Containment

by Vanda Symon

  Pepper spray, I had to get to my pepper spray. It was in my pocket, but when my hand groped for it I realised it was so wedged between me and the cabinet, there was no way I could pull it loose. Tinges of red edged into my vision. I could hear the roar of blood in my ears, feel the ache as my chest strained for breath. Think, Sam, think. But it was hard to concentrate with the pain of his fingers clawing into my throat, my own body weight adding to their strangulation. My right hand groped behind me, hit the cabinet, hit the cabinet shelf, felt along, grasping for something, anything, to use. It closed around the cold solidity of metal legs, equine legs, and in one immense and desperate movement I swung my arm up and around, and struck as hard as I could at the back of my attacker’s head. The force hit his head into mine and he jerked back in surprise, his hands releasing their grip momentarily, enough for me to suck in a breath before they tightened again.

  ‘You fucking little bitch,’ he said through gritted teeth, and he shoved me back hard against the cupboard and redoubled his efforts.

  But I still had the horse in my hand and this time I aimed for the side of his head, for something more vulnerable, and again swung the horse in a great sideways arc that connected directly with his ear. This time he screamed in pain and let go of me, pulling back, shock consuming his face, his hand flying up to his ear, blood squirting out between his fingers.

  My feet hit the ground and I immediately struck out again, this time at his exposed face, I wasn’t about to give him a chance to regroup. The horse’s rump connected with his nose with a satisfying crunch before his other hand could come up to protect it. With both of his hands now covering his face he left himself exposed, so I drove my knee hard up into his balls, felt their softness mash against his pelvic bone, then took a second shot at them with my foot as he fell backwards towards the ground.

  ‘Sam?’ I heard urgent voices calling and footsteps pounding up the stairs.

  The cavalry was coming but I wasn’t finished with this bastard yet. I whipped the pepper spray out of my pocket and gave him a blast full in the face as he lay there groaning on the floor. He screamed.

  The boys burst through the door to find Iain Gibbs curled in foetal position on the floor, and me standing there, horse in one hand, pepper spray in the other. I stepped over him and walked towards my men, my own eyes streaming from the effects of the spray.

  I stopped, turned back and took one more parting shot: ‘You messed with the wrong girl, you fucking piece of shit.’

  70

  Iain Gibbs was looking very much the worse for wear. He had been tended to by the on-call doctor and had a row of stitches across the bridge of his nose and another set holding his earlobe together. Bruising accompanied the handiwork. It was quite gratifying what damage an ugly metal horse could do.

  ‘That officer, she pepper-sprayed me when I was down and incapacitated. I mean, look at me,’ he said, pointing to his face. ‘It was unnecessary use of force. That’s police brutality.’ He was whinging like a four-year-old.

  I rubbed gently at the livid bruises on my throat, and swallowed. It hurt. In fact, my neck and head felt like someone had forcibly tried to separate them using one of those medieval torture devices. There would be a few physio visits in order, that was for sure. DI Johns noticed the gesture. We were watching Iain Gibbs being interviewed by Smithy and Reihana, from the cheap seats in the next room.

  ‘Did you really pepper-spray him while he was down?’ he asked, looking straight ahead through the one-way mirror.

  I felt my alarm-monitoring system go on full alert. The last thing I felt like right now was a lecture from him. But I also realised the foundations were being laid for the inevitable internal enquiry should Iain Gibbs decide to make a formal complaint. The honest truth of the matter was that I shouldn’t have sprayed him. And any lie would come back to bite me. It was ammunition served on a plate for the DI’s anti-Sam campaign, which seemed to be in full swing at the moment.

  ‘Yes—’ I said.

  But before I could justify my actions any further the DI interrupted me. ‘Then you must have felt you were still under great personal danger,’ he said. His eyes remained fixed on the man in the next room.

  ‘Yes, sir.’ I felt my eyes mist up and I had to look away. It was quite possibly the kindest thing he had ever said to me.

  Now the game was up and Iain Gibbs had clearly demonstrated for the third time his propensity towards violence, he didn’t pretend innocence, but he did play the ‘I didn’t mean to kill him’ card.

  ‘He wouldn’t tell me where the other horse was, or even if he’d seen it, and when I kept pressing him about it, he got all mouthy and told me to piss off, and he was about to shut the door on me, so I just shoved my foot in the way and pushed the door back. But it hit him square in the face and he fell backwards, and he must have fallen heavily because I heard his head hit the floor really hard.’

  ‘So, what did you do then?’ Smithy asked. It seemed such a benign question.

  ‘Well, I went into the house to make sure he was all right, but he was lying there on the floor, and he was twitching and frothing at the mouth like he was having some kind of a fit, then he just stopped breathing.’

  ‘And it didn’t occur to you to call an ambulance?’

  ‘I was in such a panic, I couldn’t think what to do.’

  ‘You could have done CPR.’

  ‘I know. I know that looking back, but I just panicked.’ He looked distraught, and if you didn’t know better, you could almost buy into it.

  ‘And that panic involved cleaning up the evidence, stealing the goods and his computer, then stuffing your victim in a wetsuit and dumping his body at sea?’

  As it turned out, Iain Gibbs happened to own a boat, although he didn’t keep it at Aramoana. Instead he had an old boatshed at Hooper’s Inlet, on the other side of the peninsula – somewhere nice and remote where his activities would have gone unnoticed. ESR forensic scientists would be out there going over the boat and shed as soon as they arrived from Christchurch. We were all pretty certain what they’d find. He used to dive a bit too, according to his now shell-shocked wife, and kept his gear out in the boatshed now he wasn’t using it. I did wonder about her. I wondered if a little more probing and gentle questioning would reveal the true source of Marie Gibbs’s timidity. I could guess what or who it was.

  ‘You see, Iain, we have a few problems with your little story, and the largest one is this: have you heard of blood-spatter analysis?’

  He shook his head. Another lie, I was sure. Everyone who had ever seen a CSI programme or watched crime on UKTV would know what blood-spatter analysis was. Smithy maintained a level, even reasonable, tone of voice that seemed in stark contrast with his size and battle-hardened face. The resultant juxtaposition was quite menacing.

  ‘Here’s the thing,’ he said. ‘You took the time to clean up the blood, but you can never get all of it. You’ll always miss some, and even though you can’t see it, there is always some trace left behind. And those traces told us that Clifford Stewart suffered not one, but many blows, and they even told us that two of those blows were while he was on the ground, which means they were most likely caused by your foot.’ Smithy noted the look of surprise on Iain Gibbs’ face, but maintained the same, almost light tone. ‘Yes, we can tell that, and we can tell you dragged his body for a little bit before you realised you were making a bigger mess and found something to wrap him up in. So your little story is looking a bit shaky now, isn’t it?’ He started to pour on some grit. ‘And where it all completely falls apart for you, I’m afraid, is that you said he hit his head on the door, but, and this is a big but, there was absolutely no blood or skin evidence on the edge of the door. You lied to us again, Mr Gibbs. And you know what? I don’t take too kindly to being lied to.’

  Iain Gibbs knew he had met his match, physically and strategically. His posture changed from someone on the edge of his seat, ready to plead his case, to someone who realised it was pointless
. He was being called to account, and payment was due.

  71

  The back-patting and congratulating were over. For all of us, these moments in a case were always underpinned with sadness. Sure we’d identified a killer, but it didn’t bring Clifford Stewart back. I’d kept my promise to his parents, and in particular Marlene, his mum, and found who did this to him. But the simple fact of the matter was she had lost her son, and the future they had looked forward to – for him and with him – remained stolen.

  Like any major, or even minor, case, it still had to have its day in court, so our job wasn’t over with Smithy and Reihana escorting Iain Gibbs down to the cells, chucking him in and slamming the door. There was plenty of work left to do and a mile of reports to write. Unfortunately, the criminal justice system seemed to have an insatiable appetite for paper. My report would have to be very carefully worded and now was as good a time as any to start.

  The phone rang on the desk next door and I reached over and picked it up.

  ‘Shephard,’ I said.

  ‘Can I speak to Detective Smith, please?’

  He was still busy performing his task downstairs and was no doubt taking great pleasure in it.

  ‘He’s busy at the moment. Can I take a message or get him to call you back?’ Add receptionist to my job description.

  ‘It’s Anthony Wilder here, from Free-Market. He wanted us to notify him if there was any activity on a particular account, and I was ringing to inform him of a few new listings that were loaded last night.’ There was only one account I could think of that would warrant that kind of monitoring.

  ‘Was that the cathnadam account we’ve been tracking?’

  ‘Yes, it was. The listings went up around seven-thirty p.m.’

  ‘What was listed?’

  ‘The listing – well, twelve separate listings actually – were for more of those four-litre tins of paint, as well as some old books. The paint has already sold as a buy-now purchase, sold this morning around eleven.’

  And the buyer’s name?’

  ‘Dun297.’

  Shit.

  ‘That’s the same buyer as last time.’

  I knew the drug-squad guys were inching closer to the purchasers of the paint. They had executed a number of search warrants around town, but unfortunately they hadn’t, as yet, coughed up the heroin. We needed to intercept these people, and not just because they were drug dealers, and therefore by default the lowest scum on the planet, down there below toe-jam and cockroach shit. According to the email correspondence and times arranged, these people would have come to the house after Clifford Stewart had been murdered. They may have witnessed Iain Gibbs in the act of cleaning up, or removing the body. Or, just as likely, they found no one home, so walked in and helped themselves to the paint. It would have still been there, as Iain Gibbs would have had no use for it. He was more interested in pricey but ugly horse statuettes and the like. The paint people could be witnesses to the murder or its clean-up, or at least narrow down the time of death for us, before we threw them in jail and melted down the key.

  ‘What email address was used by the seller?’ I asked.

  ‘The same as last time.’

  ‘Great, and you’re emailing all this information through to Detective Smith?’

  ‘Already done.’

  ‘Brilliant, thanks a lot.’

  Well that certainly made life interesting. We’d have to get straight on to the email provider and find out the pick-up arrangements for that paint. Who the hell was selling it at this stage in the game? Whoever it was, they had no idea who they were inviting to their house.

  Smithy would be back at any moment, and as soon as I brought him up to speed, he would be off after the scent like a shot. But before he came back I needed to make one little phone call.

  ‘Detective Shephard.’

  So he’d programmed my cellphone number into his phone; I must have rated highly in his world. I hadn’t returned the favour.

  ‘Spaz,’ I said. ‘I need to be quick, so I’ll make this really simple for you. Please tell me you and Felix weren’t stupid enough to list some paint and Aramoana stuff on Free-Market last night. You’re not that daft are you?’

  ‘No way.’

  ‘Thank God for that.’ I’d grown fond of Spaz, so felt relieved it wasn’t him. I also realised Spaz’s skills could come in handy right now. ‘Can you quickly check the cathnadam email account for me? There should be an email about a Free-Market purchase made last night from a Dun297.’

  ‘Sure, give me a minute.’

  ‘Haven’t got a minute, otherwise questions will be asked.’

  ‘Gotcha.’ I could hear movement, and also a background conversation with Felix that went along the lines of: ‘You didn’t stick anything on Free-Market?’ ‘No way, never touching it ever again.’

  Felix was still there. He must have had a lot of faith in Spaz’s anti-detection techniques, or he couldn’t find anywhere else to go. I’d tell them the good news for them, and bad news for Iain Gibbs, in person, later.

  ‘Got it. Email sent at eleven fifteen this morning. Asked for pick-up at three p.m. today.’

  I looked at my watch: it was just before two. There was time to organise a welcoming committee. I heard a sharp intake of breath.

  ‘What is it, Spaz?’

  ‘Found who your idiot is. Address for pick-up is the flat in Castle Street.’

  Bloody hell.

  ‘Jase,’ we said, in unison.

  72

  ‘Reihana, you and I will go right now and pay a little visit to Jase. We’ll brief him and remove him from the premises as quickly as possible,’ Smithy said as he pulled on his jacket. ‘The Armed Offenders Squad have been notified and are gearing up. It could take them up to half an hour to get mobilised and down there. Shit, this could be tight. We don’t have a lot of time.’

  I instinctively looked at my watch. It was 2.05 p.m. Fifty minutes until show time. They were going to set it up as a wee trap, so instead of young Jason answering the door when Dun297 knocked, they’d get the full reception committee. I just hoped the crims didn’t turn up early.

  ‘What do you want me to do?’ I asked. ‘I could bring Jase back to the station for you, then you could stay and watch the fun.’

  ‘Sorry Shep, you’re not along for this ride,’ Smithy said with a tone that didn’t invite argument. He could be bloody scary when he was in serious mode.

  Why was I never allowed along for the exciting stuff? I’d say it was because I was a woman, and small with it, and it was their misguided need to protect me. They’d say it was for my own good because some sod had tried to strangle me to death this morning. Whatever the reason, once again I’d be left holding the fort. Mind you, there could be an advantage to that. It meant I could invest a little energy in covering my butt. Time was too short to wait for the correct channels to spew out information, so I’d taken the plunge and risked it all for a perpetually stoned, stupid piece of shit with a really bad hair-do. Now I could make the correct phone call, get the info and make it all look legit, as long as no one examined the times too carefully. Actually, I could even get around that if I got the Internet provider to email the information to me, then I could forward it to Smithy’s email address and just tweak a few digits in the process. I gave myself a mental check. Jesus, when did I turn into the conniving bad girl? Tampering with the information? But no, this wasn’t bad-girl stuff; it was all for the right cause. I was using my powers for good, not evil, if you called trying to save a dumb-nut like Jase good.

  Time dragged when you weren’t having fun. 2.22 p.m. I was sure it was 2.21 when I checked five minutes ago. I’d made the right phone call, and was suitably impressed when they followed my request immediately and sent through the info. The email had been corrected and forwarded through to Smithy’s inbox, for perusal at his leisure. In the light of everything else going on, I was certain no one would check.

  I’d also been putting some thought into ho
w on earth Jase would have got his hands on the paint. He had been at the party at Aramoana, but had supposedly left in the small hours, and hadn’t spent the night. Well, that was what he said. He may have lied. I was rapidly beginning to realise people did that, and often. He could have been there in the morning, collected his own treasures, then kept them somewhere safe until the fuss had died down. No one had mentioned his being at the crib in the morning, but then Jase was like a pesky blowfly; everyone knew he was there, thought he was disgusting, and gave him a swat occasionally, but other than that, they ignored him, and he faded into the background. The only other way I could think of that would give him the opportunity to acquire goods was when Clifford and Leo came back to the flat on the Sunday morning with their loot. Jase had said they brought some cartons in, and then took them away again. But what if they didn’t take them all? What if they hid a few away? Everyone said Jase was a nosey bastard; he may have seen them stash the boxes or had discovered them afterwards. The SOCOs had been through the flat very thoroughly the day we identified Clifford Stewart, but the terms of reference were different at that stage in the investigation – we didn’t know about the extra-special qualities of certain tins of paint back then. So any paint they may have found, say in a cupboard or under the house, in the context of the general mess and squalor, may have just looked like something the landlord had dropped off to do some optimistic fixing up. Every flat I had ever lived in had a pile of paint cans lurking in some shed or cupboard, along with plastic lightshades and a few part-rolls of wallpaper. Leo Walker hadn’t mentioned leaving cartons at Castle Street in his interview, but then, the specific question had not been posed, and he was pretty upset at the time.