Marlborough Man

by Alan Carter

  ‘So what if Johnny told this North Island mob where he was? Gary’s still around, isn’t he? They didn’t get him. So it’s of no account. Not worth murdering for.’

  ‘They firebombed his house up there just before last Christmas. Gary was down at the pub. His wife and kids were inside, never got out.’

  There was a fire. Couldn’t get to ’em in time.

  I have to admit. That’s worth killing for.

  On my way into the office, I try Gary’s number. It’s switched off or out of range so I leave a message for him to call me, acting official and cop-like and mentioning Johnny’s death. I need to be careful about my contact with Gary. There will be questions about whose side I’m on.

  The Fernandez inquiry doesn’t need me today. Not because there’s no work to be done. There are still more doors to knock on but Maxwell would prefer me at arm’s-length as speculation builds around Gary. Gary Farr, two r’s.

  In the office Constable Rapata is bored, tapping her nails on the desk. ‘How’s the view today?’ I can only take so much of Latifa’s needling. I tell her I’m off down to the marina but she can give Maxwell a call to see if he can use her. ‘Sorry for breathing,’ she huffs.

  Derek from Marina IT is waiting for me. He has large, blinking eyes, like a possum, and I wonder if he might be nocturnal. I give him some dates relevant to the Qadim Reza case.

  ‘What’s your interest? DI Keegan hasn’t been in touch regarding these dates.’

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘I’ve just had a couple of other complaints about theft and vandalism that have been lying on my desk while I was on leave. I’m tidying up some old paperwork.’

  Tidying. I’m talking his language. Derek looks pensive. ‘There were no complaints to the marina about theft and vandalism at that time but that doesn’t always happen anyway.’

  A thought occurs to me. ‘Would you have kept CCTV from five years ago?’

  ‘Five years ago? Why?’

  ‘There was a reference to a vandalism case back then when I ran a computer crosscheck.’

  Computer crosschecking. He likes that too, he edges his chair closer to me. ‘If it was up to me I’d store every last bit of information about everything forever.’ He sniffs. ‘But my predecessor was Mr Delete and Re-use. Sorry.’

  So we stick with the more recent stuff. As a starting point, I’m interested in the day Qadim was found, and anything up to forty-eight hours before that. My focus is on the camera beside the berth for Serenity II, McCormack’s catamaran. I can see immediately that the tarp has gone and the offending graffiti removed. It looks good as new. In the twenty-four hours leading up to Qadim being found in the Wairau Valley vineyard, there is no movement in relation to Serenity II. The boat doesn’t move and nobody comes to visit it.

  On the day before that, the tarp is still in place and a man in overalls pulls up in a ute around ten a.m. There’s a sign on the ute door that tells us he paints for a living. A few minutes later McCormack rolls up in his BMW. He inspects the craftsman’s work, declares himself satisfied, and they shake hands after a brief conversation. The craftsman leaves first. McCormack steps back onboard his vessel and slowly walks its length and back again like he’s looking for something. Only he has his head in the air. He’s not looking for something, he’s smelling for something. He stops. He’s found it. He goes inside and opens a window, comes back on deck, sits down and takes out his mobile. He’s looking directly at the CCTV camera while he speaks on the phone. Then he gets in his car and drives away.

  ‘What do you make of that?’ I say to Derek.

  ‘Nice boat.’

  That’s the point about the trappings of wealth and success. Folks see what they want to see: the boat, the car, the house, the jewels. It’s the things that come to matter and those who possess these things can be rendered invisible, mythic. And that suits some people very well.

  So, for all three cases, McCormack is at Havelock Marina in the lead up to the discovery of the bodies. It’s pretty loose. He’s a rich boatie: why wouldn’t he be hanging around a marina? Derek gives me a thumb drive full of the CCTV footage and I call in to the bakery for a pie and a coffee on my way back to base.

  In the office there’s a yellow stickie from Latifa telling me she’s out for the rest of the day. I power up the computer and go back to the original thumb drive Derek sent through for the graffiti call-out. No, nothing has changed. It’s early morning and McCormack pulls up in the beemer and the glamour couples emerge: Dickie and Sebastian and two long-legged women. They unpack picnic stuff from the boot while the boys ready the boat. McCormack finds the graffiti and throws his hands up in anger. Everybody looks suitably shocked and outraged. McCormack phones the cops while his companions pack away the picnic gear. Sebastian Ryan, the snooty lawyer, disappears for fifteen minutes and returns with a cardboard tray of takeaway coffees. They get back in the flash car while McCormack deals with the bolshie cop who turns up five minutes later.

  I haven’t seen the footage leading up to the following day when Jamie Riley was discovered. That was sent to DI Keegan , who found nothing of interest. But she wasn’t looking for the same thing. If I call Derek and ask for a copy, will that trigger questions I don’t want to answer yet? Probably. Outside, the main drag is deserted as people keep out of the drizzle that has descended on the town. It’s easy to imagine grudges festering in this place. I’m running one against McCormack and he’s returning the favour, even if it means taking lesser profits on an unmatured harvest just to piss me off. Uncle Walter sometimes seems like he’s carrying two hundred years’ worth. And Gary. Yep, he’s got his list too.

  It’s early afternoon. I can’t move any further on the footage, short of examining it over and over again, and my utu is too lazy and ill-disciplined for that. What was DC Ford holding back on the Perth and Rockhampton cases? Those other kids who met terrible fates? I call DI Keegan’s extension at Nelson HQ but it rings out. Re-dial and Benson answers one of the other lines.

  ‘She’s not here.’

  ‘Where is she?’

  ‘What’s it to you?’

  I tell him to forget it and he assures me he will. Next, her mobile. She answers, sounding sleepy. ‘Late night?’

  She grunts. ‘My plane was delayed and didn’t get in until after midnight and my alarm went off at the wrong time.’ A rustling. ‘Shit.’

  ‘I’m guessing you’re on Perth time?’

  ‘You’d make a good detective.’ A hacking cough forces me to hold the phone away from my ear. Maybe she needs to give up smoking. ‘What do you want?’

  I’m very tempted to share my speculations about McCormack but can’t chance it, not yet. ‘The DC mentioned there might have been some developments.’

  ‘Did he? To you? Why?’

  ‘I think he’s got a soft spot for me.’

  ‘So have I,’ she says. ‘But this is business.’

  ‘Don’t feel like sharing?’ I can be flirty too when the need arises.

  ‘No. Tell me about this new atrocity in that dark valley of yours.’

  ‘Fernandez. Low life. Drug thing. Nothing to it,’ I lie. ‘Quid pro quo, Dr Lecter.’

  ‘Pushy. There was nothing to Rockhampton, I dropped it. But there’s a possible link between the Perth case and ours.’

  ‘Possible?’

  ‘They uncovered another dirty old men’s club last month. File sharing, chat rooms, live streaming, that sort of thing. The dead boy was linked to one of the people on the membership list.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘There was somebody else further down that same membership list: our old mate Patrick Smith, the schoolboys’ friend.’

  ‘Live streaming? I doubt the broadband coverage in the Sounds would be up to it.’

  ‘Admittedly he’s dropped off the distribution list since he came to New Zealand. No pings for a long time.’

  ‘So what takes you to Perth? They could email this stuff to you.’

  ‘A confidential chat about what�
��s not on Patrick Smith’s record.’

  Me and McCormack. Gary and his utu list. Uncle Walter and history. DI Keegan and Patrick Smith. And of course there was Sammy and Marty. A magic roundabout of people who won’t let go.

  In the absence of anything better to do, I check the overnight incident log. We’re meant to look in at the beginning of each day but I was at the marina all morning and don’t know whether Latifa checked it before she went off to help out on the Fernandez doorknock. Scrolling down, there are few surprises. Blenheim is getting a name for cases where young men are caught with meat in their trousers: lamb chops from the Pak’nSave, hot roast chickens from Countdown, sausages from New World. A social scientist would see this as canary-in-the-mine stuff. A warning that society is on the downward slide and that more should be done for the job prospects of ordinary young Marlburians. More firewood thefts: ditto. Another campervan down a ravine. A tourist bashed and robbed. Some forestry machinery vandalised. No, it wasn’t me.

  My mobile goes. An unidentified number. ‘Yes?’

  Gary’s voice. ‘You rang?’

  ‘Did you hear about Johnny Fernandez?’

  ‘Yeah, I heard about that.’

  ‘The investigating officer, Maxwell, would like a word.’

  ‘Yeah, he left a message.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Bit busy.’

  ‘Did you have anything to do with it, Gary?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I heard about your family and the fire. If it was me …’

  ‘But you’re not, Nick. I had nothing to do with this.’

  ‘So come in, tell the truth.’

  ‘And justice will prevail, eh?’

  ‘If they have to come looking for you, it’ll be worse.’

  ‘Look after yourself, Nick. You and your family. Good people. You mean well.’

  He’s gone. I try calling back but the phone is switched off.

  Half an hour later Detective Maxwell is in the office. ‘You’ve been talking to Gary Farr?’

  They’re either monitoring Gary and his spare phones, or they’re monitoring me. ‘Yep, I was just about to call you.’

  ‘Is he coming in?’

  ‘Didn’t sound like it. But you’d know if you’re monitoring his calls. And mine.’

  A smile. ‘We’re trying to get a trace on him, you know how it works.’

  ‘So you know I called him earlier and left a message.’

  ‘Yeah, thanks for that.’ Maxwell’s got something on his mind. He’s wondering whether to share it. ‘We’ve got his DNA in the Fernandez house.’

  ‘You would have. They were mates, at least until a few weeks ago.’ Maxwell won’t tell me how significant the traces are. ‘So where is Gary? Do you know?’

  ‘The last phone contact I told you about was in Blenheim, yesterday. This one today looks like he’s over in Wellington.’

  ‘You weren’t watching the ferry or the airport?’

  A withering look. ‘Nah, didn’t think of that. He’ll have mates with boats. My guess is he’s headed to Palmy to sort out the blokes that bombed his house.’

  ‘He told me he had nothing to do with what happened to Fernandez.’

  ‘Fingers crossed? Hope to die? Well that’s alright then, good as gold.’ He pulls up a chair. ‘Nick, some friendly advice. Don’t get caught with shit on your shoe. People won’t want to be near you.’

  Heading back up the valley, it’s very still and the clouds are lifting. Across the river they’ve ripped out another couple of hundred square metres of my view and gone home for the day. Paulie and Vanessa are waiting for me with a look that suggests they’ve been plotting.

  ‘We want goats,’ says Vanessa.

  ‘Yeah,’ says Paulie. ‘Two. Both girls, because boy-goats smell.’

  A plate of cake is pushed my way and followed up with a can of beer. ‘And chickens.’

  ‘Okay,’ I say. The cake is delicious.

  Vanessa nods. ‘And we want you to take care of it.’

  ‘Yeah,’ chimes in Paulie. ‘Quick smart.’

  I can see it all before me. The job list from hell: fixing fences, sourcing materials and livestock, food, vet stuff, researching what the fuck you do with them. Being outside in the rain, feeding them, finding the lost ones, hanging out with the sandflies. It’s another bloody tipping point, I can tell by Vanessa’s determined expression.

  ‘Okay,’ I say. ‘Sounds great.’

  Paulie punches the air. ‘Woo hoo, get in!’

  Vanessa has been to the library and brought back a guide to self-sufficient living. She hands it to me. ‘Chapters ten and twelve. You get reading. I’m making a roast for dinner. Okay?’

  ‘Woo hoo,’ I say. ‘Get in.’

  37

  It’s a clear and crisp Saturday, perfect for traffic duty. Before going into work I stop by the DIY place down by the marina. It’s a big list: chicken wire, nails, wood, rope, tarp, chain, guttering, et cetera. Apparently goats are gregarious animals but they don’t like rain or cold and they need to be well fenced in. The saying goes that goats spend twenty-three hours a day planning their escape and the last hour executing it. As for chickens, don’t get me started. Handing over the credit card, I wince at the damage and load the stuff into the back of the Toyota. They don’t have the tarp and rope and advise me to try the marine supply shop on the main street.

  There, they have exactly what I need. It’s boatie heaven, this is the place to come and splice your mainbrace. There’s a bunch of photographs on the wall behind the salty sea dog who’s serving me.

  ‘What’s that about?’

  He glances up at the pics and turns back to me like I’ve just got a bit personal with him. ‘Skippering service. If the boaties want to park up at Picton or Nelson or wherever, we’ll bring their boat back here for them. Or if they just want a day with their pals on the water getting pissed, we’ll do the driving.’

  I’ve seen a familiar face: McCormack on his catamaran giving the thumbs up with his arms around the shoulder of the designated skipper. ‘Did you guys do the repair job on the Serenity II, the graffiti?’

  He squints at the photo mosaic again. ‘Yeah, we did. Only that isn’t Serenity II, that’s Serenity I.’

  ‘Serenity I?’

  ‘Yeah. Sank out on the Sounds, must have been about five years ago now. We helped him find the replacement.’ He shakes his head. ‘Serve him right. Should have used one of our pro skippers that day, not some blow-in who didn’t know port from starboard.’

  A quick Google search tells me all about it. There’s a report in the Journal about a boat belonging to Nelson businessman Richard McCormack, sinking in the Sounds in mysterious circumstances. Mysterious? The weather was fine and the boat was believed to be in good condition. He wasn’t aboard at the time, it was being sailed back from a temporary berth at Picton. The skipper was able to escape in the inflatable tethered at the stern and raise the alarm. It all happened within a week of Prince Haruru’s body being found at Linkwater.

  I write down the name of the ‘blow-in’ skipper and run his name through the database. He’s known to us: Kevin Moran, a petty recidivist from Blenheim, a meat-in-the-trousers type. Except his record in our database stopped about two months ago. Then he turns up in a report from Crash Team instead. His ute went off a ravine in the ranges near Nelson while I was in the UK. Him and a mate. No survivors. As he was a known pisshead, alcohol was presumed to be a significant factor.

  Latifa arrives, wan and sleepy.

  ‘Late night?’ I inquire.

  ‘Assignment deadline: “The Place of Utu in the New Zealand Legal Framework”. I got a shitty grade for the last one so this one has to be good.’

  Utu. Funny you should mention that. ‘I thought you were the swot on the course? Straight A’s type?’

  ‘So did I.’ She yawns. ‘How’s your vendetta going?’

  I bring her up to speed. The latest CCTV and the satnav from five years ago putting McCormack at
the Havelock Marina across the three murders. The mysterious sinking of the Serenity I five years ago, just after Prince was found. And the untimely death just a few weeks ago of Kevin the skipper.

  ‘I remember that,’ she nods.

  ‘The car crash?’

  ‘No, the sinking. It was in the papers. Everybody assumed it was scuttled as an insurance job.’ She gives me this sad look. ‘It’s not the most compelling of evidence is it, Sarge? Loose coincidences over five years and a drunk driver crashing on a notorious road. If I had this to defend in a courtroom I’d be a happy girl.’

  ‘It’s a slow build. But we’ll get there.’

  ‘Yeah,’ she says. ‘Any proper work to do today? Maxwell’s finished with me for now.’

  ‘Check the overnighters. Then maybe we can go out on the highway and bring home some bad guys.’

  She grins. ‘Already got one of them, thanks.’

  Out on SH6, the conditions are good and nobody is being too stupid. We’re heading back to Havelock and I try getting the skinny on the Fernandez investigation out of Latifa.

  She stares straight out of the windscreen, focuses on driving. ‘I just knock on the doors and do the introductions. The Ds do the questions, they have the theories.’

  ‘Which are?’

  ‘Gary is right in there, centre of frame. I did tell you to watch yourself with him.’

  ‘Why? What had you heard at the time?’

  ‘I heard about the North Island gang stuff. About his family and the fire.’

  ‘You knew all about that way back then?’

  ‘Course. How come you didn’t? I thought you were his mate?’

  ‘Well, yeah but, no we didn’t talk about that.’

  ‘What did you talk about?’

  I try to think. I take too long.

  ‘Sport? The All Blacks? Women? Fishing? What?’

  ‘He said his dad fought in Vietnam.’

  ‘Yeah? Well, there you go.’

  A ute passes us going the other way, too fast. Latifa pulls one of her murderous U-eys and the lights and siren go on. I recognise the ute as it slows and we pull in behind. It’s Charlie Evans.