Marlborough Man

by Alan Carter

  Latifa comes out of the printing cupboard as the door closes behind Jessie James. ‘What’d she want?’

  ‘To apologise.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Besmirching my good name.’

  ‘Must want something off you.’

  ‘Cynic.’

  ‘Mark my words.’

  The next morning it’s Saturday and we’ve had a lie in and now we’re having a late family breakfast. Vanessa blessed me with a bout of prebrekky raunch while Paulie watched re-runs of Spongebob downstairs. She nudges me playfully with her hip as she refills my mug from the coffee plunger. Paulie is on to his second pancake. A vehicle crunches over the gravel driveway and I go to take a look. It’s a ute.

  ‘Gary!’ I shake his hand and he accepts hugs from Vanessa and Paulie. He’s carrying a holdall which he eases to the floor. We gather around the kitchen table and recharge the plunger. Gary seems healthier and brighter but there’s a look in his eye I can’t work out. Like he’s squaring for a fight. ‘Detective Maxwell off your case, now?’ I ask.

  ‘Pretty much, he’s got somebody in the frame for Johnny Fernandez apparently.’

  I know all about it, thanks. ‘What about that fire in Palmerston North, Ronnie somebody?’

  ‘Parata. Mystery, huh? Who could do such a thing?’ Neither of us is going to pursue it. He takes the coffee that Vanessa offers him. ‘Cheers,’ he says. ‘Been doing some thinking. I’ll be needing the shack again. That okay with you?’

  ‘Sure, no worries.’

  ‘But I won’t be paying any rent. Finished with that crap.’

  This could get interesting. I can feel myself bristling. ‘How long did you have in mind?’

  ‘As long as it takes.’ He takes a sip of coffee and winks at Paulie before he fixes back on me. ‘You said before I left that you figured you owed me over that psycho Marty bloke?’

  ‘I’m listening.’

  ‘You want to be my friend, that’s great, but we need to even things up a bit.’ He thumbs over his shoulder. ‘The far paddock. You don’t run animals in it, you don’t grow anything. You’re not using it.’ He rummages in the holdall and brings out a plastic shopping bag. ‘Down payment. I’ll build my own place, live in the cabin while I’m doing it.’ I can see there’s a lot of money in there and he knows I’m wondering where it came from. ‘None of your business.’ He gulps down another mouthful of coffee. ‘I know the market rate. I know what that block is worth. I’ll pay a fair price for it. Deal?’

  I look at Vanessa and she nods. She’s good in these situations. Decisive. And it all goes towards the Paulie Fund anyway. ‘Okay, but …’

  ‘Sorry. No buts. No conditions on how I live my life on my own property. If I choose to be happy Farmer Giles next door then it’s your good luck. If I’m the neighbour from hell then that’s the way it goes. You have no control over that. You’ll just have to trust and hope.’

  He’s been thinking alright. ‘What if I say no?’

  ‘I’ll say goodbye.’

  I’m tempted by that. But in order for things to even out I do have to give something up. We shake on it and Paulie takes him out to introduce him to the chickens and the goats.

  50

  Monday comes around and Paulie is back up at Pelorus School while Vanessa is off in the opposite direction filling in at Havelock. It’s late November and people’s minds are turning towards summer. There’s more traffic up and down the valley, more campervans at Butchers Flat, and during the nights more cracks and flashes as the pig hunters take advantage of the milder weather. With less rain, and the water in the tank a finite asset, Paulie has resumed his yellow and brown mantra of rules for toilet use.

  In the office there’s an email waiting for me, inviting me to farewell drinks for the Wellington contingent tomorrow in Nelson. It’s a long drive back through those ranges with a beer or two inside and Vanessa won’t like me socialising with DI Marianne Keegan, so on balance I’m inclined to decline.

  ‘If you need skippering back from Nelson I can oblige,’ says Latifa handing me a coffee. ‘We’ve gotta say a proper bye-bye to DI Cheekbones, eh? Make sure she leaves.’

  And I’ll probably be in as much trouble if Vanessa learns I’ve declined so as not to upset her. Damned if I do … Latifa sinks her coffee and grabs the keys for our morning drive along the highway when the phone goes. After some umms and yeahs and notes on the pad she lets the caller know we’re on our way.

  ‘Break-in down at the marina, the Menz …’ she highlights the ‘z’ with a slash of her forefinger, ‘… shed.’

  ‘Much taken?’

  ‘Dunno yet. They found the door kicked in and a bit of a mess. Maybe some womenz wanted to join and weren’t allowed.’ She turns the sign on the office door to Closed and hands me the keys. ‘You driving?’

  Raphael is the convenor of the Menzshed and he isn’t happy.

  ‘Bloody kids. That’s the third time.’

  I cast my mind back through the local crime stats: third time in about as many years, if I’m right. Not bad going really. I recall places in Manchester and Sunderland getting broken into three times in one day. ‘Anything taken?’

  ‘Paint. Some tools, a drill. That kind of thing.’

  ‘You can buy that stuff dirt cheap in Bunnings,’ says Latifa. ‘Have to be a real sad bastard to steal it.’

  Raphael clears his throat. ‘These were top of the range.’

  ‘Maybe you can give us a list, and any photos or serial numbers would help,’ says Latifa.

  There’s something familiar about Raphael but I can’t place it. ‘And there’s this too.’ He shows us the damage.

  ‘Youse are all handy blokes. Should be able to fix that yourselves.’ Latifa taps the details into her iPad. ‘Hammer and nails, lick of paint.’

  Raphael shakes his head. That’s who he is: he’s the bloke who painted over the graffiti on Serenity II. He was on the CCTV footage, the proud posture, the dashing mane of black curly hair. He’s caught me giving him a funny look. ‘What is it, Sergeant?’ He rubs at his face. ‘Something there?’

  ‘No.’ I explain the CCTV connection.

  ‘Ah, right. Yeah, I sometimes get some contract work for the marine shop in the high street. And Mr McCormack has taken a shine to me. He told me he likes the idea of a Raphael painting his boat.’

  ‘Pay well?’

  ‘No, he’s a stingy bastard, but that’s probably how he got rich, eh?’

  I remember from the CCTV, after the inspection of Raphael’s repair work on the graffiti, McCormack walking over the boat sniffing for something. ‘Did you notice a funny smell when you were working on the boat?’

  Yes, he’d been asked about it by one of the task force detectives. At least some of my CCTV observations had been followed up then.

  ‘Describe the smell.’

  He wrinkles his nose. ‘Like roadkill but also a bit vomity. I think a rat or something must’ve died down there. Way ripe it was.’

  Vomity.

  Was that the bad breath odour I’d caught a whiff of as I interviewed McCormack? Maybe Feargal had indeed been onboard and failed to clean up properly after a bout of seasickness. ‘Did it get stronger or weaker over the time you worked on the boat?’

  ‘Weaker definitely, by the time I finished you had to try hard to catch it. But that first day or two. Yuk.’

  ‘How long did the job take?’

  ‘A couple of weeks. I was fitting in with my other commitments. McCormack wasn’t in any great hurry.’

  So something had died on Serenity II but the smell had diminished over the following several days. If the thing had been removed after a day and propped against the shoe fence then that would account for it.

  ‘You never did a full forensic on Serenity II?’

  Keegan muffles the phone while she talks briefly to somebody at her end. ‘It was on the list while McCormack was in our sights but then Donnelly topped himself and saved us the budget expense.’ DI Keegan
seems distracted. In her mind she’s probably halfway across Cook Strait already. ‘We did the basic, which proved that Jamie Riley probably died onboard, but it was inconclusive on Donnelly being present.’

  ‘Inconclusive?’

  ‘He’s in the beemer with the sail bag but there’s nothing of him onboard the boat. But there could be any number of good reasons for that. Maybe he wore special pervo overalls which he later discarded.’

  Or maybe he wasn’t even there because he gets seasick standing on a jetty. ‘Who is onboard, forensically?’

  ‘McCormack obviously, it’s his boat.’

  ‘But he’s got his alibi. What about his other employees?’ I’m back in the office, worrying down the phone while Latifa’s at lunch. ‘We still don’t have detail on precisely how and where the kids were killed. The sail bag. Did we ever find that? And where was Qadim Reza before he died?’

  ‘Jesus, mate. Feargal took him off in the beemer, did his horror show in a dungeon somewhere, then dumped him. End of story.’ She’s getting snappy. I’m raining on the homecoming parade. ‘The job’s finished, Nick. No need to do anymore. We go stirring things up now and we’ll have more political flak from McCormack. We need to leave him alone. It was Feargal Donnelly, in the BMW, with the Rohypnol.’

  ‘And that’s what you’re putting in the file to close it?’

  ‘Signed off by the chain of command, today. Sleeping dogs, Nick. He’s even got a record of it in Dublin.’

  ‘A quickie in the park toilets when he was sixteen? Doesn’t make him a killer.’

  ‘It helps build the picture, Nick. For fuck’s sake.’

  There’s nothing so far to say it definitely wasn’t Donnelly and that, it seems, is enough for everybody else. But it’s not enough for me. ‘Fucking amateur hour. I can’t believe this.’

  A chill descends down the phone line. ‘The DC told me about you over a farewell dinner with the brass last night. The nitty gritty on how you ended up here. You’re no stranger to amateur hour yourself. Two years undercover and buckets of money and you score, what, an overdue library fine and a slap on the wrist? If I were you I’d count my blessings.’ She changes the subject, brightens her voice. ‘Let it go, Nick. Join us for a beer tomorrow night, old time’s sake. It might not be a perfect result but it’s the best we’re going to get.’

  I need to give a little. She’s taken risks to back me up and follow my flights of fancy. There’s no harm in sending her on her way with a smile, a wave and an ale or two. ‘It’s a date. See you then.’

  It’s not Feargal Donnelly. He’s just an affable Irishman who thought he was everybody’s best friend until he found himself tied to the tracks in the path of a runaway train. A man who gets seasick isn’t going to spend a week on a boat getting his twisted jollies, he’ll get them on terra firma. And he’s not going to drive down to Kaikōura to kill a bloke for a photograph that means nothing to him. But if the killings stop now, will that be enough? If I was the Prince of Darkness, the Pied Piper, I’d be considering my options – I’ve come dangerously close to being found, close enough for me to get worried and take action to cover my tracks; now a dead man is being blamed and the heat is off. I’d call it a day, maybe get my kicks somewhere else. Count my blessings as DI Keegan might say.

  So can I live with that? Let Marianne’s sleeping dogs lie?

  Back at the farm, Gary has pegged out his claim on the far paddock, and a bobcat and pallet of building supplies are blocking my driveway. Paulie is chatting to the chooks and Vanessa is watering the vegies. It’s Little House on the Prairie except we’re in the feral hills of the Wakamarina.

  ‘How many eggs?’ I ask Paulie. He lifts two hands and splays his fingers, then curls one in. ‘Only nine? They’re slipping.’

  ‘I think they’re a bit tired.’

  ‘Slack, more like.’ I glance over at Vanessa. ‘Roast chook for dinner?’

  ‘Dad! No!’

  I let him know I’m joking and he shakes his fist at me good naturedly. Vanessa is by my side, handing me an empty bucket. ‘Fill that up, one more line of beans to go.’

  ‘As you wish, m’lady.’

  ‘Paulie, tell Dad about school.’

  A grin creases his face. ‘I’m getting a certificate tomorrow. And a prize.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Being brilliant, as usual.’

  ‘Fair enough. Anything specific?’

  ‘I dunno, kid of the month or something?’

  ‘Fantastic!’

  ‘Can you come to assembly tomorrow? Mum’s working and doesn’t love me enough.’

  ‘Paulie!’

  ‘I’ll be there, son. I love you even if Mum doesn’t.’

  ‘Thanks Dad, love you too.’

  Vanessa punches me in the shoulder. ‘Stop ganging up on me and go fetch the water.’ Then she starts singing. ‘Food glorious food, roast chicken and stuffing …’

  ‘Mum!’

  While I’m filling the bucket something is buzzing in a little corner of my brain. I can’t get hold of it though. Instead of roast chook we opt for frozen pizzas for dinner, Paulie’s choice as a reward for winning something at school. The sunset sky is a spectacular swirl of orange rays, vivid blues, broiling purple clouds, and black silhouetted hills. If somebody painted it that way you’d tell them to never give up the day job and ease up on the wacky baccy.

  ‘Stunning,’ says Paulie and we all agree. The end of another day in paradise.

  51

  Vanessa has to go in early to Havelock School because the teacher she’s covering for is usually on the early start roster on Tuesdays. It’s her job to make sure the kids don’t get run over by parent drop-offs, or logging trucks, or blazed mussel-shuckers coming off the night shift. It’s my job to take Paulie to school, attend the prize-giving, and pick him up at the end of the day on my way back from showing my face at DI Keegan’s farewell do in Nelson. Paulie is digging into his Weetbix and I’m topping up my mug from the plunger when the phone goes. It’s Shania, Johnny Fernandez’s de facto widow.

  ‘Somebody has been in our house.’

  ‘Yeah, the detectives have been there, and forensics, and I’ve had a look round too.’

  ‘Not the valley. Here, my mum’s house in Seddon.’

  She gives me the details. She and Trayvon had stayed over at an old school friend’s place a few blocks away. Mum meanwhile had a sleepover with her boyfriend in Blenheim.

  ‘I got back half an hour ago and found the place trashed.’

  ‘Notice anything taken?’

  ‘My iPad, that’s it really.’

  ‘Money? Other valuables?’

  ‘Nah, not much of that stuff around here.’

  ‘Could just be kids or whatever?’

  ‘S’pose.’

  ‘But you don’t think so?’

  ‘They went through my undies drawer, slashed the mattress, the couch, mum’s bed. Kind of thorough the way kids aren’t, you know?’

  ‘What were they looking for, Shania?’

  ‘Probably Johnny’s phone.’

  ‘The one you didn’t tell me about last time we met.’

  ‘You know already?’

  ‘Denzel told me. Do you know where it is?’

  ‘No. He used to keep stuff in the shed in an old tin behind some tyres.’ Genius, I’m thinking. Not. ‘But I checked, nothing there.’

  ‘So somebody thinks you might have it.’

  ‘Will they come back?’

  ‘Maybe. Some advice, Shania. Don’t hold anything back from us. There are bad people out there.’ I tell her to phone the local cops and put in an insurance claim. ‘Maybe you and your mum should leave town for a bit. Go and visit some friends or relatives?’

  ‘You reckon?’

  ‘Yeah, I reckon.’

  If Feargal Donnelly is the Pied Piper then he just came back from the dead to give Shania a scare. But I know that won’t be enough to mar the celebrations and bon voyage to the task force this eveni
ng. I wrangle Paulie away from his third bowl of cereal and into the Toyota and we hit the road for Pelorus School.

  I’m really proud to watch my son get his certificate and a book token. I’ve not been around for many of these kind of events, that’s been Vanessa’s domain. I’ve always been off doing something which seemed more important at the time. Paulie tips me a wink as he receives his award for a drawing he did recently. He holds it up for the assembled throng – him, Vanessa and me on the farm with some chickens and the weirdest looking goats you could imagine. It’s nothing special, I’m thinking, but Paulie is well due his place in the limelight. Of all people, it’s Sebastian Ryan who, on behalf of the prizes sponsor McCormack Forestry, shakes hands with my son and poses for a pic for the newsletter before making a quick speech.

  ‘McCormack Forestry is proud to be the sponsor of the Pelorus School Awards and to continue the strong community partnership forged over the years.’ He leans forward over the lectern. ‘The daily news is full of doom and gloom and now more than ever we need some light, some heroes.’ A sweep of the arm taking in the audience. ‘The Pelorus–Havelock school cluster has produced some great leaders, thinkers, scientists, sportsmen and women. Even politicians.’ He pauses for the good-hearted snickers and boos. Gestures towards my son. ‘And I can foresee the day when we’ll be queuing up to admire and buy the great art of Paul Chester. I only hope I can afford it.’

  It’s jarring seeing that prick up there but the town sign is the symbol of a sawmill blade, and logging is the main employer in the area. I bite my tongue, applaud, and accept an invitation from the principal to join her, her staff, and the other prize-winning parents for tea and cake. She introduces me to Ryan.

  ‘We’ve met,’ I say, shaking his hand anyway.

  ‘And we meet again.’ Ryan is good at this: transformed from snooty twat to Sebastian Smooth-as-Fuck. He’s got the principal blushing and the eyes of a few mums and teachers on him. ‘Great kid.’

  ‘Paulie? Yes, he is.’

  ‘Paulie?’

  ‘Another few years and we’ll dignify him with a simple Paul. But for now it works.’ I sip from my tea and crunch on a bikkie. ‘This part of your job description? School prizes?’