Doom Creek

by Alan Carter

  His mate has a satellite phone. He turns away while he makes a call. A minute later we’re waved through. ‘You’re welcome to walk up our track and use our jetty, but without a warrant you’re not allowed to go beyond that fence.’

  ‘We’ll decide that,’ says Latifa, marching ahead.

  ‘Those are the conditions.’ The guy with the phone reaches out an arm to stop her.

  ‘I wouldn’t,’ I warn him.

  Too late, he’s on the ground with Latifa’s knee on his head and his arms twisted up his back. While Latifa cuffs him I counsel his mate to stay back. When she’s finished, she picks up his sat-phone and lobs it into the water.

  ‘You’re polluting the environment,’ says the boat skipper, frowning.

  ‘What’s your name?’ I ask of the smaller guard.

  ‘Vernon.’

  ‘Vernon, we’re going to be about twenty minutes, half an hour maybe, and then we’re gone. Do you want to spend that time handcuffed to the jetty with your friend or sitting in that comfy camp chair over there?’

  ‘We’re under orders, sir. This is trespass. There will be consequences.’

  ‘And if you, or your friend, attempt to physically prevent us from doing our job, there will also be consequences.’

  ‘Leave ’em, Vern. Their time will come.’

  Latifa crouches down to the man on the ground. ‘That sounded like a threat.’

  ‘Read it how you like.’

  Vernon takes his place in the camp chair and sulks while Latifa drags his mate over to a jetty rail and locks him to it.

  ‘Fifty minutes left,’ says the skipper like she’s seen everything. Her rod bends and she puts her book down. ‘Yes, you beauty.’

  The Māhana Wellbeing Centre is taking shape. It’s a two-storey building not unlike the Lodge in its central hexagonal design but bigger and with spoke-like offshoots which put me in mind of the old Strangeways prison in Manchester, a former stomping ground of mine. Māhana is set on a large flat tract of land surrounded on three sides by hills and with an approach possible via air and sea. There’s only one road through the hills, currently a track connecting over to Kenepuru Sound. By the looks of the machinery rolling through the distance, that track is being upgraded and bitumenised. There’s also an airstrip fit for smaller planes and a helicopter landing pad.

  ‘Could just be one of those super-rich hideaways. They have shit like this down near Queenstown too.’ Latifa pushes some windswept tresses back behind her ears. ‘But you mentioned a panic room?’

  ‘Let’s take a look.’

  There are guys painting, plastering, digging trenches and laying pipes. Everything you’d expect from a building site. Except for chat and banter. Heads down, bums up. A chap who could be the site foreman steps our way.

  ‘Help you?’

  ‘Having a look around.’

  ‘Any particular reason?’

  ‘Police business.’

  He stabs a thumb towards the two fellas back on the jetty. ‘Assume you’ve got the Yanks’ permission then?’

  ‘Assume away.’

  ‘Good as gold. Be my guest. Like us to down tools for a while so you can concentrate?’

  ‘Good idea.’

  He lowers his voice. ‘Just tell those wankers on your way out you insisted, okay?’

  ‘Okay.’ He turns and shouts the orders, waves at a CCTV camera on a pole and points at me. ‘Who’s watching?’ I ask, as if I don’t already know.

  ‘Bloke called Cunningham. Remote client supervision. It’s becoming a thing in these parts.’ He hands us each a hard hat and fluoro vest. ‘You’ll need these. And I’ll have to escort you. OHS. Sorry.’

  ‘No probs.’

  We’re led around a bunch of rooms that look like they should: kitchens, bathrooms, bedrooms, living rooms; you get the picture. A few of those down one wing seem sturdier with heavier doors and the windows are smaller and higher. Like cells.

  The foreman’s name is Vince. ‘Storerooms, according to the plans.’

  ‘Can we see those plans?’

  ‘Sorry. Above my pay grade.’

  Another spoke comprises mainly, we are told, bedrooms, but the layout and ensuite facilities remind me of private hospital rooms. Two others, much bigger than the rest, suggest special purpose. One has all the makings of an operating theatre.

  ‘This is a wellbeing centre, after all,’ says Vince. The other, by contrast, has the makings of a control or surveillance room. I’ve stood in many in my time, same shape, same feel. Platforms in place awaiting consoles. Vince notes my keen interest. ‘This mob like their cameras and technology, eh?’

  All along the walls and corridors you can see the wires that will link it all up.

  ‘Where’s the panic room?’ asks Latifa.

  ‘The what?’

  ‘You heard.’

  ‘I’m sorry. Not at liberty to say. We’ve signed these agreements.’ In a whisper. ‘And walls have ears.’

  ‘But there is such a thing?’ I insist.

  A flicker of the eyes. ‘Don’t know what you’re referring to, mate.’

  Time and tide’s running out so we make our way back to the jetty, free the prisoners, informing them that we made the foreman give us a tour but we found nothing of interest. Vernon is all wet.

  ‘Been for a swim?’

  ‘He retrieved the phone,’ says Lizzie the skipper. ‘Good on him, too.’

  ‘So what do you think?’ I ask Latifa as we bounce back through the chop to Havelock.

  ‘Ever heard of The Handmaid’s Tale?’ I shake my head and she elaborates – a dystopian horror story about man’s inhumanity to women. ‘I think what they’ve got in mind is potentially scary as hell.’

  But, at this stage anyway, not actually illegal.

  It’s late afternoon when we get back to the marina and I’m happy to call it a day. By now Vernon and his mate from the Māhana site will have given a full report to Cunningham and he’ll no doubt be pondering a response. The AOS inspection is scheduled for first thing tomorrow. Keegan gave her blessing on the understanding that they don’t go in like a ninja squad, that everybody stays polite and courteous, and that once all firearms were logged and verified, they would leave the premises.

  ‘We don’t need a Waco on our hands, Nick. Got that?’

  ‘Absolutely.’ Although a similar scorched-earth outcome might be one way of nipping Cunningham’s scary plans in the bud. Latifa and I will keep our distance and leave it to the AOS. We’ve briefed their techos on the bullet retrieved from Thomas Hemi’s water tank. If there’s any way of linking it to the weapons they inspect, that’d be great.

  Back home Paulie is herding the chooks back into their run. There’s no real need. They’re the crappest free-range chickens I’ve ever seen; they just hang around the gate all day hoping to be fed. Maybe they’re a metaphor for the way the world is going. Or maybe not.

  ‘Mim’s grandad is bringing some hay tomorrow. Said he’d give me a lift home.’

  ‘No need, mate. I’ll pick you up.’

  ‘Mum’s already said yes. She’s got a meeting.’

  We really should communicate more. ‘Okay. What’s mum doing now?’

  ‘The usual.’

  ‘I’ll get dinner on.’

  ‘Already on. Roast lamb.’

  ‘Woo-hoo.’ We high five. ‘Get in.’

  Vanessa doesn’t see what the fuss is about with Michael Walton. ‘Look he’s apologised, he’s bringing us some free pea hay, he’s doing us a favour giving Paulie a lift. Let’s give him a chance to redeem himself.’

  ‘After what he said about Paulie?’

  ‘Shitty yeah, but Mim’s his first friend since we left Sunderland. We can’t afford to hold grudges. Paulie won’t thank us for it.’

  ‘Friendship at any cost? Is that what we’re teaching him?’

  ‘Ease up, love. Some of the kids do that every day behind his back and sometimes to his face.’ She sees I’m stung. ‘Yes, childre
n can be cruel and some grown-ups too. For a cop you’re a bit fragile at times, Nick.’

  ‘When it comes to Paulie and you, sure.’

  She pushes her dinner plate my way for washing up. Gives me a lamb and rosemary flavoured kiss. ‘Have faith, sweetie. Look for the best in people.’

  14.

  Apparently the AOS inspection at the Lodge went pretty smoothly. All the firearms checked with the paperwork and all fitted the guidelines for what is permitted under current New Zealand law. Shame. The techs didn’t find any evidence that any of those guns fired the bullet into Hemi’s water tank but that doesn’t necessarily mean they didn’t – they just need closer inspection that’s all.

  ‘They searched the place for any unregistered weapons?’

  ‘Cursorily,’ says Keegan down the hissing line. Atmospherics, mountains, weather. NZ and cellphones sometimes seem incompatible. ‘There weren’t any grounds to turn the place over. You got what you wanted, Nick. A show of force. Hopefully they’ll pull their heads in. Maybe you should think of doing the same.’ She tells me a complaint has been lodged about our conduct out at Māhana yesterday.

  ‘He obstructed us in our duty.’

  ‘Yeah, Lizzie the boatie said he was a twerp and had it coming. It won’t go any further, Nick, but dial it down a bit, huh?’

  I promise to try.

  ‘Any news on the medical appointment?’

  ‘This for your paperwork?’

  ‘Fuck you, Nick. I’m actually asking after your health.’

  ‘Thursday. There was a cancellation.’

  ‘Hope it goes well. Look after yourself. And yep, a copy of any medical reports would be good for the files.’

  Latifa returns from the bakery with two takeaway flat whites and a ginger slice each.

  ‘What’s the occasion?’ I ask.

  ‘We’ve named the date, Daniel and me. October twentieth, keep it free.’

  ‘Congratulations.’ We have an awkward hug and settle into the ginger slices.

  ‘Any fallout from the raid … ahem, inspection this morning?’

  ‘Nah. All went swimmingly.’

  ‘Bugger.’ She brushes some crumbs away. ‘The bullet?’

  ‘No match so far.’ I tell her Vernon and friend have been complaining about us.

  ‘Sorry, that was my fault. Shouldn’t have cuffed that guy to the rail and chucked his phone in the water, eh?’

  ‘For tough guys they seem to have glass jaws.’

  She crumples her wrapper. ‘Bullies tend to.’ She catches me looking at her. ‘What?’

  ‘You know there’s people you can talk to. Like, about the attack and that. Counselling, whatever.’

  ‘I’m going okay, Nick. I’ll let you know if I’m not.’

  The landline rings. It’s Maxwell from down the road. ‘You guys want to drop by? That thumb drive from the Lodge looks interesting.’

  ‘A dark-coloured van heading south along Wakamarina Road at one fifty-two a.m.’ Maxwell asks for the image to be frozen. ‘Anybody you know up that way with one of those, Nick?’

  ‘Nobody comes to mind. It could have been heading to the campsite at Butchers Flat. Did it come back out again?’

  ‘Not during the timeframe captured for the thumb drive, twelve hours up to midday the following day.’

  ‘We could get the timeframe widened.’

  ‘They still friends of yours after this morning?’

  ‘They respond well to paperwork and warrants. Did your insomniac midnight rambler take a look at this?’

  ‘Yep. Could be the van, according to him. But he wouldn’t swear to it.’

  ‘Want me to take a drive up there, ask around, look for it?’

  ‘I think a door-to-door is in order. Maybe you can go along with Gemma and the team to help smooth the way?’

  ‘It won’t be needed, this is a murder enquiry, people will be happy to help if they can.’

  Maxwell smiles. ‘Still, it’s the Wakamarina. That reputation as bandit country goes way back.’

  ‘Whatever.’ A glance at Gemma. ‘Your car or mine?’ She waves her key fob in response.

  Latifa is sent back to local duties and doesn’t look too happy about it. I sidle up to Maxwell on my way out. ‘You’re wasting a good cop in Rapata.’

  ‘I’m sure she can fight her own battles.’

  He’s right on that at least. ‘She’s been through the mill. She deserves better.’

  ‘Point taken. Finished?’

  ‘No. Are the Nelson Ds any closer to finding her attacker?’

  ‘No. They’re doing their best, Nick. Trust me.’ He’s checking his phone. Things to do. ‘Tick, tock, mate.’

  Gemma is in the driving seat as we head up the valley road. The idea is to check out Butchers Flat at the far end and work our way back while a second team heads in our direction from the Lodge. I estimate we’ll probably meet just outside my pretty little red-roofed home.

  ‘You haven’t got it parked in your garage, have you?’ Gemma slows for a tight bend. ‘The boss might have cleared you but I still have my doubts.’

  ‘Persistence. An admirable quality in a detective.’

  There’s nothing to see at Butchers Flat so we pay Thomas Hemi a visit at the last house in the valley. Ruth is pottering in the vegie garden and Thomas is chopping wood as we make our approach.

  ‘Nick? How’s things?’

  I introduce him to Gemma and state our business. Ruth goes back to what she was doing. We ask if it’s okay for the two Blenheim uniforms to take a wander over the property.

  ‘You think the van’s here?’

  ‘Just wanting to check.’

  ‘No need. It isn’t here. You have my word.’

  Gemma signals the uniforms. ‘We’ll look anyway.’

  Thomas steps forward, axe raised slightly.

  I lift my hand. ‘No probs, Thomas. I’ll take your word for it.’

  ‘What?’ says Gemma. ‘No way. In you go, guys.’

  ‘We’re not here to search. We’re here to conduct enquiries.’ A nod at the uniforms. ‘We’ve made our enquiry and got our answer. We’re going.’

  Gemma turns and stalks towards the car. ‘We’ll be back with a warrant, Mr Hemi. Count on it.’

  Thomas has his eyes on me. Over in the vegie garden Ruth is leaning on her spade, checking us out.

  ‘I believe you on the van, Thomas. No other reason you don’t want us poking around, is there?’

  ‘Nothing that’s any business of yours.’

  ‘I’ll take that as a no. Don’t make me regret it, mate.’

  As far as we can tell, the dark delivery van isn’t parked on any property up the Wakamarina.

  ‘So if it didn’t return, and we can get extra footage from the Lodge to check that, then where is it?’

  Gemma doesn’t reply straight away. She’s been too busy fuming over her loss of face at the Hemi homestead. ‘Let’s get warrants for the whole valley. We’ll find it.’

  ‘Sure. There’s one or two whose words I’d like to verify but it’d be a waste of time and manpower searching every farm in the valley.’

  ‘Your mate Hemi is top of my list.’

  ‘Feel free but I think he’s an honest man.’

  ‘I don’t know where you got that. From what I hear he has convictions for violence and gang-related activities.’

  ‘Not for a long time. People change.’

  ‘Yeah and pigs fly. We should have been looking into him from day one. A murder in your parish and a thug like him for a neighbour? Whose side are you on, Nick?’

  We’re back in Havelock by midafternoon. As I haven’t had any lunch and the bakery has closed, the choice is a pie from the Four Square or something at the hotel. The thought of a Four Square pie after what happened in their coldroom is too much to stomach. Sometimes it’s mind over matter. One pizza and L&P at the hotel later, and I’m fighting fit. Doug is there in his usual seat.

  ‘Found your murderer yet?’
/>
  ‘No.’

  ‘Make it quick. Gettin’ sick of having so many strangers in town. You’d think it was summer.’

  ‘Do my best. Know anybody around here with a dark-coloured delivery van?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Just asking.’

  ‘Funny that. I was panning up Pear Tree Flat the other day and there was one parked way back in the trees. Looks like it’s been there a while.’

  By the time we get back up to Pear Tree, it’s gone.

  ‘Doug said he was here at the weekend when he saw it.’

  ‘But our searchers never saw it today and they had a good look,’ says Gemma, defensively.

  ‘So it’s been hidden here since the murder and driven out later. Maybe more footage from the Lodge CCTV will tell us precisely when.’

  There are tyre tracks for forensics and, Doug being Doug, we have a more accurate description of the colour and make of the van and he even noted the rego. ‘Could have been somebody dredging another fella’s claim without permission. Can’t have that, can we?’

  Maxwell is sufficiently happy with my expert sleuthing over a hotel pizza to not take too seriously Gemma’s complaints about my handling of the Hemi matter. It’s now early Tuesday evening and while we’ve been beating around the bush at Pear Tree, a warrant has been served at the Lodge for footage since the weekend. I’ve brought my own vehicle with me this time so there’s no need to go back into town. Gemma has a parting shot before I jump into the ute to go home.

  ‘I haven’t finished with Hemi, or you.’

  I’m with Doug on this one. The sooner we solve this, the sooner we can all get back to normal.

  When I pull into my driveway, Michael Walton’s ute is still there, piled with bales of pea hay. It’ll be dark soon. If he’s been here since just after school time then he’s made himself very comfortable – we’re talking two hours at least.

  ‘Evening,’ he says, standing up from his cuppa at our kitchen table to shake my hand. Over his shoulder Vanessa rolls her eyes and points at her watch.

  ‘You brought the hay, then.’

  ‘And me,’ says Paulie, looking up from his homework, a drawing of some sort.