by Alan Carter
‘Marty, get this lad a Stella.’
For a man who’s a millionaire several times over and hangs out with captains of industry, Sammy Pritchard is a man of simple tastes. There’s nothing he likes more than a hot curry and cold lager in South Shields every Friday, a season ticket to watch Sunderland at the Stadium of Light where the score is depressingly predictable. Sammy’s gang. I’m looking at them now: a motley collection of beer guts, dead eyes, and cruel mirth. Sammy keeps a few of us lads close: some are hard men, like Marty, and some are clever or useful to him, like me. Some are just useless twats who are always good for a laugh.
Tonight is film night, the first Thursday of every month, unless business prevails. We gather in Sammy’s basement den with its big screen, surround sound, comfy chairs and a full fridge. Sometimes it’s comedy: Sammy can’t get enough of Blazing Saddles – he loves the campfire farting scene and the one where the horse gets punched. Sometimes it’s porn: Sammy keeps these old VHSs from the 1980s when the hair and mos were as big as everything else on the screen. Mostly we hoot at them but some of us go home with a stiffy later. Vanessa likes those nights. And then there’s Sammy’s absolute all-time untouchable favourite.
Marty hands me that beer and winks. ‘Y’alright there, Nicky?’
‘Aye, mate.’ I pop the tin and lift it in salute. ‘Cheers.’
His look stays on me a second longer than it should. According to the intelligence file, Marty Stringfellow is the Godfather-in-waiting and he’s down for at least three murders and several serious woundings. Two of the murders were street dealers caught skimming. Sammy runs a tight ship and he wasn’t having any of that – people might start thinking he’s soft. So he sent out Marty, who’s very handy with a knife. The dealers were butchered and dumped at the town tip. The third was a teenage Ukrainian girl whom Sammy had gifted to a Newcastle businessman to sweeten a property deal. She ran away: embarrassment all round. She was found on display, throat slit, in a toilet cubicle in a city centre nightclub. No more runaways since. There’s no proof on Marty yet, but I’ll find it. I hope.
How come I’m in Sammy Pritchard’s inner circle? He thinks I’m a bigwig in the Prisons Department. And so I am, showing up most days to earn my crust like I’ve done for the last twelve months we’ve been running this operation. I first met Sammy on the Whitburn golf course one brisk spring morning and cheekily challenged him to a bet; letting him win the hundred quid, not by much, so he’d think he earned it. Since then, in my capacity as a supposed logistics guru for Prisons, I’ve helped Sammy get some contraband and favours for friends inside, hurt some enemies, and moved guards and prisoners around at will to further Sammy’s aims. And he pays me well – pity it all goes back into the evidence drawer. He also seems to really like me.
There’s a lot of work gone in to trapping Sammy. He’s flagged as a level three. SOCA – the Serious and Organised Crime Agency – want him locked up for a long time. I was perfect for the job: on the fast track at Greater Manchester Police and fresh back from a training course with the FBI. It’s years since anybody in Sunderland ever heard of me, and even then I was just a pisshead student on the tap. And, last but not least, I went to the same school as Sammy: Monkwearmouth – the Monkeyhouse. I was five years behind him so he doesn’t remember me but that connection is enough. It’s noted in the file, quote: ‘For a nasty piece of work, Pritchard can be remarkably sentimental and trusting.’
‘Put the DVD in, Marty, there’s a good lad.’ We all know Marty is ambitious, and Sammy is jerking his leash. He turns to me. ‘How’s that lad of yours, Nicky?’
He means Paulie. Yes, that’s how low I can go. I’m using my own Down’s syndrome son to build my undercover legend in order to entrap a shitty Sunderland gangster who’ll be replaced by ten others the day he goes down. ‘Aye, champion, Sammy. Thrilled to bits with the season ticket. He’s looking forward to the Man U game on Saturday.’
‘We’ll get hammered.’
‘He doesn’t care. As long as he’s got his Bovril and pie he could be anywhere, he could even be watching Newcastle United.’
‘The Mags? Fuckin’ hell. Little twat does that, I’ll have the season ticket back.’
‘And I’ll have his Bovril and pie an’ all.’
Sammy lifts his Stella and grins.
Movie time. I’ve been in the inner circle for about six months and we’ve already watched it five times. Sammy could recite the dialogue by heart and often does, under his breath; lips moving, face twitching. The movie is Bring Me the Head of Alfredo Garcia. It’s by Sam Peckinpah, the Sultan of Splatter. Here’s the synopsis: an American bartender and his prostitute girlfriend go on a road trip through the Mexican underworld to collect a million-dollar bounty on the head of a gigolo. I sometimes wonder if Sammy’s fixation on it is just because it’s made by another Sammy P. No, there’s more to it than that. Violent retribution is his guiding mantra. Legend has it that when he was a lad in the 1970s, he ran with the Seaburn Casuals, Sunderland’s football hooligan hordes, and excelled himself by thumbing out the eyes of a Newcastle supporter. Sammy would have been about fifteen at the time.
The lights go down and we settle in.
All through the movie, Marty Stringfellow is casting glances my way. Sizing me up. We’re about the same age, same height, same build. I reckon I’m better looking though. He’s been to uni as well – Leicester. If he wasn’t an enforcer for Sammy Pritchard he could have been a middle-manager by now. He doesn’t trust me. He identifies with the bounty-hunting bartender. Me? I’m with Alfredo Garcia, the ill-fated gigolo.
3
New Zealand police don’t routinely carry firearms but I’ve got special dispensation – well, a nod and a wink from the DC, really. I slip the safety off the Glock and slide the screen door open. A shape moves in the gloom.
‘Dad!’ Paulie gives me a hug. He looks down at the gun in my hand, purses his lips and shakes his head. ‘I’d put that away if I were you. You know what Mam’s like.’
He leads me back into the kitchen. There are two blokes with their backs to me and Vanessa is looking happier than I’ve seen her in ages. They turn and smile. Two big Maori lads, forties, nudging fifty maybe, they rise to shake my hand.
‘Steve,’ says one.
‘Gary,’ says the other. My hand is intact, but only just.
‘Tea?’ says Vanessa, pulling a mug towards the pot.
‘Sure.’ I take a seat beside her.
‘Steve and Gary were wondering if the cabin was available for rent.’
We could do with the money, we both know that. Our rainy-day fund for Paulie. ‘What’s your line of work?’ I ask Steve.
‘This and that,’ says Gary for him. ‘We’ve just done five years in Perth, FIFO, but now they’re laying people off. Lovely place, nice beaches, but expensive.’
‘And too fucken hot,’ says Steve. He realises his mistake. ‘Sorry, missus. Sorry about the language.’
Vanessa finishes pouring my tea. ‘We’ve heard worse.’
‘Fucking right,’ says Paulie, lifting his can of Coke Zero.
It breaks the tension. Everybody laughs, even me. ‘And now?’
Gary again. ‘Odd jobs, fixing stuff, fencing, chopping down trees. Whatever’s going.’
I drink some tea. ‘The guns and the dogs?’
‘We hunt sometimes. People buy the meat.’
‘We were thinking a month or two,’ says Vanessa. ‘See how we go.’
We? ‘Was that you guys driving up and down the road the last few nights?’
‘Yep,’ says Gary. ‘Sorry if it spooked you. We’ve been camping up at Butchers Flat but we heard about this place.’ He nods at the badge on my uniform. ‘Took a while to get our nerve up.’
I’m relieved. Me and my paranoia. Vanessa seems happy enough with the idea and the extra presence might be good if Sammy Pritchard does send somebody. I thumb over my shoulder. ‘I don’t want dogs or guns on the property.’
‘No probl
em. There’s someone we can leave them with, down the road.’
‘They can take the dogs but they can’t take you?’
‘Their property isn’t as grand as yours,’ says Gary. ‘Not enough room.’
We agree a price and shake on it. Gary hands over the first month in cash. I shove it in my wallet. ‘Receipt?’
‘No need,’ says Gary.
‘What’s your surnames? I’ll need them for my tax return.’ It’s a lie and we all know it.
‘McCaw,’ says Gary, and spells it out.
‘Lomu,’ says Steve, doing the same. McCaw and Lomu, All Blacks rugby legends, household names. Their eyes twinkle. Say it ain’t so.
We’ve swapped lies. I leave it at that. ‘If it doesn’t work out for any reason you’ll get a refund.’
‘Seems fair,’ says Gary.
They leave to drop off the dogs and guns and pick up their bags.
‘Nice eyes,’ says Vanessa.
‘Steve or Gary?’
‘You,’ she says, squeezing my hand. We plonk Paulie in front of the Play Station and head upstairs to bed.
The phone goes early again. If it’s about McCormack and his damn boat, I swear blood will be spilt.
‘You awake?’ says Latifa.
‘What is it?’ I growl.
‘The DC wants you to come in.’
‘McCormack?’
‘Not this time. They found the missing boy this morning. The one from Nelson.’
‘Alive?’
‘No. They found him on our patch. By the shoe fence just outside town.’ Her voice cracks. ‘Somebody messed him up badly.’
A couple of kilometres south as you drive out of Havelock on State Highway 6 – the road to Blenheim and the vineyards – there’s a stretch of fence on your left. Three wires strung between pine posts, sheep in a paddock and green hills all around. The fence itself probably runs maybe a kilometre along the road but the shoes hang off just a one-hundred-metre stretch: little kids shoes with pink stars and sparkly bits, trainers, wedding shoes, dancing shoes, Sunday best, footy boots, you name it. There must be a thousand pairs, all hanging by their laces. I don’t know the story of how it all started. Maybe there was a car crash and some people died on this notorious stretch of road, and maybe a pair was left in memory. Maybe others were left there later to share the sadness of that day. Maybe even more were left to mark other people’s sadnesses. But most likely they’re there for no reason at all, just to be part of the crowd, some kind of belonging: Havelock’s answer to Facebook.
There’s a white tent erected halfway along and crime-scene tape flapping in the breeze. Uniforms are guarding the perimeter and blocking the road, and Latifa is telling some gawpers to get lost. There are forensics people in their zip-up jimjams sifting the ground and taking photographs. There are detectives with clipboards talking to locals or trying to get signals on their mobiles. They’ll be lucky, it’s pretty patchy out here. The sun is somewhere behind rain clouds; another hour and everyone will be shrugging on the wet-weather gear. Even the DC is here, his prop-forward shoulders straining his police windcheater. He summons me over to talk to one of his detectives.
‘Nick, this is DI Marianne Keegan. Wellington office sent her. She’s running things.’
Wellington? I’m thinking. All the detectives in Tasman and Marlborough on holiday, are they? We shake hands and say hello. She has strong features and looks like she does stuff to keep fit. Her hand is cool and smooth, the grip firm. She seems destined for the big league in a few years and the DC can’t be too far from retirement now. She thanks me for having my team – that’s me and Latifa – help out, and asks for a list of locals we should be talking to, either because they’re gossipy know-it-alls or because they’re possible suspects. ‘Living round here,’ she says, ‘a lot of people have to be hiding from something.’
I detect the hint of a Liverpool accent from way back. ‘Scouser?’
‘Yes, I was, but I’m a detective now. The list asap, hmmm?’ She walks away to issue instructions to a flunky.
‘Found the boat vandal yet?’ asks the DC.
‘No. How much do we know about this kid?’
‘Jamie Riley, six. From Stoke, other side of Nelson. Good family, nice boy by all accounts. He didn’t come home after a swimming lesson out at Richmond, Monday before last. We’ve looked into the parents and relatives and associates and so far all clean as a whistle. They’re genuine, absolutely devastated. Don’t know what’s hit them.’
‘How did he die?’
‘Neck snapped. But there was other damage too. Somebody has had him for a week now.’ He turns to me, he looks angry. ‘Anybody round here top of your list?’
‘Nobody jumps to mind. There’s a few sniffers and flashers but I don’t recall any with violence flags on their record.’
‘Pull them in anyway. Maybe they know something. Maybe they’ve graduated.’ He examines the screen on his warbling mobile. ‘And keep me in the loop on the vandal thing.’
I spend the next couple of hours in the office drawing up a list of sad bastards and busybodies for Detective Inspector Keegan, zapping it through to her email. I offer to have myself or Latifa accompany her team if any local liaison is deemed necessary. She says thanks. By lunchtime I’m peckish and twiddling my thumbs. It’s not what I expected on a day when a child is found murdered on my patch. The phone goes.
‘Sergeant Chester?’
‘Speaking.’
‘Jessie James from the Journal. Latifa said I should call you?’
‘What about?’
‘Well, the murder obviously.’
‘You need to talk to Police Media.’
‘I’m not after a story, silly. I’ve got a tip-off for you.’
‘Go ahead.’
‘There’s a bloke out on the Sounds. You can only get there by boat. He’s got a past.’
‘What kind of past?’
‘Kids. In Australia. He’s from Perth.’
‘How do you know about him?’
‘My boyfriend works on the mail boat. He’s from Perth as well. A few months ago now he thought this guy looked familiar. He checked the name on the letters and then googled him. He got a result. After this morning, I thought you might like to know.’
I reach for a pen. ‘Tell me.’
That rain rolled in and the wind revved up. The police boat came over from Picton to pick us up and now we’re out on the far reaches of Pelorus Sound bumping through the waves on a wet Wednesday afternoon. There’s Marianne, two of her detectives, a handful of ninjas from the Armed Offenders Squad, and there’s me. Coves and islands rear out of the water, sanctuaries for threatened prehistoric lizards and birds that never learned to fly. As we draw near Patrick Smith’s secluded cove, a pod of dolphins skips alongside, and a chopper hovers over the bach, a weatherboard cabin nestled into the folds of a hill.
Patrick is there on his jetty to greet us with a black hairy pig beside him sitting at heel like a dog. Smith doesn’t look particularly like a child molester, no more so than anyone else in Marlborough anyway. I wonder whether the tactical firearms guys were really needed but the Perth police assured us he has a temper. Or maybe they were having a laugh.
‘Patrick,’ says Marianne stepping onto the jetty. He holds out his hand but she ignores it. I don’t blame her. You never get used to the idea of shaking hands with a known kiddie-fiddler.
Having made sure that Smith didn’t go anywhere until we got there, the chopper departs to another job, or a nice hot cup of tea back at base.
‘You’ll be wanting to come in out of the weather,’ says Patrick. Middle-aged and nondescript, he looks and sounds like a private school teacher, which is what he was. Twenty years in one of Perth’s most prestigious; all those parents paying big money to have Patrick buggering their little boys. Over the years a few complained but the school hushed them up until finally they had to let Patrick go, with a nice payout. If it hadn’t been for the Royal Commission he wouldn’t
have had to come here to hide, and Jessie James’ boyfriend wouldn’t have recognised him. The allegation of rough play by one victim has piqued Marianne’s interest. She stalks off towards the bach and the big pig munches on a biscuit, slobber dripping from its bristly gob.
‘He answers to Ginger,’ says Patrick, following my gaze.
‘But he’s black,’ I say.
‘He doesn’t know that. He’s not burdened by other people’s expectations.’
‘They’re waiting for you inside.’
We sit around a pine kitchen table in a cosy, cluttered room with a view over to the nature reserve. A log burner crackles away and the kettle is on but nobody wants anything. The tactical guys are outside having a smoke.
‘We need to take you into the station, Patrick. Get some samples of your spit. Ask a few questions.’ Marianne gazes around the room. ‘You won’t mind if we take a look around?’
‘Do I have a choice in the matter?’
‘Not really.’ She gives him a chilly smile. ‘You might want to pack an overnight bag.’
She designates me to supervise his packing while they tear the place apart. The rain pounds the windows as I watch him fold a couple of shirts.
‘Even somewhere like this, you can’t escape your past,’ he says, putting some undies, socks, and toiletries into a holdall.
‘Yep,’ I say.
‘If you don’t mind me saying, you seem a bit old for this.’
‘Old for what?’
‘Nursemaiding me while they do the real cop work.’
‘Familiar with this routine, are you?’
‘Every few weeks in Perth I’d get the treatment. Then it followed me to Adelaide. Then Hobart.’
