Containment

by Vanda Symon

  PRAISE FOR CONTAINMENT

  ‘Usual top-quality work from Vanda Symon. The Edinburgh of the south has never been more deadly’ Ian Rankin

  ‘If you like taut, pacy thrillers with a wonderful sense of place, then this is the book for you’ Liam McIlvanney

  ‘A delightful, twisty read and that leaves you wanting more from the pen of a terrifically entertaining and enjoyable writer’ Live & Deadly

  PRAISE FOR VANDA SYMON

  SHORTLISTED FOR CWA NEW BLOOD DAGGER

  ‘Vanda Symon’s fast-paced crime novels are as good as anything the US has to offer – a sassy heroine, fabulous sense of place, and rip-roaring stories with a twist. Perfect curl-up-on-the-sofa reading’ Kate Mosse

  ‘Sam detects with good humour, dogged determination and the odd flash of brilliance that might even be enough to impress her frosty nemesis, DI Johns’ Sunday Times

  ‘Antipodean-set crime is riding high thanks to the likes of Jane Harper, and fans of The Dry will also like Vanda Symon’ Red magazine

  ‘It is Symon’s copper Sam, self-deprecating and very human, who represents the writer’s real achievement’ Guardian

  ‘Symon’s talent for creating well-rounded characters permeates throughout’ Crimewatch

  ‘A real page-turner with shocks and surprises throughout … With a twisty plot, a protagonist who shines and beautifully written observations of the cruellest things – crime fiction at its best. This is an outstanding book’ Kiwi Crime

  ‘Vanda Symon is a wonderful storyteller … Atmospheric, gripping and incredibly satisfying; my only problem is that I read it too quickly and now have to wait for the next instalment!’ Random Things through My Letterbox

  ‘It wowed me with its twisty journey, weaving various threads together, right through to the shocking, and surprising, ending. This gripping series is a definite must-read for me – and for anyone else who loves entertaining, humorous crime fiction with plenty of heart’ Off-the-Shelf Books

  ‘Fast paced with short chapters so you just can’t put it down. An attention-grabbing deadly read’ Not Another Book Blogger

  ‘A brilliantly written, easy-to-read story … The outcome of the case was so unexpected. Shocking. Jaw-dropping. I could not believe it at all. After all that time. Very clever. Sneaky. Just wow’ Gemma’s Book Reviews

  ‘A well-written book that made me want to rush through it. It’s tense and at times dark, with one of the most heart-breaking scenes I’ve ever read. I’m very much looking forward to going back and reading Overkill’ Macs Book Review

  ‘A really engaging police procedural … It was inhaled in two sittings and I immediately began to look forward to the next!’ Grab this Book

  ‘There are plenty of twists and turns, and short chapters keep the pace moving. Sam faces tough decisions in dramatic and traumatic circumstances, which keeps the writing taut and makes for tense reading’ Joy Kluver

  ‘A satisfyingly meaty police procedural, a taut and atmospheric page-turner with a fantastic female lead. Perfect for fans of Jane Harper, this is a brilliant addition to an already accomplished series, and I cannot wait for Vanda’s next book so that I can see what Sam gets embroiled in next!’ The Shelf of Unread Books

  ‘I thought the pace was excellent and it was an easy book to read … the author has a lovely writing style … and I have to say that the cover for this one is gorgeous!’ Donna’s Book Blog

  ‘The ending was very shocking and completely unexpected! I had lots of theories about who the murderer was and what was happening, but none of them proved to be correct. I’m not sure I would have guessed even if I tried, which is always a sign of a great read’ Over the Rainbow Book Blog

  ‘Well-plotted, clever and satisfying’ Beverley Has Read

  ‘An emotional, powerful and gripping novel. I loved it and highly recommend it!’ Rather Too Fond of Books

  Containment

  Vanda Symon

  For Mum

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Prologue

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  44

  45

  46

  47

  48

  49

  50

  51

  52

  53

  54

  55

  56

  57

  58

  59

  60

  61

  62

  63

  64

  65

  66

  67

  68

  69

  70

  71

  72

  73

  Epilogue

  Acknowlegements

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Prologue

  What started as a small crowd of bewildered residents, huddled against the seeping chill of a dark Dunedin winter morning, had grown to a string of awed and silent spectators leading from the tip of The Mole to the end of the spit. Their vehicles occupied every conceivable snippet of vacant real estate, while those arriving attempted absurd turning manoeuvres in streets never designed for heavy traffic. On the other side of the harbour entrance the distant play of car headlights winding from Taiaroa Head to Harrington and beyond held testimony to similar scenes.

  August’s watery sun was rising on the horizon, pushing back the vestiges of an eventful night, revealing an unlikely tableau. Shafts of lemon light struck the bridge of the Lauretia Express, accentuating the unnatural tilt of her peak. Fingers spread along her container deck, the play of light and dark giving it the appearance of a decayed jaw studded with random teeth. The hulk of the stilled ship dwarfed the buzz of tugs, pilot boats and inflatables that strafed the stricken hull with spotlights.

  The scale of the accident was all too apparent to the shivering crowd stretched along The Mole. The ship towered above them like an eight-storey building, marooned at an impossible angle. The strobe of camera flashes added to the eerie atmosphere, creating a stilted cinemascope of the Lauretia’s demise.

  Those further down on the spit huddled in clusters, staring at the incongruous sight of iceberg-like containers, some beached upon Aramoana’s sands, some not so fortunate to find dry land. People moved in slow-motion swarms, circling, pointing, whispering in reverent tones at a respectful distance. The whispers were silenced as three young men approached one of the metal boxes. The low sun bathed them in hallowed light as they ran their hands over the surface, and then grasped the door handle and pulled. The security seal was no match for their determination. The creak of metal grating on metal cut through the tense air, puncturing the silence. A held-breath stillness followed, then there was a collective gasp from the crowd. An invisible line had been crossed, and as if upon a signal, the masses descended, as vultures upon carcasses. Eager hands grasped at doors, greedy arms lifted out cartons, motorbikes, furniture, tossing aside that deemed unworthy, plund
ering that deemed treasure. Fights broke out among those determined to have the best of the bounty, while the moral minority stood back, appalled but helpless. Anarchy had hit Dunedin.

  Soon the detritus of pillage was strewn across the beach; ornaments, books, papers, clothes. Those not actively emptying containers poked through what had been cast aside, pocketing the desirable. An elderly woman, wrapped up against the cold, shoulders draped with her newly found bounty – a red woollen coat – poked another pile with a piece of driftwood. She bent over closer to examine the glimpse of shiny white that tantalised from beneath a pile of garments, and then reached out a hand to push aside the coverings. It took several moments before her mind took in the eyeless sockets of the human skull and another five seconds before her lungs sucked in enough frigid air to unleash a scream.

  1

  ‘Jesus bloody Christ.’

  Beaches were supposed to be pristine stretches of white sand dotted with colourful shells, artfully strewn scraps of seaweed, cast up driftwood, the only sound the waves gently lapping the idyllic shore. Beaches were supposed to be havens of isolation and tranquillity. Beaches were supposed to be … well, anything but this. The sight before my eyes made me promise to God I would never complain about finding a dog turd on a beach again. A dog turd would be good, a dog turd would be easy. This was … where did I start?

  I stood at the top of the wooden steps that led down to the spit. There must have been two hundred people roaming along the sand, and it looked like even more were up on The Mole, going by the number of cars parked stupidly and illegally anywhere and everywhere. It was as if half of Dunedin had simultaneously chosen to take an early Sunday morning joyride to Aramoana. Except that it wasn’t a joyride – looking at people’s faces, there was nothing joyous about it at all. There was awe, anger, disgust and straight-out greed on those faces, but not joy. There was only one reason they were here, and that reason was so vastly out of place, so incongruous, that my mind was trying every trick it could to try to convince me that, no, that wasn’t a bloody great container ship stuck up by the end of The Mole, and no, those weren’t shipping containers stranded on the beach.

  How the hell could this have happened? There hadn’t been a storm to wreak havoc and drive the ship off course. And anyway, when the weather was that severe they closed the Taiaroa Head entrance to shipping. The lanes were too narrow and convoluted to risk it in poor visibility or high winds. Sure, the breeze had been up in the night, but it hadn’t been that bad. Normally if the wind was getting serious, the tree outside my bedroom window did a bit of a creak and scrape on the glass, not that I’d have heard it over the noise from that bloody party at the neighbour’s. I’d spent the long hours of darkness enduring someone else’s bad taste in music at make-your-eardrums-bleed volume. So much for my hopes of a restful weekend in Aramoana at the crib. Under any other circumstance I’d be grateful for the chance to get away to my folks’ friends’ holiday home to dog-sit their fluffy mutt. Today, not so much. My eyes scanned the warped scene before me. I didn’t think the weather conditions could be blamed for this. No, surely all this had to be human error, or mechanical failure. One thing was for sure: heads would roll. The carnage here on the beach wasn’t the result of nature’s fury; this mess was entirely man-made.

  I stumbled my way around the debris. There were books, clothes, furniture, loose papers wafting around like oversized confetti, toys, smashed ornaments, candles, wine barrels, nondescript cartons, unidentifiable tat and people – people everywhere, sifting through the goods casually like they were searching through the titbits on offer at their neighbour’s garage sale.

  My eyes kept darting to the ship and its precarious lean. I don’t know if it was an optical illusion, but it looked huge and close; my pre-caffeine brain grappled with the spectacle. It was hard to figure what was stranger in this catalogue of the bizarre – the ship, or the car, on its roof, in the drink, with its wheels saluting the sky. I took it from the presence of the fire engine and a few blue-uniformed officers that the car situation was under control. It was hardly surprising, given the number of cars and the number of their drivers doing dumb-nut things, that someone eventually got shunted off the narrow little road to The Mole car park and into the water. I was amazed there weren’t more of them testing out their vehicle’s buoyancy, or lack of. The driver’s owner was lucky it was shallow there and even more lucky tides and weather had dumped sand over the jagged rocks.

  The police presence was small; it was early and a Sunday, and I was guessing there hadn’t been time for the Dunedin Central Police Station to mobilise more staff and get them out here to Aramoana. There was a group of police officers ahead of me trying to maintain a cordon around what must have been some fascinating booty; despite the tape and officers, people were still trying to get to the choicest bits. I recognised the Port Chalmers community constable. He would have been, geographically speaking, the officer stationed closest to Aramoana, if you didn’t count me on my supposed peaceful weekend off at the beach.

  ‘Hey John, what’s happening?’ He was a big, burly kind of a bloke, much like my partner Smithy; they seemed to breed them big down here. The extra layers of clothing needed to ward off the cold didn’t do anything to slim his silhouette.

  ‘Bloody mayhem, that’s what’s happening. The sooner we get more back-up out here the better. I don’t know what the hell’s taking them so long. In all my years I’ve never seen behaviour like this. So much for us being a civilised people.’ It was quite evident John Farquhar had done a drop-and-run to get out here this morning: his face bore five o’clock shadow – five a.m., not p.m. – and his dark, time-for-a-trim hair hadn’t seen any attention either. Not that he probably gave a damn; he had a scowl that looked permanently engraved.

  ‘Where can I help?’

  ‘Further up the beach would be good.’ He pointed in the general direction of the cribs down the end of the spit. ‘Make sure no one’s doing anything too dangerous. There aren’t enough of us to stop the looting, just do what you can. At least we’ve got this patch contained, finally.’

  ‘What happened here?’ I asked, moving towards the taped-off area.

  ‘Old lady found a human skull in among the piles of crap. We’ve cordoned off as much as we can until the SOCOs arrive.’

  And it just kept getting weirder.

  ‘Does it look like it came from a container?’ I asked. The SOCOs, or scene-of-crime officers, would have their work cut out for them. No neat and tidy little crime scene here. It was probably contaminated in every way known to man.

  ‘Appears that way, but who could tell in this bloody great mess.’

  Even with the police presence, people continued to drag objects out of the containers. They probably figured the few police there had bigger things to worry about than their pilfering. But still, I’d never seen such blatant audacity before. They were clearly letting greed outweigh brains, because if they’d bothered to think about it, there was only one road in and out of town, and it would likely be jammed up as hell – with a checkpoint on it. So unless they were prepared to swim with their booty, all it was going to achieve was a criminal record and public humiliation. Not to mention dealing with some very tetchy officers.

  My eyes couldn’t decide what to rest on as I walked further along the beach. They flitted from boat to beach to boxes. The sight of the ship across from The Mole was straight-out freaky. The scale of something that big blocking the harbour made the surrounding land, houses and cars seem Lilliputian. It looked like someone had Photoshopped a bloody great leaning tower onto an otherwise unsuspecting landscape. Then there was the beach, strewn with pillaged containers, junk, damaged goods, motorbikes, toys, furniture, packs of disposable nappies – you name it, it was here. God give me strength, and coffee.

  The sound of raised voices induced me to break into a trot. The tone and volume indicated things were getting a bit heated. I came around the edge of a container to see a tug of war going on between a gu
y in his twenties and another man in his fifties. The object of their desire was a sizeable cardboard carton that rattled with a suspiciously non-intact sound as it jerked from one combatant to the next.

  ‘Get your hands off it, you thieving little bastard.’

  ‘I got it first. Let go, you stupid old coot.’

  ‘Excuse me, what’s going on here?’ I said, although it was pretty apparent. With all this stuff strewn everywhere and cartons as far as the eye could see, they’d decided to fight over the same box. How very adult. How very illegal.

  The older guy filled me in on the details, speaking through gritted teeth and the overhang of his grey walrus moustache. The strain of the tussle was very apparent on his face.

  ‘This little shit is trying to take off with the box, and I’m buggered if I’m going to let him.’

  ‘Tell grandpa here to get his own fucking box. I got it first.’ I’d thought the younger guy was quite attractive, with his curly dark hair and brooding, brown eyes, until he’d opened his mouth.

  ‘Well, I hate to inform you,’ I said, moving around between them, ‘that it belongs to neither of you, and I’m going to have to ask you both to put it down.’ At that the young guy flicked his eyes in my direction, then returned them back to the task at hand.

  ‘Fuck off and get your own box.’

  ‘Nice manners,’ I said, trying to keep my blood pressure down. ‘Let me introduce myself. I’m Detective Constable Shephard. What you are doing is theft, and if you continue, I’m going to have to arrest you. So put the box down.’

  ‘That’s what I’ve been trying to tell the little shit. It’s not his property and he can’t take it, but he won’t bloody listen, none of them will.’ Moustache Guy, with a look of immense relief, let go of the box, sending the younger chap staggering back a few steps. He still wouldn’t put the thing down, though. He looked around, checked out the various people busy on the beach, then looked back at me, giving me the old up and down, before pointedly turning to walk off.

  ‘Hey,’ I yelled, ‘didn’t you hear me? You keep walking and I’ll have to arrest you.’