The Only Secret Left to Keep

by Katherine Hayton

  “Until he starts giving us something more than rote answers, we can’t begin to know anything about his motives,” Harmond said. “Out of the two of them, I’d suggest that the dad is a more likely candidate just on the basis of brute strength.”

  She shook her head, the bags under her eyes catching the shadows from the room and expanding until she appeared exhausted. “This case has always been shitty. Whether it’s the daughter confessing or the father, neither answer holds the ring of truth.”

  “If we press ahead with a prosecution we might jolt either one of them into telling the truth,” Ngaire said. When Harmond inclined her head—go on—she filled out the thought. “Bob Rickards appeared to confess because he thought he was dying. From what the heart surgeon reports now, though, he’s got another five good years in him, at least.”

  She waved her hand toward the father, sitting placidly in the interview room. “He could be continuing on with this charade because he believes it will go away or he’ll be able to worm his way out of trouble. If we go in hard, say that we’re discharging Shannon’s conviction and intent on prosecuting Bob to the full extent of the law, then he might retract.”

  “Or he’ll think it’s too late, and just submit to whatever the crown prosecutors decide to do with him.”

  Ngaire shrugged. “Maybe. Or it might be that if Shannon thinks he’s going to spend the rest of his life in prison, she’ll step forward with something useful.”

  “Like what?”

  Ngaire clenched her hand into a fist with the frustration. “I don’t know.”

  She waved her other arm about. “This entire case is ridiculous from start to finish. Who ever heard of having people lining up to confess to a murder charge?”

  “I don’t know,” Harmond said, scanning the interview room again. Bob Rickards was standing now, with a helping hand from his lawyer. “The only thing that comes to mind as similar is organized crime.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  “I think that it’s a mistake to focus only on the Kenton/Collingwood murders,” Ngaire said. DSS Harmond had scheduled a daily time for her to talk things over in the private office. A routine already established with her team, but which had freaked Ngaire out for a few minutes.

  “Ask me anything you like,” Harmond had said. After a second of hesitation, Ngaire took her up on that offer.

  “I understand that there’s a good chance of conviction, especially with Bob Rickards cooperating but Sam Andie shouldn’t just be pushed aside because his case is hard.”

  “To be fair, that’s not the only reason,” Harmond said. “There’s also the importance of the two cases in the public’s mind. Weighing up two teenage boys against a grown man…”

  “Sam Andie was only a few years older than those kids,” Ngaire said. “There were only three or four years between them, at best. I’d hardly call that a major point of difference.”

  “I didn’t,” Harmond said. “What I said was that they hold different weights of importance to the public mind. I understand that all of these suspects and victims are roughly grouped together in age.” She paused for a second then shrugged. “Apart from Bob Rickards, of course.”

  Ngaire looked down at her hands, clasped together in her lap. Thoughts raged through her head. They piled up, one after the other, without the words ready to let them out. Her tongue was a roadblock, her hesitation a widening chasm. Her frustration rose as the unvoiced words stacked higher.

  At the heart of it was her pity for Sam Andie. Not his family, though his mother’s face hung in Ngaire’s mind some time with the shocked eyes of grief as she answered the door. Sam had been young, vibrant, intelligent. His case should have been investigated thoroughly when it first landed on the police’s door. That it hadn’t was a disappointment. To abandon it now, a tragedy.

  “We owe it to Sam Andie’s family to do the best investigation we can,” Ngaire said. She chose the tactic that resonated the least with her but also held the common element most likely to raise empathy. “They had a boy once, full of promise, and someone took that away.”

  “I didn’t say we wouldn’t continue the investigation, but we must set priorities.”

  “George Kenton and Jessie Collingwood’s families have had their day in court. The verdict might now be in question, but at least it was believed to be the truth of what had happened at the time. Sam Andie’s parents didn’t get that. They got shunted to the side like they didn’t matter.”

  Ngaire paused and flicked her thumbnail against her forefinger. How badly do you want this?

  “He went missing during the Springbok tour. There’s a possible correlation there with how easily the police stopped following his case up at the time.”

  Harmond leaned forward, elbows on her desk. A frown creased the skin between her eyes into a deep V. The DSS opened her mouth slightly, as though to speak, but then nodded for Ngaire to continue.

  “If the media heard that the already-solved murder of two white boys was being placed ahead of one black man, it wouldn’t look good for the police.” Ngaire could feel her fingers wanting to rise to her mouth, to be nibbled and the nails bitten. She sat on them before they could try. “It’s one thing for the original case to be held up to the light of day and found wanting. If we ignore Sam Andie for the second time around, it will appear as though we’re hiding something.”

  Harmond sat back in her chair and raised her eyebrows. “What exactly is it that we’re meant to be hiding?”

  “The pathologist said that Sam died from a heavy blow to the side of the head. It was done with such force that it carried through and splintered his jaw.” Ngaire pulled her hands out to mimic the action, then tucked them safely under her thighs again.

  “You think a police baton killed him?”

  Ngaire shook her head. “No, I don’t. But if the media finds that out in tandem with no investigation then they might.”

  “What do you think happened?”

  The question had been tossing around in Ngaire’s mind for so long that she took a second before answering. “I believe that Sam’s case is intimately connected with the murders of Kenton and Collingwood. I believe that they hurt him, because of the color of his skin or the way he liked to dress.”

  Harmond scratched at her hair where it was pulled most tightly into a bun. After a second, she picked up a pencil to jab it farther in than her fingers could go.

  “What would be your points of investigation?”

  Ngaire may be a recent recruit to the team, but she was a fast learner. She began to tick the items off on her fingers.

  “One. The surgeon knows something more than he’s telling. I need to get a warrant for his testimony since the records appear to be long gone.

  “Two. Somebody called the police and told an officer that Sam Andie was safe and alive and living down south. I need the records from that police station to try and track who did that.

  “Three. Sam Andie had money in his bank account that didn’t come from the employer that we know about. How he came by that and who that put him in contact with could be essential to this case.”

  After a moment of silence from the other side of the table, Ngaire wondered if she’d gone too far. She sat still, reciprocating until Harmond started to tap her pencil on the table.

  “Forensic accounting has the bank statements. Check in with them and give them a hurry up. Like anyone, if it’s easier to do they give it more priority. Feel free to drop in my name or DI Moimoi if you think it will help.”

  Harmond pulled a pad toward her and started scribbling notes. “The warrant may not be necessary if you can get approval from Sam Andie’s mother. Ask for her permission and have her sign a release for the medical notes if she’s willing.”

  “The notes won’t relate to Sam Andie,” Ngaire reminded her. “And I don’t think Bob Rickards would be quite so obliging.”

  At that, Harmond shot her a quick grin. “Maybe not. Still, get the release. It’ll give you enough reason t
o go down there and get the surgeon’s views on Andie. Once you get him talking, who knows what will come out.”

  “Okay,” Ngaire said, sitting back in her chair, still disbelieving it could be this easy.

  “I’ll check in with the Southland stations and see who, if any, took the information about Andie being spotted in the area. If they sent the report up to join his file, they might not have anything. If a desk sergeant noted it down, there might still be something in their archives.”

  “Would Telecom still have phone records? It would make more sense that whoever gave the tip, called it in.”

  Harmond tapped the pencil on her lower lip. “Not stored but the station might have a physical log of incoming calls. We used to do that back in the old days before everything was automatically recorded. I’ll get them to check that, at the same time.”

  “Won’t that be a lot of work?” Ngaire asked, still puzzled by the seeming change in focus.

  The DSS gave her another grin. “When I say that I’ll do something, what I mean is someone on the team will do it. If they can’t get it done in the time I allocate, then you’ll be out of luck.”

  “Would it be easier if I passed the questions on to the closest station, to interview the doctor?”

  Harmond was shaking her head before Ngaire could finish the question. “No. You’ve already spoken with him, and you know the case. If someone’s taking the time to go, then it makes sense that it’s you.”

  “Thank you,” Ngaire said, writing down a few reminders in her notebook.

  “Anything else you need from me today?” Harmond asked. When Ngaire shook her head, dumbfounded, she nodded in dismissal. “Get yourself organized. Sheila from booking will be in touch about the flights.”

  “Mrs. Andie?” Ngaire asked as the woman opened the door. “It’s Detective Ngaire Blakes. I don’t know if you remember me, but I’m working on the investigation into your son’s murder.”

  The days that had passed since Ngaire saw her last, had not been kind to Mrs. Andie. Her eyes were red rimmed and heavy-lidded. Her hand trembled as it held open the door for her to enter.

  “Is anything more happening with Sam?” Mrs. Andie asked, showing Ngaire through to the same room as last time. Now, it was littered with wilting flowers still wrapped in florist paper and empty food trays, sitting on the floor. A bottle of brown spirits sat with its label facing the sofa. Whiskey, brandy. In the dim light of the room, windows curtained against the outdoor sun, it was hard to tell.

  As Ngaire took a seat on the edge of the sofa, displacing a half-empty bag of crisps, Mrs. Andie leaned forward to grab her hands.

  “Have you found Sam’s killer? Is that what you’re here to tell me?”

  “Not yet, I’m afraid, but we’re working on it. We have a few lines of investigation open.” Over the years, Ngaire had learned how to sound hopeful while being vague. “In fact, it’s one of those that I wanted to talk to you about. Would you grant me permission to access some of Sam’s medical records?”

  “From the States?” she asked with a frown of puzzlement.

  “No,” Ngaire said, stepping gingerly around the subject. “From any medical professionals Sam consulted or visited while in New Zealand.”

  “I don’t know that he did,” Mrs. Andie said. Her eyes were glassy from alcohol or lack of sleep. She gazed vacantly at the wall for a few minutes, her expression fading into blankness.

  Ngaire sat and waited. She had a form ready but didn’t want to push it on the woman if she resisted. There were other ways she could try, though the courts too might be resistant. Especially since the records that interested Ngaire most, were the ones that wouldn’t be covered by the authority, either way.

  After a while, Mrs. Andie’s face started to reanimate. Her eyes began to focus on objects in the room, rather than into thin air. She smiled and shook her head. “Sorry, I keep losing track.”

  “That’s quite all right,” Ngaire reassured her. “Take all the time you need.”

  Mrs. Andie rubbed the center of her forehead, the skin moving loosely over the bones beneath. “Alan, my husband, he had a few appointments with a local doctor, and we would have taken Sam along there too if it had ever been needed. Strong as a horse, my boy was.”

  Her gaze started to unravel again. The irises began to drift wider, losing concentration.

  “I have a form here,” Ngaire said. “We don’t know that Sam did visit any doctors or hospitals, of course. Signing this release just means that if we do come across any records, we can access them without going through the courts. That way, we can quickly work out if something is relevant or not without waiting for hours or even days.”

  Ngaire passed the form across, balanced on top of her notebook for a hard surface. While Mrs. Andie perched it on her knee, Ngaire gave her the pen and pointed to where she should sign.

  “As I said,” the woman said while scrawling a large signature. “I don’t think that Sam visited anyone. He didn’t get into scrapes like other boys, and he hated playing sports.”

  “I understand,” Ngaire said. She looked around the room and felt the heavy weight of despair settle onto her shoulders. “Is there someone I can call to come and sit with you?”

  “No, no. I’m quite all right by myself. It gives me a nice chance to think.”

  “Are you sure? I could knock on Diane’s door and see if she’s free to come over.”

  “No,” Mrs. Andie said, jerking her head back. “We’ve had a falling out. She’s the last person I want coming near me.”

  “Should I check?” Ngaire said. She didn’t feel comfortable leaving the woman alone with the house in its current state. If she had let it dissolve to this level already, lord knows what it would be like in another few days.

  “That woman said very hurtful things to me,” Mrs. Andie said. Indignation made her voice climb up an octave, a shrill whistle half in disbelief. “And when she already knows how much I’m feeling the loss of my poor Sam.” She shook her head, utterly emphatic. “No. I can barely stand to think that she’s loitering next door. I’m not having her come in here.”

  “Okay. Is there anyone else who can lend a hand?” Ngaire stood and moved over to crouch before Mrs. Andie. “I know it’s difficult to keep on top of everything when you’re grieving. It makes other people feel useful if they can help you out and do things for you.”

  “I don’t want anyone coming near me.” The woman ran her hands up and down her arms, their rough skin catching on the fabric of her sweater. “My skin feels like all the nerves have been moved to the outside. I can’t have anyone near me for long, or I get overwhelmed.”

  “I’m sorry to upset you by suggesting it,” Ngaire said, forcing worry to stay out of her voice. “I’ll head off now.”

  “You will let me know,” Mrs. Andie said, trailing off mid-sentence.

  “Let you know what, Mrs. Andie?”

  “Let me know when you find Sam.”

  Ngaire smiled and slipped out of the door without answering. She keyed in the number for victim support and referred the case to them while sitting in the car. Next door, the curtain twitched, and Diane’s keen eyes peered out. Ngaire gave her a small wave of recognition, but the curtain jerked back into place once more.

  As she pulled away from the property, Ngaire thought that given Mrs. Andie’s quick descent, it was unlikely that she’d open her arms to the victim support officer on her way. Still, at least there would be one more person trying to make contact and ensure the elderly woman was okay.

  The flight that Sheila had booked Ngaire on wasn’t until 9.30 p.m. Or bedtime, as she normally referred to it. Just looking at the confirmation code had made her feel tired.

  At the airport, Ngaire had expected to find a subdued atmosphere composed almost entirely of adults. Instead, as she walked into the regional lounge, a flock of children ran toward her screaming. The parents following along behind seemed less enthusiastic about their late-night landing.

  Ther
e was a coffee shop still open, but Ngaire couldn’t justify spending five dollars for something whipped up quickly in a machine. Not that she was a coffee snob, but if she was paying for a barista experience then damn it—she wanted the barista to sweat for it.

  A muffin with her name on it called out a tempting song, but Ngaire turned a deaf ear to its siren cries. Her hips still hadn’t recovered all the way from their spreading period, when she was working full-time at a desk job. If it was ten in the morning and she was still able to pretend that exercise could sort it out, then maybe. At this time of night, her only exercise was going to be with keeping her patience.

  She took a seat on a plastic chair, then gratefully shifted to a molded couch with more padding when a netball team walked off, all giggling.

  All Ngaire wanted for the moment was to close her eyes and doze off. If she did that, though, she could miss her flight. Or even worse, be poked awake by airport staff.

  The plane trip would be over forty minutes, the taxi ride from the airport at least an hour. Ngaire could doze when she was in the safe hands of vehicle operators fully capable of getting her to the right destination without any input at all.

  After thinking this, Ngaire’s eyelids started to drift closed, and it took a wrench to get them to reopen. She leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees so that if it happened again, she’d fall and wake herself up.

  Where did you go, Sam?

  Ngaire pictured him at the test match, laughing and looking like a superstar. Invincible, untouchable. Shannon said when she’d last seen him, he’d been hurt. Ngaire altered her image so that blood poured in a trickle down his face.

  Where did you go? Who did you meet?

  Without the safe haven of his girlfriend’s home to head to, where had Sam decided would be the best place to go? Or, considering the antipathy of Shannon’s mother, had the sleepover always been a lie?

  Two young people. Neither of them should have had much money, except one had thousands stashed in a secret bank account. Money earmarked for something special. Money earned somewhere secretive.