Containment

by Vanda Symon

  The sound of someone running down the hall broke me out of my navel-gazing. That was weird; people generally didn’t run around here. A body in blue flew past in the direction of the boss’s office. It was Nate, one of my minders from that morning, and the glimpse of his face told me something serious was up. I got out of my chair and raced after him.

  ‘Where is he?’ he said, panting, when he came out of the DI’s office.

  ‘No idea. What’s up?’

  ‘The shit has hit the fan in a big way. Castle Street flat, shots fired.’

  I felt the impact of his words hit me square in the chest. ‘Smithy and Reihana are there. What happened?’

  He shook his head. ‘111 call from neighbours. Don’t know details. Can’t get hold of the boys.’

  ‘Jesus. Are you going down there?’

  In answer he broke into a run.

  I turned and ran after him.

  73

  You’d have thought the circus had come to town. Our squad car had been let through the roadblock on the corner of Castle Street and Dundas Street, but we’d had to manoeuvre through a sea of gawping students to do so. Some even had cans of beer in their hands. What did they think this was – a bloody sideshow? As we crawled up to the cordon of police cars and ambulances, we passed more students being evacuated out of the area, their faces harried and anxious, their fear emphasised by the flashes of blue and red from the emergency vehicles. They didn’t share the almost jovial air of the idiots by the roadblock. It was all a bit different when you’d been plucked from your flat by the police and told to hoof it because of mad men with guns; not so funny then.

  ‘Isn’t the Armed Offenders Squad here yet?’

  ‘Doesn’t look like it, but they can’t be far away.’

  That was the only downside to having a specific squad. It took time to call in the various members, get them kitted up and armed and to the scene in a co-ordinated fashion. It wasn’t an immediate response. Sometimes I thought it would be easier if the regular force were armed, like they were overseas, but then again, there was something to be said for the police being viewed as part of the community, rather than something dangerous and to be feared.

  I’d spent the time during the car race down here trying to get Smithy and Reihana on their cellphones. No luck. Nothing. My belly felt full of lead.

  We got out of the car and moved up to the safe forward point where officers were gathered. The ambulance staff were there too. Everyone was standing around waiting, while our colleagues – while Smithy and Reihana – could be in there, lying injured or dying. Why wasn’t anyone doing anything?

  The flat was halfway along the block, about a hundred metres from where we were standing, sheltered behind vehicles. From here I could just make out the front porch, but the angle prevented a better view. I looked further up the road and saw there was a similar cordon where Castle Street bisected Howe Street.

  ‘Isn’t anyone going in?’ I asked a familiar figure.

  We now knew where DI Johns was. He must have been one of the first to arrive.

  ‘No,’ he said. He didn’t even bother to look at me.

  No? He was just going to leave it at no?

  ‘Why not?’ I asked.

  The usual tetchiness crept into his voice. ‘We’ve secured the perimeter, but we don’t know what’s going on in the house. It’s too risky. We have to wait for AOS, their ETA is ten minutes.’

  That was ten minutes too long as far as I was concerned. And that was ten minutes until they got here. It didn’t take into account the time needed to assess the situation and act, so who knew how long before it was declared safe? Meanwhile, they could be dying in there.

  I pressed on. ‘They could be hurt though.’

  ‘I know that.’ He began to sound seriously irritated. ‘But we can’t put others in danger until we know it is safe.’

  ‘But it’s Smithy and Reihana.’ My voice must have carried my desperation, because he turned and looked at me then, breaking his concentration away from the house.

  ‘I know, Shephard. Believe me, I know. But I can’t risk anyone else.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘That’s enough.’ Clearly the end of the conversation, as far as he was concerned.

  But how the hell could they know it wasn’t safe to go in if nobody checked it out? For all they knew, the offenders could have taken off and been miles away. Sure, they couldn’t get anyone on their cells, or the flat’s phone, but there hadn’t been any more shots fired since the first report. So what was the fucking problem? Jase. I needed to try and get hold of Jase.

  I pulled my phone out, scrolled down my messages till I reached the right one, and then hit call back. I moved back several metres away from my colleagues, so I would be away from prying ears and so I could hear clearly.

  ‘Spaz,’ I said, sharp. ‘I need Jase’s cellphone number and I need it right now.’

  Spaz fired a string of numbers back at me real fast and without question. I wrote them on my hand, not trusting my memory when my brain was saturated with adrenaline, then hung up on him.

  The phone took an agonising eight rings before it was answered.

  ‘Jase? Jase, is that you?’ I pressed my hand over my other ear and leaned forwards, straining to hear.

  There was no response, but I could make out breathing – shuddery laboured breathing – on the other end. A wave of goosebumps circumnavigated my body.

  ‘Jase, it’s Detective Shephard. Do you remember me?’

  Just breathing.

  ‘Now you listen to me. I know you’re hurt – I can hear you’re hurt – but if I’m going to be able to help you, I need to know if the people who did this have gone. Have they left the flat?’

  All I could hear was breathing. I was just about to repeat myself when I heard a tight little ‘yes’.

  Thank God, but I had to confirm it. This wasn’t the time for a misunderstanding. I started walking back towards DI Johns.

  ‘So you’re telling me they are no longer in the house and have gone.’

  I could almost feel the effort it was taking him. He had to be in a bad way. ‘Yes.’

  The next question was the one I couldn’t bear to ask. By this stage I was back next to the DI and I pulled at his sleeve to get his attention. He was about to swat me away when he heard my question.

  ‘And are the two detectives who came to see you, are they hurt?’

  There was another big pause, before a sob and a ‘yes’.

  ‘He said yes.’ I relayed the information to DI Johns. ‘This is Jason, he’s in the house there with them, they are all badly’ – my voice cracked as I said the word – ‘hurt, but he says the offenders have left the house. We have to go in. Now!’

  The DI looked at me, the tussle between concern and wariness apparent on his face, and I knew in an instant he wasn’t going to give the order. He was hamstrung by protocol.

  By this point I was beyond being patient, reasonable or respectful. I grabbed him by the top of his vest and started shaking it. ‘For God’s sake, it’s our guys in there. They could be dying for all we know. If we wait, they could be fucking dead.’

  Everyone turned to look, and a pocket of silence hung there, repelling even the background sound of police sirens.

  ‘We can’t,’ he said, the spell broken. ‘We have to wait.’

  ‘Well, fuck you,’ I yelled. It was too much to bear. How could we just sit back and wait while our colleagues, our friends, bled to death? Before I was even aware of having consciously made a decision, my feet had taken off, sprinting in the direction of the flat. I felt a hand grasp out, trying to stop me, but I was too quick.

  ‘Stop her!’ came the cry, but it was too late. I was out of there.

  ‘Jason, I’m coming,’ I yelled into my phone, before pushing it into my pocket as I ran.

  It felt like mere seconds before I was at the front door of the house. Caution be damned. Jason surely wouldn’t lie when his life depended on it. I pul
led at the door, but it was locked. It was one of those old wooden ones set into a doorframe with rectangles of coloured glass down each side. I backed up to the glass nearest the handle, pulled my right arm forwards, and gave the glass a good fast whack with the back of my elbow. It shattered and I felt a sting as a broken shard caught my flesh. The junk mail had made a reappearance on the porch, so I grabbed a few pieces, wrapped them around my hand, then punched out the remaining glass so I could reach through and turn the door handle.

  The hallway was deserted, but I could see blood on the walls and floor, and my worst fears were realised.

  ‘Smithy?’ I yelled out as I raced down towards the kitchen and living area. I could see legs lying across the doorway.

  ‘Jase? Jason?’

  His face contorted into relief and tears as I bent down to check on him. He was bleeding from the abdomen and the shoulder. He was still clutching his cellphone. He must have dragged himself across to where it was charging to get to it. My eyes followed the trail of blood to where he’d been.

  ‘Oh, Jesus.’

  I crawled over on all fours to where Smithy lay on the floor, still, in a pool of blood. The path of his fall was signposted by the red, sticky smear down the wall.

  ‘No, no, no, no,’ I kept uttering to myself as my hands pulled at his collar and tie. They groped for his throat, and I prayed for a pulse. I felt a fluttering beneath my fingers. ‘Oh, thank God,’ I uttered. It was faint, but it was there.

  But there was still someone missing. My eyes hunted around before they finally found the prone, familiar black-clothed form hidden behind the chair legs on the other side of the table. Reihana. Even from here I could see his hair was matted with blood, and with something else I didn’t want to think about. I crawled around towards him, and the closer I got the more apparent was the devastation, until I reached the point where it was clear there was nothing that could be done. The fears I’d been suppressing rose up with the bile, and the tears that I’d been holding back burst free and scalded their way down my face.

  Epilogue

  ‘Here’s trouble,’ I said as Smithy limped into the squad room.

  The limp was going to be a permanent fixture seeing as the bastards with the guns had decided to try and remove one of his kneecaps. Shooting him through the shoulder and in the chest hadn’t been enough, apparently.

  ‘Missed you all so much, I begged them to let me back,’ he said, a half-smile rearranging the crags on his face.

  I watched as his eyes moved to Reihana’s empty desk, and the smile slumped. Although a month had passed, we all still pitched in to keep a vase of something on his desk. This time it was gerberas.

  ‘He’d have hated the poncy flowers. You know that, don’t you?’

  Despite the passage of time, I felt the familiar welling of tears, and my voice was a bit choked when I gave the reply, ‘That’s why we’re doing it, to piss him off.’

  Smithy snorted a laugh, headed towards his desk, then lowered himself into the chair. He’d had a lot to contend with recently between the long road to recovery and a difficult decision made on the family front, so it was great to see him here. I couldn’t help but wonder what the atmosphere was going to be like next week when Reihana’s desk and position was filled. Some people didn’t take well to change, and this one was going to be difficult for the both of us. I don’t think Paul could have foreseen that he would have ended up working in the same squad room as me, let alone the next desk, but due to this unforeseen vacancy, he’d been shuffled from a starting rotation in narcotics to homicide. And considering Smithy seemed to hate his guts, it remained to be seen how successful that arrangement was going to be. Not to mention our relationship situation. Paul and I were still yet to figure out exactly what ‘us’ was going to entail. For the moment, thank God, it involved being under different roofs.

  Smithy started tapping his fingers on the table surface, then turned to me and in a moment of déja vu said: ‘So, what’s happening, what do you know?’

  I leaned back in my chair, fingers interlaced behind my head. ‘Nothing exciting. Just working on the prosecution of some low-life scum-buckets who decided to shoot up some of my mates. Don’t think the boss will let you help out on that one.’ I decided not to mention the new team member.

  It was amazing how the publicity around an officer killed in the line of duty, especially a family man, could cough up the right bits of information to lead to the culprits. Not even the hardest of businesspeople wanted to be suspected as cop killers – it tended to make their lives very difficult – so naturally the information had come from the killers’ competitors. All the groups under suspicion had been falling over themselves to dob each other in, so we had been inundated with information and misinformation. As a result there had been a lot of raids on properties, a lot of individuals dragged in for questioning and a lot of manpower invested into the hunt. For once the civil libertarians had kept quiet about the scattergun approach to finding the culprits. But so far it had been a frustrating exercise. These organisations protected their hierarchy well, so consequently we had the small fry at the low end of the food chain, the kind of low-level intelligence, low-skilled, low-life individuals who would take a cop’s kneecap out for sport. The type who were dumb enough to leave their fingerprints and DNA all over the crime scene. Their superiors were far cleverer than that. The way they were organised was reminiscent of closed terrorist cells, so the underlings, or contractors, worked without knowledge of who was calling the shots. But we all knew who the king-pin arsehole was that ordered this, and we were all bloody determined to make him pay for squandering Reihana’s life, and maiming Smithy’s. His time would come, he could count on that, because I wasn’t the only one around here who was making this personal. He may have thought he was Teflon Man, but by God we were going to make sure he paid the price. We would get our evidence and when we did, no amount of being lawyered-up would help him.

  The dispensable bastards who turned up early to their Free-Market pick-up appointment at Jase’s were enjoying remand time under the government’s hospitality. Another one enjoying – or enduring, as was more likely the case – some prison time was Felix Ford, who had finally realised it was time to hand himself in. His parents brought him in to the station the week after the shootings, keeping their word they would hand over their son. So far he was keeping his word that he wouldn’t mention my involvement in his break for emancipation. Spaz, Felix and I came to an agreement that it wasn’t in any of our best interests to share that information. Now I had to hope they both continued to see it that way. I knew you reaped what you sowed – Dad had always drummed that into me, and I’d colluded with these two with the best of intentions – but still, it wasn’t a comfortable sensation having that hanging over my head like some unexploded bomb.

  One consolation to all this was Jase lived to see another day. I highly doubted he’d have an epiphany and see this experience as a second chance at life and an opportunity to straighten himself out. Somehow my mental image of him was always going to be accompanied with a joint or a bong, and with a severely drooping eyelid.

  The other person warming a cell was Iain Gibbs. Good bloody job, too. I could not for the life of me understand how he would kill someone for ugly ornaments like those horses. Surely greed only went so far. It also made me question the motivation behind his intervention on my behalf out at Aramoana that fateful day. Somehow I didn’t think it was just to help the damsel in distress. As it turned out, he’d been ripping off his friend Peter Trubridge too. It would appear it wasn’t some opportunistic insurance-fraud scheme. Peter had been horrified to find out what his so-called friend had been up to. Yes, he’d forwarded copies of his manifest to Iain for safekeeping, so Iain Gibbs knew exactly what was on that ship, and that the pair of bronze horses was worth more than his entire superannuation savings. And that was the thing: sure there was a lucrative market in stolen art, but New Zealand was a small place, so offloading it here would be near i
mpossible. It would seem Iain Gibbs needed to possess things, to have them, hold them, admire them, own them. So much so he killed for them, and with his own bare hands. He killed Clifford Stewart. He almost killed Felix Ford. He tried to kill me. It made me wonder who else had suffered his attentions? I knew of at least one. I had bumped into Marie Gibbs a few days after he was jailed. It was the most relaxed I’d ever seen her.

  ‘Shep.’ I was pulled back to reality.

  ‘Yes, Smithy.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  I looked up at him, saw the tight, earnest expression on his face and his glistening eyes. ‘You’re welcome,’ I said quietly.

  ‘I got you a little present.’ He reached into his coat pocket and handed me a tennis-ball-sized parcel wrapped in purple tissue paper. It was quite weighty for its size.

  ‘You shouldn’t have,’ I said, feeling really quite pleased that he had.

  ‘You deserve it,’ he said and gave me a wink.

  I peeled back the layers of purple until there, resting in my hand, was a miniature black, and extremely ugly, metal horse. I cracked up laughing, made a pretend swing at his head with it, which he duly ducked, and then plonked it down with a clunk on the wooden desk.

  The cheeky bugger.

  ‘You most definitely shouldn’t have.’

  Acknowlegements

  You can have a lot of fun with science, and I was fortunate to do postgraduate study at the Sir John Walsh Research Institute – a hotbed of novel and sometimes gruesome research, including into marine decomposition, using pigs heads! A huge thank-you to Dr Gemma Dickson for letting me make use of her research, and to the late Professor Jules Kieser – we had some pretty wild discussions!

  Another fun part of this novel was delving into maritime history and all things shipping. I am immensely appreciative of the time I spent with Dunedin historian, the late Ian Church. He was very generous with his time and knowledge, and he told a ripping yarn.