“Should we visit Mrs. Kenton’s next?” Ngaire asked. The woman only lived a few houses down the street.
The DSS paused with her hand on the car door handle, then sighed and nodded in tired agreement.
Their second visit took longer than the first. Unlike Mrs. Collingwood’s brisk dismissal, Mrs. Kenton seemed reluctant to let anybody leave her house. As Ngaire backed toward the door, Harmond warded off attacks of hospitality from the front and together they escaped back out to the street.
Ngaire wound down the passenger side window to let some breeze blow the resting heat out of the car. She looked back up the drive to Mrs. Collingwood’s late model Honda, frowning as something wriggled in her mind before slipping out of her grasp.
“Has Gascoigne talked to you yet about transitioning back to your team?” Harmond asked as she turned into the main road at the end of the street.
“I haven’t heard from him since I joined with your team,” Ngaire answered. “Should I go back down there this afternoon?”
DSS Harmond nodded. “We won’t need any more bodies on this one,” she said. “I think it’s put to bed as much as it can be. Unless the team on the dig uncover something game-changing, then I think everyone’s back on regular duties.”
Ngaire turned to look in the back seat. Apart from a jacket that Harmond had probably shed there earlier in the day, there was nothing else in the vehicle. She faced front again, that weird fish hook tugging at her mind, telling her that she’d missed something.
Well, whatever it was could go back into its box. Ngaire was done for the day. Apart from going back to the station, moving her desk, and filling out paperwork for the case.
Even though it had only been a few days since the move upstairs, Ngaire looked forward to chatting with Deb. Why one single level should stop her from catching up, she didn’t know, only that it had.
They pulled into the police parking lot, and Ngaire reached across to unhook her belt. The DSS laid a hand on her forearm. “I think that you did very well in this case. If you’re worried about what I’ll report back to Gascoigne and to Moimoi, you don’t need to be.”
Ngaire’s stomach lurched into her mouth. Until that second, she hadn’t given it a single thought. Now her mind ran through the list of motives Harmond would have to lie to her, searching for an answer that her rational brain told her wasn’t there.
Before she’d managed to get him killed, Ngaire’s psychiatrist had told her that second guessing herself was something she’d made into an art form. He’d taught her techniques to reassure and strengthen her confidence, but at the first response, they always slipped.
When it became apparent that Harmond had waited too long for acknowledgment, Ngaire managed a short nod and got out of the passenger seat of the car. They were parked close to her own vehicle, a Honda similar to the one parked in Mrs. Collingwood’s driveway, right down to the grotty travel rug.
The same rug that had been in her mother’s car, until she decided to flit overseas in answer to her muse. When Ngaire bought her first vehicle, it had been the first thing installed in the backseat. A ritual repeated every car change since then.
“The rug,” she whispered, turning slowly around to see DSS Harmond opening the back door to the station. “The travel rug,” she called out as the last piece slotted into her mind. The last chance for evidence that Jessie Collingwood and his friend George Kenton had been killers before they’d been victims.
Chapter Thirty-Five
“That was a lovely service,” Ngaire said to Mrs. Andie as she left the church. She placed her hand on top of the older woman’s and leaned forward to give her a one-armed hug.
“Are you coming to the graveside?” Mrs. Andie asked.
Ngaire drew back a step and looked at the woman’s expression with intense consideration before she nodded. “If you don’t mind me being there, I’d love to,” she said. Mrs. Andie nodded, then the queue of mourners bore Ngaire forward and out of the lineup.
She waved to Deb across the small parking lot of the church and checked for oncoming traffic before running across to greet her. “Didn’t you get a seat?” Ngaire asked. The tiny church had been packed so full that some guests had to wait out in the alcove.
“I just dropped by to pay my respects,” Deb said. “You know I don’t really like all that ceremony. Can I give you a lift back?”
“I’m going on to the graveside ceremony, so I’ll just drive myself back from there.” Ngaire waited for a moment, judging the time, and shrugged. “Or I’ll see you tomorrow if it runs on too late.”
“Gascoigne was looking for you earlier,” Deb said. She ran a hand through her short hair, mussing it, so the strands stood in punkish spikes. “I told him you were here.”
“He already knew,” Ngaire said, frowning. “I cleared it with him earlier. Do you think something’s wrong with him?”
It wasn’t the first time she’d asked that question and if the DS kept up his random slips in memory or moody outbursts, it wouldn’t be the last. If he’d been a female, Ngaire would have guessed a pregnancy, or perhaps an early menopause. Did men get anything like that? Maybe it was a mid-life crisis that would sort itself as soon as he brought an inappropriately red sports car.
Deb was already stepping away, back to her vehicle. “I don’t know what’s up, but I’m sure he’ll be back to normal in a couple of weeks. See you later.”
A hand landed on Ngaire’s shoulder, giving her a start as there’d been no forewarning crunch of gravel to alert her. She turned to see DSS Harmond’s face, as grave as the ceremony demanded except for the one amused lift of an eyebrow.
“Did you see the reports came back from the lab?” she asked. “The samples are all degraded, so they could only lift tiny specimens but they got two clear matches after amplification. Sam Andie had definitely been in contact with that rug.”
Ngaire nodded, relief swarming through her bloodstream, leaving it buzzing with energy. “What happens now?”
Harmond turned to look back at the church entrance where Sam Andie’s mother continued to accept the condolences and offers of support from mourners. The deep sadness that would usually have accompanied a young man’s death was missing. The years had tempered it, leaving behind a clean sense of relief that he’d been put to rest. His mother had already spent decades molding her sense of loss into a shape that slotted neatly in with the rest of her life.
“Now, we turn everything over to the coroner and wait for the ruling. I don’t know how long they’ll postpone the inquest.” The DSS turned back to face Ngaire. “Hopefully, not too long. It’d be nice if Mrs. Andie was still fit enough to attend.”
Ngaire murmured her agreement as behind her the funeral director gently closed the rear door of the hearse with a solemn clunk. The mourners stared at the vehicle as it sat in the driveway, given ample chance to say last goodbyes to the coffin inside.
“I’ve been asked along to the cemetery,” Ngaire said. “I’d better be heading off.”
DSS Harmond nodded and moved away. Ngaire slowly walked along the side path of the church—she’d been early enough to get a parking space out the back. As she passed the row of flower beds that edged the parking lot in a vibrant display of bright gold marigolds and the subtle purple shades of pansies, she heard footsteps behind her, hurrying to catch up.
“Shannon.” Ngaire stared in astonishment as the woman caught up to her. Or rather, the man. Shannon was dressed in a dark suit, flat shoes, cropped hair, and appeared to be sporting the beginnings of stubble over her once-soft cheek and chin.
Shannon burst into laughter, holding a hand over her mouth and looking back the way she’d come when it seemed too loud. When she turned back to Ngaire, a large smile decorated her lips. That more than anything else, altered her appearance. Shannon was looser, more relaxed, happy.
“I talked with Matthew,” Shannon said. “He said he’d finally told the truth about what happened in the warehouse?”
Ngaire
nodded. “He explained to us what happened with Sam and then what happened later with George and Jamie.”
“It must be a relief for him to finally have it all out in the open. I gave him the name of a doctor who helped me out. He lives close by to Matthew, down in Dunedin.”
“Dr. Sanderson?” When Shannon nodded, Ngaire continued, “I met him, too. He seemed like a very caring man.” She looked down at the path, nudging her shoe into a loose stone and guiding it back into the driveway. “Do you think Matthew needs his kind of help?”
“Oh, yes,” Shannon said, her face creasing into lines of puzzlement. “It’s not only sexual orientation he helps patients with. Dr. Sanderson is a rape counselor, as well.”
Ngaire’s head jerked up, her mouth opening in astonishment. Shannon took a step back, her eyes widening, then she started to shake her head. “Forget I said anything. Sorry, I must have made a mistake.”
Shannon turned to go but Ngaire reached out a hand to gently touch him on the wrist. “If it doesn’t affect the outcome, then I guess Matthew is entitled to his privacy,” she said. “Can I ask you something, though, before you go?”
“What is it?” Shannon’s eyebrows arched up in concern, her mouth pulled in, anticipating a tough question.
“I understand that you confessed to the crime to spare Matthew,” Ngaire said.
Shannon held up her hands, stop. “I confessed to the murders because I did it.”
Ngaire nodded. “But you kept Matthew’s involvement secret when you could have used it to mitigate your participation. Didn’t you ever think that Sam’s mother would appreciate knowing what happened to her son?” Ngaire took a breath then asked, “How could you let her believe that Sam was still alive all those years?”
“Hey, Sweetie,” a woman walked around the corner of the church, stumbling slightly—profoundly intoxicated. “You nearly ready to go?”
“I’ll be there in a minute, Gerry,” Shannon said, turning around.
Gerry looked with interest at the two of them, studying Ngaire as though she were an exhibit in a museum. Her lips twisted into a strange grin, one side not holding the gesture, the muscle too inebriated to respond.
“Go and wait in the car, I won’t be long.” When Shannon gave her another flap of the hand, “Go,” Gerry responded with a slow wave and staggered off toward the car.
Shannon turned back to Ngaire and stepped in closer, lowering her voice.
“You may think that you know Mrs. Andie because you’ve seen her these last few weeks, but I knew her way back when. She could have been peas in a pod with my mother. You want to know why I didn’t care about mitigating my involvement?”
Ngaire leaned slightly back, concerned at the returning anger in Shannon’s fiery gaze. She shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“Even prison was better than living with a woman who disliked me simply for existing. I spent every single day growing up with someone who was meant to love me, and hated me instead. That woman—” Shannon waved her hand back toward Mrs. Andie, now climbing into a car to follow the hearse to the graveyard. “She wasn’t any different. If she’d been offered the choice of knowing that her son died for the criminal offense of dressing how he wanted, she would have died of shame, long ago. Sure, I spared Matthew, but you better believe I saved her, too.”
Shannon took a step back, looking back as the procession of cars slowly drove out of the church grounds and mingled into the cars on the street.
“I’m looking forward to the inquest,” Shannon said, still facing away. “I wonder if Mrs. Andie will attend after all, or if she’ll manage to contract some phantom illness that keeps her away, every day.”
When Shannon turned back to look at Ngaire, it was as though the intervening years had dropped away. A sullen teenager stood there, anger pulsing through his body with each heartbeat. An affront to the woman who gave birth to her. Fitting nowhere, spurned by society, without the money to become the person he should always have been.
Matthew, spitting venom across the interview table. It doesn’t get any better.
Shannon arched his eyebrows and tilted his head. “I guess you’ll see for yourself if you go along.” A short pause, before he added, “Some mothers don’t deserve to have children.”
“Shannon,” came a loud sing-song voice, calling across the courtyard. “I’m waiting.”
“Are you going to the graveside?” Ngaire asked as Shannon took a step away.
“No, I’m not going. I killed the two boys who murdered her cross-dressing son.” Shannon looked at Ngaire with sadness etched in every wrinkle of her face. “Mrs. Andie told me to stay away.”
Chapter Thirty-Six
“The four of you, in my office now,” Gascoigne shouted across the room.
Ngaire looked up in astonishment while Deb turned lackadaisically toward the sound and nodded. Doug waited until the DS had turned back into his office before giving a low whistle. “I hope that I’m not on the receiving end of that.”
“You guys worry too much,” Deb said, locking her computer and pulling her notebook off the desk. “It’s like working with a bunch of old women.”
Willis growled as she neared his desk. “That phrase is extremely insulting,” he said. “Especially to old women.”
Doug sniggered as he got to his feet and clapped his partner on the shoulder in appreciation. “I heard they’ve got suspicious circumstances at a death down in Heathcote Valley. He’s probably worried that he’ll get to work on it only to have it whipped off him and assigned above his head.”
“Do you think that’s a real concern?” Ngaire asked, falling into step with Doug. “I thought the Rickards’ case was a one-off, based on media interest.”
“Nothing’s ever a one-off around here,” Deb grumbled. “When the wind changes, everyone’s face freezes in a new expression.”
“Shut the door,” Gascoigne said as they piled into his office. “There’s a new case that looks like a homicide. I need some of you to go down to the scene straight away to interview the ‘witnesses’.” He did air quotes around the word—suspects. “Redding and Willis, do you want to take lead on this one? Deb, check with the pathologist—from what I understand, he’s the one who kicked it over to us, so validate his suspicions. Ngaire?”
Ngaire stiffened in her chair, feeling her heart begin to beat harder. Stupid autonomous reactions. What did they ever do for her?
“If you could pick up a PC and start the door-to-doors, that’ll be great. Get them off to a quick start. If there’s been trouble brewing for a while, some busybody in the street should have noticed something.”
Redding and Willis filed out, chatting out a plan of action. Deb pulled her mouth down at Ngaire, sharing the sting at her apparent demotion. Ngaire stayed sitting while they left, then got up to shut the door behind them.
“Can I have a word, sir?” she asked, retaking her seat.
Gascoigne glared at her for a second, then sighed and nodded. “What is it?”
“You’ve been asking other officers in the department about taking the Sergeant’s exams to work toward a promotion,” Ngaire said. Her heart continued to beat faster, thump, thump, thump. It pounded in her ears like hoof beats hitting a hardened track. “I’d like the opportunity, if you’ll back me.”
Gascoigne stared straight at the desk pad in front of him. With a sinking feeling whisking her stomach down to her heels, Ngaire realized she’d misjudged the situations. You’re not good enough, girl. When will you get that through your thick head?
When Gascoigne spoke, his question took Ngaire completely off-guard.
“When you interviewed Dr. Sanderson down in Dunedin, you said that you had a signed release from Shannon Rickards father?”
“No, sir.”
Ngaire sat in the flashlight of Gascoigne’s steady gaze, weighing her options. She could sit still and brass it out but that seemed petty and childish. She could blame DSS Harmond but that would be even more so. Not to mention untrue.
“I took a signed release from Sam Andie’s mother down there. When I asked about Shannon Rickards, I told the doctor that I held a release signed by a parent. I purposely didn’t mention who it was signed by and who it covered.”
Gascoigne tapped his fingers on the table. One, two, three, four. Over and over, growing ever faster until the individual taps turned into one continuous sound. “If we’d needed his evidence for court, that move would have completely invalidated it.”
Ngaire nodded. “It would have.”
“So, why did you do it?”
Because it was easy? Because a superior officer told me to?
After a moment’s hesitation, Ngaire ran her hand through her hair and looked up toward the ceiling. “I wasn’t getting anywhere with Sam’s murder and the team upstairs wanted to narrow their focus down to Shannon and Bob Rickards. There was no evidence, not physical, anyway. What the doctor told me, he could be questioned about again later, although I didn’t ever think that would be needed.”
Ngaire paused and lowered her gaze back down to Gascoigne’s. “The information was never going to be used to convict anybody. I just wanted to know, to get a feeling for the case.”
“There were no physical records involved?” Gascoigne asked.
Ngaire shook her head. “No. Dr. Sanderson thought they were destroyed long ago. He’s never been able to find them through the District Health Board down there.”
Gascoigne laid his hands down flat on the desk and stared at the backs of them for a moment. “It’s easy to start cutting corners in this job. To fudge the truth or not get the orders that you need.”
He looked up, his face set in a caring expression. More like a father than a superior officer correcting her mistakes.
“Don’t ever do that again, Ngaire. It’s starts off like this, a tiny misdirection, but it ends up with planting evidence because you already know somebody’s guilty. Don’t end up falling into that trap.”
The Only Secret Left to Keep Page 24