Blood On Vines

by Madeleine Eskedahl

  His stomach growled, he needed to eat something. He opened the heavy oak floor-to-ceiling wardrobe. Colour-coded, folded neat piles of shirts appeared. They were not really his style but they were warm and dry. Once dressed, he looked through the deep freeze and found some ready meals and put one in the microwave. He took a bottle of wine and sat down at the oak dining table. He poured a generous amount of wine and swallowed a couple of paracetamol tablets. The microwave dinged and he pulled out a steamy dish of roast chicken, potatoes and gravy. The delicious smell made him forget that it came out of a store bought packet. He washed each mouthful down with more wine before rinsing his plate and sticking it in the oversized European dishwasher. Finishing the last mouthful of wine he walked into the lounge and pulled the curtains open.

  The moon reflected on the calm water in front of the house. He spotted a decanter of whisky on the sideboard. Finding a crystal tumbler and pouring a good slug he sank into the plush sofa. The smell of whisky took him back to his childhood and his father’s den where he used to have his drink every night while writing his journal entries. Many years later when his mother had suffered her stroke, he had returned to his childhood home to stay for a few days, and had found his father’s notebooks. He knocked the whisky back, his knuckles whitening around the glass.

  57

  Annika arrived back in Matakana after organising the children at home. She was buzzing with energy and looking forward to getting stuck in and being able to help. Bill and Niko seemed pleased to see her, although she sensed some regret and apprehension on Bill’s part, and could understand why. That she had brought in some leftover lasagne pulled out of the freezer seemed to seal the deal, she was now one of the team. “You can come and help any time if you bring in home-cooked food like this,” Niko said.

  While they were eating, Annika got started with the diaries. The well-thumbed notebooks felt precious and conjured up memories of her own diary writing when she was an adolescent. It felt intrusive opening them up to read something so private as Maurice Stott’s inner thoughts. She put her feelings aside and started reading. The cursive handwriting was beautiful, a joy to read. It didn’t take long until she came to the summer of 1987.

  Each day there was an entry where he described the weather and the work they had done, as well interesting anecdotes. She soon discovered a common thread running through the entries, the constant conflicts and disagreements with Robert the winemaker. He came across as arrogant, unlike Maurice himself who seemed meek and mild-mannered. Maurice described his wife and son in loving terms, expressing how pleased he was the son was taking an interest in the business. He had been a kind man, she thought. She wondered what could have pushed him over the brink. What could have been so bad that he took his own life, leaving his adolescent son and wife behind?

  To digest what she had read so far, she walked around the room. It felt good to move after sitting hunched over the diaries for the last hour or two. There was still a lot to get through and it would be a long night, she thought.

  Delving further in, she could sense Maurice’s mood change. The sentences were now short and urgent and his language more blunt. Nothing personal and no interesting anecdotes, he was like a deflated balloon, the joy gone and the undertones of despair and gloom shone through.

  “Matakana Police Station. Granger speaking,” Bill said as the phone rang.

  “This is Dr Stan Webber. I’ve been at a conference all day. My secretary gave me your message to call back regarding one of my patients.”

  “We have grave concerns of the mental state of Benjamin Stott, or Ben Wilson as he calls himself now.”

  “I don’t know what kind of operation you run, but I’m not in the habit of breaching my patient-doctor confidentiality,” Webber huffed. “There are proper channels to go through for this.”

  Bill was in no mood to be lectured. “We believe that the suspect has killed two people already and slashed the throat of a police officer,” he snapped. “At this stage we are unsure if she will survive. We can get a court order in the morning and you will still have to give us the information we need.” Bill was getting louder and more animated. “He has a hit list of at least two more victims lined up. You tell me if that warrants me asking some bloody questions!”

  There was silence on the line. “All right, you win,” Dr Webber said. “Benjamin is my patient. He trusts me, so I would like to oversee the matter and be involved in his subsequent care.”

  “I see no problem with that. The station is in the main street of the village. You can’t miss it.”

  “Thank you, Granger, I will be there first thing in the morning.”

  Niko stifled a laugh. “Did I hear that he is coming up to our humble station?”

  “He’ll be here in the morning.” Bill looked around the small office. “I just hope he won’t get in the way.”

  The phone rang again. It was the petrol station on Tongariro Street in Taupo. After going through their footage from the forecourt they had found a clip of the vehicle of interest. No close-up, unfortunately, just a grainy wide-angle of a person making the transaction at the pump. Within minutes they’d emailed the images through to Niko who printed some still frames, clear enough to confirm the vehicle registration of Ben’s work van and that the person more than likely was him.

  Bill drummed his fingers on the table. “Well, this places him in Taupo on his way home on Saturday afternoon, then going through the toll cameras at Puhoi in the evening the same day, which makes it possible for him to have placed the hand under the house at Matakana Valley Wines in the early hours of Sunday morning. Plus, he would have had the knowledge to sabotage the water pump.”

  Annika had read through most of the diary notes for the summer of 1987. She stood up, stretched and wandered out on the deck at the back. The cool evening breeze was refreshing but made her shiver. It was a clear night and the stars shone brightly, competing with the light of the full moon. She could hear Bill’s voice in her head; “Full moon means all the loonies are out in force.” She did some yoga stretches to get the blood flowing in her tight back and neck, then pulled her mobile out of her pocket and dialled Lexi.

  “Hi, is everything all right?” Lexi said, sounding concerned.

  “Yes, we’re all fine. I’m at the station helping Bill. They found Maurice Stott’s diaries today. I’m reading through the summer of eighty-seven, looking into why Ben might be aggrieved.”

  “He was so young. I can’t say I remember any specifics about him,” Lexi said. “He was an awkward child and kept to himself. He seemed to struggle to relate to other people,” .

  “There are lots of entries about the winemaker, Robert. It seems all was not good there, quite a lot of difference of opinion,” Annika said. “You spoke to him earlier today. What was he like?”

  “I thought he was very nice. He answered my questions as best he could, genuinely wanting to help. I got the impression he was fond of the family, had even visited Jenny in the care home several times after she had the stroke. I guess, on reflection, he was a bit gushy and I do know he was in on the the wine scam?”

  “What wine scam?”

  “Oh, just something Avery mentioned in passing earlier,” Lexi said. “Apparently the guys had discovered how the winery was scamming their export wines by selling their lesser-quality wines at the premium price.”

  “You’re kidding me!” Annika said. This put a spin on things.

  “Avery and the guys thought there had been some mistake and went to tell Maurice, who didn’t deny the fact, and was in fact well aware of the goings-on. Maurice must have seen sense and put a stop to the operation when they threatened to go to the authorities. Avery assumed he had made good on his word. Maurice seemed like a respectful guy, realising the error of judgement made. There was never anything in the media. Everyone thought it had ended.”

  Engrossed in the information that Dr Webber had sent through, Bill couldn’t help feeling sorry for the man. It was young Ben who had di
scovered his father’s body. According to the notes they ruled it suicide; Maurice had shot himself in his study. That alone was enough to screw someone up for the rest of their life, Bill thought. After finishing school, Ben had moved to Australia where he completed an electrical apprenticeship. He got married and lived a normal life until his young wife died from meningitis. Ben’s world fell apart, he lost his job and went off the grid in the Outback, until he was found wandering a dirt road to nowhere, malnourished and incoherent. He was hospitalised, then committed to a mental-health facility, where he recovered sufficiently to travel back to New Zealand. Settling in Auckland, he got back into the trade, and part of his ongoing recovery was to meet with Dr Webber regularly. Bill glanced at the date in the margin, Ben had been going to therapy for nearly three years on and off.

  Annika came back inside and sat down at the table, relaying the details that Lexi had just told her about Robert the winemaker.

  “Avery told us about the wine scam when we spoke earlier, but well done on tracking down the winemaker,” Bill said. “We ought to speak to him next. This might well be our elusive motive.”

  The shrill signal of the office phone cut through the air. Bill reached for the receiver. “Matakana station, Granger here.”

  “Hi, Bill. I’m afraid I have some terrible news. I’m very sorry to have to tell you Constable Laura Rose passed away earlier this evening. She never regained consciousness.”

  The words hit Bill straight in the guts. “She was an outstanding police officer and will be greatly missed,” Bill managed to get out. He turned to the others. “She didn’t make it,” he whispered.

  “I’ll make you a cup of tea to take to bed. You just head on up,” Bill said. Annika did not protest and went upstairs. When Bill carried the tray of tea upstairs, Annika was already sound asleep. He was wired and wide awake, thoughts swirling around his head, tormenting him. From experience he knew it would take a while to wind down. He went back downstairs, taking care to avoid the creakiest step and went into the pantry, taking the half-full whisky bottle from the top shelf. He poured himself a generous slug, more than he usually had, but he felt it was warranted tonight. He sat down in the La-Z-Boy, and swirled the whisky.

  He sighed and took his first sip, enjoying the pleasant warm feeling in his throat as it went down. Picking up the remote he turned the television on, channel surfing until he came across an old black-and-white Western. Maggie and Finn were happily snoozing by his feet. He reached for a refill and felt calm settle over him.

  58

  He parked the Toyota HiAce on the overgrown grass verge close to the entrance to Matakana Valley Wines. The tinted windows wouldn’t raise an eyebrow — he looked like any tourist travelling around the countryside. Even though it was late in the season, there were still plenty of backpackers and seasonal workers around. Reaching into the backseat he pulled one of the thick-cut sandwiches out of the small chilly bin. The evening air was cooling off and a swarm of mosquitoes, keen for a warm body to land on, buzzed around trying to get in. Pulling the window up, he swatted a couple that had already got in. He reached for the Thermos on the floor and poured coffee into one of the hard plastic mugs that he had brought along. The coffee was disappointingly tepid as it had sat in the flask for a while. The plastic tinge from the mug didn’t help. Still, it was better than nothing.

  As the darkness set in, he took his Bushnell Equinox Z2 night-vision scope out. There was no movement inside that he could see. He was happy with its range of more than a hundred metres. He rummaged in his bag and found the Nighthawk camouflage stick, winding the three colours by a slight twist at the bottom. Applying the soft cream paint onto his face, neck and hands, making sure he would remain unseen, he pulled up his hoodie, then did a last-minute check of his gear bag. It was amazing what you could buy without any questions on the Internet.

  He made his way parallel with the tree-lined driveway. The moonlit landscape was eerily quiet, apart from a chorus of crickets that got noisier the closer to the homestead he drew. Standing in the shelter of an old eucalyptus tree he could look straight into the lounge at the back of the house, twenty metres away. The light from the television flickered on their faces.

  With his bag firmly strapped to his back he climbed up the tree to a vantage point a few metres above the ground. The minty scent was calming as he settled under the vast canopy. His scope was Army-issue. Switching off the night-vision mode, he could easily make out the smallest detail in the room. The two police officers looked relaxed; Avery had a deep frown. Climbing back down he took out a packet of nicotine gum, chewing vigorously as he settled in for the long night ahead.

  59

  Bill woke early, his head heavy from a night sleeping in the chair and fuzzy from too much whisky. His neck was stiff and his mouth as dry as the Sahara. He checked his watch, it was 6.15. His back ached from being at an odd angle all night. He shivered as he put his bare feet on the cold timber floor. The damp morning air was unforgiving, seeping into every inch of his crumpled uniform. He couldn’t believe that he’d fallen asleep in his chair.

  His oldest daughter galloped down the stairs. Bill groaned quietly while attempting to get up. He didn’t want Katie to see him like this. He kicked the empty bottle under the couch and he poked his head in the kitchen and said good morning. Katie was cooking pancakes from the batter she had made last night. “I’ve woken up the twins. They’re getting dressed. I’ll make their lunches and get them sorted out.” She smiled. “I thought I’d give you guys a break this morning.”

  “Thank you, darling.”

  “Dad, can you please wake up Zac? I daren’t go in there. I’m afraid of the health hazards in his pit.” Bill walked upstairs, every step reverberating pain through his dehydrated brain. He opened Zac’s door, calling his name, getting only a grunt for an answer. It looked as though he had pulled a late one, just like his father, but without the alcohol. The stale air mixed with sweat and old socks hit Bill in the face. Shutting the door quickly and opening the nearest window, he pushed the pot plant aside on the wide ledge, the cool and slightly dewy morning air helping to settle his queasiness.Teenage boys, he thought. Desperate to get out of his grimy clothes, he walked into the master bedroom where Annika was still sound asleep. He wished he had made it to bed last night as he quietly tiptoed into the ensuite. He found a strip of paracetamol and popped two tablets then tossed his crumpled uniform in the laundry hamper.

  He got into the shower, where the hot water slowly brought him out of the fog. Feeling slightly better, he got out and wrapped a towel around his waist and looked for a clean pair of uniform trousers and shirt before dressing and going downstairs. The kids were all having breakfast and it was unusually quiet, something he was grateful for this morning.

  Annika was excited going to work with Bill. When they arrived at the station, Niko was already busy at work. “We’ve heard from the petrol station in Martinborough. There is footage of the van registered to Ben Wilson stopping and the driver entering the shop. It’s grainy but he looks to be buying a bottle of water and a pie.”

  “That’s him for sure,” Bill said.

  “The time on the film is one thirty-eight in the afternoon on Thursday, which corresponds to him coming from up north and through the toll cameras in the morning the same day.”

  Bill looked at the timeline. “We still need to establish what his movements were when he was down country.”

  “I’ll call the care home where Ben’s mother is living,” Niko said. “They might have a log of visitors, or may remember if he came by.”

  “Annika,” Bill called out, “if you wouldn’t mind going through the diaries again, let me know what stands out.”

  “Sure,” she said. She was enjoying doing the research. It felt good to engage her brain. On the odd occasion she missed her teaching career, the people contact, the students and the challenge and joy it brought. Not that she regretted giving it up — she was happy to focus on her painting and loved the fr
eedom that she had — but sometimes she felt isolated. She picked up the diary and quickly immersed herself, reading through to the harvest time.

  Maurice’s entries and handwriting showed an urgency that hadn’t been there previously, the script was getting more hurried and the entries even shorter. It was clear that he was struggling, the staccato sentences reflecting his state of mind. At the end of the harvest, some men had come to him, questioning him about his honesty and integrity. He didn’t name them, but Annika knew who they were. Maurice expressed his embarrassment and anger into his journal, how he felt manipulated by someone.

  The next entry was longer and he promised himself that he’d put an end to this practice, berating himself how he could have let it happen. For the few months following, the entries were more short scribbles, barely legible, the black mood increasing.

  60

  Dr Stan Webber’s beige trousers were a little too high in the waist, which made the pleats coming off the waist band pull across the top in the most unflattering way. Still, the razor-sharp creases would have impressed even the strictest drill sergeant. The light-blue polo shirt was a shade too tight and clung to his bulbous shape, perspiration already spreading under his armpits. He dabbed his ruddy face with an old-fashioned handkerchief and flattened his already slicked back hair with his hand. He looked ready to go on safari, Bill thought. All that was missing was a round pith helmet.