Doom Creek

by Alan Carter

  ‘So I’m lying. Is that it?’

  ‘Are you?’

  ‘It’s a funny little detail to lie about, don’t you think? I mean of all the things I could make up.’

  He has a point. ‘Tell me about your take on the Lucy McLernon murder.’

  ‘What are you after, specifically?’

  ‘You had no suspects at all?’

  ‘Apart from the motel manager, all of the creeps in town, half the blokes in that nutty sect, her husband? Of course we had suspects but none of them matched up enough to pursue. No trace evidence, the key POIs had alibis. What are you getting at?’

  ‘What was your job on the case?’

  ‘Like with Robertson, managing the locus.’

  ‘And Keegan’s?’

  ‘She led the enquiry team: door-to-doors, CCTV, collating witness statements and cross-referencing.’

  ‘Big job.’

  ‘She was ambitious. Wanted to control everything. Nothing’s changed.’

  ‘You two got on?’

  ‘Did she set you on me?’

  ‘Just asking questions, mate. Trying to find where the truth lies. Tell me about the crime scene. Anything strike you about it?’

  ‘Apart from the presence of a naked dead woman and gallons of blood?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘For such a messy scene there was remarkably little evidence of anybody else being there apart from the victim.’

  ‘Wiped?’

  ‘Professionally I’d say.’

  ‘I don’t recall reading that in the case file.’

  ‘Didn’t you? Well, well. And you probably missed the bit about a second or third perp too.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You’re right, you missed nothing. That wasn’t in there either.’

  Watson orders another pinot noir but I’m driving so I’ll stick to water. He tells me there are contradictions in the few statements recorded. A witness in a neighbouring motel room recalled hearing several male voices that last evening in McLernon’s room although he couldn’t be sure it wasn’t the radio or TV. Meanwhile another witness two doors down on the other side had stepped outside for a smoke at around midnight just as Lucy McLernon’s door opened and a man left the room walking swiftly across the car park to disappear into the darkness. Average height and build, and Pākehā. The smoker’s eyewitness account focused the enquiry on a single perpetrator and this wasn’t contradicted by crime scene forensic evidence.

  ‘But?’

  ‘There’s an industrial cleaning company based in Nelson. Among other things they specialise in rehabilitating crime scenes once the cops have finished their work. Clean the carpets, mop the floors, spray a bit of air freshener – that type of thing.’

  I’ve heard of them – Taurus Cleaning Services. Run by a five-foot-two bundle of energy, good cheer, and dark jokes. ‘Tui Kaitu?’

  ‘That’s her. Employs a whole load of casuals. Particularly favours backpackers. Likes ordering around the tall blonde Scandi girls. Who wouldn’t?’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So she came up to me a few days after the scene was cleared for cleaning and said one of her “Ingrids”, as she calls them, had hoovered up a necklace chain, silver, like you might have your crucifix on. Must have been missed by forensics. Thought we should know.’

  ‘Why did she come to you?’

  ‘We’ve known each other for years. After this long in the job, you get that.’

  ‘So you passed it on to the enquiry?’

  ‘Yep, gave it to forensics and reported it to Keegan. She had it lab tested but it didn’t match anybody in the system. Decided it didn’t change anything but thanked me for it anyway.’

  ‘But that wasn’t the end of it.’

  ‘McLernon never wore such a chain as far as we knew. If the theory is that Robertson circumstantially was the killer and that’s why he died later, he never wore a crucifix either.’

  ‘But it could have been left by a previous motel guest or employee.’

  ‘Possible.’

  ‘The chain was entered into evidence?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘So what’s the problem between you and Keegan on this?’

  ‘I went back to her after the Robertson killing. Reminded her about the chain. Pointed out he didn’t wear one. Posited the theory of a second or even third person-of-interest or that maybe Robertson didn’t do it. She didn’t want to know.’

  ‘An inconvenient truth?’

  ‘Something like that. I still bring it up now and again to anyone who’ll listen. I don’t think she appreciates it, especially not in her new job.’

  ‘It’s not just sour grapes because she got it and you didn’t?’

  ‘I never even applied. Is that the line they’re pushing? Grumpy old man with a grudge?’

  ‘You wouldn’t be the first.’

  ‘I probably won’t be the last. Take a look at that chain in the evidence store for yourself. If they’ve sent you off on a wild goose chase we may as well all get the benefit.’

  It’s dark heading back over the Whangamoa Saddle. The wind that was tearing into us earlier at David Ford’s place has eased. From Maxwell, before leaving mobile range, I heard that neither Jaxon Hemi nor Georges LeBlanc have been found but that DNA from LeBlanc’s toothbrush, comb and a pillow seized from the Lodge place him inside the van with Gelder and with the boy Melvyn. So we know who killed Gelder even if we don’t yet know why. When I reach the Rai Saddle, it’s a maze of traffic cones as the road realignment takes shape. They intend to straighten out some of those tight bends so the speed demons don’t have to learn the art of patience and slow down. Literally moving mountains in order to try and appease the unappeasable. Ironing out a hairpin bend in New Zealand seems unpatriotic to me, but what do I know?

  On the valley road, rabbits scamper while possums and hedgehogs idle suicidally in the headlights. There’s an orange glow out west, another pleasant valley sunset. Late though. The sun went down ages ago but the geography plays tricks around here. Rounding the last bend, I can see now it’s not a sunset glow at all.

  My home is on fire.

  22.

  ‘Vanessa? Paulie?’

  Flames fill the kitchen. The doorway is engulfed. No way I can get through there.

  ‘Vanessa!’

  The two downstairs bedrooms, including Paulie’s, are the same. Smoke. Flames. Blistering heat. What little breeze there is feeds the fire. Popping and cracking sounds. How long before the house collapses? Round to the back balcony, slipping on the gravel. I can’t use my mobile to call for help, there’s no signal. Not even emergency. Jesus.

  ‘Vanessa!’

  The flames, smoke and heat are less intense back here. A hundred metres below me, the river rushes over the rocks. All that water passing by uselessly. The back verandah doors are locked. A precaution after our recent prowler. I hammer on it with my palms. Trying to see through the inferno.

  ‘Vanessa!’

  The walls are blistering on the outside. There’s a barbecue gas bottle sitting waiting to blow. I disconnect it and hurl it over the balcony into the bush. Grabbing one of the larger rocks from the driveway I smash the back patio door glass and unsnick the lock. The extra oxygen rushes in to feed the furnace. An angry menacing flare like a shove before a fight.

  ‘Vanessa? Paulie?’

  A smell of burning flesh and hair. I’m hoping it’s just me.

  Coughing.

  ‘Vanessa?’

  ‘Upstairs. Paulie is with me. Get us out of here.’

  The living room floor is collapsing. Just a matter of time before walls and ceiling go too. And the wooden house supports. The stairs are a wall of flames, fed by the oxygen from the broken window.

  ‘Go to the window on the river side. Above the water tank.’

  Either side is a five-metre drop but the tank gives them a chance of breaking the fall. A crash and a huge hole opens up in the kitchen floor, and another in the living room. The roof be
ams are disintegrating now. Another crash and a yelp.

  ‘Dad! Mum’s fallen down.’

  There’s a sink out on the balcony. I soak my jacket, wrap it around my face and charge through the firewall. That smell of burning flesh and hair is definitely me and I feel it now too. Searing pain. Up those stairs, cracking and collapsing under my feet. Too much smoke, I can’t see a thing. My lungs don’t want to work. Stumbling, I find Paulie and drag him to the window, push it wide open.

  ‘Jump.’

  ‘It’s too high.’

  ‘Do it. The water tank is there.’

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Do it, Paulie. I need to help Mum.’

  He goes. A thump, a crack, another thud. Paulie screaming and crying. Good, he’s alive.

  ‘Vanessa?’ I can hardly get the word out. Coughing. Gasping. Back to where Paulie was, creeping along the burning floor. More cracks. Clouds of sparks. Another roof beam collapses. I see her now. Eyes wide, she’s in terrible pain. The beam is across her lower leg. Smouldering. I lift it off. Drag her to the window. Help her on to the sill. She doesn’t wait to be told.

  Gone.

  In the distance, headlights out on the road.

  I jump.

  23.

  Paulie has a sprained ankle. Vanessa has vicious burns to her lower left leg that will require skin grafts. Mine aren’t so serious: blistered hands, arms and head. The house is a wreck and we’re homeless.

  ‘Well that’s one decision made.’

  Vanessa’s right. That stunning view out on to the Wakamarina river is no longer an option, for the foreseeable future at least. Vanessa is being kept in the hospital in Nelson for a day or two more. I hug her farewell and though she’s putting on a brave face, it feels like she doesn’t want to let go. Now Paulie and I are shacked up in the secure suite on the top floor of Nelson cop shop normally reserved for visiting dignitaries. He’s been there before, a year or so back, while his mum decided whether or not to leave me and while I waited at home for a Geordie gangster to come and settle some old scores. Paulie’s made himself right at home; he has his foot resting on a cushion while he has a banana and watches Spongebob Squarepants on TV.

  ‘The goats and chooks?’ he says.

  ‘The neighbours will look after them.’

  ‘For ever?’

  ‘We might be able to have chooks in the new place. Not so sure about the goats, mate.’

  ‘Not fair.’ Another couple of bites of the banana. ‘Prob’ly for the best though.’ He’s got his mother’s ability to move on quickly. He’d gone early to bed last night but then he’d had a scary dream about the Mim sleepover prowler and crept upstairs to be with Vanessa. It probably saved his life. The ground floor bedrooms were the first to go. Vanessa too had dropped off early as she sometimes does after too many late nights finally catch up. Something woke her and she smelled the smoke, by which time things were already out of control.

  There’s a knock at the door. DC Keegan has brought a bag of groceries and a Tupperware food container. ‘Lamb curry. Not too spicy I hope. And a few things to keep you going.’

  ‘Nice of you.’

  ‘Not a problem. My assistant did the shopping. I had a spare load of curry in the freezer; I do a big cook-up every weekend for the coming week.’ Keegan never struck me as the domestic goddess type but there you go. ‘How are you all doing?’

  ‘We’re alive.’

  ‘The fire investigator says it was deliberate. She found traces of accelerant under the laundry.’

  ‘Three guesses who’s behind this.’

  ‘Shouldn’t rush to conclusions, Nick.’

  ‘Heaven forbid.’ As it happens I won’t be rushing anywhere today. Paulie needs some TLC and Vanessa wouldn’t want me straying too far. Vengeance isn’t easy when you have care commitments. ‘What did the spooks have to say?’

  ‘James Bryant is untouchable. He has powerful friends both in Washington and Wellington. Until recently he sat on some intelligence committee. Knows stuff. Knows secrets. He’s also a generous political donor in his own right, again in both places.’

  ‘But we have a new government now.’

  ‘That’s our wriggle room. He picked the losing side this time and while the new mob aren’t vindictive neither are they seeing him as a priority.’

  ‘Who’s giving us the “hands off” message then?’

  ‘A cabal of young fogey hardliners in SIS. They’re in their jobs because of their strong relationships with the far-right cousins in America, Oz and the UK. It’s part of a pushback against what they call the leftie virtue-signallers in the new government.’

  ‘So while we get our houses burned down and contend with psychos, these spooks are engaging in some petty culture wars?’

  ‘Seems to me we should just get on with doing our jobs and forget those spoilt private school tossers.’ There it is again, that vaguely Scouse class war accent asserting itself just when we need it.

  ‘What’s the plan?’ I ask Keegan.

  ‘Red card the wankers in the Lodge. Send in the AOS to evict them. Make life so hard they just piss off of their own accord.’

  ‘What if Bryant flexes his muscles?’

  ‘Something solid linking the Lodge to the Gelder murder would go a long way. Plus I hear Bryant’s on the wrong end of some presidential tweets of late and being anally probed by a federal prosecutor in Washington. His days of wine and roses are numbered. We can kick him while he’s down.’

  James Bryant – the man and the money behind Māhana – about to face his own private apocalypse over in the USA. Perhaps relishing the idea of locking himself in his little Kiwi panic room far, far away.

  ‘Maybe we should be careful what we wish for.’

  ‘The police house is yours whenever you’re ready.’

  Latifa is on the phone. I recall at some point seeing her by the light of the flickering flames coordinating the rescue effort, ordering neighbours around, keeping gawpers away, directing the fire engines through as they arrived just in time to douse the embers. The day has slid by in a blur, back and forth to the hospital, phone calls to insurers, paperwork for the bosses.

  ‘That’s your home.’

  ‘I’m moving in with Daniel. We’ll be getting our own place anyway after the wedding.’

  ‘Thanks, Latifa.’

  ‘No worries. How are Vanessa and Paulie?’

  ‘Hurting, but nothing terminal. We were lucky.’

  ‘Are we going after Cunningham?’

  ‘All in good time, yes.’ Paulie is waving, pointing at his watch. It’s time to go back to the hospital to visit Vanessa again. ‘Keegan tells me there’s still no word on the AOS hunt for LeBlanc or the search for Jaxon.’

  ‘Thomas is beside himself. It’s not looking good.’

  ‘No. It isn’t.’ Paulie is frowning, getting agitated. Promptness is important to him. ‘Sorry, got to go.’

  ‘Give my regards to everybody. And look after yourself, okay?’

  ‘Will do.’

  School’s out as we edge along Waimea Road to the hospital. A phalanx of shiny Audi and BMW 4WDs is drawn up outside Nelson College and I’m reminded of those privileged brats in SIS playing their ideological games while the real world burns down. In a quiet room of her own, courtesy of some Keegan arm-twisting of hospital admin, Vanessa is in a lot of pain and zonked out on medication for most of the visit. Paulie, well out of sorts, is happy to have an early night and some lamb curry. He falls asleep next to me on the couch while I brood and plot vengeance.

  24.

  Wednesday. Two days since my house burned down. They found Jaxon Hemi early this morning. A mussel boat out in Pelorus Sound came across him during a routine check of the lines. He was attached by cable ties to one of the buoys. He’d been shot in the head, point-blank. Jaxon hung in the water, arms outstretched, in an obscene parody of the crucifixion. On display as a message to all and sundry. Sixteen years young.

  ‘How long are we going
to wait before moving on Cunningham?’

  ‘At the moment there’s no connection.’ Keegan’s voice gives it all away. She doesn’t even believe it herself. ‘Let the process unfold. Forensics. Postmortem. Who knows, we might have all we need in the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours.’

  ‘Don’t count on Thomas Hemi waiting that long.’

  ‘He’d be crazy to try anything on his own.’

  ‘He’s a resourceful man and now a grieving father. Assume nothing.’

  ‘Can you talk him down? We really need to keep a lid on this. Do it our way.’

  ‘Bit tied up with things here.’

  ‘What about Rapata? Would she have any influence?’

  ‘Being Māori?’

  ‘Being the village cop. Don’t give me a hard time, Nick.’

  ‘I’ll talk to her.’

  Latifa must have been expecting my call. ‘It didn’t help that they sent Gemma and some other goon to give him the news. They were lucky to get out alive.’

  ‘He’ll be okay with you?’

  ‘Fingers crossed. What can we promise him? Utu’s a pretty powerful thing to be bargaining away.’

  ‘No point making promises we might not be able to keep. If the person who did this was one of the Yanks, I can’t guarantee he won’t just be whisked out of the country.’

  ‘And you want me to tell him that?’

  ‘I don’t want to bullshit him.’

  ‘You know what? He might be best left alone to do whatever he needs to do.’

  ‘It could get out of hand.’

  ‘Three dead so far, your house burned down, an out-of-control private militia down the road. Bit late to worry about that.’

  ‘Still.’

  A sigh. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’ She has other news. ‘The Von Crapps aren’t the only people who’ve left the valley recently.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘The islander house is empty too.’ Charlie Evans’ farmhand, Israel, and his Vanuatuan compatriots.

  ‘Significance?’

  ‘They were there one night, gone the next morning. One of the redneck neighbours was bragging about it, about how the Yanks were doing our job for us.’