by Alan Carter
‘Loans,’ I say, watching the rain dot my windscreen. ‘Student loans.’
‘Right. They kicked his door down and asked him who he was working for. He didn’t have a name but he recognised a photo they showed him.’
‘Go on.’
‘Martin Stringfellow: you’ll know him of course.’
‘Yes. We go way back. How much did the hacker know?’
‘He had your name, address, and the photo from the ID card we issued you. He had your driving licence details.’ There’s a pause. ‘Nick. You still there?’
‘I’m here.’
9
Sunderland, England. Three years earlier.
We’ve all had way too much to drink by the time we leave the Shagorika Indian Restaurant at Seaburn. Wind gusts off the beach over the road and there’s sand in it. The North Sea is in the air we breathe: salt, oil, a hint of sewerage. Marty wants to go on to the house in Hendon where they keep some of the girls they’ve trafficked. There’s a new one from Moldova he’s taken an interest in. He wants me to come along.
Sammy shakes his head. ‘Leave him alone, Marty. He’s got family.’
Marty puts his arm around my shoulder. Speaks softly, cajoling. ‘Arse on it, and only fourteen. Ha’way man, I tell you, you don’t know what you’re missing.’
I’m really looking forward to putting Marty away. Even more than Sammy. A plan is slowly taking shape. Slowly, because Sammy is so, so careful. Nearly all his business interests now are legit: the sex trafficking we can’t track anywhere nearer to him than some Polish bloke in Manchester he occasionally uses for labour subcontracting. In the last few years he’s dropped the drugs and leaves that to the riffraff on the estates, although he is believed to make the odd investment in a consignment via a six-link chain that would evaporate in court. No, we need nothing less than Sammy on tape ordering a murder.
We’ve been grooming a lad from Middlesborough who’s hard, knows no fear, and is cocky enough to think he can topple Sammy. He’s not clever enough to share and cooperate as Sammy has learned to do. We’ve been helping the lad along, feeding him a few victories and successes: putting some of his smaller rivals either out of business or behind bars, allowing some of his drug shipments through and blocking those of his competitors. We’ve also been putting malicious words in his ear about Sammy: the lack of respect thing always works well. And vice versa. Sammy is rattled enough to want to do something, and Marty has been egging him on, nettling him. Sometimes the way Marty is, I wonder if he’s working for our side as well and nobody has told me.
‘Nah, thanks mate, I’ll leave that to you.’ I extricate myself from his grip. ‘Enjoy yourself.’
‘She must be worth it, this lass of yours. Vanessa?’
‘Marty.’ A warning growl from Sammy.
‘You’ll have to introduce me one of these days, Nicky boy.’
Sammy’s driver pulls up to take him home. ‘Need a lift?’ Sammy is offering me a way out.
‘Ta, mate but I can walk from here. It’s just up the hill.’
He gives Marty a look. ‘Be good. See you tomorrow. Nine sharp. Got some heads to crack.’ The Audi disappears up the coast road.
‘Looks like it’s just you and me, Nicky.’ Marty is back in my face. ‘Sure you don’t want to come down to Hendon? It’s free. On the house.’ There’s Stella and lamb gosht on his breath. A glint in his eye.
Maybe I could just do him now. A nut in the face. A stamp on the head. Call in some backup to finish him. Dump him in a builder’s skip and blame it on the lad from Middlesborough. He knows I’m thinking such things, he knows I want to hit him. Go on, his eyes say, try it.
‘Spit it out, Marty. What’s your problem?’
‘Problem?’
‘With me.’
‘Wrong end of the stick, bonny lad. I’m everybody’s mate.’ He lights up a ciggie. ‘What about you? You my mate?’
‘Nah, I think you’re a twat. But I’m staying civil for Sammy’s sake.’
‘No need. Sammy’s a big lad. He can look after himself. He’s the one keeping you in one piece, more like.’ He steps forward. ‘Gan on, have a pop if you like. I won’t tell.’
And potentially blow a two-year operation.
Big picture, bigger fish. ‘Some other time, maybe.’ I start to walk away. ‘Aye, back home to the bosom of your family, bonny lad. Enjoy them while you can.’
I turn. ‘Meaning?’
He pulls me into a drunken hug. ‘Exactly what I said.’ And he plants a lagery kiss on my lips.
A car pulls up, someone I’ve never seen before. ‘Put him down, man, Marty. You don’t know where he’s been.’
Marty jumps in the passenger seat. ‘Oh, I think I do though.’ He winks and cocks his thumb and forefinger at me. Fires an imaginary gun and blows the smoke from the end.
10
Driving back over Pelorus Bridge I think again about The Hobbit 2 and those dwarves in their bobbing barrels at the mercy of the tumbling currents and natural forces way beyond their control. By the time I get back to Havelock the rain has ceased but the hills are still shrouded in mist.
The DC has promised to move Vanessa and Paulie to an even more secure place: a self-contained apartment within police HQ normally reserved for visiting brass, high-risk politicians and VIPs, or occasions exactly like this.
‘But it’s just a temporary measure until we get you out of the country.’
‘No,’ I hear myself say.
‘Leave it to us, Nick. We’ll arrange everything.’
‘No.’
‘That’s not your call, mate. We decide what’s going to happen.’
‘Get the family safe but I’m not going anywhere.’
‘This isn’t High Noon, Nick.’
‘It isn’t going to stop, wherever we go.’
‘We’ll talk about this later. Go home, pack a bag, and get back over to HQ before dark.’
No, I say again in my own mind. ‘Right. Okay.’
Back at the station I grab some paperwork and sign out one of the bigger guns from the cabinet.
‘What’s up?’ Latifa says.
‘Nothing.’
‘Liar.’
But I’ve got a job for her. ‘Pay Denzel a visit. If he’s got a crossbow, take it off him. Bring him, and it, into the station. Tomorrow’ll do.’
Up the valley towards chez nous. Passing Charlie Evans’ place, I see the vet’s car is at the gate and two figures are crouched in the far corner of the paddock. Back home, Steve and Gary are there, off work because the weather is shit. I feel obliged to tell them to leave, and why. They see the look on my face and sit me down.
‘Beer?’ says Gary.
‘Got any L&P?’
He hands me one and I tell them pretty much the whole tale. ‘You guys might be best moving on. You don’t need this kind of grief.’ I shrug. ‘Sorry.’
They’re taking the story in. ‘Bring Me the Head of Alfredo Whatsis-name? Awesome. Have to check it out.’ Steve seems to find it all very entertaining. ‘And this Sammy bloke is in prison now?’
‘Yep.’
Gary is pensive. ‘And this other bloke, the two IC, is coming after you. Marty, you say?’
‘Stringfellow,’ Steve adds.
I nod and sip from my can. ‘Sammy pulls the strings, decides how and when, and Marty does his bidding.’
Gary leans back in his chair. ‘And so far this Marty’s killed a sixteen-year-old girl and a couple of junkies.’
‘Has he ever been in a proper fight?’ asks Steve.
‘Stringfellow.’ Gary snorts. ‘Sounds like he should be wearing bells on his shoes.’
‘And green tights,’ says Steve. ‘Court fucken jester.’
‘This bloke isn’t funny,’ I say. ‘He’ll bring some nasties with him.’
‘Yeah, Bigfellow!’ says Steve.
Gary is chuckling. ‘And Longfellow!’
‘Not forgetting Baaaadfellow!’
I find myself laugh
ing with them. Bravado does that to you. It blinds you to reality.
We’ve agreed it’s probably worth them bringing the dogs back up here, and the guns. Their ute is parked across the gate and the black mastiffs, Sonny Boy and Richie, are caged up in the back, having been quieted by Steve. The shit weather has passed through. It seems unlikely that anything will happen so soon but already I feel comforted. There are more pork patties on the go. We’re on the back verandah and the river is rushing below, swollen by the rain.
‘You don’t have to do this,’ I say again, cramming the meat into a bun.
‘We know that,’ says Gary. ‘But we’ve been up and down this valley for weeks. There are plenty of spare cabins but you’re the only one who let us have one.’
‘To be honest that was down to Vanessa. If it had been up to me …’
‘She’s a good woman,’ says Steve. ‘Doesn’t matter if you’re a cunt, we’ll do this for her. And the boy.’
‘Cheers,’ I say.
‘Kaitiaki,’ murmurs Gary.
‘What?’
‘Guardians. Keepers.’ Steve lifts his mug of tea. ‘Goodfellows.’
Darkness creeps in and the sandflies fall away. The trees are full of noise and my jumpiness returns. I try to keep it in check. ‘How do you guys know each other?’
They share a look. Steve nods permission for Gary to speak. ‘We were in prison together.’
Hence the false names. The cop in me can’t help himself. ‘What for?’
‘Gang stuff. When we were younger. North Island.’
‘What changed?’
‘We got too old for it. Got out.’
‘How long ago?’
‘Ten years, fifteen?’ Gary squeezes some sauce on his pattie. ‘Worked the fishing boats for a while. Then the FIFO in Oz. And now we’re here.’
The dogs are growling. We tense up. Steve wanders over to check. All around us is the blackness of night in the country. I unclip my gun. Gary chews on his bun. Relaxed. Too relaxed. It doesn’t seem right. All of a sudden the dread and suspicion returns. Have I got him and Steve badly wrong? There’s a scrape of gravel behind me and adrenalin jolts through my system.
‘Dogs must’ve scented a boar,’ says Steve. ‘They’re fine.’
This could go on for days, weeks, months. A time of Sammy’s or Marty’s choosing.
11
The next morning is bright and sunny with a wreath of low, wispy white cloud around the hills. Steve and Gary have some fences to mend down near Okaramio on the way to Blenheim. We agree that waiting around on tenterhooks for Marty Stringfellow is not practical. We have jobs to do, lives to live. So I head into the office for another chat with Denzel, who once again has Uncle Walter with him. Latifa is on my side of the desk.
‘Alpacas?’ Denzel acts confused. ‘Me?’
‘Same bolts you use in your crossbow, Denzel.’
‘Same bolts everybody uses in their crossbow.’
‘We’ve got forensics people who can match a particular bolt to a particular weapon.’ That’s if we get around to taking it that far.
‘Lots of people use it,’ he says. ‘It’s like what you call a community resource.’ A street lawyer at fifteen. Uncle Walter looks proud.
Already I feel the day slipping away from me. ‘School not on today?’
He coughs. ‘Got the flu.’
‘Richard McCormack is a bad sort.’
‘Who?’ says Denzel.
I try appealing directly to Uncle Walter. ‘He might pay well when he wants to, but he uses people. He’s trouble.’
Uncle Walter leans forward. ‘We’ve been dealing with trouble for a long time, Sergeant. We can take care of ourselves.’ He spreads his big hands on the table between us. ‘We don’t need to be told how to live our lives. We’ve tried trust and cooperation and you lot always let us down. We’ve learned to make our own luck.’
There must be about two hundred years of history crammed into his words but I’m more concerned with the here and now. I fix back on Denzel. ‘Paddy Smith was strike one, the alpaca is strike two. No more, Denzel, or I’m coming down hard on you.’
Latifa lifts her head from her notepad. ‘You forgot about the hot chicken, Sarge. That’s strike three.’
I look at Denzel. ‘You’re on borrowed time, mate.’
Him and me both.
The DC is on the phone and wants to know why I didn’t return to HQ last night as instructed.
‘It’s complicated.’
‘No, it’s not. Get your arse over here.’
I tell him relations with my wife are strained. Close proximity in protective custody will only make things worse.
‘I go home to that every night. Toughen up.’
‘I can’t keep running and hiding. The best way to end this is for me to stay in plain sight and let him come and get me. If we get in first, it’s game over. If he gets in first, then the same. Either way.’
Silence. He’s thinking. ‘I might need you to sign a waiver or something. Occupational health and safety, mate. It’s getting like that these days. Even in New Zealand.’
‘Happy to.’
‘But we’re still keeping your family under lock and key.’
‘I’ll talk to Vanessa.’
‘I already did that. She’s cool. You must have really pissed her off.’ There’s the sound of rustling at his end. ‘She’s made a list of things she needs. Wants you to bring them over. Good opportunity for you guys to have a big talk?’
‘Yeah.’ I ask him to read out the list but he says life’s too short and he’ll email it instead. ‘Tell her I’ll bring it over tomorrow. I’ll phone ahead.’
‘Make sure that talk is a good one, Nick. “Tell him this, tell her that.” I’m not really up for being a go-between. Below my pay grade.’
I promise him my best endeavours. ‘Is there a way of getting advance warning of suspicious people coming into the country?’
‘You’ve got to be joking. We put the welcome mat out for hunters and psychos. We’ve got people coming from all over the world to kill things here. Think you’re special?’ Ford realises he might have gone too far. ‘Sorry. Not funny. I’ll see what we can do.’
Latifa, standing in my doorway, is bursting with curiosity. She cares, and she deserves more, so I invite her down the road for a walk.
‘I made some enemies in my last job. It’s possibly caught up with me.’ I give her the lowdown.
‘Shit,’ she says mildly, as if I’d just told her I had a flat tyre. ‘You mean like Donnie Brasco?’
‘Who?’
‘Johnny Depp and Al Pacino, Johnny’s in the FBI, he infiltrates the mob. Al Pacino, the Godfather dude, treats him like the son he never had.’
‘Yeah, something like that. Look, you might have to manage a bit more of the day-to-day for a while.’
‘Easy.’
I change the subject. If everyone knows my life story, half of Marlborough will be ringing Sammy Pritchard to see if there’s any work going. ‘That was quite a speech by Uncle Walter. What do you make of him?’
‘Oh, he’s alright. All bark and not much bite. He’s bitter.’
‘Anything specific?’
‘A son in prison, a daughter in the psych ward, family tragedies over the years. It gets to you after a while.’
‘It would.’
‘He’s a good friend but a fierce enemy. Watch yourself.’
‘How’s he related to you?’
She bristles. ‘He’s not. We’re not rabbits you know. They’re just neighbours. Same iwi.’
‘And you know Steve and Gary too?’
‘Again: good friends, fierce enemies. Watch yourself.’
‘Same iwi?’
She rolls her eyes. ‘No, they’re from up north. They’re hiding as well, like you.’
Who isn’t?’ I wonder out loud.
‘Me,’ says Latifa, proudly. ‘I’m not.’
We walk the length of the marina, past McCormack’s cata
maran, which has a tarp over the offending graffiti while he awaits the attentions of a master craftsman to restore it to its full beauty. Circling back around on to the main drag, I call into the petrol station to arrange an overdue service on my car. In the magazine rack there’s a choice of lad mags plus Logger and Hooked on Boars. I ponder briefly on that welcome mat for the world’s hunters and figure that if I was Marty I’d be thinking along those lines too – whoever you send, all they need to do is merge in with the crowd. I opt for a pie from up the road at the bakery and take it back to my desk to plough through some paperwork for the next couple of hours. Charlie Evans has lodged his complaint and evidence about the dead alpaca, and the bolt has gone off to the labs for testing against Denzel’s crossbow. It’ll be given a low priority. There’s been a spate of firewood thefts as winter lingers and spring teases. A fight in the Havelock Hotel last night resulted in a man needing stitches after a bottle was smashed over his head. Even though there were only six people in the bar, nobody saw anything. The CCTV was on the blink. A shadow falls across my desk.
‘Patrick. What can I do for you?’
‘Do you have the application forms for a gun licence?’ There’s a redness about his left cheek. Perhaps the beginnings of a bruise.
‘Constable Rapata can probably get you one at the front desk.’
‘I asked to speak to you.’
I dig around in the filing cabinet behind me and find a form. ‘You can do it online these days.’
‘Not out on the Sounds, you can’t.’
We go through the checklist. ‘Any criminal convictions?’
‘No,’ he says firmly.
‘Purpose of licence?’
‘Hunting and pest control.’
‘Don’t do anything silly, Patrick.’ I hand the form over and gesture at his swelling face. ‘What happened?’
‘I got slapped in the supermarket.’
There’s a large bundle under his arm. ‘What’s that?’
‘A tent. From Blenheim. Nobody would sell me one here.’
‘You’re going to live out on the Sounds in a tent?’