by Alan Carter
Target practice has started up again. I head back to my car under the watchful eyes of Daniel Boone, his crewcut friend and their dogs. I give them a wave as I drive away.
Pelorus Bridge is experiencing its midmorning rush; the car park and café are full. Clouds rear from the south-west and a nippy wind ripples the surface of the river. I park in the overflow across the road, shrug on a windcheater and check the map and instructions Jenny the bat woman gave me. Three hundred metres along the Tawa Walk trail, pink ribbons lead off through the dense native forest. I plunge into the unknown.
It must be the green equivalent of the white-out experienced by Antarctic explorers. Or maybe not, as the many shades, smells and textures are a riot of the senses. I can imagine the early settlers and prospectors brushing through this same terrain, feeling the moss spring beneath their feet, the feathery whisper of ferns, smelling the fungus and decay of rotting wood. Flies and wasps floating, the beep of a bird. Before the colonials, Māori would have been through too; gathering food, looking for prey. Did Te Rauparaha lead a raiding party this way?
There’s a clearing ahead. Yellow wasp baits on trees, blue plastic funnel shapes – possum traps I assume, wood and wire boxes in the undergrowth – rat and stoat traps? The ribbon trail continues deeper into the bush, up steep inclines. My knees and thighs complain, my lungs and heart work harder; my mind is back on that steep hill where Latifa was snared. Hot, I shrug off the windcheater and tie it around my waist. Take a swig of water, and then another.
More clearings, more traps. Steep climbs and descents, often slippery. Old ‘Bob’ Havelka must have been a fit, tough piece of work. Up here you can no longer hear the stream of traffic over Pelorus Bridge. Sometimes there’s water running in an unseen rivulet or cascade, birds skitting between ancient trees, the hum of insects. At times I need to bend down, hands on knees, suck that thick moist air. What am I doing here? What the hell can this tell me about Havelka’s death all those years ago? More gulps of water, more deep breaths.
Another clearing. A possum suspended from one of those blue funnels. Mouth twisted, teeth bared in agony. Half-eaten away by maggots and other insects. Such a scene of horror among the verdant beauty, and a glimpse now of what Jenny meant about the malevolence in this otherwise paradise. But surely that’s just the ravings of city folk rarely exposed to the power of nature. It’s a possum in a trap, nothing more. Catch a breath. Push on.
In the distance, the whine of chainsaws and the crack and thrump of falling trees. I recall the maps, a pine plantation across the summit of the hill, marking the end of the nature reserve, the perimeter of Eden. This must be the far edge of Havelka’s trapline by now and from here it curves back towards base. Nothing here tells me any more about where, how, or why the old man died and at whose hands. Of course it wouldn’t. We’re talking what, five or six years? Standing still in the centre of the last trap clearing. Listening, looking, breathing in the damp, sweet odours: a hint of cinnamon and fruit around the possum trap, peanut butter, old meat.
And then I see it.
On the edge of the small clearing, a big old tree. Step closer to examine it. Run my fingers along the scars in the bark. Am I imagining it? Another drink of water, a sit down on a fallen branch. Breathe. No, I’m not delirious, I’m not imagining things. The scars on this tree are almost identical to the one where I found Latifa; older of course but still discernible. A metal rope snare for a large animal has been pulled tight here. This, I am sure, is where Havelka died. Professor Bardawi found possible ligature marks on the neck. Was he snared first before being shot? Did the man who killed Havelka plan for Latifa to die the same way? Kneeling to be executed? If so, he was interrupted by my approach. Does that mean he has unfinished business?
None of this makes any sense. How the hell did Havelka’s body get from there to Butchers Flat? And why bother moving it? Driving away from Pelorus Bridge, I wonder if I’m losing the plot. Unfit, dehydrated and stuffed. My brain is playing tricks, blanking out my memories, writing new narratives, creating fictions. I ricochet between impulse and reason, order and chaos. Was it always like this? I thought I knew but now nothing seems quite as known anymore. Maybe the neurologist will sort me out. Speaking of which, I should chase them up for that appointment. There have been horror stories on the news lately about underfunded and ill-managed District Health Boards neglecting to get back to patients for months while cancers flourish and diseases take hold. I really don’t fancy that.
Midafternoon and it’s my job to collect Paulie again. The lowering sun seems extra harsh and blinding. A headache threatens. When I arrive at the school there’s a scene unfolding. Mim is crying, Paulie looks on the verge of it, and grandad Michael seems to be in his face. I jump out of the car and join the fray.
‘What’s up?’
Paulie is trying to step between Michael and Mim. ‘Leave her alone. Stop shouting at her.’
Michael turns to him. ‘Keep out of it.’
‘What’s going on?’ I ask again.
‘The sleepover. You promised and now she’s upset. Look at her. I’m trying to explain these things happen but your kid keeps getting in the way.’
Mim lets out another heartbroken wail.
‘Enough, Miranda. Don’t be silly.’ The old man seems embarrassed and agitated to be centre stage. He’s not enjoying the attention. He grabs his granddaughter’s hand. ‘Get in the car. Now.’
‘Leave her alone!’ Paulie once again tries to step between Michael and Mim.
Other parents and kids are taking an interest. Not much else going on in these parts most days. ‘I think we need to calm things down here.’
He straightens and leans in close to me. Spittle on his lips. A low growl. ‘Fuck you.’
‘Oh, piss off, you silly old bugger.’
‘Dad!’
‘In the car, Paulie.’
‘It’s Paul!’
‘In the car, now.’
‘Bye, Mim,’ he says sadly. ‘See you Monday.’
‘We’ll see about that.’ Michael gestures for Mim to get in the ute. Under his breath. ‘She doesn’t need to play with a retard.’
That old red mist descends. I’m over there in three paces and have him backed over his bonnet, my fist raised.
‘Hey, hey, hey!’ He smiles weakly, holds up placating hands. ‘Sorry mate, sorry. I went too far. Sorry. I just get so upset, seeing her like that. Protective, you know? Sorry. Really.’
‘Dad! Stop!’ Paulie is tugging at my arm. Pulling me back.
Mim, meanwhile, has started giggling.
Some parents and kids are capturing the action on their phones. No doubt I’ll be in the Journal again sometime soon: Thug Cop Attacks Pensioner Outside School.
It’s all over. I don’t have anything to say to the nasty old bastard. He certainly doesn’t get any forgiveness from me. Driving away, he avoids my eyes but in the back seat Mim forgets her heartbreak and gives me a smile and a little wave.
‘He said that?’ Vanessa lowers her voice. ‘Retard?’
We’re back in the motel room and Paulie is plugged into his headphones and an iPad game with a packet of Cheezels for company. I know. It’s not good to give kids junk food and too much screen time just because it makes life easier for you. But, you know, it’s been a bit of a day. Vanessa is helping me chug a bottle of wine because she’s had a funny old day too. Still, that’s normal for primary school teachers.
‘Aye. He was off his trolley. He was supposed to be calming Mim down but I think he was as upset by the cancelled sleepover as Mim was.’
‘Weird. Still you get kids like that at school. Soon as something doesn’t go to plan they lose it.’
‘Massive overreaction by both of them, for sure.’
‘Makes me want to go round there and rip his knackers off. How dare he, stupid old twat.’ Vanessa’s Hylton Castle accent comes back strongly when she’s annoyed. Anybody in Sunderland knows, you never get on the wrong side of a lass from Hylton.
‘Makes you wonder if there is something funny going on in that household.’
‘Like what?’
‘Control-freak grandfather with anger issues, dissociative kid with more mood swings in five minutes than a sitting president.’ Head shake. ‘I don’t know.’
Vanessa glances at Paulie and his Cheezels and video game. Lifts up my still grazed knuckles for inspection. ‘Anger issues. Hmmm.’ She drains her Montana sav blanc and tops herself up. ‘Even if you’re right, is it any of our business?’
‘If it’s affecting the kid then probably, yes.’ She passes the bottle to me for a refill. ‘Mim seemed to be happy that the old bloke had been pushed around. Gave me a wave as they were leaving.’
A nod. ‘So she is affected one way or another.’
‘Maybe we should tip off the social workers?’
Clinking glasses, we agree. An anonymous dob-in to the authorities will make us feel much better. Give them that job and keep us, and Paulie, out of it. There’s a beep on my phone. DS Will Maxwell – can I pop over to the town hall for a sec? Vanessa flicks her fingers in dismissal and reaches for her bag of marking. Crossing the main drag, my phone goes again. Jessie James from the Journal.
‘Tell me that was you outside Pelorus School today, Nick. That would make my day. The pics are great.’
‘No, it was my evil twin. I was in bed with flu.’
She whoops. ‘Can I have your side of the story?’
‘He insulted my son. It was a matter of family honour. I was not in uniform, not on duty. I acted as a private individual.’
‘Who’s private around here?’
‘Write what you like. I’m sure you will anyway.’
‘Yeah, true. Anyway I’m wondering if you’d like to shout me a beer so I can bring you up to date on my research into the boys in the Lodge?’
‘When?’
‘An hour?’
‘No, I’m on family duty.’ And suspended too. It’s only a matter of time before that is strategically leaked to her. ‘Tomorrow?’
We agree a time and place and I close the call and skip up the steps to the town hall. Nobody seems much bothered by my appearance today, the Dodge saloon piano keeps tinkling, so maybe that’s a good omen. Maxwell’s backstage dressing room office is packed out. Maxwell is there of course, Gemma as you’d expect, and DC Marianne Keegan all the way from sunny Nelson.
Maxwell nods hello. ‘I’d say have a seat but there aren’t any.’
‘No probs. Need a stretch anyway.’
Keegan gets to the point. ‘Forensically it looks like you’re in the shit, Nick. There’s traces of blood on your bedsheets, on a towel, a torn uniform shirt, and residue in your washing machine.’
‘Whose blood?’
‘Just yours it would seem.’
‘So, what now?’
Maxwell takes over. ‘Put that together with your DNA being under Gelder’s fingernails then we can be pretty sure a struggle took place between the two of you.’
‘That makes sense.’ I’m also sensing a “but”.
‘There was a camp cot in that shack of his. It had been removed before our first forensic run through. Chucked in bushes outside the original perimeter we set. This time we found it and other items. Luckily the weather in-between hadn’t degraded them too much. Blood traces on the cot, a pillow, sleeping bag and such, suggest he had a nice lie-down after his fight with you.’
‘That’s it?’
‘No, there are other relatively fresh traces on those items. At least two other people were in that shack apart from you and him.’
‘Fellow fossickers?’
‘Whoever they were, they were there very recently.’
‘Ah. So does that get me out of the shit?’
‘It muddies the waters,’ says Maxwell.
Keegan again. ‘You knew about that shack and about at least part of your encounter with Gelder that night and kept it to yourself. You hindered the investigation, wasted valuable time.’
Gemma leans forward. Is this her moment to shine?
‘Can you leave us, Gem?’ says Maxwell.
‘Why?’
‘Sergeant Chester is of a higher rank than you, Constable.’ Keegan stares her down. ‘He has the right to have this discussion in private without junior officers present.’
‘Does he?’
‘Yes, as far as I’m concerned.’
Gemma wants to argue but Maxwell signals with a head shake that she better not. If there was room to slam the door on the way out she’d probably do so but as it is it’s an undignified squeeze past turned knees and jiggled chairs.
Keegan’s got a face like she’s dying for a ciggie. ‘What a fucking mess, Nick.’
‘Sorry.’
Maxwell grimaces, contrite. ‘We should still have done a more thorough job on that shack, without Nick telling us. Sloppy work from my end.’
Keegan nods. ‘It hasn’t gone unnoticed, Will.’
They both look at me.
‘Keeping busy?’ asks Maxwell.
I tell them about the encounter outside Paulie’s school and how it will probably be in the papers soon.
Keegan, to her credit, laughs. ‘Fair enough, I would have floored the bastard too.’ She and Maxwell exchange a glance. ‘Back on board from Monday, Nick. You’re not a psycho as far as we can tell. Jerk maybe, psycho no.’
‘Gemma won’t be happy.’
‘Gemma was supervising the search of that shack of Gelder’s. I’ll be reminding her of that.’
‘What about my hindering investigations, wasting police time. Isn’t that a disciplinary matter?’
‘A lapse of judgement. But a doctor’s note would be good. Any news on that?’
‘I’m meant to be seeing a neurologist soon.’
‘Perfect,’ says Keegan.
Vanessa has texted me to pick up some fish and chips from the takeaway. Another night of delicious junk. I call her back with the news that we can probably head home tomorrow.
‘Good,’ she says in a low growl. ‘I’m in need of some angry sex.’
‘Mum!’ says Paulie in the background. No problem with the boy’s hearing.
The chippy is Friday evening full. Steve from Traffic drops by to pick up his order. He’s on call tonight and apparently Latifa is over at Daniel’s catching up on lost time.
‘Good thing too,’ mutters Steve. ‘Bear with a sore head today.’
‘She’s been through a pretty rough time.’ That reminds me I need to talk to her about my Havelka theory. It still seems too mad and improbable to put Maxwell’s way. I’ll try and catch her tomorrow before or after my meeting with Jessie James.
‘They cleared you yet or what?’
Not the best topic of conversation in a crowded town chippy. ‘Back on Monday. You might still be needed though.’
He nods glumly. ‘Life is much simpler when all you’ve got to do is pull over dickheads and fine them.’
‘Shame,’ says someone behind him.
‘Yeah, Tweedledumb, I’m talkin’ about you.’
Steve goes and Thomas Hemi comes in with Jaxon. Havelock is like that – a throbbing social milieu.
‘Keeping well?’ I say, shaking Thomas’s hand.
‘Well as.’
My order is shouted and I pass over my ticket. ‘How about you, Jaxon. Keeping out of trouble?’
‘Yes,’ says Thomas. ‘He is. You in tomorrow?’
‘Afternoon, yeah. Got some stuff to do in the morning.’
Aware of eavesdroppers who might want to call him a snitch, he nods. ‘Be down with that load of firewood you ordered. See you then.’
‘Cheers.’
‘Yeah, Tom,’ says Tweedledumb. ‘Don’t cross this copper. Should see what he does to people who piss him off.’
He holds up his camera and there I am on Facebook Live, getting ready to punch an old man named Michael.
12.
Google Earth is a wonderful thing. As are history books.
It’s all there in those old black and white photos, the diaries of gold rush disappointments, the court transcripts of the infamous Doom Creek murderers and the old gold rush trails they took to escape through the ranges. Cunningham and his good ol’ boys in their mule ATV out for a day’s hunting nudged my memory and Google Earth backs it all up. Now I know how a dead man from Pelorus Bridge nature reserve – twenty-odd k’s by road – ends up what I now see is just a four-kilometre hop over the hill to Butchers Flat. Throw him in the back tray of your buggy like a snipered deer and away you go along those long-forgotten tracks. So that’s the how. But why? And what happened to the other half of his body?
A cramped motel room is no place to toss and turn so I slip out the door and take myself off for a walk over to Cullen Point across the water on the road out to Picton. Sitting on a bench looking back from Mahakipawa Hill towards Havelock on this peaceful early Saturday morning reminds me what there is to love about the place. Thin pre-winter sunlight glances off the still waters of the marina and the mudflats. Pukeko and other swamp birds probe the driftwood. The sky is a brilliant blue with wispy white clouds wreathing the hills. Steam rises from the chimneys of the mussel factory and a lone runabout cuts the surface as it motors out into Pelorus Sound for a day’s fishing. There are so many mornings such as this to be had around here. But does such beauty and serenity serve only to make the darkness blacker, the poison more toxic, the violence more brutal? Has a taste of paradise weakened my resilience? Murders, violence, bullying were everyday realities for me policing England’s tough northern cities. Then I was able to drink with demons and fight hand-to-hand with monsters. Put dinner on the table, nurture my family and sleep soundly at night. Nowadays I see only the fungus on the leaves and the bacteria in the rivers, and I break into a sweat at unexpected touch and sound. Jumping at shadows.
A coffee would be good. By now it’s a civilised hour so I text Vanessa to let her know my whereabouts and phone to arrange to meet Latifa at the office. By the muffled sound of things she’s not keen to disentangle herself from Daniel in a hurry so I grab a coffee and a bacon-and-egg toastie from the bakery en route. Half an hour later Latifa plonks herself down at her desk and, after making her a cup of tea, I outline my theory.
