Marlborough Man

by Alan Carter

  ‘Big meal,’ says Latifa.

  I point to the code allocated by the finance department. ‘It’s an informant. Rogers has treated him or her to a feed and slung them some cash.’

  Crosschecking with his case and incident reports a week later, we see there is a drug raid on a house in central Blenheim that nets a good haul. Rogers gets the credit. We return to the expenses claim. The dinner partner is given an initial – L.

  ‘L?’ says Latifa. ‘For the record, it’s not me.’

  Then there’s a leave request three months later. A month after Prince has been found dead. It’s for a week in February just after the schools have gone back. Rogers is obliged to give a contact number in case something big comes up and he’s needed. There’s no mobile coverage where he’s going so he provides a landline number and an address for a bach in the Sounds.

  ‘Linkwater. Where Prince was found.’

  ‘Is L for Linkwater?’ wonders Latifa. The bach is owned by a property developer, Bernard Webster. ‘Tangaroa?’

  ‘He fits the bill better than the dropkicks Rogers usually deals with.’

  Again we crosscheck with the incident reports. A domestic four months earlier. That’s a month before the dinner with informant L. Reports of a disturbance at the Webster household in – wait for it – Renwick. Uniforms attend and register a complaint from a bashed-up Mrs Webster. Des Rogers does the follow-up. Mrs Webster withdraws her complaint and the matter is subsequently dropped.

  ‘Look at this.’ Latifa swings her screen around to show the licence registrations. ‘Webster has a boat.’ Sailing around the Sounds, I’m thinking, and hiding in a thousand coves and inlets.

  I run him through the database. ‘No convictions. But an average of three or four domestic violence complaints lodged per year by Mrs Webster.’ The later complaints also allude to violence and inappropriateness with the children.

  ‘Inappropriateness?’ says Latifa.

  ‘No details provided.’

  Under the circumstances, it’s enough for a chat with DI Keegan.

  There are simultaneous raids on the Renwick home, the Linkwater bach, the Blenheim offices, and the Picton marina berth of Webster’s boat, Prospero. The Armed Offenders Squad is spread pretty thin. The priority is the boat and the secluded bach. If Qadim Reza is anywhere he’ll be at one of these places, out of the way. It doesn’t stop us looking for dungeons at the Renwick home though.

  Webster himself has his head ducked into the back of a police car and is driven to the Blenheim station. His wife seems bemused but hardly surprised. Maybe she has always had her doubts. The kids are at school so they don’t know anything yet. Mrs Webster is allowed to bring them home so they don’t hear the news from anyone else first. In the absence of any other leads, DI Keegan is stoked.

  ‘According to the Freaks Hotline, Qadim has been sighted anywhere from Stewart Island to the Coromandel. This …’ she waves at the departing car, ‘is good news. Good work, guys.’ She pats Latifa on the shoulder and misses the glare it provokes.

  We’re invited to observe the interview over the video link in the adjoining room. Marianne wants us to feed lines through her earpiece as she hasn’t got time to do the usual pre-interview prep. Qadim Reza is on borrowed time.

  Webster is tall, thin, and pasty like the mystery bloke in the Wood-bourne Tavern, which is a good start. Apparently his value as an informant was derived from the string of low-end properties rented out by one of his real estate businesses. Half of them subsequently raided as P labs. If any tenants got too troublesome, Webster got his mate Rogers to move them on. Beth from the marae has taken a look at him through the one-way glass and thinks maybe he was among the gang of drinkers with Des Rogers that night. Maybe not. But is he the one who smells of money, tangaroa? Is he the one who fills her with pōuri, darkness?

  ‘Dunno,’ she says, shrugging and turning away. ‘It’s like Men in Black where they have that pen that flashes and makes people forget they’ve seen aliens, you know?’

  Latifa circles her forefinger around her temple. ‘Lady Fucken Gaga from way back,’ she mutters when Beth has gone home.

  DI Keegan is undeterred, she doesn’t have the choice to be anything else. She’s got Benson beside her and across the table Webster sits with his lawyer, a bloke called Mark.

  ‘Tell us where Qadim is, Mr Webster.’

  ‘Who?’

  Mark the Lawyer seems bemused. ‘Are you referring to the missing child, DI Keegan ?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And what makes you think my client has anything to do with that?’

  ‘If you stop interrupting you’ll find out.’

  Mark isn’t used to being talked to like this, he reminds me of McCormack’s fop, Sebastian something or other. Theirs is more usually the world of corporate law; crime is for the proles. Bernard Webster however, wants to be helpful.

  ‘I’m sorry, I don’t know where the poor boy is. If I did, I would tell you. It’s dreadful, it really is.’

  ‘Your property at Linkwater. It’s less than two hundred metres from where a young boy was found drowned five years ago.’

  ‘I do vaguely remember that, yes. Are you saying the two are linked? And that Riley boy too, out by the fence? My god.’

  It’s a good performance.

  We’ve got the techs going over the GPS navigators for his car and boat to see where he’s been lately. Unfortunately neither go back five years, he only has the latest models.

  ‘Are you able to account for your movements at the following times and dates?’ Keegan slides a single printed sheet of A4 across the table.

  Lawyer and suspect study it. ‘Five years ago is a long time to remember but I can have my PA check my old diaries if you like.’ Keegan says yes, she would like. But what about more recently? ‘On both of those other dates I was here, in the region, living and working as normal.’

  She asks him to give as full an account as possible that will be checked and challenged in subsequent interviews. He gives it. And the clock ticks by. Does he remember Des Rogers sexually harassing a barmaid at the Woodbourne Tavern one night five years ago? Er, no.

  ‘Time for a bit of waterboarding,’ says Latifa. ‘He’s playing with us.’

  ‘All we know so far is that he’s a wife-beater who had Des Rogers for a pal. Jumping to conclusions doesn’t help anyone, least of all Qadim.’

  ‘Thank you, Obi-Wan.’

  Keegan asks Webster about the domestic violence allegations, and the allusions of inappropriateness with their pre-teen children.

  ‘My wife is highly strung. She makes wild accusations one day then retracts them the next. You’ll see from the record nothing is ever pursued, and social services don’t show any interest.’

  ‘What does she mean by inappropriateness?’

  ‘Ask her.’

  The lawyer, Mark. ‘Is that all you have? Baseless allegations from a hysterical woman?’

  Latifa is right. This is an interview style based on past events which require a reckoning – it’s not the way to deal with a current and ongoing threat. According to the clock on the wall it’s three forty-five on Friday afternoon. Fair enough, as long as Webster is here in custody then he’s not doing anything to the little boy. But if he’s the wrong man we’re wasting precious moments. Meanwhile, I’m expecting to be visited in the next few days by Marty Stringfellow who carries vengeance in his veins and something sharp in his hand. He dies or I die. Whatever the outcome, I can’t see my career surviving. I’ve got nothing to lose.

  ‘Where’s the kid?’ It’s taken nine steps from the adjoining room to bring me here. I’ve pulled Webster’s chair over backwards and I’m crouched over him with my Glock in his ear. I’ve found this roar within me that I didn’t know existed. ‘Where is he!’

  The room is quiet, the lawyer has gone rigid. DI Keegan is no doubt calculating how long she can let this run before doing the right thing.

  ‘For the last time.’ I start to pull the
trigger.

  ‘Oh god,’ Webster is sobbing. ‘Dear god.’

  He pisses himself.

  Footsteps down the corridor and it’s my mates from the Armed Offenders Squad. From behind his mask one of them says, ‘Hang on. Weren’t you the fella with the eel?’

  I drop my gun, kneel, and put my hands behind my head.

  I’m suspended. It didn’t wash that there were no bullets in the gun.

  ‘At least we can probably eliminate Webster from our immediate inquiries,’ I point out. ‘He’s got questions to answer but I don’t think he’s our Prince of Darkness.’

  ‘Nice choice of words,’ says Latifa, sourly. She’s off up to the community to keep on chipping away at fading memories and old resentments.

  DI Keegan is philosophical and inclined to agree. He seems too much of a fainty weakling to be doing something this bad. Hardly scientific but we’ve both been around long enough to trust our intuition. ‘It was worth a punt. Not in the training manual but definitely worth a punt.’ For her it’s back to square one and we all see Qadim slipping away.

  DC gives me the same look I got from Sammy Pritchard when he was led out of the dock for his ten-year stretch. How did he get me so wrong? He arrived in Blenheim just as I was having my handcuffs removed by the AOS so I could sign the receipt to get my belongings back.

  ‘What were you thinking, Nick?’

  At home there’s a message on the answering machine. Vanessa. ‘The Chinese VIP arrives tomorrow so we’ve got to get out.’ She sighs. ‘I don’t think it’s going to work, love. I don’t feel we’re going anywhere except around in circles.’ Don’t hold back, I’m thinking. ‘David has arranged for Paulie and me to get away for a while longer. I can’t say where.’

  Paulie is in the background saying, ‘Is that Dad? When’s he coming home?’

  There’s a crack in her voice. ‘The DC is really hoping you and I can work this through. He’s got more faith in us than I have.’

  Beep, beep, beep. And that’s it.

  I shower and try to keep it down to two minutes to conserve water but it takes a minute to stop being freezing. Out of uniform and into civvies, I pull on the thick TV socks Vanessa knitted for me, the kind that are all the rage in nursing homes. The kettle goes on. Steve and Gary are at the door. Steve has a big grin on his face.

  ‘Daughter’s coming down from the North next week, bringing the kids. She’s taking them out of school for a few days.’

  ‘Is that a good idea?’

  He frowns. ‘They’re pretty bright kids. They should catch up okay.’

  ‘I meant with Marty due here any time now.’

  The grin returns. ‘Oh, him. Yeah, we’ll take care of him first then she can come down. Sweet as.’

  If only it were that simple. ‘Great,’ I say. ‘Cup of tea?’

  They come in. Gary wants to know why I’m home early, so I tell him about my adventures with Bernie Webster. He laughs. ‘You’re out of control.’ But we’re sharing the same terrible fears for Qadim Reza.

  The tea is poured and there are bikkies in the tin. Steve takes three.

  ‘You know, I still think there’s something in what that woman from the marae said.’

  ‘Beth?’

  He waves his biscuit in confirmation. ‘Powerful things, dreams. She’s seen the killer alright, she just can’t remember who the fuck he is. Give her a while.’

  It’s something Qadim doesn’t have. ‘Here’s hoping.’

  We lift our mugs in a sombre toast.

  ‘So,’ says Gary. ‘Marty Badfellow.’

  I had been hoping for word from the DC that Marty had slipped into New Zealand, perhaps via Oz, after a few days in Bali. That he had been detained at Immigration with a bagful of weapons and a nasty To Do list with my name on it. Then we could lock him up and take him out of play. But nothing. Maybe he does have false papers. If so, then he retains the element of surprise.

  ‘Guard duty roster again?’ says Gary.

  ‘S’pose so,’ I say. ‘I’ll take first shift.’

  We throw some food together and watch the early evening news. The Aussies have progressed from locking up asylum seekers on Christmas Island to locking up bad Kiwis there, prior to deportation back to Godzone.

  ‘Well it was sitting empty after the boats stopped,’ says Steve. ‘You have to do something. Be a waste otherwise.’

  ‘Send all the bad people back where they came from, huh?’ Gary ladles some baked beans onto our plates of fry-up. ‘Shoulda done it two hundred years ago.’

  We let Richie the mastiff out of his cage for a run. He’s used to me now and less likely to tear my throat out, but I still stiffen every time he bares those teeth. We give him the scrapings from our plates but he’s not interested. Low energy and no appetite. He seems lost without Sonny Boy, or am I just projecting my own issues onto him? Now the clocks have done their daylight saving thing it’s still light well after eight. Nobody is tired. We’re all hyper and trying not to show it. Gary takes his axe and chops some firewood. Steve mends some holes in his eel net.

  ‘How old are the grandkids?’ I ask him, to fill the jumpy silence.

  ‘Four, seven, and nine. All girls: Scarlett, Ginger and Ruby.’

  ‘Redheads?’

  ‘Nah.’

  ‘Your daughter work?’

  ‘Part-time at that big DIY place. They’ve got her on this contract that says she’s got to make herself available all the time even if they haven’t got any work for her.’

  ‘What happens while she’s down here with you and the kids?’

  ‘Fuck knows. Breach of contract I suppose.’

  ‘Looking forward to seeing them?’

  ‘Yeah, of course.’

  There’s a car engine in the distance, somebody coming up the valley. We’ve all heard it and we carry on like it’s probably nothing. But muscles have tensed, knuckles whiten, jaws clench. I recognise the car. It’s just the new bloke from up the road.

  ‘How’s Vanessa going then?’ says Steve. ‘And the boy. Seen them lately?’

  ‘No.’ He can see from my face that, for me, it’s all over.

  ‘Shame. I was going to take you and Paulie out eeling when the grandkids get here.’

  ‘Another time maybe.’

  He nods. ‘When me and my missus split up nobody was surprised. Especially not us.’ He tightens off a dangling thread on his patched net and examines his handiwork. ‘Awesome, if I don’t say so myself.’ He returns his attention to me. ‘You don’t see it but we do. You and Vanessa, underneath all the shit that’s going on, you’ve got something that’s strong.’

  ‘Based on what? The few days you were here before she left me?’

  He registers the harshness in my voice. ‘We talked sometimes when you were out at work. Yeah, she’s angry but only because you keep locking her out.’ He puts his hand over his heart. ‘What she feels for you and what you feel for her. Tau o te ate. Soul mates. It’s the truth.’

  My eyes have blurred. I really want to believe him but it feels too late, I’ve already fucked things up too much. ‘Getting cold,’ I say. ‘Going to get a jumper.’

  The stars are out in their millions and the wind has dropped. It’s a half moon but bright enough to cast shadows of the bushes and trees and the edges of buildings. Steve and Gary are asleep and Richie the all-black mastiff snuffles wakefully in the tray of the ute blocking the driveway. I’ve set the cat trap again as there are still at least two more out there: a large brown-black tom and a smaller grey one. A stoat has stopped by, squeezed in under the trigger bars, eaten the tomcat’s sardines and fucked off.

  27

  ‘Morning, sunshine.’

  Marty.

  He’s behind me. I twist my head, try to turn. Why can’t I move? A bike lock, round my neck and through the boards of the fence. My hands are behind me, cable-tied. I turn as far as I can. I’m wet all over. A smell. Petrol.

  ‘Sleep well?’

  There he is, dr
essed in designer outdoors gear, kitted up like Bear Grylls, and wiping his knife clean on a bit of cloth.

  How could this have happened?

  I fell asleep. I must have. But more, my head hurts and my left eye is blurred and gummed. Gary is lying on the gravel, over to my right, trussed up and gagged; there is a lot of blood on him. Some will be drippage from the terrible facial wounds. Some may be from his body, I can see tears in the shirt and fresher blood running there. No Steve. The dog? Can’t see him either. I feel for my gun but of course it’s gone.

  ‘I can see why you like it here.’ Marty looks around appreciatively. ‘You can yodel through the hills with a knapsack on your back. All that shite.’ He nudges Gary with the toe of his hiking boot but there’s no sign of life. ‘Maori fella? Does he do that war dance they do before the rugby?’ He briefly goes into a half-crouch, sticks his tongue out and bulges his eyes. ‘Class that. Love it.’

  ‘Is he dead?’

  Marty kicks him hard and Gary groans. ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Leave him. It’s me you came for.’

  He shakes his head. ‘I’m disappointed. I was looking forward to meeting the lovely Vanessa. And that funny little lad of yours, what’s his name again?’

  He doesn’t need me to tell him. I try again. ‘Leave him. He’s got nothing to do with this.’

  ‘He’s here, he’s with you.’ Another savage kick. ‘He’s involved.’

  ‘The other bloke. Where’s he?’

  ‘The other Maori lad? Gone to meet his maker.’ He takes out a cigarette and fires it up. Lets the flame flicker a while before closing the lighter. I try pulling with my neck at the bike lock, maybe I can snap it through the wooden board, but nothing budges.

  ‘Piss-weak, twat.’ The words are for both him and me.