Marlborough Man

by Alan Carter

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Do it.’

  ‘No.’

  He walks back over to Latifa and places his gun against her temple. ‘Now.’

  Gary probably dead. Latifa next? I manage to get to my feet. ‘Where’s my son?’

  ‘Where I left him.’

  ‘Is he unharmed?’

  ‘Not telling.’

  ‘You’re not as smart as we thought you were. The heat was off with Feargal in the frame. You could have taken a sabbatical, maybe take up again in pastures new, or old. PNG, somewhere like that?’

  ‘You worked it all out.’ He’s back before me, gun held loosely at his side. ‘Congratulations.’

  ‘Bilateral aid, I’m guessing? The law and justice program?’

  A wink. ‘Hands across the water, that kind of thing.’

  ‘How many kids did you kill in PNG?’

  ‘I lost count.’

  ‘So why didn’t you take your chance?’ My leg is going numb, the bottom half is drenched in blood. I’m having trouble standing, focusing, thinking. ‘Why are we still here?’

  ‘A balancing of accounts. Have you heard of the term utu?’

  ‘Oh, you’re one of these people Latifa talks about, with National Geo pictures on the wall, noble-savage stuff.’

  ‘Insightful girl. She did a good essay on it. A plus. She understands that justice isn’t justice without some taste of revenge, however subtle. Utu, Sharia, Old Testament, Talmudic law. The way I see it, they’re all variations on a theme. It’s really just a simple matter of double-entry bookkeeping.’

  ‘So, what now?’

  He lifts the gun back up, levels it at me. ‘You’re going to watch your son die before your eyes.’ A rabbit scampers across the dead clearing. ‘Then Latifa. Then I’ll finish you.’

  I’m struggling – my head is swimming with the pain. But I see Latifa stirring behind him and I have to keep him talking. ‘If you’re going to do that, I can’t stop you.’ Latifa is still again. Has she passed out? He notices me looking at her. Glances back and I edge closer. ‘Bright girl,’ he says. ‘Such a waste.’

  ‘Tell me something. Was there anything meaningful about those locations?’

  ‘Does it matter?’

  ‘I’m curious.’ I tip my head towards his gun. ‘Indulge me, one last time.’

  ‘The shoe fence? The vineyard?’

  Latifa coming round again, she shakes her head groggily. ‘Yes. Why there?’

  ‘Aesthetics, playfulness. Nothing deep.’ He shrugs. ‘Sorry.’

  Nothing deep. Just vacuous and self-obsessed, always and forever.

  He reacts to the rustle of Latifa moving behind him and I throw my weight on him. He goes down and we’re rolling around in the pine needles and cold, damp earth and I’m trying to stop him from shooting me. He’s strong, and I’m dizzy and weak. With all I have, I pull my head back and nut him, my thumb finds his eye and I gouge – a Sammy Pritchard special. He lets out a roar, spitting blood in my face, and I can feel the barrel of the Glock scraping my side.

  Latifa comes down hard on him, with a knee on his head and prises the gun off him.

  I grab it from her, examine it, test its cool weight in my hand.

  Even with his head in the dirt under Latifa’s knee, there’s a gleam in Ryan’s eye. ‘Go on,’ he says. ‘You know you want to.’

  ‘Sarge.’

  I press the muzzle against his nostril. ‘Release you from this cruel world that you’ve made a whole lot crueller?’ He nods. My knuckle tightens on the trigger. ‘Where’s Paulie? No Paulie, no favours from me.’ His eyes go towards the hut. ‘Is he unharmed?’

  ‘Yes. You have my word.’ He looks at me. At the gun. ‘So finish it. Have your utu.’

  ‘Sarge?’ Latifa frowns. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘What does it look like I’m doing, Latifa? He’s scum.’

  A shake of the head. She nudges me aside. ‘Not your call, boss.’ She picks up and checks Gary’s pig gun and fixes a beady on Ryan. ‘Don’t go appropriating our culture, it’s our utu, you twisted creepy fuck. Not yours. Hands off.’

  ‘Latifa,’ I say, ‘keep out of this.’

  ‘You need to have more faith, Sarge. Trust me, this fella is going away for a long time.’ She unclips handcuffs from her belt and pulls Ryan’s wrists into position. ‘Ten, fifteen, twenty years from now people will say: who’s that sad, grey, fat nobody with the bowl of slop that people keep spitting in? Oh, him? He used to be the Pied Piper, the sick fuck who killed those kids way back when. And somebody will slap him in the showers yet again and say not so fucken flash now, eh?’ She clicks the cuffs on him. ‘Hey, did I really hear you say I got an A plus for that essay? Sweet as.’

  I drag myself towards the hut. Paulie is in there on a mattress, breathing, unharmed, but out cold from the Rohypnol. I trigger my GPS alarm. I’m shaking and my vision has blurred. I lie down, holding him.

  EPILOGUE

  Both Gary and Richie survived, although the latter’s usefulness as a pig dog is limited by his tripod status. My leg fared better but two weeks later it’s still pretty sore to walk on. Gary’s prickle-armour managed to take the oompf out of the bullet meant to kill him but he needs a few weeks under observation. His new girlfriend from Havelock happens to be a nurse at Nelson Hospital, which works out well.

  ‘I still can’t believe you shot my dog,’ he says, shaking his head.

  ‘I think Latifa is still pretty dark with you about some of your life choices too.’

  ‘Yeah, well.’

  Latifa is just along the corridor with Daniel the spunky Boy Racer in attendance. She shows me the finger, her ring finger, and grins through the injuries Ryan inflicted on her. ‘Engaged. And me with a face like a kumara.’ She squeezes Daniel’s hand so hard he winces. ‘Isn’t he a sweetie?’

  ‘Sure is. Back in the office next week?’

  She shakes her head. ‘Exams. Make it the week after.’

  It looks like it’s me and Traffic Man for the foreseeable. ‘You’re still pursuing the legal career then?’

  ‘Course, why wouldn’t I? And the field has thinned out now that Ryan is gone. One extra job vacancy in this region is always welcome.’ She sees the look of regret I fail to hide. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll be in the job a while yet.’ She grins. ‘We need to complete your cultural training first.’

  At Nelson Police HQ, Keegan and Ford are in conference. There’s some tidy footwork needed. They need to extract themselves from the innuendo they created around Feargal Donnelly, and the civil action his de facto widow may well take, and build a new legend around Sebastian Ryan.

  ‘All of the parents of the kids recognised his photo,’ says Keegan. ‘He’d presented prizes or donations at the schools and sports clubs where their kids were. Or he was tagging along when McCormack was on duty.’

  ‘And five years ago?’

  ‘He was a tennis buddy of McCormack’s. Not as good as Dickie, so his name doesn’t get mentioned in dispatches but he was on a social photo at the tennis club Christmas do. He wasn’t actually based in the region but visited often enough. Hung on McCormack’s coat tails.’

  And once Ryan knew we were talking to the ex-barmaid Beth Haruru, that tennis club photo had to disappear as did any others placing him in the narrative. The cardboard cheque photo with Denzel and Prince and the other neighbourhood kids? A Family Fun Open Day at the marae. It turns out Des Rogers was there, supposedly doing some Blue Light police and youth community work. In truth, facilitating Ryan’s introduction to the Haruru whanau and access to young Prince. It was Ryan who took the infamous photo and Rogers knew that, stored it away for a rainy day – a witnessed connection, however loose, between Ryan and the boy. But there’s another name right at the centre of all this, from day one. ‘McCormack has known all along hasn’t he?’

  ‘He says not,’ says Ford. ‘It would be best for all if we believe him.’

  ‘Yes sir,’ I say, but we all know I don’t
mean it.

  Something’s nagging at me. ‘So why did Feargal Donnelly kill himself? He knew he was innocent, he could get a good lawyer.’

  ‘He got a visit from one,’ says Keegan. ‘Ryan looked in that morning. Must have put some words in his ear about how they were going to hang him out to dry. Ryan was the one who took the car from outside his house and was helping to put him in the frame.’

  ‘But all Donnelly had to do was spill.’

  ‘Would we have listened?’ She looks at me. ‘Well, maybe you would have. But the sealer was Donnelly’s health background, which Ryan must have wheedled out of him long before that. He hasn’t shown great resilience over the years: a suicide attempt at uni before his final exams, another one when a girlfriend left him. All craic and no ticker, poor bloke. Ryan knew which buttons to press: family shame, ruin, whatever.’

  Loose ends remain for the paperwork and the prosecution brief, but that’s their problem. We bid our farewells. Ford shakes my hand, hopes my leg gets better soon, and Keegan mouths au revoir.

  One more stop before home. I know he’ll see me. He invites me to take a seat and admire the view of the river.

  ‘How long have you known?’

  ‘Known what?’ McCormack lifts a water bottle to his mouth and takes a swig.

  ‘Ryan. Don’t fuck about.’

  ‘I’m as shocked as everybody.’

  ‘He often borrowed your boat. Sank the first one five years ago, which must have made you think. Then he borrows it again for Jamie Riley. He’s kept the boy on there and you spoil his plans by deciding on a pleasure cruise before he’s ready. He did the graffiti, maybe while he was still out at sea so the CCTV didn’t catch him, and let you find it so you’d call that day trip off, giving him more time to dispose of the boy. Pity about that nasty smell he left behind, eh? It didn’t bother you?’

  ‘You tell a good story. Maybe you should have looked closer at the boat that day, Sergeant, instead of standing back and being snide. You might have caught the scent of something.’ He stands and offers me his hand. ‘I wish you well for the future, Mr Chester. These have been very difficult times for all of us.’

  I ignore the hand. ‘What makes you think they’re over? When I give evidence at the trial I’m going to make sure everybody knows what kind of man you are.’

  On the way back up the valley passing Charlie Evans’ place, I see that he and Denzel are feeding the alpacas with the straw bought in for a long dry summer. I hear that Patrick Smith is still out on the Sounds. Every day his campsite seems more and more permanent and Denzel drops by sometimes for a cuppa. I give him and Charlie a wave and notice the hill behind them is still intact. Logging suspended while McCormack deals with the imminent public float of his company and the need for positive community relations that entails. It’s a beautiful day with fluffy clouds scudding across a blue sky and vivid flowers dancing on the roadside verge. The livestock look relaxed, the fields are green and rolling, a bucolic paradise. Does it feel like home? The jury is still out.

  Paulie is triumphant. ‘Twelve today, Dad. Twelve eggs!’

  ‘A record.’ We high five twice and then add two.

  He hasn’t mentioned the time with Ryan and we haven’t pressed him on it. We don’t know whether that’s the right or wrong thing. The experts have differing views as experts are wont to do. We’ll keep our fingers crossed and move to fix it if it shows signs of being broke. Vanessa has fully recovered from her Rohypnol overdose. She summons me out to the balcony with a pot of tea. I’m not so sure, the sandflies are fierce today. She chucks me the repellent.

  ‘Lather up. I won’t take no for an answer.’

  ‘You never do.’

  I don’t know why she’s forgiven me. Maybe she has this infinite capacity. Maybe she felt sorry for my leg wound. Maybe she likes messing with my mind. Probably all three but either way I have to be the luckiest man in the world. Across the river, the hill is scarred from the logging but I’m getting used to it. This valley has had some atrocious things done to it in the last hundred and fifty years in the name of commerce and progress, but the wounds scab over and it keeps fighting back with all the beauty it can still muster. Vanessa has learned to love this place and to bring Paulie and me along with her. She hands me my new mug, a present from Uncle Walter, it’s got a picture of a weka on it. Weka-tāne.

  ‘What’s new?’ I ask.

  ‘I’ve been offered a full-time contract at the school for next year.’

  I slap a sandfly and sip some tea. ‘Great.’

  ‘Say it with meaning.’

  I reach across and grab her hand. ‘That is really great, love.’

  ‘Again. Louder.’

  ‘That’s fantastic. Woo hoo!’

  She grins. ‘That’s better. You can have some cake now.’

  She goes to bring some and that’s when we hear a familiar noise. It’s that chopper coming up the river again. Same chopper? It rounds the bend, low, and scoots up towards Butchers Flat. Yes, it’s the same one.

  Vanessa returns with the cake. ‘What is it?’

  ‘That helicopter again.’

  ‘Must have liked my tits and come back for more.’

  But I’m afraid and she can see it. She knows I’m thinking Sammy Pritchard. He’s the only enemy left out there and he hasn’t given up on me after all.

  Who the fuck do you think you are, and what makes you think I would listen to you?

  The chopper comes back around the river bend and disappears behind the tree line. He’s going away again. It’s just a surveyor or something. It’s just my stupid paranoia. And then it rises above the tree line about a hundred metres from our balcony and I’m thinking Bond villain thoughts. This black chopper is about to blow our house to smithereens. The noise is deafening and Paulie runs in and grabs his mum. He’s terrified.

  I’m sick of all this. I rush to the balcony rail, willing him to do it. I’m smacking my chest and gesturing ‘come on’ with my hands. It’s like the prelude to a drink-fuelled barney in a pub in Sunderland. Go on, Sammy, just fucking finish it. Do your worst. I’m spoiling for a fight with a bloody helicopter. I’ve completely lost it.

  The phone must have been ringing but I didn’t hear it. Vanessa brings it out on to the balcony. Taps me on the shoulder. ‘It’s for you.’

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Mr Chester, we meet again.’ It’s Andrei the Russian, Bond villain voice and all. Is this revenge Chechnya-style? He opens the chopper window, leans out, smiles and waves. Stupidly I wave back. It doesn’t seem like he’s being unfriendly.

  ‘What can I do for you?’ I have to shout over the noise of the chopper. ‘We have looked all over the district and decided that this suits our purposes the best.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Your property, we want to buy it.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘To launder mafia money. No, just joking. We like it. We want it.’

  ‘Are you the money behind Charlie Evans’ class action?’ I shout back. ‘Who?’ he says, but I can see the smile on his face from here. It makes sense, you see a place, you like it, you want to preserve the natural beauty of the area. And you can afford to do exactly that. ‘How does two million dollars sound?’

  It sounds like more than four times what this place is worth. It would help set Paulie up for quite a while after we’ve gone. ‘Can I think about it?’

  ‘Sure, you have two minutes.’

  I look at Vanessa and Paulie and they look back. ‘What?’ they say.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  This book was completed shortly before the earthquake of November 2016, which devastated the area around Kaikōura. Many people have lost a lot, some their lives. It is a beautiful part of the world and I wish you a speedy recovery.

  I’d like to thank Beau Webster and Neil Kitchen from Tasman District Police (Blen
heim and Nelson offices respectively) for their advice and clarifications on NZ police procedure. Tracy Farr and Gaby Brown for early readings of the manuscript and words of wisdom on New Zealand culture and turns of phrase. Any mistakes are mine alone. A.J. Betts is to thank/blame for supplying me with the ‘Kiwi iggs’ joke.

  Thanks also to the team at Fremantle Press for all their support, efforts and encouragement to spread my wings in this temporary conscious uncoupling from Cato. In particular my wise, generous and patient editor, Georgia Richter. Thank you too to my agent Clive Newman for working hard to try to ensure that I can give up the day job and still pay the bills.

  Finally, my beautiful wife and muse, Kath, who continues to lead me into more adventures and shares the precise soul of an editor in her early readings of my manuscripts.

  FROM ALAN CARTER: THE CATO KWONG SERIES

  AVAILABLE FROM FREMANTLEPRESS.COM.AU AND ALL GOOD BOOKSTORES

  PRAISE FOR THE CATO KWONG SERIES

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, we have a new entrant into the higher echelons of Australian crime fiction writing.’ Sun Herald

  ‘An excellent read.’ The West Australian

  ‘A confident, witty, entertaining and gritty tale with an interesting, multicultural cast.’ Sunday Times

  ‘A gripping read. So real I had to wipe the blood off my fingertips.’ Dave Warner

  ‘Prime tale.’ Herald Sun

  ‘[The characters] all speak with that authentic voice which you only find in the best crime novels.’ Courier-Mail

  ‘A very strong and enjoyable read … there are many layers to this story, genuine “aha” moments and a very strong cast of main and supporting characters. Four stars.’ Books+Publishing

  ‘Riveting reading.’ The Examiner

  ‘A deadly debut, ambitious and multi-layered.’ Allan Guthrie

  ‘The only disappointment is the end because you want to go on being part of these people’s lives.’ Adelaide Advertiser

  ‘A promising new talent in Australian crime fiction.’ Australian Book Review