man overboard, a murder and a lot of loose ends ...

In Auckland 1951 the workers and the government are heading for bloody confrontation and the waterfront is the frontline. But this is a war with more than two sides and nothing is what it seems.

Into the secret world of rival union politics, dark political agendas and worldwide anti-communist hysteria steps Johnny Molloy, a private detective with secrets of his own.

Caitlin O'Carolan, a feisty young reporter, is following her own leads. Together they begin to uncover a conspiracy that goes to the heart of the Establishment - and which will threaten their own lives in the process.

Filled with memorable characters, including many colourful real-life figures from recent New Zealand history, Red Herring is the stunning debut from a vibrant new voice in New Zealand fiction.

**

DEDICATION

For the former Deb Lawrence

AUTHOR’S NOTE

Where the facts have interfered with the story I’ve changed the facts.

EPIGRAPH

Not a single problem of the class struggle has ever been solved in history except by violence.

— Lenin

Chinese Communists had won their civil war and created the People’s Republic of China in 1949. That victory, coupled with the descent of an “iron curtain” across Eastern Europe after the Second World War, gave credence to the fear of communist expansion. When, in 1950, the New Zealand Government was asked by the United States to support American-led United Nations intervention in the Korean civil war, it agreed to do so.

Anxiety about the threat of communism lay behind the National Government’s strategy for dealing with its second potential crisis, the waterfront dispute of 1951. National was worried about the power of the militant Trade Union Congress in opposition to the more moderate Federation of Labour. The TUC was led by Jock Barnes and Toby Hill of the Waterside Workers’ Union. The FOL was dominated by the conservative and authoritarian Fintan Patrick Walsh, whom one historian has called “the nearest thing New Zealand had to an American-style industrial gangster”.

— Michael King,
The Penguin History of New Zealand

CONTENTS

1. Dedication
   
2. Author’s Note
   
3. Epigraph
   
4. Chapter One
   
5. Chapter Two
   
6. Chapter Three
   
7. Chapter Four
   
8. Chapter Five
   
9. Chapter Six
   
10. Chapter Seven
    
11. Chapter Eight
    
12. Chapter Nine
    
13. Chapter Ten
    
14. Chapter Eleven
    
15. Chapter Twelve
    
16. Chapter Thirteen
    
17. Chapter Fourteen
    
18. Chapter Fifteen
    
19. Chapter Sixteen
    
20. Chapter Seventeen
    
21. Chapter Eighteen
    
22. Chapter Nineteen
    
23. Chapter Twenty
    
24. Chapter Twenty-One
    
25. Chapter Twenty-Two
    
26. Chapter Twenty-Three
    
27. Chapter Twenty-Four
    
28. Chapter Twenty-Five
    
29. Chapter Twenty-Six
    
30. Chapter Twenty-Seven
    
31. Chapter Twenty-Eight
    
32. Chapter Twenty-Nine
    
33. Chapter Thirty
    
34. Chapter Thirty-One
    
35. Chapter Thirty-Two
    
36. Chapter Thirty-Three
    
37. Chapter Thirty-Four
    
38. Chapter Thirty-Five
    
39. Chapter Thirty-Six
    
40. Chapter Thirty-Seven
    
41. Chapter Thirty-Eight
    
42. Chapter Thirty-Nine
    
43. Chapter Forty
    
44. Chapter Forty-One
    
45. Chapter Forty-Two
    
46. Chapter Forty-Three
    
47. Chapter Forty-Four
    
48. Chapter Forty-Five
    
49. Chapter Forty-Six
    
50. Chapter Forty-Seven
    
51. Chapter Forty-Eight
    
52. Chapter Forty-Nine
    
53. Chapter Fifty
    
54. Chapter Fifty-One
    
55. Chapter Fifty-Two
    
56. Chapter Fifty-Three
    
57. Chapter Fifty-Four
    
58. Chapter Fifty-Five
    
59. Chapter Fifty-Six
    
60. Chapter Fifty-Seven
    
61. Chapter Fifty-Eight
    
62. Chapter Fifty-Nine
    
63. Chapter Sixty
    
64. Chapter Sixty-One
    
65. Chapter Sixty-Two
    
66. Chapter Sixty-Three
    
67. Chapter Sixty-Four
    
68. Chapter Sixty-Five
    
69. Chapter Sixty-Six
    
70. Chapter Sixty-Seven
    
71. Chapter Sixty-Eight
    
72. Chapter Sixty-Nine
    
73. Chapter Seventy
    
74. Chapter Seventy-One
    
75. Chapter Seventy-Two
    
76. Acknowledgements
    
77. About the Author
    
78. Copyright
    

CHAPTER ONE

Auckland, New Zealand

February 1951

Johnny Molloy stood in the shade of a verandah at the bottom of Vulcan Lane and watched the wharfies marching up Queen Street. He was in his early thirties, not a bad-looking bloke, lean, with dark curly hair brushed back and a long Irish face that had been through the wringer. He wore a dark suit and a red tie. A cigarette was stuck to his bottom lip, smoke drifting up around the brim of a brown felt hat tipped back on his head. He was a private detective.

The wharfies tramped in loose formation behind a large canvas banner inscribed with the words “Waterside Workers’ Union”, the letters drawn like red and black coiled rope, looped at the end around baling hooks held in clenched fists. The banner was strung between two wooden poles. The WWU president, Jock Barnes, carried one and his offsider, Toby Hill, the other. Barnes did some drainlaying on the side and looked it, his big chest and broad shoulders squeezed into a bulging tweed jacket that seemed a size too small. Hill, with his Harold Lloyd glasses and knitted vest, could have been an insurance clerk. But Molloy knew they were tough roosters, both of them.

Molloy had an appointment with an American named Furst at half past twelve in the Hotel Auckland. He didn’t mind Yanks,
having met a few in Italy during the war. Not bad blokes for the most part. Thought they won the show on their own of course, but that was all right.

Queen Street was full of pedestrians. The shops were crowded. A Mt Eden tram was taking on passengers, the conductor reconnecting the pole to the overhead wire, the wheel arcing and spitting. The motorman leaned out of the cab, raised his cap to the passing wharfies, and shouted, “Good on you, boys!” A few spectators clapped their support. Some booed. An office boy in a white shirt a size too big called out, “Go back to Russia!” and his friend laughed and said, “Too right!” A uniformed policeman in a white summer helmet gave them a look and the boys turned sheepish and shut up. Molloy knew the cop. Pat Toomey, a sergeant at Newton Police Station in Ponsonby Road. They nodded to each other. Auckland was a small place.

The hotel foyer was dark and cool, with patterned carpet and a large painting of the Southern Alps along one wall. The dining room was busy and Molloy could smell roast meat and hear the clatter of cutlery. The receptionist was listening to an English couple complaining about the noise the previous night. They had been kept awake till twelve by someone belting out selections from
South Pacific
on the piano in the house bar, directly beneath their room. They insisted on talking to the manager. The receptionist tapped the office bell and turned to Molloy.

“Hello, stranger,” she said.

“How are you, Esme? I’m here to see a guest named Al Furst. A Yank.”

“Let me check,” said Esme, opening the ledger. She ran a nail-polished finger slowly down a column. “Long time, no see, Johnny,” she said, her voice lowering. “Missed you at the Orange. Have you put away your dancing shoes?”

“Oh, you know,” said Molloy. “How’s Mac?”

“Down Kaikoura,” said Esme. “Crayfish.” Her finger touched the edge of his hand. “Won’t lay my eyes on him till March. You should pop round.”

“You still in Point Chev?”

“Door’s never locked,” she said. “Mr Furst is in 309.”

Molloy walked up the stairs to the third floor, straightened his tie, and knocked on Room 309. The door opened. Furst was in his late forties, barrel shaped, with short legs and a big chest. He had coarse grey hair parted in the middle and deep-set red-rimmed eyes. He was wearing a white shirt, unbuttoned at the neck and creased from travel. Chest hair poked over the frayed collar of a singlet. Braces held up his suit trousers, dark brown with a thin stripe, the sort a gangster in the pictures might wear.

“Yessir?” he said.

“Mr Furst? I’m Johnny Molloy. We’ve got an appointment.”

“Oh, yeah, the private investigator,” said Furst. “Damn, is that the time?” He stood back and opened the door wide. “Well, all right. Come on in.”

CHAPTER TWO

Furst’s room had two single beds and a narrow chest of drawers, a club chair and a writing desk. A leather suitcase was open on the spare bed. Sun was coming through venetian blinds.

“What time did you get in?” said Molloy.

“This morning,” said Furst. “Not sure. Six? It was just getting light.” He ran a hand over his scalp. “I don’t know what the rules are here but my head’s still in Pago Pago and I believe over there it’s cocktail hour. Care to join me?”

“That’d be good,” said Molloy.

Furst poured whisky from a small flask into two hotel cups and handed one to Molloy. “Your good health,” he said. “Take the chair.” He pulled a stool out from under the writing desk and sat down.

“You were recommended by the feller who runs the New Zealand Insurance Company office in San Francisco,” said Furst. “Paul Lipscombe.”

“He sent me a telegram,” said Molloy.

“Smoke?” Furst shook two cigarettes from a pack. “What got you into this line of work, Molloy? Were you a cop?”

“No,” said Molloy. “I sort of fell into it after the war. Yourself?”

“San Francisco Police Department,” said Furst. “Twenty years. Twelve years robbery-homicide. Six years bunco — fraud, what-have-you. Last two as chief of detectives.” He handed Molloy a business card.
“Now I run the Investigation Unit of the US Life & General Insurance Company of California.” He lit a match. “You do missing persons?”

“I do industrial investigations, mostly,” said Molloy, leaning in to the flame. “Fraud and theft. Some matrimonial. But I’ve found people, if that’s what you mean.”

“It is. I’ll tell you the job. You tell me if you’re interested.” The American took a folder from the top of a pile on the desk, opened it, and passed an item to Molloy, an alien seaman’s identification card, issued by the US Coast Guard, marked and worn.

“I’m looking for this gentleman,” he said.

The photograph on the ID showed a man in his mid to late thirties wearing a leather jacket and an open-necked white shirt. He had a tough, handsome face, black wavy hair parted off-centre and pushed straight back, a cowlick sprung loose. He was staring into the camera with an expression halfway between a smile and a sneer. His details were typed below. Name Francis Xavier O’PHELAN. Date of Birth 11/26/15. Place of Birth United Kingdom & Ireland. His signature was scrawled along the bottom. The card had a red stamp through it, the word DECEASED.

Molloy took a notebook and pencil from his suitcoat pocket and thumbed for a clean page.