by J. P. Pomare
‘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 involved 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.
I move now from his study back into the hallway, up the stairs and towards the bedroom before he has a chance to find me snooping. The curtains are closed, I use my phone as a light, crossing the room towards the ensuite. He doesn’t speak or move. Teeth brushed, face washed, I strip down, open the covers and slide in. This could be a mistake, coming back here as if nothing has changed but then what other options do I have? A small paunch is now pressing against the band of my underwear. The baby is growing. My chest flutters just thinking about it, the fact I will be a mother. I may never drink again, I will be perfect to this child.
I reach out, touch Cain’s chest, feel his warm skin.
‘You’re late.’
His voice makes me jolt. ‘You gave me a fright,’ I reply.
He doesn’t speak again.
‘I know I’m late. I got caught up at work,’ I say, stretching my arms but it does little to ease the tension. ‘Someone new started and she had a bunch of questions after the shift, so I had a chat with her, then I dropped her home.’ Something else occurs to me. ‘Then I went to the jeweller. He opened at eight. I picked this up.’ I hold up my ring finger. He feels it with his thumb.
‘Oh good,’ he says. ‘Still seems a little loose.’
‘Yeah, it’s better than it was though,’ I lie.
‘I thought maybe you were doing overtime, or something went wrong.’ His voice is lighter now.
‘No,’ I say. ‘And you’ve slept in.’
‘Arsenal versus Tottenham at 2 am,’ he says. ‘Had to watch it. I’m knackered now. Suppose I should get up soon.’
‘Well, good morning, I’m going to sleep myself.’ I pull my sleep mask on and in my head I hear those words. Be careful.
•
When I get up in the afternoon, I find him flat on his back, legs in the figure-four stretch, pulled down towards his chest. He wears a pained expression.
‘Good sleep?’
A yawn seeps out. ‘Yeah. I need coffee though.’
He rolls over onto his front now, starts arching his back, pushing up. His shoulders bulge in his singlet.
I turn the espresso maker on. He comes over, begins grinding coffee beans.
‘Sit down, I’ll make your coffee.’
‘Thanks, I’ll make food.’ I go to the toaster with a pair of bagels. ‘You hungry?’
‘A little.’
Right then my phone rings. It’s an unknown number. ‘Hmm,’ I say. ‘I’ll have to take this.’
‘Who is it?’
‘I’m not sure, but I think it’s someone from work. Maybe the new girl I’m on with.’ I slide outside into the backyard and bring the phone to my ear.
‘Hello?’
‘Lina, Detective Rata. We’ve heard back from Vodafone. The phone at the property didn’t belong to Daniel Moore.’
‘I know, the other cop told me that.’
‘So, is there anything you want to tell me?’ The tone of his voice has changed.
‘No, you know it all now.’
‘Why is that phone attached to your Vodafone account?’
A chill rushes over my skin despite the heat of the sun. ‘My account? But I’m on my phone now.’
‘The phone we found in the house was used that night to access a Tor browser and we believe the Peephole servers. Your sim card was in the phone, it pinged the towers near Lake Tarawera.’
I swallow hard, look inside. Cain is watching the TV but at that moment his eyes shift towards me.
‘No,’ I say. ‘Impossible. The sim card is here, it’s in a shoebox at the bottom of my wardrobe.’
‘I’m going to end the call and you are going to go and check that it’s still there. Then you are going to text me, and delete the message, understand?’
I exhale. ‘Okay, fine.’
‘Don’t tell your husband you spoke to me.’
My breath is hard now. I swallow, try to compose myself. I smile in at Cain who is watching me.
‘So,’ I begin casually, opening the door to enter the house. ‘It was just someone from the ambulance service checking that I’m happy to work with Sara full-time for a while.’
‘Kind of them to check,’ he says.
The bagels pop. ‘I’ll make those in a moment,’ I say before climbing the stairs, trying not to rush. Silently I reach in the bottom of my wardrobe, grab the box with the sim card inside. I open it. And already know what I will find. It’s not here.
I search, groping through the receipts in the box, pulling them out. The sim card is gone. Daniel knew my address from the MyTrack app. He was in this house. I text Rata.
It’s gone. Then delete the message and lock my phone before closing the box, packing it away and heading back downstairs.
‘So, have you had any more wins?’ I ask taking the warm bagels out.
‘Sorry?’
‘With your betting?’
‘Oh no,’ he says. ‘Nothing like the other day.’
‘How much money are you actually betting?’
It’s awkward but it’s the only way to start this conversation. I’ve been wondering how deep into gambling he has fallen once more. But now I’ve got an ulterior motive. I’ve become suspicious.
I can feel his eyes on my cheek, but I don’t look away from the bagels as I spread avocado.
‘What’s this about, Lina?’
‘I’m just wondering. I mean, we don’t have much money and to win thousands, you need to bet a lot, right?’
‘I probably bet a few hundred a month and sometimes I lose and sometimes I win. I’m going up though, I was even before the big win.’
I try not to react. Yet the idea of him betting makes me feel sick. It reminds me of years ago when he was losing big, betting bigger, chasing his losses. Stressed and angry without work to keep him distracted.
Those words the detective said are bouncing around in my head, colliding with all the other thoughts. People can make a lot of money very quickly doing this sort of thing. ‘It’s just a shock. You were addicted to gambling once, remember? Does that ever go away?’
‘No,’ he says. ‘It doesn’t. But this isn’t gambling, it’s betting. There is a difference.’
I crack salt and pepper now, squeeze a wedge of lemon over the bagels.
Cain takes our coffees to the table. He’s reading a news article on his phone.
‘What’s that about?’ I ask as I bring the bagels over.
He has the phone in one hand, he takes his bagel in the other and bites it. While he chews he turns the screen to me.
I lean forward to read it.
POLICE INVESTIGATING IF MOORE HAD ACCOMPLICE
He turns it back and reads aloud. ‘A spokesperson for the police has confirmed they’re looking to see if someone might have helped him.’
A small sound of surprise escapes from me and he glances up. ‘I know you think you saw someone else, Lina, but I only saw one guy. Trauma like that messes with memory. What you believe you saw and what you really saw are two distinct things.’
‘You were barely conscious.’
‘Still, it was just him when I came to. Why wouldn’t a second person come out then? But what I really don’t understand is why the police didn’t contact us to let us know they’re looking into this.’
‘Probably didn’t want to bother us.’
He puts the phone down and chews the last of his bagel slowly.
‘What about the cameras?’ I ask, watching his face for any hint that he knows more than he’s letting on. If Cain were involved with the cameras, it backfired on him spectacularly. It can’t be true, I tell myself. It can’t be.
‘They found them all in the house.’
‘People were watching, Cain.’
I can see by the way he stretches his jaw that he’s digging at a molar with his tongue.
‘That sicko could have orchestrated the entire thing. The police said that they couldn’t access any footage on the phone they found,’ he says.
If he’s acting, it’s convincing.
‘People were watching us online,’ I say.
He shakes his head, a short snap to dismiss the idea.
I continue speaking. ‘Well, what about his phone, it can’t have just disappeared? The police said it pinged mobile phone towers in the area.’
‘Who knows? Maybe he flushed it down the toilet. Maybe it’s at the bottom of the lake. They searched the entire house. If it was there it would have turned up.’
‘Unless a second person took it?’
He lifts the phone again in response and shows me the screen. ‘The reputable New Zealand Police Force will have answers for us very soon I’m sure.’ His voice bubbles with sarcasm.
I don’t say anything else, I just get up, clear the plates. ‘I know you explained the betting the other night but I would really like to see how it works.’
A small smile, his eyes flick to mine. ‘Sure, Quin. Let me show you.’
•
‘So,’ he begins, when we’re both seated in his study. ‘People think it’s just gambling but it’s not. There are two ways to make money with betting.’ His computer springs to life, both screens fill. The right screen with a browser, the left with a spreadsheet. ‘The first way is to know something that the bookies don’t, or to know it sooner.’
‘Like what?’
‘Say a star player picks up an injury, if you can calculate the difference between the current betting odds and the new likelihood with the injury, and if the risk versus reward tips in your favour, then it’s a good bet. You just need to do it before the odds offered by the betting agencies change. Or say the weather report changes favouring one team, or you see on Instagram a star player’s wife gives birth and it’s likely that player will miss the next game.’
‘Right, so what’s the other way?’
‘The other way is what’s called “arbitrage”. You can’t lose, but if you win too much you get banned.’
‘What do you mean you can’t lose?’
‘Well, if there is a tennis match say. One player is paying odds of two dollars and five cents on one betting agency and the other player is paying two dollars and five cents on another betting agency. Then you put one hundred dollars on both. You have spent two hundred total but you are guaranteed to win two hundred and five dollars.’
I scoff. ‘Lot of work for five dollars.’
‘So bet twenty thousand then. That’s five hundred dollars guaranteed.’
‘So you’ve got twenty thousand to throw around?’
‘No, but you get the point. That’s a two and a half percent guaranteed return overnight. It’s never as clear cut as that, sometimes one player is paying five dollars and the other is paying a dollar and thirty cents and there’s more maths involved, but I’ve got a spreadsheet that works it out.’
‘Who taught you this?’
‘Someone at the gym. Look,’ he says. Taking the mouse now, he slides the cursor over the screen and opens a new spreadsheet. I’ve seen him working on this one before. ‘Here are the winnings in black and here are the losses in red. Each month totalises at the bottom.’ He points to numbers in bold font beneath each month’s bets. I feel almost proud. There’s a level of sophistication to it. But I’m still worried he’s becoming addicted again.
I lean closer, reading over the numbers. January $634, February $158, March $112, April $393, May $2136, June $832, July $219, August $512, September $2393, October $22,312. Total: $28,947.
‘Cain,’ I say. Why didn’t he tell me this earlier? I never showed interest, but I didn’t want to know. It still doesn’t sit right with me, the stigma of gambling, of addiction. And this is a lot to keep from me, so what else might he be keeping secret? ‘Do we have to pay tax on this?’
‘Technically not,’ he says. ‘It’s a hobby.’
‘And where is the money?’
‘It’s in the betting accounts.’
‘Can you show me, the money going into them?’
The air seems to cool, he bristles. ‘You don’t trust me, do you?’
‘I just want to see it, where it came from.’
He swivels on his chair, regards me for a moment. ‘If it means that much to you.’ First, he opens a browser, shows me one account, all the bets, the wins and the losses, the balance. Then he opens up a program, and a number of flags from different countries drop down. He chooses one and goes to another website, this time it’s an Australian website.
&nb
sp; ‘What was that?’
‘It’s a proxy server. It just means I can use international betting agencies. Their servers think I’m somewhere I’m not.’
‘Where did you learn to do that?’
‘Like I said, a mate at the gym. Axel helped as well. He knows more about the proxy servers.’
He shows me a number of different accounts, all with betting histories and different balances. It’s thousands of dollars total. Then he closes them, turns back to me and asks, ‘Happy now? I’m not blowing all of our money or whatever else you’re worried about.’
‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘I don’t know what I was worried about. I just don’t want you to do this without talking to me. It’s our money and our future. And you’re going to be a dad soon.’
‘A man in Australia, David Walsh, was so successful at betting he opened a museum and is one of the richest men in Australasia. It’s a viable way to make good money.’ He pauses. ‘But I know it worries you so I’ll try to keep you in the loop more in the future.’
You also have another secret, Cain. You visited that house and I need to know why.
‘The builder is repairing the damage to the lake house this weekend,’ he says. ‘It’s not much, he’s just patching up the wall, replacing the window and fixing the rain damage. Your grandpa’s chest is with a restorer, he thinks he might be able to repair it.’
‘Great,’ I say, standing. ‘I might try get a quick run in while the sun is out.’
•
After my run, I strip out of my running clothes and shower. When I’ve dried my hair and got dressed, I go to him. There is something still gnawing at my conscience. I lean back against the island, watching him cook. ‘One of the payments from the betting agencies was missing,’ I say.
‘What?’
‘The big win. There wasn’t anything for twenty thousand.’
He sniffs, shakes his head. Through his singlet, I see the tension in the ropes of muscle up his back.
‘I closed that account,’ he says.