“Hello, I’m Dr Webber, we spoke last night.” His handshake was firm.
“Welcome,” Bill said and introduced Niko and Annika.
“Can’t believe how quick it was to get up here,” Webber said. “The toll road and tunnel have made a huge difference. It’s only just over an hour from home now. That’s incredible.”
Bill gestured for Webber to take a seat and he perched his generous frame in the chair opposite Annika. Bill gave him a quick overview of events since Sunday. Webber leaned back in his chair, his arms resting on his generous stomach, his fingertips pushed together, nodding as he took it all in. It was obvious he was used to listening.
Annika continued reading the journal until the last entry at the end of October. As far as she knew, Maurice was found dead much later, at the beginning of the following year. Her train of thought was disrupted as Webber came over. “Would you mind if I had a look at those journals?” he asked, looking over his reading glasses perched halfway down his nose.
“Not at all.” Annika passed the last journal to him. “As you can see, I’ve put Post-It notes by the entries I thought might be of interest, but add your own notes.”
Webber smiled and sat down again, absorbed in the task at hand. Bill and Niko were going over the latest material and Annika felt surplus to requirements. “I’ll get some decent coffee,” she said. “The Black Dog should be open by now.”
“We have coffee here,” Bill said with a grin.
“I’m not sure I would call that coffee,” she laughed. Webber didn’t even look up.
She enjoyed the walk in the fresh air. It was going to be a scorching day and the humidity was already hanging like a damp curtain in the air. Yesterday had been intense and she had slept like a log, yet she felt exhilarated, keen to understand what was going on. Dr Webber was more likeable in person than over the phone, reminding her of an absentminded professor. She had no idea what coffee he drank but got him a flat white, sugar on the side, just in case.
The mature trees lining the quiet street shaded the footpath as she walked back. It was strange, she thought, that amid such tranquillity evil lurked around the corner. It might be all right for hardened police officers to look at these horrendous notes and photos, but she was a civilian and a mother who cried at watching the news. She lingered on the porch for a moment, breathing in deeply to still her mind, willing the feeling of calm to stay with her before she walked through the door.
Over coffee Webber explained that Maurice Stott likely had a classic case of bipolar disorder. “Or, as it’s also called, manic-depression. It brings immense highs and moments of elation and also immense lows, with almost non-existent communication. That’s what Ben has. Often it’s not just hereditary but also set off by a stressful event in the individual’s life. The ongoing financial problems, the threat of exposure of the wine fraud, perhaps even being manipulated or blackmailed, wouldn’t have helped.”
“Perhaps we should call the care home where his wife Jenny lives,” Bill said. “They might have some information that we’d find helpful.”
“That’s why I’m here,” Webber said. “To help.”
61
Waikauri Bay
Frans Muller, awoke early as always, sat on his front step looking out over Waikauri Bay, enjoying the first cup of coffee of the day. The gannets were feeding just off the beach, diving like projectiles, their long black-tipped wings tucked in, hitting the water’s surface at speed. The fresh morning air made him shiver and he was glad he wore a woollen jumper his wife Dot made for him before she passed away three years ago. He could still feel her presence when he wore it, and it warmed his heart. Frans missed her terribly. She had been his high-school sweetheart and the love of his life. Not that he was alone. He had his two sons and their families, a handful of boisterous but delightful grandchildren, and his mates from the Blokes’ Shed at Waitakere Gardens, the retirement village he lived at in Henderson. Dot had loved spending time here at the beach, and he had fond memories of carefree summer holidays here when the children were young. Now the grandchildren were doing the same, which pleased him immensely.
Frans had come up a few days ago to clean and close up the cottage for the season. Theirs was one of the older ones, not as large as next door with the sweeping veranda and all the mod cons, but he didn’t mind. Looking across at the Watsons’, he noticed that the curtains were open in the enormous bay window facing the beach. He could have sworn they had been closed yesterday. Strange, there was no car parked in front, and even if they had come and gone, he would have heard it as he was a light sleeper.
He walked over, stepped up onto the veranda and peeked into the living room. There was an empty whisky bottle on the coffee table. He could see the shape of a person sleeping on the couch, the bare feet sticking out from under an old blanket. Unsure what to do next, he made his way down the deck as quietly as he could, but nudged a small pot perched on the edge, tipping it down the steps. It broke into pieces at the bottom. Frans went across the grass back to his place as quickly as he could. Reaching his small deck he turned and looked back at Watsons’ house, a familiar pain spreading across his chest. Looking back at him through the window was a man looking worse for wear. When their eyes met the man pulled back from the window. Frans hurried inside, slammed the door shut and locked it, barely able to breathe with the pressure across his chest. He rummaged in the small bag of medication that he carried containing blood pressure and angina tablets. He placed the nitro-glycerine tablet under his tongue and waited for the medication to take effect and slow his heart rhythm down. Then he dialled the police, all while expecting whoever he had seen to come stomping over and bang on his door.
62
The old man from next door who had peered through the window would certainly call the police. He had to get going. He swore as he threw a few things in his backpack, annoyed with himself for not pulling the curtains last night. Such a rookie mistake. He had planned to stay a few days to rest and figure out what the next step was.
He made his way through the bush, branches bashing him in the face as he hurried as fast as his battered body allowed. His shoulder was hurting a lot; the wound needed a proper clean and antibiotics, but he couldn’t just turn up at the nearest medical centre and ask for help. Every step he took on the uneven ground shot hot pokers of pain through his upper body. If he could only get his car, but that was a couple of hours’ walk at least. By now the local cops would have turned up at Waikauri Bay. He wiped sweat off his forehead. If they brought in the dog unit, he’d be screwed. If he could get hold of another car, he might be all right. So instead of walking up the valley he veered right. The terrain wasn’t too steep, making it easier to get through. The trees thinned out and he spotted a small house through the clearing. Children’s clothes were hanging on the washing line, a good sign. Strewn toys were on the lawn, a large sandpit next to the outdoor furniture under the shade of an old oak tree. On the table covered with an old fashioned table cloth were four place settings, a pitcher of red cordial, a plunger of coffee and a small milk jug set up. The large mug had Vote Labour on it. Out of view behind a tree he watched a couple of pre-school children tumble out of the back door, followed by their young mother, fresh faced and barefoot. One of the children spotted him. He waved.
The child waved back. “Come and have morning tea with us. We’re having a tea party,” she said. The three girls, in varying ages but all miniatures of their mother, looked at him curiously. The mother stopped in her tracks. By the time she had called out for the children to come back inside, the oldest girl had taken him by the hand and led him to the table. The mother set the tray of muffins and cookies on the table and snatched her girls into her arms to protect them.
“It’s all right,” he said, aware that he must look a mess. “I won’t cause any trouble. I’m kind of in a hurry and just need to borrow your Mummy’s car for a bit.” He smiled at the girl who had held his hand. “You’ll get it back, I promise.” He crossed
his heart.
The girl looked up towards her mother’s worried face. “That’s okay, isn’t it, Mummy? You always say we should help those in need.” She turned back to him. “Are you hungry?”
“I am a bit, you know.”
“He could have something to eat first, then I could get the car keys from the hook in the cupboard. You will bring it back to us, won’t you.”
“I pinkie promise,” he said.
“Well, that’s all right then,” she laughed.
Her mother nodded, frozen in fear. He understood her only concern was keeping her girls safe. She’d probably seen the news, that the police were looking for a killer. Her hand shook as she poured him a cup of coffee and nodded toward the milk jug.
“Thank you very much,” he said.
“Mum always makes us use hand sanitiser before we eat anything. Here you go,” the middle child said and put a small bottle of clear gel in his dirty hand. The tenderness and innocence of this small child touched him. If Clementine had still been alive they might have had their own family by now.
“Okay, we’d better do what Mum says,” he said.
The oldest girl had fetched the car keys and handed them to him. “You shouldn’t put them on the table. It’s terrible bad luck, Mum says,” she said. He nodded and put them in his pocket. He ate a couple of muffins quickly, all while the oldest girl told him all about how she was about to turn five soon. The mother looked on nervously, picking at a piece of muffin, not putting anything in her mouth.
“Have you got a mobile phone?” he asked, making her jump.
“We don’t have a landline, so Mum carries it with her all the time,” the middle girl said.
“Yes,” the mother said, pulling it out of the back pocket of her shorts, knowing it was best to hand it over.
“You’ll get it back,” he said as gently as he could. “I’ll leave it in the car when I finish with it.”
As he stood up to leave, the oldest girl said she wanted to show him where the car was parked.
“Thank you so much for your kindness and your hospitality, but you stay here with your Mum. Is the car parked in the driveway at the front?”
The girl nodded. He walked across the lawn and turned around to wave. The girl waved back, her mother pulling her close.
63
Matakana
Niko put the phone down. “There’s a suspected burglary in Waikauri Bay. The offender is still in the house. A neighbour just phoned it in, describing the intruder as a male in his thirties to forties, he couldn’t be sure. The male person had scraggly blond hair. It could well be Ben Wilson. We’d better take a look. The old man who phoned it in sounded rattled.”
Bill drove while Niko put a call through to Orewa of a sighting of the suspect and the location. They dispatched the dog unit. Bill was concentrating on the narrow, winding, unsealed road as they drove towards Tāwharanui Peninsula. Around yet another blind corner an enormous rubbish truck appeared, making Bill stand on the brakes to avoid a head-on collision. The police car slid on the loose metal ending up sideways after the heavy braking.
The truck driver’s eyes opened wide as they came to a standstill face to face. Bill waved apologetically and threw the ute in reverse, his heart thumping as he drove around the truck, this time a little further to the left, hugging the side of the narrow road. Niko didn’t say a word.
By the time they arrived at the small gated community of Waikauri Bay they had both put it to the back of their minds. From here it was game on. Frans Muller had given them the gate code. The key pad was awkwardly positioned down the grass verge and Niko had to jump out to punch in the code. He swore under his breath, every second counted.
“I bet they run the this place with military precision,” Niko said, looking at the luxury holiday homes on the right side of the driveway. To the left was a strip of grass, then the pebbly beach. Bill nodded. They rarely got callouts to places like this. Frans was standing on his front step waving to them. He was looking spritely, and in his late seventies. His grey hair was neatly parted on the side and his weathered face had visible sun damage, a lifetime spent in the harsh sun, Niko suspected.
“He was in there,” Frans said, pointing next door. Bill asked the old man to step inside while they went over to have a look. Frans did as he was told and trudged the few steps and shut the door and went over to the window to watch.
Niko got the guns out of the lockbox and handed Bill his weapon. Bill motioned for him to move around the front while he took the back. There was no movement in the house. Niko wondered what awaited them.
64
Lexi was woken by the scurrying under the eaves outside the window. It was the second or third brood of young for the pair of swallows this season. She walked into the bathroom, running her fingers through her hair, avoiding looking in the mirror. She knew the dark circles were getting larger. She splashed some water on her face and got dressed before tying her hair into a ponytail and going downstairs.
Her mug was already on the bench with an Earl Grey tea bag in it, ready for the boiling water. A large plate of toast with all the condiments sat on the table amongst cereal boxes.
“I have a bit of work to do in the winery this morning,” Avery said.
Green finished his cereal and reached for some toast. “Hope you don’t mind if I take this with me,” he said, buttering the toast and smearing peanut butter liberally.
“No problems at all.” Lexi watched through the kitchen window as the two men walked into the winery. Cradling her cup, she took her first sip of tea. She longed to have this all put behind them. All she wanted was for everything to return to normal. Reaching for some ham, she knocked the side plate with her toast off the table.
“Damn it!” she yelled as frustration spilled over. Biggs bent down to pick up the bread off the floor and got her another plate, putting his hand on her shoulder. “Come on, why don’t you have a seat on the couch. I’ll bring your toast,” he said, taking her into the lounge. The room was bathed in morning sun and the old couch looked inviting.
Lexi put her head down for a second and closed her eyes. When Biggs walked in again a few minutes later with the tea and toast, she was sleeping soundly.
Biggs walked back into the kitchen and looked through the window. He was sure the door to the winery had been left open; now it was closed. He sent a quick message. Everything ok?
No reply. An uneasy feeling spread through his stomach. Something wasn’t right. He slipped on his vest, grabbed his Glock and secured it to his belt. The pepper-spray canister was hooked on. It was just after seven-thirty in the morning, probably nothing, but he had to check. As a precaution he locked the front door behind him and pocketed the key. A gecko sunbathing on the wooden steps darted away as he came closer.
It was quiet, the dew glistening on both sides of the path. The only noise came from the crime scene tape, flapping ominously in the breeze. The gravel crunched under his sturdy shoes, as he walked across the yard. He opened the door slowly, still nothing. The light was on, but he couldn’t see anyone. Stepping inside he peered down the corridor and slowly made his way inside, footsteps muffled on the concrete floor. He checked the rooms on each side. No sign of anyone. His heartbeat quickened. Entering the main area, his eyes were drawn to something a few metres in. Moving closer he realised it was a splattering of blood. There was another blood stain in the back of the room and a smear leading from it, like a drag mark. Inching closer, he unholstered his gun and moved forward.
A sudden movement from the side caught his eye, but there was no time. In slow motion his brain registered a cricket bat coming towards him. The last thing he felt before he blacked out was a crack to the side of the head and fear.
Avery was sitting up, his head resting on his chest, when he opened his eyes. The room was fuzzy at the edges and he wondered what had happened. Why was he on the floor in the bottling room? His hands were tied behind his back. He shivered. The coldness from the concrete floor was seep
ing up his spine, and the back of his head hurt. The last he remembered was Green following behind into his office to turn the lights and computer on. Avery checked some email. After a few minutes he found it strange that Green had not come through and called out for him, with no response. He traced his steps back in to the winery, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up, senses heightened. He saw Green lying on the floor. Thoughts of CPR and calling the ambulance went through his head. The man must have had a heart attack and fallen — there was blood all around the back of his head. He was still breathing, which was a good sign. Avery stuck his hand in his back pocket for his phone to call for help, when a hard blow hit and everything went black.
Green was lying on his side a few metres away, unconscious in the corner, his arms now tied behind his back. Avery tried to make sense out of what was happening but his head hurt and focus was impossible. He had no idea how long he had been knocked out. His tongue was sore and swelling. He must have bitten it as he fell. He broke into a cold sweat, thoughts of Lexi whirling around his head, the fear paralysing him. Then he heard footsteps in the corridor and the door opened.
Light flooded in and a stocky man in a black T-shirt and camouflage pants entered, dragging Biggs by the feet. The downed officer was like a rag doll, his head hitting the corner of the door with a sickening thud on the way in. The man rolled Biggs over and bound his hands and feet the same way he had the other two. Avery’s eyes were drawn to the heavy army-issue boots. Then looking up he saw ice-cold eyes staring back at him. The man looked as if he had come straight out of a US Special Forces movie; square jaw, steely gaze, cropped spiky hair and face paint.
Blood On Vines Page 22