The Stalking of Louise Copperfield

by Robert W Fisk

  “Yes,” said Goran. “Who wants to know?”

  CHAPTER 72.

  When Nigel returned to his hotel room and found his tickets, passport and money had been stolen, he informed the police, who asked him whether he would mind waiting until the morning. As he was in no danger, Nigel decided to use the room he had paid for. He rang went to Reception to extend his stay until Tuesday in the hope that Louise could join him by then. The concierge changed his room to one that was larger and brighter.

  He rang Air New Zealand and changed his Saturday flight, surprised to find that the time had been changed to earlier in the day.

  “Sir, there is a large tropical storm descending from the north and west. I think the best idea is to convert your ticket to an open one,” said the customer representative. “Shall I do that?”

  “Yes,” said Nigel. “Oh. Could you make that two tickets? One for my fiancee?”

  “May I have her full name, date of birth and passport number please?” asked the representative.

  “Oh,” said Nigel. “She is in Wahanui and I am in Christchurch. I’m not sure of her date of birth. It’s in September, the same as mine. We’re actually eloping, running away to get married but she doesn’t know it yet.”

  The representative laughed as she said, “I hope you are both over the age of consent!”

  “We’ve known each other all our lives, and both of us have recently ended a relationship. I guess growing up together we saw ourselves like best friends. This trip will be rather special, Louise had to stay behind to sort out her house and kids but now suddenly she can come with me.” Nigel was gabbling, but it all made sense to the representative.

  “I’ll make two open tickets but hers can’t be downloaded until we have her passport details,” she said. “I hope you guys are very happy together when you get everything sorted out.”

  CHAPTER 73.

  The Mollison brothers took Goran Moravec for a drive. He knew from his life in the Czech Republic that people simply disappeared, but that couldn’t happen in New Zealand, could it?

  The car headed west from Christchurch, over the western hills and down a narrow twisting road to a lake. Moss turned the car into a picnic area and parked outside the toilets. It was still daylight. The area looked beautiful.

  “Get out,” said Moss Mollison.

  “Okay,” said Goran, as he got out of the car and banged into George Mollison’s heavy frame. “My name is Goran Moravec. I am working for the hotel.”

  George, the smaller man, flipped open Goran’s jacket. He reached into the inside chest pocket and pulled out Nigel Jones’s passport. He flicked the pages on his phone until he found Nigel Jones’s picture. George shone his torch on the photograph, then back to the passport photo. With no warning he gave Goran a sharp jab in the solar plexus. Goran doubled over and retched. Both of his assailants stood perfectly still until Goran was upright again.

  “I am not Mr Jones,” said Goran. Moss the larger brother hit him hard in the mouth. Goran felt his lips split and choked as a tooth went down his throat. The pain was incredible.

  As the initial pain began to subside, George shouted in Goran’s face, “Where are the papers?”

  Goran did not understand. He thought they meant newspapers. “Under the counter. I give them when people register.”

  Moss hit Goran three times. Goran fell down unconscious. The two boxers dragged Goran’s body into the men’s toilet. There was a row of four hand basins on one wall and four more at right angles on the adjoining wall. Four urinals and four doors lined the third wall. The fourth wall was plain. While he waited for Goran to wake up, George spray painted a message on the wall.

  “Give me your room key,” said Moss when Goran woke up. Goran, who was still lying on the ground, leaned on one elbow and handed up a magnetic master card.

  “Don’t lose it,” he whimpered. “I’ll lose my job.”

  George began to kick Goran, who screamed and yelled. There was nobody to hear. When Goran’s ribs had broken and air whistled out of his punctured lungs Moss said,” That’s enough, George. Let’s go back and look in the motel.”

  The two men took the wad of cash in Goran’s jacket. They left the airline tickets and the passport but took a key ring that they found in a pocket in Goran’s trousers. They noticed that, for a rich man who had all this cash on him, Nigel Jones was dressed in threadbare trousers and a worn jacket, and had holes in the soles of his shoes.

  CHAPTER 74.

  An early morning hiker found Goran Moravec’s body beside a block of public toilets next to the lake. He had been badly beaten up with his ribs broken and his lungs pierced but he had managed to crawl outside the toilet in the hope of getting help.

  The hiker, who was from Germany, called the police. Then there was a long delay. The hiker stayed with Goran and held his hand. Goran was unconscious but the hiker thought he might take some solace in the gesture.

  A police car arrived first. It took only a short time for paramedics to arrive by helicopter but while they waited all the police could do was to watch Goran and talk to him.

  “Matka.”

  The officers looked at each other in surprise. Their victim had spoken.

  “I’m not Matt Carr. I’m Tom. Tom Henderson,” said the policeman. “Hang in there Nigel.”

  But Goran was no longer listening. He had slipped away.

  Although the victim’s face was swollen, his nose smashed to pulp and his jaw and eyebrow socket fractured and with obvious gaps showing where teeth had been knocked out, what was left of the victim’s face was photographed and circulated to police stations and hospitals throughout New Zealand as a noid, no identity.

  The Officer of the Watch in Wahanui put the image on the Briefing screens, where notices were placed to let staff have important information. The pictures on the screens changed in rotation; being prepared for the pending storm, the preparations for the Bledisloe Cup rugby game in Australia that always resulted in drunken brawls in most of the local pubs, and a person who had been murdered who needed to be identified.

  It took some time before an officer sitting in the canteen in the Wahanui Police Station recognised the picture on the Briefing screen above the service counter as that of Nigel Jones. He left the remainder of his cup of tea and went to find someone to tell.

  Wilson was a thin young man with a remarkably narrow face that made his eyes look like those of as flatfish, so he was called Flounder. Young police officers get a hard time, serving an apprenticeship that makes them improve their critical thinking through the setting of impossible tasks and situations described with straight faces by more senior colleagues. Wilson wondered if this was such a ‘have’. Nigel Jones was after all the Town Planner.

  “Sarge, this guy on the news screen? Could it be Mr Jones the Town Planner?” he asked his superior officer.

  The sergeant, Jack Pollard, was also a young man, but with enough service and acuity to rise through the ranks. He thought perhaps Wilson’s mates were teasing him, getting Wilson to raise an unnecessary alarm.

  “I’ll check,” he said, lifting the desk phone.

  “No. It is not a con, Wilson. Well spotted. What do you think you should do now?” he asked.

  “First, ring Christchurch and find out if this is for real,” said Wilson.

  “I’ve just done that, Numbskull. And then?” asked Sergeant Pollard.

  “I’m not sure, Sarge. Tell you, I suppose?”

  “What if I’m not here?” asked Sergeant Pollard. “Should you wait?”

  “Uh. Yes, I guess,” said Wilson.

  “Flounder, in a murder investigation or a road fatality every minute is important. You are a fully trained Officer of the Law. What should you do?”

  “Inform the next most senior officer then contact family,” said Wilson mechanically.

  “Do that, Flounder. Just be careful not to jump to conclusions. First ask the local family members questions about Jones’ movements and what he was doing in
Christchurch. Then tentatively suggest that there has been an incident in which someone has been killed. Don’t say murdered. Then ask one of them to accompany you to the Station.”

  CHAPTER 75.

  Inspector Chadwick knew of Jayne’s good news and shielded her from much of the hard physical work that policing involved. At home she kept falling asleep. Apart from lacking energy and falling asleep, she felt wonderful. Her skin glowed, her hair gleamed, and she smiled and hummed to herself.

  Bernard Smith was worried about Jayne’s tiredness. “Why don’t you take some sick leave?” he asked.

  “Because I’m pregnant, not sick,” said Jayne and that was that.

  At work on the day before the storm Jayne was sound asleep, slumped over her desk top with her laptop pushed right back. Tracey Fox was keeping an eye on her, knowing that sooner or later Jayne would confide in her. She really hoped Jayne was pregnant this time but worried that her friend and colleague might become too exhausted.

  A ‘You Have Mail’ sound pinged in Jayne’s ear. She woke up and looked around guiltily but saw that nobody had seen her take forty winks. There was just Tracey staring at her computer screen. Jayne clicked on her email link. There was a note from Christchurch.

  'Hi Jayne.

  'Thought you should know. A bloody softball bat thrown from a car window in Christchurch has been analysed. We still have to match the blood to a name but it came from the victim all right. There were two sets of prints on the bat. We’re looking for two men George and Moss Mollison. One set of fingerprints on the bat belonged George, a nasty piece of work. Moss’s prints were also on the bat. The bat came from the Hamilton Central Sports Shop using a credit card belonging to George Edward Mollison, proprietor with his brother Moss Frederick Mollison of the School of Hard Knocks, a subsidiary of the Mollison Brothers Auckland firm Boxing Unlimited.

  'Maybe that should be Violence Unlimited. They are protection racketeers and compliance men. We are trying to locate the Mollison Brothers but nobody knows where they are at the moment. I’ll be in touch when we find them. Perhaps you could join us here to find if the Mollisons were involved with the Hamilton murder? You’re always welcome.

  'Cheers

  Alan.

  DS Tomkins

  Christchurch Main.’

  Inspector Chadwick called Jayne to his office.

  “Jayne, I had a call from my opposite number in Christchurch,” he said. “All stations have been notified that there is a body that looks like our local lad, Nigel Jones. Someone might have given him a pasting for speaking out against the Council. The killing is similar to Joseph Hamilton’s murder in January, so I want you to fly down and see if it is our man. If so, we want to be in on the action and you can stay there as Liaison, safely out of the way of the storm we’re about to get. If it isn’t Jones fly back and leave the No ID to Christchurch.”

  “I hope you get back tonight,” said Bernard. ”The weather forecast is not good. Heavy rain and thunder are predicted for Labour Weekend. Be just our luck to get separated when we finally get a decent break together.”

  CHAPTER 76.

  In Auckland in the north it was teeming with rain, a precursor of what was soon to happen to Wahanui as the weather travelled from north to south and from west to east. The weather would first hit Wellington, then Wahanui and then Christchurch. Trying to stay ahead of the bad weather that was coming, Jayne booked an early return flight from Christchurch. She would insist that she caught her flight so she could get home to be with Bernard over the holiday break.

  The landing in Christchurch was bumpy as a strong north west wind was blowing strongly. Although the sky was clear, there was a large north west arch, which was what New Zealanders called the curved arch of cloud the preceded a strong blow.

  “First, we’ll show you where we found Mr Jones,” said DC Alan Tomkins. He took Jayne in the car to where the toilets were located in the picnic area by the lake.

  “Don’t take too long,” said Jayne. “I need to get home tonight.”

  She looked at Alan Tomkins as he drove her to the lakeside. He was a large rounded man with red cheeks and sparkling blue eyes. His hair receded from his forehead and Jayne thought that he would be partly bald within a few months. His large body clothed in the light blue summer uniform worn by the New Zealand Police Force seemed to stretch his shirt as he moved the steering wheel. They arrived at the toilet block.

  “There, beside the wall,” said Alan Tomkins. “You can still see a blood stain. Poor little bugger did his best to get outside so he could be seen. It gets interesting inside, given what was written for your guy in Wahanui.”

  As Tomkins ushered Jayne into the toilet area, Tomkins lifted the tape that announced ‘Keep Out. Police Enquiry’. On the wall opposite the urinals was sprayed in red paint, ‘Death to Hommos.’

  Jayne used her cell phone. She paused, turned to Tomkins and said, “But Jones was not gay.”

  “The first on the scene found no money in the wallet,” said Tomkins. “He was about to fly to Australia and on to the States. He still had his tickets and passport. Was it a simple robbery gone wrong, or is someone trying to lead us astray?”

  “Like at the pub for poor Mr Hamilton,” said Jayne. “His problem was the Wahanui Council but they called him a homosexual too. Let’s go and check out the room.”

  It took over an hour to get back to the airport. By then the nor’west arch had become thick cloud that completely covered the sky and the temperature had dropped to below twenty degrees. While they inspected Jones’s hotel room, Tomkins got a text message. He rang the Station. The medical examination showed Jones had been killed when broken ribs punctured his lungs. He had died slowly and in agony.

  “Now I want to see the victim,” said Jayne. “I know Jones personally and I have photos of him on my phone.”

  They drove to the morgue, which was in the General Hospital. They walked along the corridor on the Ground Floor, following a line of yellow tiles in the otherwise grey flooring. The walls were tall and the corridor narrow, hedged in by green walls with a grey and yellow floor. Suddenly the walls began to swirl for Jayne. She spun around, fell to her knees and began to retch.

  “It’s all right,” she said. “I haven’t eaten anything since last night and my body is objecting.”

  Alan Tomkins was a good detective who knew how to keep an opinion to himself. On the left was a set of stairs leading down to a landing and then to the basement area. On the landing someone had written on a card, ‘Welcome to the Dead Centre of CPH’.

  “In here,” said Tomkins. “Jayne, are you sure your stomach can take this?”

  “I’m fine,” said Jayne. She saw no need to explain her situation to a relative stranger. “Really I am.”

  “Please show me Jones,” said Tomkins to the morgue attendant.

  The attendant led them to a trolley on which lay a covered body. It looked pathetically small and fragile. The attendant pulled back the sheet to reveal Goran Moravec’s head. Jayne looked at the poor beaten face which looked horrific even though the corpse had been tidied up.

  “That is not Nigel Jones,” she said. The attendant covered Goran’s face with the sheet.

  “I wonder who he is?” asked Tomkins. He addressed the attendant. “Have you any clue?”

  “He has been tortured, sir, at some time of his life, we think about ten to fifteen years ago. His back is a mess and he is missing all of his toe nails. His legs were deliberately broken at about the same time. The fractures were treated by amateurs.”

  ‘Poor man,’ thought Jayne. ‘To suffer so much and to end up like this.’

  “The tattoo on his shoulder is official. He was a political prisoner in jail somewhere like Serbia. We’re getting someone from the Linguistics Department at the University to translate the words under the tat. Also, his last word, mat car. We’re also looking for a Matt Carr.”

  Jayne retched again. It was all too much for her. Tomkins ushered her up the stairs and
into the fresh air outside. While Jayne was recovering, Tomkins rang Base to inform them that the corpse was not Jones but could be a refugee from Central Europe or the Balkans.

  Officers began to trace Jones’ movements from early the night before. Air New Zealand confirmed that Nigel Jones had requested an earlier flight, but had not boarded the plane. There the company’s responsibility ended.

  “Look,” said a thin nervous male official from the airline to PC John Wilson. “People book a flight, change the time of departure, then fail to show up. To us that happens every day. I can give you tape recordings and Visa card numbers, even passport numbers, but if someone decides to disappear, that’s their business not ours.”

  The police telephoned hotels to find if any guests were missing.

  “No. But I am missing my concierge, Mr Goran Moravec,” said the Manager, who was dark skinned and short and of Indian descent. “I am thinking he has met with a problem. Always he is being reliable. He has the keys for night staff.”

  “Mr Prakash, you need to come with me to the hospital,” said the policewoman questioning him. ”I am afraid we have a body there that might be your Mr Moravec.”

  Mr Prakash’s identification was positive. He was shocked by the damage to Goran’s face even though the undertaker had tidied it up. His brown eyes misted and became wet and his face turned a lighter shade of brown.

  “It is he,” said the Manager.

  “Would you like some fresh air, sir?” asked the policewoman. She stood beside the Manager to make her call to the Desk Officer, delaying their return to the hotel until she was certain the Manager was not going to be sick in her car.

  “It was Moravec,” said Tomkins to Jayne. “Your guy Jones seems to have disappeared completely. Hopefully he is not lying in some toilet somewhere. His room is empty. We think that Moravec stole his passport, money, wallet and tickets so we can only assume that he disposed of the suitcase of clothing as well as the wallet. Problem is, was Jones meant to be the victim?”