by Alan Carter
‘Most of them dead ends.’ She closes the call and I head out of the bakery to get the car.
‘Wait,’ says Janeen. ‘You didn’t finish your coffee.’
‘Another time.’
‘Still want that date scone you ordered?’
‘No, thanks.’
We meet up with our Tasman colleagues at the halfway point, Rai Valley – it was a one-horse town but the horse bolted years ago. It’s clear that the biker has turned off a side road somewhere between Havelock and here. I’d already done detours down the side streets and down by the marina. Nobody I spoke to had seen him.
‘So where?’ I say, uselessly.
‘New bike, he wouldn’t want to take it anywhere too rough, would he?’ says Latifa, and the Nelson boys nod knowingly. ‘So maybe we can narrow it down to the sealed roads.’
We divide them up between us and head back to our vehicles. ‘Nobody takes him alone. If you spot him, call it in and wait for back-up.’
‘Think he warrants AOS?’ says a Nelson constable, name of Blakiston.
Armed Offenders Squad? I think about it a moment. ‘He’s a scrapper for sure, but batons and tasers should be enough. Bit of pepper spray.’
Latifa looks like she relishes the prospect.
The Nelson lads will cover the area between Rai Valley and Pelorus Bridge and we take the rest between there and Havelock.
‘He could be back out and on his way east by now,’ I say glumly. ‘I’ve stuffed up. Shouldn’t have let him get the better of me in the first place.’
‘Chill, Sarge. It wasn’t your fault, you’re not as young as you used to be.’ Latifa checks an incoming message on her mobile. Her face softens, so it must be her fiancé, Daniel the Boy Racer – nice enough lad but hell on wheels. ‘We’ll get him, if not this time then the next.’
Latifa takes the ten-kilometre section between Havelock and Canvastown, me the rest. We agree to regroup halfway at the Trout Hotel. After two hours of back roads and doorknocks, it’s well past lunchtime and I’m regretting not getting that scone at the bakery. Being midweek, the Trout is predictably quiet. Come to that, it doesn’t really liven up at the weekend either.
‘Usual, Nick?’ says the proprietor like he only saw me yesterday instead of two months ago.
‘On duty. Ginger beer’d be good. Got any food?’
He thumbs at the menu board on the wall behind him. ‘But the kitchen’s closed.’
I check my watch. ‘One-thirty?’ He shrugs. ‘Packet of crisps then. Salt and vinegar.’
‘Good choice.’ He turns to my colleague. ‘Latifa?’
‘Same, thanks.’
I ask him if he’s seen an American on a big flash Harley.
‘Brandon? Yeah, he’ll be up at the Lodge. Saw him go by a few hours ago.’
‘I thought the Lodge was on the market?’
‘Not anymore.’ He taps his nose. ‘Got my finger on the pulse.’
We’re out the door. ‘Your car?’ I say, knowing Latifa’s has the shotgun in the boot.
Behind us a shout. ‘Sixteen bucks for the drinks and chippies. I’ll put it on your tab, Nick.’
The Lodge is halfway up the valley opposite an open paddock with a couple of horses grazing. There was never a For Sale sign outside, it’s too expensive to warrant it. Anybody wanting to live here wouldn’t be a casual drive-by. The gates are new. Big, strong, and shut. Our Nelson colleagues are on the way. ETA five minutes.
‘Climb over?’ says Latifa.
‘There’s a bell.’ I press it.
Nothing. Press it again.
‘Yeah?’
I jump. Has he crept up behind me? Brace for another sucker punch. ‘Up here. Tree to your left.’ I see it now. A camera and a small speaker.
‘Police,’ says Latifa. ‘Open up, we want to talk to you.’
‘What about?’
‘Assault.’
‘Get lost.’
‘Open up or we’ll be back with armed officers to break down your gates and arrest you.’
‘This is private property.’
‘We’ll bring a warrant.’
‘Yeah, do that.’
Latifa isn’t used to being talked to like this.
The Nelson lads roll up. Blakiston admires the tall gates. ‘Tawa. Good hard wood, inset with steel. Impressive.’
Latifa looks at me. ‘Who is this Brandon fella?’
‘Some Yank with a short fuse.’
The tree says, ‘I heard that.’
‘I don’t know who the hell you think you are but you’re digging yourself into a big hole.’ Latifa shakes an admonishing finger. ‘You assaulted a police officer and you need to let us in or come out and talk to us. We’re not going away.’
A snigger, a click and the gates slowly swing open. I tell the Nelson guys to wait here and be ready for anything. Latifa and I get back in the car and roll up the steep driveway. There’s what looks like a gatekeeper’s cabin just a short way up the drive, immaculately kept lawns with a mix of native and imported shrubs and trees. Finally, at the top of the hill, a hexagonal pine lodge with floor to ceiling windows, lots of aerials on the roof, and some outhouses nearby. The surrounding slopes have recently been logged to hell and back. The contrast is stark, a manicured luxury resort nestled amidst such desolation.
‘Rancho Weirdo,’ mutters Latifa.
We mount the half-dozen steps to a long wide verandah, and the front door opens. It’s the man who floored me in the bakery. He holds a hand up. ‘That’s close enough.’
Latifa shakes her head. ‘I don’t think you get it, mister. We’re here to arrest you. Turn around, face the wall, hands behind your back.’
‘You’re making a big mistake.’
I draw my baton. ‘Do as she says.’
Latifa has unclipped her taser. ‘Three seconds.’
He smiles, raises his hands and turns around. ‘What’s your name, sister? I like you.’
Latifa puts the cuffs on him, kicks his feet apart, presses him down to his knees. ‘What’s your name? Brandon what?’
He breathes in slowly and deeply. ‘You smell nice.’
She takes the canister of pepper spray off her belt and empties it into his face. ‘How’s your sense of smell now, dickhead?’
He lies there on his pine verandah. Eyes streaming, face burning, and still smiling. Chuckling even. ‘I can see we’re going to get along real well, sister.’
2.
‘His name is Brandon Cunningham from Shitsville, South Dakota.’ Latifa’s got this cloudy look in her eyes like she’s picked up a bug of some kind. She scrolls down the screen. ‘Here on an Entrepreneur Business Visa. He’s got a lot of money behind him, stumped up two million to put into a tourism venture out on the Sounds.’
‘What kind?’
‘Doing up the old farmstead across from Maud Island. An adult wellbeing retreat, according to the visa application.’ She shakes her head. ‘Māhana. Who does he think he is?’
I don’t get the cultural reference and assume Latifa is just cursing in Māori. ‘He doesn’t strike me as the wellbeing type.’ My gut is still tender from that punch.
‘Creep, if you ask me.’
‘And he can afford to fly a lawyer in from Wellington.’
‘That place of his up the Wakamarina. Big house for such a little man.’ Latifa logs off the system. ‘What’s he really doing here?’
‘Let’s ask him when the lawyer arrives.’
We’re camped fifty k’s south-east, over at Blenheim, the nearest police station with cells. Cunningham has been checked out at Wairau Hospital down the road from the cop shop and his eyes no longer sting. The Blenheim area commander is taking an interest and wants to know if I need any help. One of his detectives in the room, maybe?
‘Should be fine, sir. It’s a minor assault charge. I don’t feel the need to pursue the matter but I’d like to counsel him about his conduct.’
‘He assaulted you, in front of witnesses. We don�
�t normally let people get away with that kind of thing. Bad for morale and PR.’
‘Maybe some latitude now will save us a whole lot of time and trouble in the longer run. His flash lawyer could tie us up for months. A cautionary word from me might curb any future excesses.’
‘Your call, Nick. His brief has been in my ear before she hopped on the plane. He’s obviously connected. Watch yourself.’
‘Will do.’
By the time the lawyer arrives it’s early evening. Daylight saving went out a few weeks ago, the nights are closing in and it’ll be dark by the time I get back to the farm. I’ve let Vanessa know and she’ll be keeping my plate and the bed warm. Latifa and I grabbed a sandwich at the café over the road just as it was closing. We’re fuelled and ready.
‘Mr Cunningham seems to have sustained injuries to his eyes from capsicum spray.’ The lawyer’s name is Helen Kostakidis and she usually represents either bikies or bankers. She’s a class act: part school principal, part eminent surgeon, part cage fighter.
Brandon shakes his head. ‘It was an accident. The officer was just showing me her little toy and it went off.’ He smiles at Latifa. ‘No real harm done. That right, darlin’?’
‘Constable Rapata to you.’
‘Pretty name.’
‘There’s also the matter of the assault on myself by Mr Cunningham.’ I lean in. ‘Unprovoked and witnessed.’
The lawyer looks up from her notepad. ‘Do you have the witness statements, Sergeant? Names?’
‘I can have, within twenty-four hours.’
‘Perhaps we can all go home then,’ says Kostakidis. ‘And come back tomorrow?’
‘Or we can advise Mr Cunningham that this is not how we do things here in New Zealand. This is not South Dakota. Rich man, poor man, the law treats everybody as equal.’
Cunningham grins. ‘You think that, buddy? You really think that?’
Latifa gives me a sideways glance. I’m guessing she’s with Brandon on this point. ‘It’s the principle that drives me, Mr Cunningham. I’m prepared to let the matter drop because I don’t need the paperwork. But you need to keep your nose clean, mate, or you’re going to get yourself into a lot of trouble.’
Kostakidis turns to Cunningham. ‘I think the sergeant is being very generous and pragmatic. Perhaps an apology would go some way?’
Brandon offers his hand. ‘Sorry, man. No hard feelings?’
I shake it briefly. ‘What’s your business here, Mr Cunningham? It doesn’t seem like your kind of town?’
‘What’s my kind of town?’
‘Backwoods. Banjo country. Cops in your pocket. Everything up for grabs.’
‘No need for rudeness, Sergeant.’ Kostakidis is packing her briefcase. ‘All settled and friends again. Right?’
Cunningham stands. ‘Backwoods, huh?’ Eyes the posters on the wall: firewood thefts, hunting infringements, wanted druggies. ‘Looks like I got me a home from home.’ Another glance at Latifa. ‘And I’m working on winning over the local constabulary.’
I really want to floor him with my baton. Empty another canister of spray in his face. Or even just shoot him. ‘So what is your business here?’
‘Wellbeing.’ He grins. ‘Now ain’t that something we could all do with?’
Driving back up the valley road, I see the gates are closed at the Lodge. When I dropped Latifa off at her house in Havelock it was plain that Cunningham had got under her skin.
‘You okay?’ I said.
‘Yep. He’s not the first creep that tried to psych me out. A good hot shower, a cuddle with Daniel, a cuppa tea and Netflix and he’ll be history.’
But I’ve never seen her look so … What? Not like Latifa.
Cunningham is a jerk but hopefully he’s smart enough not to rile us. Whatever nefarious business he’s up to, he’d be a fool to have us sniffing around unnecessarily.
At home, the lights are on. Paulie is in bed and Vanessa is preparing for the next day’s teaching. Twenty-five kids, five levels of ability, half-a-dozen subjects. She’ll be at it until midnight. An absent-minded peck on the cheek in greeting.
‘Dinner’s in the fridge. Spag bol. Shove it in the microwave. Good day?’
‘Got punched out by a psycho and given a shit babysitting job by my superiors. You?’
‘Same. But the punch missed and he hit a chair instead. Cried the rest of the morning.’ She closes one file and opens another. The microwave dings. ‘Which psycho?’ she asks over the top of her specs. The glasses are a new thing, they suit her. Sometimes she keeps them on while we’re bonking and it adds to the frisson.
‘Neighbour down the road. American. Living in the Lodge.’
‘Andrei’s old place? I’ve seen vehicles coming and going from there recently. Thought somebody must have moved in.’
‘You never mentioned.’
A shrug. ‘Valley gossip isn’t my thing. I already know too much about people’s private lives through school.’
‘Fair enough.’
‘Big lad is he?’
‘Not really. Lucky punch.’
‘You arrest him?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘Least said soonest mended?’
‘That’s not like you.’
I suck in a stray strand of spaghetti. ‘I think he’s one of those people who thrives on conflict. He’s rich, has a posh lawyer, never gives up because he wants to win. Mr Entitlement. Life’s too short. I’m not going to give him the pleasure.’
‘There are kids like that in my class.’
‘Yep, and now we’ve got one as a neighbour.’ I fail to stifle a yawn. My head feels thick and heavy, the light too bright. A Panadol should fix it. ‘See you in bed.’
‘I’ll be up there in an hour or two to ravish you. Be ready.’
I’d better shape up then.
Friday. Latifa and I take turns to patrol SH6 for miscreants. It’s another beautiful, crisp April day and nobody seems to be doing anything overly stupid. On the news the new Labor-led government is promising to fix up many of the social problems neglected by the previous one. It’s ambitious and may well turn out to be just spin and tosh but it makes a nice change hearing about good intentions. By contrast the news from across the pond, in both directions, is the usual game of spite and malice. I begin to understand now why the Kiwis will never let the matter of the underarm bowling incident drop, even after thirty-odd years. It’s the Aussies to a T. Would you be so desperate to win a game of cricket that you’d bowl an unhittable ball along the ground like you’re delivering to a toddler? Yep, pathetic and mean-spirited, like the state of Aussie politics these days. Dog-whistling flat-earthers the lot of them. As for the Americans, don’t get me started. A nation of Brandon Cunninghams: attention-seeking self-centred brats. Or maybe that’s just the president. Each whim and tantrum pushing us all closer to extinction. I’m being self-righteous and obsessing again. How about some music? Brian FM. Talking Heads. ‘Road to Nowhere’. Perfect.
My phone goes. Latifa. ‘You nearby, Sarge?’
‘Shoe fence. Five minutes away. Why?’
‘Got a situation at the Havelock Hotel.’
‘Situation?’
‘One fella dangling another over the balcony. Threatening to drop him.’
‘It’s only a few metres.’
‘On his head.’
‘See you soon.’
I recognise them both immediately. One is Bruce Gelder, the dredge miner I had in my telescopic sights yesterday morning. The other is a hobbyist gold fossicker called Doug. He’s the one dangling by his heels. Latifa rolls her eyes in greeting. ‘Would have zapped him myself, Sarge, but I didn’t want him to lose his grip.’
‘I told him a thousand times,’ the dredge miner says. ‘Keep off my claim.’
‘Bring him back over the railing, Bruce.’ I hold up a placating hand. ‘No need for anyone to get hurt.’
A muffled voice from the dangling man. ‘Panning’s allowed an
ywhere, you moron. Claim or not.’
‘He’s stealing my gold.’
‘What gold, you fucking idiot,’ says an old-timer from behind a pot of Speights at the bar. ‘There’s none there. They dug it all up last century.’
‘You couldn’t find your dick in your daks,’ says Bruce. ‘Shut the fuck up.’
Unclip my taser. ‘Bring Doug back up over the railing, Bruce.’
Bruce gives Doug a last shake. ‘Keep off my claim. Final warning.’ And hauls him back to safety.
‘Piss off, jerk,’ says Doug, straightening his clothes and hair. He brushes past me. ‘Arrest him and throw away the key.’
Handcuffing Bruce is strangely comforting. It’s the next best thing to taking him out with a sniper’s rifle. ‘You and I need to have a chat.’
Back over the road to the cop shop. While Latifa logs the incident I sit Bruce down at my desk and explain the charges to him. He can expect a summons in the next few weeks.
‘That’s not fair.’
‘You endangered Doug’s life. If you’d dropped him, that would have been it.’
‘Bastard’s head is thicker than that. Anyway I’ve got a licence, he hasn’t.’
‘It’s a licence to dredge, not a licence to kill. And it’s not exclusive. Amateur panners are allowed anywhere. You don’t need me to explain the rules to you.’
‘Every day I dredge, he’s straight in after I leave. Parasite. That’s my gold.’
‘Have you found anything there yet?’
‘No. Just needs a good rain to flush it down.’
‘Those people who found the gold behind the pub last year. They’re experts. They used science. Put a lot of money into it. Doesn’t mean the whole valley is back to being El Dorado.’
‘Science? What would you know?’ he says. ‘You opposed my excavator.’
‘That’s because I don’t want an industrial site on that river.’
‘Nimby. Go back where you came from.’
I hand him the paperwork. ‘See you in court. Stay out of trouble and leave Doug alone.’
‘Conflict of interest, that’s what you have. No justice here.’
‘Go away, Bruce,’ says Latifa from behind her partition. ‘You bore me.’
‘This is a conspiracy.’
After he’s gone we put the kettle on. ‘Gold does funny things to people doesn’t it?’ I muse over my steaming tea.