Containment

by Vanda Symon

  ‘Could we get a warrant for this place attached to the other?’ I asked. The living area was the only room we could see into; the others were obscured by seriously ugly net curtains.

  ‘No need. The parents said they’d bring over the keys. I think they’re a bit worried about the boy.’

  43

  We knocked on the door of a neighbouring house, but there was no reply so we shifted our attention to the house one over. This looked more promising, with a car in the driveway and a smudge of smoke emanating from the chimney. Again, this was your modest Kiwi crib. That was another of the things I loved about Aramoana: it hadn’t been taken over by money-grubbing developers, so maintained that sleepy atmosphere and semi-deserted quality that was the whole point and pleasure of disappearing off to the beach. Dad would have loved it here.

  The door swung open, and I was surprised when a familiar face greeted us along with a waft of what my chocolate-o-meter recognised as freshly baked cake.

  ‘You’re looking a bit better than last time I saw you,’ the man with the walrus moustache said. He was dressed in short sleeves and I could see he had Popeye arms to go with the mo.

  That wouldn’t have been difficult. Last time he’d seen me I was KO’ed on the sand. ‘Mr Gibbs, hello.’ I reached up and brushed the hair from my cheek. Although the bruising had faded, there was still a vague numbness. ‘I haven’t had the chance to thank you for coming to my rescue the other week.’

  He coughed, looking awkward. We all knew he’d been a little over the top in his defence of the constabulary, and he was going to suffer the consequences. ‘Yeah, well, someone had to do something, didn’t they?’

  I almost apologised for the fact he was up for assault, but held my tongue. It wasn’t appropriate, given the circumstances.

  Before things got too uncomfortable Smithy got to the point. ‘I’m sure you remember that weekend well,’ he said. ‘We’re making enquiries about a party that was held a few doors over on the Saturday night.’

  ‘Yes, I remember it very well.’ Didn’t we all. ‘I rang noise control at two in the morning; we were getting sick of it by then. Not that it did any good. Selfish little shits. I mean, a party’s a party – we all expect to put up with a bit of noise till midnight or so, that’s only fair. But three a.m.?’

  ‘Did you hear any fights or arguments?’

  ‘Nah, just music and chatter. It was all very civilised in that respect.’

  ‘So you weren’t concerned about anyone’s safety?’

  ‘No, just the lack of sleep. Marie was here; she’ll be able to tell you. I don’t think she heard any fights.’ He turned around and yelled down the hall. ‘Marie? Love?’ A homely-looking woman appeared. ‘You know that party a few weeks back – the weekend when the ship ran aground – did you hear any fights?’

  ‘No, just the usual noise and music. It all went on too long. Young people have no consideration. Iain had to ring noise control, but they didn’t come.’

  ‘Do you know Felix Ford? What can you tell me about him?’ Smithy asked.

  Iain hesitated.

  Smithy realised the source of his concern and clarified the line of questioning. ‘It’s to do with the party, not your case.’

  ‘Oh, okay. Well, I used to think he seemed a nice young man until that weekend when he beat up the young lady here.’

  ‘Did you normally see much of him?’

  ‘Not really. The family only bought the crib a few years ago. Before that the Harrises were there for thirty years. He comes out some weekends, and I have to say, he keeps the place tidy.’

  ‘Have you seen him recently?’

  ‘No, not since … well, you know.’ The muscles in his face tightened. The last time he saw him had long-lasting repercussions for everyone. ‘What about you, love?’ Iain said, turning to his wife.

  ‘No, I haven’t seen him either.’ She looked pale and weary-worn. I supposed the impending court case was taking its toll on them both.

  ‘So, do you know who came and tidied up after the party, then?’

  ‘His parents did. I didn’t think it would be appropriate to go and say hello, considering.’ A wise move, I imagined. ‘What’s this about? It’s obviously not about my case.’

  ‘We’re following up enquiries to do with the looting that occurred after the ship ran aground,’ I said.

  ‘Well, Missy, we both saw what young Felix was up to there, as well you know. There were a number of young men busy on the beach that morning. I’m sure a few would have been leftovers from the party.’

  ‘There were a few residents, too, from what I recall.’

  ‘Unfortunately, yes. Not everyone has a sense of decency, but some of us were trying to stop it.’

  ‘And we do appreciate that.’

  As we headed back to the car, Smithy said, ‘Well, that didn’t help with anything.’

  ‘Should we even have been talking to him, considering the court case?’ I asked.

  ‘Dunedin’s too small a place to get precious about conflict of interest and the like. For a supposedly big city, it has that small-town feature. Don’t worry about it,’ Smithy said. ‘That cake smelt good though. Shit, I’m hungry.’

  ‘No problem. Come with me. I know where we can cadge a cuppa.’ It was time I said hi to the Spillers. ‘Just watch out for the rabid guard dog.’

  44

  ‘Shephard?’ The tone of the voice liquefied my innards.

  ‘Yes, sir?’

  ‘What the hell are you doing making enquiries into Felix Ford? And as for you, Malcolm Smith, you should bloody well know better, letting her within a mile of any of it. If his lawyer catches a whiff of this, she’ll be milking police harassment and conflict-of-interest charges for all its worth.’

  Despite the fact I’d talked to his lawyer and we’d come to an agreement, I still felt guilty. Smithy just looked frosty.

  As Hurricane Arsehole stormed down the corridor, Smithy’s voice stated what everyone was thinking: ‘The bastard’s back.’

  45

  ‘How did you get on with them?’

  Smithy had just returned to the squad room from interviewing Felix’s parents, John and Alison Ford. I’d caught a glimpse of them when they arrived, but had been careful to ensure I wasn’t seen. John Ford resembled a younger version of my dad, which made me realise that, in a way, so did his son. We’d decided it was probably in everyone’s best interests that I wasn’t in on that interview. The Fords were well aware their beloved son had beaten the crap out of a female detective, and they also owed her one for the fact he was alive at all, but this wasn’t the time or place for restorative justice and a group hug. We’d give any potential discomfort a big swerve. And DI Johns had made it abundantly clear I was not allowed within a mile of Felix Ford’s case. I wasn’t about to give him any ammunition for his anti-Sam regime.

  ‘Felt sorry for them actually,’ Smithy said as he dropped his bulk onto his chair. ‘The missus looked on the verge of tears. If you think about it, it wasn’t that long ago that their son was in hospital and they spent a few days thinking they’d lose him. Then he came right, and they had to deal with the little fact he’d assaulted an officer while trying to steal other people’s goods. Now he hasn’t shown up for court, so effectively they’ve lost him again.’

  The words of Clifford Stewart’s parents echoed in my ears: ‘But he was a good boy, deep down, a really good boy.’ Felix’s parents were probably thinking the same thing and wondering where it had all gone wrong.

  ‘It’s been a bit of a roller-coaster ride for them,’ I said. ‘When did they last hear from him?’

  ‘They talked on the phone on Friday, but they haven’t been able to contact him since.’

  ‘Did they say why they hadn’t planned on coming up for the hearing today?’ It seemed a bit odd to me that they hadn’t intended to be there for their son, and that they only turned up now because he had gone AWOL.

  ‘Yeah, I asked them about that. Apparently h
is sister just had her first baby – in Invercargill yesterday – so they were there to support her and meet their first grandchild.’

  I watched Smithy’s face closely for any sign of a tic or frown at the mention of babies. Nothing. Well, nothing physical. I thought I might have detected a tension, an undercurrent of something.

  ‘They’ve being trying to get hold of him to tell him the good news, but he’s not been at home, as we know, and isn’t answering his cellphone.’

  Christ, they’d had an up-and-down time. It was unfortunate their joy at being grandparents was overshadowed by the antics of their delinquent son.

  ‘What did they say when you enquired about his relationship with Clifford Stewart?’

  ‘They said the two of them were good friends, back from school days, and that they couldn’t imagine Felix ever doing Clifford any harm.’ Well, he’d sure as hell harmed me. ‘They were on the same cricket team and they were both involved in the young enterprise scheme for economics. They said Clifford was like part of the family when they were at school, and they both thought he was a lovely young man. Funny how everyone’s on best behaviour for the friend’s parents, eh? Although, they were worried about the influence he might have on their son after the drug conviction.’

  ‘So they knew about that?’

  ‘Yes, but they were quite emphatic that their Felix would never take drugs and couldn’t possibly be involved with anything illegal like that.’

  ‘Parents will always say that, though, won’t they?’

  46

  Here we were, once again, winding our way along the narrow little road that clung to the edge of the harbour on the way out to Aramoana. As usual, Smithy was doing the driving. I had to admit, I was enjoying these little trips. The morning sun glinting off the water in the harbour, the myriad of little inlets nestled between the road and the railway line, the view across to the undulating hills of the peninsula, the little thrill I got every time I came around the bend on the road from Dunedin and onto George Street at Port Chalmers, and caught that first sight of the cranes, like strange mechanical giraffes guarding the docks. What was it about ports that awakened the gleeful child in me? Our trip was timed perfectly to see the arrival of a container ship. It had looked immense as it slid past Boiler Point, dwarfing the piles of containers and making the surrounding area look like a model whose craftsman had got the scale wrong. It had reminded me of the Lauretta Express stuck on The Mole, but without the unnatural tilt. She didn’t quite cut the same spectacle berthed here at Port, minus her container load. I looked back and noticed a group of old boys with cameras. Like trainspotters, but with a far more picturesque hobby. Port Chalmers was a mecca for old sea dogs. The thought of sea dogs triggered more thoughts of Dad, which then made me think about Paul. I sighed heavily. Why were the men in my life always so demanding?

  The Fords didn’t want to accompany us as we looked through their crib. Not that they knew I was going along for the ride. I’d questioned Smithy about whether he thought it was wise, considering the little lecture we’d received from the DI. Smithy’s response had been, ‘Fuck him.’ The response had been so emphatic, I didn’t bother arguing.

  The Fords had told Smithy they’d stay on in town to track down their errant son, and of course they would accompany him back to the station if they found him. I believed they would. They had enough going on in their lives right now without adding aiding and abetting to the list. Tough love was exactly that, tough, and if more parents were prepared to dob in their children when they came up on the wrong side of the law, the country would be a better place.

  I hoped they’d have more success than the CIB though. If you had a bit of cash on you, it was very easy to disappear in New Zealand, as long as you had enough sense to avoid leaving an electronic trail, by card or by cellphone. There were plenty of places to blend into. We didn’t have the blanket big-brother-is-watching-you CCTV cameras keeping track of your every move like they did in Britain. If they tried that here there’d be public revolt and the civil-rights movement would be up in arms, and too right. Who needed that kind of claustrophobia? Only a few of Dunedin’s trouble hotspots sported them: Octagon and places on the university campus. We’d tried tracking Felix by his cellphone usage, but it must have been switched off – and his missed calls and messages from his parents, his workplace and his lawyer had not been downloaded. He clearly didn’t want to be found.

  We pulled up outside the crib, and I experienced another little pang as I admired its perfectness. That was on my ‘one day’ dream list, a little crib by the sea at Karitane or perhaps in The Catlins, near Curio Bay. It had been a quiet trip out, with Smithy lost in thought and driving on automatic pilot – not such a comfortable thing on that dreadful narrow road, but he got us there without a detour into the water.

  ‘Smithy?’ I said as we approached the French doors at the front. ‘Someone’s beaten us to it.’ The windowpane at door-handle level had been smashed in. The pane had been knocked out entirely, so someone walking past on the road wouldn’t have noticed unless they looked closely.

  ‘Do you think they could still be in there?’ I asked in a whisper.

  ‘Police! Anybody in there!’ Smithy yelled.

  Silence.

  ‘Nah,’ he said.

  I leaned over for a closer look. ‘They can’t have got in this way though, this is one of those old-fashioned locks that only operates with the key.’

  Smithy pulled the key out of his pocket and dangled it in the air. And a big clunky key it was too. ‘The door doesn’t look forced,’ he said, as he checked around the timber frame. ‘Let’s go and look at the back door first before we go in.’

  It was hardly a surprise to see the same treatment had been given to the back door, although this was more obvious with a pane of frosted glass missing.

  ‘This would have been point of entry,’ Smithy said, with his head close to the gaping hole left by the burglar. ‘This is a standard turn-the-handle-and-out-it-pops lock.’ He pulled his head back and examined the window frame. ‘Looks like they’ve been careful, too, no obvious traces of blood around the edges.’

  ‘Not opportunists either. A smash-and-grabber wouldn’t bother trying to hide the break-in.’ I turned around and looked at the neighbouring houses. Bushes and trees obscured most of the windows that overlooked this property, so it was unlikely anyone had seen something. Also, it was midweek, which meant that all the weekenders would be toiling away at work in the city.

  ‘Shall we?’ I said. ‘Or do we send in the SOCOs?’

  ‘We’re here now. Get the gloves.’

  The crib was just as cute on the inside, enhanced with what looked like decades’ worth of kitsch objects and nick-nacks no one wanted in their actual homes. I wondered how many lovely vases from Great-Aunt Betsy discreetly found their way to places like this. Whoever broke in here had been tidy about it. I looked around the lounge, trying to recall what I’d seen yesterday when I peeked through the window. It didn’t smell too stuffy – the newly added ventilation system would have helped there – but it still had that distinctive old-house aroma I loved so much. They could bottle that and I’d be happy.

  ‘TV and stereo are still here.’

  ‘They’re pretty old; no self-respecting burglar would touch anything less up-to-date than the latest flatscreen.’

  ‘Microwave’s still here, that’s newer. They can’t have been on an electronics hunt.’

  ‘I don’t know what they were looking for, then,’ Smithy said, ‘because as far as I can tell, nothing’s moved or missing.’

  There was something different about the lounge, though, I was sure of it, but I couldn’t put my finger on it yet. I moved down the hallway to the rooms we couldn’t peer into yesterday because of their awful net curtains. No crib of mine would ever have net curtains. Those things were a scourge on humanity. Privacy be damned; all they did was look butt ugly, collect dust and provide a fascinating climbing system for the cat.

&n
bsp; There were two bedrooms down this end of the house. Both had double beds of dubious vintage and bedding with hand-me-down coverings from several home renovations ago. Recycle, recycle, recycle. Cribs were the perfect retirement home for all those replaced and surplus-to-requirements household items.

  There was a bookcase in the end room that propped up a guitar and housed a library of reasonable-looking holiday reading – some Stephen Kings, Ian Rankins and some bloke-type books. It also held a collection of rocks, shells and tat. There was a tell-tale shiny line in the coating of dust on its surface.

  ‘Smithy,’ I called.

  He wandered in to join me and I pointed to the bookcase.

  ‘Something’s been taken from here, check out the line in the dust. I’d guess a small picture of some kind.’

  ‘Framed photo maybe – that would hold a five-by-seven, or slightly larger?’

  ‘Who’d break into a house to nick a photo?’

  ‘Could have been incriminating or could have been valuable, who knows? Gives us an idea of the sort of things to look out for now.’

  I paid closer attention to the room, but there were no other signs in the dust. There was a double wardrobe on the other side of the bed. The Fords were lucky because most cribs I’d ever stayed in had zero storage. I took a look inside. There was an assortment of elderly coat hangers, only a few being used – by a towelling dressing gown, an above-the-knee wetsuit and a scraggy-looking coat. The shelf above the rail housed the entertainment – Monopoly, Scrabble, Battleships, Pictionary. It was the floor of the wardrobe that proved the most interesting, however. Cartons, larger cartons and spaces that a carton or two probably once occupied.

  ‘Check this out,’ I said. Smithy ambled over. ‘There’s a gap in the stacking there, and room for more in there. I wonder if they were filled yesterday? Do you think the burglar could have taken any?’