Smoke and Mirrors

by Angus McLean

  Ingoe never did anything without reason, and so it was today that he came cold calling on Jack Travis. He turned his gaze from the rolling farmland to the paddocks closer to the house. A couple contained heifer calves and chooks pecked around another near a coop. He saw that the ground dropped away from the other side of the house to a pond where a few ducks swam lazily. A small creek ran through the property and fed the pond.

  Beside the house was a large vegetable garden behind a trellis fence, a smaller herb garden adjacent to it. Citrus and other fruit trees grew on the other side of the house and a grape vine had spread itself along a fence. The house was on tank water and he could see a couple of solar panels on the roof.

  Ingoe turned back to the house itself, which was in need of a fresh coat of paint. A pair of muddy gumboots stood by the door, which was open. An oilskin coat hung on a hook above the boots.

  A man stood in the doorway. He was six foot and strongly built, a few years younger than Ingoe. Receding dark hair going to grey and clipped very short, unshaven and with an outdoorsman’s complexion. He wore faded jeans and his checked flannel shirt was hanging out. A steaming cup of coffee was in one hand, the other tucked in his pocket. He was watching Ingoe.

  Ingoe’s stoic expression creased into a smile and he moved forward, hand extended.

  ‘Good to see you, Jack.’

  ‘You too.’ Travis gave his hand a short, hard pump. He smiled and moved inside. ‘Come in, I’ve just made a pot.’

  Ingoe followed him in through an open living area into a large farm-style kitchen. Classic rock was coming from a stereo in the lounge. Ingoe wasn’t too up with the play with the genre-if it wasn’t about cowboys and lost love and life on the range, he didn’t want to know. Travis took another mug from a cupboard and filled it from the machine on the bench. He gave it to Ingoe and gestured for him to take a seat at the breakfast bar.

  Ingoe did so and took a sip. It was black and strong. French doors opened from the dining area onto a wide deck that overlooked the rolling green farmland. Ingoe admired the view for a moment. ‘Machine coffee,’ he commented. ‘You going all Ponsonby on us, Jack?’

  Travis smiled again. ‘Just like good coffee.’ He flicked a nod towards his visitor’s leg. ‘How’s the leg?’

  Ingoe shrugged. ‘It is what it is. I get by.’ He took another sip and put his mug down. ‘Living off the grid yet?’

  ‘Working on it.’ Travis used a remote to turn down the stereo. ‘It’s everybody’s dream isn’t it?’

  Ingoe changed tack. ‘Been back long?’ Travis gave him a sharp look and Ingoe grinned.

  ‘A month. I had six months in Iraq and two in Syria.’

  ‘Residential?’ He was referring to residential security, a common role in trouble spots for former operators on the Circuit.

  ‘Some, plus escorting some news crews.’ Travis gave a small grin. ‘Interesting times.’

  Ingoe nodded, warming his hands on the mug. ‘Seen the news?’

  ‘Yep.’ Travis gestured towards the morning’s paper spread out on the dining table. A laptop stood open beside it, with a notepad and pen. The pad had brief notes jotted down.

  Ingoe nodded. ‘Big news.’

  ‘Bad news. Sounds organised.’

  ‘Very.’

  ‘How many dead?’

  Ingoe paused, considering his response. ‘More than what the media say.’

  ‘They’ve said a security guard, three cops and two civilians dead, plus one baddie. And five cops and four more civvies wounded.’ Travis watched him, assessing his reply.

  ‘That’s true. Probably two more casualties for the bad guys though, we think one dead if not both.’

  Travis let out a low whistle. ‘That’s some serious fire fight. And in downtown Wellington too.’

  ‘And about twenty million bucks worth of gold bullion taken.’

  Travis whistled again. ‘They had a machine gun and grenades and an RPG?’

  ‘Yep.’

  Travis sipped his own coffee before crossing to the pantry and taking out a biscuit barrel. Ingoe took one and examined it with a wry grin.

  ‘Anzac biscuits?’

  ‘Made with my own hand.’ Travis took a bite of one and they both chewed in silence for a minute. ‘So this isn’t a social call then.’

  Ingoe put his biscuit on the benchtop. ‘No,’ he said carefully. ‘All that ordnance came from somewhere, and the bullion is going somewhere too.’

  ‘Sounds like a job for the cops, not our…your outfit.’

  Ingoe tilted his head slightly. ‘In theory. There’s an international angle to it though.’

  ‘And? You don’t need me. The Boss made it pretty clear I wouldn’t be coming back.’

  Ingoe met his gaze. ‘The cops involved. They were STG.’

  Travis paused. Ingoe continued.

  ‘One of them took out three of the bad guys.’ Ingoe met his gaze calmly. ‘Your nephew.’

  Travis felt a kick in his chest and put his mug down. ‘Brad.’

  Ingoe’s Hyundai was disappearing out onto the winding road to make his way from Onewhero back across the river towards Tuakau. Travis stood on the deck and watched it go, emptying his mug, his brow furrowed.

  He turned back inside and glanced at the notes he’d been making when his former boss had arrived. The robbery and subsequent shootout was headline news worldwide and he had followed it closely over the last several hours. Experience had told him it was more than a bunch of hoods robbing a cash-in-transit van, as had been told to the media.

  Experience. From joining the Army as a boy to eighteen years in the Group, ending up as a Squadron Sergeant Major-Warrant Officer Class 2, and next in line for the RSM position after Ingoe’s tragedy. Next in line, that was, until his run in with an obnoxious Air Force pilot. The pilot had objected to being taken to task over his recklessness and Travis had objected to a twenty six year old officer trying to put him in his place.

  The result was a broken nose for the pilot and a pending court martial for Travis. It could have been dealt with had the pilot not been the son of a senior Cabinet Minister. His exit without charges had been arranged quickly and Travis found himself out in the cold, thrown into work on the Circuit with former comrades from all arms of the forces round the world.

  The last year had been a journey of intense self-discovery for the tough former SSM, and he had planned on taking some time out to get his property operating how he wanted it to be. His remark to Ingoe about living off the grid wasn’t too far from the truth; the attraction was strong, although he was realistic enough to know that to be completely self-sufficient was a big ask and very time consuming.

  He had heifers and chickens, sufficient fruit and vegetables all year round, and a good trade arrangement with neighbours who ran sheep and pigs. Seasonal hunting helped keep the freezers full.

  But as he watched the Hyundai disappear from sight down the winding country road, Travis knew without a doubt that he was about to step back into the fold.

  He’d let his nephew down before; he wouldn’t do it again.

  Chase Investigations#1

  Old Friends

  Chapter One

  The depot was quiet and still at 1am on a Monday, a light breeze flicking the odd leaf or piece of rubbish across the forecourt where the trucks came in and turned round to be loaded.

  A row of semis lined one side of the compound, big and dark and empty, all emblazoned with Marcus Haulage markings. A security light flickered weakly and cast only a slight glow through the darkness. The chain link fence rattled and the gate squeaked as it was pushed open.

  The man at the gate checked his watch nervously for the fourth time in as many minutes. He shivered even though it wasn’t cold.

  An engine could be heard and a second later bright headlights swept round the corner into the street and approached the end of the cul-de-sac where the man waited on the footpath by the open gate. It was an industrial area populated by trade centres and auto
businesses and nobody was around at this time of night.

  The lights blinded him as the truck swung easily through the gate and entered the depot, making a wide half circle before smoothly backing up to the loading bay. This wasn’t a semi-truck like the ones parked up in a row at the side of the depot, but a smaller delivery truck with no markings. The man shut the gates and looped the chain through without locking it. He hurried over to the truck and met the driver and his passenger as they jumped down.

  ‘Good work,’ the driver told him with a smirk, ‘let’s get to it.’

  He was a burly man with greasy hair showing under his cap. He had the strong forearms built from years of guiding 18-wheelers down the highways and the red nose of a hardened drinker. His companion was of a similar build but taller, with tattoos discolouring his own forearms. He also had a spider’s web tattooed on the left side of his neck and several tear drops inked into the skin by his right eye. He was harder looking than the driver and didn’t speak.

  ‘Hurry,’ the man who’d opened the gate said, checking his watch again, and the driver sneered at him with contempt.

  ‘Just open up, fella,’ he replied, hitching his jeans up, ‘let us do our job.’

  The first man unlocked the door beside the loading bay then lifted the roller door. He stood and watched as the other two men entered the warehouse, turned a couple of lights on and got to work. Within twenty minutes they had loaded the back of the truck with several pallets of boxes, replaced the forklift, turned out the lights and locked up again. It was a smooth, efficient operation, done with minimal fuss.

  The driver and his companion climbed back into the truck and the nervous man went to the gate to let them out. The truck paused in the gateway and the driver wound down the window, leaning casually out.

  ‘Cheers buddy,’ he smirked, ‘see ya next time. We’ll be in touch, aye?’

  The passenger stared at the nervous man with a blank expression, and the nervous man nodded glumly.

  ‘Okay, okay,’ he replied, ‘just go. Just go.’

  The driver laughed and the truck moved away up the road. The nervous man wiped his brow on the sleeve of his jacket, locked the gate again and hurried away into the darkness.

  Silence returned to the depot.

  Chapter Two

  The lady sitting on the red fabric sofa in the corner of the office was well dressed and smelt of expensive perfume. She appeared uncomfortable, as if she were waiting for the dentist or a mammogram. She was middle aged and had perfectly styled hair and flawless make up.

  The man sitting on the matching chair at right angles to her was twenty years younger, with broad shoulders and a confident air about him. He had dark eyes and dark hair with a hint of grey at the temples, a full moustache, and was dressed in casual chinos and an open necked shirt.

  He looked up from the notes he’d made on the pad on his knee and smiled at her. It was a calm reassuring smile, and it eased her discomfort a degree or two. He had a direct gaze and intelligent eyes, the sort of face that was more interesting than handsome. A faint scar showed at his chin, a patch where no stubble could grow.

  ‘Okay Mrs MacNamara,’ he said, ‘is there anything else you can tell me that may help? Any particular routine that your husband follows that may help me narrow it down a bit?’

  She thought for a moment.

  ‘He plays squash every Monday and Thursday night right after work. He always starts work by seven and usually gets home about six.’ She frowned. ‘That’s it I’m afraid. I can’t think of anything else.’

  ‘No problem.’ He jotted it down, got the name of the squash club from her, and smiled again. ‘That’s it, Mrs MacNamara. We’ll get onto it right away, and give you an update as soon as we know anything, okay?’

  ‘How long will it take?’ she asked, and for the first time her voice quavered. She paused to re-gather herself before continuing. ‘I mean, will I hear from you this week?’

  ‘It really depends on what your husband does and what we find, Mrs MacNamara.’

  He stood and she followed suit, allowing herself to be ushered over to the desk by the door. ‘We’ll be in touch as soon as we can, hopefully in the next few days.’

  She nodded and he gave her that reassuring smile again.

  ‘If you can give your deposit to Molly I’ll quickly print off a contract for you.’

  He moved to the second desk in the office, which faced the first one across the floor space. Mrs MacNamara turned to the woman at the first desk-Molly-and passed her a gold Visa.

  Molly took it and used it to take an electronic deposit of ten hours work. She was a striking woman of classical beauty, with wavy dark hair and sparkling, friendly green eyes. She had full red lips and wore little make up-mainly because she didn’t need to. She had the sort of look that defied pigeonholing. She could pass for a European or a country girl, depending on what she wore. Today she wore a simple black skirt and silver blouse, elegant and understated.

  Mrs MacNamara cast a furtive look at the man as he printed out a contract for her. He seemed like a nice person but she sensed he was not the sort to mess with. She glanced back at Molly, who was smiling at her and holding her card and receipt out for her. Her eyes smiled as well as her mouth, and Mrs MacNamara felt herself smile in return.

  The man came over and gave her a copy of the contract and had her sign his copy. She folded it and put it in her bag with her card and receipt. Then he handed her a business card and smiled again. Molly smiled again too, and Mrs MacNamara felt a little better. She thanked them and allowed him to hold the door for her.

  ‘We’ll be in touch,’ he told her, and closed the door behind her.

  Mrs MacNamara walked towards the stairs down to the street. She could hear the motorway behind her on the other side of the building, and the main street of Ellerslie village was in front of her. She looked at the card in her hand.

  Chase Investigations, it said. Dan Crowley, Director. It was a plain white card with blue lettering, the company’s name in italicised lettering across the top as if it really was chasing something, his name and title below it in smaller letters. Address and contact details at the bottom.

  She tucked it into her bag with the rest of the stuff, and checked her watch. It was 930am. Nearly time for her manicure.

  Dan Crowley passed the notes and contract to his wife and went to the kitchenette off the office.

  ‘What do you think?’ he asked as he poured a coffee for himself and a green tea for her. ‘If we could get a few more Mrs MacNamaras in here with their Remuera cheque books, I’d be happy.’

  ‘If we get a few more Mrs MacNamaras in here, ‘Molly replied, ‘there won’t be room to move. You’ve got a full week already, honey, and now this as well.’

  ‘I’ll give it to old Neil,’ he told her, handing her a tea cup and perching on the corner of her desk.

  ‘He’s already got a full week as well.’ She clicked open the weekly planner on her desktop and opened up the tab for Neil. ‘He’s in court for the Shelby theft case today, he’s got the Parker and Philips fraud, four accident reports due in and he’s got five processes.’ She took a sip of tea and gave him a plaintive look. ‘What, no biscuits this morning?’

  Dan went to the kitchenette and brought back the cookie jar.

  ‘How about you, could you squeeze it in?’ He bit into a ginger crunch and showered crumbs down his front. He didn’t seem to notice.

  ‘I’ll have to, won’t I?’ Molly sighed and frowned at him. He didn’t seem to notice that either.

  ‘We need to take someone else on though, honey. Neil’s as slow as a wet week.’

  ‘He is officially retired.’

  ‘So he should retire properly then. I’m supposed to be part time but I’m practically full time and you did sixty hours last week.’ She pouted at him. ‘You need to get someone in.’

  He sipped his coffee and nodded.

  ‘You’re right.’ He smiled at her and patted her cheek affectio
nately. ‘No worries gorgeous, I’ll sort it out. I’ll talk to Buck and see if he knows of anyone wanting to get out.’

  The door opened and an elderly man with grey hair and a beer pot entered, a battered briefcase in one hand and a copy of the Racing Times in the other.

  ‘Morning all,’ he said cordially, kicking the door closed behind him, ‘how are we?’

  ‘We be fine,’ Dan replied with an amused smile. ‘How are ye?’

  ‘Ye be good,’ Neil replied, taking a seat at the third desk, the one in the corner with the empty file tray. He opened his briefcase and removed a thick manila folder. He carried it over to Molly’s desk and put it down with a flourish.

  ‘Here you go, my dear lady,’ he said grandly, shooting the cuffs of his dark suit and smoothing his tie. ‘All my files, up to date and complete.’

  He looked across at Dan, who was coming from the kitchenette with a coffee for him.

  ‘I’m retiring,’ he announced, drinking in their surprised looks. ‘Yep, I thought it was about time. I don’t need to work; I’ve got my pension and not long left to spend it. June’s found a place in Tauranga and put an offer in, it got accepted over the weekend and we move this week.’

  ‘That soon?’ Molly looked stunned.

  ‘That soon,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry to drop it on you like this, but we got the word on Friday night. I cleaned up my files over the weekend, all the documents are served, the crash reports are done and photos on the disk, and I’ve done the preliminary work on the Parker and Philips job.’ He glanced back to Dan. ‘You’ll just need to finish it off, Daniel.’

  ‘Uh-huh.’ Dan nodded and went to his desk. ‘You’re still in court today, I take it?’

  ‘Indeed, indeed. The last time I’ll be giving evidence, I should imagine.’ He nodded solemnly. ‘No more running round playing private eye for old Neil, it’s time for fishing and golf.’

  ‘And spending quality time with June,’ Molly reminded him.