Matt poked his head back through the door. “I forgot to say, we are all creatures of habit and do the same things every time.”
“What do you mean?” Bill said.
“I can’t be sure, but Harry isn’t taking much precaution any more. I’ve seen him coming and going to the shop, punching in the code in plain view for anyone to see. I meant to tell him the other day when I saw it again, but got side-tracked and forgot.”
“Thanks, Matt, you’ve been a great help. We’ll talk to Harry,” Bill said deep in thought.
“Perhaps the offender didn’t think Harry would keep a good stocktake system and just wanted it to look like an ordinary robbery,” Niko said as they were alone again.
“Or it was purely diversion.” Bill’s mobile buzzed. It was Annika who was speaking so fast that he couldn’t understand a word she was saying. “Slow down, darling. Take a deep breath and repeat what you just said.”
Annika started from the beginning. Bill listened intently, looking more and more perplexed as the conversation continued. “Send me the information through, please,” he said, and hung up.
“Annika and Lexi have done a bit of amateur sleuthing and have come up with the possibility that Benjamin Stott, the son of the vineyard owner in Martinborough, might be the same person as Ben Wilson,” Bill said.
“The electrician?” Niko said. “You’re kidding, right?”
“It might be a long shot,” Bill said. “Or is it?”
The email pinged.
The two photos were hardly telling. One was from thirty years ago and the other was more recent.
“It could be half the male population,” Niko said. “Besides, it’s not illegal to change your name.”
“They put it through some facial recognition software and it came up as a likely match,” Bill said. “Perhaps we should have a chat to Ben and see what he says. There might be a perfectly logical explanation.”
Niko looked up the address in Point Wells and they got in the car. Ben Wilson had been an exemplary member of the community in the brief time that he’d lived there and had got involved in local projects, donating his time and expertise for free. They parked the car on the kerb by his driveway, the scorching sun blazing in contrast with the eerie quiet. There was no one around.
Ben’s work van was parked in the driveway of the small white cottage. The heavily laden apple and pear trees surrounding the house made it look homely.
Niko knocked on the front door but there was no movement inside. While Bill stood at the front, Niko walked around the back. He pressed the door handle down. It was unlocked and the door creaked and gave way, opening inward. Niko peeked in and called out. Making a split-second decision he stepped through the door and inside. Not strictly legal, but as Ben’s van was parked out the front, for all they knew he could be hurt inside. It was a flimsy excuse, but the opportunity was too good to pass up. “Ben, are you here,” Niko shouted, but got no answer.
The compact kitchen had the original pale-pink Formica bench tops and plywood cupboards; no modernising since the 1960’s. Looking through the rubbish bin was always the first thing Niko did while doing a search, no one ever expected you to look there. He slipped on a pair of gloves and lifted it out from under the sink. Bloodied gauze strips thrown on top of takeaway containers and a handful of soft-drink cans. Leaving the bin on the floor, he walked through the two sparsely furnished bedrooms and lounge. Ben was nowhere to be seen.
He unlocked the front door. “Sarge, I found something that might be of interest.”
Looking at the bin Bill said, “There might be a perfectly plausible explanation.” Continuing through the house they found nothing of significance, and hardly any personal items. There wasn’t much in the kitchen cupboards either, just some tinned goods, placed in alphabetical order. The small and dimly lit bathroom was squeezed in between the two bedrooms, most of which was taken up by an apricot toilet suite comprising a large bath with a shower above it and a toilet with a fluffy seat cover on top. There was a soiled mustard yellow carpet covering the floor.
“Who would carpet a bathroom?” Niko said, shaking his head. He opened the mirrored bathroom cabinet above the pastel sink. There wasn’t much in it apart from a container of prescription medication made out to B. Wilson from a pharmacy in Warkworth. “Zypine” it said with bold letters. He wondered what it was for. The absence of a toothbrush and other toiletries struck him as odd. It looked as though the occupant had just up and left.
Bill googled the medication. “It’s an anti-psychotic drug.” He rummaged through the cupboard under the basin and found a box of three month’s supply of the medication. All dispensed just over four months ago and unopened. The first bottle was more than half-full which didn’t bode well, he thought.
If Ben was off his meds, that put an even more serious spin on the situation. It was dispensed by a pharmacy in Warkworth. He dialled the number on the packaging, the pharmacist mentioned patient confidentiality but could clearly hear the urgency in Bill’s voice.
“Let me check in the computer,” she said, putting him on hold. After a minute she came back. “That bottle was the last he collected. We’ve been trying to get hold of him. His repeat is sitting here.”
“How serious is this for the patient?” Bill asked.
“Abruptly discontinuing medication like this can lead to a range of adverse effects such as paranoia, confusion and aggressiveness. I don’t recommend going cold turkey.”
“We need to locate Ben Wilson,”Niko said.
Bill nodded and looked at the pill bottle again. The prescribing doctor was psychiatrist Dr Stan Webber.
Niko went through to the larger of the two bedrooms, the one that looked lived in. An old rag rug covered most of the wooden floor. The double bed, pushed up to the back wall, had a ghastly animal print duvet cover that looked mismatched with the rest of the old-fashioned furniture. On the bedside table was an ornate lamp with a pink frilly lampshade and a pile of books on Sleep and Mindfulness, and a blue notebook with a pen on top.
The drawer protested when Niko opened it to reveal a bottle of Sleep Drops, magnesium tablets and a sleep mask. Niko struggled to picture Ben wearing a sleep mask to bed — he was such a surfer type. Closing the drawer, he flicked through the notebook. It was a sleep diary, dating back to last year. According to this Ben was a chronic insomniac and slept only a few hours a night if that.
He opened the built-in wardrobe. There was an old wetsuit hanging up and a smell of dust and stale clothes. And —
“Hey, Sarge, look what I found on the shelf in the wardrobe, covered by old blankets.” He held up a dark-stained wooden box. It was the same size as a shoe box; its carved lid and two hinges looked handmade. The ornate sides were delicate and intricate, less chunky than the lid. It had a tiny vintage padlock on the front.
“It looks like it has been special to someone,” Bill said.
Niko pulled a Leatherman multi-tool from his pocket and picked the lock. “Child’s play,” he said triumphantly as he opened the lid.
“Put it down on the table,” Bill said, his curiosity rising. Inside was an assortment of faded photos, old school reports, birthday cards and a stack of red leather-bound notebooks.
Niko opened the first one. It was a journal with a dedicated page for each day, cursive writing flowing on each page. He turned to the front. “Hey, it’s got a name on it,” he said. “Maurice Stott.” Bill stared at him as the penny dropped.
55
Annika wasn’t sure that Bill was thrilled to hear that they had been doing their own research.
“I’m sure he’ll get over it,” Lexi said, hands on hips. “We’re only trying to help.”
Annika wasn’t so sure, but this case had her intrigued. In high school she had seriously considered a career in the police, but after speaking to the guidance councillor and her parents at length, she had gone into teaching. A decision that she didn’t regret for a moment, although it would have been more exciting d
oing policing. Then again, she thought, she might not have met Bill.
“Come on, Lexi, you spent some time with the Stott family. What were they like?” she asked.
“It’s such a long time ago. Besides, I only visited on the weekends.” Lexi walked over to the enormous window. She stretched her arms up above her head and did a slight back bend, taking a deep breath in, the bones of her spine readjusting with slight cracks. She exhaled slowly and sat down again.
“I suppose they were like any other family, working hard at their business,” she said. “What life experience did I have anyway? I was young, still a university student.” She massaged her tight neck muscles. “Although I remember Maurice. He seemed to have demons — huge highs and deep lows. He could be very buoyant, then at other times glum, barely able to make eye contact or even talk.”
“I suppose Jenny, the wife, and the adolescent son can’t have had it easy either, especially after Maurice’s death,” Annika said.
They let their minds wander until Annika looked at the time and realised she had to get home and organise dinner.
As she drove away, she wondered what was Ben’s part in all this. Or was it just a coincidence? She didn’t really know him, the few times that she’d had dealings with him he’d seemed like a lovely guy, and half the women in the village swooned over his rugged good looks.
She turned left at the roundabout and called in at the police station. Bill and Niko had papers spread all over the two lunch tables, in some order by the looks of the different piles.
“I see you’ve been busy,” she said with a smile.
Bill raised an eyebrow. “So, it seems, have you. We have confirmed that Ben Wilson is the same person as Benjamin Stott, and have put an alert out. He changed his name by deed poll a couple of years ago”
It surprised Annika that her hunch had been right, and she was pleased that she’d been able to help.
“Who would have thought?” Bill said, still grappling with the discovery. “Niko has checked with New Zealand Transport and the toll road cameras, and received confirmation that his van headed south last Thursday morning. We’re trying to place him in Martinborough at the time of Peter Evans’ death sometime on Friday afternoon or evening.”
Niko looked up. “Footage has already been requested from the petrol stations along State Highway One.”
Bill filled Annika in on the find at Ben’s cottage, the old journals and how they’d have to sit down and read at least the last few years before Maurice’s death.
“I could help,” she said, thinking back to the essays and assessments she had marked in her career as a teacher. “I’m good at deciphering handwriting and should get through the text quickly.”
She sensed Bill wasn’t sure — it wasn’t police procedure to let civilians look at the gathered material, but then again what could it hurt? They could trust her, and could do with an extra pair of hands and eyes. Orewa hadn’t put priority on the diaries, deeming them sentimental and not important to the current case, so they were still in Matakana.
“Let me just get the twins from after school care. Zac and Samantha will be home soon. They can sort out an easy dinner,” Annika said, already heading out the door.
Bill wasn’t sure he’d done the right thing in agreeing that Annika could help. He could almost hear his superior in Orewa giving him a bollocking, but it might be worth the pain and wrath if they got the case solved and saved lives. Anyway, it was too late now. She was very determined, very stubborn, and there was no way she would change her mind now.
56
The exhaustion and pain was at the limit of what he could cope with. As he rested and tried to slow his breathing down, he leaned against a gnarly old Ponga. Closing his eyelids for a moment to get rid of the flickering lights dancing in front of his eyes, he was on the verge of collapse. It would be dark soon and he had to concentrate and gather all his strength to carry on. His arm was aching and waves of nausea rolled over him like the wild breakers in the secluded bays below. He was still too far away to see them, but he could sense the familiar taste of salt in the air.
Having laid low all day, he had parked his Mazda RX-8 at the back of one of the many empty holiday homes on the main road. He tipped up his near-empty water bottle and drank with urgency. Trekking on the edge of farmland initially, then having to go through almost impenetrable dense bush on the sloping hills of the Tāwharanui Peninsula, he had definitely underestimated the terrain. As if the steep incline wasn’t bad enough, the warmth of the sun didn’t penetrate the vast canopies sheltering the damp ground. He was unsure if it was the slight fever he was running or the air temperature that made him shiver. The smell of wet leaves underfoot, ginger and Ponga trees was comforting. When he inhaled it he felt as if he was back in his childhood’s Martinborough.
Feeling the damp coming up his legs he stepped on the soft ground of earthy fungus, which made him slip and struggle through the thick undergrowth. It was getting more challenging the further he ventured, so he was glad he had brought a compass to ensure he was walking in the right direction. A flashback to a camping trip in the Australian rainforest brought memories of spiders and the occasional snake he had encountered. He was thankful that he was back in New Zealand rather than in the critter infested Australia, where he had spent a good part of his adult life. A brief memory of his beloved Clementine flashed through his mind before his backpack slipped off his good shoulder. This made him lose his balance and he fell face-first, the pack landing on top of the injured arm he was trying to protect. Catching his breath, he attempted to stand up, falling again, rolling headfirst into a patch of thorny bushes down a gully. “Fuck!” His body was on fire. He eventually got up into a sitting position, his breathing laboured, beads of sweat running into his eyes.
He brushed himself off and checked his bearings, relieved that the compass was still on the string around his neck. As he walked on, the bush began slowly clearing and he could feel the surrounding air changing and taste the sea salt in his mouth; he knew he was getting closer.
Arriving on the edge of the bush behind a row of eight or nine houses, he surveyed the small, gated bay. There was no one in sight, but he stuck close to the tree line just in case. He had done a job there not so long ago and had a place in mind. Most properties came with a hefty price tag and were owned by retired folk. The house at the far end had weatherboards and was in Cape Cod style, with a wraparound veranda. He remembered the alarm code and knew where the spare key was.
He lifted the planter by the front door and picked the key up. He looked out over the pebbled beach, soaking up the calm. The mirror-flat water looked inviting, not that he would take the chance. A rowboat and some kayaks lay deserted on the grass verge. The salt-tinged breeze was pleasant; he could relax a little. Leaving the pack, he unlocked the front door.
The alarm panel was on the left, he remembered. Pressing in the code he held his breath as he hit Enter, what if it was the wrong sequence? Silence. He breathed a sigh of relief, closing the door and dumping the backpack. He made his way down the hall past the lounge and into the kitchen. It had all the essential appliances befitting an upmarket beach house. There was even a plumbed-in Italian coffee machine on the granite bench. You’d need a pilot’s licence to operate it, he thought. He opened the double pantry door, looking for some plain tea bags instead.
Mug of tea in hand, he walked through the house. It was getting dark so he left the blinds at the front closed. No need to advertise his presence should someone be around. He would have to rely on his torch. The pantry was well stocked with non-perishable food left behind from the summer. There were even some bottles of wine and a box of chocolates on the top shelf. He reached for a packet of chocolate-chip biscuits and dunked two in his tea, not something his Victorian grandmother would have condoned. Smiling, he remembered visiting his grandparents who had lived close, his mother not minding if he dunked his biscuits or not. She had been the sunshine in his life, as opposed to his father and his
controlling grandparents. Maurice had been a dutiful father, just weighted down by all the financial worries, and very absent during his formative years, the time when he needed his Dad. His mother had always been there and interested in school and other aspects of his life. The grandparents died well before he became a teenager, and his Dad not long after. That completely broke his mother.
A stab of guilt came over him as he remembered going to Australia as soon as he finished school. She had been so happy he was learning a trade and making a life for himself. He had lived the dream, meeting a terrific girl and having a great job. His mother stayed on in the house after they sold the vineyard. He visited every year; she was always so proud of him. Then it all crumbled and he fell into a gigantic hole. His heart squeezed with the weight of the memories flooding back. Suddenly it was difficult to breathe.
He made his way to the back door and sat on the wooden step in the pitch-black night. The silent grief bubbled to the surface and an overwhelming desperation sneaked up on him. He couldn’t remember when he last cried. Probably when Clementine died. By the time he calmed down he was trembling with cold and despair. The lemony scent of the Ponga fronds hung in the air, the blackness of the night bringing an assortment of creepy-crawlies from the surrounding bush. There was a rustling at the edge of the garden, snuffling coming closer. He pointed the torch and a reflection of eyes from a stunned possum stared back. He shivered. His dirty clothes were getting damp from the night air. It was time to go inside.
Cold to the bone, he stripped off and jumped into the double walk-in shower next to the master bedroom upstairs. The hot water soothed his battered body. Dirt and blood trailed off him, pooling on the white porcelain tiles. A pile of large soft towels sat neatly folded on the freestanding unit in the bathroom. He wrapped himself in one and put another on the floor to mop up the excess water. He looked in the mirror. Apart from his infected and angry-looking arm, he had scratches on his face and neck. A large cut on his forehead gaped ominously. In the bathroom cabinet he found a first-aid box and taped up the cut on his head as best as he could, pulling the two edges together. The pain was unbearable as he applied antiseptic on to the swollen bullet wound, wrapping it up tight again.
Blood On Vines Page 20
