Slaughter Park

by Barry Maitland

  ‘I suppose I was. I don’t remember. He’s good at getting into bed without disturbing me—long years of practice—and I’d taken a sleeping pill.’

  ‘And did you wake during the night at all?’

  ‘Yes, I remember waking about four.’

  ‘And he was there then?’

  ‘Yes, certainly. What are you getting at?’

  ‘It’s what we do, establishing everyone’s movements around the time of a murder, until we find the one that doesn’t fit.’

  ‘Well, Ken’s in the clear, believe me. Now, can I get to work?’

  54

  The short flight up to Pentecost is in a seventeen-seater Chinese Harbin Y-12 twin-prop that lifts off sharply from Bauerfield into a deep blue sky. Kelly turns to look out of the window at the lush islands of the Vanuatu archipelago sliding past below in the shimmering ocean. At her side Harry appears to be studying the in-flight magazine, except that he isn’t turning the pages. She senses that something happened before they left Sydney—his preoccupied air, his sudden decision to leave straight away for Vanuatu. The discovery of Amber’s body at Slater Park must have been a shock, of course, but she wonders if there was something else. Maybe to do with Jenny. She prays that they haven’t found her body too. That would be too much.

  Pastor Emanuel Dubouzet is waiting as they get off the plane. A jolly, spherical man, he leads them to a small battered Nissan, slings their bags in the boot and squeezes in behind the wheel. He takes the short drive down the coast slowly, weaving to avoid the potholes, pointing out local attractions, which culminate in the strange muffin-shaped Captain Cook’s Rock standing offshore.

  Unlike most of the thatch and timber houses they’ve seen along the way, Emanuel’s place is built of concrete blocks with a corrugated tin roof. Next to it he points out his open-sided chapel, and further away, almost on the edge of the beach, the small timber hut which is the guesthouse. It consists of just one indoor room together with a veranda and an outdoor toilet and shower attached. The room contains a double bed. Kelly glances at Harry, who says he’ll take the ocean view room, and goes outside to drop his bag on the veranda.

  ‘You will eat with us, of course,’ Emanuel declares, and leads them back to his house to meet his wife Lydia, as plump and friendly as her husband. She offers them refreshments, but Kelly explains that they’re anxious to speak to Pascaline Tamata as soon as possible. Lydia checks her watch and says that she’s likely to be at the primary school at Panngi, where she helps out when she doesn’t have a job elsewhere.

  ‘She’s a good girl,’ she adds, ‘loyal and respectful, and very sad since the terrible death of her brother. She’s on her own now. Her mother died when she was young and her father is a wastrel. He’s gone off, good riddance to him, off to Port Vila, two weeks after Selwyn died.’

  Kelly says, ‘What was Selwyn like?’

  ‘A mischief when he was growing up, and went a bit wild when he was a teenager. He took those habits from his father, I suppose. Pascaline worked hard to get him to behave himself, and it was she got him the job on Maturiki.’

  ‘Have either of you ever been out there, to Maturiki?’

  ‘I have,’ Lydia says. ‘Once when their cook went sick I went out to help. They had a big party of visitors coming on a boat and we had to prepare a banquet. The island was so strange, so luxurious—a bit of a foreign country dropped into the ocean just out there. The kitchen was amazing, like a spaceship, all the latest gadgets. We had to work very hard, but they paid well. Maybe too well for Selwyn’s good. He flashed his money around after he got his first pay packet there.’

  ‘Do you think he got into trouble with other men around here?’

  ‘You mean, was he killed and thrown into the sea for the sharks?’ Lydia looks at her husband and sighs. ‘Yes, it’s possible. It certainly wasn’t shark sorcerers who killed him, and he didn’t go out to sea with any of the fishermen. The policeman who came here asked that question, but no one owned up.’

  ‘Well, let’s see what Pascaline has to say.’

  ‘We’ll walk,’ Emanuel says. ‘It’s not far.’

  But the afternoon is hot and very humid, and their clothes are soaked with perspiration by the time they come to houses lining the coast road and extending inland, dotted around lush green paddocks. The primary school has just finished afternoon classes, and a dozen small children are milling around outside, but Pascaline isn’t there. Emanuel has a word with a teacher, and says, ‘She thinks Pascaline has gone to tend to her brother’s grave.’

  They see her there as they approach the little cemetery beside the church, a slender figure kneeling beside a new white cross, arranging a large bunch of vivid yellow and orange flowers in a vase. She looks up and considers them with big intelligent eyes, then says to Emanuel, ‘Selwyn liked parakeet flowers.’

  He says, ‘Pascaline, these are my friends, Kelly and Harry, who have come from Australia to see you. Will you talk to them?’

  Pascaline gets to her feet slowly. ‘If you wish me to, pastor. Are they police?’

  Emanuel looks at Kelly, who says, ‘Harry is an Australian police officer, Pascaline, but I’m not. We’re here as friends of Amber. I believe you met her?’

  ‘Yes, she was a kind lady. Is she well?’

  ‘I’m afraid not. She died recently.’

  ‘Oh, no, was she sick?’

  ‘The police believe she was murdered.’

  Pascaline’s mouth drops open. She stares at Kelly. Then her legs fold abruptly and Harry and Emanuel jump forward to catch her as she falls to the ground. When she comes round they wait till she feels able, then help her to her feet and walk with her to a bench in the shade of a grove of palms. Kelly sits beside her, takes the bottle of water that Emanuel offers them and gets her to drink.

  ‘Thank you,’ Pascaline whispers. ‘It was the shock.’

  ‘Of course. Do you feel well enough to talk?’

  The girl nods.

  Kelly looks at Harry, who says, ‘I was a friend of Amber’s, Pascaline. We helped each other in the past, and I felt it very personally when she died. I’m determined to find whoever was responsible. I spoke to her in Sydney not long before she died. She told me she was hiding from her family because of things that happened on Maturiki Island. She told me some of the things, bad things. And then we heard that your brother had also been found dead, and we thought we should come and talk to you, to see if you could tell us anything that would help us.’

  ‘I am afraid.’

  Emanuel puts out a hand to reassure her, but she shakes it off, saying, ‘They killed Selwyn and now Miss Amber.’

  ‘Who did, Pascaline?’

  She stares out to sea, towards the distant green blur of Maturiki Island. ‘Those evil boys.’

  ‘Boys? What boys?’

  ‘Mr Nordlund’s boys,’ she whispers, ‘Ryan and Hayden. Miss Amber ran away from Maturiki to escape them, after they killed Selwyn.’

  ‘Why would they do that?’

  ‘I don’t know. I think because he spied on them, saw something he shouldn’t. He wouldn’t tell me what it was.’

  ‘Did you see them kill Selwyn?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then how can you be sure?’

  She looks back at her brother’s grave. ‘They sent their lawyer to Selwyn’s funeral. Afterwards he came to see my father and me, and gave us money, five thousand American dollars each.’

  Emanuel gives a soft whistle.

  ‘He said it was in place of Selwyn’s pension, a special gift from Mr Nordlund. My father was very happy. He got drunk, and the next day he left for Port Vila. I haven’t heard from him since. He took my money as well as his own, but I don’t care. I didn’t want it—it was blood money.’

  Harry says, ‘Did the lawyer work in Port Vila?’

  ‘No, he wasn’t Ni-Vanuatu, he was Australian. He looked like a black kite, with a beak for tearing flesh. You know him?’

  ‘Yes, he’s a big-shot lawyer
in Sydney. Mr Nordlund must have thought this was very important, to send him in person. What is Mr Nordlund like?’

  ‘He is a cold man, very correct. Not like his wife, who is much younger and very beautiful and flirts with the men visitors like the Chinese man, Mr Deng.’

  ‘Are there many visitors?’

  ‘Yes, important men and women, especially during the land-diving season, when the tourists come to watch the men jumping from the high towers. That’s when they need extra staff.’

  ‘Is there anyone over there at the moment?’

  ‘I don’t know. Perhaps not. I haven’t seen any boats lately.’

  Harry gets her to describe the layout of the property. She isn’t able to draw a plan, but she mentions various rooms that she’s either seen or heard the cleaners talking about—a gym, a wine cellar, an office suite.

  When she’s finished they thank Pascaline and promise to keep their conversation secret.

  They return to Emanuel’s house where his wife is busy preparing a meal. Emanuel says something to her and then invites his guests to sit outside on a veranda facing the ocean.

  ‘Unfortunately,’ he says, ‘my religion forbids alcohol. However, the good book has nothing to say on the subject of kava. Have you ever had kava?’

  Harry and Kelly shake their heads.

  ‘Then you are in luck, for the very best, most noble kava comes from Pentecost, and it is best taken fresh. Ah…’

  They turn to see Lydia emerging from the house with a pot and a dish containing some roots and a lump of coral. She sits with them, picks up one of the roots and begins to grind it in her hand with the coral, dropping the pulp into the pot. After grinding all of the roots she fetches a jug of water, pours some into the pot and stirs it. When she’s happy with it she brings three glasses and pours the fluid into them.

  Emanuel raises his glass and sips, nods contentedly. ‘This is very good. Please try it.’

  Kelly does, and gags. Emanuel laughs.

  ‘You don’t like it, Kelly? No, it’s not really a ladies’ drink. In fact in some places it’s forbidden for women to drink it. Would you prefer a cup of tea?’

  ‘If you don’t mind, yes please.’ Her tongue feels numb and she wants to wash her mouth out. She watches Harry take a sip too. ‘You like it, Harry?’ she asks.

  ‘It’s, um, growing on me, I think.’

  The evening is hot, the air still and heavy with humidity. ‘A storm is coming,’ Emanuel says. ‘Soon it will be the cyclone season.’ As they drink he tells them stories of the islands. He was himself once a champion bungee jumper from the tall towers built up in the hills for the land-diving ceremonies. He sees the look pass across Kelly’s face and he chuckles. ‘That was when I was young and thin, before I tasted Lydia’s cooking.’

  They go indoors to sample it for themselves. During the meal Harry talks about their plans. ‘There’s a flight back to Port Vila tomorrow, but it doesn’t leave till the afternoon. So I thought we might do a spot of fishing in the morning, if it’s possible to hire a small boat?’

  Emanuel says he thinks he can arrange it.

  55

  Ken Fogarty is sitting in an interview room with a cup of coffee. He looks quite relaxed, doodling on a pad of paper. Perhaps he’s working on a problem with his train layout, Deb thinks, and apologises for keeping him waiting. She and Felder sit down opposite him.

  ‘No dramas,’ Fogarty says calmly. ‘I expect you’ve got your hands full, what with Slater Park. How is that going by the way? Any leads?’

  ‘Nothing solid.’ Deb smiles resignedly, deciding to allow herself to be patronised. She takes out her phone, makes a show of checking it while Felder cautions him again.

  Fogarty folds his arms and stares at Deb, waiting. When she puts the phone away he says, ‘Brenda tells me you searched our home. What’s that all about?’

  ‘It was that cap business. She told us it was in your wardrobe but it wasn’t.’

  He looks at her as if she’s stupid. ‘I thought we cleared up the cap business. Didn’t we?’

  ‘Hmm.’ She reaches into the bag at her side for a file, opens it and takes out a photograph of the bag of cocaine. ‘Have you ever seen this before?’

  He leans forward to inspect it. ‘I’ve seen a thousand like it. I was in the drug squad, remember?’

  ‘Yes, with Eden. But this was in his room, beneath his body. Ring any bells?’

  He gazes at her, expressionless. ‘Nope.’

  ‘That’s odd, because it’s got your thumb print on it.’

  A moment of silence, then Fogarty sits back and barks a laugh. ‘Is that what this is all about? Jesus. Yes, it’s possible I have seen it before. Saturday night I drove Eden back to his place after we’d had dinner. He offered me the bag of blow. I handed it back to him and told him not to be so bloody stupid.’ He shrugs. ‘But I could understand it. He’s been doing it tough lately.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Oh, money, divorce, work—you name it.’

  ‘Brenda said you’ve been very stressed lately too.’

  ‘Did she say that?’

  ‘Anything special?’

  ‘No. Where’s this going? Are you seriously going to try to make trouble for me because my print is on Eden’s packet of coke?’ He looks at Felder for support. ‘This is ludicrous. I want to see Dick Blake.’

  Deb goes on, ‘I’m thinking that you and Eden were both stressed, he offers you drugs, you have an argument that turns nasty, he pulls a knife, you struggle and the knife ends up in Eden’s heart. Something like that?’

  ‘What? You’re crazy! For a start, I was nowhere near Eden’s flat yesterday. I was with Brenda and the kids all day. She’ll confirm that.’

  ‘Yes, she does. The trouble is that she also says that she was asleep when you came to bed, so she can’t vouch for your movements after about nine.’

  Fogarty shakes his head, exasperated, mutters something.

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘I said go fuck yourself, Velasco. You are making one big bloody fool of yourself. You haven’t got a shred of evidence to accuse me of anything.’

  ‘Well, there’s the cap.’

  ‘The cap!’

  ‘Yes, the cap, and the matching dark blue jacket, you know the one? They were worn by someone who appears on the CCTV at Eden’s apartment block, arriving and leaving again late last night.’

  ‘Ah…so that’s what’s bugging you? Someone with clothes like mine?’

  ‘No, they are actually yours. We found them at your home, stuffed in the garbage bin, and stained with Eden’s blood.’

  Fogarty looks stunned. His face goes very pale as he takes this in. Finally he whispers, ‘DNA?’

  ‘Yours? Oh, yes, all over the place, the handle of the murder weapon…’

  Fogarty seems to be having difficulty swallowing.

  Deb reaches into her bag again and pulls out the pair of running shoes from the skip, now in a clear plastic evidence bag. She places them in front of him. ‘Are these yours, Chief Inspector Fogarty?’

  He stares at them, taking in the bloodstains, and says nothing.

  Deb opens her file again, making a show of finding a document. ‘Where were you on the afternoon of Monday October thirteen?’

  He looks confused by the change of direction. ‘What?’

  ‘Just over two weeks ago—I have a witness places you and Grimshaw in the Blue Mountains that afternoon. Blackheath.’

  Fogarty stares at her for a long moment, face frozen. Then, ‘I want to speak to my lawyer.’

  ‘Yes, I think that would be a good idea. You can tell him that you’re being charged with the murder of Detective Sergeant Eden Grimshaw.’

  56

  They rise early, the air still sultry hot. Harry has slept more deeply than he has for months, due, Emanuel tells him, to the soporific effects of the kava. He warns Harry that they had a ‘tudei’ kava strain, so called because its effects can last for two days. Harry goes f
or a long swim in the ocean to wake himself up.

  The boat that Emanuel borrows for them is a small aluminium dinghy with an outboard motor. Both boat and motor look as if they’ve been around for a very long time. He also provides a couple of fishing rods and some bait, and warns them of a storm front approaching from the north. ‘You be back by noon, mind.’

  Lydia supplies them with a bowl of laplap, the national speciality, a dish of pounded taro cooked in coconut cream, and some papaya. She also gives them bottles of water and two straw hats to keep off the sun and make them look more like locals. They coax the motor into life, and Kelly and Harry set off across a flat oily sea towards Maturiki.

  Lydia has told them that the coral reef with its lagoon and beach lie on the far side of the island, with most of the buildings clustered around it, facing towards the west. The east side, which they are approaching, is fringed by mangroves, shifting sandbars and muddy beaches. After half an hour Harry throttles down and glides in through weed and roots to a place where the palm trees come closest to the shore. They wade up through the mud and tie the boat to a palm trunk, then set off up a shallow slope towards the centre of the island.

  After struggling through thick scrub for a while they come upon a rough path. There is no sound, no indication of human life. They emerge into a large clearing paved with concrete, its centre marked with a large painted cross. ‘The helicopter pad,’ Harry murmurs.

  From here a paved road winds through well-groomed groves of palm and hibiscus, but they stay clear of it, making their way through the cover of the lush landscaped garden, heady with the scent of frangipani, and approach the compound. They see white modernist buildings, two electric buggies standing at what might be the main entrance. Working around the complex, they get an idea of its layout—a kitchen wing and yard, a separate building for maintenance, what may be a guest wing, a staff block.

  They reach the western side and see white coral sand running down to the lagoon, groves of pandanus trees with spreading aerial roots anchoring them to the sand, the line of foam at the reef, a brilliant blue swimming pool on a terrace. All is motionless, as if in suspense, waiting for the yachts and the helicopters to arrive.