by Alan Carter
‘They’re for drinking, mate.’
‘What about my shower?’
‘Armpits and goolies tonight, love,’ says Vanessa. ‘We’ll go to the pool in Blenheim if it’s still not sorted out tomorrow.’
‘No shower?’
‘Not tonight.’
He looks at all the water bottles again. ‘All that plastic, Dad. Should be ashamed of yourself.’
I frown and he breaks into a giggle. He’s getting good at winding me up with a straight face. In the remaining daylight hours I do my best to plug the hole in the tank and Marvin the water guy has promised he’ll be up with the fire truck first thing in the morning to give us a refill. The evening passes as they often do these days, with Paulie trying to find ways of delaying his bedtime, Vanessa preparing a mountain of school work for the next day, and me looking out the window at the changing light in the valley, brooding and conjuring up new demons for vanquishing. Tonight I feel the sting of my grazed knuckles and search my memory for those lost hours. There’s a dull throb at my temples, I’ve had a few of those lately.
‘These things happen, love.’ Vanessa peels apart two sticky pages in a student notebook. ‘It’s just a leaky tank, not the end of the world.’
4.
On the way down the valley the next morning it’s tempting to call in on Cunningham and ask about the water tank. But to what effect? All he has to do is say no, it wasn’t him. I’m not going to be able to go all forensic on him with something this flimsy and trivial. Apply some resin and a fifty dollar top-up and move on. The bullet is probably sitting in the bottom of the tank but I can’t be arsed retrieving it. Still, Cunningham does need a shot across his bow. He doesn’t seem to have heeded the first warning.
Charlie Evans flags me down outside his gate. There’s a bullet hole in his For Sale sign. I obviously didn’t get the memo advising us about National Stray Bullet Awareness Week. Still it’s not an uncommon sight: most of the No Hunting, No Dogs, Keep Out, and speed limit signs have been shot up too. It’s the valley version of right to reply. Has it been extended to water tanks now?
I nod at his sign. ‘Somebody doesn’t want you to go?’
He smiles. ‘I’ll be here until hell freezes over. About that dinner invitation?’
‘Yeah?’
‘This weekend work for you?’
Wonders never cease. ‘Sure. How about Saturday?’
‘Need me to bring anything?’
‘Just yourself.’ I point to the bullet hole. ‘And your secret admirer if you want.’
We agree a time and I’m back on my way. Well, well. Since his wife died Charlie’s become even more of a hermit. Maybe there’s light at the end of his long dark tunnel of grief after all. Once in mobile range I message Vanessa to give her a heads-up and let her know I’ll organise the menu. Marvin passes me in the water truck with a finger wave. He doesn’t need us around to do what he does and I’ve left the fifty in an envelope in our mailbox.
As I’m pulling up in my parking spot outside the cop shop Latifa barges out the door, mobile to her ear, gesturing for me to follow. She starts running down the street, heading for the Four Square. Not another chops in the shorts job, I’m thinking. The stats continue to hold up; Marlborough remains the NZ capital for meat shoplifting. But she doesn’t go in the main entrance, she heads instead for the coldroom at the back with me close behind. The door is already open and the manager is waiting for us. Ashen.
‘In there.’
A bare strip of light illuminates the scene. Shelves lined with joints of meat, bags of fish, frozen pre-packed vegetables. Ice creams. Our breath turns to steam as we survey the scene. Sitting upright, strapped to a plastic chair placed on a wooden pallet is the body of a man. Frozen stiff. He has terrible injuries: cuts, burns, gougings. Missing parts.
‘It’s Bruce,’ says Latifa.
Indeed it is.
Bruce Gelder, the miner who dredges the river below me.
Dead, as I had wished so many times.
‘He didn’t die quickly.’ District Commander Keegan has driven the seventy-odd kilometres over the hills from Nelson HQ and is taking a keen interest. Can’t blame her, bloody murder is always more compelling than budget submissions.
‘Looks like it,’ I agree.
‘The coldroom distorts things forensically but the body wasn’t here at close of business last night.’
‘So, the window is between six-thirty yesterday evening and just after eight-thirty today.’
A cordon has been placed around the Four Square, and anybody needing groceries will have to drive for at least forty minutes to find them. That’s not going down well with some locals, and Latifa is on the verge of using her taser to reinforce the point. A handful of detectives are interviewing staff and customers who were there when it was called in. Somebody is in charge of collating any CCTV in the immediate vicinity. A forensic team photographs, marks, and sifts. Uniforms drafted in from Blenheim, Picton and Nelson are doorknocking up and down the main street and I’ve been helping out with that for the last hour or two until the boss called me aside.
Keegan lights up a ciggie and runs a hand through her new tinted elfin haircut. ‘Bruce Gelder. You say you know him?’
‘Not well. Had run-ins with him.’
‘Run-ins. Arrests, you mean?’
‘No. He has a mining claim on the river below my house. I opposed his resource consent application.’
‘Motive,’ she smiles, through a wreath of blue smoke. ‘Just need to pin means and opportunity on you and we’re home and dry.’
‘Motive won’t stick, I kind of won.’
‘Any other suspects come to mind or are you it?’
‘Gelder was dangling a bloke by his legs over the pub balcony a few days ago. Could have a word with him if you like.’
‘Do so.’
‘I’ll give the details to your detectives.’
‘No, you do it, Nick. I trust you. Pity you didn’t take up that offer to move over to the Ds when I got this job.’
‘The quiet life suits me.’
‘Like hell it does. Anyway, detective or not, I’m seconding you to the investigating team.’ She summons a bloke in a suit. Will Maxwell’s a hefty redhead you wouldn’t want to face in a rugby scrum. Last time we met we were looking into the untimely death of a young fella who’d had his skull stoved in with a claw hammer. ‘Will’s in charge. You know each other of course.’
‘Yep,’ he says and we shake hands.
‘Nick’s with you. Use him well.’
‘Boss.’
‘Maybe you can go and find your dangler, Nick, while I chat with Will here.’
Dismissed, I head up the road to the Havelock Hotel, a favourite haunt of Doug the Dangler. Barely eleven o’clock and he’s there at the bar nursing a Speights; he gives me half a nod.
‘Nick.’
‘Got time for a word, Doug?’
‘I’ll check my diary.’
‘Where’ve you been since about six last night?’
‘Here or at home. Why?’
‘Anyone vouch for that?’
‘All the people who were here when I was. Only me at home so you’ll have to take my word. Again, why?’ Hasn’t he noticed all the cops out on the street? Or the other pub patrons rubbernecking out the window? He lazily thumbs in the general direction. ‘This what all the fuss is about out there?’
‘Yes. So can you give me exact times, when you were at home, when you were here, who saw you?’
‘I was here from about four yesterday afternoon to closing, around nine. Ask her.’ Finger wave at the bartender. ‘She’ll remember who else was here, fucked if I can, usual suspects I suppose.’ A smoker’s cough. ‘That what I am, a suspect? What for?’
‘Something serious. So you went home, which way did you go, anybody see you?’
A shrug. ‘Might have, but I seem to be invisible these days. Perks of old age.’ He describes his route home. He got there, made a cup of tea, di
d the crossword in the paper, went to bed around eleven. ‘Woke up, had a piss, some brekky, finished off the crossword, came here.’
‘What time?’
‘About half an hour ago.’ He lifts his glass to the bartender. ‘That right, Rose? Half an hour?’
‘Yeah.’ She pours his refill. ‘Confess, Doug. You killed him, didn’t you?’
‘Killed who?’
‘God knows but there wouldn’t be that many cops out there for a shoplifting.’
It’s one of the things I’m beginning to like about folk around here. At least half of them haven’t a shred of curiosity about other people’s business.
Doug looks at me. ‘Somebody got killed?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you think I might have something to do with it. So I must know them, yeah?’
‘Possibly.’
‘Fuck’s sake, Nick. Give us a name.’
‘Sorry, I can’t. Yet.’ I hand Doug my card. ‘We’ll need to speak to you again, soon. Don’t leave the country.’
‘He doesn’t even leave the barstool most days,’ says Rose.
I’m pretty confident of eliminating him from my enquiries, but you never know.
Detective Senior Sergeant Will Maxwell has established an incident management centre at the Havelock town hall and DC Keegan has gone back to Nelson. It’s midafternoon and already desks, chairs, phones and computer lines have been set up plus whiteboards and there are tea and coffee facilities in the kitchen out back behind the stage. I’m impressed by the rapid transformation. The last time I was here two elderly women purporting to be sisters put on a mock opera about the harsh life of a beautiful young shucker from the mussel factory. You had to be there to really appreciate it. It’s a majestic old hall, with deep-red brocade stage curtains, ornate woodwork, built with the proceeds of gold mining and logging and maintained now with the proceeds of aquaculture, tourism and council rates. The big gold mining and logging money tends to disappear straight overseas these days. This place has seen it all: political meetings, shows, ceilidhs, country dances, even a hospital ward for the 1918 flu pandemic. And now it’s a murder room.
‘Bruce Gelder. Thirty-three years old. Home address in Grove. Out on the Sounds on the road between Havelock and Picton,’ he clarifies for those draft-ins less familiar with the local geography. ‘Married with two children, a toddler and a bub.’ Maxwell points to the crime-scene photo of a man strapped to a chair, covered in blood and ice. ‘He’s due for a post-mortem tomorrow morning in Nelson but as we can already see, somebody has gone to town on him.’ He scans the room. ‘Who and why?’
One of his junior colleagues puts up her hand. ‘One fella told me he reckoned the town cop did it.’
‘Which one?’ says Latifa icily.
‘Your boss,’ is the curt reply. I focus on her lanyard. Gemma. Ponytail. Clear skin. No messing.
Heads turn my way, some ooohs and tsk-tsks.
‘Confess, confess,’ says somebody.
Maxwell damps down the mirth. ‘This is your chance to clear your name, Nick.’
‘Not without a lawyer. Meantime I’ve talked to the other prime suspect, Doug Freeman, who had a run-in with the deceased a couple of days ago. He’s an old soak and I can’t see him being capable but you probably need to have a formal chat with him to sort out his alibis, or lack thereof.’
I hand the details over and Maxwell pushes on. ‘No cameras in the coldroom but we’re going through the CCTV from the main store. There are only meant to be a couple of keyholders who could have had access and known the alarm code but the alarm has been stuffed for over a year now and wasn’t active. In reality there’s a number of spare keys out there or with transient casual staff over the years who have lost their set. That kind of thing.’
‘Welcome to Havelock,’ says Latifa.
‘How come the body wasn’t discovered until after eight this morning? The shop opens by seven thirty,’ says Gemma. ‘Don’t they need stuff out of the coldroom before that?’
‘Not today,’ says Maxwell. ‘No restocking needed as it was a quiet day yesterday.’ He indicates one of the gruesome photos. ‘The chair doesn’t belong to Four Square. The killer brought his own.’
‘How did he get Bruce to sit down on it?’ asks Latifa. ‘He never struck me as the compliant type. And he could handle himself.’
‘Maybe we’re looking at more than one perp?’ says Gemma.
‘Maybe the PM will tell us,’ says Maxwell.
Doorknocks and local enquiries will continue: staff and patron interviews at the Four Square, CCTV, forensics. Friends, family, colleagues, associates of the deceased. Bank accounts. Personal life. Secret life. Gelder was a self-employed tradesman, a plumber. He’d have got around a bit, mixed high and low. Maxwell has at his disposal around a dozen detectives and that is likely to increase over the coming days. A similar number of uniforms will be added once Keegan has done some bean-counting back in Nelson. Maxwell calls me to one side as the room clears.
‘Jokes aside, you didn’t do him, did you?’
‘No.’
‘Keegan told me you had a beef with him about mining or something?’
‘Resource consent. I won. No motive to kill him. She knows this.’
‘Yeah, yeah, but Gemma’s already heard the jungle drums and your name is in the mix. There’ll be more of that as the days unfold. I need to know your side of it, formal if necessary, to cover our arses.’
My knuckles are tingling and I’m aware of a bruisy tenderness behind my right ear. ‘Feel free. Happy to talk on the record and provide my alibis. Give my DNA, have my laundry checked. Go for your life.’
‘Thanks, Nick. I’ll get Gemma to do the formalities with you.’
‘Waste of time and resources but be my guest. Does this mean I’m on the team or not?’
‘Keegan wants you in, so as soon as we’ve ticked the boxes then it’s a yes. But perhaps not at the centre of things?’
‘Let me know when you’re ready.’
‘Any thoughts on who could have done this?’
‘Besides me? No. The state of the corpse, whoever they were they’ve either got general anger management issues or this is one hell of a grudge.’
He grins. ‘Stuff of life in the Wakamarina. Sure it wasn’t you?’
The sun is long gone by the time I head back up the valley. There’s been no word from the film set so it’s assumed that Brandon Cunningham and his cronies stayed away. Passing Charlie Evans’ place, I remember the dinner invitation this coming Saturday. Four days should be time enough for me to come up with a menu and do the necessary shopping for it, although perhaps not at the Four Square. If, as Maxwell has alluded, I’m not going to be at the centre of things on the murder enquiry, then it should be plain sailing, especially as Latifa has the routine shift this weekend and will be on call.
Bruce Gelder.
Confession time. I’m not overly saddened by his demise. He was a pushy and abrasive character. Still, one wouldn’t wish that kind of death on anyone, even him. Would one?
Music thumps out of the Lodge as I drive past. The same crap they were playing in the ATV. Rap and hip-hop? Here’s me chalking them up as country and western fans. As potential psychos go, they’re the only ones that come to mind lately but it would be a bit too convenient for them to have killed Gelder. Still, it would be one way of getting them kicked out of the valley.
‘You’re early,’ says Vanessa with a passing peck on the lips. ‘I heard about the commotion in town. Didn’t expect you for a few hours yet.’
‘You heard who it was?’
‘No.’
‘Bruce Gelder. The man I was aiming my gun at the other day.’
‘Wow, careful what you wish for. Who, apart from you, would want to kill him?’
‘We don’t know yet but it was nasty.’
She shushes me. ‘Paulie’s still awake. He’s got news for you.’
I poke my head around his door frame. ‘What’s h
appening?’
He wasn’t expecting me, he’s got earphones in and is playing a spelling game on his iPad. He reluctantly halts the screen. ‘What?’
‘Mum said you had some news?’
‘Oh yeah, got a new friend at school.’
It hasn’t been so easy for Paulie being uprooted from his home town of Sunderland when we had to go into hiding on the other side of the world. Living with Down Syndrome, even relatively high-functioning, also presents certain challenges for making friends, particularly in a small rural community like this.
‘Great,’ I say. ‘What’s his name?’
‘Mim. Miranda. She’s a girl.’
‘Have you mentioned her before?’
‘No.’
‘New to school?’
‘Don’t think so.’
‘Cool. Nice is she?’
‘Nice?’ He thinks about it for a moment. ‘S’pose so.’
That’s about as much as he wants to give away. I can tell the game beckons and leave him to it. ‘Ten more minutes then teeth, pee, and lights out.’
‘Mum said fifteen.’
‘Fifteen it is then.’
Back in the kitchen Vanessa hands me a reheated bowl of chilli con carne. ‘I see Gary’s back.’
Gary used to rent a cabin from us across the driveway; now he’s built his own in what used to be our far paddock but which is now his, bought and paid for. He goes out on the trawlers from Nelson, three weeks on and two off – give or take, according to the season.
‘Any gossip from his end?’ The chilli tastes good.
‘He’s got a new girlfriend in Nelson. Hurt his hand out on the boats, it’s all bandaged up. Nothing permanent.’
‘I’ll drop over and say hello before leaving in the morning.’
Vanessa heads for her pile of marking. ‘Oh, one other thing. He was out of water. Somebody shot a hole in his tank too.’
5.
Thursday morning finds me sitting in an interview room at Blenheim cop shop being grilled by Gemma and a male colleague who looks like he should still be at school. I’ve been cautioned and have waived my rights to a lawyer and a union rep.