by Alan Carter
‘Expert eye?’
‘My dad was a tiler before he retired. He knows all about it. He did all our house himself. Let me help him sometimes.’
‘Can’t argue with that.’
‘But the main thing is, the room just gave me the creeps. Even first time round. Hairs on my neck stood up. No joke.’
I nod. ‘We need to go through Gelder’s home again, look for any connections, notes, whatever, about this job. Talk to the widow.’
‘Marnie.’
‘Yeah?’
‘I’ve known her a few years. He was a prize dickhead, she deserved better.’
‘I can’t see her being too happy to talk to me. Maybe you should follow it up, might be more fruitful.’
‘Sure.’
We’re chugging into the marina now. The skipper’s getting a fair few charters out of us lately. It’s nice to be able to contribute to the local economy.
‘Send your invoice in, Lizzie. This rate, you might have to get the paintbrush out and write “cops” on the side of your boat. Make it official.’
‘Cheers, Nick. The kids will have shoes this winter.’
It’s late afternoon. Latifa offers to call in on Marnie Gelder as her end of day wrap-up. That seems like a good deal. There’s nothing in the cop shop for us to follow up on and the murder room in the town hall is subdued. Maxwell catches me as I’m ducking my head back out.
‘Anything from your boat trip?’
‘Maybe.’ I elucidate. ‘It would be good to find the missing Gelder mobile.’
‘We’ve been through that hut of his and found nothing but if that’s what this is all about maybe we should look again. For all we know, it’s why he was up there that night when you had your run-in with him.’
‘I’ll drop by for a nose around on my way home if that’s okay with you?’
‘Sure, but I’ll be sending in a dedicated team tomorrow anyway.’
‘I might get lucky and save you the manpower. How’s life been on the front line this afternoon?’
‘Got to give credit to Keegan. She’s taking the hits for the operation and so far not trying to deflect any blame.’
‘She was like that with those kid murders last year. Just when you think you’ve got her figured for a careerist hack, she turns around and does the right thing.’
‘Enjoy your trip back up that wild valley road of yours.’
Driving by, I can see that already the Lodge has become a mini-shrine. Flowers, teddy bears, cards; all in memoriam for a kid nobody knew who was part of a set-up that was giving everybody the shits until this morning. A couple of reporters are doing TV stand-ups in the fading light. No armed guards outside the Lodge this evening. No menacing road blocks. The weather and the landscape play tricks on you. Those beautiful calm waters out on Pelorus Sound today serve only to remind you of the taniwha lurking beneath. A clear cloudless sky has you expecting a tempest beyond the far hill. And, with the orange glow of sunset over the already wilting wreaths at the Lodge gate, one thing is certain: night will follow day. Something is brewing.
The boy Melvyn had no place in a camp filled with battle-hardened men preparing for their faux holy war. Kids his age should be in school, or kicking balls around, or getting hot and bothered about their first kiss or grope. Guns, death and predation should be the last thing on their minds.
As my car drops down the muddy rutted track to Gelder’s hut, I see that someone has been here since the forensics team vacated the scene: belongings strewn on the gravel, knick-knacks broken and tossed aside. I’d take a bet they were looking for the same thing we’re after. Of course Maxwell has to be right. The only reason Gelder was up here that night outside of his usual pattern of movement was because he was either looking for something or hiding something. His home would have been too obvious and would have brought unwanted attention and danger to his family. It has to be here. But where?
Replay to that night.
He’s up to something. You don’t come back here at this time of night unless you’ve got something to hide. Every trick in the damn book to get around the rules and I’m fucking sick of it. Those wankers at the Lodge, this dickhead here – clowns to the left of me, jokers to the right. Surrounded. I’ve had enough. His ute’s gone so that must have been him driving off five minutes ago. The coast is clear and now it’s time to nail the bastard.
Torch. The shack smells of his cigarettes. Something else. Weed? Wouldn’t that be a nice way to get him out of our lives. Nothing on the table. Shelves. Lights in the bush. Him? He should be gone. Maybe hunters. It’s the Roar. Yell out for a mate and you’re dead. Another migraine kicking off. Throbbing away.
Torchlight in my face. Blinding.
‘What the fuck. What are you doing here?’
What am I doing here? Good question. This is Gelder’s land. I’ve no business here. Time? Jesus, it’s nearly eleven. Where did the last three hours go? ‘Nothing. I thought I saw something. Trespassers. Came to check.’
‘The only trespasser here is you.’
‘I’ll be going then.’
‘Yeah, you do that.’ He shakes his head, lower lip trembles. ‘Think I need this shit?’
‘I don’t care what you need.’ My head is pulsing. I just want to take some tablets and lie down.
‘Do your job, leave me alone. Jesus.’
‘So step out of my way.’
He doesn’t. ‘I’ll win this. You’ll see.’
‘Yeah, yeah.’ I push him aside.
He pushes back. And then it’s on.
Where did he come from and where was his ute? Maybe that was his vehicle leaving but not him in it. Or maybe it was somebody else altogether. Those lights in the bush – him or them? In what little remains of the day it’s easier to see now. A narrow track at the far edge of the clearing. Almost immediately it drops steeply. Black beech and five-finger. Ferns. Vines. Scrabblings in the undergrowth. Rats maybe, or possums. Sandflies fierce in the last biting of the day. Where would you hide something around here and keep it protected from the elements?
After half an hour of bush-bashing I’m none the wiser.
19.
Paulie is a bundle of nervous energy. The long-awaited Mim weekend sleepover is happening today. He woke early and had the chooks and goats sorted while Vanessa and I were still yawning over our first coffee. He’s lined up DVDs ready to rock’n’roll, and while Vanessa prepares a selection of culinary treats he’s got me raking the driveway and tidying the garage.
‘Place is a tip, Dad. You’ve really let it go.’
It’s good to be doing something Zen for a change, and raking leaves on a blustery day is exactly that. Latifa phoned earlier to tell me she called in on Gelder’s widow, Marnie, who thought he’d been ‘a bit intense’ in the few days before he died but nothing especially out of character for a bloke with gold fever. She’d never heard anything about Māhana Wellbeing Centre but recalled he had stayed overnight out on the Sounds for a two-day job and came back with one of his stinking hangovers.
‘I might be wrong,’ said Latifa, ‘but I suspect she won’t be wasting much time in mourning.’
‘Did she have any suggestions for any favourite hiding places?’
‘Not around the house, she was pretty sure of that. She’s caught him out having the odd fling before: lipstick on the collar and suspicious text messages.’
‘She checked his phone often?’
‘Apparently but reckons he might have had a spare.’
Two missing phones now. ‘That’s it?’
‘Except for how did he get to and from his two-day Sounds job and where did he stay overnight? I’m guessing all courtesy of Māhana.’
‘They probably supplied the hangover too.’
Latifa will seek clarity on that while I rake leaves.
At noon on the dot, Michael Walton’s ute pulls into the driveway and out jumps Mim who waves a brief hello before being whisked off by Paulie to meet the four-legged Spongebob and Squarepan
ts. Michael hands me a backpack, sleeping bag, and an EpiPen.
‘Assume you’ve used these before?’ He offers a bashful shrug. ‘Nuts and eggs allergy.’ That wipes out about half of the culinary treats on offer. ‘Mind if I check the windows and doors?’
‘What?’
‘Mim’s mum, very protective. She wants to be sure the windows and doors are secure.’
‘Don’t worry. They are.’
‘I’ll check anyway if that’s okay.’
‘No. It’s not. If you don’t believe or trust me, feel free to take Mim back home.’
‘Dad!’
Paulie and Mim are behind me, each clutching chickens struggling to be free-range again. Vanessa shows up, wiping floury hands on a tea towel. She notices the tension and would roll her eyes given half the chance.
‘Michael wants to check all the doors and windows are nice and secure for the sleepover.’
‘Sure,’ she says. ‘Better safe than sorry.’ And so he gets his fucking way.
While Paulie and Mim spend the afternoon exploring the farm, tormenting the chooks and goats, watching cartoons and eating relatively healthy fast food, Vanessa and I potter around doing odd jobs, canoodling and snacking on the leftover treats that had eggs and/or nuts in them. Vanessa is very affectionate and, I’m guessing, she’s been thinking.
‘I’ve been thinking,’ she says.
‘Yeah?’
‘The honeymoon’s over isn’t it?’
Uh-oh. ‘I thought we were going okay.’
‘Idiot. I’m talking about the farm.’
‘You feel that?’
‘Don’t tell me you don’t. We’re at war with our neighbours …’
‘Not any more. He’s dead.’
‘There’s still those weirdos down the valley. And I notice Thomas is cooler to us these days too.’
‘I make enemies wherever I am, love. It’s part of my job description.’
‘No, it’s not your job, it’s your choice. And lately you seem to be going at it with gusto.’
‘Call it a perk then. Fringe benefit.’
She ignores that. ‘And while I like, love in fact, the peace and beauty of this place – violent crime aside – I do find myself going stir crazy now and then.’
‘It’s not easy to have a social life when you spend most of your free time preparing school lessons.’
‘Touché. So it’s agreed then, we’re digging ourselves into a hole here. Something needs to change.’
‘You want to move?’
She shrugs. ‘Nelson’s nice.’
‘And expensive. There’s the police house in Havelock. That’ll be free after Latifa gets married.’
‘She’s getting married? When?’
‘October.’
‘Thanks for telling me. But no, I’m figuring Havelock is still too remote.’
‘Remote from what?’
This, I can see from her brimming eyes, is the crux of it. ‘Hospital.’
‘We can’t live our lives waiting for something to go wrong, love.’
‘You can talk. That’s been us since we got here. Witness protection. The Paulie Fund. Now your brain.’
‘You know what I mean.’
‘Yes, I do. And the fact is, we need to have a plan. If one of us kicks the bucket purely because we’re an hour from medical help then we’re being negligent of each other.’ A studied pause. ‘And Paulie.’
The Paulie Fund – saving up for the rainy day when we’re no longer around and he still needs care. That rainy day creeping ever closer. Low blow but on target. ‘Okay.’
‘Okay what?’
‘Let’s look at our options.’ A cackle from the lounge room. ‘Paulie won’t be happy. He loves the farm.’
‘Good try.’ She hands me a plate of chopped-up fruit. ‘Here, take these in to the kids.’
They’ve turned off the TV and taken to doing drawings. Paulie’s picture is a simple colourful rendition of farm life: the house, chooks, goats, family and his friend Mim. Everybody smiling under a yellow sun. He’ll be forever somewhere between five and twelve and that’s how his drawings look. Mim’s, by contrast, is a more carefully sculpted rendition of what appears to be a nativity scene. A barn, some animals, a mother and child. Christ crucified in the background. The mother and child sad. It’s intricate and detailed, lines of grain in the wooden beams, tools on the stable wall.
‘You’re good at drawing,’ I say, placing the plate of fruit between them.
‘Yes, I know,’ she replies, not bothering to look up.
After dinner Paulie comes up with a plan for delaying bedtime. ‘Can we show Mim the glow-worms?’
I’ve been fading out and back in again. Head buzzing with random thoughts and rogue fears. Vanessa is looking at me, concerned. Paulie too.
‘Dad?’
‘What?’
‘Yes or no? Glow-worms?’
Vanessa needs to take over the negotiations because I’ve just been hit by a bolt of lightning. No, not a headache this time, a revelation. There are gold workings all through the hills and riverbanks along the Wakamarina valley. Hacked by pick and shovel, fuelled by fever and lust, they form a geological Swiss cheese of disappointment and broken dreams. Some holes and shafts are the size of houses. Others, like the one down our river track, no bigger than a wardrobe. Ours, and no doubt many others, have become the domicile of glow-worms. Peel back a curtain of ferns after dark and there’s a spectacular display of starlight captured in those little niches. And these, I remember now, are the lights I saw in the bush near Gelder’s shack that night. A brief peeling back of the curtain as he either went into, or exited, a glow-worm cave on his property. A perfect dry place to hide something. My search of the bush yesterday was too early in the evening to pick it up.
Taking my leave, I trot down the road a couple of hundred metres to Gelder’s place. By torchlight there’s little sign that Maxwell’s dedicated search team has been back today. Maybe it didn’t warrant the overtime. Locating the track at the edge of the clearing, I work my way down the steep slope, slippery in places from dew or from moss that never sees daylight and never dries. Turn the torch off, stay still and let my eyes adjust. There are critters and winged creatures out there. I’m told that sometimes those endangered native bats from Pelorus Bridge flit over to the Wakamarina for a change of scenery. The blustery wind that blew my raked leaves earlier has strengthened. Trees creak. I know from our own track that old rotten ones can splinter and break if you so much as look at them.
There. Over to the right. Twinkle, twinkle.
The moon is behind clouds. It’s dark as. I carefully pick my way forward with baby steps; for all I know there are other workings here, holes in the ground to swallow a man and never let him go. The glow is brighter the nearer I get and, as far as I can tell, this is the only one that might have been visible to me back in the shack clearing. It has to be the place. Pushing through the ferns, I see that this glow-worm cave is similar in size to ours, little bigger than a cupboard. Switching my torch on, the glow-worms switch their lights off. There’s no obvious sign of a hiding place. Running my hands over the damp feathery walls and roof. Nothing. Along the floor. Again nothing. Under that moss the cave is solid rock. It’s not as if you can scrabble a hole with your hands and pat it down afterwards.
Shit.
By the time I get back, Vanessa and the kids have done their own glow-worm cave tour, teeth have been brushed, sleeping bags rolled out on foam mattresses in the lounge room, and lights dimmed.
‘Should’ve been there, Dad,’ says Paulie sleepily. ‘Magic. Eh, Mim?’
Mim lifts her head. ‘Yeah, choice. You’re so lucky living here, Paulie.’
Vanessa and I exchange a look.
‘Paul,’ he says. ‘It’s Paul.’
Screaming.
Mim is screaming.
Vanessa is out of bed ahead of me and Paulie has joined in yelling, ‘Mum, Mum!’
The lights go on and while
I take care of Paulie, Vanessa attends to Mim. ‘It’s okay, love, we’re here. Everything’s alright.’
‘There was somebody …’
‘A nightmare? Were you having a nightmare?’
‘No. There was somebody at the window. A man.’
I rush out on to the balcony. We keep a torch by the barbecue. Flick it on, do a quick scan. No sign. Listen for a moment. Only the river, night scratchings, and the wind blowing through the trees. Back inside, Paulie has calmed but sees an opportunity to get a Milo out of the situation. Mim wouldn’t mind one too. On goes the kettle.
‘There really was,’ says Mim. ‘I wasn’t dreaming.’
‘It gets very dark up here and there’s sometimes funny noises: possums, wind.’ Vanessa pulls the covers up around Mim. ‘Shadows caused by the trees moving. Makes me jump sometimes too.’
‘But I saw him.’ There’s an edge of anger now at not being believed. ‘He was there.’
Stir in the Milo and milk. ‘What did he look like?’
She jerks like she’s forgotten I was there. ‘A man. Dark.’
‘Dark skin?’
‘No, dark clothes.’ She thinks for a while. ‘A mask on his face.’
‘What kind of mask?’
‘Scary. A monster.’ She brightens. ‘Like Shrek.’
‘How do you know it was a mask?’ Silly question I suppose, but some of the people in this valley could easily be mistaken for Shrek.
‘There was light for a moment, then it went.’
‘Torchlight? Matches? A car?’
‘I don’t know.’ Then she does. ‘A phone. He had a phone.’
‘Phones wouldn’t work up here, no signal.’
‘He was using it like a camera.’
20.
Michael Walton didn’t go through the roof when he heard about it on Sunday morning. Mim had finished gabbling her story to him and he just kind of frowned.
‘Miranda, what have I told you about …’
‘I’m not making it up!’ She turned to me. ‘Tell him, Mr Chester.’
‘It’s true.’ I recounted the gist. ‘Mim is pretty sure she saw something.’
Michael casts a disbelieving glance in her direction. ‘Does that happen up this way a lot?’
