The acrid smell of stress hung in the air. Green groaned as he began coming to. The man in fatigues walked over to Avery and stood there for a while watching him, then took a phone out of his pocket. Avery recognised the silly cover with Woody from Toy Story that the kids had given him as a joke for his birthday last year.
The man bent down and put the phone in front of Avery’s face, letting the facial recognition unlock the screen. Once in, he scrolled for a minute before typing a message and pressing Send.
“Where’s Lexi?” Avery said, his heart in his throat. “You fucking better not have hurt her.”
“Don’t you worry about her. She’s fine for the time being. That’s if you do what I say.”
Anger boiled up. Avery tried desperately to get his hands untied but the tight knots wouldn’t budge. Where is Lexi?
“We’re going for a drive,” the man said, his voice hard. He pulled a rag out of a plastic zip-lock bag, the sweet smell putting Avery into a restless void.
He took the long way around the orchard and crept by the dense oleander hedge to avoid detection. At the top of the stairs he pulled out the key he had taken from Biggs’s pocket. There was no sign of the wife, but he knew not to underestimate a clever woman. He pulled the door handle gently, but as suspected it was locked. Inserting the key he opened the door as quietly as he could. The hinges were old but well-oiled. He was glad the dog wasn’t around either. He couldn’t understand people with pets. Animals were only there for work or as a source of food. A floorboard creaked as he slowly moved into the hall.
Lexi was still asleep on the couch as he crept up on her. The feeling of someone being in the room — a mother’s intuition? — woke her. She sat bolt upright, eyes wide open.
He threw her down on the couch, pressing his weight onto her chest and putting the cold wet rag over her mouth and nose. Lexi clawed at him and took a chunk of skin off his bare arm before falling into a deep sleep a few seconds later.
He bound her the way he had the others, carried her over his shoulder and into the winery, then stalked down the driveway to collect the van.
The tarpaulin on the floor was new. He had made sure the ends went up the sides of the interior, so there would be no trace materials left behind. Leaving the two unconscious officers, he carried Avery and Lexi to the van, flung them in the back and slammed the door shut.
65
Auckland
Isaac had planned a lazy day off to prepare for dinner with Petra tomorrow. He had slept well and was in a buoyant mood, especially after receiving a text message from Avery.
Hi mate, we’re going fishing. If you fancy coming along. Pop up to Leigh where we’ll launch around midday. Let me know if you can make it.
An address in Hill Street followed. He thought, why not? It would be fun to go for a few hours’ fishing with Avery. He’d be back in Auckland later tonight.
After reading through the recipe, he decided he was completely sorted and on track.
Sounds good, I’m on my way now, he replied.
Even though he had police stationed outside his house, surely they couldn’t stop him going for a drive? He picked up the keys to the Aston Martin. It was only a weekend car, but what the heck, he thought. He changed into an old T-shirt and shorts, throwing a long-sleeved shirt in the bag along with a hat, sunblock and a change of clothes. He’d prepared a story to spin to the officer stationed outside, but needn’t have bothered as the officer was snoozing away in the sunshine. Before leaving the city he stopped at a deli and picked up some filled rolls as he knew Avery would forget. It was just after nine when he was back on the road, revving up the Aston across the harbour bridge, the Bang & Olufsen music system belting out the Eagles, Isaac singing along at the top of his voice. He pushed the speedo a little. It felt good to stretch the beast’s legs.
Another twenty-five minutes and he passed through Warkworth. Peak times the queues were a mile long, but not today. Driving through the Matakana valley was like being in the south of Europe, he thought. He slowed down as he came into the village, and thought of Petra. She had sounded like she was looking forward to dinner. Perhaps this was the beginning of something good for them.
Passing through the village and onto Leigh Road, it was back to open-road speed and he put his foot down. Coming into the charming small settlement he flicked up the GPS to locate the address Avery had sent him. Slowing down, he turned right on Cumberland Street by the dairy, then a left into Hill Street, looking for the last house on the right, a red-brick 1960s house. Apart from the van backed up to the garage, the place looked quiet. The letterbox was on a slight lean, the purple agapanthus was waist-high in the flowerbeds and the lawn needed mowing. Perhaps it was someone’s holiday home, he thought.
Isaac got his gear from the boot and walked up the uneven path, its large cracks covered with weeds. When he knocked on the frosted-glass door, it was flung open and a giant of a man in fatigues greeted him like a long-lost friend. “Hi! So nice you could come up at such brief notice.”
Isaac didn’t know what to think. Had they met before? The man seemed familiar, but he couldn’t place him.
“Come through. We’re just about ready to get going,” the man said. Stepping into the lounge Isaac could see into the kitchen and the corridor leading to the bedrooms. The smell of mildew hit his nostrils. The house didn’t look very lived in. The hairs on his neck stood up and a feeling of unease came upon him. Before he could process the situation he was pushed head-first into the door frame and was out cold. The last thought that went through his head was, Where is Avery?
When he came to, Isaac felt the barrel of a gun at the base of his neck. “Get on your feet,” the man said, his friendly demeanour now replaced with hostility. Isaac struggled to gain his balance and tried to turn around but got side-swiped with a fist to his temple which broke the skin above his left eyebrow. He saw stars as he tumbled across the coffee table, landing hard on his side. He instinctively rolled up, protecting himself, and looked up at the figure standing over him.
“Stand up,” the man growled, and kicked him in the ribs. Isaac groaned, coiling up in pain. “I said, on your feet, pretty boy,” the man said, with a slight accent. He knew it was British, it seemed familiar. He had heard this man speak before, but where? With an effort Isaac got up on his knees, pain radiating through his sternum and ribs, he was sure a couple of them were broken. He stood up as quickly as he could, the last thing he wanted was another kick with those boots. A hard shove on his back pushed him through the house and outside, then in to the garage. All the windows were blocked out with thick black plastic. His eyes struggled to adjust to the dark for a minute. Having lingered in the doorway for a few seconds too long he received another push, making him fall face-first on the cement floor. The pain that followed was almost too much to bear. Shallow breaths were all he could muster between the waves of pain that kept rolling in. Relief flooded over him when the man left the garage, slammed the door shut and locked it. After a few minutes Isaac pushed himself into a kneeling position and his eyes fell on a crumpled heap of a person by the far wall. Half-expecting the body to be cold, he reached his hand out to touch the person’s back, relieved to feel warmth and rhythmic slow breathing. He hobbled around the body and saw Avery’s face.
“Avery,” he said, but got no response. He slapped him a couple of times on the cheek to rouse him.
As Avery stirred, the back door swung open and the man in black was back. “Not as badly hurt as you pretended, eh?” He laughed. “We can fix that.” The next minutes were a blur of kicks and punches. Isaac accepted his fate. He just wanted to disappear into the black abyss of pain.
66
Waikauri Bay
The intruder was well and truly gone. There were signs of someone having stayed in the house — no damage, just food and alcohol consumed. In the bathroom bin they found bandages and bloody gauze pads, just like at Ben Wilson’s house. He couldn’t have got far away since they got the call.
As they waited for the dog unit to arrive, Bill and Niko were having coffee and sausage rolls on the small deck in front of Frans Muller’s house. He’d taken them out of the freezer as soon as he’d made the call, then baked them in the oven. “I’m on my own, you know. I’ve had to learn to find my way around the kitchen since my dear wife passed away,” he said.
Bill reached for another sausage roll. “You said you came up a few days ago and have seen no one since you arrived.”
“That’s correct. I came up to tidy up for the season. No one really uses the cottage over the winter months, and I don’t want to get vermin coming in. It’s been a treat. I love the late summer days, and it’s so peaceful here at this time of the year. If it hadn’t been for the open curtain this morning next door, I would have been none the wiser.”
Niko held up a photograph of a clean-shaven Ben. “Is this the man you saw?”
“It could have been, you know,” Frans said. “Well, I hope you catch this fellow, at least I’ll have one hell of a story for Happy Hour tonight,” Frans said smiling.
It pleased Bill that they were on the right track. When the dog unit arrived, he gave them a brief rundown of the morning’s events and the dogs were keen to get to work after picking up Ben’s scent in the house, taking off through the bush with the officers in hot pursuit.
“Thanks for assisting us,” Bill said, shaking Frans’s hand. “It might be best if you get going home, as this man is still at large.” Frans nodded.
When the dog unit returned the sergeant in charge reported that they had tracked the suspect to a nearby house. The woman there told them the suspect had “borrowed” her car and mobile phone. The oldest child seemed concerned the man had a sore arm, as he had been holding it. “I’ve radioed in the registration and the phone details. I expect they will nab him soon.”
Niko and Bill jumped into the car and drove back to Matakana. The phone rang, it was a sergeant from Orewa station. “Someone spotted the Commodore station wagon driving towards Snells Beach. Warkworth will head towards Snells. You lot approach from the Matakana side. See if we can close the loop on this scumbag.”
67
Matakana
Driving away from the house, he knew it was only a matter of time before he had to ditch the car and phone. He might have an hour, and he needed to find some medical help to keep him in some shape to continue running. He had a place in mind, not very far away. The old man had been an ambulance medic before he retired. He had been there two weeks ago, changed out a hot-water cylinder, and seen photos of him in his uniform. The old man had been more than happy to talk about his lengthy career in the service.
The house was on Sharp Road on the way to Snells Beach, but to get there he had to drive through Matakana. There was no option, he had to take his chances. There was a sun hat on the passenger seat and an enormous pair of Jackie O sunglasses in the centre console which he put on. He made it to Sharp Road without a hitch and into the old farmhouse of Barry Islington, pulling up alongside a beaten-up green Toyota. It would make an excellent switch. Out of the car, every step sent shock waves through his body. Barry had seen the car and opened the front door.
“Hi, Barry,” he said, supporting his arm as he walked over. “I was wondering if you could help me out, like I helped you.”
Barry stood on the steps, his leathery skin and white hair a stark contrast to his bright eyes. He might be in his late seventies, but he was a stickler for eating well, doing his morning exercise and hardly touching a drop of alcohol. “Well, let’s have a look at you. Come in,” he said. “What have you done to yourself?”
Once inside, he pulled his shirt over his head, wincing in pain as he lifted his injured arm. Barry couldn’t hide his surprise when he saw the gunshot wound. “Right, let me get the first-aid box from the cupboard and we’ll see what we can do.”
He could hear the old man’s shuffling feet as he went into the hall and rummaged in a cupboard for what he needed. He knew that Barry wasn’t stupid — he would help him, then call the police as soon as he left.
“Well, there isn’t much more than cleaning it that I can do.” Barry leaned closer to get a better look. “You really need to go to a hospital to get it properly dressed and get some antibiotics. It’s already infected.” He went over to feel the outside of the electric jug, the water still warm from this morning’s cup of tea. He reached under the kitchen sink for the bottle of disinfectant, poured a capful in a stainless steel bowl and added the tepid water.
“This is as sterile as you can get it at home,” he said, washing his hands thoroughly and pulling on a pair of latex gloves.
“I’m grateful if you just do the best you can for now. I appreciate your help,” he said, bracing for the pain than would follow. By the time Barry had flushed the wound and disinfected it, sweat was running down his face and he was close to fainting.
“Are you sure I can’t drive you to the doctor? You need proper wound management and decent pain relief,” Barry said. “If the infection spreads you will be in terrible trouble.”
He looked up at the old man, realising how much he missed not having a father around. “I’m already in trouble,” he said.
Barry nodded and put his weathered hand on his other shoulder. “I’m sure whatever you have done, it can be sorted out.”
He shook his head. “I’m afraid it’s gone too far.” He stood up to go.
“Take care of yourself,” Barry said and gave him a strip of pills. “These are the strongest painkillers I have, not that they will help much, I’m afraid.”
“Thank you for your help,” he said, opening the front door and grabbing the keys to the Toyota from the hook on the wall. Barry said nothing.
The bright sunlight blinded him for a second, and he thought he saw movement out of the corner of his eye. Then everything happening at once, armed police shouting at him to get down. Hands forcefully pushing him down, he dropped the car keys on the step. All the air went out of his body. He had known they would eventually catch up with him, but he hadn’t expected it so soon.
68
Bill took charge and Ben did not resist when they put him in the back of the police car. The ride back to the station was a blur. They sat him down at the table in the meeting room. A steaming mug of instant black coffee and a slightly sweaty-looking ham and cheese sandwich wrapped in clingfilm were put in front of him. Staring straight ahead, he had no energy to pick either of them up. The room was closing in on him. It was nothing like in the movies where there was a small table and a couple of chairs and a two-way mirror covering the wall. This was like any office, but with no windows. He wasn’t sure if he was dreaming or if it was real. The sound of the photo copier humming along with the muffled buzzing of the computer in the corner was almost hypnotic, but it magnified the shuffling of paper in front of him tenfold, hurting his ears.
“Have a sip of the coffee,” Bill said.
“Have you got some water?” he said, desperate for saliva to return to his dry mouth.
“Sure,” Bill said and gestured to Niko.
He was filled with a mix of fear of what was yet to come and relief that it had all ended. He was tired and just wanted to curl up and go to sleep. When Niko came back with a glass of water he drank it all in one go. Feeling better, he straightened his back. A week ago he was just plain Ben Wilson, the local electrician. Now they were referring to him as Benjamin Stott. It felt strange —that was a name and a life that he had left behind.
“We have someone who would like to see you,” Bill said as he went to get Dr Webber in the room. Ben was surprised to see him there.
“Hello, Ben. How are you doing?” Webber said warmly.
“I’m not feeling that great, actually” he replied.
“I’m here to help you with anything that I can. You are safe here.”
Bill pressed Record and asked him to start from the beginning.
He started by admitting that he had wanted to confront Avery about the ro
le he played in his father’s demise. That summer’s day as a young boy he had overheard Avery’s accusations of wine fraud. With a child’s naivety, he had taken his father’s side.
He flatly denied any involvement with any break-in or having anything to do with the murders of Peter Evans or James Smith, but showed some remorse for the accidental attack on the female police officer and for stabbing the dog, pleading self-defence in both cases.
Bill didn’t know what to believe. There were so many loose ends.
“I didn’t mean to do those things. I just wanted to talk to Avery that night. I didn’t mean for anyone to get hurt,” Ben repeated, tears were running down his cheeks.
“We have you on videotape going to Martinborough. Why did you kill Peter Evans?” Niko asked.
The repeat accusation made Ben shut down again. His distress was obvious, so Bill gestured for Niko to back off.
“I know nothing about that. I was only visiting my mother,” Ben said, his voice barely audible. “He just turned up on my doorstep one day. I had to let him in.”
Bill looked enquiringly at Webber, who signalled to let Ben continue without interruption.
“He wanted me to kill them all, but I couldn’t,” Ben said.
“Who wanted you to kill everyone?” Webber asked gently, but there was no response.
Webber pushed the sandwich closer. “Have a bite. I bet you’re hungry.” Ben picked it up but unwrapping the clingfilm proved difficult. Webber could see his frustration and leant forward, peeling the plastic wrapping off for him.
Blood On Vines Page 23
