Doom Creek

by Alan Carter

  ‘Old boyfriends, work colleagues? Marriage was obviously shaky if she ran away to join the Jesus freaks.’

  ‘Husband seemed a good bloke. Genuinely upset by her leaving, not upset angry, upset hurt. Same with the news of her death – genuine sad. I think he loved her.’

  There’s a pause. ‘But?’

  Watson shrugs. Helps himself to a couple more mussels. ‘It wasn’t reciprocal. A couple of old girlfriends reckoned the marriage was a sham from day one. A keeping-up-appearances type thing. She was pregnant and the parents put pressure on her to marry.’

  ‘New Zealand in the twenty-first century.’

  ‘More like her family and their judgmental friends in the twenty-first century.’

  ‘Fair point.’ He’s not such a dinosaur after all. ‘So the husband was more like a fling that was made permanent. Was there a one true love in the background?’

  ‘If there was he, or she, didn’t have a name. Maybe she craved spiritual satisfaction over base carnality.’

  ‘Very poetic.’

  ‘You taking the piss?’ Watson pushes his bowl of mussel shells away. ‘Brass tacks. We had no evidence of a previous lover, or family member, or fellow cult member doing the deed. We did have suspicions that the motel manager, Robertson, was a sleazy prick who had convictions and complaints for filming his guests, exposing himself, and such. But no rapes or other violence in his history.’

  ‘And he was able to get a job like that?’

  ‘He didn’t own the place, he was a duty manager. Somebody didn’t check his references or criminal record. It happens.’

  ‘So do you think his murder was connected with hers? Payback?’

  ‘No evidence found but nothing to discount that as one theory.’

  ‘Other theories?’

  ‘Payback for some other sleaze? Robertson also had drug debts. He was a bit of a party guy.’

  ‘Drug debts would be a more likely scenario for the execution-style killing, yeah?’

  ‘S’pose so.’

  There’s another ‘but’ in the air. ‘Refill?’ The topped-up glass keeps him talking.

  ‘There were no signs of struggle at the motel. No noises heard. The sand on the beach, where it wasn’t washed away, the tracks were orderly. Nobody was dragging him kicking and screaming.’

  ‘He didn’t see it coming and he knew his killer?’ Watson peruses the menu. As it’s my treat, he orders himself cheesecake for dessert. ‘Make that two,’ I tell the waitperson. ‘And coffees, please.’

  ‘That stuff is all on the database,’ he points out.

  ‘Not the orderly tracks in the sand.’

  ‘Funny. Sure that was in my notes somewhere. Thought I’d inputted it.’

  ‘The tracks. Did they lead back somewhere after the deed? A car park? Tyre impressions? Sightings?’

  ‘Nah. Just the two sets leading in. None leading out.’

  ‘So the murderer came in further up the beach? If the tide is coming in you just walk along the shoreline and it’ll be washed away.’

  ‘Looks like it.’ The desserts arrive and Watson makes a great show of digging in.

  ‘Thin air after that?’

  ‘Poof!’ he says, scooping up some cheesecake.

  It’s after nine by the time I’m heading back up the valley road. Watson declined my offer of a spare bed and opted to drive back to Nelson. He’s probably on the edge of the alcohol limit but not enough for me to insist. He’s a big boy. Vanessa is still at her books as I drop my keys on the kitchen table. We snog a while.

  ‘Blue cheese,’ she says, wrinkling her nose. ‘Nice. Who’s your friend?’

  ‘An old-timer from Nelson. Worked a case on the west coast which might link to the Butchers Flat body.’

  ‘Does it?’

  ‘Not so far.’

  ‘As wild goose chases go, a meal at The Mussel Pot isn’t half bad.’

  ‘Tough work but somebody’s got to do it. All quiet on the home front?’

  ‘Yep, Paulie’s still pushing for a Mim sleepover this weekend. Maybe we should oblige?’

  ‘S’pose so. It’s a funny set-up there. I’m just as inclined to get out the barge pole.’

  ‘Maybe she’ll give something away about what’s going on? Call it intelligence gathering.’

  ‘It’s sneaky and underhand using a child like that.’

  ‘Yes. Put the kettle on.’ Taps her pen on her teeth. ‘Your appointment’s tomorrow down at Blenheim.’

  ‘Yep.’ Focus on the kettle, the switch, the mugs, the teabags.

  ‘I’ve organised cover for the half day. I’m coming with you.’

  ‘No need.’

  ‘I’m coming anyway. We’ll drop Paulie at school and head down there together.’

  ‘Ordinary or herbal?’

  ‘It’s going to be fine, Nick.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Herbal.’

  16.

  My mate Billy’s mum died of brain cancer. He must have been all of seven and she was all of thirty-eight. I remember her fading away those last few months. The beanie and the wig to cover the hair loss. The brave smile. Big eyes. Hollow cheeks. The paleness. The wheelchair. My mate retreating into himself. Billy going through the motions. Billy raging at those around him. Billy staring out of the window and the teacher letting him. Billy moving to another school, nearer to his grandparents.

  Billy and his mum are on my mind a lot today. Billy’s there when I drop Paulie off at school, hugging him overlong so that he finally and gently pulls away from me embarrassed and a little scared. I see the pale shadow of Billy’s mum as I change out of my clothes into the flimsy paper nightgown and lie down on the scanner bed awaiting the hum and click.

  ‘What music do you like?’ asks the technician.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You’ll be in that tin can for a while. How about some tunes to pass the time? Classical, rock’n’roll, jazz, blues, folk, country and western?’

  Maybe some Death Metal. ‘Classical? Something calm?’

  ‘I like a bit of Bach cello myself. That suit you?’

  ‘Sure.’

  The gown feels as thin as a last breath. I’m not good with doctors, hospitals, health scares, and I always assume the worst. That’s me catastrophising again. One of these days my pessimism is going to be spot on and then I’ll be sorry.

  ‘All done?’ Vanessa’s waiting for me when I come out. ‘That was quicker than I expected.’

  ‘That’s it for now. There’ll be an appointment with the neurologist once the results are out.’

  ‘Any ideas when?’

  ‘Results are probably already there waiting to be read and interpreted. It’s a matter of when the specialist is free.’

  ‘It’s going to be fine, Nick. Really.’

  We both agree it absolutely is. I drop her back at school and head to the town hall. Gemma and I are meant to build a case for bringing in Georges LeBlanc for questioning. She’ll have been doing more digging this morning while I’ve been staring into the abyss with that red line moving up and down my face.

  ‘Plenty of Gelder’s DNA in the van. Plus others too. Bit soupy, they reckon.’

  ‘No sightings at the Renwick sportsground for who might have left the van there?’

  She shakes her head. ‘Nearest neighbours think it arrived late at night.’

  ‘So if it was driven out of Pear Tree Flat on Sunday morning, they drove it around for the whole day before dumping it.’

  ‘Or parked it somewhere else for a while. We’ve got people on car park and street cameras in Blenheim and Picton during that day. Meanwhile I’ve been doing some digging on your Monsieur LeBlanc.’

  Predictably he has police, military and private security history as well as connections to far-right US groups such as the Aryan Brotherhood and KKK. Discharged from the military in 2010 after tours of Iraq and Afghanistan. His police service seems to have been mainly in small-town or county sheriff’s departments where references
and aptitude are sometimes less valued than loyalty and discretion. Uniformed thugs on the public purse acting with impunity in the American heartland. Who’da thought?

  ‘Where did you get all this?’

  ‘Some links from DC Keegan’s contact. Looks like the girls are pushing back against the spooks’ boys club.’ Gemma is buzzing, maybe she feels part of history in some way. Or at least part of a team.

  ‘And even with this “background”, he gets to come here?’

  ‘No criminal convictions. Decorated military veteran. Ex-law enforcement official. On the face of it, a model citizen.’

  ‘No specifics on why the Lodge is supposedly a no-go area?’

  ‘Not yet. That stuff is still classified. What we have here isn’t.’

  ‘Any more on the Alicia Gomez case?’

  ‘No.’ She enjoys my disappointed frown. ‘But we have yet another nasty unsolved death on his watch in a place called Nogales, border with Arizona and Mexico. Abel Hernandez, forty-two, married, three kids.’

  ‘Let me guess, Border Patrol?’

  ‘Nothing so formal and accountable. Once again, private security subcontracted to protect and monitor, among other things, an abattoir known to employ heaps of illegals.’

  It turns out that one morning a body was discovered in one of the slaughterhouse coldrooms cable-tied to a chair and tortured to death.

  ‘Similar injuries?’

  She nods. ‘Very. Same kind of tools. LeBlanc was on duty that night and the victim had been subdued by a shot of ketamine to the neck.’

  ‘But LeBlanc wasn’t charged?’

  ‘Nothing specifically pointed to him. Plus the abattoir owner was the sheriff’s cousin and a major political donor. Official story was of a quote, “wetback drug-gang feud”.’

  ‘Any unofficial stories?’

  ‘Plenty. Unpaid debts, whistleblowing the people traffickers, you name it. The company had recently lost a lawsuit taken out by the union alleging wage theft and sexual exploitation. Abel’s name features in some of the news stories.’

  ‘That’s enough for me. Is Maxwell around?’

  ‘Yes, I am.’ And so he is, right behind me.

  ‘Been there long?’

  ‘Long enough. You’re right. We need to talk to this guy and we’re going to have to go in hard this time. We want this guy’s spit and fingerprints on file.’ He stands straight, a man with a rediscovered purpose. ‘Early start tomorrow with the ninjas. I’ll organise it.’

  ‘All hands on deck?’

  ‘Yep. Even you, Nick.’

  Back in the cop shop, I bring Latifa up to speed.

  ‘That’s some damning background. Pretty detailed too.’ She mutes an incoming call on her mobile. ‘Sounds like a power struggle going on in some grey building in Wellington and we’re being played.’

  ‘You sure you’re just a hick country cop?’

  She shrugs. ‘Whatever. Let the suits push and shove if it means getting what you need to send those hillbilly fuckwits on their way.’

  ‘Kind of how I saw it too. Besides, the boys in the Lodge are expendable and the guy with the high-level protection is this Bryant fella who owns the properties here and on the Sounds.’

  ‘Maybe he’ll find it’s all a bit too hard and bugger off somewhere else with his crazy ideas. Aussie, maybe. He’d go down well there.’

  ‘Crackpot, Christian, misogynist, racist, tax-avoider. You reckon?’

  ‘Am I invited tomorrow?’

  ‘Maxwell said all hands on deck so yep, why not?’

  Latifa seems happy enough with that and turns her mind to the overnight log and some stats ahead of a scoot out on SH6. ‘By the way, we tracked down the Von Crapps. Steve pulled one of them over for speeding last night. Gave a Blenheim address.’

  ‘Good, they’re off our patch. Less paperwork.’

  ‘Their old Waka neighbours would agree. Apparently they’re jubilant. How’d it go at the hospital today?’

  ‘Just some tests. Pretty routine.’

  ‘That to do with the memory lapse you had with Gelder?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Be sweet if we can pin this Gelder thing on Georges, get a clear bill for you from the doc, brand new start.’

  ‘Suit me.’

  ‘Maybe I can get up close to that Georges bloke, look into his eyes, see if he was the one that tried to kill me.’

  ‘He ticks all the right psycho boxes.’

  ‘That would be good, eh?’

  ‘Live in hope.’

  We retreat into our own thoughts. Hers, I’m sure, dwelling on a slow horrific death in a beautiful native forest. Mine feature hospital waiting rooms, humming machines, X-rays and scalpels. I tamp them down with the distraction of a cold case going nowhere. Nigel Watson lied to me last night, I’m sure of it. He didn’t forget to input that vital information about the footprints into the case files. He deliberately withheld it. Did he mean for it to come out last night? Showing off and slipping up? Or was it a deliberate drip-feed?

  Opening up the database to check, it’s clear I was right. There’s no mention of footprints in the sand although it’s obvious there should be. Where’s the quality control? Crime Scene 101 – any sign of anybody else having been here? Watson was in charge of the locus, and Keegan’s predecessor – ex-DC Ford – in charge of the whole case. The quality control buck should stop with him. Maybe he warrants a visit to see how retirement is going. Leaving a message on his brusque voicemail, I’m tempted to call it a day even though it’s only midafternoon. Tomorrow’s an early start at the Lodge and concentration evades me. There’s a throbbing migraine gearing up at the back of my head. Stress or symptom?

  ‘Need to take an early one. I’ll follow up on this plumber’s list at home.’

  ‘Sure,’ says Latifa. ‘Nothing much going on. Calm before tomorrow’s storm. You okay?’

  ‘Might have a flu coming on. You happy to hold the fort?’

  ‘No probs. Take it easy, Nick.’ Latifa rarely calls me by my name and it almost brings me to tears. This is crazy. A massive hypochondriac overreaction.

  My head is pounding as I turn off SH6 at Canvastown to take the valley road. An SMS has come back from ex-DC Ford, plain Dave nowadays, for a catch-up at The Free House in Nelson over the weekend. Sure, there’s no hurry and the only thing on my mind right now is a nice lie-down in a quiet dark room. There’s a roadblock outside the Lodge. An armed roadblock. What the fuck? A young guy in camos wielding an AR-15 flags me down at the narrowed road-calming speed bump.

  ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘Sorry, sir. We’re just checking vehicles on this road.’

  ‘You don’t have the right.’ He can see my uniform, I don’t need to explain myself. ‘Pack this crap up straight away and go home.’

  ‘Step out of the car, sir. We need to do a body search.’

  ‘Fuck off, you’re in New Zealand, dickhead. Clear the way.’

  Now the car is surrounded and there are guns being brandished.

  ‘Step out of the car.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Five seconds.’

  ‘You guys are out of line.’

  ‘Three.’

  ‘Piss off.’

  ‘One.’

  The doors open and hands haul me out. I’m pushed over the bonnet of my car. Legs kicked apart, hands patting me down. ‘Get Cunningham. Tell him it’s me. Sergeant Chester.’

  ‘Sure, man.’ Big joke apparently. He gets on a two-way and crackles for a while. The big gate swings open and Daniel Boone, AKA Georges LeBlanc, strolls over, bends to my ear as I’m held down. ‘Sergeant?’

  My head is ready to burst. ‘I asked for Cunningham.’

  ‘Mr Cunningham is busy.’

  ‘Get these jokers off me and off the road or there’s going to be trouble.’

  ‘We had trespassers on our property overnight. We’re conducting enquiries.’

  ‘Trespassers?’

  ‘Hunters. Poachers.’


  It’s the same line I used out at Māhana. Payback. ‘This is the Wakamarina, get used to it. You can’t take the law into your own hands.’ The horizon tilting and lurching. ‘What you are doing is illegal. You have no right to block the road, no right to stop traffic, no right to be waving those guns around. You’re not the police, I am.’

  ‘This road is our property, Sergeant. We checked the records.’

  ‘Bullshit.’

  ‘Absolutely not, I assure you.’

  ‘Get this goon off me.’

  LeBlanc’s hot breath is on my cheek. There’s cigarettes in the mix. Meat. And something chemical. ‘You really have no idea what you’re messing with, do you?’

  He straightens up and signals to the lads to release me and go back inside the main gate. I dust myself down and slide back into the car.

  ‘In the spirit of cooperation.’ He grins and slaps the roof twice. ‘Enjoy the rest of your day, buddy.’

  I think in geo-diplomacy that’s known as a show of force. My head is spinning and I’m in no shape to pursue this.

  He’ll keep.

  Vanessa and Paulie aren’t home yet. Latifa is ready to send in the troops after hearing the latest but will settle for following up the road boundary issue with the council.

  ‘Get them to check that section on Charlie’s land too, where the firing range is.’

  ‘Sure. This is completely fucked, Sarge. They need booting.’

  ‘Tomorrow, Latifa. It’ll wait.’

  I drop the phone and just make it in time to the toilet bowl before doing a big spew. Cleaned up and a couple of Panadol later, it’s bed for me.

  It’s dark when Vanessa wakes me. She looks worried. ‘Love? You alright?’

  The headache has gone and I feel like eating. ‘Probably just stress. Been a full on few days.’

  ‘Aye. Hell of a day to get a migraine. You haven’t had one of those for a while. Have you?’

  ‘No,’ I lie. ‘All good now though.’ A reheated chicken stir-fry and a mug of tea make all the difference. ‘Paulie in bed?’

  ‘It’s eleven o’clock.’

  ‘I’ve been out all that time?’

  ‘Cold. I came this close to calling the ambulance but you were breathing fine and just seemed heavily asleep.’

  ‘Must’ve needed it.’