Hana Du Rose Mysteries Boxed Set: Books 1 - 4

by Bowes, K T

  Hana replaced the handset, drew in a deep breath and then dialled the number for the friendly officer, whose extension number was becoming far too familiar. Then she texted Bodie, who as usual wouldn’t text back until he picked up his messages much later. Hana felt fed up, more fed up than she had for ages and on impulse, flicked off an email to Donald explaining what had happened and firing up Logan’s truck, set off for the police station in Bridge Street to file her complaint. Wasting yet another afternoon making a statement, Hana went straight home instead of heading back to work. She had documents for the car at home which needed to be drop into the station at Flagstaff, but that could wait until the next day. She spent the rest of the evening on the phone to her insurer, who promised eventually to talk to Darrell. “It’s a complicated case, Mrs Johal,” the customer service operator said. “There’s some issue about who was responsible for the vehicle at the time of the theft.” Hana didn’t care about the small print. She needed to know who was going to sort out her sudden car-less existence. Logan’s truck was a short-term loan while she tried to sell the Serena. The memory left her with her head in her hands. She couldn’t sell something she no longer had.

  Later, Hana rummaged around in her copious filing cabinet for the vehicle documents. She found her registration, insurance and warrant documents but was searching for the original purchase agreement. The telephone sat on the floor next to her, its long grey cable trailing over the top of the cabinet like a strand of dirty spaghetti. Hana was peering into the depths of the second drawer when the phone trilled loudly. Remembering the odd phone calls of the previous night, she hesitated before picking up the receiver cautiously and said nothing, waiting for the caller to speak first.

  “Hana?” Logan’s soft tones soothed her. “Are you ok? Where’d you go?”

  Hana sighed and filled him in on the day’s extraordinary turn of events. A weekend away became more attractive by the second, as they separately contemplated each recent nasty surprise. “Hey, thanks for the money. Who did you sell the golf clubs and the garage stuff to?” Hana asked.

  Logan seemed vague and non-committal. In the end, Hana thanked him for taking all the rubbish to the dump in his free period. Hana tentatively mentioned the announcement at staff briefing. “Donald was pretty clear about it.” She couched her unease with a hopeless impression of Donald Watson, but Logan seemed reluctant to be drawn on the subject and laughed it off.

  “Na, don’t worry. It’ll blow over. I could marry you and then it wouldn’t matter.”

  Logan couldn’t see Hana’s shocked expression but switched the conversation to the arrangements for the weekend instead, organising when they would leave and what they would take.

  Hana replaced the receiver again, realising she had no idea where Logan’s parents lived, reassured by his promise as he laughed, “No mate, we won’t be going on the motorbike.”

  Chapter 29

  Friday loomed as clear and bright as a late March day could be and Hana and Logan set off straight from school, determined to enjoy the first weekend of the holidays. Hana felt excited but also nervous, running through her usual itinerary of worry and strife; what if Logan’s parents hated her, what if her children wanted her, what if, what if, what if?

  By five thirty, they were moving briskly north along State Highway 1 in the truck, along with what seemed like most of the city. Boats, trailers and jet skis’ rambled along on tow, heading for the beaches and harbours which landlocked Hamilton failed to offer, but easily made up for. Children squabbled in the back of vehicles, squashed under duvets and other sleeping paraphernalia and in one case buried under what appeared to be a barbeque. Adults turned around in passenger seats arguing with grizzling offspring, placating or delivering a promised swipe, currently illegal but clearly a desperate last resort.

  Logan turned off in Ngaruawahia, crossing the Waipa River and travelling along a long country road which followed the combined Waipa and Waikato Rivers, north. On the west side stood the Hakarimata Ranges, bush covered and thriving, the road snaking precariously between bush and river.

  “This is beautiful,” Hana breathed. “I can’t believe I’ve never been along here.” She wondered if Vik ever came here on his travels. He told her about places of unexpected beauty he drove through, often by accident in the course of his work. Hana turned to Logan and then bit her lip, putting all thoughts of her dead husband out of her mind.

  Sensing her unease but mistaking it for worry about meeting his parents, Logan reached across and took Hana’s fidgeting fingers in his, stroking them tenderly in the moments between gear changes. “Stop worrying. Everything’s gonna be fine,” he soothed.

  Occasional glimpses of State Highway 1 across the water showed slow moving traffic crawling sedately, while Hana and Logan ran smoothly on. Other road users blasted past them at every opportunity, using the little known route as a rat run. Hana stared happily through the window while Logan drove, suddenly jerked to attention by him slamming on the brakes and veering to the side of the road. “Damn idiot!”

  Hana’s seatbelt locked painfully and as she peered through the windscreen, she spied the retreating bumper of a white van which only just made it back to their side of the road before a sharp bend and an oncoming gravel lorry. Logan’s heavy truck reacted badly to the emergency stop. With some difficulty, wrestling furiously with the wheel, he managed to bring the vehicle to a sliding stop sideways at the bottom of a steeply gravelled driveway.

  He sat with his hands clamped on the steering wheel and let out an exhaled breath slowly and carefully before turning to Hana. “You ok?”

  Hana nodded although her face expression and wide green eyes betrayed otherwise. She was fine but the experience was an unpleasant one and she felt shaken up. “Thank goodness you were driving. I never would have been able to stop like that.”

  Logan undid his seatbelt and sat for a moment, getting his nerve back after the extremely close call. “I hope nobody comes down their drive and wants to get out,” he remarked. Hana glanced around her and stared up the steep slope.

  “They won’t, look. It’s for sale. Vacant possession,” adding as an afterthought, “Unless someone’s up there viewing right now.”

  “Looks a bit of a dump from the photos,” Logan commented, looking at the pimped up boards trying their best to showcase the property. Even the skill of the photographer was unable to disguise the general dilapidated aura of the place.

  “Mmmm,” Hana replied, her eyes acquiring a faraway glaze.

  Logan put the truck into gear and pulled carefully out onto the road. There were no more mishaps and they reached the outskirts of Huntly safely and carried on towards Rangiriri, still on the back roads. By the time they reached the tiny township it was past six o’clock and they were hungry. Logan drove towards a small chip shop he knew of and the pair sat companionably in the truck and ate battered hoki and chips out of the paper wrapper, washing it down with a shared two litre bottle of cola.

  Hana tried to raise the subject of Anka and Tama, watching Logan’s body stiffen. “Anka said his father was a drunk and Tama’s mother shipped out years ago,” Hana said, seeing a strange warning flash across Logan’s face. Knowing she should shut up, she continued. “Anka said he made her feel needed so I think that’s how it happened. He was a hurt puppy dog and made her feel good about herself.”

  Logan inhaled audibly and bit his bottom lip. He took a swig from the cola bottle. “Don’t be fooled,” he said and a flame flickered dangerously in his eyes as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

  Hana sat awkwardly for a moment before turning towards him and changing the focus, “I really miss Anka, you know. And I genuinely didn’t know Tama was your nephew when you came to me.”

  Logan leaned in and put his arm around her, squeezing her towards him and kissing her gently on the side of her face. She shut her eyes, loving his nearness and resting her head on his shoulder. “I know,” he whispered. “I don’t want to waste any more of
my life on either of them. I jumped to conclusions and I’m sorry. Loyalty...well, it’s important to me. Let’s forget about them. It won’t last. Tama’s got about as much staying power as melting lubricant, especially with women.”

  “Oh.” Hana foresaw a rough ride ahead for her friend in that case.

  The gear stick between them made their embrace awkward and after a few minutes Logan withdrew his arm. He turned the key in the ignition. “All set?” he smiled at Hana with a strange sense of hope backlighting his expression. She nodded with a reassuring smile, which was a complete lie.

  They returned to the main road, turning off eventually towards Glen Murray and then off again. The roads became narrow and twisted, navigating through harsher countryside as they went west. After a while, Logan turned right onto an unsealed road and the truck bumped and lurched over potholes.

  “In England, it seems as though night takes more time arriving,” Hana chatted. “There’s the greyness of dusk and the inevitable lighting up of cars and streetlamps and day gets lowered into night like God’s putting away toy into a box. In New Zealand, you get hardly any warning about natural phenomenon. Why is that? It’s the same earth and the same moon. Gravitational pull can’t be different. I don’t get it.”

  Hana looked expectantly at her companion. With a mind for factual information, Logan seemed to know most things. He shifted in his seat and looked uncomfortable. “I dunno, sorry.”

  “I suppose you’d need to go to England to see what I mean,” she mused. New Zealand caught Hana out many times in the ferocity with which daytime was cancelled and night wheeled in. It was as though once a person realised daylight was fading, it was advisable to run for safety. The tides operated in much the same way. There was no time for consideration or delay without unfortunate consequences.

  Logan drove in silence, knowing the route like the back of his own hand, swerving and veering across the road to avoid the worst of the holes. As night pursued them, Hana spotted huge areas of the road which had washed out in the rains, leaving gaping holes which she peered nervously into from the passenger window. For the second time that evening she was glad she wasn’t driving. The road wound around mountains, up and up until Hana’s ears ached with the altitude. They gave a relieving pop before the road turned sharply left and downhill. In the base of a distant valley, Hana finally saw house lights, welcoming and calling to them of comfort and warmth. It was still some way off and appeared and disappeared repeatedly as the road made its way round and round in descent.

  At last they made the final approach to the house, brightly lit before them. The truck passed through magnificent wrought iron gates which had been propped open against brick pillars. Gravel crunched under the huge tyres as the truck sped up to the beautiful three-storey house, majestic and imposing under floodlights. Logan swept the truck around the circular driveway and coming to rest in front of sweeping steps crowned by magnificent wooden doors.

  Hana admitted to a wave of nervousness but only to herself. Logan had an air of triumph as he swung from the vehicle. What have I done? Hana panted in tiny breaths and fought the growing sickness in the pit of her stomach. I’m not Māori, they’ll hate me. I’m a horrid person and they’ll know it straight away. I’m not good enough for their son and I’m old; really, really old. Breathe, Hana, breathe.

  The house was built of old stone with the symmetry and poise of an ancient European manor house. It didn’t look fake but had to be. In that era, New Zealand’s existence was little more than a suspicion. The windows and pillar work had a spectacular Gothic emphasis, opulence overwhelming poor Hana. “I’m scared,” she blurted abruptly as Logan held her door open, feeling like a teenager instead of a woman in her forties.

  “No, you’re gorgeous.” Logan smiled at her, shyness in his face. He fondled her fingers gently and studying her with an unnerving intensity. “They’ve been waiting for you. It’s gonna be fine.”

  The ornate, massive wooden doors were flung open and a woman in her early seventies flew down the ten or so steps towards them. She was small but agile and the bear hug she engulfed them both in at the same time was of a strong and capable lady. Her hair had passed from black into grey at the front, pulled back into a fluffy bun which left a light halo around her face. Her skin was a darker shade of olive than Logan’s but her eyes were the same enchanting grey. Her enthusiasm was infectious and she ushered them up the steps and into the grand hallway without delay.

  Grasping Logan by the upper arms in the light from a glittering chandelier, the woman held him still so she could scrutinize him, examining him with her intense gaze. She looked tiny against his height. Not clear about what she saw, she reached down to her chest and seized bifocal glasses swinging from a neck-chain and perched them on her nose end. She humphed a few times and then reaching up, kissed him on the cheek. “Better, much better. Haere mai!”

  She turned to Hana and did the same but there was no discomfort in the scrutiny. The same grey eyes as Logan’s bore into Hana’s soul and pleased with what she saw, she kissed Hana on the cheek also. Keeping hold of her arm, Logan’s mother led her through another set of wooden double doors to a huge, book lined entrance hall, complete with roaring fire. She directed Hana to an armchair in front of the fire and set about building it up with cut logs which she hefted from a basket on the hearth. Hana felt an unsettling sense of misgiving grow. She knew this woman and the dusting of a memory she couldn’t properly grasp, fluttered around her subconscious. There it was again, that feeling of déjà vu.

  “Where’s Dad?” asked Logan as he made himself comfortable in another armchair. His mother busied herself with the fire, poking and prodding with a metal poker until it roared and hissed to her satisfaction.

  “Just checking the stock in the forty-eighth. He knows you’re coming. He’ll be here soon.” She sat back on her heels smiling at her handiwork and then at her son. “Lovely to have you here my love. You look well. Hei koanga ngākau.” She patted his knee with sturdy, work worn hands but Logan’s eyes flashed towards Hana with unease.

  Hana’s brow knitted with confusion at the Māori phrase, wondering what the wonderful news could be. She saw Logan relax in her peripheral vision and smiled to herself. He thought she hadn’t understood.

  The old lady’s manner was childishly excitable and she squeezed her pleasant, brown face up in much the same way a mother would before giving her child a desperately waited for treat. It rolled off her as infectious enthusiasm.

  The heat of the fire was welcome but also soporific and they all sat there unspeaking for a few minutes, watching the flames rise and fall in their short-lived dance routine.

  “Tea,” spoke Logan’s mother eventually, smiling round at them both. “I’ll to brew a nice pot of tea.” She bustled out of the room with enormous energy and could be heard in a distant room, clattering and singing to herself. Logan smiled across at Hana,

  “Me and Michael used to say she was the inspiration for the Long Life batteries, you know the advert where the white rabbit carries on banging its little drum after all the others have fallen over.” He enjoyed the memory for a moment and then looked around happily. “I love it here.”

  Hana agreed. The place was beautiful. The furniture was purposeful, not flashy, but the effect was comfortable and relaxed, not showy and pretentious.

  “Call me Miriam, Hana,” Logan’s mother stated, as she appeared bearing a tea tray complete with teapot, china cups and milk jugs. The china looked precious and fragile but was clearly in daily use judging by the chips and cracks in its veneer.

  “Son!” The voice was quiet and gentle but issued with command under a smooth, lilting accent, as the tall, unassuming man entered the room. Logan rose with graceful ease and the men pressed their noses together in a traditional Māori hongi. When Logan’s dad released him, Hana saw a wiry man with a strong Māori profile, a sharply contoured face reflecting past great hardship and sadness. In his early seventies, the man lacked his wife’s vibrancy
, the cares of the world bending his spine at the top into a question mark. There was a delicateness about him as he stood in the doorway, woolly socks on feet which had probably come out of gumboots. Tiredness shrouded him.

  Alfred Du Rose greeted Hana and shook her hand formally. She noticed his peculiar stunted thumbs and tried not to stare. She remembered hearing somewhere they were called hammer thumbs, the nail beginning almost at the final knuckle joint.

  They sat happily by the fire for a while, chatting and exchanging news and opinions. Miriam curled up on the floor and Logan relinquished his comfy chair to his father, lying instead on the shag pile rug in front of the fire. After a couple of cups of tea, Miriam appeared with glasses and a bottle of exquisite red wine and they sipped away the evening.

  Around eleven o’clock, Hana realised she was rambling after the third glass and Logan made their excuses. He led her up the stairs to a bedroom overlooking the rear of the property. The view was in darkness, but the room was plush beyond expectation with its own ensuite.

  “Where are you sleeping?” Hana asked, the wine giving her a false dose of bravery.

  “Front wing of the house,” answered Logan as he turned down the sheets and opened Hana’s overnight bag, which had magically appeared in the room. “I always sleep in my old room.”

  He was matter of fact about everything, not even fazed when in her tired and inebriated state, Hana forgot he wasn’t Vik and began to take off her jeans while he was still trying to find her nightie. He looked away awkwardly until she stopped staggering around and sat down on the bed. Seizing her nightdress from the bag, Logan held it out to her at arm’s length and she was grateful for choosing a decent one instead of packing her flannelette granny favourite or her coveted monkey pyjamas. Logan handed the claret coloured silky number over, retrieving it from the floor as she missed.

  Hana staggered up and pressed herself close, enjoying the warmth of Logan’s body. She kissed him on the mouth. “I haven’t been this happy since...since...since I was never,” she rambled with a giggle and kissed him again. She felt a flutter of excitement as Logan’s pupils dilated and he struggled to keep it decent between them. She knew what he wanted and it made her feel dangerous and at the same time, beautiful. “I think I love you,” she sniggered and then hiccoughed.