by Alan Carter
She frowns and briefly fingers the red weal around her throat. ‘Bit of a stretch? I mean, yeah, similar rope marks on the tree but those snares aren’t uncommon and hunting is a thing around here.’
‘I don’t know, I just have this feeling they’re connected.’
‘Intuition, huh? That’s what I like about you, Sarge, you’re so in touch with your inner self.’
‘There’s more.’ I tell her about my heart-to-heart with Cunningham and his plan to bring Mother Nature’s silver seed to a new home in the sun. Yes, I checked out the song lyrics on Spotify.
She shakes her head. ‘White guy delusions. We’ve seen it all before. Aotearoa was all set to be a privatised Pākehā gentlemen’s club two hundred years ago before your government stepped in to colonise us properly first. A little gang of rich white men wanting to turn us into Fantasy Island. Now they want to do it again. What? We’re supposed to be this big blank canvas you can project yourselves onto? Give me a break.’
‘Cunningham’s an admirer of Te Rauparaha. And a bit of a fan of yours in his own sweet way.’
‘Gee, that’s great. It’s so good to have his approval.’ She drains her tea. ‘Look, Sarge, you mean well and I really appreciate your concern. I owe you big time for getting me out of that snare but …’ She frowns at the floor. ‘I don’t see it, Havelka and me linked, it doesn’t make sense. Focus too much on that and we risk letting a completely unrelated nutter go free.’
‘Fair enough, I was just thinking out loud.’
‘Maybe, I dunno. Maybe it’s time to move on.’
‘It’s just a few days ago. There’s no need to act tough.’
‘Isn’t there? Ever tried being a non-white woman in a white male workforce like the cops? No? Didn’t think so.’ She takes a final gulp of tea. ‘The neck’s healing. Cunningham’s a dick. Daniel’s home. And you,’ she takes her mug to the sink for rinsing, ‘have too much going on. You’re under a lot of pressure yourself and seeing links that don’t exist.’
‘Any news from the Nelson Ds? Aren’t they meant to be looking for your attacker?’
‘They’re knocking on doors, tramping up and down hills and rounding up the usual suspects. Nothing so far. I’m figuring it’s all a bit too hard for them, poor dears.’
‘They need to pull their fingers out.’
‘Yeah, but I have low expectations. This is a small country but it’s still easy to disappear. Maybe I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.’
‘We’ll find him,’ I say, more for my own peace of mind than hers.
‘I can look after myself. You need to sort yourself out.’
‘I’m in the clear over Gelder’s murder.’
‘Congratulations,’ she says. ‘Now get back to your family and stop fretting about me, patterns on trees, and those Lodge dickheads. Your cold case will wait until Monday.’
‘Any ideas why somebody would move a body from Pelorus Bridge to Butchers?’
‘Go,’ she hurries me out the door, ‘home.’
Latifa is in surprisingly good shape. Or at least hiding things well. She seems to be hauling herself back from a horrific attack and seizing the moment with the love of her life. Maybe that’s a simple tough reality for many women who’ve suffered male violence. Grit teeth, claw back, move on. I should try to learn from that. Next on the list: Jessie James and her research on the dicks up at the Lodge. The Captain’s Daughter is an old stone building on the Havelock main drag that wouldn’t look amiss in the Cairngorms or the Cotswolds. They’ve got a cosy log fire and Jessie is waiting for me with a big red drink in front of her.
‘Berry cider,’ she says. ‘Still deciding whether I like it or not.’
I check my watch and am surprised at how much of the morning has slipped away. Vanessa has texted back that she’s opted not to check out of the motel as we haven’t had confirmation yet that our house is cleared to move back into. It feels like we’re on the verge of an argument and fair enough too, I’m being a pain in the arse. Neglectful, obsessive, the usual.
‘Bit tight for time, Jessie.’ I fill a glass from the water jug. ‘Can we make this quick?’
‘Typical,’ she says, reaching down into her backpack for her notes. She’s got a new tatt on the back of her neck. A red flower. ‘I spend hours picking through the innards of the deep state conspiracy and you demand superficial bullet points and sound bites.’
‘I’m all ears.’
‘Māhana Wellbeing Centre. Heard of it?’
‘Out in the Sounds. Cunningham and a few others in the Lodge have invested in it. The basis of their business visas.’
‘Well done you. They might be putting in their two mills worth but the major shareholding and the land it’s on belongs to a bloke called James Bryant.’
‘Good local name. Haven’t the Bryants been in this area for yonks?’
‘Not in this case. No relation. James Oliver Bryant, native son of Kentucky, is a billionaire of all trades. He sells anything from bottled water to Kalashnikovs to anyone and everyone.’ Impressive. It only seems like yesterday that I was questioning Jessie’s journalistic credentials and bemoaning her millennial apathy. Now here she is stepping up to the plate. Must be the awards season. She passes me her iPad. ‘That’s him at a reception held at the NZ embassy in Washington last year, celebrating his newly acquired Kiwi citizenship. Bought and paid for by return of post.’ Another swipe. ‘And that’s him third from left smiling in the background while the American president signs an executive order to repeal some silly environmental protection laws that were getting in the way of corporate profits.’
‘So Bryant is the bucks and power behind Cunningham.’
‘And the brains too.’ More swiping and scrolling. ‘Although brains might be a misnomer.’ His Facebook page links are a who’s who of far-right philosophers, writers and fruitloops through the ages: Ayn Rand, Rees-Mogg, Steve Bannon, Creationism, eugenics, white supremacy, incel, Islamophobia, holocaust denial, apocalypse now, deep state conspiracy theorists, alien abduction, chem trails, anti-vaxxers. ‘Take your pick.’
‘I already got the gist of this from Cunningham himself, although it’s nice to be able to put a name to a nutcase.’
She nods. ‘I’ve already told you about my boyfriend who works on the mail boat?’
‘Yep.’
‘He’s got a mate.’
Here we go. ‘The suspense is killing me.’
‘Builder’s apprentice. One of the few locals working on the Māhana place. Most of them are either from way up north or way down south, or overseas. The locals only got the job temporarily because some other team all got gastro from some dodgy mussels. He had to sign a confidential non-disclosure agreement for the fortnight they had the work.’
‘But this mate told your boyfriend anyway who then told you.’
‘Non-disclosure my arse. We’re talking public interest here. Besides Johnno couldn’t keep a secret if you sewed his lips shut. He’d fart it out in morse.’
‘Tell me.’
‘What would a wellbeing centre need a panic room for?’
As it is, we get the all-clear to return to our home by early afternoon and check out of the motel late. Driving past the Lodge over the traffic-calming speed bump, I’m thinking about that burgeoning sub-group of humanity that exists in some sort of Westworld theme park conjured by their own imaginations, remaining impervious to reason and logic, and increasingly cashed up to pursue their dangerous fantasies. It sounds as if I am describing street junkies who just found a wallet but in reality its members are captains of industry, respectable statesmen and women. Movers, shakers all. Sad, and not so sweet, dreamers. Maybe they’ve always been around but now they seem to be blooming like toxic algae. To hell with them. If Michael Jackson kept a pet chimp and giraffe in NeverNeverLand and Elvis stuck purple carpet on the walls of Graceland, why should I worry if James Bryant wants to waste his money on a panic room at Māhana?
‘Does this mean you’re i
n the clear?’ asks Vanessa as we round the last bend towards home.
‘I suppose so.’
Paulie leans forward from the back seat. ‘Can Mim sleep over now?’
The boy is nothing if not persistent. Change the subject. ‘Looks like the goats and chooks are happy to see you back. Feed ’em up mate, and we’ll unpack and get some afternoon tea together.’
‘Wish I could distract you so easily,’ says Vanessa, grabbing her bag from the boot as Paulie heads off to the feed bins.
‘I’m open to offers.’
She punches my arm in passing. ‘Flirtery will get you everywhere.’
A thaw. What else could a man wish for?
Because it’s a cop house, the techs have been remarkably diligent about cleaning up after themselves. There are some chemical smells and smudges here and there but a wipe down and the windows open and all is sweet.
While Vanessa catches up on her lesson prep and Paulie hangs out with the livestock, I wander over the farm picking up tī kōuka leaves and enjoying the breeze. Gary drops by; he often does just before he’s due to go back out on the trawlers.
‘How’s the water tank?’ I look down and see the bandage removed. ‘And the hand?’
‘All good. A mate of Marvin’s filled it up because he was busy. Said he did all the others too. All on the house, he said. No charge. Community spirit, eh? You’ve been away a few days?’
‘Yeah.’ I tell him why the cops have been poking around because that’s what he’s after, a bit of valley gossip.
‘They think you killed the prick with the dredge?’
‘They needed to diligently exclude me from their enquiries.’
‘Yeah, but did you?’
‘No.’
He nods. ‘Wouldn’t blame you. He had it coming. Wanting to stuff up the river. Rivers are important. Eels, kai and that.’
‘Well he won’t be able to do it anymore.’
‘Wonder who’ll get his claim now?’
‘What?’
‘Maybe that’s what he was killed for.’
‘A few ounces of gold a year? You’re joking.’
‘Gold does funny things to people.’
It sure does. I recall Gary’s gang links in a previous life. ‘Do you know Morgan Hopu?’
‘Thomas Hemi’s big brother, yeah, kind of. Why?’
‘Think he’s capable of murder?’
‘Morgan?’ A laugh. ‘Course he is. You don’t get anywhere in his game if you’re not.’
I lay out the bare bones of the Havelka story for him. ‘Think he could have done it?’
‘No question he could have. Whether he did is another matter.’
My mind returns to the murders Keegan put me onto. ‘Ever hear of Morgan having any connections to the west coast? Business, property, family, friends, whatever?’
‘Probably. Most people have connections everywhere these days, don’t they? There’s a chapter of the mob over in Greymouth. There’ll be friends and associates there, no doubt. Again, why?’
I tell him in the vaguest terms possible.
‘Same MO?’ he asks.
I nod.
‘Bit of a stretch, eh?’
That’s the second time today somebody’s said that to me.
Gary examines his still swollen hand. ‘You should talk to Thomas.’
‘Why? It’s his brother I’m interested in.’
‘Yeah, but I can think of three good reasons you should anyway.’ He counts them out on his mangled fingers. ‘One, like you, he’s no stranger to crackpot theories. Two, he’s Morgan’s brother so he should know a bit about him. And three, before he found religion he was Morgan’s enforcer.’
‘Enforcer?’
‘Standover man, hit man if needs be. Fearsome fella. We’d even heard of him up on the North Island. World-famous in New Zealand, he was. To us at least.’
Thomas was going to come down and see me this afternoon under the pretext of delivering some firewood we don’t need. What was that about? After Gary’s revelation, it could be timely. I call and tell him I’ll come up there instead.
‘Not a good idea, mate. Ruth’s got the shits with me. Fancy a beer?’
‘Sure. The Trout in half an hour?’
It’s late afternoon by the time we take our seats at the picnic table over the road. There’s not much daylight left. We probably shouldn’t be bringing our drinks so far from the premises but Canvastown can be quite European when it chooses. The picnic area is beside a collection of artefacts commemorating the gold rush days – picks, shovels, other rusty implements and pieces of machinery. There are plaques here and at strategic points along the valley road pointing out spots of historic interest – places where the valley was particularly trashed in the often futile search for an instant fortune. Plus ça change. Across the road at the pub a dozen Harleys and other shiny muscle bikes are lined up. The Sunday afternoon sesh at the Trout is a popular stop-off.
‘Don’t worry. Just Grandad Groovers, not outlaws.’ Hemi takes a draw from his Speights. ‘We’ve got a bit to talk about, I reckon.’
‘You first.’ My Monteith’s cider feels like a mistake. Too cold and gassy. A wind has risen and clouds hang in the south-west. A thermos of soup might have been a better idea.
Thomas reaches into his shirt pocket and chucks a bullet on the table. ‘Lapua scenar.’ He’d climbed down into his empty water tank to retrieve it. ‘Readily available in NZ. Hunters like them. Assume you’ve got ballistics people who can run tests?’
‘Sure,’ I say. ‘Thanks.’
‘I’ve told my boy to watch himself with his new mate.’
‘Melvyn.’
He nods. ‘But I thought it might be useful for him to still hang out. Pick stuff up like.’
‘Good idea.’
‘It wasn’t mine, it was Latifa’s. Probably yours to start with though, eh?’
‘If you ever have any doubts, shelve it. We don’t want him putting himself in danger. And we both know these people are dangerous.’
‘He’s a smart kid when he’s not being stupid. He knows he needs to redeem himself. He’ll be fine.’ Another gulp of Speights. ‘Your turn.’
‘A little bird tells me you had a colourful past before you decided to go and hide yourself at the far end of a remote dead-end valley.’
‘That would apply to half the Wakamarina. Any specifics?’
‘Working for your brother? Enforcing?’
His face hardens. ‘Those days are behind me.’
‘Are they?’
Hemi drains his beer. ‘Mate, sorry, you’re barking up the wrong tree.’
‘Hear me out. Please.’ I don’t know where that “please” came from, it wasn’t intended. But it works. He re-settles and I tell him about the body at Butchers and about the possible link with the west coast murders.
Poker face. ‘What’s any of that got to do with me?’
‘Don’t know. I was just hoping you might be able to help. Maybe you know who could be behind the executions. Maybe you recall your brother’s interests on the west coast. Maybe there’s a link? Anything.’
‘And you think I would snitch on my own brother if there was a link?’
It’s nearly dark already. The river bubbles behind me and two paradise ducks whoop in passing. A few spots of rain spatter the table. The Boomer bikers have revved up and gone. Only a handful of hardcore regulars left in the Trout now. ‘People say you’re a changed man, Thomas. You play the part too. But I’m still not sure what that means. Changed from what to what? And why?’
He pats my shoulder as he stands up. ‘You want the answer to that, you don’t get it for free. You need to earn it.’
‘I’m a cop, Thomas. This is my job.’
‘Keep at it, Nick. Dig away. But know this: I’m not your enemy.’
13.
Monday morning and I’m back on the job, officially. First, though, Michael Walton and I must go and see the principal and apologise for fighting in the
playground.
‘He started it.’
She doesn’t think that’s funny. ‘Mr Chester, this kind of behaviour brings the school into disrepute. Parents and caregivers scrapping like hooligans. Front page of the Journal. Really.’ Lianne Kingi has been good to us and to Paulie. Gone out of her way to make us feel welcome and to help him fit in. I don’t want to make her job any harder.
‘I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.’ Unless the wanker steps out of line again.
She looks over at Michael. ‘Mr Walton?’
‘Misunderstanding. Nothing in it. Water under the bridge.’
‘Maybe as far as you’re concerned but I need to have confidence that there won’t be a repeat performance.’
‘Not from me there won’t.’
That’s about as good as she’s going to get from us. We’re dismissed. On the way out Michael turns to me. ‘Need any pea hay? Got some spare.’
At face value this is what’s known as a Kiwi apology. ‘Sure. Coupla bales?’
‘Six. I’ll bring them up later in the week. When suits?’
‘Any day after four there’s somebody home.’
‘Maybe I could bring Paul home with them one day. Save you picking him up?’
Do I want my son in the temporary charge of a bloke who called him a retard a few days ago? ‘No need. We have a routine with him. But the hay’d be great.’
‘Right.’ He holds out a hand for the shaking.
I oblige. We don’t need another feud. ‘Later in the week, then.’
Back to the station in Havelock. Latifa is waiting patiently, overnight log checked and nothing much for us to worry about. Some skids on the wet roads in the wee hours. Thefts from parked cars in Blenheim. A break-in and vandalism at a bach out on the Sounds. All the remit of Traffic or local Ds.
‘And life just got a bit simpler with the disappearance of the Von Crapps.’