Marlborough Man

by Alan Carter

  ‘We share it around among the executives. Sometimes it’s Mr McCormack, sometimes it’s PR.’

  ‘And you’ll be one short now too.’

  He nods and looks troubled. ‘That’s right. Poor Feargal.’

  My phone goes. Latifa. ‘You need to come to the marae. Now.’

  I make my excuses and nip over to where Paulie is enjoying the adoration of his peers. ‘Pick you up at the end of the day, on my way back from Nelson, okay?’

  ‘Sweet as, Pops.’

  ‘I had a dream.’

  I look over at Latifa. Normally when Beth says something like this there will be a roll of the eyes or a snort of derision. Not this time. Latifa is taking this seriously.

  ‘Go on.’

  Beth is sitting cross-legged on the floor like a guru and we’re down there with her. She stares straight ahead, as if she’s in a trance, but she’s not. She’s just recounting a story. ‘The taniwha is swimming up the river, looking for a feed.’

  ‘Monster,’ says Latifa, quietly in my ear.

  ‘Yeah, got it.’ It’s the same word Gary used when he read the story to the Russians about the eel. Seems a long time ago.

  ‘The moon is full,’ says Beth.

  ‘That’s this Wednesday,’ whispers Latifa. ‘Tomorrow.’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘He rests in a deep, dark pool. He smells blood.’

  I check my watch. Latifa glowers at me.

  Peter pops his head around the door. ‘Anybody got any smokes?’

  ‘Fuck off,’ says Beth, out the corner of her mouth.

  ‘Just sayin’. ’ He disappears.

  ‘There’s a child at the riverbank. Scared. Alone. Crying.’

  I’m listening now. Is Beth foreseeing another abduction?

  ‘The taniwha swims over to him.’ Beth’s looking directly at me now, there are tears in her eyes. ‘There’s a woman at the boy’s feet. She is still. The taniwha can’t decide which one to eat.’

  I shake my head. It’s just a dream, mumbo jumbo. And yet I’m feeling cold and scared and alone like that child she sees by the river. Snap out of it.

  ‘Latifa,’ I say. ‘Why did you bring me here?’ I’m angry, my precious time has been wasted.

  ‘Wait,’ she says. ‘Please.’ She gestures for Beth to continue.

  ‘The taniwha can see the house on the hill behind the child. A red roof. The moon shines on it.’

  My home. She’s talking about my home. ‘That’s it?’ I ask.

  ‘Yeah,’ says Beth.

  ‘Thanks.’ I turn to Latifa. ‘Can I have a word?’ We adjourn to the Toyota. ‘You’ve called me away from my son’s school assembly for this woman’s dream.’

  ‘It’s important, can’t you see that?’

  ‘It’s a dream. She drinks, she smokes weed. Maybe she eats cheese at the wrong time of night. We need to stay level-headed here, it’s our job.’

  ‘Usually I’d agree with you but there’s something building with Beth, we can’t ignore it.’

  ‘I can.’

  ‘We care about you. We don’t share this stuff with anybody.’

  I can see she means it. ‘Yeah, thanks, sorry.’ She’s getting out of the car, looking hurt. ‘Heading back to the office?’

  ‘In a while.’

  ‘Okay, see you there.’ I gun the engine and drive away. It’s bullshit I tell myself. But it’s got under my skin.

  The atmosphere is cool for the next few hours. It’s too small a station for that kind of tension so I take a walk around town, grabbing a ham roll in transit. There’s a text message on my phone from Vanessa saying she’ll be able to pick Paulie up from school after all. It’s not from her number; maybe the battery ran out and she borrowed a colleague’s. Back at the office Latifa seems to have withdrawn her offer of skippering us to DI Keegan’s leaving do in Nelson. There’s a terse note instead – Got a headache and need to study tonight. Meanwhile she’s out on the road looking for bad drivers until home time.

  By midafternoon it’s back on the road to Nelson. Passing Pelorus School, I can see the kids heading home and I know Paulie will be biding his time in the after-school care club until Vanessa picks him up. Why am I driving seventy ks in the wrong direction to drink with people who, for the most part, I don’t like, in order to celebrate the end of a mission that I don’t think is accomplished? Because it’s the done thing. Because Marianne Keegan is, at heart, a good sort who stuck her neck out for me. As is DC Ford. As for Benson and Hedges? They can go fuck themselves. As the car climbs into the ranges, the sky closes in and drizzle spits from the mist. My neck and shoulders are tensing on the hairpins as logging trucks roar past and impatient utes try to climb up my arse. Passing the spot where Kevin Moran was nudged over a ravine, I get to wondering what was so incriminating in that boat he was paid to sink.

  And if McCormack was out of town on business, who hired Moran? Where did they find him? How did they know he was their kind of guy? Des Rogers again, the pet cop with the useful address book. But McCormack can’t have been too impressed having his precious boat sunk by a dipstick. And I’ve been too distracted to ask him about it. Maybe now, with the passage of time and a rock-solid alibi, he’ll feel like answering a few more questions? I doubt it, he’ll be on the phone to Ford straight away. Who could I ask without ruffling a few feathers? Of course, my new best mate, Sebastian Ryan. I ring Pelorus School on the hands-free to see if they have a mobile contact for him. Why? Oh, I just want to thank him for the book token he gave my son today, unfortunately I had to rush off. Sure, they say, no problem, and they give me it. I’ll call him when I’m back in the office tomorrow.

  Half an hour later at Nelson HQ the bar is open and DC Ford is giving a speech in praise of DI Keegan and her team. She is looking slightly flushed, perhaps half a bottle of Cloudy Bay ahead of me. Benson and Hedges look glazed with a Speight’s in each fist and will probably have a fight later on. Ford is eyeing me warily as he pauses to take a sip from a glass of water.

  ‘Glad you could make it, Nick.’ Marianne’s got a dangerous twinkle in her eye and her voice has dropped an octave or two.

  ‘You’ve done a good job,’ I lie. ‘You can be proud.’

  ‘Do you really think that?’ She smiles and puts her hand on my arm, squeezes it. ‘No. You don’t. But you’re a good man.’ Another squeeze. ‘Very good.’

  I should tell her about Shania’s place being trashed and how, if that means what I think it means, then Feargal Donnelly was the wrong man and our killer is still out there. But I don’t. This is her party. ‘When do you ship out?’

  ‘In a hurry to see me go? First flight tomorrow.’ A sip from her Cloudy Bay. ‘Tonight’s my last night.’ She gives me that look I last saw across the table in a Thai restaurant in Blenheim.

  My pocket is throbbing again but this time it’s my phone. Vanessa. ‘Are you two on the way back yet? We need some milk.’

  ‘No, I thought you were picking him up?’

  ‘Me? But we agreed this morning.’

  I’m cold. ‘You didn’t send me that text?’

  ‘What text?’

  52

  During the long drive home all I can think about is Beth’s crazy dream – the taniwha coming up the river to our house in search of its next meal. The text on my phone supposedly from Vanessa turns out to be from a pay-as-you-go mobile. The same number must have sent the text to Paulie’s phone which he showed to the after-school care supervisor. It said, Paulie take the 4pm school bus and I’ll pick you up at the hotel at Canvastown, Mum x. So the supervisor had put him on the four o’clock run and arranged for the driver to drop him at the Trout Hotel. The driver remembers Paulie giving him a cheery if nervous wave. Then, in the rear view in the distance, a car rolling in to pick Paulie up. What colour? White. Make? Not sure. It doesn’t matter. It wasn’t Vanessa. Somebody has Paulie.

  ‘He’ll be terrified.’ Vanessa is buried into my chest. ‘It’s him isn’t it? You’ve provoked him into doi
ng this.’

  ‘Love …’

  ‘And all that time you’re out drinking with her.’ She lifts her head and unfolds herself away from me. Her eyes are filled with disgust.

  Marianne’s party folded not long after and her trip home and celebrations are postponed. Everybody is out doorknocking, manning phones, checking CCTV. Search and Rescue are combing the area. Spotter planes, helicopters, boats. Patrol cars on the lookout. But there’s no sign. The white car disappeared east and south along SH6 according to drinkers in the Trout, but if it got as far as Havelock it merged into the slightly larger crowd. McCormack has come back swiftly and said all of his fleet is accounted for, he’s oozing sympathy and offering whatever resources we need: extra people, extra vehicles, his plantation chopper. It doesn’t stop us pulling him and all of his executives in for another chat. Somebody in that select group is behind this.

  I want to be there. I want to shove a gun in their nostrils until they tell me where Paulie is and give him back to me. I don’t care if some of them are innocent. And that’s why DC Ford and DI Keegan won’t let me be within cooee.

  ‘You’re best here, mate. Vanessa needs you.’

  No, she doesn’t. She blames me and she’s got a point. I’ve pushed and pushed and sacrificed my own son to my pride and my ego.

  When we weren’t here, me and Paulie, how did that feel?

  Shite.

  Hold that thought.

  Vanessa turns from staring out over the valley and the encroaching blackness as day gives way to night. ‘You’re still here?’

  I phone Latifa and ask her to come up and be with Vanessa. No need, Vanessa says from the window behind me. Latifa tells me she’s on her way. I grab the keys and head for the door, turning for a last look and a last word but there’s nothing there. Gary is out somewhere, word has it he has a new girlfriend in Havelock. He’s cleared the pallet from the driveway and parked his bobcat behind the shed. I skid on the gravel road outside the house. I’m driving angry and need to pull myself together for all our sakes.

  Havelock main drag is empty as it should be on a midweek evening. As my mobile comes into range, a message comes through.

  See how easy it is?

  It’s from the same number as earlier. I text back, I’m going to kill you That won’t get your son back

  I don’t reply. The ball’s in his court. I phone Keegan. ‘The executives. Have they accounted for their movements?’

  ‘Yes, they have. We’re checking them now.’

  ‘All of them?’ I explain that the killer has been in touch. We need to be looking at their phones.

  ‘We’re focusing on the shortlist, the ones who had access to the company cars five years ago. Going through their phone records first.’

  ‘That’s not good enough. We need to put them all through the mincer.’

  ‘I’m trying to prioritise. We’re doing our best, Nick. You need to be with Vanessa.’

  I cut her off rather than say what I’m thinking. I need to reserve my rage for myself and for the man who has my son. We’re the only ones who deserve it. I know where I’m headed now and I don’t care whether or not I’m welcome.

  ‘Who the fuck is it?’

  I slap the door with my hand again. ‘Me, Nick Chester. I need to talk to you.’

  ‘Fuck’s sake.’ Beth opens up and a swirl of smoke fouls the cool night air. She’s in a t-shirt and knickers and has a mug of what smells like rum and coke in her hand.

  I push past her. ‘He’s taken my son.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Your fucking taniwha. I need you to remember who he is.’

  Her face softens. ‘Not that easy, love.’ A cough. ‘The poor boy. Jesus.’

  ‘Come with me.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Get your clothes on. Now.’

  Peter lifts his head from under the duvet. ‘Mate, we were just getting started. First time in months.’

  ‘Fuck off,’ I tell him.

  ‘One of these days I might just do that.’

  ‘Where are we going?’ says Beth.

  ‘You’ll see.’

  She gives Peter a wave and a girlish smile and hooks her arm in mine. ‘Don’t wait up.’

  The Woodbourne Tavern is closing for the night but I flash my ID and tell them not just yet. On the way over I’ve phoned DI Keegan and acted less angry. She’s keen to help so I’ve asked her to do me a favour.

  ‘What do you need them for?’

  ‘I’m going to post them on Facebook and call them bad names.’

  ‘Nick.’

  ‘Just do it, please.’

  ‘This place has changed,’ says Beth, taking in the décor.

  ‘A lot?’

  ‘Nah, the layout’s pretty much the same, just had a lick of paint and been freshened up.’

  ‘Where were they sitting?’

  ‘This isn’t going to work you know.’

  ‘Show me.’ She does and we arrange a table and some chairs just so. ‘Rogers?’

  She points to a chair and I ask a member of staff to sit in it. ‘Do I get overtime for this?’ he grumbles.

  I chuck a hundred on the bar. ‘A round for this table. Whatever they’re drinking.’

  That elicits a few more volunteers. All the chairs are quickly filled except one, I reserve that for myself. I get Beth to stand exactly where she was standing when Rogers grabbed her arse and the Pied Piper asked him to stop. Beth smiles apologetically and sips from her double rum and coke. ‘It’s not happening, love. Sorry.’

  I bring up the photos on my phone, the ones Keegan sent me of the McCormack executives. The boss first. ‘Him?’ A shake of the head. Donnelly. ‘Him?’ Same again.

  ‘Like I said, Men in Black and the magic flash pen.’

  She’s not scared enough. She needs to feel the same kind of scared she felt that night. I take out my Glock and press it into her cheek. ‘Think.’

  The barman playing Des Rogers splutters his drink. ‘Fuck mate, no need for that.’

  I look into Beth’s eyes and summon all the pōuri there is within me. ‘If I have to hurt you I will. This is too important.’ I want to add sorry, but in truth I’m not. I’ve no doubt broken a whole bunch of psychiatry taboos as well as several police regulations and human rights articles. Professor Sumner wouldn’t approve. Nor DC Ford. Marianne Keegan? Maybe.

  Beth peers closely at me, is it me she’s seeing or the Pied Piper? Has my cold dark rage triggered a memory? She touches my face with her ciggie-smelling hands. She’s back there, I can see it, and this time she’s fighting her fear, trying to shrug it away after all these years.

  She shakes her head. ‘That’s enough, Des. They’re grieving.’

  ‘You know him,’ I say. ‘And he knows you.’ That shrug again. I’m in danger of breaking the spell. I stay focused on oozing out my pōuri. I take up the killer’s refrain. ‘Leave it, Des. Stop.’

  Sweat forms on her brow, she leans down over the table, peers hard into my eyes. Her hand grips my arm, fingers dig in. I think about what I will do to the Pied Piper when I find him and I try my best to seep it through my pores into Beth’s grip.

  ‘That’s enough, Des,’ I say again. ‘They’re grieving.’ Tangaroa. Endless wealth personified. Power. Privilege. I focus on those things that make my class-war hackles rise and feed my darkness. I stare into her bloodshot and slightly jaundiced eyes. Bring him forth. He’s in there. Find him. Bring him to me.

  Beth’s head tilts. It’s like she’s just recognised somebody in the street. Somebody she hasn’t seen for a while. Not sure if it’s really them.

  Find him. Bring him to me.

  After a moment she straightens up, picks up my phone and thumb scrolls through as if she’s looking for a date on Tinder. ‘Him.’ She prods the picture. ‘But his hair was much shorter then.’

  I look. Of course. I should have known earlier.

  ‘Thanks,’ I say. ‘And sorry, about the gun.’

  She lifts her
drink. ‘No worries. I’d have done the same to you.’ The Pied Piper.

  All I have to do now is hunt him down.

  ‘It’s Sebastian Ryan.’

  I’m on my way to Nelson, racing back up through the ranges and the rain has returned.

  ‘The lawyer?’ DI Keegan doesn’t buy it. ‘How do you know? He wasn’t even around five years ago.’

  ‘Beth Haruru identified him.’ I don’t offer any details of the circumstances. ‘We need to bring him in. I’m on my way over, I’ll meet you at his place.’

  ‘Nick, we have nothing on Ryan except this woman’s five-year-old recollection of a conversation in a pub. What makes you so sure?’

  ‘I believe her. There’ll be more, we’ll find it, just bring him in.’

  ‘I’ll send somebody round there.’

  There’s a taxi on its way to take Beth home but with a few dollars left on the bar tab she’s in no hurry. I’m suddenly afraid for Vanessa and Latifa. There’s no answer on the landline and both their mobiles are out of range. I’ve left a message for Vanessa suggesting she get out of there just in case Ryan comes calling. Still, as backup, I try Gary. Again it goes through to voicemail.

  ‘Gary, it’s Nick. Not sure where you are or if you’ll get this but I need a favour.’

  I finish my plea and chuck the phone onto the passenger seat. Now it’s me climbing up people’s arses around the hairpins and flashing them to move over. The rain pounds the windscreen and the wipers are working overtime. Tuesday ticks over into Wednesday as I descend back into mobile range on the outskirts of Nelson. My phone again. Keegan.

  ‘He’s not there.’

  No. Of course he isn’t. The disappointment is like a hard slap. I’m fuelled solely on adrenalin – for some people that means cold, hard focus. For me it’s working like Red Bull and vodka with a couple of truckie’s pills thrown in – all charged up with nowhere to go. ‘Known associates? Other addresses? A bach?’ Pied-à-fucking-terre.

  ‘Go home, Nick. We’ll have people out looking for him.’