Containment

by Vanda Symon

  ‘So what were you saying about this idiot recognising someone?’ It was a nice change of subject. I took it.

  ‘Frog told me a chap had been in three or four days ago and purchased several items from my portfolio – several very expensive items – and he paid the grand sum of a hundred bucks cash.’

  ‘Wish I could get that lucky.’

  ‘Luck has nothing to do with it. The man just happens to be in the antiques business, and just happens to be my Mr Iain Gibbs.’

  That prompted raised eyebrows. ‘He’s a greedy bastard then.’

  ‘Yeah, and he’s a lying greedy bastard, because I was in his shop earlier in the day and showed him the portfolio, including the items he purchased from here for a pittance. He looked me straight in the eye and told me he hadn’t seen any of them.’

  ‘Do you get the feeling he’s milking the situation for all it’s worth?’

  ‘I sure as hell do. And what makes it worse is that I saw him greet Peter Trubridge like they were long-lost friends. My suspicious little mind is thinking, “Hello, what’s going on here then. Are the two of them having a quiet little scam against the insurance company on the side?”. You know, buying back what they can for next-to-nothing and claiming the full value of the loss from the company?’

  ‘Funny that your mind works exactly like mine.’

  ‘I’ll take that as a compliment. Face it, we’re sick and twisted. It’s an occupational hazard,’ I said.

  ‘So what are you going to do about it?’ he asked.

  I took this as a sign I had carte blanche to act as I saw fit on this one. ‘I’m thinking that between Frog’s testimony and mine, I have good cause to get a warrant to search Gibbs’s business and houses for receiving stolen goods. Do you want to come along for the ride?’

  ‘Nah, thanks all the same; I think we’ll have our hands full chasing up this lead to the bastard who knocked off Clifford Stewart. It looks like Billy’s put the wind up this guy enough and is ready to take him down to the station.’

  Even from this distance it was clear Frog’s eyes were bloodshot and his nose colour co-ordinated. Poor kid.

  ‘Great work, Sam, spotting that paint.’

  ‘I take it that despite being the one who did the spotting, I have to leave the party now?’

  ‘Sorry, you know the stakes and the rules. But you’ve handed us the break we needed. Even Dickhead Johns will have to admit that.’

  68

  Iain Gibbs’ Saint Clair home looked the perfect venue to showcase a collection of antiques. It was what real-estate agents politely described as a ‘gentleman’s residence’, which was jargon for a big old house that needed a ton of work done and a pile of money thrown at it, which leaked like a sieve and in which you froze your arse off in winter. This beauty was double-storied red brick, slate-tile roof, with leadlight windows and a stunning conservatory that just begged for afternoon gin and tonics while you looked out at the stunning view down the length of St Clair beach to St Kilda. The waves were rolling in spectacularly today, sending flumes of spray into the air, courtesy of a high tide, large swell and some serious wind. The home was set in grounds with mature, if slightly overgrown, trees, including my favourite, kowhai, and the ubiquitous cabbage tree – those hardy buggers would certainly handle the salt-spray environment here. The long, curved driveway meandered up from the street to an expansive levelled lawn; the overall effect was stately and grand.

  The main house seemed the logical place to serve the warrant, as the antique shop would be closed today. The majority of shops in Port Chalmers didn’t open on a Monday or Tuesday, and some even gave Wednesday a miss too, much to the consternation of visitors and locals alike. For some strange reason they thought the normal rules of commerce didn’t apply and their customers would admire them for their ladylike and gentlemanly hours. In reality, it just pissed everyone off. They didn’t even bother to open up for the many cruise ships that berthed at the port, including foreign customers with bulging wallets. God only knew how they made a living. But hey, perhaps seeing as so many of them had galleries and were so used to being starving artists, it didn’t occur to them they could trade like normal people, and get to make and eat a crust.

  Just to make sure, earlier I’d phoned John Farquhar, the Port Chalmers cop, and he’d gone out for a little recce to confirm the Gibbses weren’t at the Aramoana crib or in the antiques shop. So my first place to sting Iain Gibbs for being a greedy, lying bastard and possessor of stolen goods would be in the sanctity of his home. I liked that thought. I was also looking forward to interviewing him about the involvement of Peter Trubridge in all this. Were the two of them in cahoots? Part of me hoped not; I was enjoying my little fantasies about Trubridge. I didn’t want them tainted with the stink of petty crime.

  It was pretty obvious there were people home at ‘Frantok’, as the polished brass plate proclaimed the house was named. I always thought it odd that people would name their home like it was a family pet. It was a gloomy kind of a day, so there were lights on in the downstairs rooms, and a curl of smoke emanated from one of the four impressive brick chimneys.

  To be honest I was disappointed Smithy hadn’t wanted to come out and join me in the fun, but I supposed they had bigger fish to fry. They were chasing up the big murder/internationally connected drug bust of the year, while I was chasing the latest in what felt like a continuous stream of greedy old codgers. Whether it was ripping off hospitals for millions, or the bloke down the road for a couple of bucks, people’s greed and lack of common decency continued to amaze me. Didn’t their parents teach them the difference between right and wrong? Mine sure as hell did. My mother still took great pains to correct me on any minor deviations I might take from the straight and narrow, or her view of it. Just as well she had no idea of some of the things I’d been up to lately. Although I think Dad would have secretly approved. The little knife twisted in my gut at the thought of him.

  ‘We’d better get on with it, then.’

  I had company for this task in the form of a couple of constables. They were male and a foot taller than me, which suited me fine. I wasn’t intimidated by Iain Gibbs, but after the unexpected thumping I got from Felix Ford, I wasn’t about to take any chances and was pleased to have a little brawn at my side.

  Marie Gibbs opened the door, and, at the sight of me and my side dishes, her eyes widened. A waft of eau de chocolate cake greeted us again. It made me wonder if they had the scent canned like air freshener, or if they were just serious cake-eaters.

  ‘Hello, Mrs Gibbs. I was wanting a word with Iain please, if I may?’

  ‘Oh, yes, of course.’ She scuttled off to find him.

  ‘There isn’t a back entrance to this property, so we shouldn’t have to worry about him doing a runner. If he does, it’s your job to play catch,’ I said to the boys. We’d done our research; Google Earth could be very handy.

  But I needn’t have worried as Iain Gibbs soon came to the door tailed by his wife, but he appeared rather wary.

  ‘Is there something I can help you with?’ he asked.

  There certainly was. ‘Iain Gibbs,’ I said, ‘I have a warrant to search your house for stolen goods from the grounding of the Lauretia Express. I also have a separate warrant to search both your business premises and your Aramoana residence.’

  His tone changed from polite enquiry to pissed-off defensive in an instant. ‘On what grounds? What kind of crap is this?’ He took on the look of a wrongly accused schoolboy, but I wasn’t fooled for an instant. ‘You aren’t coming anywhere near my place. You wait till I speak to my lawyer. What kind of gratitude is this?’ He now changed it to wounded hero. ‘After everything I did to help you, and all the crap I’ve had to go through because of it, you’ve got the cheek to stand there and accuse me of stealing? I don’t believe this.’

  My peripheral vision caught the movement of the officers flanking me as they edged forwards. I didn’t think there was any menace in his voice, more indignatio
n.

  ‘You are most welcome to call your lawyer, but the terms of our warrant means we can enter now. If you prevent us from doing so, you can be arrested for obstruction.’

  He stood there like a huffing train building up steam, with Mrs Gibbs behind him, gawping like a goldfish. Her gawping made a perfect counterpoint to his huffing.

  I dropped the formal speak for a moment. ‘Look, Mr Gibbs, when I came to your shop and showed you the portfolio the other day, you lied to me. You claimed you hadn’t seen any of the items in it, yet I have a witness who says you purchased several of those very same items from him several days prior. And if it had been by chance that you wandered into the shop and just happened to only pick out items from the looted container, then you had the opportunity to tell me about them when I asked. But no, you looked me dead in the eye and told me you had not seen any of them. Let’s be straight about this. You lied.’ The last two words were emphatic. The realisation he’d been sprung brought the huffing and puffing to an abrupt halt.

  His sudden change in demeanour didn’t go unnoticed by his wife, who was now looking at him, puzzled. ‘What is she saying, Iain?’ She came up alongside him and pulled at his sleeve, trying to catch his attention. ‘Is that true?’

  ‘Quiet, Marie,’ he said, swatting away her hand while looking straight at me. ‘It’s got nothing to do with you.’ She looked crestfallen, but remained by his side.

  ‘So may we come in?’ I asked. ‘Or are you going to make this difficult?’

  69

  The lounge had a very cheerful glow, from a vintage candelabra that dropped gracefully from an ornate plaster ceiling rose and the golden flickers of light dancing in the fireplace. The room exuded warmth and charm. Its owner did not. Especially after I pointed out a small carved Chinese lacquerware bowl and lid, displayed on a sideboard with other oriental objects, which, if my memory served me right, was valued at around twenty thousand dollars. It was one of the things he picked up for twenty bucks at Cash for Crap. When I drew his attention to it, he suggested to his wife she might like to go and ring the lawyer after all. It was probably a good idea.

  We moved around the ground floor, comparing items we were uncertain of with pictures in the portfolio, photographing anything that provided Bingo! moments. There had been eleven of those so far. Iain Gibbs had been a busy boy. He must have been doing the rounds of the second-hand stores, hoping bargains would pop up. It made me wonder why Marie Gibbs didn’t question where these things came from. Did she choose to ignore them? Or, more likely, having been in the business for such a long time, the objets d’art in the house rotated with those in the shop on a regular basis, so no questions were asked. That was, of course, assuming she hadn’t been trotting around the used-goods marts picking up the steals too.

  It also made me wonder, seeing as Iain Gibbs knew exactly what to buy, if he’d already seen the customs manifest and knew what was in it. Was he such good friends with Peter Trubridge that he had been provided with a copy in advance, like a kind of insurance policy? An off-site backup. Those would be questions for later.

  I wandered up the stairs, my hand running up the smooth wooden balustrade, admiring the gilt-framed paintings and maritime etchings that lined the sides. Port Chalmers seemed to inspire the need in people associated with the place to carry reminders of the sea on their walls. The landing had a display cabinet that was a work of art in its own right. It reminded me of the original Otago Museum ones – up in the animal attic; one of my favourite haunts. The resemblance wasn’t just in the cabinetry; it was the contents too: it was filled with taxidermist’s art. Iain Gibbs, it seemed, also had a thing for birds.

  It was his office I was hunting out. A businessman like him would no doubt have a suitable office space, and I suspected a few of the articles I was looking for would still be in there awaiting classification, or designation, or simply to avoid prying eyes. The first room on the right hit pay dirt. It was exactly what I imagined the office of an antiques collector and peddler would be. A leather armchair dimpled with buttons; a large wooden, leather-topped desk with one of those green glass oblong-shaped desk lamps. The built-in shelves were packed with old books, collectables and ornaments as well as more modern-day accompaniments: cardboard document boxes, lever arch files, cellphone chargers. There were two computers, one set up on a separate desk across the end of the elegant one to form an L-shaped work station, and another on the floor waiting for a new home, perhaps after an upgrade. The whole thing reminded me of another office from another time, full of creepy old things, and I shuddered.

  I had hoped there would be more items from the Trubridge collection up here, but my first look didn’t set off any alarm bells. That was disappointing, but there were still numerous cupboards and drawers that could hide away his contraband. I decided to start with the large, red Chinese-style cupboard – a wedding cabinet I think it was called – down the end of the room. I pulled the doors open and Bingo! The items we’d discovered downstairs were displayed in plain sight, so he must have felt happy enough to explain those acquisitions to any curious parties. Picked them up at the junk shop, stellar find, lucky me, huh? Stolen? Really? I never knew? I was sure he’d be convincing. The ones in this cupboard, though, must have been the ones he couldn’t explain away quite so easily.

  ‘Oh, Iain, you’ve been a busy boy,’ I said out loud.

  ‘Found what you were looking for then?’ His voice came from behind me.

  I was glad my pelvic floor muscles were strong.

  I spun around. ‘Jesus Christ, you shouldn’t sneak up on a girl like that.’

  He was about level with the desk lamp and, judging by his mid-step poise, must have just entered the room. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to give you a fright,’ he said and stopped where he was.

  ‘Yeah, well, I wish you’d announced yourself. Anyway, didn’t I tell you to stay downstairs?’

  He didn’t reply.

  ‘I see you did a spot of online shopping as well as canvassing the second-hand shops.’

  Hidden safely in the cupboard, among some other things I recognised, was an ugly bronze horse ornament. The same horse ornament that had been listed by Clifford Stewart on Free-Market and purchased as a ‘buy now’ by John03. I now knew who John was, and realised he may have been one of the last people to see Clifford alive before his little visit from the drug lords. If that was the case, he may well have valuable information for the case.

  ‘Look, Iain. The fact you even have these things in your possession means you must have purchased them off Free-Market from Clifford Stewart, the young man who was murdered a few weeks ago.’

  I pointed out the bronze horse. A wary expression crossed his face.

  ‘You may be able to help us in our murder investigation. What time exactly on the Monday morning – Monday the thirty-first of August – did you arrange the pick-up?’

  Again, he said nothing.

  ‘Look, I know you must be the online trader, John03, on Free-Market, and all it would take would be one look at your computer over there to confirm it for me. It means you arranged the pick-up for the Monday morning, which means other than the killer or killers, you may have been the last person to see Clifford Stewart alive. So if I were you, considering you’re already looking at prosecution for possession of stolen goods, I would start getting very co-operative right about now.’

  He hesitated a moment before answering. ‘Well, I couldn’t say exactly, it was a few weeks ago.’ At least he had the sense to admit it. ‘I think it was early-ish, around eight-thirty.’ Which confirmed the time arranged in the post-sale email correspondence I’d seen and meant he was there an hour before the paint purchasers were due.

  ‘Did he happen to mention any of the other things he had for sale on Free-Market and if he was expecting other buyers?’

  ‘Well, no. I didn’t stay long or talk, just picked up the horses and left.’

  Something twinged in my mind. Horses? Plural? There had only been on
e bronze horse for sale on the listing. The other horse from that pair had been stolen from Felix Ford’s Aramoana Crib.

  It was another lie.

  A little chill started working its way down my spine. My eyes flicked over to where the end of an ugly floral painting stuck out from behind another framed piece of art. His eyes followed my eyes and an infusion of red rushed into his cheeks. My eyes then flicked to the computer on the floor. One of those had been stolen recently: Felix Ford’s. Did we have this all wrong? Did Clifford Stewart’s problems start with a visit from the antiques man rather than the drug dealers? Surely not? Not over an ugly bronze horse.

  When my eyes flicked back to his, the look on Iain Gibbs’s face caused my chill to plummet into a full-on freeze.

  I knew.

  He knew I knew.

  My eyes darted now to the door, the only exit to this room, on the far side of a large and now desperate-looking man, a desperate man who began to take steps towards me, his hands spread in supplication, entreating.

  ‘I can explain,’ he said. ‘Just let me explain.’

  He could do all the explaining he wanted to later, down at the station. For now he needed to stand back.

  ‘You stop right there,’ I said. ‘Don’t you take one more step,’ I said, my voice raised, but still he moved forwards.

  ‘Don’t you bloody well dare.’

  The image of the mess this man had made of Clifford Stewart and Felix Ford leapt into my mind, and I knew I had to get attention and fast. I opened my mouth to let out a scream for help, when Iain Gibbs threw himself across the gap between us, faster than I would have ever imagined possible, and fastened his hands firmly around my throat, the force of it throwing us both back into the Chinese cabinet, the bang reverberating through my back.

  Please let them have heard that downstairs. My hands instinctively raised to my throat, tearing at his fingers, but his grip held firm, and I felt the heat of his breath on my skin, his face right up against mine, so close his eyes had merged into one cycloptic giant. He had lifted me right off my feet, and I tried to bring my knee up to get him in the groin, but he was too close. When he realised what I was trying to do, his grip tightened all the more.