by Alan Carter
‘Have you been under any particular stress lately?’
‘No more than usual.’
‘How’s your sex life?’
‘Fine, thanks.’
‘Active, vigorous?’
‘Sometimes.’
A few more questions. How many fingers is she holding up. Three. What day is it today? Wednesday. A torch shone in both eyes. Walk up and down and stand on one leg. Asking about the diet and alcohol consumption.
‘We’ll arrange some blood tests and a CT scan.’
‘That sounds serious.’
‘Routine.’ She says it the way I describe enquiries into people I intend to nail. ‘It sounds like TGA – transient global amnesia – not uncommon and sometimes you hear no more of it. It can be brought on by stress, vigorous sexual activity, a fall or blow to the head, sudden immersion in cold water, things like that. The scan will tell us more and I’d like to check your cholesterol levels in case you’re thinking of having a stroke.’ She taps at her keyboard and gives me a slip of paper and a dismissing smile.
‘That’s it?’
‘Get the blood tests done, the addresses are on the back of that form. We’ll send you an appointment for the scan and a follow-up chat with a neurologist.’
‘Neurologist?’
‘They’re better at reading CT scan results than I am.’
Gemma is waiting outside in her Holden Commodore as I get to the town hall. She winds down the window. ‘You right to go?’
Not waiting for an answer she starts the car so I hop in and buckle up. ‘Morning.’
‘Everything okay?’
‘Just a check-up. The older you get, the longer they take.’ It’s nippy in the car and she’s got the fan going full blast. ‘Hot flush?’ I enquire. ‘You seem so young.’
‘Just been for a run.’
As we head along SH6 west of Havelock, the tide is low and swamp birds peck at the Pelorus Sound mud. White clouds hang on the hills. It’s going to be another glorious day. There’s a companionable silence as the kilometres tick down passing Canvastown. My mind floats over several neurologically catastrophic scenarios.
‘So what do you know about Morgan Hopu?’ Gemma turns the aircon down a notch from Antarctic to Invercargill.
‘Not much.’ We’re crossing Pelorus Bridge. Tourists are taking selfies with a backdrop of the gorge, the exquisite river and the rock pools. Was it somewhere in among that small oasis of native bush that Karel Havelka met his death? ‘The file suggests a bog-standard bikie hoodlum with the usual tattoos and charge sheet.’
‘A changed man since his son’s death, apparently.’
‘Getting your pound of flesh from the fella who did it would probably help dim the hurt. Utu, I think they call it.’
‘Has Constable Rapata been educating you?’
A sideways glance. I’m not sure I like her tone. ‘So you’ve read Hopu’s file and the background on Havelka. How do you want to play this?’
‘The boss told me to take a back seat. You’re in charge, he says. A hotshot from way back.’
‘His words?’
‘More or less.’ Gemma slows for some road works. A grader smoothing out the over-used alternate route after the Kaikoura earthquake that blocked one of the main north–south arteries. ‘What if Hopu just says nah, wasn’t me?’
‘He probably will and he probably won’t be lying. He could get any of a dozen of his eager young lieutenants to do the job.’
Gemma finger waves at the all-clear from the road works traffic guy. ‘So maybe this is a waste of time?’
‘Tell that to Mrs Havelka.’
‘From what I hear she’s forgotten she ever had a husband.’
Gemma must have been doing her homework.
‘The least we can do is have the conversation with him,’ I tell her. ‘Tick the boxes.’
‘That’s the spirit.’
‘What?’
‘Maxwell said you’d make a good detective.’
Morgan Hopu is smaller than I expected but the resemblance is immediately apparent.
‘Are you related to Thomas Hemi?’
‘My baby half-brother.’ He releases my hand from a bruising grip. ‘Different dads. How do you know him?’
‘He’s my neighbour. Give or take a few kilometres.’
‘He was always the smart kid, bit religious there for a while. Some of us get God, others get Goodfellas.’ He laughs, it’s an open, honest chortle. ‘Thomas went his way, I went mine. Sometimes we catch up; Christmas, weddings, hangis, tangis.’
Facial moko aside, he’s dressed like any businessman, and sharper than his lawyer, who could do with a bit more grooming. Morgan acts respectful and charming to Gemma and we all take our seats around a boardroom table. The room is decorated with paintings of colonial occupation and endeavour. It’s unclear whether they’re there to reassure and impress Pākehā clients or as some private joke of Morgan’s. Maybe both. Gemma puts her phone on record and asks if that’s okay.
‘No,’ says Morgan’s lawyer. ‘Sorry.’
That’s fine, I’m thinking, this is a waste of time anyway. ‘But we will take notes,’ I say.
Gemma flips open a pad, frowning in a way that suggests the lawyer is going to get his wheels clamped sometime soon. ‘We found the body of Karel Havelka a few days ago.’
Morgan acts like the name doesn’t ring a bell. Then he allows it to. ‘Really? Foul play suspected?’
‘Yes.’
‘Terrible shame. Wife must be devastated.’
In her own way she is, she’s clearly had her grief already and it must have sent her into early dementia. ‘I was wondering if you could cast any light on the matter?’
‘Light?’ says Morgan. ‘I gave a statement at the time. I was unable to help then and nothing has changed.’
‘At the time you made repeated and witnessed threats against his life. You said you were going to make him pay.’
‘The angry words of a bereaved father. Doesn’t mean I carried them through.’
‘But if anyone was capable of doing so it would be you.’
‘I object to your …’
Morgan pats his lawyer’s arm. ‘Possibly. But the fact is, I didn’t.’
And that’s all he needs to keep saying until and unless we get some hard evidence.
‘Only half of the body was found. It would be closure and some comfort for the family if we could recover all the remains so he can be properly laid to rest.’
‘Half?’ says Hopu. ‘That’s barbaric. Who’d do something like that?’
‘You’re unable to help us?’
‘Wish I could, mate.’
I leave him my card. ‘If you think of anything get in touch.’
‘Will do.’ He spins the card on the table then pockets it. ‘Say hello to Thomas from me.’
Back over the ranges and around the high hairpin bends. The wind has risen and tugs the car towards the occasional precipice.
‘That was a waste of time and petrol.’ Gemma brakes suddenly to deter a tailgater. ‘Back off, loser,’ she snarls at the rear-view.
‘But not unexpected.’
‘What’s your next move?’
‘The boffins reckon Havelka was killed elsewhere, traces of native plants on him that you only find in nature reserves and national parks these days.’
‘He volunteered on some conservation thing at Pelorus Bridge. Save the bats or whatever.’
‘Maybe we should drop in on the way back?’
‘You’re in charge.’
When we get there we find the ranger’s office shut. The café owner tells us he’s on leave and anyway the bat volunteers are coordinated out of someone’s house in Nelson. ‘But feel free to take a look out back if you want.’
Out back in a lean-to shed there’s an array of rusty medieval-looking trapping equipment, jars of dried-up peanut butter, and an old fridge with soft apples on one shelf and what looks like beef jerky on another. Gemma wrinkles her
nose. ‘Smells like a crime scene.’
There’s a name and a mobile number scrawled on a grubby whiteboard. I make a note and we hit the road back to Havelock.
‘You’re remarkably well-informed about this case considering you were only seconded to it late yesterday.’
Gemma squints into the rear-view at another tailgater. ‘How do you mean?’
‘Havelka’s widow being ga-ga, Karel volunteering to save the bats. Not bad for somebody who was going to take the back seat.’
‘I reviewed the case last night. I was keen to impress you.’
‘Why?’
‘DC Keegan reckons you’re worth impressing.’ I give her my poker face. If there’s a subtext, she’s hiding it well. ‘Girls night out, every month. Informal mentorship over a few vodkas.’
‘I don’t recall seeing any information about Mrs Havelka or the bat project on the database.’
‘I asked around. It’s what detectives do. Why are you still in uniform, Nick?’
‘That’s my business.’
‘Your wife is very loyal.’
‘I think you need to step back a bit.’
‘I did this course on body language a few months back. I don’t think lying comes naturally to Vanessa, does it?’
‘Meaning?’
‘Monday night. You weren’t home when you said you were. She’s covering for you.’
‘You’ve got quite an imagination. Need to watch that in detective work.’
We pull up outside the town hall and I start to walk up the street to my office. Gemma zaps the car with her key fob. ‘You won’t object to providing a DNA sample to help us eliminate you from our enquiries?’
‘Be my guest.’
‘I’ll be there with a swab in twenty minutes once I’ve brought Maxwell up to speed. Put the kettle on. Tea, white with one.’
Latifa is waiting for me. In civvies, as she should be, she’s still got the rest of the week off.
‘Couldn’t stay away?’
‘Look.’ She spins her laptop screen my way. Grainy night images: two figures creeping around the side of the police house, Latifa’s home, checking windows and doors, urinating against a wall, leisurely, taking their time.
‘When was this?’
‘Last night. Got a notification on my mobile. Came in to check it out.’
‘Recognise them?’
She freezes a frame. Zooms in. One of the young men startled by a sudden noise turns his head and his face is caught fully by the camera. ‘Jaxon Hemi.’
‘Thomas’s boy?’
‘Pay him a visit?’
‘S’pose so. Can you call ahead and check his whereabouts?’ Latifa gets on the phone as Gemma comes through the door with her DNA swab kit. We retire to the kitchen where I explain the cuppa will have to wait. She takes the sample, a curiously intimate affair, up close and staring into my eyes as she pokes the white stick in my mouth. Her warm breath caresses my cheek and it’s not unpleasant.
‘Thanks,’ she says finally.
‘My pleasure.’
She smiles. ‘Mine too. Maxwell wants to know what you plan next with Havelka.’
Behind Gemma, Latifa summons me with a lift of the chin.
‘I’ll work on a strategy this afternoon. Fill him in later.’
‘And the plumbing jobs?’
‘In hand.’ I gesture at her DNA kit. ‘When can I expect to hear?’
‘We’ll come knocking. Trust me.’
Back up the valley. Out the front of the Lodge there’s a couple of vans, a digger, people standing around drinking and smoking. Latifa’s hands grip the steering wheel tighter.
‘Pity it wasn’t them. Would have given us an excuse to go in there.’
‘Maybe the two things aren’t connected. The prowling and the attack on you.’
‘Maybe.’
‘You going okay?’
‘Yep.’
‘What’s the latest with Daniel?’
‘Back this weekend.’ A smile. ‘Can’t wait.’
‘I bet.’ As we pass our place I’m feeling flat. The logging is creeping further up the valley and goldminers are sniffing like blowflies around a wound. The Lodge is developing a permanent bad smell too. It feels like we’re living in a poisoned paradise. It’s tempting to cut and run but I can’t for the life of me think where to. And what would Vanessa and Paulie say? They need stability and here’s me tapping into my flight instinct again.
‘What’s Jaxon playing at?’ Latifa changes gear crossing Dead Horse Creek. An oncoming camper van nearly cleans us up taking the sharp bend too close. ‘Dickhead!’ yells Latifa through her open window. She gets the finger in reply.
‘Probably best to let me ask the questions when we get there, okay?’
‘Whatever.’
It’s a steep driveway up to Thomas Hemi’s farm. The fences either side are sturdy and the whole place is well-maintained, orderly. He’s seen and heard us coming and is waiting on his front verandah, Jaxon by his side. The young bloke is a chip off the old block; strong physique, ready smile, no doubt a heartbreaker in the making.
We all shake hands. Thomas seems to be still carrying himself carefully after the beating, and the bruises are colouring nicely. Ruth, his wife, appears from the kitchen door and stands proprietorially behind her son. Good genes all round. They’re a handsome family.
‘Jaxon, can we have a word?’
‘What’s this about?’ asks Ruth.
‘Police business,’ says Latifa. ‘We can do it down the station if he likes?’
The two women face off, dark glares at three metres.
‘No need,’ I say smiling. ‘Just a chat. You okay with that, Jaxon?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Want me to sit in?’ asks Thomas.
‘Jaxon is only sixteen and entitled to have an adult present,’ Ruth says.
‘We know. That okay with you, Jaxon? Want Dad to sit in?’
A nervous squint. ‘Okay.’
We adjourn to a bench picnic table along the wide verandah. Ruth leaves us with a glower. Thomas offers us a concoction of Dettol and baby oil to keep the sandflies away as we settle in. He notices the abrasions on Latifa’s face, the scar on her neck. ‘What happened to you?’
‘My job. What happened to you?’
‘My business.’
I slide a photo printout from the security footage across the table. ‘That you, Jaxon?’
He shrugs. ‘Yeah.’
‘Midnight, last night. Can you explain what you were doing on private police property in Havelock at that time?’
‘Police property?’
‘It’s the official police house,’ said Latifa. ‘My home.’
‘Yeah?’ said Jaxon.
‘You told us you were staying with a mate near the marae,’ said Thomas. ‘You shouldn’t lie to me, boy.’
I tap the photo. ‘So what were you doing?’
‘Lookin’ around, needed a piss.’
‘There’s public toilets less than fifty metres away.’
‘Locked by then and I couldn’t wait.’
Thomas Hemi isn’t impressed. ‘Stop bein’ a dickhead, Jax. Answer the man.’
‘We thought there might be something worth liftin’. Somebody in the pub said the place had been empty a few days.’
‘Stealing?’ says Thomas. ‘You wanted to steal something?’
‘My mate did. I was just along for the laugh.’
‘Which mate?’
‘Nobody you know.’
‘Which mate?’
A sigh. ‘Young guy from the Lodge. Yank. New at school.’
Thomas puts a large hand on his son’s chin and turns it his way for full attention. ‘What you doin’ hanging out with idiots like that? And what you doin’ in the pub? You’re underage. Jeez, Jax.’
‘Not much else to do round here.’
‘Which guy from the Lodge?’ I ask. ‘Name?’
‘Mel. Look we didn’t take anything. The place was
locked up, nothing to steal. We just looked around that’s all.’
‘Mel who?’ says Latifa.
A shrug. ‘Just Mel.’
‘What about the other nights?’ I name the dates.
‘Don’t know what you’re talking about. Only went there once.’
‘So where did you stay last night?’ asks Thomas.
‘At Mel’s. Plenty of room there. His uncle drove us to school this morning.’
‘The phone calls?’ says Latifa.
‘What phone calls?’
‘Do you have a mobile?’
‘Yeah, but it doesn’t work up here, only in town.’
He puts it in Latifa’s snapping fingers. ‘You’ll get it back when we’re finished.’
‘Anything else?’ asks Thomas.
‘Given what happened to you, I’d be advising Jaxon to keep away from anybody connected with the Lodge.’ I turn to the lad. ‘Seriously.’
‘Sorry to drag you all the way up here for nothing, officers.’ Thomas thumbs over his shoulder. ‘Jaxon. Inside.’
‘Believe him?’ Latifa asks on the drive back down the valley. It’s late afternoon now. The sun has slipped behind the hill near our place and there’s a nip in the air. It’d make sense to be just dropped off at my gate but my car’s still in town and it all gets a bit complicated. Besides, Latifa needs to talk.
‘I think so. I don’t think Thomas has raised a thief. Dickhead maybe but I’m prepared to put it down to his age.’
‘Yeah, s’pose. The Lodge again, eh?’
‘Jax and Mel don’t seem to be connected to the phone calls and other prowlings.’
‘Not Jaxon anyway. I checked his mobile number, it wasn’t the one calling me.’
‘Still too loose to be paying them a visit. We need to be rock solid.’
She shakes her head. ‘Nah, Jaxon’s placed Mel at the scene. Trespassing. That’s enough for me to want to talk to them.’
‘It dobs Jaxon in though. Mel will know he can’t trust him. Maybe Jaxon can be useful to us? Pick up some gossip from Mel. Judging by the look on Thomas’s face, the boy’s in big trouble.’
‘You’re looking to use a sixteen-year-old boy as a spy?’
Busted. ‘Yeah, you’re right. Bad idea.’
‘That’s not what I said.’
At the gates of the Lodge, there’s activity. The digger we saw on the way up is munching away at the road. A woman with a Stop/Go sign waves us down.
