by Angus McLean
He eyed the big man coldly. ‘Well that was a mistake,’ he said.
The big man grunted. ‘Shoulda kept goin’, bro.’
Mike lifted his chin. ‘I meant for you.’
The big man snorted, spat, and came at him with both fists bunched. If either of those collected him, Mike knew he’d be eating gravel, so he needed to eliminate the opportunity.
The big man was bellowing something unintelligible and the other guy was coming to join in too. Mike saw the big man’s right fist coming, ducked and weaved out of the way, stepped left and raised his right forearm to block the big man’s left follow through.
It felt like a tree trunk slammed into his forearm, the shock reverberating up to his shoulder. Mike took the impact and held fast, landed a solid left jab to the big man’s ribs and followed with a decent right hook to the other side of his ribcage.
The big man was huffing and grunting and Mike stepped back, seeing the other guy almost on him, swivelling on his heel and turning just in time to dodge the guy’s charge and help him on his way past with a jab to the side of the neck.
The guy yowled and staggered past, and Mike turned, ducking instinctively, feeling the big man’s brick-like fist sail past his ear. Staying in the crouch, Mike stepped in, throwing what he liked to call a “four square,” a double left-right combo of jabs straight to the guy’s gut. The man had plenty of padding to absorb the blows, which would have been helpful if they hadn’t been thrown by an angry, experienced fighter.
The combo took the big man’s breath away and he stopped in his tracks, both hands going to his gut as he gasped for air.
Mike swivelled again, ready to deal with the other guy, but there was no need.
The clamp-thrower was on his hands and knees, wheezing hard, a long line of drool making its way from his chin towards the asphalt. JB was dusting off his sleeve as he grinned at Mike.
‘You’re welcome,’ he said, and shot Mike with a finger gun. ‘I’ll be in touch.’
He beat it towards Queen St again and Mike decided that discretion was probably the better part of valour right now. He didn’t know if there were any more heavies inside the pool hall, or whether anyone had called the cops, so it was time to make tracks. He climbed back into the truck, pausing to lean out the window before he left.
The big man was leaning forward with his hands on his knees, still struggling to get his breath back.
‘See you round, slick,’ Mike smirked.
The big man squinted at him as the truck eased away up the service lane. He was too breathless to respond, but he promised himself they would cross paths another day.
Payback could be a bitch.
Chapter 27
Even before Buck updated me on his chat with his DS friend, I’d decided to approach Andy Powell head-on.
In my experience it was rare for detectives to get dumped off an investigation or a squad, and it was always down to either of two things; incompetence or a personality clash. Powell didn’t strike me as a bumbling fool.
Originally I had thought that maybe I could influence the investigation in the right direction by appealing to his common sense, but now that he’d been sacked that plan was shot to bits. But maybe now I could get an insight into the investigation from a disgruntled former member.
Powell walked out of the Auckland Central Police Station with a folder under his arm and a set of car keys in his hand. He strode purposefully round the corner into Vincent Street, head down until I called out his name.
He looked up and frowned when he recognised me. It’s nice to feel welcome.
‘What d’you want?’
‘Just to talk,’ I said. ‘I hear you’ve had a bad day.’
His frown deepened. ‘You hear things that are none of your business.’
I shrugged. ‘People talk. It is kinda my business though. Like, literally my business.’
Powell stopped short of me. He was sniffing the bait.
‘Come on, Powell,’ I said, ‘I know you’ve just been dumped and I think I know why. Think what you like about me, but this isn’t personal. It’s about what’s right, and what those clowns up there’ – I pointed up towards the station that towered above us – ‘are doing, is not right. I don’t know Vance but I know about him, and I certainly know Kennedy. That idiot couldn’t investigate a parking violation.’
I saw a flicker cross Powell’s face.
‘I also don’t know you, Powell, but I’ve known plenty of guys like you. I was probably one of them at some stage.’
He finally spoke. ‘And what kinda guy am I, according to you?’
I sized him up for a second, holding his gaze. ‘I told you before that you’re a good man; that much is obvious. You’ve been around a while and think you’re pretty good, and you probably are.’
He cocked an eyebrow, waiting for the but.
‘Your mistake is that you’re too honest to swim with sharks like those guys, but you never realised it until today.’
‘Is that right.’
I nodded. ‘And you also didn’t realise that it doesn’t matter whether you’re right or not, you’re never going to win when you bang heads with the department.’
Powell pursed his lips and gave the slightest of nods. ‘Well you got that bit right,’ he said.
We stood there for a bit, each of us taking the other’s measure. It was a hell of a risk fronting up a cop like this, but things were moving fast and options were limited. The good thing was, he would be feeling vulnerable right now.
‘I don’t wanna get in your face, mate,’ I said. ‘Can I buy you a coffee?’
He considered it before nodding. ‘Not here. I’m on my way to Mount Wellington; I’ll meet you at the café on the corner in Ellerslie.’
Fifteen minutes later he arrived. It was the same place that Molly and I had met Liam Flynn, and I was at the same table.
I had a cappuccino waiting for each of us. Powell eyed it as he sat down, took a sip and looked mildly surprised. He didn’t say anything, but I knew I’d sussed him right. Know a man’s coffee tastes and you’ve got a pretty good handle on the man himself.
Latte – office rat, soft hands. Cappuccino – cultured blue collar with a bit of guts. Americano – he probably wants to add a shot of bourbon. Chai latte – let’s not go there.
I took an appreciative sip of my own, waiting. It was important that Powell didn’t feel pressured to talk to me; he needed to make the first move. The coffee was good. I’d held off ordering him something to eat. No point in seeming too keen.
Powell put his cup down and carefully wiped his mouth. He looked at me across the table. He was a few years older than me, probably had kids and a mortgage and a wife and wasn’t earning enough to keep everything running smoothly.
He looked tired. More than that, he looked stressed. He was a broken man and it showed in his face and his heavy movements. I imagined it was what I would have looked like if I’d still in the job. The Job. It was what cops called it, as if it was a living beast, something bigger than what it was.
‘I’m not sure why you’ve approached me,’ he said. ‘If you know I’m no longer on the job then you know I can’t help you.’
‘I’m not looking for the inside word,’ I said. ‘I know how these things run, and I pretty much know what they’ve got.’
‘Yeah?’ He raised his eyebrows disbelievingly. ‘And what’s that then?’
‘Not much.’ I paused. ‘Aside from a DNA hit for another neighbour.’
He almost managed to conceal his surprise.
‘And I understand that that DNA hit is being explained away.’
Powell took a sip of his coffee to give himself time. ‘You know I can’t disclose details from an active investigation,’ he said.
‘You don’t need to, because we both know I’m right. What I don’t get is, why is such an important angle not being pursued?’
Powell said nothing.
‘So it’s either because of incompetence, whi
ch is obviously believable, corruption, or tunnel vision.’
Powell nodded. ‘That would be a reasonable inference,’ he said.
We’d flirted enough. It was time to get to the nitty gritty. ‘Which is it?’ I said.
Powell eyed me, considering his answer carefully. He might be vulnerable, but it was still a big step to talk outside school.
‘I know what you think of Kennedy and Vance,’ he finally said, ‘and I have my own opinions, but I don’t think either of them are actually incompetent or corrupt.’
I nodded. He had more faith in them than I did, but he was probably right.
‘So why the focus on Mike?’ I said. ‘I get it in a very prima facie way, but it’s not backed up by anything.’
Powell raised his eyebrows again. ‘Prima facie?’ he said.
‘On the face of it,’ I said.
‘I know what it means,’ he retorted, ‘I meant you still talk like a cop.’
I felt my cheeks colour and grinned self-consciously. ‘Sorry,’ I said.
He gave a dismissive wave of his hand. ‘You’re right though,’ he said. ‘The focus is narrow and I don’t agree that it should be. Don’t get me wrong, I still think your mate could be a good suspect, and it was right to look at him.’
‘Of course.’
‘But yeah.’ He gave a heavy sigh. ‘The DNA bothers me.’
‘What’re you doing about it?’
He gave a start as if I’d poked him.
‘Whaddaya mean?’
‘What I said. You’re an experienced detective with serious concerns about an investigation. What’re you doing about those concerns?’
He looked down at his coffee, his brow furrowed. ‘I’m not on the job anymore.’
‘Doesn’t matter, you can still do something.’
‘You don’t get it. I don’t have a choice.’
‘There’s always a choice, Powell. You can choose to do the right thing or not.’
He looked up, his eyes hot. ‘Don’t patronise me, Crowley. I know your background. It might’ve been different in your day, but it’s not that easy any more.’
‘Why not?’ I fought to keep a sneer out of my voice. ‘I know the job’s changed but people are still people, aren’t they? Are you saying you can’t go and talk to someone? You don’t have someone further up the food chain you can talk to in confidence?’
He scoffed at me. ‘Are you kidding me? Even if someone listened, who wants to be the one to make a big fuss?’
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. ‘But people’s lives are at stake,’ I argued. ‘The wrong man could get convicted – the right man could get away scot free.’ I jabbed a finger at him. ‘Your reputation is on the line here, Powell. What about your personal integrity, man?’
He scowled at me. ‘Seriously, you’re lecturing me about integrity? Aren’t you the guy who decked his superior officer?’
He had me there. ‘To be fair,’ I said, ‘it was only Kennedy.’
It gave him pause, and the ice was broken.
‘I heard you broke his jaw then sued him.’
I tried to be self-effacing. ‘Well, you know what rumours are like.’
Powell grinned, probably wishing he could do the same.
‘Look,’ I said, ‘I know you’re off the investigation, and I accept that it’s hard to speak up. But could you live with yourself if a killer walked away and you could’ve done something to prevent it?’
I sat back and took a sip. The coffee was tepid now. Powell was battling with himself, and I gave him time. He drained his cup and pushed his chair back.
‘Thanks for the coffee,’ he said. ‘I better get going.’ He stood and put out his hand. We shook. His grip was firm and dry.
‘No problem.’ I held onto his hand, getting eye to eye with him. ‘Whatever you do now, you have to live with.’
He pried himself free. ‘I need to go.’
I watched him walk out of the café, not knowing which way he would jump.
Chapter 28
‘Simon Beetham’s a liar,’ Molly said.
I paused in the doorway, barely across the threshold. ‘Okay,’ I said. My mind was still tumbling from the meeting with Powell. ‘Hit me with it.’
‘His wife apparently committed suicide.’
‘Not divorced then?’
She shook her head. I closed the door and came around her desk. I gave her a kiss on the cheek before going to my desk.
‘Not at all. She apparently gassed herself in the car back home in England.’
‘Interesting.’ I could tell when she was spinning it out, and she had a coy look now. ‘What else did you find?’
‘Well, the factual part is that she died. But the more interesting part is that it was originally thought to be a murder.’ Her eyes were gleaming at the thrill of her discovery.
‘Wow.’ I was both impressed and intrigued. ‘Fill me in, hot lips.’
She explained her Facebook findings, which had led her to searches on Doreen’s name.
‘I found a reference in a local newspaper from Hendon in North London. It was just a small reference to her sudden, tragic death. I dug further from that, and there were a few other articles referring to her death but not by name. I guess that would be normal for a suspected suicide?’
‘Sounds right.’
‘It seems that it was initially reported as a suicide, then looked into as a possible homicide.’
‘Did they use those words specifically?’
‘Yep.’
I nodded my approval. This was good stuff.
‘There are very few details in the news reports, just that it was being looked into further, and there are only a couple of minor updates in the local rag. It’s not one that made national news.’
I wasn’t surprised, sad as it was. Suicide had been such an elephant in the room for so long, and Doreen’s death was just another sad statistic – another unnecessary death that nobody really cared about.
‘The last update was a statement saying that police had concluded their investigation and had referred the matter to the coroner. Looks like no charges were ever laid, and that was the end of it.’
‘Hmmm.’ I leaned back in my chair and looked at the ceiling, churning it over in my head. It was all interesting, but there wasn’t a lot to actually work with. I doubted we’d ever get our hands on the actual death file from the Metropolitan Police. ‘Did they ever say why they were looking at it as a possible homicide?’
‘No.’
‘Did they ever name anyone as a suspect?’
‘No.’
‘Hmmm.’ I got up and read the articles over her shoulder. She smelled nice but for once it wasn’t enough to distract me from the story I was reading.
There was nothing more than what Molly had already told me in the news articles, but I could see how it played out. Something was amiss with the death for some reason, and it was looked into further. The husband would have been interviewed and presumably considered a suspect. We would have to get inside the actual investigation to get the low down, but regardless, he had obviously been cleared.
I straightened up, aware that Molly was watching me. She had done good work; it was just a matter of figuring out how we could use it. At the very least it proved that Simon Beetham was a liar, which threw his credibility into question.
At worst, he was a murderer who had away with it, which made him the hottest suspect in town for the murder of Sarah Flynn.
***
Surveillance is a tricky business, and it takes a skilled operator not to get burned. When the target is a suspected murderer, it makes all the harder.
Since the cops weren’t looking at Beetham, we had to do it ourselves. Neither Mike nor I could do it because Beetham knew us by sight, so I buzzed a mate in the Bay of Plenty.
Ace Purcell had been a detective on my team back in the day, and when he wasn’t surfing or playing guitar in a bar band, he plied his trade as a PI in the Bay of Plenty. He had n
o link to Beetham, barely knew Mike and was good at what he did. He’d spent years on the undercover programme and was an expert in all manner of covert investigations.
He answered on the sixth ring and I could hear loud voices in the background. ‘Long time, Daniel-san.’
I grinned to myself. Ace thought he was funny. I took a sip of my Summit before I answered.
‘A bar or a gym, which is it?’
He laughed. ‘Band practice, if you can call it that. What’s up?’
‘Got a job on; you free?’
‘Might be.’
UC guys – cagey as hell.
I filled him in on the details. He gave the occasional uh-huh. When I finished, he was silent.
‘So are you free or what?’ I prodded him.
‘Oh yeah, I guess I could make my way up there.’
‘Don’t bring that Nova though, eh? It’ll stand out a little more here than down at the beach.’ Ace drove a fire-engine red ’69 Chevy Nova. It was as cool as could be and fit well with his beach-bum/rock god image. It was a terrible choice for surveillance.
He chuckled again. ‘Don’t worry mate, I’ll be a little more discreet than that. You know my rates?’
I did. They were less than mine, which was the main thing. ‘I’ll flick the details through to you on email.’
‘Sweet. I’ll be there first thing in the morning.’
‘Thanks man.’ I grinned to myself. ‘Hang loose, brau.’
‘No says that anymore, mate.’ He chuckled and hung up on me. Rude.
I put the phone down and looked across to where Molly was waiting to go home. ‘Fancy a takeaway?’
‘I thought you’d never ask. Is Mike home for tea?’ He was going to stay with us while the dust settled.
I shrugged and stood. ‘He’ll sort himself out.’ I drained my bottle and took it to the kitchenette. ‘He’s probably throwing round chunks of tin.’
I killed the lights, set the alarm and locked the door behind us. ‘Thai or Indian?’
‘I could go a naan bread.’ She pulled a face. ‘Indian it is.’
As we descended the stairs to the footpath I had the prickly feeling that we were being watched. I glanced around surreptitiously but couldn’t clock anything obvious. Presumably the cops were still watching us, but who knew why.
