Holy Orders

by Angus McLean

  Dearlove was waiting at the door to let me in, and directed me into the lounge where he had the TV on and the lights low. Doc Marten was playing, Martin Clunes killing it as the square-peg doctor in the seaside village. It was a big change from Men Behaving Badly.

  I took a seat on the overstuffed fabric sofa while he shifted a fat fur-ball off his armchair and sat back down, moving the cat to the floor. The cat scowled at him before stalking off with its tail in the air. I tried to get comfortable but the sofa had more lumps than poorly-mixed porridge. I sniffed, detecting an odd smell in the air that I couldn’t quite place.

  ‘So where are you at, Daniel?’ the old boy asked, reaching for a briar pipe on his coffee table. He tapped it on the palm of his hand and picked up a tin of tobacco. He began packing the bowl of the pipe. ‘I only allow myself one of these a day,’ he confided. ‘It’s my nightly treat. A hot drink and a pipe.’

  I sniffed again, wondering what the smell was. I liked the smell of tobacco smoke, it was one of those deliciously unique smells that always reminded me of older gents and Sherlock Holmes. Aside from the obvious health issues, far classier than cigarettes.

  ‘Well,’ I began, still unsure how exactly I was going to broach this with him, but I was cut off by a raised hand.

  ‘Forgive me, dear boy,’ he said, pushing up to his feet. I noticed he had well-worn slippers on his feet, and it made me smile. ‘Terribly rude of me. Cup of tea?’

  ‘I’d never say no to a cuppa thanks,’ I said.

  He moved towards the kitchen, the pipe in one hand and his matches in the other.

  ‘I’m forgetting my manners today, I must say. Chappy was just around before and he made me a cup of tea. My job really, being the host, but he did insist. Dear old Chappy…’

  As he disappeared from view the cogs finally clicked in my thick head. Chappy. Pipe. I sniffed again.

  Gas.

  The feeling of dread kicked me in the guts as I leaped to my feet and surged forward.

  ‘Stop! Don’t…’

  I was cut off by a loud whoosh from the direction of the kitchen and a fireball exploded across the opening in front of me, filling my vision and sucking the oxygen from the air in a nano-second. I fell backwards, throwing my hands up to protect my face, and hit the wall. A picture on the wall dislodged and crashed down on my head, knocking me to the floor.

  I could hear crackling and the tinkle of falling debris, and a muffled, crying moan. I shook myself and scrambled on hands and knees through the doorway into the dining room. Dearlove was on the floor, his cardigan smouldering, trying to get up.

  Beyond him the kitchen was a wreck, filled with smoke. Debris was everywhere and the windows were blown out.

  I grabbed Dearlove and rolled him over, whacking at his cardigan with my bare hands. He let out a yelp, but my slaps were the least of his worries. He had been blown backwards and his slippers had stayed in place, smoking a few feet away.

  I hauled him to his feet, putting an arm around him and hustling him to the front door. He was coughing and spluttering and he was filthy but he was alive. I put him down outside and told him to stay put.

  Hopefully a neighbour was calling the emergency services already. I ran round the side of the house until I found the gas meter, and closed the valve. I grabbed the garden hose and put it on full, hosing down the side of the house where the kitchen windows were blown out. Shattered glass covered the grass around me and pieces of the window frame were scattered about, some hanging from the hole in the wall like broken limbs on a tree.

  I kept on hosing every burning or smouldering surface that I could see, hearing the wail of fire engines in the background.

  Dearlove could consider himself extremely lucky to have survived this. I recalled him being oblivious to Mike’s fishy stench when he first came to the office, and he’d told me he had no sense of smell. The house had been filling with gas and he’d had no idea.

  No idea, that is, until he’d lit his pipe, his nightly treat. A nightly treat that a good friend would know about.

  And that friend had just been round before me.

  ***

  Dearlove looked small and frail in his hospital bed, but it wasn’t the physical injuries – minor burns to his face and hands, a few bumps and bruises – that were the real concern.

  He was hurting inside. I could see it in his eyes. The deceit from his mate Chappy had cut him to the core and it was that which would take time to heal. Molly sat in the only chair in his private room. I stood beside her. My own hands had received very minor burns from slapping him about, and I had gallantly not complained.

  It was close to midnight and visiting hours had ended long ago. The nurses had let us slip onto the ward to see him, given the circumstances. There was a cop at the door, but that had taken some persuasion on my part.

  The fire guys had been and done their thing and determined that the fire was caused by the gas being left on. Dearlove sparking up his pipe had been enough to ignite it and cause a fireball that knocked him over but fortunately didn’t kill him.

  The cops had attended and a lengthy debate had taken place while I was being patched up at the back of an ambulance. The sergeant wasn’t having a bar of it. An hour later the CIB had turned up and I started all over again. The general consensus had been that Dearlove had left the gas hob switched on, being old and doddery.

  The fact that he was a decorated RAF veteran and a wealthy, upstanding member of the community held no water. I threatened to call the Herald news desk and let them know, followed by the District Commander.

  Still no dice.

  It wasn’t until I started dialling that they listened.

  At least now we knew he would be safe overnight. I would have been happy for Mike or I to guard him but we had things to do in the morning and needed to be fresh.

  ‘I just don’t understand.’ Dearlove’s voice cracked when he spoke. ‘Why would he do such a thing?’

  Nothing I said would make him feel any better right now, so I said nothing.

  ‘It can’t be him,’ he said. ‘There must be another explanation.’

  Molly’s voice was soft. ‘I don’t think there is,’ she said. She reached over and put her hand over his. ‘But don’t worry Julian, we won’t let it go. We’ll find out why.’

  He turned his face towards her and I could see a tear trickling down the side of his nose.

  ‘I can’t believe it,’ he whispered. He wiped the tear away with a trembling hand. ‘I don’t want to.’ He turned away again, but held onto her hand. ‘Don’t want to.’

  Molly raised her face to look at me and I could see her eyes were wet. Animals, kids and old folk, every time.

  I patted her shoulder and told Dearlove we would be back to check on him in the morning. He gave no indication of having heard me.

  We left him and closed the door to his room. The cop looked up from his phone and nodded as we went by. He looked about twelve years old. Or maybe I was just getting old.

  We stepped outside and Molly led me towards the car. If it weren’t for the smokers slowly killing themselves outside the night air would have been fresh and invigorating. We reached the VW and Molly bleeped the locks.

  She opened her door and looked at me across the roof.

  ‘Poor guy,’ she said. ‘He’s gutted.’

  ‘Yep,’ I said.

  ‘We’ll get whoever did this, won’t we?’ she said.

  I gave a short nod. ‘Yep,’ I said. ‘We’ll get them.’

  She made to get in but paused.

  ‘I’m just glad you’re okay,’ she said quietly.

  Twelve

  Bernard Chapman opened the door before I’d even knocked. He was dressed for golf and had a set of clubs by the door.

  He looked surprised to see me but recovered quickly, starting to cross the threshold and pull the door closed behind him.

  I stayed where I was, one foot on the doorstep. I was wearing my black Kathmandu jacket, jeans and a seri
ous expression. Chappy looked down at my foot then up at me.

  ‘Do you mind?’ he said. ‘I’ve got a game to get to.’

  ‘No you don’t,’ I said. ‘We need to talk.’

  ‘I don’t have time today, sorry. Like I said, I have a round of golf to get to, so if you don’t mind…’

  ‘I do mind, actually. You and I need to talk about your good friend Julian.’ I looked him in the eye. ‘Firstly, about his missing Volvo. And secondly, about someone trying to kill him last night.’

  He gave me quizzical. ‘Tried to kill him?’ He gave it a good effort, I’ll give him that.

  ‘That’s right,’ I said. ‘The Police are investigating it. Attempted Murder, they say.’

  He squinted at me. ‘Daniel, isn’t it?’

  ‘Dan.’

  ‘Well, Dan.’ He gathered his thoughts for a moment. ‘I’ll let you in on a little something here, a little fact of life.’

  I waited with bated breath. My hands were stinging and the rest of my body ached. I wasn’t really in the mood for life lessons from this idiot.

  ‘A man does not go around to another man’s house and confront him on his doorstep like this. A man does not throw willy-nilly accusations around like Attempted Murder.’ He shook his head and his cheeks wobbled. ‘It’s not the done thing.’

  I raised my eyebrows. ‘Wow. Not the done thing,’ I said. ‘I didn’t know that. So it must be okay to try to burn your friend alive after you’ve ripped him off.’ I nodded. ‘I see now.’

  He gave me a withering scowl. ‘Don’t be flippant, Daniel,’ he said. ‘This is not a laughing matter and you’re really starting to try my patience now. Either get off my doorstep or I’ll call the Police.’

  ‘No need to call them,’ I said. ‘They’re on the way already.’

  He gave me doubtful. I gave him confident, with a smile that was totally devoid of any humour.

  ‘You wanna try again?’ I said.

  He eyeballed me but his eyes flicked quickly over my shoulder when the sound of an approaching Holden reached us. Without looking I knew that an unmarked car was pulling up outside. Doors opened and shut.

  Chappy took a sharp breath in and rocked backwards on his heels. He looked back at me and I could see the resistance slipping away as he saw his future screaming towards him.

  His lips quivered as he took a breath. I could see a vein in his neck pounding. He was breathing fast and shallow. I hoped he wasn’t going to have a coronary in front of me. That could be hard to explain.

  ‘Do we need to go this far?’ he wheezed.

  I shrugged carelessly. ‘Up to you, Chappy.’

  He licked his lips and weakly held his hand out towards the two detectives approaching us. I heard their footsteps stop.

  ‘Nobody was meant to get hurt,’ he said quietly. ‘I just needed the car.’ His eyes were getting moist. ‘I’ve got debts up the wazoo.’

  I wasn’t sure where the wazoo exactly was, but it couldn’t be good.

  ‘Bloody Jules was always banging on about his bloody Volvo,’ he continued. ‘Worth a mint. Here he is tootling round in that and I’m up to my eyes in debt. I’m going to lose the house…lose everything I’ve worked for. And it was me who helped him get over here.’ He jabbed his own chest for emphasis. ‘Me. And what did he do to help me out? Not a thing.’

  He shook his head, lowering it so I wouldn’t see the tears springing from his eyes. I did anyway and I have to say I felt a twinge of sympathy for him. Just a twinge though. He still nearly killed me though, so I didn’t get carried away.

  ‘He knew, and he could’ve helped, and he didn’t. Never offered to help a bit.’ He raised his head and looked at me. ‘Some friend, eh?’

  ‘Doesn’t really justify trying to blow him up,’ I said. ‘Or me.’

  His face registered shock. ‘You were there?’

  I flicked my eyebrows, my face blank.

  He shook his head. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘That wasn’t meant to happen.’

  ‘Where’s the car now?’

  He took a quavering breath in, his chest fluttering like a captured bird. ‘If I tell you everything,’ he said, ‘can you call them off?’

  ‘These guys?’ I glanced over my shoulder.

  Molly and Mike stood several metres back, waiting. Chappy had never met them before, and their pictures weren’t on our website. Both wore dark business suits and carried folders and notebooks. They had sombre expressions. The plain blue Commodore out at the kerb was on a day’s hire, had to be back in a few hours.

  They looked like a pair of detectives, but nobody had said that. It paid to be careful about these things.

  I nodded. ‘I think I can hold them off.’ I gave him a cold look. ‘But you need to make a statement to me about it all. I’ll give you your rights and everything, just so we’re all safe and we all know where we stand. But it’s either me or the cops right now.’

  Again, being very careful. I never said I wouldn’t report it to the cops.

  Chappy nodded slowly and I saw his shoulders visibly slump. He was a broken man. Just the way I liked it.

  ‘Let’s go inside,’ I said. ‘Golf can wait.’

  He turned and led the way.

  ***

  Mike had dropped Molly off at home and returned the rental car to the depot in town, picked up his truck and headed back down the motorway.

  The real estate agent that Buck had put him onto had agreed to meet him at a place in Stonefields. It was a newish suburb beside Mt Wellington, pretty close to where he had previously lived, and suited his needs.

  She only had a ten-minute window, she had warned him on the phone, so he had to be on time.

  He hoped her sales technique was better than her phone manner.

  The address she’d given him was two-storey and narrow, minimal garden and a tiny patch of grass at the front. Steps up from the street. Lots of grey and glass. He turned the truck off and got out, surveying the house from the footpath. It looked to be unoccupied. The real estate sign on the grass bore the name and photo of a weathered older man as the listing agent.

  The other houses in the street looked very similar. Probably young couples or working families.

  Mike turned at the sound of an approaching car. A small smile broke across his face.

  The BMW that slid to the kerb behind his truck was red. The woman that got out had long chestnut hair and big sunglasses. She stopped beside her car and looked at him. He saw her red lips widen.

  She crossed the grass verge and joined him on the footpath, extending her hand and removing her sunnies.

  ‘It’s nice to put a face to the name,’ she said with a cheeky smile. ‘Callie.’

  ‘Mike.’ He shook her hand. It was warm and slim and firm. ‘It’s been a long time.’

  She gave a throaty chuckle and let his hand go. ‘So you’re on the market.’

  He raised his eyebrows. ‘I’m looking,’ he said.

  She held his gaze, amused. ‘Well let’s see if we can find something you like. You’ve had a preliminary look, do you like what you see?’

  Mike resisted the urge to look her up and down. Being so obvious wasn’t classy, and he had the feeling she liked classy.

  ‘Not bad,’ he said.

  Thirteen

  The farm was smack bang in the middle of the Hauraki Plains, several klicks from the thriving metropolis of Ngatea.

  We usually stopped in the town for a bite to eat on the way to or from the Bay of Plenty or Coromandel, but I had never taken much notice of the place. As the province’s name suggested the area was extremely flat, farmland stretching for miles in all directions, broken only by canals and windbreaks.

  We left early and got down there just after dawn, Molly and I in the car and Mike following in his truck. We ate home-baked muffins and drank coffee from a Thermos on the way, planning on getting the job done and ducking into the Copper Kettle café for a proper breakfast later.

  According to Chappy he ha
d caught Kyle with his fingers in the till some time back, but kept his mouth shut in return for the odd favour. A bottle of whiskey here, a free meal there. Nothing major.

  Or so it had seemed.

  Problem was, Kyle had kept a record of all these occasions. When he became aware of Dearlove having the Volvo, he had fronted up Chappy and engaged his assistance. Chappy, of course, had no interest in pulling a swifty on his old pal, but Kyle had made it clear in no uncertain terms that he would be helping.

  Faced with his past sins being exposed, Chappy had gone along with it. As he had explained, he felt put-out about his dire financial circumstances, specifically the fact that Dearlove, his old business partner, who he had helped to emigrate and settle, had not offered a dime to help out.

  ‘Not a dime,’ he’d sniffled to me. ‘Not one. It’s not like he couldn’t have helped me.’

  I had said nothing. The world was a tough place and you could rely on nobody but yourself. Obviously our world views were very different.

  While he threw the game and spurred his old mate along, Kyle had removed the keys from Dearlove’s jacket in the cloakroom. They had been passed to an associate, the car had been removed in a truck, and the keys had been returned before the final hand had been dealt.

  Chappy didn’t know who the associate was and I believed him. He was simply a pawn for Kyle and his mates to get what they wanted. The Kings of the City were doing the business and he was a bit player. He also confided that he suspected Kyle was involved with drugs.

  ‘And I don’t mean wacky-baccy,’ he said. ‘The hard stuff.’

  I suspected he was right. Wherever organised crime was there was also Class A drugs. Having tailed him, my bet was that Kyle was a middleman. Running deliveries for the crew at Squire’s, dropping off to lower-level dealers and picking up money to hand in to those higher up the chain.

  That wasn’t my concern just now, but was something I would pass on to the boys in blue when the time was right.

  The Volvo had a deal on it already, some collector from Wellington who was willing to pay a cool hundred grand over the market value just to get his hands on The Saint’s classic wheels.