by Alan Carter
‘Don’t know, don’t care as long as they’re nowhere near.’ She shudders. ‘Some of those guys, the way this place was set up at the time, the access, the hierarchy. The first time you might meet them would be when they turned up in your bedroom. I was lucky, I arrived too late in life to be of interest to them.’
I show her the photo of Robertson, Havelka, and the other bloke in the pub in Nelson. She doesn’t recognise any of them, although the pullover of the semi-obscured man behind the raised glass looks vaguely familiar. Budget department store pattern. Maybe he was one of those names she’d heard of but never got to meet? Maybe she’s just seen jumpers like that before.
‘Are there any documents or photos from back then that might help?’
‘I don’t think so. Before they were expelled the men made good use of the shredder. There were financial as well as sexual irregularities.’
‘There’s no office, no filing cabinet? Somewhere you keep lists of next-of-kin in the event of emergency? Tax receipts? Rates and insurance, power bills?’
She points to a lever arch file on a shelf next to some jars of chutney. ‘Go for broke.’
I flick through but there’s nothing of merit. ‘You travel light these days.’
‘Some of the residents are afraid of leaving a paper trail and for good reason. This is their shelter from the storm.’
‘So there are only women here now?’
‘Yes. Most of the younger ones have moved on. As have those who need or want male company, or have sons.’
‘It works well?’
‘The occasional squabble but nothing serious.’
‘And you all uphold the original beliefs from when it was set up. The prophecies, revelations, whatever. The Māori stuff thrown in?’
‘Pretty much. There are Māori wahine among us now since the men left. Not so much of the cultural anomaly anymore. A white male-dominated enclave appropriating indigenous culture was doomed to fail one way or another.’
‘Pity it took so long.’
‘Five years. Ten. A generation. A millennium. It’s all relative isn’t it? There’s much to be learned from Māori spirituality. Fuse that with some of our more traditional Christian beliefs and it seems to work for us. We’re looking after the land better now, for sure.’
I suspect that Latifa might have something to say on the matter. Or perhaps not. ‘Here’s my card. If anything comes to mind.’
‘Sure. It would be nice to bring some peace to Lucy’s spirit.’
Amen to that. Some small talk ‘Your accent?’
‘Colorado.’
‘It’s near the Rockies isn’t it? Nice there?’
‘In places, yeah. It’s a strange mix of do-gooding liberals like me and absolute gun-loving nut jobs. Try not to judge us all by the crazy few.’
‘Why’d you leave?’
She notes my accent too. ‘Why did you leave your home, Mr Chester?’
‘Running from a violent man who wanted to kill me.’
‘Snap.’
They were hardly put under the microscope as intended but, naïve as it might be, I have faith in the Reverend Bethany Hart. Whatever Whakakitenga was in the bad old days, it isn’t now. The rain has eased by the time I pull up at Greymouth cop shop. In the waiting area, Gemma and Graham are updating their social media status. We adjourn for a late lunch in a local café and compare notes.
‘Ollie Harper says hello.’ Gemma scans the menu, unimpressed, and we give our orders to a server.
‘He doesn’t even know me.’
‘He seems to know about you, though, courtesy of his colleagues in Marlborough.’
That would be Jessie James. ‘Did Harper have anything useful to say?’
‘He’s a dirt digger and enjoys his work. Wasn’t fazed by the idea that Morgan Hopu and Nigel Watson might have been playing him for their own ends. Happy to oblige for the quid pro quo.’
‘The photographs from the volunteer awards night?’
She spreads some printouts on the table ahead of our lunch arriving. ‘Here’s the rest plus the original article with photo captions of those present.’
The previously unnamed third man in the photo with Robertson and Havelka is one of the names Beth Hart gave me. ‘Stuart Batty. An elder from Whakakitenga.’
‘We ran his name already,’ says Graham. ‘Died five years ago. Hunting accident.’
Bad luck, avenging angel, or an accomplice tidying up loose ends?
‘Any other names from the article flagged?’ A shaking of heads. Lunch arrives: pie, pide, and soup of the day. ‘What about these other two?’ I show them the ones Beth gave me and Graham keys them into his tablet.
‘One dead, the other no trace.’
The dead one is Francis Stilton, aged thirty-six, suicide. The photo seems familiar but I can’t place it right now. ‘Dropping like flies.’
Gemma puts down her pie and refers to Beth’s list. ‘Which leaves this other untraceable fella, Robin Walker.’
‘Not untraceable,’ says Graham, dipping some sourdough in his soup. ‘Just untraced.’
‘He’s not necessarily our man. Let’s not jump to conclusions.’ But try as I might I just can’t help it.
Next stop a hundred klicks north to Westport, with a big wind battering us from the Tasman. Not sure what we’ll find here after so long. The tide has long since ebbed and flowed on the black sand where Darren Robertson was found face down with a bullet in the back of his skull. The blood-soaked room where Lucy McLernon was discovered six months earlier has been refurbished and re-painted several times over. Still, Darren Robertson’s family live here. What, apart from the distant prospect of possible financial compensation, makes them believe Darren’s already seedy reputation has been further traduced? And what do they know of the company he kept?
It’s now late afternoon. Light is fading and dark clouds loom on the horizon as yet another winter front sweeps in off the ocean. There’s a warning out for damaging winds, flash flooding and king tides. We’ve taken rooms at the Top 10 Holiday Park at Carters Beach across the road from where Darren was found. Robertson’s widow and brother have agreed to meet us at a pub in town and we’re shouting dinner. No expense spared.
Robertson’s younger brother Kevin sports an All-Blacks beanie and four days’ growth. He’s a doppelganger of the deceased – that same dead-eyed jowly entitlement. Widow Robertson is still wearing her road-crew fluoros from traffic duty on some damaged interior route. The orders are in: steak and chips for him, schnitzel for her, plus two Jack and Cokes.
‘Gettin’ anywhere?’ enquires Kev.
We’ve sent Graham off to play pool with the Westies. We don’t want to crowd the Robertsons and we’re figuring if Graham can emerge unscathed from the pool room he’s earned the right to eat at our table. Only later. Meantime we need to woo Kevin and Zara Robertson.
‘We are, as a matter of fact. Wondering if you could help us? Fill in a few gaps? There’s a possibility Darren might have fallen in with a bad crowd. Maybe got set up.’
‘What’s that fucken weird accent? You Scotch or something?’
I explain my proud Mackem heritage to Zara and then I show them the awards night photos from the newspaper. ‘Recognise any of these people?’
She leans forward. ‘About time somebody listened.’ Plants a nicotine-stained finger on Havelka. ‘Funny accent, like you. Russian or something?’
‘Czech. You met him?’
‘A few weeks before that silly rich bitch got herself killed at Darren’s motel.’
‘No need for that, Zaz. Not her fault was it?’ Kevin’s empathy surprises me.
His sister-in-law relents. ‘S’pose.’
‘The Czech?’ I prompt.
‘Yeah, musta been between the awards do in Nelson and the thing at the motel.’ Her face freezes. ‘Come to think of it, fuck, it was just a day or two before. Was it him, the sick cunt?’
‘We’re investigating the possibility.’
�
��I knew it! Knew it wasn’t Darren.’
Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. ‘Recognise any of these others?’ I show her the photo of Stuart Batty, Whakakitenga elder, since killed in a hunting accident.
‘Yeah, yeah. Him and Daz went pig shooting sometimes. Never met him, lived out bush somewhere, but Daz had a picture in Pig Shooting Monthly with this bloke and a big boar. It’s on our fridge still. You can have it if you want.’
‘Yes,’ says Gemma. ‘That’d be fantastic. Thanks.’
‘This fella?’ Francis Stilton. Suicide.
The dinners arrive. Steak, two schnitzels – I couldn’t resist one for myself – and a pasta for Gemma. We all dig in. Graham casts a glance our way from the pool table. He seems to be on a roll and some of the young fellas over there look antsy. I wouldn’t put it past him to deliberately lose so he can get a feed quicker.
Kevin and Zara examine the photo of Francis Stilton. ‘Nah.’ They shake their heads. ‘Who’s he?’ asks Kev.
‘Just some bloke. You’ve definitely never seen him?’
They insist they haven’t.
‘The fellas in these pictures,’ says Zara through a mouthful of chips. ‘They the ones that really did it? Set Darren up?’
‘It’s a theory,’ I concede. ‘What do you think?’
Clearly nobody from our side has ever asked her that before. ‘Like I told the reporter, Ollie. It had to be a conspiracy. Darren just wasn’t like that.’
Kevin keeps his eyes on his food.
‘There were allegations before that,’ Gemma points out. ‘Darren has history.’
‘Those Danish sluts. They knew the camera was in the shower. They were part of it. Played up. Nobody proved that Darren installed it.’ She prods her fork at the photos. ‘Could have been these guys. Playing the long game to set him up.’
‘Anybody else you remember? Somebody we might not be looking at? A mastermind maybe?’
She likes the sound of that. ‘Darren didn’t really hang around with masterminds but I’ll give it some thought. Get back to you.’
‘Does the name Robin Walker mean anything to you?’
‘Sounds like a dick,’ says Kevin plucking some meat from between his teeth. ‘Who is he?’
‘Somebody who came up in our enquiries.’
‘Nah,’ they say. ‘Never heard of him.’
‘Does this mean somebody’s going to pay up for the damage to Darren’s reputation?’ Zara polishes off her chips. ‘The hurt and injury and all that. The distress we’ve suffered?’
‘We’ll keep you posted.’ Gemma offers a business card. ‘If you think of anything.’
There’s a commotion at the pool table. Some pushing and shoving with Graham at the centre of it. In one swift move he has the offender facedown over the green baize with an arm twisted halfway up the back while showing the rest of the crowd his police ID. Smooth as.
‘That deserves a schnitzel.’ I place an order on Graham’s behalf.
34.
The overnight rain flooded the roads and the wind lifted roofs and brought down trees so it takes longer than expected to get back to Havelock. Before we left Westport we asked the local plods to dig out anything further on Stuart Batty’s pig-hunting mishap and Francis Stilton’s suicide. Late afternoon, Gemma and Graham drop me at home before pushing on to Blenheim and their respective home bases to salvage what’s left of the weekend.
Vanessa’s no longer pissed off and just seems relieved to have me back in one piece. ‘Mission accomplished?’
‘Hardly.’ I bring her up to speed on the additional pieces of the jigsaw. ‘Any gossip at this end?’
‘My leg’s feeling better and the graft operation is scheduled for a couple of weeks. Going to try returning to school on Monday but on the understanding I can pike if it’s not working.’
‘Are you up for it?’
‘Don’t know yet but I’m going nuts here. I don’t make a good invalid.’
Paulie comes out of his room with Mim in tow. ‘You’re back. Where you been?’
I tell him and Mim nods sagely. ‘Nice over there, isn’t it? So green.’
‘Beautiful in parts. Whereabouts were you?’
‘Dad,’ Paulie warns. ‘No cop stuff, remember?’
‘Just chatting. That right, Mim?’
‘Yeah. Can’t remember the name of the place. We left when I was about six.’
‘And that’s when you moved to Nelson?’
‘Dad!’
Mim is unfazed. ‘I was at boarding school in Nelson while my mum was in hospital to stop her crying. I don’t tell fibs, Mr Chester.’
Maybe she wasn’t fibbing after all. Just telling a different version of the truth. ‘Good to see you guys hanging out again.’
‘When’s tea?’ says Paulie, looking daggers.
‘Not long.’ Vanessa winks at me. ‘We’ll have an early one then get Mim home, okay?’
‘Sounds like a plan. Anything I can do?’
‘Sure. Cook dinner while I have a glass of wine.’ She grabs a bottle from the shelf. ‘Frozen pizzas do you?’
‘Twist my arm.’ In some ways I’m enjoying the new model lazy-trollop Vanessa but if it wasn’t for the fact that I’m a few days off brain surgery I’d feel obliged to take my dietary health into my own hands.
She raises a glass while I crumple up plastic wrappings and program the microwave. ‘Lechayim. To life.’
Chin-chin.
After dinner, Paulie and I drive Mim home. The rain has eased and it’s dark by the time we get to Dalton’s Bridge. Jan is there waiting under the porch light rugged up against the cold. She greets Mim with a hug.
‘Did you have a good time, love?’
‘Yep. Paul’s dad went over near where we used to live.’
‘Really?’ She takes Mim’s bag. Gives me a distracted smile. ‘Where?’
‘Greymouth. That area.’ There’s a pounding at the base of my skull. Another migraine threatens. ‘Well, better get going.’
‘I told him about boarding school, Mum. In Nelson, remember? After daddy left us and you got sad.’
‘Not now love.’ Jan shakes her head. Kids, eh?
Next thing I’m down on my knees and the stars are exploding. Everything is whirling and won’t stop. Paulie is yelling, and so is Mim. My head is in Jan’s lap and I’ve just puked pizza onto her jeans. Her cool palm rests on my brow.
‘Sorry.’ I’m groaning. ‘Sorry.’
She strokes my face. ‘Poor thing. It’s going to be all right.’
‘Sorry,’ I say, over and over.
She’s looking down at me, searching my face. As if trying to recognise me from way back. ‘What have they done to you?’ Disconnected. Fraught.
I’m too busy spewing to question her logic. I’m content to let her empathy wash over me. ‘Sorry.’ Again.
‘It’s not your fault. It never was.’ Tears roll down her face.
In time, it passed. Jan found the medication in my jacket pocket and gave me some. Between them, she and Michael in convoy dropped me and Paulie home to a worried Vanessa. Michael driving me and Paulie in my car and Jan and Mim in their back-up. Michael sizing me up while Paulie fretted in the back.
‘Been out and about I hear. Can’t be good for you, gallivanting in that condition.’
‘Just a migraine. All sorted now.’
‘Powerful medication for just a headache.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Jan got a real shock.’
‘Sorry about that.’ Last thing I want is for my brain tumour to upset your daughter.
‘She’s had it tough. Still not over everything, you know?’
No I don’t and I’ve got too much on my own plate to care. I’m dying, I realise that now. I must be.
‘Here we are,’ I say, relieved to be home. Vanessa takes up the relay baton. Helping me into the house as Michael drives away with a stare. ‘I’m fine. Really.’
‘He vomited on Mim’s mum,’ adds Paulie, helpfull
y.
‘Poor thing.’
‘She was really good about it.’
‘I’m talking about your dad.’
‘Oh.’
I spend the rest of the evening being fussed over by Vanessa and even though the symptoms have eased, I give in to it and let her limp around taking care of everything. Hang in there. The day after the day after tomorrow they’ll cut open my head and sort everything out once and for all.
35.
‘There’s nothing in the drains.’
Maxwell was true to his word, showing up at Māhana over the weekend with a warrant, an excavator, pneumatic drills and angle grinders.
‘The tuft of hair we saw on the video was nothing more than that. No bones. No chopped up human flesh. No red flags in the missing persons files.’
For all sorts of reasons my brain isn’t working too well this morning but, for the most part, I’m inclined to put it down to lack of sleep. I lay awake in the early hours fretting about mortality, the future for Vanessa and Paulie, the questions that remain unanswered and the things that don’t fit. Paulie and Vanessa are back at school today. I find myself storing images of their little gestures away in my memory, not knowing if they’ll be retrievable after Wednesday. Impaired faculties.
‘So why did Gelder have to die?’
Maxwell offers me a coffee from his plunger but my tastebuds are playing havoc today. Even a glass of water sets alarm bells ringing. ‘Maybe LeBlanc knew from Cunningham that he was in trouble for installing the steel hoops, remodelling the drains off his own bat and getting drunk with the servants. He couldn’t remember what he might have said on the video, wanted the incriminating material back and went into default psycho mode to achieve his aim.’
‘A tad extreme.’
‘This guy is. Look, we know the type. He’d spoon your eyes out to know where you hid his Easter eggs.’
I’m far from convinced. ‘Why would he pay out his own money to have the drains widened and steel hoops put in for no good reason?’
‘Did he? Do we know that?’ Maxwell closes a window against the chill. ‘I crosschecked Gelder’s bank account. No trace of any unofficial deposits from LeBlanc, unless it was cash of course as Cunningham suggests. But how would he know about such a transaction if it was cash?’ He pushes a printout across his desk. ‘But there is a payment from Māhana under the name of JBNZ Trust.’
