by Alan Carter
‘What the fuck?’ says Shania, dropping her shopping bags and hoisting the toddler into her arms. Mercifully she can’t yet see what’s in the room behind me. ‘Where’s Johnny and who the hell are you?’
A combination of Blenheim and Nelson dicks are dealing with it. Given the company that Johnny kept, everybody’s assuming skanky bogan drug feud and that the emergency call-out was done by the killer, for reasons as yet unknown. Maybe to send some kind of message to someone, or maybe as a twisted kindness to his family so they wouldn’t be the ones to find him. Shania and the toddler, Trayvon, are being looked after by her mum down in Seddon on the coast where the earth trembles regularly.
This is becoming something of a blood-soaked valley and people are shaking their heads and saying this place is going to the dogs. I’m with them and feeling pretty shaky myself. There’s been some real rage unleashed in that house some time in the last several hours. Personal. From the heart. Terrifying. Yet I’ve encountered similar levels of violence on a pensioner abandoned in the stairwell of a Manchester tower block, on a teenager who strayed onto the wrong turf. Not personal. Not from the heart. But just as terrifying in its banality. These incidents build and build until one day you snap over the smallest thing – graffiti on the gable end of an old soldier’s house, a kid crying about his stolen skateboard.
The rumours catch on the wind and swirl through the gorges. Johnny’s linked to the bikies in Nelson, you know. Yeah, but he was a snitch. She’s got an old boyfriend, very violent, very jealous. Wasn’t Johnny a mate of those Maori from the North Island? Remember the one that died? The cop’s place further up, that’s right.
No doubt the squad will be investigating these and other matters over the coming weeks. Tonight at home we’re eating a mushroom omelette made from Charlie Evans’ free-range eggs. It’s delicious but I find myself drifting as Vanessa and Paulie try to engage me in conversation. I think pets might be on the agenda.
‘What? Sorry.’
‘Tune in, Dad,’ says Paulie. ‘Family time.’
Vanessa takes Paulie’s and her plates, and clatters them into the sink. ‘Your dinner’s getting cold.’
35
A bank of dark cloud looms behind the Richmond Ranges to the south and I’m glad. We need water for the tank and I want to see that river bubbling again. It’s early and Paulie is still sleeping. On the back balcony with Vanessa and a plunger of coffee, the sandfly count is low and we’re enjoying the moment. Birds flit among the trees, whistling, beeping.
‘It’s beautiful here,’ says Vanessa. ‘Another world.’
‘It’s not Sunderland, for sure.’
‘Would you stay here if you were on your own?’
‘Probably.’ I can see from Vanessa’s face that it was the wrong answer. ‘You?’
‘No. I’d be too lonely. It would be a terrible place to be lonely in.’
‘Yeah, I can see that.’ I refill both our cups from the plunger. ‘Since we came back I’ve stuffed up a bit, haven’t I?’ She waits. ‘I’ve upset Gary and he’s gone. I’ve become obsessive about the job again.’ She’s still waiting. ‘Sorry.’
Her hand creeps across the table and folds over mine. ‘When we weren’t here, me and Paulie, how did that feel?’
‘Shite.’
She nods. ‘Hold that thought.’
Across the river there’s an explosion of engine roars, metallic sounds. A chainsaw. A few moments later a tree detaches itself from the crowd and topples sideways. The crash vibrates along the valley and through the foundations of our home. The pine plantation opposite us is being logged.
I bang my coffee cup down on the table. ‘Fuck.’
Paulie comes out of his bedroom, sleep-puffed, anxious. ‘What’s that noise?’
Vanessa reassures him and distracts him with breakfast. She can see I’m angry, and that disturbs her more than the land being torn apart.
According to the recorded message, I’ll have to wait until office hours before talking to McCormack Forestry. I seethe all the way down the valley. Passing Johnny Fernandez’s house, the crime scene tape is up and the men and women in blue overalls are pottering about. Further down, Charlie Evans gives me a wave in passing and I acknowledge him with an angry nod. In the office the clock ticks around to nine and I snatch up the phone.
‘I’d like to talk to Mr McCormack.’
‘Who’s speaking please?’
‘Nick Chester, I’m a resident opposite one of your pine operations.’
‘He’s busy.’
‘Tell him who’s calling. He’ll speak to me.’ Because we both know this is as personal as it gets.
Silence. Some hold music. Split Enz. Yeah, me too. I don’t know why sometimes I get frightened either. Well, maybe I can take a guess. A few clicks. ‘Sergeant Chester, what can I do for you this fine morning?’
‘Mister will do, this is a private matter.’
‘You’re able to keep these things separate? Well done.’
‘The plantation across from my property. Your loggers started today. My understanding is that it’s not meant to be harvested for at least another three years.’
‘That’s right but I’ve got men standing idle, they were booked to do the other half of my hill behind Charlie Evans’ place. Because of his silly legal action that’s now on hold, and time is money.’
‘You must have other plantations ahead of the queue before that one near me.’
‘Not in my backyard, eh?’ He covers the mouthpiece and says something to his assistant. ‘Yes, there are others which are more mature and would probably bring a better return. This one is cost neutral at best. But I’m happy to forego the profit if it ruins your day.’
He’s having fun and I can’t do a damn thing about it. ‘Enjoy it while it lasts.’ I slam the phone down.
‘I was going to fetch you a coffee but maybe a chamomile might be better?’ Latifa shrugs off her jacket and hangs it on the hook. ‘What’s up?’
I tell her and she offers a sympathetic smile. ‘There, there. You might have to look out of a different window for a while.’ I decline the tea and she drags up her chair. ‘So tell me about Johnny Fernandez.’
‘Blenheim Ds reckon it’s drug debts.’
An eye roll. ‘They would.’
‘Meaning?’
‘He’s a useless dropkick, too useless to be a player in the drug scene and make somebody that angry. At best he would get a bit of a slap.’
I’m inclined to agree but since when is Latifa au fait with the down and dirty world of Johnny Fernandez?
‘Same iwi,’ she says. ‘Same marae.’
‘I never realised.’
‘Yeah well, he hasn’t got the moko on his face so you’d find it hard to pick him, wouldn’t you?’
I don’t take the bait. ‘So you don’t think it’s drug debts?’
‘Grog debts would be more his style. Or an argument with his mates over who’s got the best dog or the sickest tatt.’
‘He won’t be missed then? No big tangi for him.’
‘Wrong there. He’ll get a fine send-off. Good excuse for a cry and a party.’ Latifa returns to my gripe of the day. ‘It’s not ancient Amazonian rainforest, Sarge, it’s plantation pine, the stuff you burn in your fire, you’d be cold without it. What’s the big drama?’
How do I explain that the destruction left behind after logging – the splinters, the debris, the dust, the devastated landscape – speaks to me of only one thing: death. It brings to mind war zones, plagues, apocalypse. Having lived in fear of my life for the last two years I’m prone to catastrophising. She’ll think I’m nuts and that I really need to find a bit of perspective. Instead I shrug. ‘It can’t be good for the environment and it makes everything look like shit.’
She takes her chair back to her desk. ‘Diddums. You realise your little investigation sideshow just got more difficult?’
I play dumb. ‘Yeah?’
‘McCormack can say you’re just getting bac
k at him for spoiling your view.’
As if I would be so spiteful and petty.
Once again my McCormack vendetta is sidetracked by the demands of the job. The Nelson-Blenheim Ds want Latifa and me to help with the doorknocking up and down the valley. DC Ford drops by in person as I’m pulling up to the crime scene.
‘Another killing. Must be something in the water over here,’ he says. ‘You should get your filters checked.’
‘It should be a three-day job, sir. Johnny didn’t mix with master criminals. Somebody will have left their driver’s licence at the scene, or posted pics on Facebook, or told the bloke next to them in the pub. And they won’t have had a wash yet so the forensics’ll be good.’
‘Do I detect a degree of world-weariness in you, Nick? Everything okay at home?’
‘Fine, thanks.’ I don’t mention the logging and don’t mention that, in my mind at least, McCormack is shaping up as a prime suspect for the Pied Piper murders. ‘How’s the Riley-Reza investigation proceeding?’ They haven’t formally and publicly linked it with Prince Haruru yet.
‘Bogged.’
‘What about the results of the hypnotism session on the boy’s aunt?’
‘The vineyard workers at the nearby table were backpackers and they’ve all fucked off somewhere else. That’s going to take an age to work through. The vineyard didn’t have them on the books, they were cash in hand. They were kipping in a caravan on site, so no backpacker hostel records of them. There’s no CCTV in the tavern going that far back. We know now that Bernie Webster wasn’t one of the four blokes at that table and so far efforts to track down the others have failed.’
‘Marlborough Tennis Club?’
‘Had a break-in a short while back and the place got trashed and a few trophies got nicked. Laptops ditto. Their membership is extensive, a couple of hundred, but we only have this year’s list which was on a thumb drive the secretary kept at home for the mailings.’
‘The Perth and Rockhampton cases?’
He squints at me. ‘For a fringe-dweller you seem remarkably well-informed.’
‘Professional interest.’
‘I’m not up to date with where they’re at.’
But he is. There’s been a development, it’s written all over his face. I nod at the crime scene. ‘DI Keegan isn’t interested in this case?’
‘Why would she be? Like you said, three-day job at best.’ He checks the time on his mobile and feels in his pocket for the car keys. ‘All good on the home front? Vanessa and Paulie?’
‘As I said. Hunky-dory.’
‘Great. I’m glad that Sunderland business is all over.’
‘Aren’t we all?’
‘And I’m glad you’re still with us. We need blokes like you around here.’
‘Thanks, sir.’
‘This is your home now, right?’
‘Right.’
Up and down the valley Johnny Fernandez’s neighbours express shock and horror, but no actual surprise, at his untimely demise. That poor girl and the bub, they say. Shania has been cleared, she was having an interview at the Blenheim Work and Income office at pretty much the time Johnny exited this life. Nobody saw or heard anything unusual. No strangers or unfamiliar vehicles on the road. Nothing. The lead investigator, Detective Will Maxwell, is a stocky ginger-headed Blenheim boy, born and bred, and we’ve shared the odd wry comment at police socials.
‘Those two Maori fellas that were living at your place. Johnny knew them, didn’t he?’
‘I believe so, yes.’
‘One of them got killed by that English nutter?’
‘Yeah.’
‘The other one, what happened to him?’
‘He was badly hurt too. He’s gone off somewhere now. Sort himself out.’
‘When was that?’
‘A few days ago.’ We check and confirm exact dates.
‘Any idea where?’
‘Nah.’
‘He didn’t tell you? I thought you were mates.’
I lift my face to the pale sunshine. ‘He’s his own man.’
‘Gary. Gary, what was it again?’
‘McCaw.’
‘McCaw, right.’
‘That’s what he told me.’
‘And you have no reason not to believe him.’
‘Like I said, I’m not his keeper.’
‘Fair enough.’
‘Why are you asking?’
‘There’s a Gary in the victim’s mobile phone records.’ He tells me the number and yes, we’re talking about the same bloke. ‘Lot of calls between the two the last few weeks.’
‘They were mates.’
‘Including one an hour before Fernandez was killed. A missed call, given that Johnny was out of range.’
‘From Gary’s number?’ A nod. ‘Got a location on it?’
‘Blenheim.’
I need to have my peace, my reckoning. Utu.
It’s hard to believe that Gary could be involved but he was in a very dark place before he left.
I’ve got a list that goes way back.
I leave Detective Maxwell to his deliberations and we exchange promises: he will keep me in the loop and I will let him know if Gary gets in touch. Only maybe I won’t.
At home I look out across the river and see they’ve ripped out about a quarter of the small block they’ve chosen to log. The pines that once swayed in the wind like a gospel choir are now piled up ready for trucking out. What was green and lush is now brown and dusty, and there are splinters left standing that seem to heighten the devastation, like photographs of First World War battlefields after an offensive or a gas attack.
‘It’ll grow back, it’s only pine, better than logging old growth, surely.’ Have Vanessa and Latifa been talking? ‘Those hills further down the valley. They’ve already got green shoots.’ Vanessa steers me towards a window where the vista is unscathed. ‘Look at that. How glorious is that?’
But I’m compelled to focus on the bad stuff. It’s in my DNA. I try to put it into words but they fail me.
Vanessa shakes her head. ‘In Sunderland you had brick houses front, back, and sides. Reach out the window and you could touch them. You had a neighbour who drilled and hammered all day long until we wondered what the fuck was left for him to fix.’
‘Mum,’ says Paulie. ‘We’ll have to get a swear jar.’
She points her finger at him playfully. ‘Bloody shut your cakehole.’ He loves it. Back to me. ‘If you could put up with that there, how come you’re such a precious perfectionist here?’
‘Because I’m powerless to stop it.’
‘A-ha! The crux of the issue, m’lud. My learned friend is a fucking control freak …’
‘Mum!’
‘He doesn’t give two hoots about the environment and airy-fairy crap like that. He just wants everybody to fit in with him.’
She’s smiling, I am too, Paulie is catching on. ‘Busted,’ I say.
But later as we’re chopping vegies together for the dinner she turns to me with a sharp knife in her hand. ‘It’s not up to me to salvage your fragile mood every bloody day, Nick.’ She chops savagely on a courgette. ‘Grow some.’
36
Havelock Marina. It came to me in the night. Yesterday’s promised rain didn’t arrive until the small hours and as I lay there listening to the patter on the tin roof and to Vanessa snoring softly, I found these things in common. The Havelock Marina is where McCormack’s car called in after the circuit of Prince Haruru’s marae five years ago and it is where I was summoned by McCormack the day before Jamie Riley’s body was found out by the shoe fence. Havelock Marina is conveniently located between where Prince Haruru was found in Linkwater and where Jamie Riley was found on the outskirts of town.
Today I will look for a link between the marina and the murder of Qadim Reza and study again the security CCTV footage sent to me by the diligent IT bloke over there. Derek, that was him, Derek with the tidy emails. The cloud hangs low over the hills and t
he river has more bubble to it. The clouds and gloom soften the vista of the logged hill. It’s a trick of the light here: things that seem ugly under a bright unforgiving sun improve behind the cold veil of a rainy day, and vice versa. Sometimes it’s just a matter of attitude. Vanessa eyes me warily over her toast.
‘Is today a tick or a cross?’
‘We usually do them at the end of a day.’
‘New regime,’ she says, scraping the last of the marmalade out. ‘You get to decide straight away what kind of day you’re going to have.’ She crunches. ‘So what is it?’
Her expression offers little room for manoeuvre. ‘A tick, I guess.’
‘Good boy.’ She reaches for the calendar and hands me a pen. I do as I’m told. ‘Have a nice day, love.’ She gives me a big marmaladey kiss then goes to sort Paulie out.
I take care on the wet and winding road down the valley. Passing Johnny Fernandez’s house, I give Detective Maxwell’s team a wave. Back in mobile range, there’s a call from Maxwell himself.
‘Did you know Gary and Johnny have a history?’
‘What kind of history?’
‘Bad blood.’
It doesn’t fit with a guy who was prepared to stable Gary’s guns and dogs while he lived at my place. You’d assume they were getting on. ‘Tell me more.’
He spins me a convoluted tale involving drug debts, Nelson bikies, some Maori gang on the North Island that had it in for Gary. ‘Apparently Johnny let them know where to find him.’
‘When was all this meant to have happened?’
‘About a year ago. And for your information he’s not Gary McCaw, his real name is Gary Farr. Two r’s.’
‘Where are you getting all this scuttlebutt from? The bar of the Trout?’
‘Steady on, Nick. This is intelligence from the Nelson drug boys. Rock solid.’
‘It’s bullshit. Fernandez was looking after hunting guns and dogs for Gary right up until about two months ago.’
‘That’s the thing,’ says Maxwell. ‘Gary only found out that Johnny snitched on him about a month ago. You were overseas then, weren’t you?’
