by Alan Carter
‘I can’t wait for the ambulance.’ Tears pour down his face. There’s a woman rugged up in the back seat, grey face, short shallow breaths. ‘Beatrice’s leaving me, isn’t she?’
We escort him at high speed to Wairau Hospital in Blenheim, radioing ahead for them to be ready and clearing the road with our lights and siren. Mrs Evans is whisked through double doors on a trolley and Charlie sits in the waiting room staring out the window.
‘I don’t know what I’ll do without her.’
‘She’s in good hands,’ I say.
He smiles, eyes brimming. ‘Beatrice said goodbye this morning. She sat up in bed and even ate a bit of breakfast. Gave me a list of jobs, the arrangements for her tangi.’
‘Tangi? She’s Maori? I didn’t know.’
‘Why would you? You never met. Her people are from south of Christchurch. We went back there at least once a year. Not so much lately, she hasn’t been able to travel.’ He scratches absent-mindedly at a sandfly bite on his wrist. ‘These battles I have, to try and look after the land. They’re more for her than me.’
‘How did you meet?’
‘Varsity. In Christchurch. Prettiest girl in the room. I knew then, the moment I laid eyes on her. Her folks weren’t too rapt at her going off with a pakeha. But they mellowed.’ He examines his liver-spotted hands. ‘Together forever. Soul mates.’
‘Tau o te ate,’ I say.
‘That’s the one.’
Beatrice Evans dies an hour later, Charlie at her side.
I doubt if it’s what Charlie or Beatrice would want but I find myself feeling even angrier about McCormack and the poison he brings to the world. Charlie Evans, I’ve decided, is a good man and he did not deserve the extra pressures brought to bear on him while his wife was dying. Richard McCormack, I’ve decided, is a thoroughly bad man and, one way or another, I’m going to make him pay. But I’m mindful of trying to keep his venom from infecting my own life. So driving back up the valley I meditate on practical issues like where to situate the goat shelter and which breed to go for: Saanen or Toggenburg.
38
The new week begins with a nationwide alert out for Gary Farr. Detective Maxwell has named him as prime suspect for the murder of Fernandez and allowed the media to run with his photo and description. The ninjas from the Armed Offenders Squad are scouring the country for him. Gary meanwhile has gone off grid. He’s ditched the mobile and he’s not accessing bank accounts or government services. I picture him holed up in high country somewhere with Richie the mastiff and a loaded gun, living off the land. I fear the worst. He won’t let them take him alive.
Over breakfast Vanessa wanted to know more.
‘Did he do it?’
‘I’d like to think not but it doesn’t look good.’
It’s overcast and there’s a wind and a real bite in the air: a woolly socks, beanie and duvet day. A day for staying indoors and comfort eating, not a day to be heading out on the Sounds in an open-topped boat. The salty sea dog from the marine supply shop is taking me to where Serenity I sank. It’s out the far side of D’Urville Island where the Sounds meet the Tasman in deep, deep water. And way off the beaten track between Picton and Havelock. King cormorants and gannets spear the freezing water for food, and a pod of dolphins cracks the surface off to starboard.
Sea Dog nods. ‘Insurance job. Course it was.’
‘But no inquiry to that effect?’
‘I wouldn’t know. But those people, they never get looked at, do they?’
‘How deep do you reckon it is here?’
He shrugs. ‘Fucken deep as it gets.’
I was expecting an accurate sea dog reckoning in fathoms or leagues or something. ‘Too deep for salvage?’
‘Too expensive.’ He sniffs the wind. ‘You finished? What’s your interest anyway? Not that I’m complaining, a charter’s a charter.’
‘Cop business.’
‘You’re a brave man shoving your nose into McCormack’s affairs. He doesn’t take prisoners.’
But maybe he does. Prince Haruru, Jamie Riley, Qadim Reza. Out in a boat on the Marlborough Sounds where nobody can hear their cries.
‘Where’ve you been?’ Latifa lifts her eyes from her computer screen and studies my windblown hair and face. ‘Not out in the fresh air, surely?’
‘I took a ride out to where that boat sank.’
‘Should’ve taken a fishing rod. Made it worthwhile.’
I test my theory on her: the idea that McCormack has the boys on the boat in that week or so before he kills them.
Latifa frowns. ‘So you really do think he’s the Pied Piper?’
‘That’s the theory I’m working on, yes. Have you been away somewhere the last few days?’
‘Just hanging out with normal people, cop shit notwithstanding. Doing meaningful stuff. It gives you perspective. When people do things, good or bad, there’s usually a reason: revenge, jealousy, alcohol, whatever.’ She twists in her chair. ‘What’s McCormack’s motive?’
‘How about he’s a psychopathic paedophile?’
‘Yeah, yeah. So one of his cars was out at the marae a week before Prince’s murder. Maybe he got lost, drove up the wrong road? Maybe someone else was driving it. Just because he chops down trees and makes more money than you doesn’t mean he’s a child murderer. Earth calling Sarge.’ She switches off her desktop and shrugs on her coat. ‘Beattie Evans is lying in state and receiving visitors. I’m going to wish her well on her journey to the hereafter and tell her she needs to give that husband of hers a good talking to before she goes aloft.’
I turn my computer on and wonder whether, as a senior officer, I might be setting a bad example with my dark obsessions. Then I dig out marine charts for the spot where the boat sank and discover that it would actually be feasible to send divers and a mini-sub down there and look over the wreck. Curiosity satisfied, I do Latifa’s bidding and perform some normal police duties. The overnight log: nothing of consequence, more meat and firewood thefts, petty drug busts, a drunken brawl, a break-in at a Blenheim shop. After that it’s up and down SH6 to ticket five boy racers, one of them old enough at fifty-four to know better. I see goats and chickens along the way. It’s like that. You develop an interest in something and you start noticing it everywhere. The big white goats, Saanen, are my favourites, purely because they look cool. That’s my decision: two Saanen. The chickens aren’t finalised yet but I’m leaning towards Buff Orpingtons maybe, or perhaps Brown Shavers, which apparently give good big eggs.
You develop an interest in something … A car crashes on a notorious road, a weekly occurrence here. But there have been other deaths since I talked to ex-detective Des Rogers and showed renewed interest in the cold Prince Haruru case: Des Rogers’ suicide-cum-murder, Deborah Haruru’s attempted suicide-cum-murder, Kevin the blow-in skipper from five years ago dying suddenly in a car crash. What else is ringing a bell? An unexplained break-in at McCormack’s offices in Nelson. A break-in at the Marlborough Tennis Club; the logo on the shirt of the man who oozes darkness. Back in the office to check the database. Already there’s a coincidental link – both break-ins were in the same twenty-four-hour period. It looks more and more like someone covering their tracks. Latifa is going to love my latest musings.
In the absence of DI Keegan, who is still in Perth, I give Benson a ring.
‘Yeah?’
‘Do you have any developments from Kaikōura on the Des Rogers thing?’
‘Not for you, no.’ If I had an utu list I think Benson would be right up there. ‘Why?’ A spark of curiosity from Benson? Maybe he’s got a performance appraisal coming up.
‘Ah, nothing. Just something I heard.’
‘Spill.’
I take a punt. ‘Something about a white car in the vicinity.’
‘Lot of white cars in this country.’
‘So it’s probably nothing.’
Benson sniffs. ‘Who’d you hear this nothing from?’
‘Friend of a friend
in Kaikōura.’
‘Friend of a friend? You mean you have one and a half friends? Sure you’re not overselling yourself?’
I could be imagining things, but I might have touched a nerve with Benson. There is a white car in the frame in Kaikōura. It just needs to be the one I’m thinking of. Next, the Marlborough Tennis Club break-in and hopefully an easier ride with the Blenheim volume crime Ds.
‘What about it?’ The woman on the phone seems to have picked up Benson’s social skills.
‘Solved? Only I’ve got similar stuff happening over here and might have someone in mind.’
‘Nah, not solved.’ She taps on her keyboard. ‘Unusually professional, no fingerprints, no Facebook posts. Not your average break-in. Havelock, eh? So you have master criminals over there?’
‘Specially inbred. Okay with you if I drop by and talk to the tennis club?’
‘Be my guest, plenty on my plate. Keep me posted.’
The Marlborough Tennis Club secretary agrees to meet me in an hour. She’s a fit-looking woman nudging sixty and wears her short tennis skirt and ankle socks well. She looks at me like I haven’t got enough money or influence.
‘The police have already been here and we’ve told them everything.’
‘I’m looking at similar cases over my way in Havelock. There might be a pattern.’
‘What do you want to know?’
‘How did they get in?’
‘Through the back door, they broke a pane of glass.’
‘No alarm?’
‘Not then. There is now. I mean this is Blenheim, isn’t it? We never thought.’
‘What did they take?’
‘They went through the bar till but we empty it every night. They took some spirits and some beer, cigarettes. The petty cash box in my office. A few trophies.’
‘Anything else?’
‘The laptop in my office, some photos.’
‘Photos?’
She nods. ‘They smashed most of them but a few were missing.’
‘Which ones?’
‘Team tournaments. Competitions.’ She sits up proudly. ‘We usually win the regionals.’
‘Shame. Do you have copies of those that went missing?’
‘Somewhere, maybe. We’re talking five years ago now.’
‘Five years?’ A nod. ‘The membership lists?’
‘On the stolen laptop. But I have this year’s on my home laptop. Why?’
‘The pattern we have in Havelock: there’s been a couple of break-ins at places where you wouldn’t expect to find that much cash or stuff worth stealing – sports clubs and such. Then a few weeks later there are break-ins at the homes of people on the membership list.’
She puts a hand to her chest. ‘Heavens, no.’
‘Maybe you could zap me that current membership list and we can monitor if there are any subsequent break-ins?’
‘Well, I suppose so.’
‘Thanks.’ I hand her my card. ‘And if you dig up any copies of those old photos, maybe you could let me know?’
‘Why?
‘I promised to keep my Blenheim colleagues in the loop. If you find replacements then it’s less important for us to keep on looking.’ A smile. ‘We’re all on the same team, right?’
She studies my business card. ‘Chester. Were you in the papers recently?’
‘Earthquake Drill Day, Canvastown School.’
‘And that terrible incident up the valley. People died.’ I look sombre for her. ‘You poor man.’
‘Time’s a great healer.’
As I walk out she’s studying my card and I’m not sure she’s bought my story.
Still, as promised, the email comes through two hours later with the membership list and I go straight to M. Yes, there he is, up to date on his dues: Richard McCormack. Next, an online visit to the Journal archives for five years ago to check the sports reports. The tennis regionals won once again by the Marlborough club, no team photo but it is reported that the mixed-doubles champions include, you guessed it, Richard McCormack.
Latifa returns midafternoon. She looks like she’s had a good cry.
‘Did you know Beattie Evans well?’
‘Nah, not at all. But it’s good to have a bawl now and then.’
‘Many visitors?’
‘Steady stream. Denzel’s keeping a good flow of tea and coffee coming and biscuits. He’s a revelation, that boy. Transformed.’
‘Just needs a chance, that’s all, and Charlie Evans is the kind of bloke who would give him it.’
She nods. ‘And it’s not as if Denzel hasn’t got enough on his plate, what with Johnny.’
‘Johnny?’
‘Fernandez, the bloke that got killed with the hammer, remember him?’
‘What’s the connection, apart from same iwi?’
‘They used to hang out together when they were younger. Good mates back then, inseparable. But Johnny got into drugs and shit and if it hadn’t been for Uncle Walter then Denzel would have gone the same way.’
‘What’s Walter up to?’
‘Watching Denzel like a hawk. Johnny’s death seems to have hit him hard. This could make or break him.’
‘Fingers crossed.’
‘You’ll never guess who called in to pay his respects.’
‘Surprise me.’
‘Your good mate McCormack.’
‘Did Charlie show him the door?’
‘No, Denzel did. They were having words on the back verandah. Then McCormack left. He’d brought a lovely big bunch of flowers.’
‘Sweet.’
‘Shame. A bloke tries to redeem himself and all you can do is think the worst.’
I still can’t tell whether Latifa really is a McCormack fan or whether she just loves winding me up.
Something is building. McCormack is there at every turn but Latifa is right, all I’m gathering is a whole bunch of supposition and coincidence. I criticise Detective Maxwell for doing exactly that with Gary, yet look at me. Hell, Maxwell probably has a more solid case with Gary than I will ever have with McCormack. I’m just picking at the edges. If I really was Weka-tāne, I’d be digging my nose right into the undergrowth and tossing everything. I’d be making an unholy mess and pissing everybody off. I’d be getting at the truth.
39
Vanessa and Paulie are happy with my choice of Saanen goats and Brown Shaver chickens, and this weekend I’ll put together the sheds and runs and fencing as promised. Vanessa finds my farm talk arousing; it’s a bit kinky really, but who’s complaining? I feel obliged to warn her of the impending storm. We’re enjoying another sandfly-lite breakfast on the back verandah with the gurgling river battling the crunch and drone of the logging machines across the way. Vanessa sips her coffee while I lay out my crazy theory and suicidal plan of attack.
‘I’m with Latifa on this one. You’re off your trolley. You might well be right about this bloke but the way you’re going about it.’
‘I know how it looks. But unless it’s tested none of us will ever know. And those kids and their parents need …’
‘Closure? Resolution? Don’t give me that.’ She takes a spoonful of muesli. ‘You’re going to do this anyway, aren’t you?’
‘Yes.’
‘You’re big enough to fight your own stupid battles. But don’t spoil it for us.’ Paulie looks up from his cornflakes at her sharp tone. ‘We like it here and we want to stay.’
‘What’s changed? It’s not that long ago you hated it.’
She tilts her head. ‘It grows on you, like moss or fungus.’ A nod over the river. ‘The lumberjacks will come and go, and in between there’s acres of peace and that river and those hills. It’s addictive.’
‘I know the feeling.’
‘I wonder sometimes, Nick, I really do.’ She pushes her empty bowl away. ‘He’s powerful, this McCormack bloke. This could get you sacked.’ A sideways glance at Paulie. ‘It affects us all.’ The Paulie Fund, so often it comes down to that. She can se
e from my expression that I’m hell-bent on doing this. ‘After the thing with Marty and Sammy, you said this was all over.’
‘It is.’
‘No, it isn’t. You always need dragons to slay. Why aren’t we enough for you? Why are you prepared to jeopardise all this?’
‘I was a cop when we got together. Nothing has changed.’
‘Everything has changed. That’s why we’re in New fucking Zealand, for better or worse.’ She starts clearing away the dishes. ‘I know at heart you’re a good man and you want to do what’s right. But you also need to know exactly what you’re risking.’
‘I do.’
‘No,’ she says sadly. ‘I don’t think so.’
In the office, I start the ball rolling, calling the Nelson volume crime Ds to inquire about the break-in at the McCormack Forestry offices all those weeks ago on the same night as the tennis club.
‘Why the interest?’ he says. I’ve met him in the corridor before. Joe, his name is. An affable if wily fella nudging retirement and wanting to keep his life simple.
This is where I can choose to concoct a story that helps prevent the shit from hitting the fan too soon. I can put my family first. Nah. ‘Something has come up which makes me suspicious.’
‘Care to be specific?’
‘It’s tied in to the Pied Piper investigation. I think McCormack warrants a closer look.’
‘The kid murders?’ says Joe. ‘You serious?’
‘Yep.’
‘That woman from Wellington.’
‘DI Keegan.’
‘Yeah, is she in on this?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Is anybody from the task force up to speed?’
‘No.’
A pause at Joe’s end. ‘Hold on a wee sec, I’ll put you through to my boss.’
I tap on a few keys and bring up the incident report. ‘It says here three laptops were stolen, some money from a petty cash tin in the secretary’s office, and the place was substantially vandalised, particularly in the foyer area. Right?’
‘Right, look my boss has just stepped out, he’ll give you a call back, okay? This is all a bit …’
