Crystal Ice

by Warren Miner-Williams

  “Nothing serious, just something I’ve got a feeling about. This weekend I saw another article in the Herald about that model that died of an OD, Sharon Davis. Do you remember?” Robin Hickman nodded.

  “Well, if you recall, I processed a report about her importing plastic baggies suitable for distributing drugs. I’ve just had another look at her and found what may possibly be another piece of the jigsaw. Look, I have written out a synopsis. Would you have a read and tell me if there is anything there that would warrant me spending more time on it?”

  “Sure. Hand it over and I’ll get back to you after I finish writing this report.”

  Robin came back just before Alex was going to leave the office for home. Robin Hickman was blonde, short and stocky. At only twenty-seven he was one of the youngest collective intelligence analysts. His wisdom though, belied his age. He was a natural leader and destined for high office in the New Zealand customs service.

  “I’ve read what you’ve dug up, and I’ve dug around a little myself. It appears that all you’ve got is the notion that this biochemist is now a cook, a meth’ cook. Well, he isn’t really a cook is he, he’s a restaurant manager. Please don’t get me wrong I admire your tenacity with this thing and I must admit I too don't believe in sequential coincidences. However, all we have on this guy is just a couple of blips on our radar. What I suggest you do is stick a note on all the reports you’ve dealt with, stating that you’re interested in any information that arises in the future and that officers should copy reports to you. Then just wait till he pops up on the radar again. Believe me, if he is bent, he’ll crop up again. That’s all you can do really. OK?”

  “Yeah, thanks Robin, I appreciate your efforts. I’ll put him aside in a file marked ‘pending’.”

  “Good. See you tomorrow.”

  “Yeah, catch you in the morning.”

  Later that evening Alex made a couple of telephone calls.

  “Hi Lisa, Alex MacLean here, the customs officer from Auckland, remember?”

  “Yes of course I remember. You and Leanne were very good to me. How can I help?”

  “Couple of things I suppose, the most important being, how are you and have you still got your job?”

  “Yes, on both counts. Coming to terms with the death of my sister and how she died will take a while, but yes, I’m good. And yes, I still have my job. I went to see Mrs Nichols this morning and she just hugged me on the doorstep. No explanation was needed, she trusts that I’m not an addict or a danger to her children.”

  “Great, I’m so glad. I’ve revisited some of the files that hold information about your sister, but I can’t find anything that might lead back to the crystal ice supply or manufacture. But there is one other question I must ask you; do you know a guy called Graham-Collins, or do you think your sister might have?”

  There was a pause before Lisa replied.

  “No, that name doesn’t ring a bell at all. As for Sharon, we hadn’t spoken to each other from the time of my conviction till the phone call she made, begging me to help her. So sorry Alex.”

  “You wouldn’t know if Sharon had a favourite restaurant, perhaps?”

  “No, I’m sorry. Sharon and her life over the last few years are a complete mystery.”

  “Did you have a favourite restaurant in Auckland, by any chance?”

  “The last one I went to, when I was working and could afford it, was the revolving one on the top of the Sky Tower. Why do you ask?”

  “Oh, just working a hunch, that’s all. Look after yourself Lisa, and if I get any more information I’ll give you another call, if that’s OK”

  “Yes, I’ll be here. Thanks again Alex, I appreciate all you’re trying to do. Thanks.”

  The next call Alex made was to his mate Doug Asher, the community policeman in Papakura.

  “Hi Doug. You OK for bowling this Thursday?”

  “Now when have I ever let clan MacLean down. So, what do you really want at this hour?”

  “You sound cheerful, are you on a promise or something?”

  “My sex life, what little I get, is my own business my friend, unless you are going to volunteer your body.”

  “Bollocks to that, surely you’re not that hard up, are you? No pun intended.”

  “Well, you can always do with a bit of rough in your life in order to contrast with the finer things my friend.”

  “You queer bugger, and why do you think I would be a bit of rough...don’t answer that last question I’d rather not know. OK I’ll admit I want a bit...”

  At that moment the volume of Doug’s laugh on the other end of the phone almost permanently deafened Alex in his right ear. “Shut up you silly bugger, this is the serious bit. I want you to check a body out for me on the quiet.”

  More laughter followed before Doug pulled himself together. “You certainly know how to put your foot in it and keep it there, don’t you bro?”

  “I’m not even going to answer that. The guy is called Tony Graham-Collins, born in England October twelfth, nineteen sixty-six, and living at 24 Weldene Crescent, Howick. Wife’s name is Nadine and they have two daughters Naomi and Carol?”

  “I presume this is to do with your theory about the Davis sisters and methamphetamine?”

  “Yes, I’ve got no facts, just intuition. I don’t want to put it through on the record.”

  “I thought it was only women that have intuition.”

  “You’re definitely on a promise, you’re only this daft when your testosterone levels are high.”

  “Yep, that’s about the size of it. So, it’s, OK?”

  “Course it is. But I can’t chat all night I’ve someone here I have to deal with.” Both men continued to laugh long after the call was ended.

  Leanne looked across the lounge at her husband. “Who’s got you in a good mood?” she asked.

  “Just Doug Asher, Fancy an early night, love?”

  17. More Eggs!

  Petera Mokaraka pulled the van up close to the outbuilding where Tony Graham-Collins was working. Knocking on the locked door, he announced his return from the chicken farm in Airborne Road, on the outskirts of Papakura.

  “Yo, Tony, got those eggs you asked for.”

  “OK Petera, leave them in the van for a moment, I’ll be out in a jiffy.”

  “Jiffy? Is that some pommy expression?”

  “You know it is, you big goon.”

  “I can bring them in if you open the door.”

  “I’ve got my hands full at the moment. Go make the coffee and I’ll get them sorted before the kettle boils.”

  “What the fuck do you want all these eggs for anyway, you tryin’ to break a world record for baking a cake or somethin?”

  “Our employers have got the idea that we can use egg white to clarify the meth, a bit like clearing home-made wine. I reckon it’s a silly idea myself.”

  “Why all the secrecy? This isn’t some other money-making scheme, is it?”

  “No, just an effort to make a better product.”

  “OK, I’ll get the jug on.”

  Graham-Collins breathed a sigh of relief once he realised that Petera had gone. Petera was no fool, so Tony didn’t know if his hastily proffered excuse would answer the curiosity of his assistant cook. As he promised, Graham-Collins quickly unloaded the van and carefully stored the trays of eggs in the cold room, which was an integral part of his DIY virology lab. Soon after Petera shouted that the coffee was ready.

  As Tony stepped into the farm kitchen Petera was munching on a chocolate biscuit. He said nothing as he passed Tony his coffee. Petera was in a quiet, reflective mood which was unusual for him. He was halfway through his second biscuit before he spoke.

  “Tony, I’ve got a bit of a problem. You know the woman I’m dating, Rewa?”

  “Not really, but go on.”

  “Well anyway she, her son Robbie and me have got quite close. Well, what with questions of where I live and tales about Alice and stuff, I’ve invited them to the bun
galow, Friday night. A sort of yes, this is me and my life sort of thing”

  “What? Are you crazy?” Graham-Collins shouted. “If she gets wind of the meth lab, we’re both dead. You understand that don’t you?”

  “Yes, well I….”

  “I’m serious Petera, we’ll be as dead as your friend Tua. And probably topped just as fucking brutally too.”

  “What do you know about Tua’s death?”

  Shit, I’ve put my foot in it now thought Tony. “Just what I read in the papers.” It was a lame answer and he knew it. “I know he was a Skorpion leader, the same gang that we work for.”

  “You don’t work for the fucking gang; you work for the big boys in Auckland.” There was suddenly an edge to Petera’s voice and Tony knew he had to be careful. “What did they say about Tua?”

  “Look, I’m just a dumb shit chemist, they don’t tell me anything. I know fuck-all about how they finance this little operation, let alone anything to do with the Skorpions. But one thing I do know, they won’t give a second thought to killing the likes of you and me if this, their money mine, is discovered. The foot soldiers are always sacrificed first, so those who know anything about the organisation will be at the front of the queue. That’s you and me, my friend.”

  “Are you saying that they had something to do with Tua’s murder? Come on Tony, I need to know if it was them or Sonny Rewaka.”

  “I’ve told you I know fuck all. If you want to know, ask Sonny. It isn’t rocket science figuring out that your boss, Tua, was rocking the boat.”

  “So, this stuff in the paper about Tua spilling his guts to the police about the New Reich is bullshit?”

  “I told you, I don’t know anything Petera, really I don’t. But I’ve got a brain and I can add up the numbers, so I’ve got some idea of what happened. Please don’t ask me about it, because I value my own skin and I want to keep it intact.”

  “Tony, give us a clue mate,” Petera’s demeanour suddenly changed. His shoulders had dropped signalling his appeasement with Graham-Collins. “What do you really think went down with Tua?”

  “I’m sorry Petera, I’m not going to talk about it. I’ve got a family and I want to be alive to see my kids grow up. So, I think you bringing Rewa and Robbie to your bungalow is taking too much of a risk. She’s bound to ask questions about the set up here. I mean, who has a farm where no one lives in the main house? No, it’s too risky mate, forget it.”

  “I’ve already had Rewa round at my place in the evening, she was more interested in me than the farm. It’ll be OK.”

  “No, it won’t, it’s too dangerous. I’m shocked that you’ve already had her so near the lab, and I don’t think that ‘The big boys,’ as you call them, would be ecstatic about it either.”

  “Well, they ain’t going to know unless you’re going to tell them.”

  “Look Petera, we’ve been good mates for a while now, we mustn’t fall out about this. Come on buddy, I’m not your enemy. Surely you can see the sense in keeping her away from this place?”

  Petera paused, his mind racing through all the possibilities.

  “Yeah, you’re right, I know that, but I’ve shot myself in the foot. I can’t back out now, Robbie would be real pissed with me.”

  “Better pissed off with you than dead.”

  “You’re right. I’ve fucked up, haven’t I?”

  “Yes. You need to be tough. Tell them you can’t have them here on Friday. And you mustn’t bring Rewa to your bungalow again.”

  “OK, I will. I’m sorry I got shitty with you; I was angry because I could see my own stupidity.”

  Tony patted his friend on the shoulder. “Coffee’s good though.” They both wanted to laugh away the tension between them, but both were too caught up in the consequences of the lab being compromised. It was Petera who spoke next.

  “How many more eggs are you going to need? The guy I’m buying them from was curious as to why I wanted so many.”

  “I’ll need a few more, so best change your supplier, just in case.”

  “That’ll be the third. I’m running out of sources locally. There’s a guy I know in Hamilton. He works for a big outfit just off Highway 1 I’ve been thinking of having a drink with him for a while, so I’ll kill two birds with one stone.”

  “OK, if you can get me another seven dozen trays by this time next week that would be cool.”

  “I don’t really follow what’s going on with this egg white shit, but then again I’m no science boffin either, so do I need to know?”

  “I’ll have finished this trial soon, because I’m convinced it isn’t working. So, we’ll be back to our normal routine after next week.”

  “Want the last biscuit?”

  “No, help yourself, bro. I’ll get back to the egg white shit.”

  ***

  The average annual world production of high-quality lavender oil is only 200 tonnes. This makes the oil not only valuable but highly sought-after. The Tasman Estate Lavender Farm, near Nara, in the north-eastern quarter of Tasmania, produces on average one percent of the world’s annual production from a farm area of 100 hectares – nearly four times as much oil as all the other Australian producers put together. Because oil from this farm is of exceptional quality it commands top dollar, $70 Australian dollars per kilo. Using the mechanical harvester developed in Tasmania, Robert Jerman could harvest nearly two tonnes of lavender flowers per hour, and now, in mid-December, there was a bumper crop. The estate’s steam distillation plant had cost over $300 000 dollars and could deal with eight tonnes of flowers at a time. The essential oil distilled from the flower heads was then stored in 210 litre steel drums that were double galvanised to ensure the steel did not contaminate the precious oil. The farm had once again won a lucrative contract to supply C & W Cooper Incorporated, the makers of Meadowsweet air fresheners. Coopers had agreed to buy 1000 litres of the purified oil, nearly half the farm’s annual production. Coopers were using the best oil for their products because it was more economical to use less of the top-quality oil rather than more of the cheaper Lavandin or Spike Lavender oils. Robert Jerman had learned from the estate accountants that the lavender oil was destined for the U.S. for the production of air fresheners. The order would be fulfilled by the middle of January the following year.

  From December till the end of the harvest in January, the farm would be alive with activity. When the fields were full of the exquisite purple flowers the estate had to contend with thousands of tourists visiting the farm as well as harvesting their valuable crop. The air around the estate buildings was heavy with the fragrance from bruised lavender flowers. Robert loved this time of the year because he could see the product of his hard labours; the weeding, the pruning, the fertilising, all culminated in these two months of the harvest.

  Since his appointment as chief horticulturist, Robert had increased the average yield from 50 to 70kg per hectare. His skill, coupled with good weather, had increased the profits of the farm by over thirty percent. Robert was highly regarded in the industry and had been headhunted by a number of other lavender growers both in Europe and the U.S. But he had resisted the temptation of fast money. The Jerman family had roots in Tasmania, his grandfather, Stanislav, had been with the Moughan family from the beginning. He had a loyalty to the family that was typical of his ethnic roots. However, Robert’s loyalty did not override his allegiance to the global jihad. Privately he had suffered the empathic pain of his fellow believers every time they were oppressed, tortured and killed. He hoped that he would never have to choose between his Muslim beliefs and his loyalty to the Moughan family. The Moughans would never know of his beliefs or actions for the cause. As with many Muslim families he, the husband, never shared his thoughts or his decisions with his wife Irena, and she need never know what he had pledged to do. There would be no trail leading back to him, his family or the Tasman Estate. Robert had been informed that only in January would he know exactly what his task would be. In the meantime, he had to text r
egular progress reports of the harvest to a cell phone in Australia. Anticipating the heroic deeds that would once more raise the banner of the jihad caused pulses of adrenaline to surge through Robert’s veins. As he looked upon the field of purple in front of him, he smiled. Who would have thought that, I, Robert Jerman, could fight for the cause in such a remote corner of the globe? Surely his grandfather would be proud of him, just as Allah – may his name be praised – would be too.

  ***

  At 22 Anderson Street, Glendowie, Brian Rupene was king. Even though he would never be a Skorpion leader like Danny Tua, this was his turf and here he reigned supreme. Across the table from Brian sat his brother Pete, Ngaire Rakena Daniel Tua’s defacto partner and Janet Packwood, Vince Eremia’s de facto partner. Almost the entire surface of the table was covered with empty bottles of Lion Red, and as Brian swept his arm across the tabletop, most crashed to the ground in a crescendo of breaking glass.