by Bev Robitai
‘No, not according to the chequebook,’ said Pete. ‘What’s the next letter say?’
‘OK, let’s see..."Dear Mr. Taylor... blah blah blah... your investment has already increased beyond predicted returns, in only six months! We are certain that you will wish to continue to enjoy this outstanding performance, and would strongly advise against withdrawing your money at this particular point as the market is set to rise even further in the immediate future..." Sounds like he asked for his money back. Maybe he wasn’t completely taken in.’
‘He didn’t get it though, did he? I wonder if he ever figured out that he’d been had. He never said a thing to me.’
‘Well he wouldn’t, would he? Dad would never admit he’d been ripped off, he’d be too ashamed. I would too.’
She pushed back from the table and paced across the polished floor, her footsteps sounding loud on the bare wood, then quieter as she stepped onto the rug.
‘The more I read of those letters, the angrier I get. They’re so - so - superior and smug, as if the writer knows exactly what he’s doing and also knows that the poor mug at the other end can’t do a damn thing about it. Doesn’t it want to make you rush over to Wellington and grab Colwyn Symons by the throat and beat the crap out of him?’
‘More your style than mine, Rob. You always were the firebrand of the family. Now let’s get this lot finished, shall we? There’s heaps to do on the farm and I can’t concentrate while this is hanging over my head.’
They returned to the piles, reading through each page and sorting them into some semblance of order. It grew dark outside, so Robyn switched on the light. It still made her smile to flick the switch, now that electricity had been connected to the property after so many years of noisy diesel-generated power.
‘Not like the old days, eh Pete?’ She became aware that he was sitting very still, staring at a document. ‘Pete? What’s up, bro? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’
He glanced up, his face bleak.
‘What was the date on that last letter from the investment company?’
She rummaged through the relevant pile. ‘Ah, June 3rd. Why?’
‘This is the life insurance policy Dad took out. It’s dated three days later. He knew, Robyn. He realised the money was gone and he took out the policy to look after us.’
It wasn’t until some days later that Robyn voiced the thought that had occurred privately to both of them since they’d found the policy. They were standing at the kitchen sink washing the dinner dishes after the last day of tidying up their father’s belongings. Robyn was due to drive home the next day, and Pete was planning to interview a few likely lads to work on the farm.
The evening sun sparkled across wave-tops stirred by a steady northerly breeze. Up on the hill behind the house, a sheep baaed plaintively.
Robyn pushed the window open and drew in a deep breath of fresh air, knowing she’d be back in suburbia the next day. Pete was drying a handful of cutlery.
‘Pete, do you have any doubts about the way Dad... died?’
‘About who robbed him, or what?’
‘About any of it. You said it didn’t make sense that he would have been robbed way out there, remember? Where nobody would have expected him to come along?’
‘Yeah, well it was pretty weird, wasn’t it? It’s a bloody stupid place for a mugger to hang round just on the off-chance that some rich tourist might turn up. I mean, Walter’s Bluff isn’t exactly number one attraction in the Blenheim guide book, is it?’
‘True. So who just happened to be out there when Dad went for a quiet walk?
‘I don’t know! Maybe Smitty’s got it figured out but I sure haven’t.’
He threw the cutlery into the drawer and slammed it shut. ‘Look, I just want to put it behind me, OK? We got nowhere with Dad’s robbery, we got nothing but an answer-phone for Colwyn Symons, there’s nothing more we can do.’
‘Oh come on, Pete! You can’t just let it go like that! Imagine if Dad hadn’t taken out that insurance - we’d have lost the farm as well as the money. You’d be out of a job, you’d have nowhere to live, and all Dad’s work would have been lost. He wanted to build something here that would last for generations, and one crooked bastard could have ruined everything. Doesn’t that rattle your cage just a little bit?’
‘Yes of course it does!’ He clamped his mouth shut for a moment then took a deep breath. ‘I just don’t see that there’s anything to be gained by chasing after shadows. Dad’s dead, the investment money’s gone, and there’s no way of fixing either of those things. But the insurance paid out and the farm’s OK. We have to let it go.’
‘Yeah, maybe you’re right.’ She threw down the wet dish-cloth on the draining board. There was a brief silence. But Robyn just couldn’t leave the subject alone. ‘Pete, it bugs me that the only reason Dad was out there at Walter’s Bluff in the first place was supposedly to clear his mind because he was worried sick about losing the money. Does that sound like a good enough reason to you? Suppose he just staged a fake robbery, because there’d been a real one that he couldn’t do anything about. He might actually have jumped, Pete, all because of that missing money. He might have jumped off a damned cliff just for the insurance payout to replace it - and that Symons character seems to have got away with nicking it.’ She gasped as another thought struck her. ‘Oh God, Pete - how many more people has he done it to besides Dad?’
Suds from her hands splattered across the floor as she gesticulated. ‘It seems so unfair, doesn’t it? I just wish there was something I could do.’
Foam splashed up from the sink and soaked into her shirt-front. She jerked up the plug chain in frustration and watched the water drain away. Pete looked at her sadly.
‘Come on Robyn, you’ll drive yourself insane if you go down that track. Let it go – there’s nothing we can do that will bring Dad back, and he wouldn’t have wanted you ripping yourself apart over it.’
‘Oh to hell with it, maybe you’re right - I’m going home tomorrow and getting on with my job, and you’ve got a farm to run.’ She gave her brother a quick hug. ‘Tell me when the first bloke’s turning up for his interview so I can be out of your way before he gets here.’
She let the kitchen door bang behind her.
In the weeks and months that followed, she went about her job mechanically, her photography lacking much of its usual flair. Weddings were especially difficult for her, being filled with happy family moments that she felt no desire to capture. At the end of each day she returned home reluctantly, and tried to lose herself in a variety of mindless pastimes until it was late enough for her to fall asleep.
It was during the TV news one evening that she saw something that jolted her out of her numbness. There was an interview with a golden-haired man lounging on board a sleek white yacht, and the name at the bottom of the screen said ‘Colwyn Symons, Toronto, Canada’. Robyn sat bolt upright on the couch, fumbling for the remote to turn up the volume. Symons was being interviewed by an investigative reporter who had followed him from New Zealand after his sudden departure some months previously. Robyn sharpened her attention. This must be the same Colwyn Symons. The reporter was asking about the funds that Mr. Symons had invested on behalf of his clients. Mr. Symons replied that sadly, the investment market had not performed as expected, and that as share values had declined, so the investors’ funds had dwindled. It was the kind of thing one had to expect when dealing in a speculative arena such as the share market. He spread his hands and smiled sincerely. There was nothing more that he could have done.
The reporter asked about his sudden departure from the country. A family event in Canada, said Mr. Symons smoothly, followed by an extended holiday. And the luxury yacht, asked the reporter, was it paid for out of investors’ money? Mr. Symons appeared shocked by the question, and hastened to dispel any suggestion that he was the owner of the yacht or indeed had any funds at his disposal at all. The interview was taking place on board solely through the kindness
of its owner who had no financial connection with Golden Fleece investments whatsoever.
At this point Robyn came to her senses and flicked on the DVD recorder, watching the last of the interview with mounting outrage. The list of defrauded clients went on and on, including pensioners who had lost their life savings, unemployed workers who had handed over their redundancy payments and were left with nothing, and a family who had a sick child needing costly overseas treatment. All of them had been left penniless, devastated and powerless. The interviewer’s grim conclusion was that legally, nothing could be done about it.
As the credits rolled, she reached for the phone and dialled Pete’s number with shaking fingers. It rang for what seemed like an eternity, while she breathed deeply and forced herself to stay calm. At last Pete answered, sounding breathless.
‘Hello? Sorry about the wait.’
‘Pete, did you see that? On TV - Colwyn Symons was just interviewed. That freaking bastard was there on TV, Pete, he went to Canada with all the damn money.’
‘You’re joking! No I didn’t see it, I was out in the shed fixing the tractor. So how do you know he’s got the money?’
‘Because he’s got a huge fancy yacht and poncy designer clothes and he’s living it up in Toronto - and according to the reporter, he’s bloody got away with it! They can’t touch him, there’s no hard evidence of fraud, and the cops can’t do a damn thing. He’s ripped off dozens of people, not just us, and most of them are left with absolutely nothing. Doesn’t it make you bloody sick?’
Pete was silent.
‘Pete? You still there? Say something, dammit!’
There’s nothing to say, Rob. OK, he’s a smart bastard, but if the cops can’t touch him, there’s not a hell of a lot anyone can do about it, is there?’
‘There bloody is if I go over there. I’ll bloody kill him, I swear it.’ She clung to the phone till her knuckles turned white. ‘I’ll go over there and find him and turn him inside out through his own bloody arsehole! Someone has to get him back for the money he stole. He can’t get away with it, it’s just not FAIR!’
‘Robyn! For God’s sake calm down! Look, be sensible, will you? You can’t go tearing off to Canada.’
‘Why not?’
‘You’d lose your job.’
‘I’ll take unpaid leave.’
‘You haven’t got a passport.’
‘I’ll get one.’
‘You can’t afford it.’
‘I’ve got ten thousand dollars, remember?’
‘Robyn, you can’t! Dad died to give you that money.’
She gasped as if he’d slapped her. ‘Christ, that was a low blow. OK, fine. Just you watch the late news tonight so you see why I have to do this. I’ll call you tomorrow.’
She slammed down the phone and stormed outside to take a walk.
Loud music was playing from her next-door-neighbour’s house as she crossed her garden. She wheeled in fury and screamed at the open window.
‘And you can turn that bloody noise down too, you selfish bugger!’
The music volume dropped abruptly as she strode away.
When she finally returned home, much later, there was a message from Pete on her answer-phone.
‘Rob? Caught the late news. I see what you mean. That Symons character was way worse than I thought. For once, you’re right. If you want to go over there, I’ll back you all the way. Scum like that can’t be allowed to get away with it. Talk to you later, bye.’
She clenched a fist exultantly and started to pack.
CHAPTER 2
Two weeks later, when she’d got her passport and ticket, Robyn drove out to the farm to say goodbye to Pete and to pick up a few last-minute items. Pete looked surprised then suspicious at some of the things going into her bag.
‘Why are you taking fence staples, Robyn?’
‘Might need them,’ she said airily.
‘And what the hell are you doing with the lamb docker?’
‘Er, might pick up some part-time farm work?’
‘Robyn!’
‘Oh all right – look, you won’t be needing it for a while yet, will you? I just thought I might get a chance to use it on our dear friend Mr Symons, you never know.’
‘You’d use the docker on a guy?’ Pete crossed his legs and winced at the very thought.
‘On that dick? In a second,’ she said coolly. ‘He deserves everything that’s coming to him.’ Pete grinned.
‘There won’t be much coming at all, once you’ve finished with him!’
‘Damn right.’ She swivelled the contraption round her finger and dropped it into an imaginary holster. ‘Right, I’m just going to take a last look around in case I’ve forgotten anything.’
‘I think I’ll join you. Who knows what you’ll decide to disappear with.’
They strolled out of the farmhouse towards the shed as a winter sun lifted skeins of mist from the valleys. Gnarled macrocarpa trees loomed through the vapour, echoing with warbles and squeaks from the family of magpies that made their home among the branches. Robyn gave the farm dogs a quick pat, conscious of Pete’s amused gaze.
‘Come on Robyn, aren’t you going to kiss them all goodbye?’
‘No, I’m saving that for you and the horse.’
She cast a quick eye over the implements in the shed but decided her bag was too full to squeeze in anything more. They ambled along beside the sheep pens with Robyn idly flicking bits of lichen off the rails with her fingernail. At the top of the path that led down to the jetty they paused between rough-barked manuka trees to admire the view.
Rich blue arms of sea reached between bush-covered hills, and below them in the bay dotted rows of buoys belonging to a mussel farm were tossing gently in the wake of the latest Cook Strait ferry
Robyn surveyed the scene for a few more moments, then turned to Pete.
‘I guess that’ll do for saying goodbye to the place. Now, are you ready to drive me to the plane?’
As they made their way back towards the farmhouse he looked at her searchingly.
‘I’m ready, but are you sure you’re ready? I mean, you’ve never been very far from home before, have you? One day trip to Wellington on the ferry, and you didn’t enjoy that very much. How are you going to feel when you’re eight thousand miles away?’
‘Aw, Pete! Stop fussing, will you? It’s not as if I’m going to a totally foreign place - they do speak English in Canada, and they’re still part of the Commonwealth, aren’t they? I’m sure I’ll fit right in, find people I can talk to - and it’s only for a couple of weeks anyway. I’ll be fine! I’ll track down Symons, do him over, squeeze whatever reparations I can out of him, and fly home. Simple. If castrating him and ripping his liver out convinces him never to steal again, my work will be done.’
‘I still can’t figure out how you think you’ll find him in a city the size of Toronto.’
‘I told you, I took a photo off the news video that showed his boat and the marina it’s in - he tried to tell the reporter it wasn’t his boat but I know damn well it was. I’ll just check out the waterfront until I spot him, pick my moment, and POW! He’ll be sorry he ever tangled with the Taylor family.’
‘I’m sure he will! Just watch you don’t get charged with assault or anything illegal - it’s too far to come and bail you out.’ Pete grinned. ‘Go get him, sis!’
‘Right then!’ Robyn took a last look round at the green and tranquil hills, and on an impulse grabbed a handful of the sweet lush grass and stuffed it into the pocket of her backpack. Something to sniff and remind her of home, just in case she did get homesick.
They piled her bags into the back of the truck and set off on the long dusty drive to Picton airfield, where Robyn looked dubiously at the tiny six-seater plane that was to fly her across Cook Strait.
‘I guess this is it, then. Look after the place, Pete.’
She hugged him fiercely, shouldered her bag, then strode away across the grass and climbed aboard the litt
le aircraft.
She held onto the armrests firmly as the plane took off, feeling a thrill as it skimmed frighteningly close to the hills at the end of the runway before soaring above the Marlborough Sounds. The sight of the network of sea-filled valleys was a pleasant distraction, and she craned her head to take a last look at the farm before fluffy clouds obscured it from view.
After ten minutes the tip of the North Island came into view below her, an expanse of stark brown ranges where the bones of the land showed through. In the distance Wellington city appeared through patchy cloud. Robyn had a fleeting glimpse of hills covered with houses whizzing past, then turned her head hurriedly to watch the view through the plane’s front window. She gasped as the runway ahead seemed to swoop from side to side and up and down with every gust of wind. Trying to reassure herself that the pilot knew exactly what he was doing, she clung to the armrests to steady herself until the little plane was safely on the ground. After a quick sprint across rain-soaked tarmac to the airport lounge, she ducked into the restroom to drag a comb through her wet and windblown hair.
Coming out, she noticed a phone, and decided that since she was in Wellington, she might as well try ringing Golden Fleece Investments to see if anyone was left at the office.
The signal for a disconnected number told her all she needed to know. Colwyn Symons had definitely done a runner with all the loot, and the company had folded.
She sat down to wait for her boarding call to Auckland.
This time she boarded a much bigger plane along a covered passageway that connected directly to the plane door so she didn’t have to brave the rain and the smell of jet-fuel outside.