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detractor (and there was hot competition for that title) had to admit he had a nose for deceit and human weakness. It took a few years, but eventually even the hardcore cynics came to accept what those who believed the evidence of their own eyes had argued all along: Ihaka didn’t have anything on McGrail because there was nothing to have; McGrail really was as straight and above-board as he appeared to be.
    The truth was both more complicated and more prosaic. In his dry Ulster way, McGrail quite enjoyed confounding other people’s expectations, but it was hard-headed calculation rather than contrariness that led him to cut Ihaka a liberal amount of slack. Yes, Ihaka was unkempt, overweight, intemperate, unruly, unorthodox and profane, none of which featured on McGrail’s checklist of what constituted a model citizen, let alone a police officer. But when it came
to operating in the cruel and chaotic shadow-world where the wild beasts roam, he was worth a dozen of those hair-gelled careerists who brought their running shoes to work and took their paperwork home.
    McGrail’s promotion forced Ihaka to do something he’d been putting off for years: think about his future. He was well aware that the likelihood of McGrail’s replacement granting him the same licence was remote, if not nonexistent, so he had four choices: he could take the view that all good things must come to an end and adjust to the new reality – i.e. toe the line, pull his head in, and join the queue to kiss the new boss’s arse; he could seek a transfer; or he could leave the police force.
    Or he could put his hand up for McGrail’s old job. Realistically, he was a long shot. He hadn’t bothered keeping count of all the toes he’d trodden on, but took it for granted that someone had. He assumed that few among the top brass shared McGrail’s appreciation of his particular attributes, and suspected that even some of those who did felt the risks outweighed the rewards. In other words, he wasn’t seen as officer material.
    He consulted McGrail, who reinforced those perceptions, wondering out loud whether being a detective inspector mightn’t really suit him anyway. “Maybe not,” replied Ihaka, “but if the alternative is being some wind-up toy’s bumboy…”
    As was his custom, McGrail didn’t respond directly to Ihaka’s vulgarity, restricting himself to a slight upward tilt of his right eyebrow. After thirteen years, Ihaka was a highly proficient interpreter of his boss’s body language and subtle shifts of expression: he took this to mean that he was being a prize ass, and that the meeting was over because McGrail had better things to do than listen to the braying of a prize ass.

    Ihaka got to his feet. “Well, thanks for that. Your enthusiasm is infectious.”
    McGrail’s thin lips twitched briefly, indicating that he found Ihaka’s comment hilarious. “Actually, Sergeant,” he said to Ihaka’s back, “I can offer some practical advice. The hit-and-run. You’ll need to have a strategy in place to neutralize that issue, because they’ll certainly tackle you on it.”
    The hit-and-run, as everyone but Ihaka referred to it, had taken place a year earlier. A middle-aged woman on an early-morning jog had died after being hit by a car. The car, which had been stolen from the Auckland Airport car park, was dumped and torched in South Auckland. Everything pointed to it being a boy racer, but Ihaka’s renowned gut instinct told him otherwise. He suspected the woman’s husband had something to do with it, and wanted him to be the focus of the investigation even though there was no concrete evidence to support this theory.
    After six fruitless months McGrail decided to downgrade the investigation and redeploy resources. Ihaka wouldn’t let go. The husband hired a politically connected, media-savvy QC who got to the minister.