Troy, unconvinced: ‘Well, let’s not be too hasty on that. The Skins are adamant it wasn’t their gear.’
Duncan, smiling: ‘Can you blame them? What do you care if it wasn’t, anyway? You’ve got enough to pin it to them. Be a good feather in the cap of your taskforce.’
‘It wouldn’t be justice, mate.’
Duncan, laughing: ‘Troy Wilkinson, passing up a bust in the name of justice? Whatever next?’
‘Well, maybe at this stage I’m eager to forsake a little credit for the sake of getting a cop-basher banged up good and proper.’
‘I hear that. Anyway, go get something to eat and I’ll meet you back here in twenty minutes. And let me do the talking. Remember, you’re mostly in this for the love/hate thing you’ve got going with him. Maybe his bolshiness’ll cause a slip-up.’
‘Wakey, wakey!’
Troy slaps the door closed.
Barry, head down, muffled: ‘What, are they letting any prick into these places now?’
Duncan, firm: ‘Sit up please, Barry.’
They make a fuss of removing jackets, placing folders, positioning chairs. Barry eases back in his own, legs fully stretched.
Duncan, at last: ‘OK, Barry, it’s beginning to seem as if we’ve got no choice but to accept your version of events.’
‘Ye-fucking-ha.’
Duncan: ‘We just need you to clarify one or two things. Firstly, where exactly were you when you met the gentlemen with the Torana?’
Barry, sighing at someone backstage: ‘Start the broken record, Wolfman.’ Eyes back on Duncan, a theatrical monotone: ‘I was at a tinny house in Otara. I’m not giving you an exact address ’cause if I were to nark on these cats my life’d be worth sweet fuck all. Feel free to add withholding information to my “extensive” sin-list.’
Troy: ‘And where did they collect you from on the day of the Skins bust?’
‘From the place I share with one of my bitches. The place I’d been inside of with the flu for the last few days. Ask her. ’
Duncan: ‘We have.’
‘And?’
Troy: ‘And we don’t believe her.’
‘Tell someone who gives a fuck.’
Duncan: ‘Did you give the lads any money for petrol after they collected you?’
‘No.’
‘Did they pick up anyone else?’
‘No.’
‘What time did they arrive at your place?’
‘About nine-thirty.’
‘Did they have any drugs already on them?’
‘No idea.’
‘How many in the car?’
‘Don’t rightly remember. Maybe four.’
‘On the day you met them, around at the “tinny house”, how many then?’
‘The same.’
‘So the darkie wasn’t with them at that stage?
‘… What darkie?’
A part of him had hoped she wouldn’t come. Even though this would’ve left him high and dry.
Four in the morning, it had been. Rendezvous arranged just a few hours earlier: a phone call from nowhere, a cold voice in the dark. No explanation, no translation, just orders. The briefest of briefings.
Don’t speed near any cameras. Don’t pass through traffic lights within a mile of the park. Don’t turn into the park if there’s a cop in view …
He hadn’t even said thank you.
But it didn’t matter now. She’d come. She’d passed.
Cruising the dark lanes of Cornwall Park, right on time.
For better or for worse.
Crouched in bushes, he’d let her glide by: she was never to see him in that form. Trust is one thing; blind faith quite another.
The wig, beard and sunglasses had vanished already, stowed in his back-pack, alongside the gloves. From out of his mouth he’d pulled wads of cotton wool, wedged in the gumline. Fished more from his nostrils, mindful not to drop a shred of it. Scrubbed makeup from his face with wet-wipes. Stripped quickly, relieved to be rid of the layers beneath the jersey, the sweat-soaked trackpants under his jeans.
Back from the grave.
I was never here. Only Steve was. Steve the fingerless.
Oh, bro, even in death you pull me from the shit. I know you don’t hate me for what I’ve done; I know you’d’ve wanted it so …
She’d passed him again, in the opposite direction, head swivelling like a searchlight.
And the simile had had him shuddering. He’d knelt in the dirt, letting her drive. Stared at nothing, sucked in warm air.
A man at a murky crossroads.
Troy, crisp: ‘Why the hesitation, Barry?’
Easing back further, pulse thumping: ‘Just pondering an odd question, Troyo.’
Duncan, conspiratorial smile: ‘He didn’t say much to you, then?’
‘Who?’
Duncan, reading: ‘So the Torana arrived at your place at eight-thirty?’
‘Ye … nine-thirty.’
‘Did you invite them in at all?’
Barry: ‘Na.’
‘They didn’t ask to come in?’
‘Na.’
‘Was there booze in the car?’
‘Not that I noticed.’
‘They weren’t drinking, then?’
‘Not to my knowledge.’
‘Not even the darkie?’
‘… What fucking darkie?’
‘The bloke who helped you put Constable Ryan Miller in hospital.’ Bright-eyed: ‘Remember? The rear of McDick’s? Greenlane? Friday before last?’
Barry, mopping sweat from an inner brow: ‘What the fuck are you on about, Duncan?’
Troy, scoffing: ‘Come on, Barry. When Ryan woke from his coma on Friday night he helped us construct identikit pictures of his assailants. One of them bears a striking resemblance to yourself. Uncanny, really. Check it out.’ Slides a sheet across the table.
Barry stares into his own eyes. Near enough, at least.
Too near, in fact. He hopes. What with the poor light that night; the haze a decent concussion puts on one’s memory.
He shrugs, flicking the picture away. ‘I’m not gonna argue with you dickheads. Why should I? You’re oinkers: I can’t believe a word that leaves ya snouts. If you think I’m guilty of this, chalk it to the slate and we’ll discuss your evidence in court.’
Duncan, ‘surprised’: ‘You don’t know the Polynesian bloke then?’
Quickening: ‘What fucking Polynesian bloke?’
‘The one who helped you do the constable. The one whose prints we found on the truncheon taken from Ryan and used to shatter his arm.’
Barry, exasperated: ‘How could I know the cunt? I wasn’t fucking there.’
Troy, ‘helpful’: ‘This jog your memory at all, Barry?’ Hands him a photograph.
A telescreen still, black and white, focus far from sharp, date and time blacked out with felt pen. The wide face centring the shot could well belong to Steve; it’s difficult to tell with the beard and sunglasses, the dreads around his face, the grainy picture quality, the poor light on the subject.
Barry, desperately trying to place the scene of the photo, shrugging disinterest well: ‘Na, I think I’d remember having anything to do with someone like him. Besides, I was never one to hang with the sooties.’
Duncan retrieves the photo smartly, before Barry can place it.
Troy, smiling: ‘Don’t like sooties, Barry?’
‘Well …’ Shrugs a concession: ‘S’pose their kids are quite cute when they’re little.’
Duncan, abruptly: ‘OK, so you say you don’t know him?’
‘Who?’
‘The chap in the photo.’
‘Never met him in my life.’
‘And you claim not to have played a part in the Greenlane bashing?’
‘Correct.’
‘You were nowhere near Greenlane Friday before last then?’
‘No.’
‘Can anyone back that up?’
‘My missus can.’
> ‘And you’ve never seen your friends with the Torana in the company of this Polynesian bloke?’
‘Nope.’
‘Were there any Polynesians in the car when they picked you up on Tuesday?’
‘Na.’
‘Was the car still muddy from Takahera?’
‘… Taka-what?’
* * *
He’d seen the headlights returning, heard the note of the engine. He’d stood with a grunt, perhaps a clenched yelp. Cleared the bushes at a rush.
He hadn’t even waved; knew she’d see him; knew she’d stop, throw open the door.
They’d pulled away without a word.
And she looking at him with quick glances only, noticed in his periphery. He could feel how much this had cost her: it was in the set of her shoulders, her movements through the gears.
The silence had held for five short minutes.
Tania, at last, accusatory: ‘What the hell’ve you been doing?’
‘… How do you mean?’
‘Well … since I last saw you you’ve … you’ve developed a thousand-year stare.’
‘… Don’t worry, I can feel it fading … finally.’ A sharp sniff at something. ‘Don’t be surprised if some day I tell you all about it.’
She’d frowned worry at him, but turned back to the road, no words to fit.
A little later: ‘Where’re we going, by the way?’
‘Would I be asking too much to come back to your place?’
A quick grin: ‘Course ya wouldn’t, ya dickhead. You know you’re welcome there. Stay as long as ya want.’
‘A friend’s gonna meet me there in the morning. He’ll have a bag of mine I might leave with you for a while … if that’s OK?’
A pause: ‘What’s in it?’
One last test: ‘… Is that important?’
A few seconds later: ‘No, it isn’t. Not at all.’
‘Good. It’s got money in it.’
She’d just shrugged, but not until her eyes aborted on a double-take.
‘Money I don’t need to be found with.’ A weak laugh. ‘Don’t
leave town, will ya?’
She’d barely bothered scoffing at that, driving on in silence.
Later, trying to sound airy: ‘What about your mate? Will he be staying a while too?’
‘Me and him’ve got business down south. We’ll be leaving as soon as he arrives.’
She’d hid the wince well.
But he hadn’t hesitated; his faltering had already been done.
‘Let’s get something straight: at the moment there’s only one thing in my head worth looking at and it’s got your name all over it. As long as you’re stupid enough to have any interest in me, I couldn’t fob you off if a nutcase held a shooter in my mouth and ordered me to.’
She’d turned to smile at him. ‘Good. I was starting to think I’d dreamed the other night.’
But he couldn’t bear the sight of her; shut his eyes hard. Sighed: ‘It was a dream, all right.’ He held his face to the wind from the window: ‘One of the few worth repeating.’
17
Sunday, 19 March, 7.10pm
Up to this point, through the hours of interrogation he’s undergone, Barry believes he’s worn his poker-face convincingly. The belief that the police could in fact prove little against him had fortified him well. And even now, as he takes a second proffered photograph on instinct alone, a detached part of Barry tells him of his poker-face holding true.
Unfortunately, he’s powerless to contain the colour he feels fleeing him like a bleeding.
Duncan, casually: ‘I’d be bloody surprised if you aren’t acquainted with this sooty, though Barry. He is one of your former townsfolk, after all. Unless it’s just a big coincidence. Looks like someone didn’t like him very much either, though, doesn’t it?’
In sharp technicolor, Wallace seems almost comfortable, propped between pine roots, head lolling on a shoulder, finger hooked through the trigger guard. The wound on his forehead looks little more than a big pimple, carelessly squeezed, allowed to bleed. His expression seems more baffled than lifeless.
Until one sees the smear on the tree behind him. The wide stain of dried blood and hair.
Of skin and brain tissue.
It’s been several years since Barry experienced true, physical dread. The bravado he began effecting at teenagehood eventually grew to consume him.
Now, though, his heart begins to pump ice-water, freezing him so badly his penis looses a spurt of urine before he finds the will to close it.
Barry, praying his voice is less cracked than it sounds: ‘Looks like the bloke wasn’t too enchanted with existence. What do you guys attribute that to? Lack of a father figure?’
He flips the photo to the table, but the cops make no move to take it from his view. In the corner of his eye, it yells at him like fluoro.
Duncan, smiling easily: ‘Well, it does seem that way, doesn’t it? But why do you think he went so deep into Takahera to do it?’
Mystified: ‘Taka-what?’
Troy: ‘Doesn’t it seem strange that a guy with two families would wanna top himself?’
‘I don’t … What do ya mean two families?’
Duncan: ‘How do you think they’re going to feel when they discover what’s happened?’
‘Who the fuck are you talking about … and why are you asking me?’
Duncan: ‘I doubt they’ll be too happy about it. How would you feel if your car was used like that?’
Blind in a cell of snakes, Barry searches desperately for some anger; gives it slack. ‘Can you guys give the loaded questions a fucking rest and tell me why you’re showing me this black fuck-up?’
The policemen exchange a knowing glance.
Duncan: ‘Well, he’s not as big a fuck-up as that picture suggests. Though we did at first draw a similar conclusion. But with the car nearby our judgement was perhaps a little clouded.’
Barry, vexed: ‘All right, I’ll play your game. What car?’
Troy: ‘This car.’
This time Barry’s ready for it. Gaping at the picture: ‘Fucking hell! Have you guys been raiding the FBI website for jack-off material again?’
Troy: ‘When the deer hunter phoned us with his story we were pretty dubious at first. I mean how many people’ve got the balls to whack even one Black Power member?’
Barry, ‘incredulous’: ‘These cunts are Black Power? Are you saying this happened here? In New Zealand?’
Duncan, informative: ‘I was one of the first detectives on the crime scene. On the face of it, it all seemed pretty cut and dried: gang business gone wrong, one of them turns on the others, decides afterwards his own life’s as good as over. From a detective’s viewpoint, it hardly seemed worth the drive up there.’
Barry, meeting Duncan’s eye suddenly, willing dark revelation to poison his glare. ‘Hang on a second. What the fuck’s going on here? You guys think I had something to do with this? Don’t ya’s?’ Louder: ‘What the fuck’s going on here? Why are you asking me this shit?’
Duncan: ‘Because, Barry, after the evidence had been collected, forensics discovered a few things that established the fact that there was actually a lot more to the crime than first impressions suggested.’
Weighty silence is allowed to protract; Barry’s heart hammers in his ears like a bass line. His hand moves an inch toward mopping the bead of sweat he feels descending his temple; he reigns in the impulse, instead turning the offending profile from the policemen a little.
Barry, at last, ‘baffled’: ‘Feel free to fill in the blanks sometime before Easter.’
Troy, smirking a hard line: ‘What’s your rush, Barry? A little warm in here for you of a sudden? Why don’t you take a sip of water: your mouth’s making that dry, sticking sound mouths tend to make when they’re terrified and lying.’
Duncan, suddenly: ‘You’ll agree that there wasn’t an awful lot of room on the rifle to dust for fingerprints, won’t you, Barry?�
�
Fresh hope spurts in him.
Frowning: ‘That thing is his hand? Too small to be a rifle, isn’t it?’
‘Nevertheless, Forensics obtained some good sets from it, prints consistent with our first impressions of the crime scene: Wallace’s mark was all over it.’
Barry, shaking his head: ‘This is getting way too bizarre for me, sorry, Duncan. I’m not saying another word till you reach the part where I’m supposedly involved.’
Duncan, continuing: ‘Wallace, however, had left a few bullets in the magazine. Prints from these were also lifted. And guess what, Barry?’
Silence.
Troy, helpful: ‘Can’t guess?’
Barry shows his palms.
Duncan: ‘This second set of prints belonged to somebody completely different.’
High on relief, Barry sends demented panic into the whites of his eyes, leaping to his feet, manacled hands pounding the table. Throwing his glare from one cop to the other. ‘You motherfuckers! You’re gonna stitch me up for this, aren’t ya’s! You cunts have doctored it so it looks like I touched your bullets! You fucking …!’
Duncan, grimacing: ‘Calm down, Barry. We’ve done no such thing. We haven’t set up anything. The prints belong to your Polynesian buddy.’
Barry, sitting down warily, ‘perplexed’: ‘What the …? This mystery spade of yours did it?’ Dumbfounded. ‘Why are you telling me this?’
Duncan: ‘Because, Barry, we know that you know exactly who our Mr X is. We’ve got an eye-witness tying you, him, and one other to the McDick’s bashing. A day or so later, your Mr X — perhaps with Wallace’s aid — found a need to kill two patched Black Power members and one associate, all hailing from your home town of sunny Roto-Vegas. Mr X, with Wallace, then drove the gang car deep into Takahera Forest, dumped it, executed his accessory, and fled the scene unnoticed. What we find hard to believe, Barry, is that Mr X — with or without help from Wallace — commited these quite remarkable feats with no other accomplices.’
Barry, ‘delighted’: ‘Aha! At last! Why didn’t ya say that in the first fucking place? You think I helped your Mr X make the world a better place four times over! Aside from your “eye-witness” account “linking” me and Mr X, from what else do you draw this conclusion?’
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