Blood On Vines

by Madeleine Eskedahl

  “Yes, sometime around then I would say,” James said, fidgeting.

  Bill looked up from his notebook. “Did you see anything suspicious, any other vehicles or things out of the ordinary leading up to this?”

  “Not that I noticed. Mind you, I wasn’t looking, I had spent a marvellous night with my boys, I was happy.”

  Bill could sense James’s pain. The despair and sorrow when families rip apart — he’d seen it all before. “If you wouldn’t mind staying here, we’ll look around,” he said.

  He stepped over the dead bird and walked into the house. They went through the house room by room, Niko taking photos as they went through. Concentrating on the kitchen they inspected the knife and newspaper clipping. Bill spotted what appeared to be a palm print on the lacquered wall panelling on the left side. If it hadn’t been for the slight kitchen grime, he would never have seen it. The SOCO’s would come through and process the area, but he would make sure to mention it.

  James was sitting in the shade under the oak tree at the front of the house, his leg jiggling nonstop. “We’ve gone through the house, the prime areas being the living room and the kitchen,” Bill said as he sat down, instantly regretting that he hadn’t brushed the dirt off the seat before sitting down on the rickety old garden chair. “Start from the beginning. Can you go through what happened when you got home last night?”

  James went through the whole scenario, including how he had thought it best to stay the night at the pub, omitting that he’d been frightened and had run out of the house screaming like a little girl.

  “Any idea what the message on the wall is all about?”

  James shook his head.

  “What about the old newspaper clipping?”

  James shrugged. “It’s years ago, since my first job in the wine industry down country in the Wairarapa. They must have found it in one of the photo albums. Not sure what relevance it has,” James said, still bouncing.

  “Who are the other men in the photo?”

  “It’s the entire harvest crew of workers, including my mates from university, Avery McCall, Peter Evans, Isaac Miller and me.”

  “Can you think of who might have done this to you?”

  “Not that I can think of,” James said. “It has rattled me a bit. It feels strange to know someone has been rummaging around the house and done this.”

  “Have you got somewhere else to stay for a few days?” Niko asked.

  James looked up. “I suppose I could stay at the pub. Harvest time is around the corner, so I really need to be here. Not that we have a massive production, but every dollar counts.”

  Niko nodded. He knew money trouble when he saw it — the sad looks, the hunched backs and beaten spirits. He’d been around it all his life.

  “Bill, I hear they found a hand at Matakana Valley Wines. Any truth in the rumour?” James said out of the blue.

  “Where did you hear that?” Bill said. He’d known it would get out eventually.

  “Someone at the pub last night. News travels fast.”

  “For fucks sake, I might as well move my desk into the pub,” Bill said.

  “We’re just about done here,” Niko said changing the subject, sensing Bill’s annoyance. “You don’t look so good, mate. I suggest you go into the house, grab clothing and whatever you might need,” he continued with a friendly smile. “Avoid the cordoned-off areas. You’ll see the tape.”

  James stood up, his face ashen and eyes hollowed as if he hadn’t slept for days. His grey stubble made him look like an old man. That he was in desperate need of a haircut didn’t help.

  He made his way along the path slowly, his pulse increasing with every step closer to the house. Keeping his head down he went straight into the master bedroom, pulled the sports bag from the top of the wardrobe and threw some clothes in, popping into the bathroom on the way out for his toiletries. Getting a whiff of his unwashed armpits, he felt desperate for a shower and a change of clothes. On his way out, he glanced into the kitchen catching sight of the ominous message when something nudged his memory.

  Bill and Niko were leaning on the bonnet of the police car as James jogged towards them. “I just thought of something.” He dropped the bag on the ground, putting his hand on his thighs, catching his breath. “The knife in the kitchen. It’s not one of mine.”

  Niko took one last walk around the house to check that it was all secure and locked up before they left. James had given them a spare key, should they need to go back. On the way back to the station Bill pulled in to Ravish for coffee. The barista seemed happy to see them, directing her attention to the handsome young Samoan. Niko was completely unaware.

  Both men chose a corned-beef and mustard doorstop of a sandwich, large enough to satisfy the most ravenous appetite. “My treat. You got it yesterday,” Niko said.

  “Thanks, mate,” Bill said, seemingly happier again.

  “I finish my secondment at the end of the month, Sarge. I’ll miss this place. It’s been another brilliant summer. I can’t say that I’m looking forward to going back to the city,” he said with a wry smile. “I much prefer the beach lifestyle to that of South Auckland.”

  “It’s been great to have you here,” Bill said. The winter months are quiet and I know you’d probably get bored with the pace of life.”

  “I guess you’re right, Sarge,” Niko said. They both laughed.

  Bill’s phone pierced the conversation. “Hi Bill, it’s Lexi. I just wanted to let you know I had to deal with an intrusive journalist yesterday. Not at all what I would expect from a reputable newspaper. I told them to piss off. Hope that was the right thing to do.”

  “Yep, definitely. Thanks for letting me know. At least we know the news is out and can manage the situation.”

  Bill frowned at Niko. “Well, I’m not surprised the media circus has started.” As he put his phone down, he could see there were several missed calls from the same number. He quickly checked his voicemail. Sure enough, they all wanted a comment from him. Pressing delete, he went back to finish his sandwich. They would have to call back.

  After finishing their coffees, Bill and Niko headed back to the station. The first thing they saw when pulling into the main street was a white One News station wagon parked outside the Four Square. A little further down trucks from TV3 and Newshub were parked, awaiting their arrival. Both crews must have been past the station, realised it was unmanned and waited. Bill pulled in and parked. It didn’t take many moments before the TV crews pulled in behind them and reporters he recognised stepped out and thrust their cameras in his face. A hurried phone call to Orewa CIB had been made, they weren’t happy, but there had been no choice.

  Afterwards it all seemed like a blur, lots of questions that all seemed to ask the same thing repeatedly. He used the standard answers “We cannot disclose that information at the moment” or “As it’s an ongoing investigation . . .” Bill went back inside feeling like a wrung-out dishcloth.

  “You did great, Sarge,” Niko said, slapping him on the back.

  “I hope it was okay. They really put me on the spot. I hope I didn’t put my foot in it,” Bill said, the relief setting in. Pouring water from the dispenser, he went back to his desk and drank it all in one gulp. “Well, I guess we’d better get on with the break-in at James Smith’s house. Have you uploaded the photos yet?”

  “Already done,” Niko said with a broad smile.

  “Great work,” Bill said, how far away are the SOCO’s?” Bill had upgraded the investigation when they left James’s house. It was no longer just a burglary.

  “They should be here shortly,” Niko said. “I’ll drive over and open up as soon as I get the phone call they’re near.” Looking at the photos, Bill now knew the cases were connected.

  20

  Martinborough

  Pat drove up the narrow driveway to the compact brick house on the hill, the dew still heavy on the grass and glistening in the morning light. It was a beautiful day. Peter would have already
left for work. He commuted to Wellington three days a week, Monday to Wednesday. Today was Tuesday. From what she could gather, it was the modern thing to work from home, especially if there was a longer commute, saving on fuel and cutting down on emissions and being environmentally friendly and all that. It would have been unheard of in her time. Being retired, Pat supplemented her meagre pension with the part-time job of housekeeping for Peter, who was still a bachelor. She didn’t understand why he was still single; he was a good-looking man with a great job and a kind heart. Working a few hours a week meant that she had a little over and above her pension, and she could afford a few treats now and then. Anything else would have been too hard on her body. She would turn seventy-three at the end of the year. Apart from arthritic knees and elbows, she was in good shape for her age, something she believed was because of keeping relatively active. Twice a week she spent a few hours doing a little cleaning, washed some clothes and did his ironing. It was enjoyable work and she felt needed. On a Friday when she came in and Peter worked from home, she normally brought along some home-cooked food she had prepared the night before, and they had a pleasant lunch together. It was a mutually beneficial arrangement as they were both on their own and had over the years developed a friendship.

  As soon as the children were grown up and had left home, Pat left her domineering husband. She had met no one else to share her life with, but was content with her life as it was. She kept herself busy, particularly enjoying playing Canasta, the book club at the library, and her knitting group making tiny vests and hats for premature babies. Last year, an extra love had come in to her life, a little West Highland White terrier named McTavish. They made a good pair; he was a rescue dog and had not had an altogether uncomplicated life either. McTavish was a typical stubborn terrier, curious and full of beans. He adored Pat and came along everywhere. He’d even got special permission to accompany Pat to the library, and the community centre next door when she played cards. Naturally he came along on the quick drive to Peter’s house on the days she worked, McTavish loved to snooze in the sun on the front porch.

  The late-summer Tuesday appeared no different as they parked in the shade of the magnolia tree. McTavish hopped out of the car and went for a sniff around as usual, when suddenly the hackles on his neck stood up and he gave a low-pitched growl. His wiry tail at attention, all senses focused, his demeanour had changed. Something had upset him.

  “Come on, McTavish, there are no rabbits around. You’ve chased them all away, boy.” Pat gave him a reassuring scratch on the top the head. As she continued down the dusty gravel path, the crunching sound underfoot reminded her of her childhood home. McTavish did not let up, the growl grew deeper.

  “That’s enough McTavish,” Pat said sternly. “If you don’t stop this nonsense, you can wait in the car.” The little dog wasn’t used to being spoken to like this; his ears went back and his tail dropped, he followed behind Pat up the few wooden steps to the sun-drenched veranda, still sulking.

  The front door was slightly ajar. Pat was just about to grab the handle when McTavish barked, making her jump.

  “McTavish! What did you do that that for?” she scolded, but the little dog stubbornly got in front of the door, blocking the way. Grabbing his collar, Pat carefully opened the door, suddenly apprehensive. Peter was safety-conscious and would never forget to lock the door. Something didn’t feel right. Her heart was in her mouth and she swallowed hard. Her vision blurring, she tried to calm her breath for the lightheadedness to go. It wasn’t like her to frighten easily; there must be a perfectly logical explanation to this. Her hearing wasn’t what it used to be — what if Peter had hurt himself and needed help? She had to go inside.

  McTavish was still unhappy, but had calmed somewhat, giving a short low bark of displeasure. With her heart in her mouth Pat took a few steps into the hallway. It led into a compact kitchen that direly needed modernising — the faux-wood cupboard doors and Formica benchtops had been the height of fashion in the Seventies. In stark contrast was the top-of-the-line dishwasher and matching fridge-freezer with its own ice-maker and water-dispenser. On the other side was a generous lounge, and an entire wall dedicated to Peter’s precious collection of World War II medals and police memorabilia. The two sparsely furnished bedrooms were a good size, one converted into an office. It was definitely the home of a bachelor, the only female touch being a few doilies that his mother had left behind when she died. Everything seemed in order and Pat breathed a sigh of relief. Perhaps Peter had just forgotten to lock up.

  “See boy, it’s all fine,” she said to the little dog.

  Pat put her cardigan and bag on the coat rack in the entrance, slipped her housecoat on and opened the cleaning cupboard, grabbing the vacuum and the small basket of cleaning products. The vacuuming and dusting didn’t take long. She went back into the kitchen and measured two cups of tap water into the old stove top coffeepot, added three heaped tablespoons of coarse-ground coffee and wiped the cupboards down. The familiar smell of coffee permeated the room, making her feel a little better. She put the tray on the table and chose one of the delicate Queen Anne cups and saucers with the pink roses from the cupboard above the sink. She was the only one who used them, Peter preferring clunky ceramic mugs. Pat had brought along one of her ginger and banana cakes that Peter loved, to put in his baking tin. She would cut a slice off to savour with her coffee while sitting in the sun. She even had a little morsel that she had brought for McTavish. The little dog was sitting in the doorway, still huffing and letting out the odd growl, still unhappy.

  “I don’t know what’s wrong with you today, boy. I’ll be out with a treat as soon as I’ve put the washing on,” Pat said.

  Waiting for the coffee, Pat went to get the washing basket from the bathroom. The laundry was in the basement and the door at the top of the stairs was difficult to open. The trick was to put your shoulder into it and give it a little nudge, but only just enough, as there was only a small landing and the last thing she wanted was to fall headfirst down the narrow stairs. The door groaned and popped open without too much of a problem and she fumbled for the light switch.

  Stale air mixed and a smell of something rotten hit her. Had Peter forgotten to close the chest freezer? In this warm weather meat went off so quickly. She covered her nose and took the first couple of steps down the wooden stairs, her knees protesting a little with every step, turning at a ninety-degree angle down the bottom. That’s when she saw him.

  Flies buzzed around the crumpled body. Pat let out a strangled cry, the basket tumbling the last few steps, bits of clothing scattering over the floor. Unable to move, her sensible lace-up shoes stuck to the step. Her scream alerted McTavish, who came careering down the floorboards of the hallway, coming to a stop at the top of the stairs. The sudden short sharp bark roused her from the state of shock she was in.

  “It’s okay boy. Stay,” she mustered, her voice weak. McTavish’s low growl echoed down the narrow staircase, waiting for her next command. There was no way she wanted him down there with her. Her mouth was dry, making it difficult to talk. Steadying herself against the wall, she mustered all the courage she had and turned her head back towards the crumpled heap on the floor.

  Peter was sitting in an awkward position, his head resting on his chest and his arms by his side. There was a lot of blood on the floor and up the wall. What kind of person could possess such rage and anger? Pat and her husband had owned a farm and she’d seen a lot of home kill of livestock, but this was something different. The musty smell of blood reminded her of the jar of coins she had kept as a little girl.

  Peter had been like a son to her. Even though she knew in her heart that he was dead, she bent forward to check for a pulse on his neck. The strange sensation of waxy transparent skin and the cold of his body chilled her to the core. She pulled her hand away as if she had been burned. Then she realised that his left hand was missing. The nausea she had held at bay suddenly overcame her and she rushed up the stairs as fa
st as her arthritic body could manage and pushed the dog aside, barely making it outside and into the garden before emptying this morning’s breakfast onto the lawn. As her blood pressure dropped and the world around her started spinning, she felt faint and keeled over on the dandelion-speckled lawn. When she came to, she had no idea how long she had been unconscious. McTavish was standing over her, frantically licking her face to wake her up.

  “Okay, boy, thank you so much. I’m fine now,” Pat said pushing herself to sit up. Bum-shuffling up the first couple of steps and turning around onto her knees, she ignored the shooting pains in her arms and shoulders, and grabbed hold of the handrail and pulled herself up. She stood on wobbly legs, her stockings laddered with large tears on the knees, blood slowly dripping from a scrape on one of them. She had to get to her handbag where her phone was to call the police — but that meant going back inside, something she wasn’t keen on doing. Opening the front door, she could smell the burnt coffee grounds and smoke was filing the air. She quickly turned the element off and pulled the red-hot coffee pot aside. She dug deep inside her handbag, finding the mobile at the very bottom. Her hands shook as she dialled the police.

  The operator assured her they would dispatch a patrol car straight away. Pat reached for her bag and a Werther’s Original, the hard sweet’s creamy texture of brown sugar caramel and butterscotch combating the shock. Tears rolling down her cheeks, she sighed. Her friend was dead; they would no longer have their Friday lunches. She would miss his quirky humour and the fact that he used to laugh at his own jokes. Her mind was in upheaval. Who could have done such a thing to him? And why so brutal? Precious Peter was dead, and he had been so full of life.

  When the police arrived Pat was more than relieved to see them pull in from where she was sitting on the porch, McTavish by her feet.

  “Are you Mrs Taylor?” the bearded police officer said.