Marlborough Man

by Alan Carter

  ‘That’d be great.’ The frozen soup goes back in the fridge. There’s a bottle of Pinot Noir in there from down south. ‘Do you guys drink wine?’

  Steve grins. ‘If we have to. Just to be sociable, like.’

  The patties are good and the view seems even better from their hut. The sandflies and mosquitos are bearable. The wine goes down well and we push on with a few beers. Gary and Steve explain the intricacies of pig hunting to me, how the dogs work together and how it’s all done on GPS.

  ‘What about the old traditional ways?’ I’m mildly disappointed and my voice is a bit louder than usual. I’m getting steadily pissed.

  ‘Like a noble savage?’ says Gary. He pokes the spatula at the barbie where more patties sizzle. ‘Time and place for all that. Right now we just want to eat, right?’

  ‘Right.’ The second pattie melts in my mouth.

  We talk about women and how it’s all really complicated and that. They praise Paulie, and Gary tells us a little bit about his kid brother.

  I’m nodding in recognition. ‘Man, we had all these dreams, and then, bang.’ Looking out at the view my eyes have blurred. ‘I mean yep, we love him of course and he’s really great but, you know.’

  ‘No buts, mate,’ says Gary. ‘You can’t afford to have any buts. Does your head in.’

  ‘Yeah.’ I take another swig of beer and feel like hugging him.

  A few more beers later, I stumble back to the house, vaguely aware that I might have invited myself along on their next hunting trip. Slug back two large glasses of water and hope for the best in the morning. I climb into our big cold empty bed and stay there pretty much the whole weekend.

  On Monday morning driving back down the valley to work, I still haven’t heard anything from Vanessa. In mobile range, I try her number but it goes through to messages, again. There’s a yellow sticky note on my desktop, a missed call from Dickie McCormack. I’m just about in the mood for him.

  ‘Sergeant Chester, Havelock Police, returning your call.’

  ‘I’m impressed. Not everybody can pull enough strings to bury a Journal story. That’s more my territory. Maybe I’ve underestimated you, Sergeant Chester.’

  Stay friends. You don’t need any more grief right now. ‘I’m sorry for the lack of progress on the vandalism inquiry, Mr McCormack. That dreadful murder has been occupying most of our resources, as I’m sure you’ll appreciate.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘But now that the investigation is in hand, I’m able to give your matter due priority.’

  ‘Fantastic. Much appreciated. I understand the strain you’re under these days.’

  I explain my conversation with Charlie Evans and how I don’t think he did it because he’s constrained by his housebound and terminally ill wife.

  ‘It hasn’t stopped him making trouble before.’

  There’s obviously no point in appealing to his empathy. ‘Anybody else come to mind?’

  He tuts. ‘Forget it. These things have a way of working themselves out.’

  I want to give him the lecture about not taking the law into his own hands, but I know it will only inflame things and he’ll ignore it anyway. ‘As you wish, Mr McCormack. We’ll continue our inquiries and keep you notified of any developments.’

  ‘Yeah, right.’

  Not quite entente cordiale. More like a fragile ceasefire.

  The phone goes, it’s Latifa, short on breath and running. ‘Coming your way, All Blacks beanie, camo t-shirt. Get outside and stop him!’

  All Blacks beanie and camo t-shirt? That’s half the population of NZ. I run outside and there he is: two metres tall and a hundred kilos. Raging Bull, coming right at me. ‘Stop!’ I say. ‘Police.’

  He fields me away with a face palm and I land in the camellia bush as Latifa streaks past. ‘Denzel. Fucken stop, now.’

  He doesn’t.

  Latifa is in range and brings him down with a textbook rugby tackle. He screams in agony.

  ‘Get it off, get it off!’ Denzel is pulling at his pants, trying to undo them.

  ‘What the fuck?’ says Latifa. ‘Stop it! That’s disgusting!’

  There’s a nice smell coming off Denzel while he’s screaming: herbs, gravy, sage and onion stuffing. When his pants are finally undone, we see that there’s a crushed hot chicken in there and the gravy has scalded him.

  ‘He nicked it from the supermarket,’ says Latifa, unnecessarily.

  Jessie James pulls up on her Vespa with her iPhone ready. ‘Denzel, dude. Legend. Nice wee smile for the camera?’

  Denzel Haruru has been sent to the nursing post to have his burns checked. We’ll charge him later. I might have a word too about the attack on Patrick Smith’s property. The DC calls. He wants to know how things are going.

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘That’s good. No word on the trace yet. We’ve been in contact with your former colleagues at SOCA and they’re onto it too.’

  ‘They’ll need everything in triplicate just to make a phone call these days. While we’re all ferreting around in cyberland, somebody in the real world is heading my way.’

  ‘I understand your frustration and your concern, Nick.’

  No, he doesn’t, but I don’t say it. Instead I thank him and tell him I’ve made peace with Marianne and, up to a point, with McCormack. ‘Anything from DI Keegan on the Riley case?’ I ask.

  ‘Nothing. This guy’s ghosted in and dumped the kid there with no trace, no sightings, zilch.’

  Another statistic. Another pair of shoes on that sad fence. Ford promises to be in touch about any developments on the computer track. I try Vanessa again but she’s still not picking up so I call the officer in charge of the safe house.

  ‘Yeah, they’re both fine as of the last check-in fifteen minutes ago.’ Maybe he can pass on my message for her to call me back? ‘Absolutely,’ he assures me.

  Latifa pops her head around the door. ‘Denzel’s back, the injuries aren’t as serious as we hoped. Wanna talk to him?’

  Denzel is in the interview room with a responsible adult, Uncle Walter, who seems too old to be Denzel’s actual uncle. Maybe it’s a generic wise-old-man title. Denzel is sore and feeling sorry for himself. Latifa has already formally charged him on the shoplifting matter. He can expect a summons either to the children’s court or juvenile justice team some time relatively soon. I want to talk to him about Patrick Smith.

  ‘That old pervert? What about him?’

  ‘A few nights ago his house was burned down and his pig got shot.’

  ‘Good,’ says Denzel, and Uncle Walter nods in agreement.

  ‘Did you have anything to do with it?’ I specify the day and time range.

  ‘Nah. I was at home. Asleep in my bed.’

  There’s amusement in his eyes and we both know it was him and his mates. Uncle Walter is staring at the wall high behind me. Maybe he was there too.

  ‘No more,’ I say. ‘It stops now.’

  Denzel lifts his chin at me. ‘Look after your own, you lot, don’t you?’

  ‘You’ve had your fun and made your point. I don’t need the extra grief and the work. You make life hard for me, it’ll come back on you.’ I give Uncle Walter a look. ‘We all want an easy life, don’t we?’

  He knows what I’m on about. He nudges the boy and there’s a nod of acknowledgement.

  Latifa throws me a wink as they leave. ‘You did well there, Sarge.’

  When I get back to my phone there’s a message from Vanessa.

  ‘We’re fine. They’re looking after us well here.’ A pause. ‘Look, I think it’s best if you don’t come over, not yet anyway. Paulie’s out of sorts and I need some time to think about all of this.’ A slight crack in the voice. ‘Let me know once you’ve found out what’s going on. We’ll talk then.’

  I try calling her but it’s back on voicemail.

  She’s right of course: we need time out. Until I know who’s behind the attempted trace on me and what, if any, significan
ce it has, we’re in limbo. I can’t make everything better in a snatched half-hour reunion with police bodyguards looking on and Paulie needing his share of attention. I am poisoned. Sammy’s men don’t even need to find me. We’re already fucked, my family is imploding. It’s been a slow burn ever since I went undercover and started acting like those people I’m paid to despise. Sure it’s not the kind of vengeance that Sammy Pritchard wants, where only blood will do. But this is no kind of life. We were on the fast track back in the UK, and I was seen as a rising star. Now here we are half a world away in the backblocks waiting to die.

  Speak for yourself, I can almost hear Vanessa say. Speak for your damn self.

  I step outside the station for some air. It doesn’t know whether to rain or shine today. The wind shifts and changes, one moment a refreshing breeze, the next snapping at you irritably. The clouds are in a hurry. Maybe there is more rain due. I haven’t checked the forecast in a few days. Usually it’s part of the routine when there’s little else to do. Our work is tied closely to the weather: traffic accidents, flash floods, landslips, stealing, domestics. Firewood and food thefts are our winter trade, domestics come when the weather is too warm, or too cold, too anything in fact.

  I’m feeling cornered and I want to lash out. I want to go out and find Sammy Pritchard’s men. Front up.

  Do it, then, I’d say to them. Do it now, do your worst. Or fuck off and leave me alone.

  But it’s me that’s the problem. Me and what’s inside my own head. I can’t run away from that, and it won’t let me be. I need something to numb it down, dissolve it.

  A drink would be good.

  I check my watch: too early.

  Marianne Keegan calls to let me know they found Patrick Smith’s boat in Okiwi Bay on the outer edge of the Sounds. ‘Burned out.’

  And there’s a road back from there into town. ‘Any worthwhile traces?’ I ask.

  ‘No. But there’s a few empty beer cans in the near vicinity and some weed roaches.’

  ‘Denzel?’

  ‘It’s a possibility. When it comes to mention of him and his family, people seem to clam up.’

  ‘They’re very influential.’

  ‘Well, just thought I’d keep you in the loop.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘We’re winding things back a bit here in Blenheim. The main incident room’s in Nelson, given that’s where the kid’s from. We’ll base everything back there.’

  ‘Shipping out, then?’

  ‘Blenheim was always going to be temporary and Havelock doesn’t have the facilities.’

  Why’s she justifying this to me? ‘Makes sense.’

  Her voice drops a notch. ‘Fancy a farewell drink before we close shop in Blenheim?’

  The wind changes again. ‘Yes. Why not?’ I say.

  8

  I wake up in a motel in Blenheim with Marianne Keegan’s smell on me and a guilt as crushing as my hangover. Of DI Keegan, there is no sign. I fuzzily recall mention of a scheduled early-morning Skype appointment with her angry, boring, disappointing husband. Her Scouse accent thickening as she did hilarious impressions of him, and her laugh getting louder and dirtier as the wine went down. A button slipping open on her shirt. Her noticing me looking and not minding when I undid another.

  I shower and dress gingerly, then leave the motel, wondering where I parked my car. Down the road, I remember now, outside the Thai place. Beyond the fact that I’ve betrayed my wife of fourteen years, I do have a vague recollection of last night being refreshingly carnal.

  ‘This is a really bad idea,’ I told her as she slipped her key into the door of her room.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, pulling me in, tugging at my belt and buttons. ‘It is.’

  I lifted her shirt and my hands slid up inside. ‘Really bad.’

  ‘Shush.’ She pushed me back on the bed and climbed onto me.

  Folded into each other with an intensity and abandon I haven’t felt in so long. Mine borne out of fear and recklessness. Hers. God knows where hers came from.

  I’m not convinced that I wouldn’t do it again, given the opportunity. And so ends another cop marriage. I buy a can of sugary L&P and chuck it down. I can’t turn up at work looking like this, so I phone in, citing private business, and head home for a change of clothes and a shave. There are no messages on my mobile. Vanessa is sticking to her guns and it would seem there are no developments on my phantom tracker from the UK. At home is a note from Gary saying they’re out on a job and there’s some leftover dinner in the fridge if I want it. Quick check. It’s fish. My stomach lurches.

  Another shower, a shave and a change of clothes later, and I’m back on the winding road down the valley. The road is wet and wind buffets the car. As I pass Charlie Evan’s place, he waves me down.

  ‘You look shocking,’ he says.

  ‘Touch of flu.’

  The wind tears at his hat and he needs to blink against the rain. ‘One of my alpacas got shot last night. With a crossbow.’ He wipes the rain from his face. ‘She was still alive when I found her this morning. All that time in so much pain.’

  ‘Now?’

  ‘I’ve put her down.’

  ‘Get the vet in, keep the bolt. Photograph and document everything.’ I gun the car.

  ‘That’s it?’

  ‘I can stand here in the rain and sympathise. I can call the vet myself if you like and requisition a forensics team who probably won’t make it out here for a few days. Or I can go and see the bloke who did this.’

  ‘McCormack?’

  ‘I’ll keep you informed of the progress of our inquiries.’

  The offices of McCormack Forestry are in Trafalgar Street in Nelson, seventy-odd ks west of Havelock. It’s a winding road, even for these parts, and it’s not a good idea to go the speed I’m going in this kind of weather but I keep my foot down anyway.

  Nelson is a nice enough little town, a port on a big tidal bay, surrounded by mountains which are snow-capped for half the year. What’s not to like? McCormack’s got a suite above a bank with a view over the river. Somebody has taken a permanent marker and inserted ‘DE’ before the ‘Forestry’ on his sign. His receptionist is not sure about me.

  ‘Send him in,’ I hear him say on her telephone. She does. He’s drinking a bottle of mineral water and looking out of his window. ‘Don’t tell me, you’ve found the vandal?’

  ‘Somebody shot one of Charlie Evans’ alpacas last night. With a crossbow.’

  McCormack winces. ‘Nasty.’ But he’s wearing that same half-buried smirk Denzel had when I asked him about Paddy Smith’s place. Two of a damn kind. ‘Well, thanks for the update,’ he says. ‘I’ll be sure to tell your boss you’re excelling at the PR these days.’

  On his wall are pictures of him with government ministers, with one of the All Blacks, and with some kids from a community project holding a big cardboard cheque. Among them, a younger Denzel with a big cheesy grin. Surprise, surprise.

  ‘Tell my boss whatever you like,’ I say over my shoulder, ‘but I’m going to fucking have you.’

  On my way out through reception I find myself in one of those annoying dances where you’re trying to get past somebody but you both move the wrong way to try and make way for the other. My dancing partner has a twinkle in his eye and a name badge that says Feargal.

  He grins. ‘If you like, I’ll be the lady and you can lead.’

  He’s lucky I don’t punch him.

  In Nelson I drop by HQ. I feel the need to say something about last night. Marianne Keegan has a recently bedded look about her which stirs up a nice memory. She takes me down the road to a coffee shop and we scurry in out of the rain. She makes it clear she’s only got about fifteen minutes. I’m not sure where to start, so we talk about anything else for a while, moving the air around.

  ‘Don’t worry about it,’ she says, finally. ‘It was nothing.’ She gets a dirty little half-smile on her lips. ‘Well, not quite nothing.’ She sips her flat white. ‘These
things happen sometimes.’

  I nod. ‘Yeah.’ Tap my teaspoon on the rim of the cup. ‘So how’d the Skype call go with your hubby?’

  ‘I failed the performance appraisal. Got a list of KPIs to address before I go home for the weekend. Anything else?’ she says, checking her watch.

  Something is ticking in my brain but I can’t grab hold of it through the fog of my hangover. ‘How’s the investigation going?’

  She shrugs. ‘One of the boy’s uncles has a Social Services flag on his file but he lives up on the North Island and hasn’t been to visit in years. There was a teacher at the boy’s school last year who had an allegation made against him but it’s pretty flimsy. We’ll be talking to both of them.’

  ‘Anything like this happened anywhere else? Young boys, the Rohypnol and that?’

  ‘We’re trawling the archives.’ She pats my hand. ‘It was nice you dropped by.’ A mischievous look. ‘If you ever find yourself in Wellington at a loose end.’ A wink and she’s out the door.

  It doesn’t take long for the DC to come after me. I’m driving past Rai Valley school on the way back to Havelock and my mobile goes during the brief pocket of coverage.

  ‘Nick, that wasn’t helpful.’

  ‘McCormack?’

  ‘He’s not worth winding up. He’s a vengeful and malicious man. He actually makes time for his grudges. He enjoys them.’

  ‘He arranged to have some livestock shot on my patch. Payback to the bloke he thinks vandalised his boat. We can’t make exceptions on the vigilante stuff. If it’s not okay for Denzel and his mates, it’s not okay for McCormack either.’

  ‘Yeah, sure, but hopefully that’s an end to it now?’

  ‘Hope is a wonderful thing.’

  Ford takes a deep breath. ‘Hold that thought because I’ve some bad news on your cyber stalker.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘SOCA traced the anonymous inquiry to a computer in Northumbria Police HQ. The access code was bogus. It had been hacked. Then they traced it back to some student who lives in Newcastle upon Tyne. A so-called “hacktivist” doing some freelance work to supplement his grant or whatever it is they have over there.’