by Alan Carter
‘He had a cousin. Prince, we called him. You might think that’s a stupid name but he really was one. Angelic and dignified, you know?’
‘Go on.’
‘The boy was my daughter’s, Denzel’s Auntie Deborah.’ His eyes turn cloudy. ‘Denzel was about ten at that time.’
I recall more of the Patrick Smith conversation: Denzel sharing his sadness with the older man and earning a cuddle. ‘Is this the boy that drowned? When was it?’
‘Five years ago last summer. That’s what’s on the record. He was found facedown on the beach out just past Linkwater.’
A well-heeled weekenders holiday community on that winding road through the Sounds over towards Picton. ‘But?’
‘The medical report says there was some terrible stuff, injuries.’ He looks around the cafe and drops his voice. ‘Private, you know?’
‘He’d been abused?’ A nod. ‘It wasn’t investigated?’
‘What’s an eight-year-old boy doing alone in fucking Linkwater? His home is over thirty kilometres away.’ Walter pushes his plate and cup away. ‘You want to impress me? Try reading your own files. Try doing some damn work.’
Back at the office I drag up whatever is on the database regarding eight-year-old Prince Haruru; his mother never marrying, keeping her birth name. There’s not much. The boy was found at Linkwater Bay one morning in summer at low tide. The investigating officer concluded death by drowning. There are photos attached. A pale little Prince, face down in the mud flats in close-up, wide, and at various angles. The face seems vaguely familiar, then I realise it’s the family resemblance to Denzel. The autopsy report confirms death by drowning and notes fingermark bruising on the back of the neck, along with anal tearing. It also finds a high level of alcohol and sedatives in his system. I note the investigating officer’s name and look him up: a Blenheim man, retired. I phone Human Resources in Nelson and they suggest talking to Wellington. So I do. I lie and say I’m connected to DI Marianne Keegan’s investigation and after some tutting, key-tapping, and checking of name spellings – his and mine – they tell me he’s living in a bach on the east coast in Kaikōura.
Should I hand this over to Marianne? So far it does look promising for the Jamie Riley case but it’s also, in its own right, a test set to me by Uncle Walter. If I pass it over it might just get buried again, particularly if it proves irrelevant to their investigation. I claim it as my own for now. It’s my chance to rebalance my karmic accounts ledger.
A cool, bright sunny day and the road to Kaikōura hugs the coast, winding along the side of steep hills, taking you past grey-black volcanic beaches, glistening masses of brown kelp, and fat fur seals basking on the rocks. Today the Pacific Ocean is freezing blue and calm, on others it can be shark-grey, tearing at the land with the rage of the suddenly bereaved. Kaikōura is a tourist stopover based around whale-watching, surfing, and the eating of crayfish. As I drive into town, the snow-capped Kaikōura Ranges rear up to my right. It looks a lovely place to retire to.
Ex-detective sergeant Desmond Rogers lives alone in a brightly coloured two-bedroom bach down a lane off the main drag. There’s a rusty corrugated iron lean-to off to the side, bigger than the bach itself, with a dust-covered 4WD that hasn’t moved in months. I knock, and his door opens with a sour waft of old tobacco. He is a stout man barely fifty, turning to fat, with a Canterbury Crusaders shirt and trackie bottoms, home-knitted TV socks and a mug of something brown in his fist.
‘Mr Rogers?’
‘Who’s asking?’ he says.
I introduce myself.
He nods. ‘You’re the one that took my job.’
Not to my knowledge. He explains that he was forced to take early retirement from Blenheim and the bloke that got his job was the last officer in charge at Havelock, and then I filled that vacancy. This man blames all the way down the chain.
‘Nice place you’ve got here,’ I say, looking over his shoulder at the pigsty. ‘Can I have a word?’ This is a bloke who doesn’t get many visitors. He’ll talk to me even if he decides he hates my guts.
‘Coffee?’
‘Great, thanks.’ I try to recall if my jabs are up to date.
‘Greyyt, thanks. Aye, well I’ll mek you one then, lad.’ Des is taking the piss out of the way I speak. Some people – you let it pass. Him? He’ll keep.
He spoons instant coffee from a jar of supermarket own brand while the kettle finishes boiling, slops some milk into a chipped mug with a kiwi on it. Hands it over. I take a sip – not as bad as I feared. I explain my interest and Des shakes his head. ‘Prince Haruru. These people and their fucken names. Yeah, I remember him, little Maori kid. Drowned.’
‘The autopsy mentioned high levels of sedatives and alcohol in his system. And bruises on the back of his neck.’ I mime the pushing down of a head under water. ‘And there was the anal tearing. Rape.’
He looks at me over the rim of his mug. ‘It’s what these people do. They drink. They take drugs. They fuck each other. Young and old.’
‘So you think the abuse happened at home?’
‘What I said.’
‘Did you investigate the matter?’
‘Kid’s dead, what’s the point?’
‘He was found at Linkwater, quite a distance from his home, some thirty-odd ks.’
‘Yeah.’
‘That didn’t interest you?’
‘They like fishing. Got boats with the loans the government gives them. Musta fallen overboard.’
‘Case closed?’
‘Far as I’m concerned.’ A gleam comes into Des Rogers’ eyes. ‘That mother still around?’
‘Psych ward, I hear.’
‘What a waste. She was a looker.’
I give him my business card in case he remembers anything useful, then I leave. I’m needing a shower and wondering if I can arrange for Denzel and his mates to come and burn this place down and shoot the pig inside.
It’s dark by the time I get home. On the way back I’ve picked up a couple of crays at Nin’s Bin just north of Kaikōura and chucked them on the barbie. Steve and Gary are out on the Sounds until the weekend so I’m all alone. This would be a good time for Pritchard or Marty to send in some more clowns. There have been some feral cats around lately, big muscly bastards with bullet heads, and I know Vanessa likes the bird life around here. I’ve dragged the trap out of the shed and I now shove some leftover bits of shellfish in there and set it.
It’s a clear sky and the stars are luminescent. The Southern Cross is up there and I can make out Scorpio further west. The bush is alive with bird sounds and rustlings. It’s a strange country. Some days the beauty of it is breathtaking, yet some days its ugliness steals your breath away. Des Rogers is a piece of work, his soul as black as Kaikōura sand. No wonder Uncle Walter is angry.
18
In the morning there’s a cat in the cage, clawing and hissing. It reminds me of the last days of Sammy Pritchard. I take it down to the river and drown it and set off for work. I’m feeling calmer these days, less afraid, less watchful and wary. It could be a good sign, or it could be a dangerous illusion.
Charlie Evans is at his gate, tightening some wires where two fence posts meet.
‘Nice day for it,’ I say.
‘Some rain due later. That’ll be good.’
There’s somebody working back up the paddock: breaking up straw bales for the alpacas. ‘Is that Denzel?’
‘Restorative justice, they call it.’
‘But he hasn’t even had his case conference yet.’
‘Uncle Walter dropped him off yesterday. He’s the one making him do it.’
Quid pro quo. The ways of the valley: I’m doing something for Walter, so he’s doing something for Charlie. ‘Looks like he’s enjoying himself.’
‘You never know until you try.’
At the office Latifa is checking the overnight log of incidents in the region. ‘Break-in at the tennis club, a nasty crash in the ranges near Nelson last night. Tour
ist camper went down a ravine. No survivors. Swiss family.’
‘Anything else?’
‘A raid on the bikies in Nelson netted the usual: few pills and a couple of guns. They’d get more if they kicked down the doors of some of the pig shooters over here.’ She keeps on scrolling. ‘Uh-oh.’
‘What?’
‘A break-in at the offices of your old mate McCormack.’
‘Anything taken?’
She studies the report. ‘Doesn’t look like it. Place was trashed a bit. Maybe it’s those environmentalists. Out of control, they are.’
‘Insurance’ll cover it.’ I tell her about Denzel being at Charlie Evans’ place.
‘Yeah, Uncle Walter did that.’
‘So I hear.’
‘You’ll be wanting to talk to Deborah next, I guess?’
‘Hmmm?’
‘Prince’s mum. After talking to that prick in Kaikōura you need to hear her side of the story.’
‘Is there anything you don’t know about my movements?’
‘My cuz sold you the crays. Why else would you be over there?’
‘How does she know what I look like?’
‘I pointed you out last time she was in town. She reckons if you weren’t already married and a bit old, she’d be in your pants, quick-fast.’
I dimly recall the woman who sold me the crays. A shudder passes through me. ‘And you already knew where Rogers lives?’
‘Yeah. All you had to do was ask.’
I shake my head. ‘Yes, I’d like to speak to Prince’s mum. Can you set it up?’
‘Already did.’ She gives me the details.
It’s an iwi-run halfway house on the southern outskirts of Blenheim. The street is quiet, a mix of art deco bungalows and weatherboard cottages. Latifa is with me to smooth the way. We’ve driven through industrial-scale vineyards to get here. They fill the horizon and belie the wine labels that always seem to depict a picturesque slice of rural paradise. We’re in the back garden of the hostel and Deborah Haruru has a rug around her shoulders. She and Latifa exchange some words in Maori while I try to absorb the thin sunshine and act like I’m not really there. Finally Latifa lifts her chin at me. ‘Go ahead.’
‘I want to talk about your little boy. About what happened when he … died.’
‘Murdered. What do you want to know?’ Deborah pulls a pack of cigarettes out from under her blanket and lights up. There are scars on her arms and wrists. She’s looking anywhere but at me.
‘Tell me about that day.’
She exhales a plume. ‘Some pakeha found him over at Linkwater. The police came and told us.’
‘You’d reported him missing?’
‘Course. What do you think?’
‘How long had he been missing?’
‘Four days. We told the cops by the end of the first day. They didn’t give a fuck.’
‘The day he went missing. Tell me about that.’
‘I told all this to the cops already.’ Latifa says something to her in a calm voice and she nods irritably. ‘We were out at French Pass camping for a few days. He and Denzel, my brother’s boy, and a whole bunch of other kids were messing about. On the beach, in the bush, in the paddock. All over. We just let ’em run, you know?’
I tilt my head to show I’m listening.
‘It’s getting dark and I call him over for his tea. And he doesn’t come.’ Her eyes fill. ‘That’s it.’
‘The kids didn’t see anything? Denzel? Nobody saw anybody hanging around?’
‘Nah.’
‘What did the police say?’
‘He’s a kid, messing about. Had I smacked him or anything, made him run off? Told me to call them when he comes back.’
We break for a few minutes while Deborah is given some tablets to swallow.
‘Me happy pills,’ she says. ‘Take a while to kick in.’
We jump forward again to the investigation after her son’s body was found.
‘Investigation? There wasn’t one. That detective reckoned somebody at the marae had been messing with my boy. Pretty much said it was my fault, the way I live.’
Latifa sits stock still, angry. I can tell she wants to comfort Deborah but she’s holding back. Something is building. For the first time Deborah is looking at me.
‘I’m not a slut and I wasn’t then either. I don’t drink and I didn’t then. I looked after my boy and I never had bad people in my home.’ She glances around the backyard at the camellias and rhododendrons, the assortment of sad, messed-up women receiving visitors in the afternoon. Taking their medication. ‘Look at me now.’
She lights up another cigarette, reaches into her pocket and pulls out a photo. It’s of her and her little boy when he would have been maybe three or four. ‘Princey. Isn’t he gorgeous? He would have grown up into a fine man, I reckon. A leader. Amokapua.’
It’s a lovely photo. Deborah was a striking-looking woman. Happy. Proud. Strong. The kid has the same qualities, along with mischief and laughter. Snuffed out. There’s still a tingle of recognition, that resemblance to his cousin Denzel. Deborah and Latifa talk some more. Low and urgent. Latifa is encouraging her, looking at me, nodding my way. Tell him, she’s saying, go on.
‘That Rogers bloke, the detective? You’ve talked to him.’
‘Yes.’
‘We were in this room at the cop station in Blenheim one time. He keeps on wanting to ask me questions even though he does fuck-all about them. It’s like he just wants me there, for him to look at.’
‘Go on.’ I’m beginning to guess. ‘Please.’
‘I’m sad, start crying. I’m feeling so alone. So he comes round the table and gives me a hug.’ She draws long on that cigarette. ‘It felt nice for a moment. Comforting. Somebody caring.’ She looks into the middle distance. ‘Then I feel his hand up between my legs.’
Latifa sits back and takes a breath, like it’s her that just told the story.
Deborah throws away her half-smoked cigarette. ‘And that dirty old bastard is still drawing a police pension.’
Driving back through the vineyards and past the blossoming cherry orchards my fists are tight on the wheel. Des Rogers and Patrick Smith: peas in a pod. Except thinking about Rogers makes me feel angrier and dirtier.
‘She’s tried to kill herself three times,’ says Latifa. ‘But she’s not very good at it.’
‘Maybe there’s a life force in there somewhere. A will to live.’
‘Outlasting Des Rogers. That’d be motivation.’ She turns to me. ‘So what are you going to do with all that knowledge?’
Good question. There’s enough there for me to feed it through to Marianne Keegan for the Riley investigation. And yet. Will it just get buried under the rubble of police bureaucracy? I imagine clowns like Benson and Hedges tramping in to interrogate Deborah Haruru. Shutters coming down. But it’s not my decision. That’s for seasoned professionals like DI Keegan and DC Ford to deal with.
‘I’ll pass it on to the Riley investigation.’
‘You have to be joking.’
‘No, I’m not.’ I explain my rationale. ‘But I’ll keep my eye on things and keep digging if I think fit.’
‘If I think fit.’ She does a passable imitation of me. ‘I’ll tell Uncle Walter the good news.’
We’re driving past the shoe fence. The crime scene paraphernalia has gone but a mini shrine has appeared in honour of Jamie Riley. I pull over and we take a look. I scan the area for the CCTV camera that will be monitoring the site, just in case it catches the killer’s return. It’s perched on a telegraph pole across the road, powered by a cable running down to a junction box. The shrine has the usual: flowers, teddy bears, cards and messages of condolence. Why here, I’m thinking. Why leave the body here? What’s this bloke saying?
Latifa must be thinking the same. ‘You reckon they’re linked? Prince and Jamie?’
‘Both got sedatives or whatnot inside them, both missing for a few days. Both had some internal damage.’
‘Prince was drowned. Jamie had his neck broken.’ She blinks against the strengthening wind. There’s dust in the air. ‘Five years between them. It’s a long time to wait.’
‘Maybe there’s others,’ I say.
‘Yeah. ‘Spect so.’
We spend the afternoon visiting local schools and ensuring they’re geared up for National Earthquake Drill Day, which is next Thursday. While we’re there we remind the kids that it’s bad to take drugs and steal. Today is Friday and I’m on drunk duty this weekend so I’ll be using the camp bed in the office. At the end of the day Latifa reminds me to call anytime if I need help subduing dickheads. I thank her.
‘What’s your plans for the weekend?’
She frowns. ‘Got an assignment due in Monday, probably working on that. And maybe a swim at Blenheim Pool.’
‘Assignment?’
‘Law degree. Online. Except for the odd tutorial over in Nelson.’
‘You never mentioned.’
‘You never asked.’
Off she goes. I ring Marianne Keegan, intending to pass on the Prince Haruru stuff, but they tell me she’s gone back to Wellington for a weekend with family. I feel unjustifiably jealous. I leave a message for her to ring me about the Riley case. Outside, day is giving way to night and the pub is getting busier. I hope for no fights and no car accidents. Make up the camp bed and flick the kettle on for yet another cuppa. There’s a red dot on my desktop screen and it reminds me of the laser sight the night the dog was shot. It’s a new email, from an unknown sender.
Hey, Marlborough Man.
Gr8 to hear from you. Showed the picture of you and the krauts to Sammy. Good laugh. Just to let you know we’re still thinking of you. Maybe we should catch up, talk about old times.
M.
19
Sunderland, England. Two years earlier.
It didn’t go as planned. Marty bottled out, or twigged to the set-up, and the lad didn’t get killed. At least it saved me a staged beating from my colleagues. With nothing else on the horizon, we proceeded with a prosecution of Sammy for conspiracy to a murder that never happened. Far from satisfactory, the operation had been a huge investment in time, money and manpower for negligible return, and I know SOCA wanted to blame me. The court case only just scraped through. The defence team savaged us, particularly me, but we did get Sammy sent down for ten. After remission and good behavior it could be half that. As he was led from the dock Sammy gave me this look: how could he have got me so badly wrong? A sad shake of the head as he disappeared from view.