Webber tried to get him to open up, but nothing worked. There was no way of getting through to the broken man sitting in front of him, his sandwich untouched.
Webber had already recommended swift transport to a secure mental-health facility for immediate medical care and a full investigation. They would not get any further today, he knew; Ben had completely shut down.
Bill beckoned Webber outside. “What do you make of that?”
“I think he is slipping into one of his depressive episodes. In the lead-up to that can be symptoms of delusions, believing that something has happened that’s not real, even though the person can see, hear, touch or smell what’s happening. Psychosis usually accompanies episodes of extreme mania in these sufferers.”
“Do you think we should look for someone else? He seems pretty certain there is another person involved.”
“I couldn’t tell you for sure, but I think Ben has gone through an intense period of mania, manifesting itself in blaming someone else for the horrific crimes that he has committed.”
When they returned to the room, Ben was sitting on the floor, slowly rocking back and forth. No matter what they tried they couldn’t get through, it was all over. Webber escorted him to the waiting car, Ben only just able to walk. The officer seated in the back with him had to lean across to fasten his seatbelt as there was no comprehension or emotion.
69
Annika was desperate for some air; it had been most unpleasant to see the man they had apprehended crumble in front of her eyes. She had sat quietly in the background in the office, privy to the entire thing, pretending to be busy at the computer. Now her hip flexors were as tight as knotted ropes and she desperately needed to move. As they put Ben in the car, she walked down to pick up a coffee from the bakery. While it was being made she popped across the road to the Four Square supermarket for more Post-It notes — she had used up the meagre supply at the station.
“Any idea where Avery and Lexi are?” a voice from behind said. It was Trevor, Lexi’s nosy neighbour. Annika sighed.
“I’ve been trying to get hold of them.” His eyes peered like a mongoose hunting its prey. “I have more of their mail. There must be a new postal clerk, someone who is both incompetent and blind and can’t tell the difference between numbers,” he huffed.
“I’m happy to give it to her,” Annika said.
“Good. Just let me get it from the car.” Annika followed him outside. The thick envelope had Avery’s name written in bold block letters, urgency shining through its strokes. It was heavy — a thick catalogue of some sort, Annika guessed. Tucking the parcel under her arm she walked back for her coffee, wondering where on earth Avery and Lexi could be.
Back at the station, she dialled Lexi’s number but there was no answer. Next she tried Avery’s mobile, which went to voicemail. It worried her a bit, but she was sure there would be a simple explanation. She tidied up the notes, the suspect was in custody and things would soon return to normal. She just couldn’t shake the feeling of something not being entirely the way it ought to be.
“I’ve tried to get hold of Lexi and Avery, but there’s no reply,” she told Bill, her worry obvious.
“I’m sure they’re fine,” Bill said to calm her. “The case is closed. We got the bastard.”
“I still have this sinking feeling in my gut.” .
“All right, I’ll phone Warkworth station. They have regular contact with their guys.” Annika had been around him and policing for a long time and her instincts were often right.
As Bill spoke to Warkworth, his face drained of colour. “We’re on our way,” he said and put the receiver down with a bang. “Warkworth haven’t heard from them at the agreed time and can’t get through. They’ve dispatched a car to investigate. Come on, Niko.” Bill grabbed his vest from the hook by the filing cabinet and threw it on, zipping up the front.
“I’m sure it will all be fine,” he said, his voice not entirely convincing. Annika knew her husband well. He was worried.
70
Speeding down Matakana Valley Road, lights and sirens blaring, Bill and Niko were glad the weekend traffic hadn’t begun yet. Dust flew as they pulled up to the house. Parking in front of the winery building, they could see Avery’s ute and Lexi’s Q7 parked next to the marked police car. Even though the sun was beaming, the place was eerie and deathly quiet.
Niko shivered. “Sarge, this doesn’t feel right.”
“I know what you mean,” Bill said. “Let’s have a look at the house.” Spreading out, they moved warily towards the homestead and inched their way up the wooden steps at the side. Niko tried the door; it was unlocked. After securing the bottom floor, they went up the stairs, bracing themselves, half-expecting to encounter something they did not want to see. Bill wiped clammy hands against his trousers, fearing the worst. But there was no sign of anyone; everything was tidy and in order, just like the floor below. He had a second look in the lounge — something was tugging at his mind. Tucked under the edge of the couch, just visible, was a white rag. He bent down to have a look and immediately recognised the sweet tell-tale smell.
“Niko, in here, can you bag up this chloroform-soaked rag,” he said as Niko came in.
“Fuck, this ain’t good,” Niko said.
The patrol car from Warkworth pulled up. “Sorry we’re late,” a young constable said. “A boat came off its trailer and blocked the road.”
“The house is empty, however there are signs that a struggle took place,” Bill said.
“Chloroform,” Niko said, holding up the evidence bag.
“We’ll search the winery and adjacent buildings,” Bill said, assuming command, already on his way down the steps. The officers nodded and followed behind Niko’s broad shoulders. Bill indicated that he’d seen blood stains, signing to the others to be alert.
Further in, the air was stuffy and oppressive. Bill wiped his forehead and signalled to the men that he would enter the bottling room at the end of the corridor. Niko flung the door open and Bill followed closely behind, covered by the Warkworth officers. The darkness was dense until their eyes slowly adjusted. Grunts and movements in the far corner alerted them to two shapes lying facing the wall. Niko found the light switch and flicked it on, flooding the room in light to reveal Green and Biggs, bound and gagged. Niko bent down, quickly cutting the ropes and removing the tape over their mouths.
Apart from the knocks on the head and a few cuts and bruises, they reported, they were both okay.
“Did you see the perpetrator?” Bill asked impatiently.
“I didn’t get a look at his face,” Biggs said. “He knocked me out from behind and dragged me in here.”
“One thing I noticed was his heavy footwear. They sounded like army boots,” Green said. “He wore camouflage pants, like some Rambo character. I glimpsed him as he was bundling Avery out of here. He just flung him over his shoulder. He must be bloody strong to lift a grown man like that.”
71
Martinborough
Pat walked into the local police station with the sizeable manuscript neatly tucked into her patchwork tote bag. Having left an unimpressed McTavish at home, she was on her own. She didn’t know if they allowed pets in the police station and she would never leave him in a parked car. Today was a scorcher and who knew what dodgy low-lives were passing by. It would be her worst nightmare, losing her trusty companion.
She had to use both hands to pull the heavy glass door open, feeling that familiar shooting pain of broken glass up her wrists. The entrance was cramped, a sparsely stocked brochure rack on one side and an enormous umbrella stand on the other. A faint smell of fresh paint tickled her nose, making her sneeze. She had always been sensitive to certain smells. There were a few people in the reception room; two elderly men, a mum with a pushchair and a pre-school girl with long braids reading a picture book, a middle-aged woman with a sullen teenager, continuously picking at his acne-covered forehead, and the two people ahead of her in the queue. She had
to wait for a few minutes while a mild-mannered man in his late sixties reported his bicycle stolen, filling in the correct forms. Next was a demanding middle-aged woman filing a complaint about damage to her letterbox. Someone had put fireworks in it and it had exploded, leaving most of the burnt remnants in the paddock across the road. She tapped her long manicured fingernails impatiently on the wooden counter as her details were entered in the system.
Pat felt sorry for the young woman at reception. She was barely out of her teens, but exhibited the patience of a saint. When it was Pat’s turn, she walked up, every step of her sensible court shoes audible on the hard floor and leant against the reception counter. The name-tag said Maya. “Hello, my name is Pat Taylor,” Pat said quietly. “I’m sorry if I’m wasting your time.” The receptionist smiled patiently. “I have received something in the mail that might interest you regarding one of your cases.”
Maya nodded, thinking if she had a dollar for every time someone said that, she’d be rich.
Pat leant forward, her voice hushed. “This is what arrived in the post. It’s a manuscript.” She hoisted the cloth bag up on the counter. “I haven’t read it all, but it has to do with something that happened at Stott’s Landing, one of the local vineyards. Long before your time, dear.”
Maya opened the fabric bag gently to reveal a thick wad of manuscript pages. “What case would this have to do with?”
Pat leant closer. “The murder of Peter Evans. I was the one that found him, poor soul,” she whispered.
Maya rocked back. The brutal attack had left the local community reeling.
“Mrs Taylor—”
“Don’t be silly, just call me Pat.”
“Very well, Pat. If you wouldn’t mind taking a seat, I’ll get someone to talk to you.” She put the “Back in five minutes” sign on the counter.
72
Matakana
Bill had phoned, letting Annika know there was no sign of Lexi or Avery. She was out of her mind with worry. Someone had taken them against their wills, but who? The prime suspect was in custody. A dull ache was spreading across her forehead and around to the back of her head, making her wince as she rubbed the base of her neck, trying to loosen the muscle. She rummaged in her handbag for two paracetamol, reached for the dregs of coffee left in her takeaway cup and swallowed. She grimaced. It was stone cold and unpleasant, but she would be no use to anyone if she didn’t get rid of the headache. She went outside for some fresh air, trying to stretch her neck and relieve the pressure in her shoulders. Grabbing a glass of water on her way back inside, she went back to her table and started going through all the material again. What had they missed?
Dr Webber walked through the door. He had taken himself to the Matakana Market Kitchen for a celebratory late lunch before heading home. Having spent the day in Matakana, he told her he really liked the atmosphere, not to mention the proximity to Auckland, an easy drive up for weekends and holidays. A few of his colleagues had holiday homes around the coast. Perhaps he ought to consider buying a piece of this slice of paradise himself, he continued. On a whim, he said he’d popped into a real-estate office, picking up some information on current listings. He was close to retirement and could see himself spending time here. Stepping back into the station to say goodbye, the mood had changed. He sat down and let Annika fill him in on what was happening.
Bill sprinted up the steps and into the station, Niko not far behind. “Martinborough station just called. A manuscript exposing the wine scam was sent to Peter Evan’s housekeeper as security before he was killed,” Bill said, catching his breath. “She had opened it and had a look through before handing it over to the police. Interesting reading, apparently. They’re going through it now.”
Annika stared at the A4 envelope on her desk, flipping it over so she could see the sender’s details. It was from Peter Evans. “Avery also received a copy.” She held it up. “Trevor, their neighbour, handed me this just before. He’d received it in error and held on to it for a few days.”
“Christ,” Bill said. He took the envelope and tore it open. The manuscript inside was titled The Great New Zealand Wine Scam.
They divided the manuscript into four piles and each took one. As deep concentration set in, the only sound was the turning of pages, everyone focusing on what they were reading. Annika’s headache had abated a little, but was still there in the background.
Niko’s email pinged. “This just came through from the boys down the line,” he said. On his screen was a driver’s licence photo, with the name Robert Gibb.
Annika did a double take. “I’ve seen this man in Matakana. I remember thinking he looked in great shape for his age.”
“Where was this?” Bill asked.
“He came into the movie theatre when I was setting up the other day. Then I think I saw him again yesterday. I’d stopped at the café on Sharp Rd on my way to Lexi’s. He was having a coffee and something to eat. I remember thinking he looked a bit out of place with the rest of us jandal-wearing locals. Immaculately ironed slacks, military vibe almost, polo shirt buttoned up, bulging muscles.”
“God knows how long he’s been up here,” Bill said. He dialled Martinborough and scribbled on his pad throughout the brief conversation. “A vehicle registered to Robert Gibb was driven through the tunnel northbound, fitting the timeline. Niko, you check the motels around the area.”
“I’ll call Annie at Book a Bach. It’s worth a try,” Annika said.
“That’s a brilliant idea,” Bill said.
Annika picked up the phone and explained her unusual errand. She had known Annie since the twins were young — they had been in the same coffee group in the village.
“Oh I see,” Annie said, cautiously. It wasn’t every day the police asked questions, and really the client details were confidential, but since it was a matter of urgency she made a judgement call and agreed. “What was the name again?”
“Robert Gibb, but it’s possible he used a different name to book the accommodation.”
“I don’t think so. We require a copy of a valid drivers’ licence or a passport.” Annika could hear the clack of Annie’s keyboard. “Here he is,” she said matter-of-factly. Annika couldn’t believe her luck. “He’s rented a beachfront property in Omaha. Booked and paid for until next week.” She gave Annika the address.
“Thank you so much. I really appreciate it,” Annika said, and hung up. “Jackpot!” she announced to the room. “He has a rented property in Omaha, the posh end.”
“I’ll call Orewa,” Niko said. “We need the Armed Offenders Squad up here.”
73
The helicopter landed on the meticulously manicured grass in the north end of Omaha, a few streets over from the target property. The AOS officers’ black ballistic-grade vests and helmets were on and they carried an array of pistols and Bushmaster rifles. The smallest member of the team, but one of the toughest, was a woman with a distinguished career. She led the way holding a sniper rifle. No one spoke, as they’d had their briefing in the air.
The assembly point was set up on the street before the dwelling they were going to. Warkworth had dispatched two cars. The sun beat down from a clear blue sky and Niko could feel the sweat running down the middle of his back. Wearing the stab-proof vest was like being shrink-wrapped. The street was quiet; it was as if the beach settlement held its breath for the onslaught of happy weekenders turning up in droves after work on a Friday. Most of the holiday homes were larger than any city house, he thought. The gentle onshore breeze made the long grasses and native flax sway backwards and forwards like nosy bystanders gawking so as not to miss what was going on. The sandy beach was empty apart from a gaggle of large black-backed gulls, each leaving a trail of tiny footprints while searching for crustaceans or any other offering from the sea. Gannets circled the shallow waters, waiting for the right moment then dive-bombing into the unsuspecting shoals of fish. The houses nearby were mostly unoccupied, no doubt. Come this evening or tomorrow morning
the place would be full of movement and noise, lawnmowers and laughter in the air, children running around outside and adults congregating around barbecues.
The navy vest squeezed tight around Bill’s middle. It didn’t help that he’d put on a few kilos over the summer. Too many pies and deli sandwiches had taken their toll. He was paying for it now; the sweat-soaked uniform shirt rubbing against his skin, the seams under his arms chafing.
The Alpha team were in position; the Bravo team and the rest of the officers were awaiting further instructions. The radio crackled and gave the go-ahead.
Bill heard the crash of the door being smashed open and instructions shouted as the team entered the property. A minute later, the “clear” signal came from the radio and the sound of heavy boots on dry ground followed. The entrance was wide and majestic with polished concrete floors that seemed to go on forever. The vast open-plan kitchen and lounge was anchored by an impressive twelve-seater table and flanked by two separate seating areas with plush modern chairs and exotic rugs. Large abstract canvases covered the walls. Each to their own, Bill thought, as he walked through the ground floor. Four good-sized bedrooms, two on either side of the long hallway, all immaculate in presentation with just the right throws and cushions casually draped across beds and chairs. Upstairs, half the floor space was taken up by the master suite with an enormous gas fireplace, a movie room with seating for twelve, and two double bedrooms each with an ensuite. Who lived like this? It was like something out of a glossy magazine. The office next to the master bedroom was equipped with a sophisticated monitoring system with live footage from cameras angled in every room showed on a large screen. The place was like a fortress.
Blood On Vines Page 24
