Marlborough Man

by Alan Carter

  ‘I told him it’d be a good start for the brand if Dickie answered all our questions truthfully and stopped pissing about.’

  ‘So let’s see if he’s passed on your advice,’ says Marianne.

  I’m back in on the interviews. It’s not that I’m needed, it’s just that DI Keegan wants to send a message to McCormack and his lawyer that she is in charge, not them. Fiona Knight looks up at me and smiles thinly. The death stare has warmed up a fraction. Even McCormack meets my eye without wanting to stick a dagger in it. I don’t like this friendliness and civility one bit. They’re up to something.

  Ms Knight slides a new sheet of A4 towards us, one each. It’s a full account of Dickie’s movements from five years ago. It seems that on the relevant dates, Dickie was at a Forestry and Land Management conference in Dunedin. She follows up with an envelope for DI Keegan.

  ‘Conference registration, hotel and travel receipts, photographs of Mr McCormack at the gala dinner.’ So McCormack wasn’t around to kill Prince Haruru. By implication he hasn’t done any of this.

  ‘Why have you waited until now to hand all this over?’ asks Keegan. ‘It’s only in the last week that you have decided to investigate my client officially.’ Fiona Knight casts a glance at me on the last word. ‘There has been no need, until now, to account for his movements. The appointments schedule for five years ago had been archived and the record-keeping systems had been disrupted by the burglary and vandalism in the office last month.’ That frosty smile again.

  ‘Anything else?’ says McCormack, finding his helpful face.

  DI Keegan closes her file. She’s ready to give up on him and focus on Feargal Donnelly. I’m not. A grudge is a grudge after all. ‘The car Feargal’s been driving. That’s your favourite isn’t it?’

  ‘Come again?’

  ‘We all do it. Favourite armchairs. Favourite coffee cup. Favourite table at our favourite restaurant. You have your favourite beemer, right?’

  ‘What of it?’

  ‘There’s a spare set of keys for that one and you keep it all to yourself. The collegiate brotherhood all-mates-together thing goes out the window for this one.’

  ‘Is there a point here?’

  ‘You don’t live that far from Feargal. A few blocks, is that right? If you fancy driving that car and he’s got it, you take it back off him. Maybe you drop the other one in its place, maybe not. You’re the boss, after all. Who gives a fuck?’

  Fiona Knight frowns at my language and loads up her briefcase. ‘I think we’re finished here. My understanding is that the person who did the killing five years ago is the one doing it now. Mr McCormack was out of town five years ago. Ergo.’

  DI Keegan is giving me the look. The don’t-do-something-stupid look. She’s right. If the paperwork in the Fiona file stacks up, then it can’t be Dickie. Focus on Feargal, nail him. Don’t be distracted by your feud with McCormack. But I so want to punch him, I really do. I hand the floor back to DI Keegan.

  ‘Thanks for your time and your cooperation,’ she says.

  ‘If there’s anything else,’ says McCormack. ‘Please, don’t hesitate.’ I won’t.

  ‘What was that about?’ DI Keegan has moved on and doesn’t seem that interested in the answer. She’s looking at her whiteboard, assigning tasks that will help wrap up Donnelly and the Pied Piper murders.

  ‘Nothing. Me and my grudges. I find it hard to let go.’

  ‘The second-key thing was worth establishing. Thanks for that.’

  ‘Pleasure.’

  ‘You’re not convinced?’

  ‘Like I said, I need to let go.’

  Keegan gives me a distracted smile. ‘You need to head back up the valley and spend time with that family of yours.’

  Everybody keeps telling me that, over and over. It’s feeling like an ending and I’m not sure I’m ready for that yet. A dangerous complicit look passes between us and I know I’m capable of doing something stupid today. There’s a knock on her office door. It’s Benson.

  ‘Just the man,’ she says. ‘Can you summon the troops for a briefing?’ She checks her watch. ‘Half an hour.’

  ‘I’ll be off, then,’ I say.

  She turns back to the whiteboard. ‘Cheers, Nick. Thanks.’

  47

  Their own little Garden of Eden: the cop and his happy family, honest folk making a go of it. The woman pegging out the washing, the sunlight haloing her hair. She looks his way as if she can see him but he’s sure she can’t. They need to learn to mind their own business – all of them.

  The water rushing below. Birds flitting among the trees across the river, their crystal clear chimes. So much life. Yellow pollen floating in the breeze. The boy collecting eggs from the hen coop. Tiny enough, when viewed through a distant lens, to crush in the palm of a hand.

  48

  Wednesday is my day of reckoning. Well I seem to have lots of them lately. This one is my disciplinary hearing. In some ways it’s a pity the Sammy Pritchard thing has been resolved, because that would have made it harder for the DC to sack me. Now there’s nothing stopping him. Except that previously he seemed to have quite liked me, or at least liked my wife, and expressed the opinion that I was an okay cop and he’d like me to stay on his team. It’s a long way for me to have fallen but never let it be said that I’m not an ambitious over-achiever. I can fall further and faster than anybody out there.

  The union lawyer has read through the ‘show cause’ letter that was emailed to me at the end of yesterday and moaned again about the short notice. I find myself defending the DC to her.

  ‘Well we’ve all been a bit busy with these murders and stuff. And the boss has his budget submissions.’

  ‘But according to you he’s been pissed off for weeks now. Yet you only got the letter last night?’

  I shrug. ‘So what do we say to them?’

  ‘Them’ being the review panel: the DC, another bloke of a similar rank, and a woman from Human Resources.

  ‘Tell them why they shouldn’t sack you.’

  ‘Any thoughts?’

  She sighs. ‘Did you have a good reason for doing the bad things they mention?’ She lists them again: unauthorised access of classified information, abuse of certain regulations and protocols, pissing off rich powerful folk, that kind of stuff.

  ‘Yeah, I wanted to catch the prick who’s been murdering the kids.’ She writes that down. ‘Good. Anything else?’

  ‘Not really, sorry.’

  In the meeting we’re all sitting around a boardroom table and the DC asks if I’ve received and read his letter.

  ‘Yes, thanks. Sir.’

  He turns his attention to the union lawyer. ‘You have a prepared response?’ No, she tells him, because of the extreme short notice. ‘Would you like a postponement?’

  ‘Yes,’ she says.

  ‘No,’ I say.

  ‘Which is it?’ asks Ford with a frown.

  ‘No. You know the reasons why I did those things on your list.’

  ‘We need to maintain the highest possible standards, Sergeant, and stick to regulations. We’re under public scrutiny. We …’

  ‘We wouldn’t be in the position we are now without me jumping the gun. We weren’t making any worthwhile progress, sir.’

  A mobile goes off, then another. Then mine. The only ones that don’t seem to be ringing are the union lawyer’s and the woman from HR’s; either they’re good sorts and turn theirs off for important meetings or this doesn’t concern them. I suspect the latter. Mine stays unanswered; under the circumstances it might be more polite. The DC takes his call and his face turns even grimmer. He’s looking at me all the time and then ends it.

  ‘It seems Mr Donnelly’s managed to hang himself this morning before we could get him ready for court.’

  ‘Bugger,’ I say.

  In some ways it makes things easier. Enough evidence can be gathered to close the case to everybody’s satisfaction, except maybe the victims’ parents, without having to unde
rgo the rigour of the defendant’s day in court. Aspersions can be cast so the media dutifully paint it as a win. Justice prevails, the rightful order is restored, and it’s back to business as usual. The DC and his colleagues on the disciplinary panel adjourn briefly to discuss me, but really he’s got bigger fish to fry.

  The woman from HR gives me the news. ‘Back to work on Monday and keep your nose clean. This is your second strike.’ A smile like she’s just been nice to me. ‘Between you and me, I think the DC is quite pleased about this.’

  So I have the rest of the week and the weekend off and then it’s back to the fray. No doubt during that time DI Keegan will have parcelled up

  Feargal Donnelly and be heading back to Wellington as the conquering hero. Meanwhile there’s some holes in the chook run to patch, and the goats’ water supply needs connecting. Dropping by the DIY superstore in Nelson to pick up the stuff needed before heading home, I notice the staff all seem happy enough with their zero-hours contracts. Happy in a North Korean citizenry kind of way. Climbing into the ranges, I see the clouds have come in from the south and rain has appeared as if from nowhere and the bright spring day was never here. The hairpins glint wetly in the headlights and my windscreen wipers struggle with the sudden deluge. Water gushes along the roadside drainage channels and out of the culvert pipes into the dark ravines hundreds of feet below. Behind me some dickhead has his lights on full beam, blinding me in the rear view. He’s halfway up my arse; any closer and we’ll have to get married. My knuckles and jaw are aching from the tension and I need to do something about it. I pull into the next passing place and the moron goes on his way with a middle-finger salute. It would have been easy for him to shunt me over that edge to be swallowed by the bushes and not found for days. Easy and imaginable. For an otherwise laidback and laconic place, New Zealand seems to have more than its fair share of impatient four-wheeled tosspots.

  At home Vanessa and Paulie are huddled by the stove nursing mugs of cocoa.

  ‘What’s with this weather?’ Pulling up a chair, I bring Vanessa up to date, selectively edited for Paulie’s sensibilities.

  ‘So it’s all over and you’re back at work next week?’ I nod. ‘Fantastic.’ Vanessa hands me my cocoa. ‘I’ve got some news, too.’ It seems Vanessa has some work at a local school every day until the Christmas break. Maternity leave cover. She anticipates my next question. ‘Paulie can stay on at his school at their after-hours care club until I get there at four.’

  Paulie seems happy enough. ‘Great,’ I say. The weather is no good for any outside work today so I offer to make a curry for dinner and Paulie looks worried. ‘Not a hot one, I promise.’

  ‘Okay.’ But he’s not convinced.

  ‘Any other gossip around here today?’ I say, chopping chillies.

  ‘The helicopter came through again. The one I showed my titties to.’

  ‘Mum!’

  ‘And?’

  ‘It went away again. I had my clothes on this time.’

  ‘Gross!’

  Repeat after me: I will not worry about stuff like this, I will not worry about stuff like this. It’s just a helicopter.

  ‘And Paulie got ten eggs today.’

  ‘Ten? Far out.’ I high five him twice, so they add up.

  ‘And I think we’ve got a perv.’

  Jesus. ‘Tell me more.’

  ‘This morning. Across the valley in that logged block, somebody with binoculars. I saw them glint in the sun.’

  ‘How do you know he’s a perv? Could have been just looking for some trees or markers or whatever it is forestry folk do.’

  ‘Thanks a lot. But I was hanging out my knickers and that’s worth staying around for.’

  ‘Mum!’

  ‘Joke.’

  It’s the valley. You get all sorts up here, I’m thinking. Usually harmless – unless they’re sent by Sammy Pritchard. Or they’re looking for something Johnny Fernandez may or may not have. Vanessa is watching me. ‘What?’ I say.

  ‘It’s nothing, the binoculars thing. It was just a joke. Remember them?’ I smile and try to act normal but the moment has evaporated. Vanessa looks sad and I chop more chillies than Paulie will be able to cope with.

  In the night I’m lying awake like in the days when I was still waiting for Sammy and Marty to find me. Nothing has changed. I pad over to the window which looks across the river. Clouds obscure the stars and wind tears at the treetops, but the rain has stopped. Further down the river there are flashlights fanning across the hill and the sharp cracks of a pig hunter’s gun. These things I have come to know and understand and no longer fear. The people coming for me and my family will not be so clumsy and loud.

  There, I have admitted it to myself. Somebody out there has not finished with me.

  49

  It’s Friday. I’ve been back on duty a week. A week of driving up and down SH6 and ticketing boy racers. A week of issuing infringements to blokes for chasing pigs through the backyards of other people’s homes, and nicking their firewood stash along the way. A week of digging gladwrapped packages of meat out of the pants of young Marlburians. Latifa is happy to have me back, she prefers my company to that of Traffic Man any day. She’s neck-deep in her law exam revision and finishing off her assignments, and she’s contemplating taking the first six months of next year out of the job to try and break the back of her degree.

  Feargal Donnelly will be cremated this morning. Not too many questions have been asked of the police station custodial supervisor about the circumstances of the suicide – shit happens. New evidence of Donnelly’s probable guilt has emerged in the last seven days of digging by DI Keegan and her team. It seems that more of the alibis provided by him relating to the disappearances and discoveries of Jamie Riley and Qadim Reza have fallen apart. They mainly relied upon his fiancée, Megan, and she isn’t backing him up. Also, in each of the two recent child murders, Dickie McCormack is adamant that he did not have the BMW in question and that Feargal did at the relevant times. Preliminary forensics have traces of Donnelly in the suspect BMW but then again he never denied that he sometimes used it. His work schedule as operations manager had him on the road a lot and able to spend time with his victims during their final week on earth without anyone wondering where he was. Even the Garda came to the party – the Irish police sent through details of a teenage conviction for public indecency: an encounter with an underage lad in the toilets in Phoenix Park in Dublin. Lastly, the stoned casual on duty at the Kaikōura petrol station on the night of

  Des Rogers’ murder has identified Feargal Donnelly as the driver of the beemer that called in there for fuel. At least he’s pretty sure anyway. Thin and circumstantial still, but it’s looking like it’ll be enough, and it will never have to be challenged in court, so the investigation is winding down and DI Keegan will be heading back to Wellington any day now.

  I wonder about Feargal’s resilience though. This is a man who has supposedly coolly dispatched three children plus Des Rogers, Johnny Fernandez, Kevin the boat skipper, and finally tried to kill Deborah Haruru. This is the Prince of Darkness, the taniwha monster that slithers among us. Yet at the first sign of overdue interest in him he kisses the world goodbye. Then again some people are like that. I’ve arrested enough of them in my day. Men who will terrorise their rivals, their neighbours, and their family, but fold like wet cardboard when called to account.

  There have been no more helicopters up the valley, no more binoculars glinting in distant bushes, and Vanessa and I are back on an even keel. Paulie has annexed the hen coop as his personal fiefdom and the goats are keeping the blackberry brambles and gorse under control. The weather is usually more good than bad, and life, in general, is sweet.

  A slight cough announces another presence. I must have been miles away in my thoughts and Latifa is out back printing something off. Jessie James makes herself comfortable in the visitor’s chair.

  ‘Jessie. How can I help you?’

  ‘I owe you an apology.’<
br />
  Gen Y apologising. It doesn’t get any more intense than that. ‘What for?’

  Latifa pokes her head around the door, sees who it is, pulls a face and goes back to her printing.

  ‘The article I wrote saying mean things about you.’

  ‘Apology accepted.’

  ‘I owe you.’

  ‘No, you don’t. Sorry is fine.’ I tap the fascinating circular I’m reading about health and safety. ‘I’ve got a lot on my plate so, much as I appreciate you dropping by …’

  ‘I went to that bastard’s funeral today.’

  Donnelly, I assume. ‘And?’

  ‘Those poor parents. They were there. It was so sad. I asked them for comments, and do you know what was on their minds?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘They were feeling guilty for criticising you in that piece I wrote. They were sorry: if it wasn’t for you going out on a limb none of us would have known.’ Tears are streaming down her face. ‘They wouldn’t have their closure.’

  It’s doubtful they’ll ever have it but I appreciate the thought.

  ‘They insisted I pass on their thanks to you,’ Jessie says, ‘and their apologies. So here I am, and I’m adding mine too.’ She reaches across and clasps my hands. ‘You’re a good man, Sergeant Chester.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘His fiancée wasn’t a bad sort either, you know. I think she’s well rid of him. Shame, really, she’s a lovely woman.’

  ‘Can’t blame her for what he did.’

  ‘No. She thought it was funny, though.’

  ‘Funny?’

  ‘Him being accused of keeping the kids on that boat. He hated boats, she said, apparently he got seasick standing on a jetty.’

  ‘Must’ve taken some Sea Legs.’

  ‘Must’ve,’ says Jessie. She stands up and sticks out a hand for shaking. ‘No hard feelings?’

  ‘Life’s too short and this town’s too small.’