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subtle frauds. Sly joker. Happy cynic, cigar-smoking boozer. Gap-toothed gasper, sharp-eyed shyster. Old fraud, ogler. He’d been the National Party grandee who’d brought Hallwright into the fold: young Hallwright who was all talent and no privilege, who had ‘grown up poor ’.
    The Ellisons, Simon remembered, used to make their protégé nervous. How things had changed.
    Now David walked to the pulpit.
    â€˜Graeme Ellison made a difference in this country. And he made a difference to me. He changed my life. He let me see what can be achieved. If we can open up this whole nation to opportunity , that will be Graeme’s legacy . . .’
    Simon’s attention wandered. He saw Roza turn and reach for Johnnie, who was suddenly standing up on the pew. A policeman passed the window, talking into his phone, and pigeons swirled up from the square.
    David paused and lowered his head. He cleared his throat and gripped the lectern. A ripple went through the crowd. There was a sob, Trish’s hat bobbed and the ladies leaned towards her. Men bowed their heads.
    Ed Miles looked at his watch.
    Now, in the hushed cathedral, David rested his palms on the lectern. ‘And I ask you to join me in a prayer.’
    Simon was an atheist, so he didn’t kneel. He didn’t bow his head. All along his pew they went down on creaking knees. He looked straight into David eyes, and David read the prayer to him.

All This
    It was early evening in the garden at Rotokauri. Troy hovered diligently over the drinks table, with his ice tongs, his lemon slices.
    Simon was listening to an exchange between Karen and Juliet Miles.
    â€˜Trish is coping amazingly well.’
    â€˜Isn’t she amazing.’
    â€˜It was an amazing service.’
    â€˜Look, I was amazed by it, to be honest.’
    David leaned close to Simon. He was on his second gin and tonic. He was sunburnt, and his eyes had a varnish of weariness. ‘Instil and imbue,’ he said.
    Simon smiled and looked down.
    David gestured at Ed, who was now pretending to read Karen’s palm. ‘Ed’s speech for the funeral. I don’t usually get my Police Minister to write my speeches, obviously. But Ed and I and Graeme have been together from the beginning. Before we had writers, Ed used to do the speeches for both of us. He knows what works.’
    â€˜I’m sure he does.’
    â€˜He knows when to use instil and imbue to the nth degree .’
    Simon hesitated. ‘Yes. I understand. You don’t mind clichés. You have no need for verbal snobbery.’
    David laughed. ‘What I like about you . . .’
    â€˜Roza!’ said the ladies, and moved their chairs to make room.
    Roza had wet hair, and was carrying Johnnie on her hip. The small boy, freshly bathed, presented his shining cheeks to be kissed by Karen, by Juliet.
    Watching his wife, David said, ‘What I like about you is that you’re not political. You’re like Roza, hopelessly apolitical. Your mind’s on other things. That’s so refreshing for me.’
    Simon said, ‘Whereas you have to consider the politics in every­thing.’ He broke off, suddenly bored and trapped. It was strange; in David’s presence he sometimes found himself floundering. One of these days he would hear himself say, ‘You’re amazing, David. You’re just amazing.’
    He wanted an excuse to get away for an hour. The evenings had settled into a pattern: drinks on the lawn followed by an elaborate dinner at the long table in the main house and afterwards, now the weather had settled, coffee and more drinks on the deck. David liked to stay up late, and none of them felt quite comfortable going to bed before him. Simon had begun to crave a quick, alcohol-free dinner, a book and an early night. He was short of exercise, too. David didn’t seem much interested in physical activity. He worked all day in his office at the main