Doom Creek

by Alan Carter

  ‘I’ve been in hospital, mate. Serious personal stuff going on. What you’re doing doesn’t help.’

  ‘Yeah, well. Sorry. Nobody told me.’

  Like it’s my fault. ‘No excuse for abuse like that. You’re lucky I don’t come round and knock your block off.’

  ‘Not a good idea in your condition. Do you want the news or not?’

  ‘Jesus. Go on then.’

  ‘The silver chain missing from the McLernon evidence? I found it.’

  It takes a moment for me to work out what he’s on about. It’s been a while. ‘I never realised it was missing. You said it was entered into the store.’

  ‘I thought it was. It should have been but it wasn’t. I checked after I told you because I knew you’d never get around to it.’

  ‘So where did it turn up?’

  ‘In the Robertson box.’

  ‘The motel manager? How come?’

  ‘Exactly. It was found at the McLernon scene in the motel room but ends up in the evidence store for a murder committed six months later and elsewhere.’

  This is giving me a new headache. ‘Somebody is pissing about.’

  ‘Spot on, and it’s not me.’

  ‘What made you look there?’

  ‘They’re related. I was worried, with the chain missing, that maybe the Robertson stuff had been tampered with too.’

  ‘There would be in-out logs for each, computerised and hard copy. Showing dates of evidence entry and who by. It’s not so easy to tamper these days.’

  ‘You’d think that, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Tell me, I know you’re dying to.’

  ‘Cold-case review. Just over a year ago, not an official one. No logs entered or records kept. All internal and informal as part of a handover.’

  ‘Handover?’

  ‘Outgoing Commander Ford and incoming Commander Keegan tidying up loose ends on their shared unsolveds.’

  It’s not my fight. Really, it isn’t. If Watson wants to go up against Keegan and Ford over some old cases or old grudges, he’s welcome. I’m not even investigating the McLernon and Robertson murders. They’re tangential to the Havelka case and there’s no discernible link so far. Until I get an all-clear or a dive-dive-dive from the neurologist I’m not really interested in Havelka either. Nigel Watson is beginning to suspect me of being in on some conspiracy and he’s welcome to that as well. He needs a nasty disease or a posting to the remote Kermadec Islands to get his priorities reformulated and his empathy retuned. To think I bought the wanker a bowl of mussels too.

  Aware that neither Vanessa nor I are in good condition for driving, Mim’s mum calls to collect Paulie for the sleepover. While Mim helps Paulie get his act together and Vanessa issues reminders to him not to forget this and that, I chat on our threshold.

  ‘Jan, wasn’t it?’

  She smiles. ‘Still is. You lot have had some dramas. How’s it going?’

  ‘Getting there. Thanks for having Paulie over.’

  ‘Our pleasure. He’s a great guy and easy to please.’

  A sudden gust of wind catches her hair and blows it across her face. I fight the urge to brush it aside. ‘You guys are gradually settling in then?’

  ‘Yep. Just taken delivery of some chickens. Mim and Paul can compare notes.’

  ‘Did you have a big block in Nelson?’

  ‘Nelson?’

  ‘That’s where Paulie said you’d moved from.’

  ‘Maybe Mim’s making things up again. She’s got quite an imagination.’

  ‘So where?’

  ‘West coast. Near Greymouth.’

  ‘Mim’s dad?’

  ‘Yes, he’s from there too.’

  ‘Is?’

  ‘Was. Ah, here they come, finally.’ Bundling them into the car, Jan gives me a parting wave and it’s clear she’s glad the interrogation is over.

  After lunch Vanessa takes a nap and I hop online. I’m restless and disturbed. Nigel Watson is messing with my brain, as if it didn’t have enough to worry about. So it’s back to the McLernon and Robertson cases. What is it about them that would make Keegan and Ford take an interest as recently as last year and not deem the disclosure of such recent interest worthy of a mention to me? Something rings a bell, DC Keegan had said to me. Too bloody right it did.

  Logging into the database and following the links, I can see there’s definitely no official mention of a cold case review. So why the interest and how come Nigel Watson was aware of it? There’s a headache nagging in my rear cortex and I don’t like to think what’s behind it. Warding off the impending migraine, I slam down a couple of Panadols and hope for the best. The police computer system is confused by my unusual log-in location and my erratic and irregular access of late. It decides to block me from going much further until I’m properly back on duty, in uniform, clean-shaven, and re-vetted by the IT department – it doesn’t fancy the look of me one bit.

  Google it is then. The archives of the local Greymouth scandal sheet enjoyed a lurid few days reporting on the rape and murder of former Whakakitenga community member Lucy McLernon in a motel up the coast at Westport. They called Lucy a Wellington ‘socialite’, given her upper-class background, although there is little evidence of her gracing any social pages previously. Speculation of a fall from grace, drug and sex abuse allegations at the commune, bikie links, a whole lot of colour and noise but nothing substantial to add to what was already in the official files.

  The same journalist, a certain Ollie Harper – their dedicated crime scribe apparently – ran with the Robertson case six months later. Again, nothing substantial to add to what is already known from the files: the man was shot execution style and found on the local beach. The photo shows an eerie-looking place with sand as black as that at Kaikoura. Robertson had an unsavoury past with allegations of hidden cameras and backpackers being sexually pestered where he worked. Did he commit the McLernon rape and murder or did somebody suspect him of it? Either way, same result: an overdue and extreme comeuppance. Or was it just a drugs thing with the inevitable bikie connection – Morgan Hopu and his hitman, little brother Thomas? Both murders remained unsolved. A small postscript. Just over a year ago Ollie Harper reported from an unnamed police source that Nelson detectives were reviewing the case files of the two unsolved notorious west coast murders and that a number of officers had serious misgivings about those investigations. In particular, the family of Darren Robertson welcomed the review as they believed Darren had been unfairly tainted by certain allegations and they were keen to clear his name posthumously. Outgoing Tasman District Commander Ford was unavailable for comment.

  The words blur. The headache wins. I spew in the toilet then retire to a dark room for the rest of the afternoon, my skull pounding.

  Recovering in time for dinner, I find Vanessa in the kitchen zapping leftover casserole in the microwave and cutting up bread to dip in it. Her fingertips glide across my brow as she gives me a welcome kiss.

  ‘Hungry?’

  ‘Ravenous.’

  ‘How’s the head?’

  ‘Better.’ We keep our fears to ourselves and eat. Changing the subject, I recount the conversation with Mim’s mum.

  ‘So they’re from Greymouth instead of Nelson. No big deal. I’ve got kids in my class who make up much bigger fibs than that. Imaginary parents, grandparents, siblings, pets. Births. Deaths. You name it, and sometimes their living truth is a lot worse than the fib.’

  ‘Guess it’s not important. I just wonder about Paulie being exposed to that fantasising.’

  ‘As opposed to the real life crazies you bring home with you?’

  ‘Good point.’

  The news is on. Another mass shooting in the US. They’re so commonplace these days that it’s hard to maintain the sorrow and the outrage. They certainly don’t seem to want to do anything to stop it. Those same military style assault rifles in the hands of the men at the Lodge, and all perfectly legal in New Zealand. What will it take to change that? Rel
atively sane societies hopefully learn from their mistakes: Dunblane, Port Arthur, you get my drift. Meanwhile, in other news, Kiwi cows have come down with some devastating plague: a kind of bovine Ebola that requires mass exterminations to deal with it. Maybe Godzone is not immune to the Apocalypse after all. My mind turns to Cunningham and to the recently arrived James Bryant. Things have been quiet for at least a week now and Georges LeBlanc, wherever he rests in peace, is buried so deep he’ll never be found.

  ‘Do you remember once I asked if you’d stay if I wasn’t here, or Paulie?’ Vanessa has that look on her face. Big talk time.

  ‘Here being the valley, as I recall.’

  ‘Yes, although now I’ll extend it to New Zealand generally.’

  ‘Yeah, I remember.’

  ‘You were noncommittal at the time.’

  ‘That’d be right.’

  ‘How about now?’

  ‘Things are different now.’

  She purses her lips. ‘No shit.’

  ‘The answer is no, I wouldn’t.’

  ‘Where would you go?’

  ‘Back home.’

  ‘Sunderland?’ She seems surprised at the idea.

  ‘S’pose so. Somewhere for support for Paulie.’

  ‘Same for me, if you weren’t here.’

  ‘I’m not dead yet.’ I try to smile it away as a joke.

  ‘Might be soon, though.’

  ‘Better book your tickets then.’ There’s an edge of spite in my voice and I immediately regret it. ‘Sorry.’

  Her eyes brim. ‘What a pair, eh?’ She stands up, grimacing at the pain, and hobbles towards the kitchen. ‘My turn to do the washing up, I think.’

  ‘Leave it. You should just sit down. I can do it.’

  ‘It’s two bowls and two spoons, Nick. I can manage. I need to keep moving or it’ll seize up.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Maybe you can get on to Webjet. See if there’s any flight deals.’ Raises a teary smile. ‘Joke.’

  Is this the way of things for the next however long?

  Back to work on Monday, I can’t fucking stand this.

  Sunday morning Latifa knocks at the door with some news.

  ‘Charlie Evans is dead.’

  I’ve lost track, what is it? A week, more, less, since I went by and saw he’d taken the For Sale notice down and there was no sign of life around the farm. Nobody to help out too since he lost his farmhand. I was going to follow it up but never did. ‘Tell me.’

  ‘Some prospector found him. A young bloke, cold-calling to see if Charlie fancied a goldmine on his land, noticed the alpacas and chooks seemed a bit frazzled. Obviously hadn’t been fed for a while. Charlie was hanging from a beam in his hay shed. Been there some time.’

  I slump into my seat. ‘Forensics and crime scene?’

  ‘There now. First indications are that it’s suicide. Plain and simple.’

  I can believe it. Charlie was a lost soul when he came to ours for dinner that night. ‘Need anything from me?’

  ‘No, it’s all in hand. Just passing on the news. How are you going?’

  ‘We’re all hanging in there.’ She winces. Poor choice of words under the circumstances. ‘Thought I might pop in to work tomorrow.’

  ‘Your call. Mind if I collect a few more things while I’m here? I left some boxes of stuff in the shed.’

  ‘Sure. We really appreciate this.’

  ‘No probs. Careful what you wish for though. The office is only ten paces that way. Not always easy to take time out and some of the punters will come knocking anyway, day or night.’

  ‘Beggars can’t be choosers.’

  Vanessa waves hello from the laundry as she fills the washing machine and Paulie does likewise from his homework in the lounge room. His sleepover at Mim’s was blissfully uneventful apart from one of Mim’s new chooks leaving a deep scratch on the back of his hand. Jan, a trained nurse, had given him a choice of cool coloured bandaids and kissed it better. Jan and Mim had dropped him off an hour ago on their way to church. Latifa takes two boxes and I take one because I’m a weak sook and we wander out front to her car. Havelock is Sunday-morning quiet and mist drapes the surrounding green hills. It’s a beautiful morning to die.

  ‘Don’t hurry back to work, Sarge. There’s really no need.’

  ‘There is for me. I need the distraction.’

  A nod of recognition. ‘If Charlie had stayed around, he might have got an offer on his place after all from that prospector.’

  ‘I don’t think money was his main worry. He still loved the land too much to let any wanker dig it up. Beattie would have had his guts for garters.’

  ‘Well, if you believe any of that stuff, they’re together again now.’

  ‘Amen.’

  ‘Maybe see you tomorrow then.’ She slams the boot and jangles her car keys.

  29.

  On the understanding that I’m just a few paces away in the cop shop if she needs me, and with Paulie at school all day anyway, Vanessa ushers me out the door to work. It’s hard to tell which of us is more relieved. Latifa is already there along with Steve from Traffic, and they’ll be doing any outreach as I need to stay close. There’s hardly enough room for the three of us but with a bit of goodwill and furniture rearrangement we rustle up a spot for me to shuffle papers for the day.

  ‘Any more news on Charlie Evans?’

  ‘No suspicious circumstances,’ says Latifa. ‘It looks like he wanted out and did it all by himself.’

  ‘Good job that young fella found him,’ says Steve, jiggling teabags at the sink. ‘The rats and mice were taking an interest.’

  ‘Spare us,’ says Latifa.

  ‘Maybe now he’s gone that mine can go ahead. Bit of work for the locals.’

  Latifa snorts. ‘You kidding?’

  ‘A job’s a job,’ says Steve, mischief curling the side of his mouth. ‘The consortium have lodged a claim over the whole district. Got to be gold somewhere under that red ink.’

  ‘Consortium? I looked them up. They’re petty fossickers. Clueless bottom-feeders. They want to trash the environment for a quick buck. Anything but get a real job.’ Latifa is effortlessly rising to Steve’s bait. ‘If our lot put in a Treaty claim over the area, people would be jumping up and down about the threat to their backyards. These jokers? Nobody bats an eyelid.’

  ‘White,’ I say in reply to Steve’s teabag query. ‘None.’

  ‘Fucking right,’ says Latifa.

  My mobile goes. It’s Will Maxwell. ‘Noticed you were up and about when I drove by this morning. How’s things?’

  ‘Well as can be expected.’

  ‘Fancy some fresh air and a cuppa tea? I can meet you in the bakery. Save your legs.’

  I’ve hardly touched the one Steve just made but duty calls. The bakery is still within that five-minute radius if Vanessa needs me. ‘Sure.’

  A few spots of rain dot the footpath as I head down the hill, and more threatens. The wind snaps at the masts down at the marina and the water is starting to churn. Will has bought us tea and a date scone each and waits at my favourite table by the window.

  ‘I’d like to be able to say you’re looking well but you’re not.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Keegan told me about the head. Fingers crossed, eh?’

  ‘Yep.’ I pull my tea mug closer. ‘You wanted to see me?’

  ‘With the Jaxon and Gelder jobs losing their urgency, I was able to put some people on Havelka.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘We asked our colleagues down in Dunedin to talk to the daughter. Lisbet.’

  It turns out she hasn’t spoken to, or seen, her parents in nearly twenty years. I attempt to do the sums. ‘Havelka would have been about sixty-five by now. His wife early sixties. Twenty years takes them back to their early forties. Lisbet must have left home at a young age.’

  ‘Fifteen.’

  ‘Did she say why?’

  ‘None of our business, apparently.’r />
  Janeen’s date scones are on form today. ‘Any social services records?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Any conclusions you’d like to jump to?’

  ‘Domestic abuse is a perennial favourite. Drugs. Wayward teenager. Take your pick.’

  ‘Doesn’t get us anywhere really, does it?’

  ‘Except that your mate Morgan Hopu seems to know all about it. Why would he?’

  ‘Why indeed.’ I brush some crumbs away. ‘Are you going to ask him?’

  ‘Thought you might, when you’re feeling better. He seems to have taken a shine to you.’

  ‘It might be a while.’

  ‘No rush. Havelka’s been dead five years now. A few more days or weeks won’t harm.’

  ‘Any news on Gelder’s missing phones?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Cunningham. Bryant. Any movement?’

  ‘Quiet as church mice.’ Maxwell takes a final sip of tea. ‘You heard about Charlie Evans then?’

  ‘Yep. Tragic.’

  ‘You settling in okay at the police house?’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘Family?’

  ‘Yeah, we’re all good.’

  He stands. ‘Hang in there, Nick. We care about you. You’re more appreciated than you think.’

  He’ll never know how close I come to sobbing into his shoulder.

  I’m tired of paperwork and fielding calls for Latifa and Steve. Rain has settled in properly now, driving against the office windows, and our combined body heat is steaming the place up. I pop out to check on Vanessa, who is now able to change her own dressings thank you very much and seems brighter and better off without me.

  ‘You happy to pick up Paulie from school?’ she says, looking up from a sudoku.

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Another casserole do you tonight?’

  ‘Yum.’

  ‘I reckon I can get back to work after this week.’

  ‘Great.’