by Vanda Symon
‘How are you?’ It seemed such an inane question, given the circumstances, but it was all I could think of to say.
‘Next best thing to dead, if you believe a word those quacks tell me.’
Dad could always be relied upon to make light of something. A strangled kind of laugh escaped me, and I heard his chuckle. It had his usual warmth, but I detected an edge that wasn’t usually there.
‘So, what Stephen said is true? It’s cancer?’ My voice broke completely with the last word, and I felt hot tears burn down my face.
‘Ah, Pumpkin, don’t cry,’ he said. ‘It’s not all that bad.’ It couldn’t get much worse as far as I was concerned. ‘You’re as bad as your mother. You womenfolk turn on the waterworks at the drop of a hat.’
I couldn’t remember my mother crying about anything, with the exception of once when she accidentally put the sewing machine needle through her fingernail, so I knew then and there the news wasn’t good.
‘What did they say?’
‘Oh, they had some fandangle name for it, but basically I’m knackered. They said it’s all around my organs so it’s not something they can operate on.’
‘Why didn’t you say anything last week when I was down? You never mentioned you were sick.’ Not even a whisper.
‘I know, but we didn’t want to worry you until we knew exactly what was going on, especially after you’d been hurt. It was supposed to be a rest for you, sweetheart, not a time to get you worrying about the old man.’
That was such a Dad thing to do. I couldn’t imagine how Mum managed to keep it quiet though. My mind groped to find some logic to it all, the suddenness, it didn’t seem right.
‘You had all those tests last year and they didn’t pick anything up. You had scans and everything. How can it be so far advanced?’
‘It’s just the way it is, Pumpkin. Nothing to be done about it now.’
‘But what about chemotherapy or radiotherapy?’
‘They said there would be no benefits to it at this stage and it would just make me feel like crap. I couldn’t be bothered with all that. What would be the point of feeling worse?’
‘So they’re just going to leave you?’
‘Pretty much. Just treat the symptoms if it gets sore, and when it gets too much, I’ll get your mum to take me down the back of the farm and put a bullet between me eyes, like the livestock, though I don’t think she’ll feed me to the dogs. Wouldn’t want them to catch anything.’ I couldn’t help but laugh and he joined in. ‘But seriously, Sam, I’ll be okay. I think your mum’s more upset about it than I am, but don’t tell her I said that. You know how she likes everyone to think she’s a scary ogre. We don’t want to spoil that for her.’
He paused for a bit, but I couldn’t find anything to say to fill the silence.
He gave a big sigh and suddenly sounded very tired. ‘People with cancer can carry on for years, so I’m not going to waste my time worrying about it, and you shouldn’t either.’
39
‘What’s with the limp?’ Smithy asked when I walked into the squad room. I had seldom been so relieved to get back to work. After the events of the weekend I needed a murder enquiry-sized distraction from life, the universe and everything.
‘Had an impromptu lesson in the laws of gravity,’ I said. ‘Mental note to self: Dodgy inner ear plus muddy bike track equals ouch.’ I didn’t mention that the burn from the graze and the ache from the bruise felt damn good.
‘How many times do I have to tell you?’ Smithy said in a mock-lecturing tone. ‘Stay on the couch and you won’t get hurt.’
‘I know, I know. I’m a slow learner. You are truly the master.’
‘I’m glad you realise the natural order of things. I didn’t attain this fine level of manhood by unnecessary expenditure of energy. Why work to excess when “enough” will do?’ That was rich coming from a workaholic. He was as bad as my dad.
My cellphone rang. It rescued me from the flow-on effects of the dad thought. It wasn’t someone already in my address book.
‘Shephard.’
‘Is that Samantha?’ It was a woman’s voice that I couldn’t quite place.
‘Yes?’
‘Hi, it’s Tamsin Paterson. I went out on the boat with you to retrieve the body the other day.’ The mental image of it jumped into my head and my body gave a full-throttle shudder in response. How could I ever forget?
‘Oh, hi Tamsin. Have you gone back to the boredom of drowning pigs’ heads yet?’
Smithy gave me a querying look.
‘Yes, thank God. After that mission, rotting pigs’ heads seem tame. Pigs’ heads good, people bad. Anyway, that’s why I’m ringing. I’ve got a result for you on the amount of time the body was submerged. Seven days is what you’re looking at.’
‘Seven days. And how accurate is that? Plus or minus a day or two?’
‘Oh, our research shows it’s accurate to a day. But remember, our calculation relates to the time the body was submerged in water, so the victim could have been killed and dumped straight away, or the body could have been somewhere above water for a while – that I can’t tell. But he was definitely in the water for seven days. Does that help?’
‘Hugely, thanks.’
My mind flicked through what we knew about Clifford’s last known whereabouts. The party at Aramoana had been nine days prior to the body being found. Clifford was alive on Sunday morning when he participated in a spot of looting. That left up to a day we needed to account for.
‘Hey, good luck with your research. It’s going to be damn useful for the police and I hope it makes you world famous.’
‘Thanks, and you’re welcome. It would be nicer if it made me rich. Just call if there’s anything else I can help with.’
It would hopefully be helping the prosecution in a court case. I wondered how new research like that stood up in the courts? I guessed there was only one way to find out.
‘That sounded intriguing,’ Smithy said.
‘It was. That was Tamsin Paterson, the research student who went out with us on the boat to recover Clifford Stewart’s body. According to her, our boy had been in the water for seven days. So, if you work backwards from when he was found on the Monday that means he was dumped in the sea on the Tuesday a week earlier. He was last seen on the Sunday morning, so there’s one day unaccounted for.’
‘Start with the party?’
‘Yep.’
‘Who shall we hassle first?’
‘I bags ringing Jase. He’ll tell me exactly whose party it was, or if he’s too stoned to know, I can hassle Frog.’
‘What makes you so sure Jase will cough up?’ Smithy sounded sceptical.
‘Because he’s sick to death of seeing me.’
40
Hah, that had been easy. I’d phoned Jason and quietly asked if he’d like to tell me a few details over the phone, or if he’d prefer me to pop around for another visit, with a few of my colleagues. Of course, he’d sung like a canary. It had taken him a few moments to dredge up the name of the party’s host from his addled brain, but when I finally got past the inevitable nickname – ‘Chuck’ (no points for guessing where that one originated from) – and even though he didn’t know the guy’s surname, the first name plus physical description was enough to nail it.
The answer surprised me, although it shouldn’t have. Party boy was Felix Ford, he of the knockout punch.
Last time I’d clapped eyes on him he was in a courtroom, with his lawyer negotiating the case for diversion if he pleaded guilty.
It’s a first-time offence, sir.
It was just the heat of the moment, sir.
He’s very remorseful, sir.
Hasn’t he suffered enough, sir?
Not in my book. I was still suffering tinnitus and dodgy balance, not to mention a lingering headache. And if he was that remorseful, why hadn’t I received an apology? Even an embarrassed, half-hearted one would have been better than nothing. And I’d brought him
back from the brink of death. I hadn’t even had a thank-you for that. No, I wasn’t feeling exactly charitable towards Felix Ford, so I’d been rather pleased when the judge said, ‘Sorry buddy – beating the crap out of a police officer doesn’t get you any favours’, or words to that effect.
The long shot of all this was that I was pretty sure where to find him, because he was due back in court this morning. He’d decided to plead not guilty, seeing as he wasn’t due any Brownie points for fessing up. So, consequently, he was going to waste a truckload of taxpayer dollars and try to pretend it never happened. Hah, justice.
I hopped on the phone to his lawyer, who, despite working for the enemy, was a formidable but fun kind of chick.
‘Hi Meredith, Detective Constable Sam Shephard here.’
‘Hi Sam, checking up on my client are you?’
‘Yes and no. We need to ask him a few questions regarding another ongoing case and, seeing as he likes to have his lawyer present for everything, I thought I’d arrange a suitable time with you, seeing as you’re busy with him this morning anyway.’
‘Well, that’s fine except for a couple of points.’
In my experience there were always a couple of points with a lawyer.
‘Fire away.’
She laughed. ‘You sound like you were expecting that.’
‘You’d be disappointed if I wasn’t.’
‘True. Anyway, firstly, you can’t do the questioning, it will have to be someone else.’
‘Can I be present, seeing as I’m on the team for this other enquiry?’
‘No, I can’t allow that. You’d intimidate my client.’ They were the funniest words I’d heard in a long time. I’d intimidate her client. If anyone would and did feel intimidated, it would be me. Part of me was annoyed, part of me relieved.
‘Okay, and the other point?’
‘This one may be more challenging. He’s done a no-show.’
‘He’s made an excuse, or just not turned up?’
‘Not turned up for our pre-hearing meeting, and I can’t get him on the phone. We’re due in court in thirty-five minutes, so if he doesn’t show before then, you guys will definitely have a valid reason to go looking for him.’
‘Yeah, like a warrant.’
41
‘So, what do we know about Felix Ford, other than the fact that he likes to take cheap shots at girls and hasn’t turned up for court?’ I asked, as Smithy and I headed back to the car.
We’d just paid a visit to Ford’s address in Pine Hill Road, but it appeared that nobody was home, and hadn’t been for a few days. There was an accumulation of junk mail in the letterbox, and from a peek through the kitchen window, a small accumulation of dishes on the bench. Judging from the newspapers still on the table, and the clothes hanging limp on the line, it looked as if he had left in a bit of a hurry. Other than the surface mess, the place was very well maintained. The lawn was mowed and the garden reasonably weed free, although admittedly the flowerbeds were barked for easy maintenance. Further to the easy-maintenance theme, they weren’t strictly flowerbeds, but instead featured native tussocks and grasses, the good ole standby for those who like a more structural and textured look. Looking through all the other windows, we found that the house had three bedrooms: two with beds, although only one had a lived-in look, and one was set up with some gym equipment. That explained the power behind the punch. The lounge looked to have reasonable-quality furniture and what looked like a computer desk sans computer, but I couldn’t quite see because of the angle I was looking from and my height, or lack of, even on tiptoes. It was in stark contrast to our victim’s student hovel.
‘We know he’s a twenty-three-year-old who lives alone, no prior convictions, other than the one he’ll get for “taking cheap shots at girls”.’ Smithy seemed to take pleasure in quoting me. ‘He’s an accountant by profession, works for MacLary Fergus, but he hasn’t turned up there for two days.’
‘Do you think that would give us enough to get a warrant to search the house? I saw what looked like a computer desk in the lounge, but couldn’t tell if the computer was still there. I’m sure the tech guys would love to have a look at it if it was.’
‘The fact that he’s done a no-show for a court case, and conveniently disappeared when we started asking questions about Clifford Stewart and his connection to a certain party at Aramoana, should give sufficient cause.’
‘Do you think Jason tipped him off?’
‘That gormless wonder? No, it looks like Felix cleared out well before today. That circle of friends seem pretty good at keeping each other informed, so he probably figured out it was inevitable we’d get back to him sooner or later. You don’t run unless you’ve got something major to hide.’
It made me feel more than a little uncomfortable to think that the man who assaulted me might have had something to do with Clifford Stewart turning up dead; Clifford, who’d been beaten to death.
‘Tiki tour to Aramoana next, then, while we’re out and about?’
‘Did you bring our picnic lunch?’
42
Last time I’d been out here it was hell in a handcart; today Aramoana was back to its tranquil best. The sunlight made the water glisten, seagulls wafted on the breeze and it was hard to imagine the chaos of a few weeks back. We cruised up to The Mole car park for a quick look before heading back to the settlement. The Lauretia Express was nowhere to be seen, having been refloated and berthed down the harbour at Port Chalmers, where they were getting her back to a state of seaworthiness. The beaches seemed pristine, all traces of flotsam gone, with only trumpet shells and swags of seaweed adorning the sand. The community clean-up day had been a success. The only tell-tale signs of the recent calamity were deep tyre ruts in the sand from the trucks needed to retrieve the beached containers, but they would disappear with the next storm. I could see two people and a projectile of fur I took to be a dog a few hundred metres down the spit. Other than that, the place seemed deserted.
I think that was what I loved about Aramoana: the solitude. It was also a place of contrasts. Like all seaside townships, it was at the whim of the Pacific weather. One moment all crystal and light, the next all moody and purple. Its murderous history would always wrap round it like a mantle, but it wore it with dignity, the weight adding to its sense of place, the memorial a poignant reminder of a black day.
The crib we pulled up to confirmed my suspicion about the party. Sheer proximity meant it had to be the same one that had kept me awake that notorious weekend – there couldn’t be that many rip-snorter parties out here. Mum and Dad’s friends, the Spillers, had a house one street over and about four doors down. I had the Spillers, or rather, the Spillers’ dog Trixie, to thank for having been out at Aramoana that weekend in the first place. Trixie was a golden cocker spaniel, and, apart from being the canine equivalent of a dumb blonde, was lovely. Normally Bill and Nancy took her away with them when they took off for a weekend, but this time their hosts were allergic, so I got to doggie-sit, by dint of being the only young and sort-of single person they knew. So in a roundabout kind of a way, I had Trixie to thank for a black eye and a hell of a hangover. I wouldn’t hold it against her though.
According to the city council website this house was owned by Felix’s parents, John and Alison Ford, who normally resided in Gore. I could understand why you’d want a beach bolthole if you had to live there, although surely something dinky in The Catlins would have been closer. Funny how everyone felt the need to desert Gore.
When Smithy had phoned them earlier, the Fords apparently hadn’t heard from their son for several days. Well, that’s what they said. They were well aware of his brush with the law and were very surprised he hadn’t shown up for court. If it had been my parents, they’d have been lined up early in the back of the courtroom, Dad to support me, Mum to heckle.
Felix had free use of the crib on condition that he maintained it. I had to say he did a good job. Like his house in Pine Hill Road, the lawns wer
e mown, the trees and shrubs tidy and there was a good supply of neatly stacked firewood in the lean-to. The crib was your Kiwi classic: small, creosoted-black weatherboard with white trim. A peek through the French doors into the living area showed a couple of old couches and armchairs complete with crocheted Peggy-square throws. A bookshelf had a reasonable collection of paperbacks and an obligatory pile of old Reader’s Digests. The table looked vintage Formica, and the TV of a similar era. There were maps and pictures on the wall, including a flowerypainting I sort of recognised, nick-nacks everywhere and an ugly horse statuette that looked bronze on the wooden, three-legged coffee table. It was the crib of my dreams.
‘It all looks very tidy, don’t you think?’
‘The only evidence of a wild party, other than complaints from the neighbours, is a couple of large boxes of empties in that shed.’ Smithy pointed to a matching black-and-white outbuilding next to the concrete water tank. Someone had painted a mural of a beach scene on the tank – sun umbrellas, kids in the surf, dog chasing a kite.
‘The SOCOs might want to fingerprint those,’ I said. At least that would be tangible evidence of who was at the party.’
‘Good thinking, although the SOCOs might not agree.’
‘They must have a new trainee to torment; that’s the sort of job you guys would give me. Well, DI Johns would.’ He was back from his course, but by the grace of God I’d managed to avoid him so far. I’d heard him yelling at some poor unfortunate, and that had been my cue to find something interesting to do downstairs. ‘You know, this guy must be really fastidious, because I haven’t seen a single cigarette butt anywhere on the grass, and I’ve never been to a party involving lots of beer that didn’t have at least one or two people off for a puff.’
‘And if Jason was there as well as our victim, there would have been an illegal puff or two as well, I’d have thought.’