by Vanda Symon
‘If he was there on Sunday morning, did he mention people taking any goods from the containers on the beach and if people from the party had participated?’
Her face reddened and she looked down at the table as she gave her hesitant reply. ‘Well, yes. To be honest, he said they took a bit, and I told him that kind of thing was theft and really bad, but he said it was like salvage rights and finders keepers, and they didn’t do anything wrong. We had a bit of a row about it actually.’
‘What did he say he did with the items?’
‘Nothing. After the row he wouldn’t talk about it anymore, and I didn’t push it. It would have just caused another argument.’
Seeing as we were already on to uncomfortable subjects, I tossed another at her. ‘Would Leo have had any reason to harm Clifford?’
Her eyes widened and it took a few moments for her to get the words out. ‘No, never. They were best mates, like I said, they’d known each other since high school. You can’t possibly think he had anything to do with Clifford’s murder, can you?’
I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t entertain the idea. ‘Well, he did happen to disappear from the scene around the time Clifford was last seen alive, and no one has been able to contact him since. It’s been all over the media, so surely, if he was the great mate you say he was, he’d have come home when he heard. Let’s be honest here, it is very suspicious that he hasn’t.’
‘That’s because he’s stuck out in the middle of the bush, in the middle of nowhere. There’s almost no communication out there. He’s out of range for everything, radio, television, cellphones. He can’t know, or else he would have come back straight away, I know he would. He’ll be devastated when he does find out. No, he’d never harm Clifford, no way. He’d never harm anyone.’ Her face and voice implored me to believe her.
It was feasible. Fiordland certainly qualified as the back of beyond. There were parts of it that hadn’t even been explored. In fact, some excitable people were convinced if you looked hard enough in the remotest pockets of ancient forest you could find wild moose out there, or even the supposedly extinct moa.
‘We’ll have to talk to DOC and get them to locate him. As you can imagine, we do need to ask him some important questions.’ I also hoped DOC would be able to tell us when Leo clocked in on the Monday so we could figure out his timetable and if it included enough time to knock someone off and discard the evidence out at sea.
A large chunk of Trina’s hair had been dislodged from its clasp; she’d repeatedly pushed at her forehead as her composure began to disintegrate. I felt truly sorry for her. She seemed a lovely girl and genuinely loyal to her man. Still, I had to ask the next question.
‘We know Clifford was a dope dealer. Was Leo one of his customers?’
She sighed and slouched back into the chair. ‘Another thing we disagreed on. He thought it was okay to have the occasional social smoke. I told him it was wrong, and illegal, and that he should stop it. We didn’t really talk about it because it would only lead to an argument, so I tried to ignore it. He would never smoke when I was around because he knew how I felt about it.’
‘So he wasn’t a heavy user?’
‘No, and not into anything else, before you ask. Just beer and the odd joint.’
Leo was sounding less and less like a prospect, but you couldn’t go on the word of one or two pals and a girlfriend. I tried to couch the next line of questioning gently.
‘Out of curiosity, is Leo into scuba diving at all?’
‘Scuba diving? No, he’s never done it – wouldn’t do it. He hates being on or even in the water. He gets horribly seasick.’
‘So he wouldn’t have a boat or access to a boat?’
‘I think he’d rather have his teeth pulled than get on a boat.’
34
Jesus, some people didn’t understand the concept of urgent or serious. I’d just spent a frustrating hour chasing up someone, anyone, with clout and a spine, at the Department of Conservation. When I rang the various DOC offices and explained that we needed Leo Walker to be contacted and fished out of the bush as soon as possible, I got: ‘Is that really necessary?’; ‘They’re hard to get hold of’; and my personal favourite: ‘I haven’t got the authority to order that, but you could try ringing…’
To my credit, I remained calm. I didn’t yell at anyone or threaten to ram their phones down their throats, but there was a new gouge mark on the surface of my desk and I’d had to throw back a couple of paracetamol. Smithy had returned from whatever appointment he’d had earlier – he wouldn’t elaborate – and after I’d reported my conversation with Trina Sanderson, he’d taken perverse pleasure in delegating this job to me. He must have had experience with DOC before.
We never had this kind of trouble mobilising them for the idiots who got themselves accidentally lost in the bush – they were always fantastic then; so why all the hassle for an employee and someone they were supposed to be in regular contact with?
It didn’t help matters that every time I was knocked back by someone, or had my time wasted, the vision of Marlene Stewart wafted before my eyes, as she grasped my hand, pleading with me to find her son’s killer. Somehow that moment had made this into a personal crusade, like I needed that kind of emotional baggage thrown on top of everything else going on in my life.
I was about to ring what would hopefully be the last number on my phone trail when my cellphone bleeped and nearly sent me through the roof. My central nervous system was stranded in caveman mode and not hard-wired for a modern, bleeping world.
The name on the screen didn’t help any. Paul. I’d been working very hard to forget the fact he was coming over and there was bound to be some discomfort involved. I opened the message.
See you tonight at 7. Pxx
Christ, it was the last thing I felt like. I’m sure I would be more rational and objective about it if I didn’t feel so damn awful. But with the emotional turmoil going on in my brain about Paul, droning on like one of those constant background computer hums you’re aware of but trying to ignore, coupled with the demands of a murder investigation, sidestepping the boss, and my post-bashing permanent low-grade headache, I was feeling tired and rather brittle. Here he was being friendly and considerate and my first reaction had been to want to sob. With a roomful of men present, though, I stifled it with a kind of strangled hiccup noise and excused myself to the bathroom.
35
‘You know, you’ve carefully avoided talking about my shift to Dunedin all evening.’
My heart clenched at the words, and I looked straight ahead at the headlights of the oncoming traffic. We’d managed to have a pleasant evening out at Plato. We’d talked about the murder case and the weather and the rugby, anything to avoid the actual issue at hand. Wine had helped. Now he’d decided to broach the subject.
‘What’s there to say? You’ve already made your decision.’
The windscreen wipers and splattering of rain gave the lights a hypnotic strobe effect. The sodium streetlights overhead reflected off the road, making it look like a molten sea of orange.
‘I’d like to know what you’re thinking.’
I didn’t know what I was thinking, so how could I possibly tell him? My thoughts weren’t ordered into coherent strands. They knotted and twisted and drifted, ungraspable. I was afraid that if I opened my mouth and let the words spill out that it would spew out all wrong, and that very bad things would happen. I kept my mouth shut.
‘You know, things don’t have to change between us. Just because I might be moving over here doesn’t mean that we have to move in together or I have to live in your back pocket. I’m the kind of guy who needs my space too.’
Didn’t he realise things had already changed? That his decision had altered everything?
I bit my lip and looked out the side window.
‘Won’t you at least say something, Sam? I’ve never known you to be short on words before.’
I couldn’t win. I didn’t wa
nt to hurt him, but I could tell by the careful levity of his voice that I already had. I took a big breath.
‘Paul, I … I just wish you’d talked about this with me before you made a big decision like that. I was happy with the way things were. You move over here, and even though you say you won’t, suddenly you’ll have all these expectations, and I don’t know if I’m ready for that.’
It was his turn to pause.
‘And when would you be ready, Sam? Now? Someday? Never?’
Oh, Jesus. That was what I was afraid of. This was turning into one of those moments. One of those what-you-say-now-will-affect-the-rest-of-your-life moments. I could feel his eyes flicking over to me, could sense the tension in his body and his hands grasp the steering wheel more firmly. My mind was swirling at such a pace, I had to rest my head against the window, the cold glass burning a patch on my temple.
‘That’s not a very fair question right now.’
‘And when would it be fair? You know, Sam, this isn’t just about you. My life can’t go on hold because you’re shy of any kind of commitment. You know how I feel about you, and I’d happily spend the rest of my life with you, God help me.’
Fuck, fuckity, fuck. My heart was booming in my chest. Not here, not now.
‘And before you panic, no, I’m not proposing, I’m just stating a simple fact. But, another simple fact is that I need to feel sure of where my life is going. I’m not getting any younger. I’ve made a decision that is going to assure my career. I need to know where I stand with you.’
Trapped in a car and backed into a corner. Not a good position to be in. Maggie’s words were echoing in my head: Don’t cock this one up, Sam. I knew she was right. Paul was a good man, and hot, fun and loving – everything I ever wanted. But a huge part of me was coiled tight, ready to explode.
The cellphone going off gave me such a fright I hit my head against the window. I fumbled for it, for once thanking God for the damn thing’s intrusion, relieved at the chance of a reprieve.
I managed to get the phone out of my bag without making eye contact with Paul, and bumbled a few buttons before hitting the right one.
‘Shephard.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me Dad had cancer?’ The voice yelling down the phone was so distorted by anger it was unrecognisable.
‘Sorry?’ It must have been a wrong number, and someone was clearly very upset.
‘You knew, Sam, but you didn’t tell me. How could you not tell me?’
My name. The neurons started making connections and it started to dawn on me who it might be.
‘Stephen?’ I asked. ‘Is that you?’
‘Of course it’s me. How long have you fucking known?’
My mind was struggling to cope with this sudden change of direction from arguing with Paul, to having my brother screaming expletives down the phone. He must have been drunk. I’d never heard him like this before, and my already squirmy innards and thumping heart upped their tempo as his words started to filter through. I lifted my other hand up to massage the pounding that had started in my temple.
‘Known what? Hang on, what are you talking about?’
‘You knew Dad had cancer. Why the hell didn’t you tell me?’
I felt the chill slap across my face. My eyes locked onto Paul’s.
‘Dad’s got cancer?’ I said, my voice small, remote.
My reaction must have registered through his rage, because the voice that responded was a little less accusatory. ‘You didn’t know?’
‘No,’ I replied, this time with a croak as my throat constricted. I felt the damp warmth as unexpected tears spilled down my cheek.
‘Mum said she’d told you.’ The accusation had returned.
‘I think I would have remembered if she’d told me something like that, Stephen,’ I said, my voice hoarsened by the effort of swallowing back sobs.
‘Well, why would she say that if she hadn’t told you?’
‘I don’t know why, she was probably upset, but she was wrong.’
‘Are you saying she was lying?’ His voice was on the rise. Jesus, this was going from bad to worse. I felt Paul’s hand rest on my leg, give it a gentle squeeze.
‘No, I’m not saying she was lying. She must have just got confused, because she hasn’t told me anything. What…’ I stuttered over the words. ‘…What kind’s he got?’
‘How the hell should I know? I thought you could tell me.’
‘Well, this is the first I’ve heard of it.’
‘But Mum said she’d told you. You’re a fucking liar, Sam.’
We were talking in circles, and he sounded way too upset to be listening to me anyway. I didn’t know where to go with this. I just wanted it over. The only way I could think to get him off the phone probably wasn’t the best, but I didn’t care. I had to stop the yelling, I had to end the conversation.
‘Look, Stephen,’ I said, my tone as strong as his, ‘I don’t know anything, so I suggest instead of wasting time yelling at me, you ask Mum what’s going on, because how the bloody hell would I know? I’m not psychic.’
I ended the call before he had the chance to reply, and then dropped the tainted phone into my bag on the floor of the car. I could feel the juddering spasms of the burgeoning sobs, and turned to look at Paul, his face grim and sober.
‘Fuck.’
36
‘Do you want me to come in?’
We were outside the flat. It was dark, cold, and the swirling mist of cloying drizzle just contributed further to my numbness. I stared out the car window, not yet ready to move, not quite capable of speech. I tried to breathe, but each exhalation lurched out of my body.
The enormity of what Stephen had said was filtering through the murk of my day and the persistent headache. Dad had cancer. My brain played a PowerPoint montage of Dad, the fit, strong, rugged southern farming man, morphing into Dad in the hospital bed last year, the heart monitor pads poking through the thatch of grey hair on his chest. Dad effortlessly tossing hay bales around like they were rugby balls, to Dad struggling with the stock gate last week. Dad, shirt off in the sun, muscles rippling, digging fence-post holes, to Dad last week looking lean, even thin, and, dare I think it, frail.
I had put it down to the fact he was getting older. I never imagined that super-heroes could get sick. With the rose-tinted eyes of love, I believed my dad could fend off freeze-rays, deflect bullets and was impervious to kryptonite.
Here he was proving to be very human after all, and the merest thought of a world without him in it opened a void of swirling nothingness, a vacuum that sucked out all warmth and light and left me quaking. My logical, calm self ceded to the hurt, devastated child, and I finally found the ability to speak.
‘I don’t want to be alone.’
37
Muscular arms enveloped me, his chest warm and strong against my back. Comfort took many forms. Was he asleep? I thought so. I could feel his breath against the back of my neck, it was slow, the tempo even. But he could have been like me, wide awake with his thoughts, pretending to be asleep so as not to disturb the other. My eyes were drawn to the crack of light from the hallway, peeping under the bedroom door. What was so very wrong with this? Why was I fighting it?
Paul, under his ‘ladies’ man’ façade, was an old-fashioned kind of a gentleman. Of course, it was cleverly hidden behind a sharp wit and playful sense of humour, the same humour that had first attracted me – that and a seriously nice arse – but it was there all the same. He was the kind of man who was dedicated and who would protect, love, honour and cherish. So was that the problem? Deep down did I prefer the dangerous ones? The Han Solos? When I thought back to the men in my past, they seemed to fall into two distinct categories. There were the disasters: Cole had been one, but part of that was my fault. I was looking for comfort at the time, a bit like now, and look how all that ended. I could think of a couple of others whose system of values did not quite match mine, and those relationships had died a natural death af
ter a brief but fun ride. Or I went for the steady Eddies. The Lockies, and perhaps now, the Pauls. I had been happy with Lockie, until he made clear his desire to have children; until he proposed. Lockie didn’t understand my need to establish my career. At that point in my life I was still building it up, and the thought of children complicating things was unbearable. He took his misunderstanding and left. And now there was Paul. He too wanted something of me. Was he asking too much? It was too hard a question to answer, and not one to grapple with at one in the morning after a shit of a day. In many ways he reminded me of Dad, who was strong, determined and steady, especially in the light of my mother’s temperament. He was the yin to her yang. Was Paul my yin? Thoughts of Dad flooded my mind again, and I started to replay the dreadful conversation I’d had with Stephen, which led to thinking about Dad with cancer, which led to thoughts of him dying, which led to my body shaking with the effort of hiding
The arms drew me closer and Paul’s concerned voice whispered in my ear: ‘I’m sorry about your dad, Sam. I’m so sorry.’
38
I couldn’t put this off any longer. Paul was in the shower, Maggs and Rudy had disappeared off to the farmers’ market an hour ago. I had two extra strong cups of coffee on board and had made an attempt at food, although the gloopy remains of soggy Weet-Bix in the bowl in front of me clearly indicated where my appetite was at. It was 8.45 on a Saturday morning, which was a civilised kind of an hour, and it was as good a time as any.
I dialled the number before my nerve did a runner, and tried to think of an appropriate opening line while it rang. For once, I wouldn’t have been upset if the answer machine kicked in. Alas, it didn’t.
It wasn’t the voice I expected.
‘Hello?’
‘Dad?’
‘Sam.’ I could hear the smile in his voice, and my resolve to be strong started to crumble.