Blood On Vines

by Madeleine Eskedahl

  “Big gamble,” Niko said, looking confused. “It’s not like it was left it in plain sight.”

  “I think the perpetrator sabotaged the water pump, thus ensuring someone would go under the house and find the appendage,” Bill said. “But that’s just a theory. I could be wrong.”

  The shrill signal of the phone ringing shattered the peace. Niko ran for it.

  “That was Orewa,” he reported after ending the call. “They rate the threat level as low, but have dispatched a patrol for Isaac’s house for the next day or so. Now we just have to wait for Warkworth. Hopefully they can spare some people to stay at the McCall’s. If not I guess it’s you and me.”

  “Let’s focus on the two victims,” Bill said. “Why so many stab wounds? And why mainly in the legs when he could have hit a major artery and made it quick?”

  “It looks like the killer enjoyed inflicting excessive violence. When do you think they’ll send the preliminary medical report through?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine. Orewa will receive it, but they’ve agreed to keep us informed. Let’s hope they do,” Bill said. “Listen, I’m dashing home to get a change of clothes in case we have to stay the night at the McCall’s. Why don’t you do the same, then we’ll meet back here.”

  Bill pulled up at home less than three minutes later. Annika wasn’t in the house, judging from where the loud music was coming from, but in the barn where her studio was. A playlist of eighties’ songs he had grown familiar with over the years was blaring. Annika had her back to the door, was singing at the top of her voice and didn’t notice him walking in until he shouted to get her attention. Her ponytail bobbed as she looked up beaming.

  “Productive day by the looks of it,” he said. The large canvas reminded him of a Jackson Pollock, but with thick smears of paint shaped into flowers on top, the 3D effect was astounding.

  “Yes, it’s been a brilliant day. I’ve got lots done.” She pointed to three canvases in different stages of development.

  “That’s terrific, but I’d feel better if you’d lock the doors. You didn’t even hear me coming in with the music blasting at that volume,” Bill said. “They found James Smith dead this morning.”

  “Oh, that’s just awful! Those poor wee boys,” she said, covering her face with her hands. “How did he die?”

  Bill filled her in on today’s events from the crime scene to the hand belonging to a man killed in Martinborough.

  “It all sounds too far-fetched to happen here in Matakana,” she said.

  “I’m here to pick up a clean shirt and some things,” Bill said. “I might have to stay the night at Avery and Lexi’s place. Are you picking the twins up from dance practice?”

  Annika glanced at her watch. “I still have a couple of hours before I have to be there.”

  Bill grabbed some clean clothes and a toothbrush. Driving off, his mind wandered. Although many killings born of hatred had been committed by women, his gut told him they were dealing with a male.

  The phone rang, diverted to his mobile from the station. “Matakana police station, Granger speaking,” he said.

  “Hello, it’s Smith here from Warkworth. We have had a request from Orewa for protection at the McCall house. We’ve sent Trenton and Rose.”

  “That’s great. Thanks for letting me know,” Bill said. “I was thinking I’d have to go myself.”

  “How are things going?” Smith asked.

  “You know what it’s like. The Feds from Orewa have taken over. We are merely minions. I appreciate your help, though.”

  Bill thought of what James had hinted at yesterday and drove over to Matakana Valley Wines. Avery was in the office and jumped when Bill walked in. “Jeez, mate,” he said, clutching his chest.

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you,” Bill said apologetically.

  “No worries, mate. I think we all just feel jumpy. I mean, you read about shit like this, but I never thought we’d be in the middle of it here in Matakana.”

  “You’ve tidied up, I see.”

  “Yeah, thought I’d better sort it out,” Avery said. “What can I do for you?”

  “Do you know if someone could have tampered with the water pump?”

  “Now that you mention it, it kind of looked like someone had been having a go at it through the guard. There were scratches on the front,” Avery said.

  Bill pulled out his notebook. “James mentioned that there might have been an incident at the vineyard in Martinborough all those years ago. Can you shed some light on that?”

  Avery leaned back in his chair, letting the words sink in. “It’s such a long time ago,” he said. “There were many issues. The labour laws weren’t exactly in our favour. Being seasonal workers, they could do what they wanted. One thing sticks out, though, and to this day I still believe we did the right thing all those years ago.”

  Bill’s ears pricked up. “Continue,” he said.

  “The winery had been doing well. They even had a successful export operation, sending wine all over Europe and to the USA, which was something unheard of back then. The so-called New World wines were only just emerging. From what I understood the winery extended themselves and their operation significantly, then the 1987 stock-market crash happened.”

  “Yes, I remember it well,” Bill said.

  “Maurice Stott, the owner of the vineyard supposedly had trouble with mortgage repayments and things were getting desperate. I only know this because Robert, the winemaker, got pissed with us one night and let a few remarks slip. Apparently the premium wine sold well overseas, but they were relying on the rest, the moderately priced wines, for their bread and butter. Anyway, the boys and I discovered that Maurice and Robert had resorted to bottling the cheaper wine and labelling it as the premier. The wine got shipped overseas, lessening the chance of discovery and getting caught.”

  Bill couldn’t believe his ears. “How did you discover that?”

  “We were having a few drinks one night and took a few bottles of wine as we usually did. Maurice knew and didn’t seem to mind. We only ever drank the entry-level wines but on this occasion, as it was the end of the season, we grabbed a few of the export bottles. Isaac being the accountant had no idea, but Peter and I picked it up immediately. We even opened a few more, uncorked them and had a taste. They were all the same, cheap wine labelled as premium.”

  “Where was James?” Bill asked.

  “Not sure. He might have gone back to Auckland to visit his parents that weekend. He wasn’t there anyway, I’m sure of that. The next day, Peter and I approached Maurice, telling him there had been a terrible mistake made with the labelling. He didn’t seem surprised at all. We accused him of being a bloody crook, threatened to go to the police. Maurice pleaded with us and asked us not to get the authorities involved, said he would put a stop to it immediately.” Avery said.

  “What happened?”

  “I’m not entirely sure. It was the end of the season and we were finishing. Maurice gave us his word and a good reference and off we went.”

  “Do you know if they put an end to the scam?” Bill asked.

  “I would imagine so. Maurice was a decent bloke, and it was a tough time for everyone in the industry.” He leaned back in his swivel chair. “Funny, I haven’t thought about this for years.”

  “What was the name of the vineyard?”

  “Stott’s Landing. It was one of the first vineyards in the area.”

  “You mentioned the winemaker. Have you had any contact with him over the years?” Bill asked.

  “No. I heard he was working in Central Otago, but that’s at least fifteen years ago.”

  The sound of tyres on the gravel and squeaky brakes in desperate need of lubrication alerted them to the new arrivals. Officers Gary Trenton and Laura Rose waved as they stepped out of the patrol car, Lexi was just behind them.

  “We need to establish a few things before I go,” Bill said. “Under no circumstances will either of you leave the property
on your own. You will be in the company of an officer if you need to tend to something on the farm.”

  The look on Lexi’s face said it all, armed police at their door — would this nightmare ever end?

  39

  There was no sign of Niko when Bill got back to the station. He wandered into the Incident Room and tried to read the reports Orewa had sent them, but had trouble concentrating. Lexi had looked so small and vulnerable, not like the capable woman that he knew.

  He stared at the board. Who had an agenda to kill these men and why? If it was related to something that had happened when they were all together in Martinborough, why hadn’t Isaac received the same threats? James wasn’t even there when the wine scam was discovered, so did it relate to something else? He made a mental note to call Isaac, but first he would talk to Orewa about the burnt-out pump. Before he could dial the number, the phone rang.

  “Matakana police station,” he said.

  “Hi, it’s Archie from Martinborough,” a cheery voice rang out.

  “Hi Archie, I’m Bill Granger, the Sergeant here. You’ve been speaking to Niko. He’s not here at the moment. Can I help in any way?”

  “I have some information that might interest you,” Archie said. “Not sure if you are aware, but we couldn’t locate Peter Evans’s mobile phone. Anyway the telco has just got back to us with the data, so we have a clear picture of where it’s been.”

  “Yes?” Bill said impatiently.

  “According to them, the mobile went from Martinborough late Friday evening, and was pinged by cell-phone towers travelling north via Taupo and Auckland. The last ping was on Sunday, but it’s likely it’s switched off now or the battery has run out. I’m not sure if it’s still there but we can say with certainty that they located the mobile north-east of Matakana in the small settlement of Point Wells on Sunday night.”

  “Point Wells?” Bill scrambled for paper and a pen. “Did it give an exact location?”

  “Yes. The last ping showed it to be at the corner of Dunbar and Kowhai Roads. The last known location was number thirteen or thereabouts.”

  Bill called Niko’s mobile. “Where are you?”

  “At the gym. Thought I’d get a quick workout in case we need to pull an all-nighter with the McCall’s.”

  “Be ready in two minutes. There has been a development. The last location Peter Evans’s phone signal pinged was in Point Wells. I’ll swing by and pick you up,” Bill said.

  His adrenalin was surging; could this be the place where the perpetrator was hiding?

  Niko was already waiting outside the gym, buttoning his shirt and vest up, his wet hair slicked back. He threw the gym bag in the back and jumped in.

  A gust of Lynx deodorant filled the car. “Think you’ve put enough deodorant on?” Bill said.

  “Better than sweat.” Niko grinned, holding on to the handle above his head. The dust flew as they took off, cutting through the carpark at RD6 and turning down Omaha Road towards Point Wells.

  Bill knew the street well. It was down by the water on the landward side, not the expensive part. Slowing down to a crawl, turning left into Dunbar, he drove past the small cottage, parking further down the street. There was no obvious movement that they could see. Bill popped the boot and they got the Glocks out of the lockbox. The street was still, with only a slight rustling from the overhanging tree branches and the lazy hum of a generator. Bill felt trepidation as he always did when he held his gun.

  The glossy grissellinia hedge gave them suitable cover. Still no movement.

  The tiny house looked uninhabited; its sad exterior oozed gloom with the grey wooden boards in desperate need of a lick of paint. The net curtains had seen better days, making the insides dreary as they tried to look through. Bill signalled to Niko, and in a few swift steps they were both standing with their backs pressed against the wall of the house, a faint damp and mouldy smell seeping through the wood. The sparsely furnished living room reminded Bill of his grandparents’ home. It was as if someone had walked out of the house fifty years ago and never come back.

  Front and back doors were locked. Bill could see into the kitchen, the pantry door was slightly ajar, a couple of cans and a cereal box visible. Perhaps it was just used as a holiday home, he thought. It didn’t look as though someone lived there full-time. The gravel driveway at the side of the house was scattered with weeds and in desperate need of spraying. At the end was a rickety old garage, the red paint long since faded by the harsh sun, exposing the wood grain.

  He pulled the thick metal tab on one door of the garage. It creaked and protested as sunlight filled the cavernous space. A workbench took up the entire back wall, old hand-tools hanging neatly above. Up in the rafters were building materials and old bicycles in various states of repair. The garage at first glance seemed empty, but as Bill and Niko walked in and their eyes got used to the dim light, they could see neatly stacked boxes, a pile of suitcases, an old lawn mower and various other bits and pieces. A large drop-cloth covered something in the back. Niko lifted the corner. To his surprise, underneath was a modern all-terrain motorbike that clearly hadn’t been there as long as the old junk.

  Bill had just got his torch out when the door shut with an almighty thud. Suddenly everything went dark, and the latch lowered on the outside. Niko threw his 118-kilogram frame at the door, making it bulge under the impact.

  “Fuck!” he yelled as the door bounced him back.

  Bill was just as angry. They had played right into the hands of this person, who’d made them look like complete rookies.

  There was only one small window, high above the workbench. Both Bill and Niko were too big to get through it. Niko felt around the door to find its weak point. When he put his shoulder into it, a slight crack appeared. Bill could see the wooden latch slid across. If only they could find something thin and strong to slide between the doors, they could lift it up. A rusty machete was hanging on a hook. Niko put all his weight onto the door while Bill slid the machete through the narrow opening. The angle was awkward and the catch was heavier than he expected. Swearing under his breath, his hands struggling to get a grip.

  With one powerful movement upwards, the latch lifted. The door groaned as the warped piece of wood released its hold and swung open. They drew their weapons, but no one was there.

  “Fuck, I’m glad the Feds didn’t see us like this,” Bill said. “We’d never live it down.” Propping both doors up and removing the wooden crossbar, he went back into the garage. Something had caught his eye. A new-looking sports bag was sticking out from behind a pile of junk. Pulling a pair of gloves on, he put the bag on an upturned crate. “It’s probably nothing, but it seems out of place,” he said as he opened the zip. Someone had rolled up a paper-thin bundle. Carefully lifting it Bill could see it was disposable overalls with rusty-red stains on the sleeves.

  “Bingo! If that’s not blood splatter, I’ll eat my hat,” he said. Using a screwdriver from the bench, he pushed the garment aside and spotted a mobile phone and a toolbox at the bottom of the bag. He couldn’t wait to get these items to the lab.

  He called Brian Rudd. “Bill Granger from Matakana here. We’ll need you to come up to a property in Point Wells and have a look. We’ve found a bloodstained disposable suit and other things of interest at the address where Peter Evans’ phone signal was last picked up.”

  “I hope for your sake that you haven’t touched it,” Rudd barked.

  Pompous little prick, Bill thought. Did Rudd really think that because they were from a small town that they wouldn’t put gloves on when handling potential evidence? “It’s all free of our DNA, ready for you to come and pick up and analyse,” he said curtly.

  The first car from Orewa pulled up. “The house appears uninhabited, but we have located a stash of things possibly connected to at least one murder. You two stay put until the SOCO’s turn up, we can get on with some door-knocking,” Bill said.

  He and Niko each took a side of the road. As it was late af
ternoon the only people home were retirees or stay-at-home mums. The only person who was mildly helpful was Albin Andersson, a retired schoolteacher who lived directly opposite. He normally spent a lot of time in his study, which faced the street. “I have seen someone occasionally,” he said with a distinctive accent.

  “Are you Swedish, Mr Andersson?” Bill asked.

  “That’s a good guess. I was born in Sweden and met a wonderful English woman in my early twenties. We were part of the Ten Pound Poms who emigrated to New Zealand in the early Sixties. Both being teachers, we already had jobs to come to. Sadly, we had no children of our own,” he said, his voice tinged with sorrow. “But we had the honour of teaching many children over the years, something we both treasured very much.”

  He coughed to clear his throat. “Anyway, back to the business across the road,” he said nodding in that direction. “It was a few days ago now. I had received a package of rare stamps from a collector down country and was putting them into my album when I saw a person walk down the driveway. No one has lived in the house since Mrs Bell moved into care, about five or six years ago.

  “Do you remember what the person looked like?”

  “He had blue jeans and one of those oversized zip-through hooded jackets. I think it was dark grey with some white print on the back. He also had a sports bag thrown over his shoulder.”

  “Did he stay long?”

  “No, he left after a few minutes, barely enough time to walk around the house.”

  “What about a vehicle? Did you see one parked nearby?”

  “No, I’m afraid not. Sorry I can’t be more helpful.”

  Niko hadn’t come up with anything of interest as he had mainly talked to young mums, who were too tired or too preoccupied with toddlers hanging off their legs.

  Rudd and Copeson pulled up shortly thereafter. “No dead body this time?” said Rudd.