by Vanda Symon
‘I wanted to scare you off. And the tyre. But I didn’t want you to get hurt. I’m sorry…’
‘You’ve already said that and I’m sick of hearing it. Did you care about me at all, or was all that apparent concern just to ease your own damned conscience? In fact, why did you bother coming back here at all?’
He looked away, and spoke so quietly I had to strain to hear him over the ringing in my ears. ‘I went back to the house and told them you knew everything, and Trev just smiled and said not to worry ’cause he’d taken care of it. After the way he took care of Gaby, shit, I couldn’t let it happen again.’
‘Well, if you think you’re the bloody great hero, you were too bloody late. Tell that to Maggie.’ I stroked her bleeding, broken head. ‘Tell it to Lockie. See if he thinks you’re the good guy, Cole. I’m sure it will make him feel much better to know that you’re sorry. Get the hell out of my sight.’
He didn’t move.
He might have arrived just after the nick of time, he might have come back for me, but whether motivated by guilt or affection I didn’t care. I could never forgive him for putting Maggie’s or my life in danger. I could never forgive him for not stepping in and stopping Gaby’s murder. I could never forgive him his duplicity.
‘Get away from us!’ I screamed at him. ‘Just get the fuck away.’
He stood up and walked slowly back to the front fence, before he slid down against it and held his head in his hands.
My shell-shocked ears picked up the muffled and distant sound of the civil-defence siren calling up the volunteer fire brigade. Help was on its way – but it was too late. My home was gone, my best friend lay unconscious and injured in my arms, my body was battered and broken.
Nothing could ever be the same, and I didn’t want it to be.
Epilogue
The door clicked smoothly into place on the shiny red rental that carried all that remained of my earthly goods. It was ironic that I had the police to thank for having anything other than the clothes on my back – not that they were fit for any use other than being burned. They had confiscated my computer when they still considered me to be public enemy number one, so that was the sum of my possessions – an outdated computer and a set of very second-hand running gear. It was not a lot to show for my life’s work.
I retrieved the small bunch of roses I’d placed on the car roof. My intended destination was not difficult to spot, and I picked my way towards the mound of freshly turned earth that indicated the final resting place of Gabriella Patricia Knowes. The funerary bouquets were past their best, and their fading glory was reflected in the colour of the surrounding trees, turning with the march of autumn. I sighed heavily to push back the lump that formed in my throat when I saw the grubby, well-loved toy rabbit nestled among the wilted blooms.
‘Well, Gaby, we got the bastards who did this, not that it makes any difference to you here.’ My voice was thick and stilted, and my eyes lingered on the spare white wooden cross that bore her name. I felt on hallowed ground and, despite the discomfort, knelt to place the roses next to Rabbit.
My thigh was heavily bandaged. The knife hadn’t done too much in the way of damage, but its tip had broken off when it hit bone and a surgeon’s knife had been required to retrieve it. The man who had wielded it still lay in the morgue, his true identity a mystery, his business persona still being pieced together. Our only hope of discovering who he was lay in the hands of anyone concerned enough to file a missing persons report. Perhaps a family whose husband or father or son had never come home. That hadn’t happened yet.
As for those who hired his services, I hoped they were going to rot in jail where they belonged. Trevor Ray for procuring a murder and attempting to procure a murder; the others, including Colin Avery, for being accessories after the fact. How many lives had been destroyed, how many futures ruined because of that one unfathomable decision: Trev’s precious cattle and bottom line taking precedence over the sanctity of human life?
‘Oh, it could have ruined us financially,’ he’d said. ‘It would have been a death knell for the town, crucified the nation.’ Something in that disease-ridden brain of his had thought it better to take matters into his own hands rather than alert the authorities to the possibility of BSE and let them deal with it through official channels. For some unknown reason, his disciples followed blindly, and here, beneath me, lay the result.
It was perhaps some small comfort that Trevor Ray had a life sentence of his own. The disease he had contracted from his beloved cattle would kill him, and soon. There was a natural kind of justice to that.
As for his predictions of national doom, we would see.
To the incredulity of the scientists, our highly unlikely scenario had proven accurate. Edgar Pride, the vet who was in on Trev’s activities, had taken a brain-stem sample from Samson, the suspect bull, before they’d torched the carcasses. That sample had tested positive for BSE, as had one salvaged from Half Face, the beast that had partially escaped the flames. New Zealand beef was banned overseas and the farming community was reeling. The Government was in crisis mode, attempting to allay a nation’s fears about CJD in people exposed to the contaminated meat, and warning of a new and difficult era for agriculture. A small consolation was the assertion from scientists that the outbreak was most likely localised to Trev’s farm, but the whole scenario was making people rethink how BSE spread, worldwide.
As for me, I could not stay in Mataura. My life here was destroyed as emphatically as my house. Maggie had it right: it was time to move on. In fact, she quit Mataura the day she got out of hospital and went to stay in Dunedin with her aunt. Like me, she was left only with scars to show for a life here, and she had a plan: to try something new, extend herself.
The beginnings of a plan of my own had begun to take shape in my head. Despite everything, I still held the firm belief I was meant to be in the police. The fact remained I had found Gaby’s murderer, had pieced together the puzzle. And that was a good feeling. I’d often toyed with the idea of becoming a detective. It was time to consider it more seriously. I wanted more of a challenge from my work, and striving for detective could bring it. Of course, I did have a bit of bridge-building to do with my colleagues; my future was at the mercy of my superiors. Paul Frost had been doing his best to smooth the way there, as had the Boss. I felt confident my suspension would be lifted and I’d be allowed to get on with my life.
My life. The more I thought about it, the more appeal Dunedin had. Detective training would be possible there. Maggie had gone as far as to invite me to move there too. Her aunt and uncle would put me up, she said, and apart from my appalling taste in pyjamas, I made a halfway decent flatmate.
For now, my immediate future lay in the direction of my parents. I knew full well there would be lectures and recriminations, but I really needed a chance to heal, and to be with my loved ones. Even if they did nag.
Life in Mataura was over for me. I was on my way home.
The cemetery was my last stop, my last goodbye. A chance for a peace offering and belated prayers for forgiveness from a woman I had wronged through petty jealousy and immaturity. It was a recognition of her worth as wife, mother and human being. An affirmation that her death would not go unavenged.
‘Rest in peace, Gaby.’
I lifted myself back to my feet, and then gave her a sad smile as I turned and walked away.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
A writer’s path is never a solitary journey. There are a myriad of people who contribute to and support our writing habit in some way, from the obvious – those wonderful people in the publishing industry, to the not so direct but also appreciated – such as the person who made the perfect flat white coffee on that morning when I needed a little chemical inspiration.
Huge thanks to Karen Sullivan and Orenda Books for taking a punt on a Kiwi gal, and to Craig Sisterson for being my cheer leader and telling Karen, ‘There’s this New Zealand author you should read…’
Tha
nks also to The New Zealand Society of Authors, and their assessment programme funded by Creative New Zealand – in the early days it was invaluable having the canny eye of Stephen Stratford critiquing the manuscript. I will always be indebted to Geoff Walker and Penguin New Zealand for taking that first leap of faith in a new writer.
How can I express my immense gratitude to my husband and children for their patience, and for having a good sense of humour those times I got sidetracked by writing and burned the dinners or forgot to pick them up – love you guys.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Vanda Symon is a crime writer and broadcaster from Dunedin, New Zealand. Books in her Sam Shephard series have hit number one on the New Zealand bestseller list, and she has been a three-time finalist for the Ngaio Marsh Award for Best Crime Novel. When she is not writing, Vanda can be found busy in the garden, or on the business end of a fencing foil.
Follow Vanda on Twitter @vandasymon on Instagram and visit her website: vandasymon.com.
Copyright
Orenda Books
16 Carson Road
West Dulwich
London SE21 8HU
www.orendabooks.co.uk
First published in New Zealand by Penguin Books (NZ) in 2007
This edition first published in the United Kingdom by Orenda Books 2018
Copyright © Vanda Symon 2018
Vanda Symon has asserted her moral right to be identified as the author of this work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
All Rights Reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the written permission of the publishers.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN 978–1–912374–27–4
eISBN 978–1–912374–28–1
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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