Marlborough Man

by Alan Carter

  ‘Who?’

  ‘She’s a … ’

  ‘Just jokin’. Sheesh.’

  Driving back from Nelson to Havelock, I’m thinking about those coincidences while Latifa negotiates the hairpins in her inimitable way. I can believe Deborah Haruru would be suicidal, but Des Rogers? Not for a second. Going through Rai Valley, we’re blessed with a brief mobile signal so I call Marianne Keegan and bring her up to speed.

  ‘Two in as many days. You have the touch of evil.’

  ‘That’s what my colleague said.’ I can see Latifa out the corner of my eye, looking smug. ‘Any more details from the Kaikōura crew on Des Rogers?’

  ‘I’ll look into it and c.c. you. But don’t go running off anymore without keeping me informed.’

  The signal cuts out and we cross Pelorus Bridge on the home stretch. The car park is chock full of tourists and there’s a tailback blocking the main road, which means we need to slow down for a few seconds. Latifa mutters under her breath, ‘Fucking hobbits.’

  Just past Canvastown the police radio bursts into life with a report of a shooting incident in the Wakamarina Valley. Normally that wouldn’t mean much. In rural New Zealand, calling police out at the sound of shots fired is like calling them out for the sound of cows mooing. Usually you need to specify ill intent, human on human. Which is what we have here. AOS tactical are on their way in a chopper. Latifa chucks a kamikaze U-ey as a log truck bears down.

  I recheck the property number in the report. ‘It’s Charlie Evans’ place.’

  Latifa tuts.

  When we pull up I see McCormack’s BMW parked across the Evans driveway and two men crouched behind it. One of them is McCormack and the other is vaguely familiar. On the other side of the locked gate is Charlie Evans with a shotgun, raised high, eyes sighted along the barrel. A further hundred metres away Denzel sits on a quad bike, arms folded, head down, an alpaca nudging him affectionately.

  ‘Mr Ryan! What are you doing here?’ Latifa seems to know McCormack’s companion.

  ‘What’s going on, mate?’ I say to Charlie Evans.

  The shotgun is lowered, marginally. ‘Trespassers.’

  McCormack splutters. ‘He’s a lunatic. We were trying to serve him some legal documents, that’s all.’

  ‘Did you shoot at them, Charlie?’

  ‘Only over their heads.’

  Turning back to McCormack. ‘What papers?’

  ‘Sorry, but that’s a private matter.’ I recognise the voice of the companion. It’s the bloke in the car on the morning of the boat vandalism report. Can we go and get brekkie, Dickie? Or something like that.

  ‘And you are?’

  ‘Sebastian Ryan. Mr McCormack’s legal consultant.’

  ‘And my tutor,’ says Latifa, proudly.

  ‘It isn’t private anymore, Mr Ryan. The police are involved. What’s it about?’

  Ryan throws me this amused, patronising look that sets my Sunderland-bred hackles rising. I’m downstairs, he’s upstairs. Good old-fashioned class warfare. ‘Cease and desist. It’s a prelude to an injunction.’

  ‘Cease and desist what?’

  ‘The petition against the logging,’ says Charlie. ‘And the crowdfunded class action.’ He glares at McCormack. ‘Whatever happened to democracy and free speech?’

  ‘They run secondary to free enterprise.’ McCormack comes out of his crouch and dusts himself off. ‘So are you going to arrest him, or what?’

  I turn to Charlie. ‘Sorry, mate. By your own admission you’ve discharged a firearm in a threatening manner. You’ll have to come with us.’

  ‘Get them away from my property first.’

  The chopper is approaching. Armed Offenders Squad: men in black with machine guns. I point them out to McCormack. ‘This is going to be all over the Journal. Do you want that kind of publicity?’

  McCormack ducks into the beemer. ‘Good to see you doing your job for a change, Sergeant.’

  Ryan gets a parting wave from Latifa and returns it.

  Something occurs to me. ‘Who made the emergency call? Those guys wouldn’t have had a mobile signal.’

  Evans thumbs over his shoulder at Denzel. ‘The boy, probably. On the landline. He’ll have meant well, stop me from killing somebody.’

  We take Charlie’s gun off him, put him in the car, and radio the chopper that it’s all over.

  Charlie is charged and will be summoned to a court appearance at a later date. As he’s leaving the office I ask after Mrs Evans.

  ‘Not good. She can’t keep any food down.’ He squints against the late afternoon sunlight. ‘The boy is good with her, though. They get on like a house on fire.’

  Not the best analogy after Denzel’s last outing to Patrick Smith’s place on the Sounds. ‘That’s great,’ I say. ‘Look after yourself and stay out of trouble, mate.’

  He cocks his fingers into a gun shape. ‘Lawyers at forty paces.’

  ‘What about that cease and desist order?’

  Latifa sniffs. ‘I checked it. You could drive a horse and cart through it. I really would have expected better from Mr Ryan.’

  What with an attempted suicide and a shootout at the Evans’ corral, it’s a relief to wind the day down with email circulars, health and safety surveys, and a log of expenses. As we’re closing up, the phone goes. It’s the doctor from Nelson Hospital.

  ‘We identified that other drug in Deborah Haruru’s system.’

  ‘Yep?’

  ‘Rohypnol.’

  When I get home, Steve and Gary have cracked open the Speight’s and thrown some salmon on the barbie. I’ve passed the Rohypnol news on to DI Keegan. Having Deborah Haruru poisoned by the same drug that was in Jamie Riley’s system is one coincidence too many.

  ‘You’re a dangerous man to know, Nick Chester,’ Keegan told me.

  I bring the guys up to speed about the latest threat from Marty and once again offer them an out. ‘It’s not your fight. Really, it isn’t.’

  ‘Tell that to Sonny Boy,’ says Gary. ‘God rest his four-legged soul.’

  ‘Marty Finefellow? Here? In person?’ Steve claps his hands with relish. ‘Good as gold.’

  Head against a brick wall. I give up.

  Gary lifts his Speight’s. ‘To round two.’ We all take our swigs. ‘How’s Vanessa and Paulie?’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘They need to be here with you,’ he says. ‘This is a good place.’

  I’m not in the mood for an appraisal of my family life so I turn it around. ‘You guys got family?’

  Gary is staring out at the trees. ‘Not any more.’ Whatever he sees, it’s way out beyond the darkness, beyond the stars. ‘There was a fire.’ A last swig from his bottle. ‘Couldn’t get to ’em in time.’

  ‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘I didn’t know.’

  ‘Why would you?’ He prods the food on the hotplate. ‘The fish is ready.’

  Steve rescues the moment. ‘I’ve got a daughter in Palmerston North. Three grandkids. Gonna visit soon.’ He takes the plate of food I pass him from Gary. ‘That okay with you? Kids around here for a few days?’

  ‘Sure,’ I say. ‘Happy families.’

  ‘Let’s hope this Marty business is sorted by then,’ says Gary.

  We all toast the concept.

  22

  ‘A skinful of Bundaberg rum.’ Marianne Keegan is reading from her computer screen and I can hear her tapping the keyboard as she speaks. ‘A bruise around the left eye socket and cheek, unexplained, but consistent with a punch.’ More tapping. ‘The ligature around the neck. That’s about it.’

  There are any number of plausible scenarios but in my mind’s eye I see Des Rogers answering the door to a fist in the face. He’s on the floor wondering what’s going on. There’s a rope tightening around his neck and his lights go out. A bottle of grog is poured down his throat and he’s strung up to a hook in his shed. Game over.

  ‘They find the bottle?’

  ‘In the kitchen. No prints except his.�
�

  ‘What, not even the kid from Super Liquor that sold it to him?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘The rope?’

  ‘Common as muck, but we’re following it up at local DIY outlets.’

  ‘We’ll need to check CCTV for those places, and for Deborah’s hostel. See who’s been hanging around.’

  ‘No shit.’

  ‘How’s his telco records?’

  ‘He had a mobile but it’s missing. We’re going through the call printouts now. I’ll keep you posted.’

  McCormack is on the phone next. ‘Did you charge the silly old coot?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘It’s a pity you guys can’t find a more civilised way of sorting out your differences. You’ve got a right to harvest your trees. He’s got a right not to have his land degraded by the harvesting of your trees. What costs more, the lawyers or the digging of a few extra drainage channels?’

  ‘The principle. I’ve got plantations right across the Marlborough Sounds. Each of them with their own little Charlie Evans living nearby, whingeing and whining.’

  ‘A bit of goodwill might end up being cheaper in the long run.’

  ‘Goodwill? In with the greenies, I guessed as much.’

  ‘I hear your place got turned over recently?’

  ‘Kids. Looking for money for drugs, or whatnot. Nothing for them here.’

  ‘Trashed the place?’

  ‘Thanks for your interest. The insurance people are onto it.’

  Latifa is out patrolling SH6, no doubt pulling over miscreants, giving them a talking to, issuing tickets. It’s National Earthquake Drill Day the day after tomorrow and a memo has come round explaining, yet again, what is required of us: a calm punter-friendly reinforcement of the drill and explanation of civil defence and evacuation procedures. And here’s me thinking I could just run up and down the main street waving my hands and crying, ‘We’re all doomed, I tell ye! Doomed!’ The sun is out and the wind has freshened. I opt for a midmorning walk to show my face, blow out some cobwebs and maybe pick up a coffee from the bakery. Closing the office door I step outside.

  Uncle Walter bars my way. ‘We need to talk.’

  I open the office door and step back inside. ‘Take a seat.’

  He looks around. ‘The girl?’

  ‘Constable Rapata is out on the road. Doing good.’

  He nods. ‘Somebody’s trying to kill my Deb.’

  ‘We’re investigating it.’

  ‘And that excuse for a human being hanged himself over in Kaikōura.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘You’ve rattled him.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The killer.’

  ‘If I have, then I haven’t a clue how or why.’

  ‘We’re going to solve this, you and me.’ He stands, pats me on the shoulder, and shuffles towards the door. ‘We’ll get that bastard.’

  On my way out, I’m accosted again. It’s Jessie James from the Journal with a new pair of Doc Martens.

  ‘What was that up the valley yesterday? Charlie Evans? The police chopper?’ Something beeps on her iPhone and she checks it. ‘McCormack?’

  ‘I’d have thought you’d have put two and two together by now.’

  ‘Yep, Charlie’s rocking the boat with that petition of his. A lot of people in town work on McCormack’s plantations.’

  ‘So you already know what’s going on.’

  ‘I hear he shot at McCormack.’

  ‘So you already know what’s going on.’

  ‘Help me out here, Sergeant. You owe me one.’

  ‘Do I?’

  ‘The story you got spiked.’ She tries coquettish. ‘That wasn’t very nice.’ A strong gust snatches at her tea-cosy hat.

  I throw caution to the howling wind. ‘McCormack is bringing in the lawyers to close down the petition and the class action.’

  ‘Class action? From what I hear, Charlie’s on his own. A crowdfunding of one.’

  ‘Which makes it even more David and Goliath then, doesn’t it?’ I appraise her: Doc Martens, woolly beret, rebellion chic. ‘Back in the day, journalists used to stand up for the little bloke. That’s where the story was. Now? It’s not so easy I suppose when you’ve got advertisers to worry about, jobs to protect, all that.’

  ‘That’s rich coming from a cop who had a story killed to protect his own interests.’

  ‘Touché.’

  She taps her iPhone absent-mindedly against her chin. ‘Still. You don’t get noticed writing fluff pieces for the machine.’ A glance across the inlet at one of McCormack’s recent harvests. ‘And that view does kinda suck.’

  ‘Right on.’

  Latifa returns from highway patrol looking flushed and happy. ‘Just gave a ticket to this absolutely like hot man. I mean cut, you know? Eyes like Kanye.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘He’s a –’ She catches my expression. ‘Just joking, right?’

  ‘Good morning’s work, then?’

  ‘Ah, yeah.’

  I bring her up to speed on Des Rogers and the dodgy crime scene. ‘And Uncle Walter paid me a visit. He seems to think we’re a crime-fighting duo.’

  ‘Don’t write him off. He’ll open up a lot of doors that closed when little Prince died.’

  ‘You would have been what, about twenty then?’

  She nods. ‘Still at varsity, over in Wellington.’

  ‘So law is your second degree?’

  ‘Yeah, did commerce first time round.’

  ‘And ended up a cop?’

  ‘It felt like a calling. They paid us a visit in the third year and said it didn’t matter what kind of degree I had, as long as I had one.’

  ‘What do your family think?’

  ‘They think it’s cool.’ A frown. ‘Well, Mum does anyway.’

  ‘Do you remember at the time any rumours going around the community about what happened to Prince?’

  ‘Nah. By the time I got back from Wellington everybody had moved on. Then I was off to police college after that.’ She frowns. ‘The only thing that stuck was how much we all hated that Rogers bloke. Some even reckoned he was covering up for the one that did it. But nothing specific, you know? Just an all-pakeha-are-bastards kind of thing.’

  ‘Maybe Uncle Walter will dig something up. Batman and Robin, Green Hornet and Kato.’

  ‘He already has a name for you. Weka-tāne.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Weka-man. Like the flightless bird. Running around in the undergrowth, burying your beak in the dirt, digging stuff up and annoying everybody.’

  Weka-tāne. I can live with that.

  The call comes from DC Ford on my home landline later that night.

  ‘SOCA have told us that Martin Stringfellow flew out of Newcastle upon Tyne earlier today to connect with a flight from Amsterdam to Jakarta, and then on to Bali. Paperwork and baggage are all in good order. They don’t have any onward details as yet.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  I’m outwardly calm but there’s a chill in my heart. Maybe Marty is picking up some friends or false papers in Indonesia. Or both. He won’t be bringing any weapons like the German hunter-brothers did, anything that requires paperwork and unnecessary attention. He doesn’t need to, he can buy a gun here and we know he’s good with a blade.

  ‘The offer’s still there, Nick. Come in to safety and we move you on somewhere else.’

  ‘No, I need to end this.’

  ‘There’s not just yourself to consider here.’

  ‘I’m aware of that, sir.’

  How long will Marty be in Indonesia? A couple of days maximum I guess. He’s not the patient sort. Or is he? He watched over me for my eighteen months with Sammy and bided his time. No, something tells me he’ll be here by the weekend; as far as he knows the clock’s ticking on me shipping out to a new country. He’ll be in as much of a hurry to finish this as I am.

  23

  Christchurch, New
Zealand. Eighteen months ago.

  ‘I can’t do this, Nick. It’s not going to work.’

  Vanessa hates Christchurch. We’re stuck in a suburb up near the airport and every time a plane takes off she follows its path with hungry eyes. I’ve been busy enough the last few months getting trained into the New Zealand way of doing the Job, and coming to grips with the finer points of Kiwi law and order. Paulie has been at school most of that time and settles in well once the teachers and the other kids begin to understand his accent and his sense of humour. Vanessa has sat in our fibro bungalow and seethed.

  ‘Maybe if we made some friends.’

  ‘What the fuck for? You’re about to get posted to some remote hilltop village where the only crimes are sheep-rustling and incest.’

  Paulie looks up from his iPad. ‘Can we get some sheep when we go there?’

  ‘Maybe,’ I say.

  ‘Havelock. Found it.’ He shows us the iPad and Havelock on the map. Googles it some more and finds some photos. ‘Looks cool.’

  ‘Can’t we just go back to the UK?’ pleads Vanessa. ‘Scotland maybe. Or Wales. They’d never look there.’

  ‘They’ll look everywhere.’

  ‘Then what’s to stop them looking here?’

  ‘Who are you talking about?’ asks Paulie, still swiping through the tourist photos of Havelock. ‘Look. “Greenshell mussel capital of the world.” Brilliant.’

  A text from my handler in Christchurch HQ. Check this out. And a link to somebody’s Facebook page. I go through my secure police laptop, which has a VPN making me harder to trace. The link is to a Facebook page in the name of Makkam1973. There’s some photographs: our old house, burned down, my mam and dad’s house covered in graffiti, windows broken. A caption. Tut, there goes the neighbourhood. And last but not least, our dog Buster impaled on a park fence. All the posts have been liked by Marty Stringfellow and a few dozen others.

  Vanessa sees my face. ‘What is it?’

  I lead her into the kitchen, away from Paulie, and show her.

  Finally, she gets it.

  ‘Can’t they arrest him for that?’

  ‘What? Liking nasty pictures of what somebody else might have done? The kind of legal representation he’ll have? Waste of time.’ I close the computer screen. ‘We can’t go home, love. We have to make this work.’