by Alan Carter
‘What, all of them?’
‘Done a bunk. Steve went to serve one of them with a court order and found an empty house.’
‘Foul play?’
‘Doesn’t look like it. Probably some debts caught up with them.’
‘Anything else?’
‘There’s this one. Right up your street, Sarge.’
A woman from Havelock complaining that her neighbour keeps catching her pet cat in a trap. And a counter complaint from the neighbour.
‘This a police matter?’
‘She’s threatening to shoot the neighbour’s dog in retaliation.’
‘That escalated quickly.’
‘It’s gone on for decades, apparently. This is more a flare-up in ongoing hostilities. Think US versus North Korea or Iran.’
I’d rather not. The radio news on the way back from Paulie’s school spoke of another tick on the Doomsday Clock. Another step towards James Bryant and his billionaire buddies bolting over here. ‘Want to deal with it?’
‘I’m still suffering post-traumatic stress disorder.’ She fingers the weal on her neck. ‘Animals, traps; triggers a lot of bad memories, Sarge.’
‘What are you going to do while I’m out there on the front line?’
‘Read the OHS circulars. Ease my way back in.’
I give her the bullet Thomas Hemi found. ‘Maybe get that over to the labs. See if it can be linked to anything of consequence.’
‘Sure. How about we take it a step further?’
‘Go on.’
‘We’ve been promising a full inspection of that arsenal at the Lodge and a checking against paperwork. Let’s send in the AOS to do that.’
‘Run it past DC Keegan. Tell her I’m in favour.’
A grin. ‘I’m sure if you’re up for it, she will be too.’
Don’t take the bait.
The walk down to cat lady and dog woman will do me good. On the way there’s a call from Wairau Hospital in Blenheim telling me they’ve had a cancellation and could I come in for that brain scan on Thursday?
‘Okay.’ They’ll email me a confirmation appointment. Push those thoughts of mortality away. Why am I wasting my time on this neighbourhood dispute when there are two unsolved murders and a violent assault on my colleague requiring attention? Not forgetting a nutso Doomsday cult on my doorstep. The answer is that there are dedicated teams on the Gelder murder and the Latifa attack. Havelka is a cold case that won’t be hurried. Sending the AOS into the Lodge for a routine weapons inspection is as good a way as any of keeping everything bubbling along. So it’s all creatures great and small for me.
Deidre Brownley is a stalwart of the community association and the quilters club. She’s also hard as nails and shouldn’t be crossed. Arriving at her weatherboard cottage on the street leading down to the marina I find her around the side gate taunting the neighbour’s cat. She’s prodding a broomstick through the bars of the trap and making the bell tinkle on the collar.
‘That’s seven lives now, you fat bastard. Your days are numbered.’
‘He’s only fat because you made me get him spayed, you sadistic bitch.’
I hadn’t noticed Mrs De Voss from next door but I see her now beyond the camellias on the other side of the fence. There’s a chorus of yaps from inside the Brownley residence.
‘Shush, sweetie. Mummy’ll give you brekky soon.’
‘Morning, Mrs Brownley, Mrs De Voss.’
They both look like they’ve been caught doing something untoward, which in a sense is true, and their faces are suddenly transformed into nice little old lady masks.
‘Sergeant Chester!’ Deidre puts down her broom. ‘Come inside, I’ll get the kettle on.’
I turn to Mrs De Voss. ‘I’ll be over to see you in fifteen minutes.’
‘It was me who made the complaint. I should be first.’
‘I’m giving equal weight to both matters. Bear with me.’
Mrs Brownley’s kitchen is stiflingly warm from a roaring log burner and an oven on full-bore cooking something that smells nice. The yapper is a Jack Russell, skidding on the shiny wooden floor, riffling the rug and nipping at my ankles. I’m beginning to see the neighbour’s point.
‘Can we have the dog out of here while we talk please?’
A refreshing coldness descends. ‘As you wish.’ She scoops the dog up into her bosom and kisses its head. ‘Nasty man doesn’t like you, Pip. Go and sleep on Mummy’s bed. I won’t be long.’ And out the door it goes. Only to keep yapping and scratching on the other side.
I politely decline the tea. ‘I’ll keep this as brief as possible. Those traps are only meant to be used on feral cats and preferably on remote or rural properties. I checked with the SPCA. Mrs De Voss’s cat is registered, chipped, spayed and belled. You can’t expect any more than that.’
‘They’re a menace to native birds.’
‘That one isn’t. It can barely stand up, never mind pounce. Put the trap in your garage and move on.’
‘She threatened to shoot Pip.’
‘I’ll be speaking to her about that.’
She tears up. ‘Pip’s all I have since Jack passed away.’
‘And no doubt Mrs De Voss thinks the same about her pet.’
‘Shirley’s bloke didn’t pass away. He just upped and left and you can’t blame him. The cat’s not fat because it got spayed, it’s fat because she is.’
It’s nice to be outside and cool again. ‘Don’t be wasting any more police time with this nonsense,’ I tell Mrs Brownley in leaving.
‘And we had such high hopes for you, Sergeant Chester.’ The door closes firmly. En route I open the door of the cage but the cat seems quite comfortable where it is and stays curled up on the verge of sleep.
‘Did you arrest her?’ Mrs De Voss’s kitchen is remarkably similar to her neighbour’s: hot and stuffy with lots of knick-knacks. It’s a pity they can’t focus on what unites rather than divides.
‘No. And you’re not allowed to shoot Mrs Brownley’s dog or even to issue threats to do so.’
‘Can I shoot her?’ She grins out the corner of her mouth. ‘Just jokin’. I’ve made you a coffee so you may as well drink up. It’s instant so if it’s not good enough, the café’s up the road.’
I’ve decided I like Shirley De Voss more. ‘Why does your cat keep going over the fence? More to the point, how?’
‘There’s a hole down near the back corner. Still big enough for Freddie to get through. He likes rummaging in the compost. The stupid cow shouldn’t be chucking her bacon scraps in there, I keep telling her.’
‘Maybe if the hole was blocked this would all stop?’
‘It’s her hole, she should fix it.’ She hands me a plate. ‘Cake?’
Instant coffee and jam sponge never tasted so good. Maybe it’s bringing back fond memories of a Sunderland childhood when life was so much simpler. ‘Usually fence or boundary disputes, like repairs, are resolved by the neighbours sharing the costs.’
‘But it was her stupid dog burrowing under trying to chase Freddie that did it. On our side we weatherproofed it. She didn’t. So it rotted, from her side.’
‘I reckon the Menz Shed could sort that out for you in half an hour. How about I talk to them?’
‘But if we solve the problem I’ll have no-one to talk to will I?’
‘What?’
‘Arguing with that cow is the only social contact I get all day. You want to take that away from me?’
There it was: a fundamental truth that underpinned so much of my recent experience of life in the Top of the South.
Back in the murder room in the town hall there’s been a development. DSS Maxwell has assembled everyone for a briefing, even Latifa for her local knowledge. Gemma tries to give us both the death stare as we take our places but it’s plain her heart really isn’t in it.
Maxwell taps a spoon on his coffee cup for attention. ‘We have a witness who saw a dark-coloured delivery-type van in the Four Square car park
at around one in the morning on the day of the murder. Two men were inside. One of them was smoking.’
The witness, an insomniac old guy from the motor camp down the road, was taking his habitual middle of the night stroll to avoid disturbing his wife with his tossing and turning. They’d been up on D’Urville Island in the Sounds since the murder, leaving that very same morning before the discovery of the body and only returning this last weekend to realise he might have something worthwhile to contribute to the investigation.
‘No papers, no radio, no internet, no gossip?’ asks a young detective, incredulous.
‘That’s the whole point of D’Urville,’ says Maxwell. ‘That and the fishing.’
The man could provide only a vague guess on the van make and couldn’t provide a rego. The people inside the van were illuminated only briefly by the flare of a match or lighter.
‘They’d gone by the time he returned, half an hour later. As they didn’t pass him on his walk then the assumption is they headed west in the direction of Nelson.’
Or Canvastown, maybe?
Gemma takes a step forward. ‘So we now have a narrower timeline. If these guys were our killers they had finished their work on Gelder by around one-thirty and gone on their way.’
‘And if they weren’t our killers?’ Petty, yes, but I feel like raining on someone’s parade and it happens to be Gemma’s.
‘Then we’ll eliminate them from our enquiries,’ says Maxwell.
Job lists are allocated: vehicle ownership checks and cross-checks, follow-ups on people living along that road or who might have been on it for any reason at that time of night – logging trucks for instance. Dashcam would be nice. Revisiting any properties or businesses along that route which have CCTV cameras facing the road out.
‘I can think of one,’ I say. ‘The Lodge on Wakamarina Road.’
‘Feel free to check it out, Nick.’ Maxwell knows I’ve got an agenda but he’s happy to have me out of the way. ‘And maybe push on with the plumbing job list, see if there’s any crossover with our van?’ A few sniggers from those who know I’m on the outer.
‘Will do.’
Latifa joins me on the way out. ‘Need company?’
‘Not sure it’s a good idea for you to be in the proximity of Cunningham.’
She rounds on me. ‘Would you say that to a male colleague? Would you apply that to yourself? I’m a cop and this is cop business. Let’s get on with it.’
Told.
And here we are again. Press the buzzer, wave at the camera, wait patiently for Daniel Boone and Crew Cut to rock up with the guard dogs. The licky one seems pleased to see me – we’re talking dogs here.
‘Morning.’
‘What do you want now?’ says Daniel Boone.
‘Your help as good citizens.’ I explain our business.
‘Anything on the video feed is private property. Sorry.’
The speaker goes. ‘Constable Rapata! Enchanté. Come right in. George?’ Daniel Boone looks up. ‘I’ll be down at the range.’
George asks us to leave our guns in the car. Latifa’s ready to argue but I remind her we’re all good citizens today. She relents, a little. ‘Nobody takes my taser, baton or spray.’
The boys grin. ‘Sure ma’am. No problem.’
Up the steep driveway again and Latifa says out the corner of her mouth. ‘Looking forward to them trying that with the AOS when they drop by tomorrow.’
‘What’s that, ma’am?’ says Crew Cut.
‘None of your business.’
On beyond the house, about another hundred metres down into a wide gully, Cunningham has the whole shooting range all to himself.
‘The boys have gone for a run up the hill. If I can do it, they damn well can too.’ He smiles and directs his attention to Latifa. ‘How may I help you today, Constable?’
She gives him the lowdown. ‘So we’re looking for a dark-coloured delivery van. Might have been picked up by your camera.’
‘George, head on back to the control room, see what we got for that night. Download it on to a thumb drive for the constable here.’
‘You sure, boss?’
‘Hop to it, soldier.’
A look passes between the men. Cunningham isn’t used to being questioned by his subordinates. George could be in for a roasting after we leave. That’s a bonus. I admire the range. Three sides of it are rammed earth, bulldozed high to catch the stray bullets. At the far end half a dozen targets spaced about three metres apart. Standard targets, silhouettes and bullseyes, nothing ideologically incorrect.
‘Want to try?’ Cunningham offers me a semi-automatic Bushmaster.
‘No thanks.’ A gesture at the range. ‘Did you get a resource consent for this?’
‘What do you think, Sergeant?’
‘I think paperwork is your forte. But from what I can see, the fence line has been changed. Did you consult the neighbour about that?’
‘You’re digging deep here, Chester. Getting desperate. And I thought you were here asking for my help as a good citizen?’
‘Of course. I’ll butt out.’
‘Funny isn’t it?’ says Latifa.
‘What’s that, Miss Rapata?’
‘Fences, boundaries, borders. All around the world you and your kind are making a big fuss about how important they are but you’re the last people to respect them. You bulldoze your neighbour’s fences, you come here with your guns and your “free speech” nut jobs demanding the right to go anywhere you like and whip people up.’
George returns with the thumb drive and hands it to Latifa. ‘Ma’am.’ Cunningham lifts the gun, sights it, and lets rip a few rounds at the targets. Turns back, cradling it in his ropey forearms. ‘Miss Rapata, did the sergeant here tell you I’m a great admirer of your people, especially Te Rauparaha?’
‘You’re not pronouncing it right.’ She shows him how. ‘Yes, he did. He also told me you want to set up your own little utopia in our country.’
‘Absolutely. A proud warrior land, civilised by God-fearing, hardworking Scottish folk. That’s some pedigree, don’t you think?’
‘Like to keep things simple don’t you?’
‘Focused.’
‘A rarefied atmosphere on Planet Brandon, eh? Pick and mix your beliefs?’
‘Sorry, ma’am. I don’t quite follow.’
‘Just down the road from here, Tuamarina, north of Blenheim? That warrior you spoke of kicked Pākehā ass. The history books call it the “Wairau Affray”.’ She finger quotes the last two words. ‘Bunch of whities thought they could just wander in and take over. Be warned. Nobody should take us for granted.’
‘Oh Lordy, Miss Rapata, you have exactly the kind of genes we’re looking for in our brave new world.’
‘Slow down, Latifa.’
‘Leave the driving to me, Sarge.’
‘He’s just winding you up. Don’t let him.’
She eases off the pedal and we take the next hairpin at a sedate seventy. ‘Here’s hoping the AOS inspection tomorrow gets under his sweaty white skin.’
‘I think it’ll take more than that to faze him.’
She pulls over into some space at the roadside and kills the engine. Takes a few deep breaths and angrily wipes a smudge of tears on her cheeks. ‘It’s funny, I’ve punched out bigger jerks than him, but he keeps on pressing those buttons.’
‘He’s well-practised, for sure.’
‘Reminds me of a guy at Police College who made it his business to try and bring me down.’
‘What happened?’
‘I’m still here. He failed.’ Latifa focuses on the clouds scudding across the hills.
Maybe she shouldn’t be back at work so soon. ‘You okay?’
‘Yes.’ Her tone says back off.
‘Cunningham’s getting what he wants, eh? Lots of attention from us.’
A determined nod. ‘That means either of two things. He’s starved of affection or he’s intent on distracting us from something else.
’
We’re both thinking the same thing. ‘Fancy a boat trip?’
An hour or so later we’re bumping through the choppy Pelorus Sound. The boat skipper, Lizzie, looks like all those perennial outdoors Kiwis: weather-burnished, healthy and slightly removed from the rest of us mere couch potatoes. We’ve dropped off the thumb drive at the murder room so they can trawl through the Lodge CCTV to find that dark delivery van but I don’t fancy their chances. It’s a windswept but very clear sunny day. Beyond the spray of the whitecaps we can see the sanctuary of Maud Island and, across from there in a private bay, the wellbeing centre harlequinned with orange and blue builder’s plastic.
‘Māhana, huh?’ says Latifa. ‘You know what it means?’
‘Warm? Good name for a wellbeing centre I suppose.’
‘That’s without the macron. Ka pōrangi ki ngā maunga ki ngā wai matatiki, ki ngā rākau, ki ngā manu: kāhore hoki i kitea he wahine māhana. “He searched in the mountains, at the springs, in the trees and the birds, but he could not find a wife for himself.” Old Māori saying. Change the pronunciation and you have a very different meaning to do with dominance and possession.’
Cunningham winding Latifa up about her fantastic genes. Mother Nature’s silver seed. ‘Is that what’s behind all this? They’re planning some kind of post-Apocalyptic fertility farm?’
Latifa squints against the sea spray. ‘They’d never get away with it. Surely.’
‘Not in a world where rules still apply. But maybe they’re looking ahead to when the mushroom cloud disperses.’
‘Yuck.’
Lizzie ties up at the jetty. Tells us we’ll need to get moving again in another hour with the wind on the rise and the tide changing. Then she gets out her thermos, book and a fishing rod and drops a line in the crystal clear waters.
Almost immediately we’re met by a couple of blokes who I may or may not have seen around the Lodge.
‘This is private property, sir. Ma’am.’
‘And we are police officers doing our job. We’ve had reports of poachers in the area. We’re investigating.’
‘No poachers here, sir. I can assure you of that.’
‘All the same.’ I step forward and the smaller of the two bars my way. ‘If you don’t step aside we’ll have two choppers full of Armed Offenders Squad here in no time at all. If it’s privacy you’re after, that’s not the way to achieve it.’
