Overkill

by Vanda Symon

  This was my first.

  It was by far the most serious event I’d encountered in the time I’d been on the beat in Mataura. Other than the scuffles of those who worked hard and played hard, life here was ordered and mundane. The country had a gentle rhythm that revolved around the milking habits of its dairy herds, and the shifts at the freezing works. Most of my time was spent in the investigation of farm equipment and vehicle theft. There was a lucrative black market for motorbikes, quad bikes and other small farm vehicles – they were plentiful in districts like this, with the trend towards lifestyle blocks and townies looking for a slice of rural paradise. Down shifters, they euphemistically called them; bloody nuisances was more accurate. And probably a bit harsh, but the locals did take a while to warm to new residents: just look at Gaby Knowes. The rat-race refugees had a standard-issue uniform, which included a quad bike to go with the Aertex shirt and Hunter Wellington gumboots. The bikes were easy pickings for both the opportunist and the more organised criminal element. Fortunately, the latter didn’t hit here often. A strong rural Neighbourhood Watch had made a decent impact on theft.

  My head jerked upwards in response to a distant report, and my eyes followed the graceful red arc of a flare against the night sky. It would have been beautiful had it not been for the sense of foreboding.

  ‘Shit,’ I muttered.

  I called across to Dave Garret, who was working to my left. ‘That’ll be the jet boat; they must have found something. What do you think? That would be a good k away?’

  ‘At least.’

  ‘The terrain is pretty crap from here. I’m going to climb back up there and run along the road till I find them. You and the others continue along the bank, just in case.’

  ‘Yeah, sure, Sam. We’ll catch up soon enough.’

  I was right: once I’d climbed the bank, the road was only two fences and twenty metres away. I negotiated the fences and set off at a run in the direction of the flare, my eyes straining for any sight of the boat. The road was higher than the river and I was afraid I’d miss it. The moonlight helped to some extent, but it was still difficult to distinguish bank from bush from animal. I didn’t like running at night at the best of times, but in these circumstances, and with my breath unnaturally loud in the darkness, I was more than a little creeped out.

  At last I caught a glimpse of light down to my right. It had taken just over five minutes to get here. The spot was downstream from an area known as Sam’s Grief. Appropriate. I made my way across the paddock towards the bank; the sheep did not approve of my intrusion and flocked to a distant corner. At least they were sheep, and not cattle, or worse, deer. From this distance, I could now see the pools of torchlight that illuminated a prone figure on the bank, as still as the dark hump of the jet boat parked near by. I swallowed hard. It had to be her.

  Another realisation hit. Shit, I was on the wrong side of the river. I climbed the fence, then, with as much control as I could muster in the wet grass, slid down the bank to the river’s edge. Its once pleasant sound now seemed malicious. A beam of torchlight from across the water struck me in the eyes, then descended to my boots.

  ‘Is that you, Sam?’

  ‘Yes, it’s me. Is it shallow enough for me to get across here, or will I have to go back to the bridge?’

  ‘Wait there, I’ll come over and get you.’

  A portly figure detached itself from the group and walked over to the boat. The roar of the engine ripped the air, and I was startled, even though I had expected it. Bill Stevenson pulled alongside and, with skill, managed to hold the boat steady while I leaped on board.

  ‘Thanks,’ I said. That was the extent of conversation. The journey to the other side took mere seconds. I got out, straightened my clothes, drew a deep breath and walked over to the group. I was acutely aware of the squelching sound my boots made as I came near; there were no voices to mask it. Then the circle opened to admit me: I may have been acknowledged, but I had eyes only for what lay at its heart. I knelt beside the pitiful figure of Gabriella Knowes where she lay face down in the sand, her clothes plastered to her motionless body. She had landed in a small shallow, with her head and chest on the silt-covered stones and her hips and legs still in the water. I reached out for her throat and felt for a pulse I knew would not be found. Her skin felt cold and waxen, and I pulled my hand away, repulsed by the touch of death. I had seen dead bodies before, some as a result of violence, but most in their beds, where gentle old age had claimed them with dignity, not crudely like this, strewn as flotsam. I stood up and examined the array of faces around me. Some were solemn and subdued and looked anywhere but at the body. Others stared at her with a morbid fascination that I found disturbing and voyeuristic. I shuddered.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ I said, to draw their attention. ‘Thank you for coming out tonight to search for Gaby.’ Their focus was now on me and I felt an unspoken pressure to say something appropriate to the occasion. ‘I know it will be small comfort to Lockie now, but we have found her. He will be able to grieve for her, instead of forever wondering what happened. He will be grateful to every one of you for stepping up to help at such short notice. As you can understand, there will be an investigation as to the exact circumstances of this tragedy. This will be done with as much sensitivity as possible, but this is a small town and everyone knows the Knowes family, so please show them your compassion. They will need it.’ I hoped they would get the hint to keep speculation and idle gossip to themselves. ‘Who found her?’

  ‘Me. It was me.’ It was the quiet voice of Craig Stevenson. Poor Craig. He was only seventeen and, to judge by the bloodshot eyes, overwhelmed by the evening’s events.

  I laid a hand on his arm. ‘Thanks, Craig. That must have been bloody hard for you. We all appreciate it, we really do. Has she been moved at all or is this how you found her?’

  ‘She was lying like that, but we pulled her clothes down over her a bit.’ He sniffed back the tears and his dad put a big arm around his shoulders.

  ‘That’s OK. She would have appreciated your giving her some dignity. Thank you. I’m going to take some photographs, then we’ll cover her over.’

  By now more searchers had been drawn to the area, like moths to a flame. The danger was they’d trample heavily over the ground, obscuring possibly vital evidence. The Gore officers hadn’t yet arrived at the site – I hoped they wouldn’t be long.

  ‘Thank you again.’ I spoke as loud as I could, but out of respect for Gaby I didn’t want to yell. ‘If you can all go straight back to The Arms as arranged, I will be there as soon as possible to say a few words. It’s a real plus that we’ve found her this quick. Now we must do all we can for Lockie and Angel and give Gaby some privacy.’

  People began to turn and take their leave. It was a relief to see them go. I scanned the remaining faces for anyone familiar. Bill Stevenson was a responsible bloke; Trevor Ray was there too, a local farmer and community leader who I could entrust with this task. ‘Bill, I will need you to stay with her – and you too, Trev, while I go and tell Lockie. The Gore officers will be here soon to take over. Does anyone have a vehicle near by?’

  Colin Avery did; he offered to give me a ride back to the Knowes’ house. Cole was Lockie’s best mate and I knew I’d be glad of his moral support. God knew Lockie would need him.

  Meantime, there was a preliminary scene examination to do. I took photographs, careful to cover every millimetre, every angle, as best I could in the dark. Although there were a lot of footprints around, I was grateful the searchers had kept at a decent distance from the body. The body. It seemed such an impersonal way to look at it, but for now I simply couldn’t afford to consider the personal side of things. I crouched down and looked closely at Gaby. She had no obvious signs of injury; there was no blood, only a few scrapes, as you’d expect on someone who’d washed up from a river. Her hair and the clothes that were out of the water weren’t sodden, merely damp, which suggested she’d been washed up for a while – the dew must have
moistened them again. I stood up and looked in the direction of the road. The spot where she lay must have been obscured, otherwise a passing motorist would have seen her. Then I took the lightweight tarp out of my backpack, bent forward and reverently covered her. A prayer or something seemed in order, even though religion wasn’t my thing. I whispered a ‘God bless your soul, Gaby,’ so nobody could overhear. I straightened up and looked at the small group that hovered behind.

  ‘Thanks, guys, for staying here with her. I’ll be back as soon as possible, but first I have to break the news to Lockie before he hears it from anyone else. You got enough torches?’

  ‘Yeah, Sam, we’ll be right. We’ll make sure she’s OK,’ Trev said.

  It was a bit late for OK, but I knew what Trev was trying to say and appreciated it. I could tell from the shake in his hands he was upset by it all. I didn’t like to leave the scene without proper police guard – it wasn’t exactly protocol – but tonight, Lockie’s needs outweighed all else.

  ‘Thanks, guys. We’ll all have earned our beer tonight.’ I arched over and stretched out my back. A mental checklist of procedures and people to contact worked through my mind.

  Who was it who said, ‘Be careful what you wish for’? Not that long ago I had yearned for a bit more excitement in my work. Now it had arrived, it wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. To break a major crime ring: that was my idea of excitement. The base reality of Gaby Knowes’ body in the silt was all too personal. I was from a farming family, where the cycle of life and death played out in a no-nonsense, down-to-earth fashion every day. But even that had not prepared me for this. Still, it was some comfort to be able to slip into the authoritative, take-charge role. It meant I didn’t have to examine my underlying feelings – for now, anyway.

  3

  It was after ten when I finally made it back to The Arms, the designated and pleasantly shabby mustering point. The pub was full, but its usual happy buzz had been replaced by a sombre hum. It had been a hard night for everyone. The on-call doctor from Gore had been called out to certify Gaby’s death; the duty funeral director had removed her body. She was to be transported directly to Southland Hospital in Invercargill to await a post-mortem.

  Lockie had fallen, sucker-punched. Telling him about Gaby was the hardest thing I’d ever had to do. I was grateful to leave Cole at the house with him, because, to be frank, Lockie’s grief was more than I could handle. The last few hours had proven I still felt too much for him, and my calm façade would have given way to stress fractures.

  God, I needed a beer.

  I waded my way towards the bar through the weary crowd. They were all here, united in community to help one of their own – the search-and-rescue squad, jet boaters, Lockie’s workmates and townsfolk who had answered the call for help. A few words of thanks were in order, and a bit of a debrief. I could already see there were some who would struggle to cope with what they’d witnessed tonight, though a few drinks would no doubt take the edge off.

  I found the bar and leaned over to Pat Buchanan to ask if I could use it as an impromptu podium. I’d always joked that one day I’d get rollicking and dance on the bar. Well, tonight I’d get to stand on it, for a far more sober reason.

  ‘Nice speech, Shep,’ Maggie said, as she raised her glass in salute. ‘You handled that one well, considering. There were a few tears shed, especially when you talked about the community embracing that poor wee girl.’

  ‘Yeah, Angel and Lockie are going to be the focus of attention for all the wrong reasons. I hope everyone here got the message to keep the rumour-mongering at bay. Small town – all the theories of how and why will come out now. Everyone will have an opinion; I just hope people keep them to themselves. It’s the last thing that family needs.’

  ‘One can live in hope. Sit down, girl. You’ve had one hell of a night.’

  ‘Oh, and you get the understatement-of-the-year award. Bloody hell, they never told us about this in Police College.’ Well, actually they had, but naïve little idealists that we were, we thought they must have been talking about what happened in other towns. I slumped down into the armchair opposite my favourite flatmate. Actually, she was my only flatmate, but she was favourite right now because of the beer she’d put on its matching cardboard coaster near by. ‘Man, do I need this,’ I said, picking it up, ‘and several of its mates. I’m still on call, but I’m sure no one will begrudge me. Here’s to everyone,’ I drank deeply, then made myself set the glass back down before its entire contents disappeared. It was better to pace myself.

  ‘How was he?’ Maggie asked, after a bit of a pause.

  A flashback of the moment flooded my brain and I couldn’t help but shudder.

  ‘Beyond description.’ I scrunched my eyes closed, trying to blot out the memory. ‘He kept saying I must be wrong, that I’d made a mistake, that it couldn’t be Gaby. He wanted me to go and check again. It took a bit to get it through to him. God, I even thought I might have to ring his doctor for a while there – he was distraught to the point of collapse. And the poor sod’s got to tell his mother-in-law when she arrives.’ I took another swig of the beer. ‘Cole’s there with him, though. He managed to calm him down a bit. I think he’s going to crash on the sofa for the night. Lockie’s going to need all the support he can get.’

  ‘And how are you?’ Maggie asked slowly.

  ‘Oh yeah. OK, a bit tired, and I’ve got a lot of work to do tonight yet.’

  ‘That’s not what I meant, and you know it.’

  I knew where this was going, but wasn’t about to make it easy for her. ‘What exactly do you mean then?’

  ‘Come on, you’ve still got a candle burning for Lockie, even after all these years. You can’t tell me you didn’t have mixed emotions tonight.’ Maggie leaned forwards, elbows on knees, and eyeballed me. ‘We both know you were jealous of Lockie marrying that girl. You didn’t exactly proclaim your approval of his choice of wife. So, get it off your chest: how are you?’

  ‘Put it like that and I sound like a bitch, thanks.’

  ‘I’m only trying to help you clear your head. You’re going to need it in the next few days.’ She reached out her hand to pat my knee.

  I was eternally grateful to have found a friend like Maggie. She was upfront and shot from the hip. She had that wonderful knack of knowing just what to say at the right time. It was not always comfortable to hear, but she was usually right.

  ‘Ah crap, can we talk about this later?’

  ‘I thought you were going to be busy later.’

  I had to concede that point.

  ‘OK.’ I drew a large breath and then blew it out between reluctant lips. ‘At first, when she was reported missing, I thought, yeah, that would be typical – bloody townie girl buggering off and leaving the kid alone. I was pleased in a way, as it proved my opinion of her. It was like, hah, that’s what you get for passing up on me. Now she’s dead, I feel like a bit of a bloody heel.’

  ‘You still think he should have married you, then?’ Maggie asked.

  ‘Of course I bloody do. Didn’t everyone?’ I drained the last of my beer, and peered with regret at the bottom of my glass. Maggie indicated towards the bar with the universal sign for ‘another?’ – to which I felt obliged to shake my head. I set my glass back down on the table. ‘My parents were so convinced we’d be perfect, they went into a period of mourning when he left. As you can imagine, I was interrogated as to what dreadful thing I’d done to drive him away, as, of course, it was entirely my fault because not only did the sun shine out of his arse, but his farts fixed the hole in the bloody ozone. I must have been seriously defective not to be able to keep hold of the man. Now they’ve given up on my ever finding a husband and producing offspring, me being twenty-eight and past my use-by date and all. In fact, it’s bloody lucky I haven’t got a younger sister or they’d be pulling a Shakespearean trick on her: “Sorry, lovey, can’t marry you off till we’ve got rid of the old baggage.” They’re bloody diabolical.’
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  Maggie laughed. ‘OK, sorry I asked. Bit of a sore point still, huh?’

  ‘Comes up in some way or form in every conversation. They’re dependable there. That’s why they call them “salt of the earth”: it hurts like hell when they rub in open wounds.’ I sighed again and slouched further down into the chair.

  ‘If it really bugs you, why don’t you tell them to sod off?’

  ‘All that would do is offend them and reinforce their opinion of me. Infuriating as they are, they are my olds and ninety percent lovely. I think they believe that if they marry me off, I’ll give up this job, settle down, have brats and conform to the little-wifey mould they always aspired to. Men do the macho stuff, women stay at home – or, if they work, they do nice things like teaching or nursing. They sure as hell don’t join the police.’ I loved my parents, but their stereotypical views were well and truly entrenched. It didn’t help that they were overprotective of their little girl. If I’d been six-foot tall and built like something out of a Scandinavian opera, I’m sure they’d have seen things in a different way. The fact that I just scraped in over five foot and barely made the minimum stature requirements for the police did nothing to reassure them I’d keep safe.

  ‘Well, you can see their point, you being so helpless and all.’

  ‘Yeah. Oh ha, bloody ha.’

  I had always been determined never to let my stature be a disadvantage. I’d thrown myself into sports, including martial arts and other forms of self-defence. Coming from a farm, I could drive any vehicle with an engine, including trucks and tractors. And I could hit a target with anything: ball, bullet, knife – hell, even an axe. I wasn’t about to let my big brothers beat me. In fact, having brothers was an ideal way to toughen up. I’d had a lifetime of not being taken seriously because I was ‘just a little thing’ and it irked me something chronic. Sure, I overcompensated a bit with my smartarse mouth: little-man syndrome. Sometimes it seemed the only way to get noticed. But otherwise I had to rely on feminine wiles and that other piece of equipment that people assumed I didn’t possess – a brain. When I joined the police, it was the last thing people expected, which is precisely why I did it. OK, it wasn’t the main reason, but it did come into consideration.