“I don’t mind. Please, don’t worry about me. I have no other place to go to. At least in here I’m safe and have a roof over my head.”
I couldn’t tell whether I made it better or worse for him. His face contorted into a pained expression, but knowing him only for ten minutes, it could also be the special smile he used for situations like this.
They have to put me in a temporary police cell. I get it. The size takes me by surprise. The way they manage to squeeze a bed, a toilet, and a washbasin in this shoebox-size cubicle deserves a special prize at the annual prison-cell designer’s convention. Besides that, the police bosses should be commended, too. They didn’t waste any precious taxpayer dollars on frivolities like a poster of nature or a calendar featuring iconic New Zealand sights. I shouldn’t be too cynical. We don’t want to mollycoddle the local scum now, do we?
I didn’t mind the sparse cell. There is something comforting about being swaddled in a tight blanket like a newborn. It’s calming and solves the problem of what to do and where to go in one decisive sweep. It might be barren, and it might take getting used to sleeping with your head close to the toilet bowl; but at least I was on my own, a luxury I craved more than anything after the last thirty-six hours.
I slept like a baby. There is a sense of safety in knowing nothing untoward can get to you.
The next morning, I manage not to fall into the toilet when I get up, which I chalk up as a success. I’m impressed as the officer opens the door and hands me a tray with breakfast, hot tea and three slices of toast with jam.
I’m a bit disappointed. I’d hoped for the typical shove-it-under-the-door treatment I’ve seen many times on TV. When the warden comes back and picks up the dishes, he leaves a towel, a piece of soap, and a comb for me. Not being a regular client of the police, I don’t know whether the treatment is standard or not. Either way, I’m glad for the luxury.
“You might want to freshen up. You’re seeing the judge at eleven this morning.”
“Thank you, that’s very kind.” My mouth says these words without hesitation, but inside my head, there is no gratitude. I assume Helen’s and my statements are in direct opposition and which version the judge will believe is anybody’s guess. As so often in the last weeks, I feel like running away, which, in this small cell is ludicrous. I can’t even walk in a circle unless I want to trip over my own feet.
A nervous humming inside tells me the Tribe is again on tenterhooks. Our track record in striking it lucky is not good. The word judge alone knocks my courage. They say a watched pot never boils, which may or may not be true. Fact is, when you wait for the morning to pass, time crawls at snail’s pace. I suspect it even goes backward while we’re not watching. When I hear movement in the hallway and my door opens, I had just resigned myself to the fact that I’ll spend the rest of my life in a cell.
“Mrs. Reid, your lawyer arrived. Let me take you to the interview room.”
I’m more than a little annoyed. I don’t like surprises. No multiple does. When one’s life is constant chaos and your inner world is an out of control, boiling cauldron of many voices, we long for control in our outside world as much as we can get. But the poor officer can’t know that and I’m in no mood to enlighten him.
“I didn’t call for a lawyer.”
“Then he must be the court-appointed lawyer. Everyone has the right to legal representation.”
Somebody has to explain why I, an innocent woman, have to pay a lawyer to ward off an accusation based on a gun planted by a corrupt police officer. Where did they get a lawyer willing to represent me? Finding a lawyer was not on my to-do-list. I’m in no mood to spill my story to yet another person. I might as well take out a half page advert in the New Zealand Herald and broadcast the circumstances of my sorry life for everyone to read.
“You have to be at court at eleven. You’ve got over two hours.” The warden holds the door open for me and leads me through a labyrinth of hallways, strewn with important looking doors until we arrive at the interview room.
I expected an older gentleman, but the person rising from his chair when we enter the room is anything but old. He’s much too young to be an experienced lawyer. It wouldn’t surprise me if he were a third year-student on placement. He’s about my age if not younger, clad in smart, dark blue trousers and a dark blue blazer combination, a white shirt, and a yellow tie.
He smiles and shows off two snow-white rows of perfect teeth. If he’s a court-appointed lawyer, I’ll eat Ama’s white cap.
“Good morning, Mrs. Reid, my name is Thomas Aldercroft. I’m your lawyer.”
Last time I looked I had a say in who is working for me or not. I ignore his manicured fingers waiting for a welcome handshake. Does every bloody male think he can decide about my life?
“Oh no, you’re not. I’ll skip the good morning because, frankly, this morning is not ranking high on my ten-best-mornings-list. I didn’t ask for a lawyer and sure never asked for you.”
He looks up at me through beautiful long, dark lashes. “My apologies. Scott Thompson asked me a few days ago to look into the research Patrick Armstrong did for you before someone killed him. I thought you’d agreed that I could start inquiries on your behalf.”
Invisible reins pull me back. I didn’t think I was a runaway horse in need of reining in. Sky must have thought I was jumping too quickly to conclusions.
Me? Never. I get the message, thanks, people. I wish Amadeus would be less dramatic with his signs. If he continues like that, he’ll give me whiplash. I shake my head and open the door so he can leave. Everything related to Scott is tainted by his betrayal.
“That may have been the case four days ago. He turned out to be part of the people who are hunting me. He’s dead in my eyes. My path is littered with people who betrayed me. There is no comeback from that even if the betrayal only happened once. I don’t want his help and I don’t need you.”
“Scott? Scott Thompson? That can’t be right. Don’t you know it was he who rang the Police and told them you had been kidnapped? Without him, you would still be on the fishing boat or wherever they planned to take you.”
“I’m not mistaken. I heard how one kidnapper thanked him for his help. They took me to his friend’s place and drugged me there.”
“It makes little sense. Without him, nobody would have known that you and the children were on the boat. I was with him when he gave his statement about his version of the events. Add to this my findings of your marriage, or rather non-marriage, the picture looks grim for Helen Reid and the police officers in Port Somers. They suspected you because Helen Reid called them and described you as a dangerous, mental, loose cannon.”
I hear the words and it’s as if the sun breaks through heavy storm clouds. The tension inside is seeping away.
“Does that mean I’m no longer a murder suspect?”
“I’ve spoken to the Police and the judge this morning. That’s what I came to tell you. You are free to go home.”
“I…” I shake my head. This is all too much, too confusing, too quick. My solid construct of reality falls apart like a house of cards, leaving me stranded in no-mans-land. Everything I know, every fact, every assumption is tumbling inside my head like pebbles in a cement mixer. The Tribe is confused, relieved, happy, and disbelieving, all at the same time. It’s good to know I’m not the only one taken by surprise.
“Heather Millhouse cleared you of the murder of Patrick Armstrong. They are treating it now as a home invasion gone ugly. The police think it’s related to other unresolved cases and are looking for three men.”
I don’t believe for a moment that Patrick’s murder was a random burglary gone wrong, but nobody cares what I believe. I don’t blame the police. Organized child sexual abuse, pedophile rings, and sex trafficking organizations flourish because the offenders are often highly regarded members of society. Nobody suspects their hidden, dark sides.
“I’m really free to go home?”
“Yes. You gave your st
atement yesterday. Helen Reid is still in custody, so are the two men she had with her. They have charged the captain and his crew of the Southern Belle as accomplices in the kidnapping.”
“Thank you, I guess.” Free to go where I want to. No threats to put me under the mental health act? Hard to believe. For once I’m surprised in a good way. Does that mean my luck has turned? Is this the end of me looking over my shoulder at every turn? If so, it seems I owe Scott more than a thank you.
“You don’t have to thank me. Scott did most of the work. I have done little other than bring you the good news. He’s waiting for us outside. How about we find a quiet place and discuss where to take it from here?” He paused and, almost shyly, he continues, “Unless you want to contact another lawyer.”
“I don’t know anybody else.”
He takes his briefcase and opens the door. “Let’s get out of here then.”
Officer Blake, who took my statement yesterday, meets us in the hallway. “I’m sorry you had to stay in a cell overnight.”
“No harm done, although, your bosses might want to rethink the interior design of the cells. A poster with the view of Aoraki / Mount Cook, for example, would do wonders for inmates.”
He laughs and shakes my hand. “We’ll be in touch with you if we have more questions. Please, keep us updated where we can contact you.”
“I will. Goodbye, and thank you for everything.”
I never thought I would feel sorry to leave a police officer behind. For the first time, someone treated me like a normal woman and not a mental basket-case. Did Officer Blake know how unusual that was? He must have seen my mental health file and didn’t even blink. He’s been amazing and restored my trust in the police force.
“I’m free.” I can’t quite grasp yet what that means. The speed with which I moved from being a prisoner to a free person is mind-boggling. I follow Thomas Aldercroft and step outside into a typical Wellington day. The sun shines, but the ever-present wind blows cold gusts from the Southern Ocean, whirls around the giant office towers of the inner city, sweeps up a bunch of fallen leaves and deposits them on the other side of the road. A smile steals onto my face. I’m like those leaves, swept up and tossed about by life. Maybe that’s how it is for everyone. Maybe that’s what life is all about? Having no control? All we can do is brace for a soft landing.
But I’m free.
I shiver in the cold breeze. I feel a bit dirty after three days and nights in the same clothes and without a shower, just the piece of soap the friendly officer gave me.
But I’m free!
Then I see Scott leaning against the wall and my heart skips a beat.
Chapter Thirty
Lilly: 6 December 2015, Wellington
Scott looks as if he hasn’t slept for days. Welcome to my world, buddy, that makes two of us. Dark rings under eyes filled with worry, and a face that hasn’t seen a shaver for days, tell a story I struggle to believe. Could it be possible he cares about us that much? Nobody ever has before. I try to swallow a lump that insists on lodging in my throat. How can I greet him, having Martin’s words still ringing in my ears?
He didn’t seem to suffer any of my doubts. With long, quick strides he crosses the forecourt, grabs both my arms and studies my face.
“Thank God, you’re okay. I was so worried…” the rest I didn’t hear, being wrapped up in a giant hug. It feels good to be in his arms. Safe and warm, even though he owes us answers to a lot of questions. But it doesn’t have to happen at this very minute here on the footpath.
“They told me I have you to thank for my rescue?”
Scott brushes off my words. “Make nothing of it. Anyone would have done it.”
“But not anyone did. On the contrary.”
He didn’t respond but turns his head toward Thomas. “What took you so long, Tom? I waited over an hour.”
“To get all the paperwork done took time. I’m parched, I could do with a cup of tea.”
“I suggest we go to the airport and take the next flight home. We’ve got plenty of time to debrief and come up with a strategy on the airplane.”
“Pardon me interrupting you. I appreciate you looking after me, but I’d like to be included in deciding my future moves. I’m not a child.”
My sharp voice stops them in their track. They seem to realize they got ahead of themselves and are tongue-tied for a moment.
“Sorry, but…”
I interrupt Scott. “Anyway, I can’t afford to buy an airplane ticket. I didn’t see my money again after the police came to the house. I’m sure they took it.”
“If they have, it will be at the Port Somers’ police station. I’ll send them a request for information about what they took from the house.” Thomas took out a small booklet and scribbled a note. “I’m happy to pay for your ticket. I’ll put it on your bill.”
For these guys, money doesn’t seem to be an issue, but for me it is. Money means independence and after years of dependence, I enjoyed its sweet taste for a few days. I’m not giving it up without a fight. Cars whoosh past us as we wait for a taxi, echoing my fear of losing control over my life burrowed deeply in my chest. I never want to find myself in a dependent Horace-style relationship ever again.
Not knowing anything about healthy boundaries, it’s like walking on a narrow ledge surrounded by fog, never sure where to go and always afraid to make a wrong step and risk tumbling into an abyss.
Scott flags down a taxi. He opens the back door, helps me in, and slides in after me, while Thomas walks around the back and slips in through the other door.
“To the airport.” Thomas glances at me from the front seat and puts his hand on my arm. He must have noticed I’m not dancing to the same upbeat tune he does.
“Don’t worry, Elise. May I call you Elise?”
“Yes.” I eye him. What does the question mean? Does he know about the others?
Scott puts his arm around me like a protective lover. He shakes his head and whispers, “I didn’t tell him.”
“You betrayed me.”
Now it is Tom’s turn to look puzzled. “I told you it was Scott who called the police.”
I close my eyes and swallow down the urge to tell him to butt out. This is between Scott and me.
“I didn’t. Believe me.”
“The police officer thanked you for your help. What else could that mean?”
“That’s how you took it? Oh my God. You must have thought the worst of me.”
“I did. I was shattered.”
“I don’t blame you. I took it as a dismissal, as an order to stay out of their way. And I did until they were out of sight. That’s when I followed them. My intention was to follow you to the station and see what help you needed. I got suspicious when they turned into Martin’s driveway. When they brought you into his house and the police car drove away, I knew something was wrong.”
“You followed us? I wish I’d known. By then, I’d given up all hope.”
“Yes. I camped all night in the car until they left with you in the early morning and drove to Greymouth. When I saw the fishing boat, they dragged you onto leave the harbor, I went to the police in Greymouth and they called the Maritime Police. And the rest is history.”
“That means you are one of the good guys after all?”
“How could you ever doubt it?”
“I’m sorry, but… I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. I’m surprised you trust anybody at all. I have never seen such a web of deception woven around a person. Wherever we turn, people who should have cared, have dirt on their hands instead.”
He’s right. But wasn’t I to blame for being indifferent and too wrapped up in my inner world to notice? I never questioned how odd my life with Horace was. It never crossed my mind that the way we lived wasn’t normal. I doubted my sanity, but never the sanity of the people surrounding me. I feared other people, but never Horace and Helen. I disliked them, but never feared them. I always thought their actions were justified
. Somehow.
As the taxi files through the traffic on Oriental Parade, the sun falls in through the side window and rests on his tired face. A part of me would like to touch it and smooth out the frowns on his forehead, but I’m too embarrassed.
“I owe you my life.”
“Nah, at the most you owe me one of your sensational breakfasts.”
“Cereal and eggs?”
“That’s the one. Never had anything better.”
A smile settles at the corners of his mouth, driving away the shadows of worry and sleepless nights. It’s a smile that weaves warm strands of care around our heart. When this is all over, I might ask him to be my boyfriend after all. I lean on him and nestle in his arms.
“What now?”
“We have to see when we return home. I gave the police in Greymouth a full statement. They’ve arrested Martin and the police officers.” Scott leans back in his seat. “Tom has the rest.”
Thomas takes off his sunglasses. “They arrested Helen, Heather, Brian Meads, and Jo Carter for kidnapping you and the children. The kids are with the social worker from child social services and they’ve informed their parents. In your statement, you said that Helen spoke with a person called Seb who you thought was a leader of the group. They couldn’t find a Seb and Helen denied that such a conversation took place.”
“She’s lying.”
“We believe you. We were hoping to find more evidence.”
“It’s not over yet, is it?” My dream of a quiet life growing vegetables in my garden and getting lost behind my loom is slipping through my fingers. Well, not my dream, more Elise’s dream. I hate to say it, though, it appeals to me too.
“No, it’s not over, I’m afraid. I don’t believe for a moment that the people we’ve caught are the brains behind the trafficking ring.” Thomas stops as the taxi arrives at the airport. He pays the driver and we walk to the Departure Hall.
“I agree with Tom. Helen and Martin are small fish in a big pond. We haven’t even come close to the head or heads of the Gateways organization.”
Girl From the Tree House Page 24