by JP Pomare
There’s a great big light fixture, black and baroque. It’s tasteless, oversized and doesn’t fit here. Reaching up, I use the torch app on my phone, shining it around the edge of the fixture, unsure of what I’m looking for but scanning until I see something. It’s a… camera? I peer closer, moving the phone so close that the light shines into the tiny cavity. It’s nothing. Just a hole. About the width of a knitting needle but it’s empty. It doesn’t make sense. A camera couldn’t fit there could it? It’s no smaller than the camera on my iPhone I suppose. He had showed me footage from the bed too. That is where I head next.
I drag the chair from the lounge into the bedroom. I climb up and scan the ceiling, but there are no holes here. It’s an unbroken canvas of white except for the smoke alarm. I bend my head all the way back, looking up at it. I move the chair closer, climb up and look right into it. Another hole the same size. It’s right where the emergency light should be. It’s perfect; you would never notice it unless you were searching for it. I press the button to test the alarm but it doesn’t make a sound. Stretching on my toes, I reach up and twist the alarm from the ceiling. It comes away easily. The plastic mount connected to the roof has another tiny hole through to the ceiling. I’m holding my breath. At the lake house, the police found the cameras hidden in impossibly small crevices. Seven in total. How many cameras were here in this apartment? My skin itches, I feel the eyes on me now, like hands touching me, pinching and prodding. Then a sound.
I freeze. Three hard taps at the door.
I can’t move. Someone is here, I think. Someone was still watching. My breathing is quick and laboured. I climb down from the chair, search the room for a weapon, or an escape. I could go out the courtyard, try to climb the fence.
There is another knock at the door. I’m electric, waiting for some heavy blow. I move silently. If I ignore them maybe they will go away. But what if they don’t? It’s too early in the morning for visitors, but why knock at all? If they mean me harm, why not just burst through the door? A dark thought enters my mind like a piece of glass, then shatters and spreads through me: what if it’s the second man?
My sneakers make a small squelching sound when I move across the polished kitchen floor towards the door. I lean in close to peer out through the peephole, my heart slamming now. The sun is beginning to rise, but it’s still dark out. Where did they go? Who was it? Someone must know I am here, they must have been following me. I can’t just wait it out, but then again I can’t go into the darkness alone.
Squeezing my eyes closed I’m back in the lake house with that man, he’s hovering over me, taunting me. Then I’m holding the gun, it’s exploding in my hand, throwing me back. The trigger was firm, then it was water and I flew, sprawling. I’m there, seeing it all as if it’s happening to me again.
I survived. I got through that; this is nothing. Inhale, exhale.
In the kitchen I find a pan. It’s light but sturdy. I take it back to the door, where I reach for the door handle, and gently twist it. The door pulls open slowly, whining. The crisp early morning air moves in around me, through my clothes, chilling me.
I pocket my phone, before stepping out with the pan in both hands. Through the door, down the first step, then the second. I pull the door closed, locked behind me. I’m prickling with fear as I peer towards the car. No one is there. Slowly, bending my knees, I find the key safe and push the keys inside. Locking it once more. I rise and start towards the gate, the street beyond. The car is so close now. The gate creaks, a horror film sound that sends my heart racing. I’ll have to explain I left a pan in the front yard, it might cost part of my deposit to replace if it is stolen but I need to leave. I squat and place the pan down. Through the gate now, two quick strides. I reach the sedan and am vaguely aware of another car door sounding, footsteps. The fear is overwhelming. He’s coming for me. I look up and he’s on me before I can open my car door.
I find the key between my knuckles. Turn and swing blindly.
‘Stop!’ a voice says.
I swipe out again, aiming for his throat. He’s turned me using the weight of my attack. My arm is up my spine, the key pried from my fingers and chinking against the concrete footpath.
I kick back and twist. Throwing my elbows.
‘Stop,’ the voice says. ‘Calm the fuck down.’
‘Let me go,’ I say. ‘Help!’ I scream for anyone on the street. The sunrise is just beginning to tinge the horizon. Joggers will be out soon. Someone will help me. I scream again.
He’s too strong, my arm wrenches higher and I’m pressed against the car. He’s going to kidnap me.
‘Help!’
His voice is loud, authoritative and close to my ear. ‘Mrs Phillips, I’m going to need you to calm down.’
‘Let me go. LET. ME. GO!’ I twist, kick, turn my head. If I could just bite his hand. If I could loosen his grip.
‘You’ve just assaulted a police officer,’ he says, with a firm, authoritative tone.
‘What?’ I say, twisting my head back. It can’t be. They’re not in uniforms. ‘You’re not –’
‘My name is Detective Senior Sergeant Ed Rata.’
‘No,’ I say, turning back to eye the man. I realise there’s two of them. ‘You’re not police, you’ve been following me. You’re –’
‘And this is my colleague, Constable Black.’
Peephole transmission
Given the recent growth in members, it has become clear that Peephole must implement new measures to protect the anonymity of planters, and keep viewers from interfering with streams. Over the past month, there has been a number of robberies at properties that were vacant, and the recent incident on stream 037B has resulted in further police investigations. This stream would not have been compromised if it wasn’t for the individual who interfered. The planter’s equipment was discovered and removed by police, this may lead to identification through fingerprints or DNA on and around the equipment. We have closed the WeStay account and have safely removed equipment from all other streams associated with this account.
Until further notice all live streams will be delayed by one to six hours to stop those who are using this platform for anything other than watching.
Please enjoy the show.
TWENTY-FOUR
‘WE’D LIKE YOU to come with us,’ Rata says. He’s darker than the younger one, and has a bristled black moustache you could polish a shoe with.
‘How do I know you’re cops?’
He produces a badge, but I can barely see it in the early morning glow and even if I could, I wouldn’t know if it were real. As he opens his jacket to put it back, I see the handcuffs and the taser on the side of his belt.
‘What if I say no?’
‘We’d prefer it if you came along voluntarily. It would help to clear things up,’ he says. A non-answer. ‘We want to know why you’re here, at this house?’
A clot of something breaks free from where it had grown in my chest, it rises up and settles in my throat. I have to tell them. But I know I can’t.
‘It’s not what you think,’ I say, pausing. ‘Why are you here?’
He doesn’t take his eyes away from mine. ‘We can talk about that at the station.’
I slowly exhale, thinking through the situation. ‘Can I follow you there in my car?’
Rata turns back to Constable Black, who shrugs as if he’s asking question.
‘It might be easier if you come with us. We can drop you back here after.’
‘No,’ I say, defiant now. ‘If you want me to come, I will drive myself.’ I still don’t know if I trust these two. I can’t pinpoint why, but I don’t want to be at their mercy. I want to be able to leave in my car when I want.
‘Sure. Follow us.’
I climb into my car, my heart thrashing and my palms damp around the key. The car starts with a grumble. Headlights come on behind me. I wait for them to pass then follow on.
They lead me through the streets back towards the heart of t
he city, as sunrise slowly continues to peel the layers of darkness away. When we park, me tucking in behind their dark sedan, I’m looking up at what could be Orwell’s Ministry of Love. A Tetris block of a building, too banal to be considered ‘architectural’ but the word ‘brutalist’ leaps to my mind. Ten storeys of concrete, featureless but for the evenly spaced small square windows, sitting in their own recesses.
‘This way,’ the younger one says when I climb out of the car. He leads, and the other one, Rata, walks beside me. Everything about this situation feels off. They’ve got control. Giving me the feeling that it would hurt more to defy their commands than it would to simply acquiesce. These two are well versed. They wield silence like a blowtorch, they know how to get people to do and say what they want. Or maybe I’m being too harsh. Maybe it’s me, my own guilt gnawing at my subconscious. Maybe I’m afraid they’ll be able to unpick the thread and my secrets will all tumble out.
He stops, opens the door for me. ‘Come on through.’
I don’t acknowledge the gesture, I just stride past. Cain said the media are like vampires, but I feel that way about these two: never invite them into your house, never accept a gift from them or do them a favour.
‘Kia ora, Tabitha,’ Rata says as we pass a plate-glassed booth.
The uniformed woman glances up. ‘Morning, Detective.’
A buzzing sound and a door opens.
He leads me through corridors of unblemished beige walls. This is not the police station we had visited to give our statements. This is something else. We reach what feels like the heart of the ground level, a small interview room. If you’ve been in one, you’ve been in them all: a table mounted to the wall, a voice recorder and camera in the corner. I remember the first time I came to a place like this. Grandpa was with me because I was too young to go alone. We both had to give statements about that night, when Mum had turned up at the lake house, drunk again.
‘She’s coming with me. She’s my bloody daughter.’
‘She’s not getting in that car. We’re her guardians, not you. You can come back and visit her when you’re sober.’
The argument growing, Mum rushing at him, a skinny thing with her hands raised like claws, grabbing at her own father.
Then when they called the police, she’d sped off in that old Ford. And Grandpa just stood on the porch, watching her go. Then that sound. Metal bending, the crackle of branches breaking, and the boom and splash of the car striking the water. That corner at the cliff is four hundred metres along the road yet we all heard it so clear. I still hear it now when I think about her.
‘Look,’ Rata begins. ‘This isn’t a formal interview or anything like that, we’re not recording you. We just want you to help us understand one or two things.’
‘What is this place?’
‘It was the main police station in Auckland before the move, but the force still owns it, so we make use of it from time to time. For interviews and meetings.’
Interrogations? I wonder. National security? Cybercrime?
‘Okay. Is there any more news on our case?’
‘We’re looking at something different. It’s broader than that one case.’
The room drops ten degrees. Broader. What does that mean? Peephole? Rata sits down, private school straight spine, with a muscled neck keeping that large head of his up. ‘Perhaps you can begin by explaining to us why you were at that house?’ he says.
‘Well, I booked it on WeStay.’
A brow lifts. ‘Why did you book that place in particular?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Why did you book it? You didn’t stay there tonight. So what is it? Trouble at home?’
All the lies flicker through my mind, I needed a night away from Cain, sometimes I stay near the ambulance station when I’m on call, I stayed at that house before and left something valuable behind. None seem plausible. The truth is I don’t really know myself why I went, I guess I wanted to see if the cameras were still there. I twist the wedding ring on my finger, I don’t realise I’m doing it until I follow Rata’s dark eyes to my own hands. I stop.
‘I haven’t broken the law,’ I say. ‘So I want to go home.’
‘Well, that depends.’
‘On?’
‘Given what you know about the pending case concerning Daniel Moore and the fact you were at a place of interest, this could be seen as interfering in a criminal investigation.’
‘How was I to know that house was of interest?’
His smile says cut the crap.
‘I’m not answering any more questions,’ I say. I eye the door.
He levels his gaze right on me, letting the tension build.
‘I’m going to ask you again, why were you at that house this morning, Lina?’
I just shake my head.
‘Why are you and your husband visiting a place of interest in a criminal investigation?’
I freeze. Look up suddenly from my hands. Rata cocks the corner of his mouth. Cain visiting that house? A swelling siren of panic. I try to straighten my face out but they’ve seen it.
‘Wait,’ he says, leaning a little closer. ‘You didn’t know.’
‘Didn’t know what?’
A small laugh. My insides plummet. Rata ribs the other cop with his elbow. ‘Hear that, Constable? She didn’t even know he had been there.’
The constable speaks now. ‘Daniel turns up at your house with a fistful of lead in his guts. He stayed at that house you were visiting tonight, and you didn’t know your husband had been there.’ The image almost makes me gag. The tone has changed. Rata speaks again now, the smile leaving his face. ‘Help us understand, Lina. None of this makes sense.’
I just shake my head.
‘If Cain was there and you don’t know why, I’d be very careful if I were you.’
I can’t help but take the bait. ‘What do you mean?’
‘It sounds like your husband has a secret, Lina. And you have a secret. Things like this tend not to end well. So why don’t you help us out? What we are investigating is bigger than you both.’
Bigger than us both. My mind is whirling. Cain must know something, why else was he there? Or could this be some trick the police are playing on me?
‘Cameras were installed at that house. Now they’ve been removed. Who do you think might have removed them?’
‘Daniel Moore?’ I say.
‘Some would say he’s the obvious culprit. But people can make a lot of money very quickly doing this sort of thing. Two places in less than one week and they’re both linked to you, Lina.’
‘I don’t know what to say, I had nothing to do with it.’
Rata shrugs now, as if to say, prove it. Then he speaks, ‘We’ve had the place under surveillance. I was not expecting you or your husband to show up. I missed him but when they said you were at the house, well that was worth getting out of bed for.’
‘Did you bring him here?’
‘No,’ he says.
‘Why not?’
‘That doesn’t matter.’
‘I went there to check for cameras. I saw on our listing that someone had stayed there as well as our place. I went there because I’m still shaken up and scared and I want answers and I thought there was a second man that night. That’s all.’
Rata pokes out his bottom lip as if considering my theory that someone else was involved. ‘If you’re telling the truth about this, I’d be very careful if I were you. But I’m not sure if I really believe what you’re saying. I think there’s more to it.’
•
Rata walks me to my car. ‘Keep an eye on your husband, Lina,’ he says as we walk. ‘We can protect you but you need to give us something. If you have information and you withhold it, we will find out. If you are protecting someone, you will go down with them. Unless you come to us first.’
‘No,’ I say, an impulse to protect Cain taking over. ‘I’m sure this is a big misunderstanding. I don’t know anything about anyone being involve
d with this.’
He reaches into his coat and takes out a pen. Then he fishes in his pants pocket and produces a notebook. He tears out a page, scribbles something on it and hands it to me.
‘Keep this somewhere safe and call me if you have any other information that might help.’
‘Thanks.’
He doesn’t say anything else, he just turns to go.
‘Wait,’ I call.
‘Yes?’ He turns back, hands on hips.
‘How much can these people make? From the cameras.’
In the morning glow, I see his eyes narrow. ‘I don’t know for certain, but I would guess in the thousands, if not tens of thousands. Depends what sort of material the cameras yield.’ I ignore the suspicious instinct tugging at my consciousness like a dog at the end of its chain. The trifecta was in the tens of thousands, this mysterious injection of cash.
‘Is he a suspect for any of this?’ I say. ‘With the cameras?’
He glances around himself for a few seconds as if following a mosquito with his eyes. ‘I’m just saying be careful. If it’s not feeling right, or you’re worried things are going south, get out and call me.’
Then, before I can speak again, he’s turned on his heel and he’s heading back inside the building.
TWENTY-FIVE
BY THE TIME I get home, morning has broken in a cloudless blue full of birdsong. There is no point entering silently when I know Cain is likely already awake. On the way to the bedroom, I stop at his study and gently press the door open. It’s warmer in here but he’s not up. There’s no sound or movement in the house, so I step inside the room, moving on the balls of my feet towards his laptop, the two curved monitors on the wooden desk. He spends a lot of time at this desk. I reach for the computer, rest my hand on the side of the casing and feel for heat but it’s cool. I could turn it on, snoop through his things for some evidence. But now that I’m home what Rata was suggesting about Cain seems more and more ridiculous. If Cain knew about the cameras, he would know what I did. He would have left me. He’s not a pervert, not a voyeur. I know him well enough to know that. So what if it was a ploy? Some move to get me to admit to something I didn’t do? Or what if they saw someone who looked like Cain at the house. It might have been another Maori boy, or the owner, or a Jehovah’s Witness. Maybe even the cleaner… at night time? Perhaps not, but people make mistakes. There’s no way to know for sure that it really was him they saw or if they saw anyone at all.
