by Alan Carter
Keegan’s looking at me but I defer to Watson. It’s plain to see why his career stalled while others younger, prettier and, let’s face it, better than him sailed by. He stumbles over his collection of random facts and innuendo. Unable to draw it together into a meaningful narrative. He’s all web, no spider. Lacks coherence, is awed by Ford’s glare and Keegan’s cool competence.
‘Nick?’ she says at the end. ‘Anything to add?’
‘I think Nigel’s central tenet is that evidence he clearly recalls belonging to the McLernon case – the silver chain found at the crime scene – ended up in the Robertson collection even though it was clearly logged in to the former. He’s questioning how and why it got moved and why you and Commander Ford took an interest in these cases as recently as just over a year ago.’
‘How about you?’
‘Me?’
‘Are you raising those questions too?’
I explain the photo, the Havelka link, and the silver chain around his neck. ‘So, yes, I’m interested too.’
She nods. Purses her lips. Turns to Ford. ‘David? Any comment?’
‘As a civilian retiree? Off the record?’ A nod in reply. ‘Fuck yeah, this useless little prick has been sniffing around me ever since we first passed him over for promotion what, two decades ago? As part of the handover at my retirement, you and I reviewed these cases because that dickhead Westie reporter, briefed and prodded by fuckface here, was yet again digging into Robertson and McLernon. Yes, they remain unsolved but no way was Robertson innocent of his involvement in Lucy’s death. He was a sleazebag, no matter what his compensation-hunting low-life rellies say. We reviewed the files and evidence for due diligence and concluded no action necessary.’
‘How come the silver chain ended up in the wrong box?’ I ask.
‘Human error. A misfiling. Stuff happens. I had a lot on my plate back then and Watson here wasn’t helping with his shit-stirring.’
‘We both wore rubber gloves and everything was kept in its original sealed pouch. The chances of cross-contamination are and were negligible.’ Keegan turns to Watson. ‘I’m glad you spotted the error, Nigel, and brought it to our attention. Good work.’
Watson looks ready to leave it there, starstruck by a rare compliment from Keegan. I’m not so easy. ‘So when you first brought my attention to the cases you alluded to something pricking your memory from way back when. But it was a lot more recent and more significant than a mere prick wasn’t it?’
She shrugs. ‘It was an unsolved. In some eyes,’ a glance at Watson, ‘a blot on my career. I didn’t want to highlight that. In playing it down, I hoped you might approach it with a fresh view, maybe even close it for me. It’s a compliment to your abilities, Nick.’
As with many conspiracies, this bears the hallmarks of fuck-up rather than ill-intent. Ford’s haste and lack of concentration compounded by Keegan’s penchant for manipulation and gamesmanship. Throw in Watson’s festering grudges and bingo.
‘So, nothing sinister?’ I conclude.
‘Apart from weasel, here,’ growls Ford.
‘Thank you for assisting me with my enquiries.’ I stand and hold out a hand to Keegan.
‘No problem, Nick. Keep me in the loop with your progress. You seem to be knocking them down like skittles.’
‘Sir.’ I shake Ford’s hand too. There’s a glint in his eye like the fury is all for show and he’s quite enjoyed his day out.
‘Named the day for your retirement yet, Nigel?’ says Keegan as we file out. ‘We’ll have to make sure you get a good send-off.’
Is that all there is to it? Nigel Watson’s relevance-deprivation syndrome generates a swirl of innuendo to keep his life interesting ahead of retirement. A one-man school of red herrings. I’m choosing to side with Keegan and Ford on this; they may be many things I don’t like but they are not time-wasters. I leave Watson to his empty scheming and go in search of Morgan Hopu. Ringing his mobile, I learn he’s at a gym ten minutes down the coast at Tahunanui. On a day like today with blue skies and a glass-flat sea the drive along Rocks Road is spectacular. Paddle boarders skim the surface between me and the island, and snow glistens on the peaks in the far distance.
The gym has lots of chrome and mirrors and crap music, and the air is thick with sweat and competing hormones. Morgan steps off a running machine. He’s in pretty good shape for a bloke in his fifties who’s lived a reckless life.
‘Can’t keep away from me, Nick. Must be my charisma.’
‘Are you buying Charlie’s farm, then?’
‘Put in an offer but the agent said there’s some question about whether or not it’s still on the market. Apparently there was a late amendment to the will.’
‘How late?’
‘Last week. Just before he topped himself.’
I make a mental note to take a closer look at the Evans suicide. ‘You, the journo Ollie Harper, Nigel Watson. You make quite a team.’
A grin. ‘Enquiries progressing?’
‘I don’t recall mentioning to you that I had an interest in the west coast.’
‘Didn’t you? I must have heard it somewhere. Through the grapevine maybe.’
‘I’m wondering if you have a pretty good idea of who it was that got to Havelka before you.’
‘That’s quite a stretch.’
‘You’re going above and beyond the call of duty. All you needed to do was deny any involvement and try to sound convincing. And by yesterday you had. Now I feel like I’m being pointed in a certain direction. Why’s that?’
‘Suspicious mind. Maybe I’m only trying to help and I’m sufficiently resourced to do so.’
‘Got a number for Ollie Harper?’
He sends it through to my mobile. ‘Say hello from me.’ Morgan skips back on to the machine, slips some headphones on and focuses on the video screen above him. A hip-hop artist in downtown Auckland.
Morgan Hopu has taken the initiative on the Havelka investigation while Brandon Cunningham has cleared up Gelder and Jaxon Hemi for me. Maybe I should follow Nigel Watson into retirement. I’m about as useful as a chocolate fireguard around here.
Midafternoon back over the Whangamoa. It’s good timing for me to pick up Paulie from school on the way home. I message Vanessa to that effect and she zaps back a thumbs up.
‘What you doing here?’
‘Hi, Dad’ I say. ‘Great to see you. How was your day? Oh good thanks, Paulie. How was yours?’
‘Paul. Told you before.’
‘What’s eating you, grumblebum? Something I said?’
‘Mim hates me. Your fault.’
‘How come?’
‘Her mum told her off for making up stories.’
‘I was just chatting with Mim’s mum. I didn’t know it was all made up.’
‘Why d’you have to talk to her?’
‘Blaming me for Mim telling fibs is silly, mate. If she’s in trouble she brought it on herself and has no right to be angry with you.’
‘You don’t understand.’
It’s a grumpy silence the rest of the way home and I’m happy to lob him on to Vanessa and get the hell out. Late afternoon and the shadows are long on the main drag as I pop my head around the door of the cop shop. Latifa looks up.
‘What’s new?’
‘Coupla murders solved and progress on another. A day in the life of ace detective Nick Chester.’
‘Only you’re not a flash detective, you’re a hick cop in a small town.’
‘Thanks for reminding me.’ I give her the update. ‘So Cunningham’s not going back to Dakota any time soon.’
‘And the progress?’
Same with Havelka – a potted history.
‘Well done you.’ Her mind is ticking over. ‘If your long-ago wacky theory is right, the same person who killed Havelka also attacked me, if the rope marks on the tree are anything to go by. Right?’
‘Right, but I was clutching at straws then.’
‘And following through the logi
c, that same person has also killed this Darren Robertson on the west coast.’
‘Yep.’
‘So if the theory is that the perp is somehow avenging the death of Lucy McLernon, how come this supposed avenging angel then attacks another woman, namely me?’
Fair point.
‘Two competing scenarios.’ I lay them out for Maxwell while Latifa looks on. ‘An avenging angel for the death of Lucy McLernon, which means we should focus back in on her inner circle.’ Tick, he nods assent. ‘But if the rope marks on the tree link the Havelka murder to the attack on Latifa then we’re looking for an accomplice rather than an avenging angel. A falling out among pervs.’
‘Or something else entirely,’ says Gemma from the spare chair.
‘Always worth keeping an open mind,’ I concede. Back at Maxwell. ‘How do you want to run it?’
‘Rope marks on a tree? That’s the basis of your deductions?’
‘One of them. Faith, Will. I’m on a roll. Knocking them down like skittles, according to Keegan.’
This is not good timing for Maxwell. With the Bruce Gelder and Jaxon Hemi murders all but resolved and pinnable on LeBlanc, the town hall incident room is being wound down and people and resources reassigned.
‘I was looking forward to getting back to Blenheim and not having to commute,’ he says.
‘Bummer,’ says Latifa.
He gets her drift. She has unfinished business. ‘Sorry. Yep, let’s do this.’ He lifts his eyes to Latifa. ‘How you going?’ Waves weakly at his neck. ‘Clearing up?’
‘Better every day, boss. Appreciate you asking.’
Gemma and a colleague will be dispatched to the west coast to interview the journalist and do further digging. Way down south, the Dunedin detectives will be requested to reinterview Havelka’s daughter Lisbet and try to convince her to be more forthcoming about her father. Likewise local social workers and her old school can expect a knock soon. Latifa is pleased to get the nod for that job along with one of Maxwell’s regular investigators.
‘That religious community out near Greymouth.’ I check my notes. ‘Whakakitenga. Is it still in operation?’
‘I believe it’s under new management since the scandals,’ says Maxwell. ‘Why?’
‘Lucy ran away from there. We should put them under the microscope too.’
Maxwell needs to augment the west coast team but he’s running short on numbers. ‘Fancy a trip, Nick?’ He grins at Gemma. ‘You can carpool.’
Finally, Wellington detectives will be asked to further probe Lucy’s family and inner circle. At last the Havelka/Robertson/McLernon cases are getting the attention they deserve.
‘This isn’t good timing for you either, Nick.’ Gemma has left the room and Latifa hovers on the threshold. Maxwell taps his temple. ‘Don’t want to exacerbate things.’
‘It’s good to keep busy.’
Walking back up the street, Latifa tuts disapprovingly. ‘Vanessa isn’t going to like this one bit.’
33.
Latifa was right. Vanessa went through the roof.
‘Are you mad? Five days away from brain surgery and you want to go tramping off over the west coast on a case?’
‘It’s an overnighter. I’ll be back in no time. We’ll have the weekend together.’
‘The specialist told you to take it easy. There’s a course of tablets. Some pre-op stuff to do.’
‘It’ll still be done and I’ll keep taking the pills. No stress. Just a few questions then back home again.’
‘Don’t you think we should be staying close at a time like this?’
‘When I might be dead soon, you mean?’
‘Fuck you, that’s not fair.’
‘If we’re right, the person behind all this could be the one responsible for the attack on Latifa. Aren’t they worth putting out of circulation?’
‘Of course they are but it doesn’t have to be you that does it.’
What else could I say? ‘It’s what’s holding me together, love.’
‘And me, Paulie, we’re not?’
‘That’s not fair either.’
‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘I suppose not. But maybe you’re wrong, maybe there’s no connection to Latifa and this person is an avenging angel. Can you live with locking them up for taking two nasty creeps out of this world?’
That’s the question that occupies my mind as we cross the churning brown waters of the Buller Gorge on our way south-west. I don’t get out this way much and that’s a pity because the Buller is spectacular, big, powerful. Blasting through steep rock gullies and filling the countryside with its roar and spray. Many of the hills are covered in native trees instead of pine so that’s a pleasant change too. Fuck, it knows how to rain here though.
At Greymouth cop shop, I drop Gemma and her colleague Graham, a nice enough lad who spent most of the journey ignoring the scenery and watching surfing videos on his phone. They’ll borrow a car from the local plods and go their merry way while I head inland to Whakakitenga. Greymouth seems to me a flat and colourless town tourism-wise; if it wasn’t for the snow-capped Alps rising up in the east and the Tasman Sea crashing on the driftwood-covered beach, I’d be inclined to shoot through. Then again I’m not one to talk having been up to historic and spectacular Lindisfarne on the Northumbrian coast with my teenage mates and not even getting out of the car. Back then I was like young Graham, wouldn’t have known nice scenery if it jumped up and bit me.
It’s a forty-five minute drive from Greymouth and the road narrows and winds through lush vegetation. It’s so green here it hurts your eyes. Whakakitenga: the name loosely translates from te reo Māori into, in this context, Old Testament–style prophecies or revelations. I’m not sure what to expect of a remote scandal-plagued sect headquarters: fortified compounds and be-robed muscly young men with scimitars? Weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth? Children with glowing red eyes? I almost miss the turn-off, a narrow gravel track overgrown by an arch of native trees. I didn’t phone ahead, figuring on the element of surprise. Besides, they weren’t in the directory. A hundred metres on there’s a gate across the track, locked with a chain. I leave the car and clamber over. Gumboots would have been a good idea, and waterproofs. The track continues another hundred metres on to a clearing. The rain is relentless, I’m soaked through and ankle-deep in mud. Tui and other native bird sounds echo through the forest. Somewhere nearby there is rushing water, both a river and a waterfall, if the roar is anything to go on.
‘Welcome.’
A tall, middle-aged woman with a striking face and grey hair tied up in a bun. Gumboots and anorak. One moment she wasn’t there, next she is. Did she wriggle her nose like Samantha from Bewitched and magically appear from nowhere?
‘Hi.’ I introduce myself.
‘I’m Beth. You look like you could do with a towel, a nice warm fire, and a cup of tea.’
American accent. Not more Apocalypse Now. Please. ‘Sounds great.’
I follow her into a modest weatherboard shack. It’s freshly painted, colourful, and cosy as toast with a crackling log fire.
‘Ordinary or herbal?’
‘Ordinary please.’
She waggles a milk carton at me and gets a nod. ‘There’s a towel on the drying rack there in front of the fire. Help yourself.’ Steam begins to rise from my sodden shirt and jumper. ‘I’d offer you dry clothes but I’m not sure we share the same taste or size.’ A playful smile. ‘Unless I’ve got you wrong.’ She hands me a mug and puts a plate of chocolate bikkies between us.
‘Sorry for not calling ahead.’
‘Cops tend not to.’ She hands me a business card. ‘But feel free next time you visit.’
‘Reverend Bethany Hart. You’re in charge here?’
‘I’m part of the management committee. We’re a collective.’
‘I didn’t notice many others around.’
‘Look out the window. You’ll see them.’
I do. Dotted here and there, wreaths of
smoke from chimneys, flashes of white in the bushes. Weatherboard cabins melting into the landscape. ‘It’s not what I imagined.’
‘What did you imagine?’
‘I don’t know really. Stalag Luft fourteen and a big prayer hall. Maybe a large garage with half a dozen Mercs. A temple with a huge gong and flaming torches.’
She laughs. Natural and disarming. ‘That’s when the men ran this place. We expelled them after the scandals.’
‘Can’t have been easy.’
‘It was remarkably easy. They couldn’t look people in the eye anymore. Happy to get the hell out. Excuse the profanity.’ She sips from her mug. ‘That’s why you’re here, I assume? Some remnant from the bad old days?’
‘Lucy McLernon.’
‘Ah, yes. Lucy.’
‘You were here then?’
‘Yes, I’ve been here for ten years.’
‘What do you remember?’
‘Lucy was a very troubled girl.’
‘Girl? Wasn’t she nudging thirty at the time? Couldn’t have been much younger than you then.’
‘Thank you for the compliment but she was still at least twenty years younger than me. But more than that, she seemed girlish. Acted like it. If you’d told me she was only fifteen I would have believed it.’
‘The scandals as you call them. How aware were you of what was going on?’
‘Shamefully, and perhaps to some extent intentionally, ignorant. The men involved played a very tight game and exercised huge control over what went on. Some of us had suspicions and fears but we buried them for too long. Some couldn’t stand it and left. Whatever was going on I felt duty-bound to see it through and do my best to try to protect those that stayed.’
‘Was there a particular individual or group you recall at the centre of all the suspicion?’
Beth rattles off a few names, some she knew of and some she’d just heard of. They don’t ring any bells but I plug them into my phone for future reference. ‘Any idea where they are now?’
