by Tina Clough
Down by the road there is a tidy line-up of four police cars and a van parked nose-in, filling the open off-road area behind Stuart’s truck. A lone constable stands beside it. He asks who we are and has obviously been told to expect us. I say Dao got cold and is it OK if we walk down the road to my car to get her jacket, so I can have my sweatshirt back.
‘I’d like you to stay here for now. The boss is coming down from the site to talk to you,’ he says politely. ‘I mean, Detective Inspector Sinclair.’
We wait for what seems like ages. I wish I had some water and wonder where we left the picnic bag. While the constable talks to someone on the police radio in one of the cars, I quietly ask Dao if she can remember where we last had it.
‘You put it down when we found Hope. I only realised we had left it much later, when I got thirsty while I was chasing Scruff.’
DI Sinclair turns out to be an efficient-looking woman with blonde hair in a bun and the most startling blue eyes I have ever seen. She has our picnic bag inside a clear plastic bag in one hand and Dao exclaims, ‘Oh good, you found our bag!’
Sinclair holds it up and asks politely if Dao can tell her what is inside.
‘Of course,’ says Dao. ‘One nearly empty carton of orange juice, two bottles of water, one left-over peanut butter sandwich and a dog’s blue plastic drinking bowl. And a really squishy banana.’
‘It’s obviously yours,’ says Sinclair. ‘Here you are.’
We give her our full names and address details and I see the exact moment when she realises who we are. While we have stood here waiting a whole chain of consequences have played out in my head and I make a snap decision without warning Dao. We have to tell the police who Hope is, so family can be notified. The downstream effect will be closer scrutiny of us and speculation about our involvement. We will instantly be persons of interest, rather than just chance bystanders who found the body. Once Sinclair starts asking questions, protecting Tama will become very difficult.
‘We know who she is,’ I say. ‘The dead woman.’
As I expected, Sinclair’s face undergoes an instant, subtle change. Her expression remains neutrally pleasant, but there is a tightening around the eyes. ‘Really? You surprise me.’
Dao looks at me and shows nothing of what she might be thinking. I recognise her blank look, the one she uses as camouflage when she can’t get an instant grip on a situation. Behind the mask her mind will be performing rapid assessments and deciding how to react. It has stood her in good stead in various situations since I found her, most of them police or court related. Most people would think her mind is idling, when she wears that blank look. Dao’s mind does not have a setting called ‘idle’.
‘Her name is Hope Barber. She disappeared from her apartment and her brother Noah reported it to the police. There were some very worrying circumstances. Her apartment door, for example, was left ajar and her bag and cell phone were left behind.’
I stop talking. Now it is her turn. Does she already know any of this and maybe more? After a short pause I am just about to tell her that the truck belongs to someone of interest, when she says, ‘Would you mind waiting another couple of minutes? Sit down in one of the cars if you like.’
We remain where we are, and she walks a short distance to one side and gets her phone out. The call goes on for some time; she is pacing back and forth, listening more than she is talking. When she returns she looks frustrated.
‘We have Noah Barber’s contact details and we will inform him. But there are complications, and some aspects are confusing. I would like to know how you got involved.’
She walks us over to the two police cars parked side by side behind Stuart’s truck. She perches sideways on the front seat of one car with the door open, so she can make notes, and we lean against the side of the car alongside it.
‘Now then, what can you tell me?’
I have mapped out what to say and where I will draw the line to protect Tama. Noah is bound to tell the police about him, probably with toxic comments, but for now I will leave him out of it.
‘A short time ago Noah Barber turned up on our doorstep and asked me to help find his sister. I can tell you the exact date later. I told him I couldn’t help him and sent him away. He came back a couple of days later, in a terrible state. Hope was a journalist who wrote in-depth investigative articles, mostly relating to India, Pakistan and Afghanistan. She also wrote short stories that are like diary entries – just for herself. Noah found them on her laptop and on USB sticks when he was going through her things.’
Dao nods; she stands there, leaning against the car with her arm bent and her phone loosely held in her hand; no visible sign of recent trauma or stress, but inside her all sorts of emotions will be churning. I put my arm around her and she gives me a little sideways smile.
‘Those stories explain a lot,’ she tells Sinclair. ‘Hope was actually taken by someone not long ago, but she got away and she wrote a story about it, just before she disappeared the second time. But there is no story about that, of course. I have the most important of her stories attached to emails on my phone. I can send them to you. It’s really important that you read them.’
Sinclair looks bemused. ‘Didn’t Noah give these stories to the police?’
‘Of course not, they weren’t interested,’ says Dao with great contempt. ‘He went back several times and his lawyer did too. But they didn’t want to know, just pretended they didn’t think it was serious! Said they couldn’t investigate and told him to go away. Useless!’
‘But somehow you found out something that made you come here to look for her. Tell me about that.’
This is where it gets tricky. I have to think on my feet; I don’t want to look as if I am struggling, but I must keep Tama out of it.
‘The most important thing is the fact that she actually was abducted once and got away. The police attended an incident on the motorway, when some guys in a van reported that a wheelie bin with a woman inside had fallen off a truck – and that was Hope.’
Another subtle change on Sinclair’s face. She knows this; probably the person she just talked to on the phone told her.
Dao points at the vehicle in front of us and says, with no particular emphasis, ‘And that is the truck the wheelie bin fell from.’
The connection between what she had been told over the phone and the truck in front of us has not yet occurred to Sinclair. For the first time her face reveals exactly what she feels: first utter surprise, and then excitement. She gets up and calls across the roof of the car to the constable, ‘Has anyone touched that truck?’
‘No, not since I’ve been standing here,’ he says. ‘I was told to call someone down from the scene when the owner turns up.’
‘Well, now it’s evidence,’ says Sinclair. ‘Get some crime scene tape out and make sure nobody touches it until forensics can go over it. You will stand a little bit closer to the start of the track and if the owner comes down you call me. I’ll be here to assist if necessary.’
She turns to us. ‘Excuse me again, but I’d better radio in and get some more crime-scene people here and a vehicle recovery truck.’
We wait while she makes the call; Dao looks at me with raised eyebrows and I shrug. This could go anywhere now. It’s out of our hands.
‘Right!’ Sinclair is back on the job. She sits sideways in the seat again and looks carefully at us both. ‘I checked the ownership and it belongs to a woman who lives in Mt Eden.’
‘It might have done,’ I say. ‘Or it might not. She is dead, and her son uses it. His name is Stuart Browning and he lives at the address where the truck is registered.’
‘How do you know all this?’
‘We were told in confidence that he was acting suspiciously, that he was interested in Hope. Her flat was monitored by CCTV and it was assumed that he had set that up.’
‘Who is he? How could he secretly set up surveillance in her flat? Did he know her?’
>
More questions line up every time I tell her something. Perhaps I should just fire my last shot and let her get on with it.
‘Personally, I think he must be working for an intelligence service.’
I can see the cogs moving. She has obviously been told that there is a file on Hope already and that there is a block on it. But the leap from there to accepting that the file might be blocked because someone in an intelligence service is a killer, who wants to make sure the police can’t investigate? Too much to accept all at once, too far-fetched to happen in real life.
‘Listen,’ says Dao suddenly, ‘I can email Hope’s stories to you now, if you give me your email address. As I said, I have them on my phone. I think you’ll get a much better idea of what has been going on, if you read them first and then relate them to what we have told you.’
‘We probably need to go back to the station and get all this on tape. It’s far more information than I expected from you and I want it documented while it is fresh in your minds.’
‘I can send you the recording, if you like.’
Sinclair stares at Dao; slow to get the meaning of what she is saying.
I decide to help her out, try to keep a smile off my face. ‘I think Dao has recorded this interview on her phone. I noticed she’s had it in her hand the whole time we have been here. She often does this – she’s very organised.’
Sinclair’s face is a mixture of interest and suspicion. She looks hard at Dao. ‘Why did you do that?’
‘I record things sometimes when people talk about things that are new to me,’ says Dao innocently. ‘I just like to get my facts right.’ She looks at Sinclair without guile. ‘Just like you do.’
Even I, who have lived with Dao for close on two years, can’t tell if she is being sarcastic. There is nothing in her tone or expression to indicate sarcasm, but that means nothing.
To my surprise Sinclair grins. ‘Oh my God! This is something else again. I know your story, Dao. I never quite understood how you coped with things all those years and how you have adjusted since. I remember you giving evidence in that trial last year – I went along to a couple of the court sessions. I have rarely seen a better witness. You’re one of a kind, all right. Please send me those stories right away and if you can give me the recording later on it would be useful.’
While she scribbles her email address for Dao, I drink some water and think of what I should tell her now. She is bound to ask how we came to follow Stuart. That will require a complete explanation but leaving out the role Tama played.
Dao takes the slip of paper from Sinclair. ‘I think I have to stop recording if I send an email.’
‘That’s OK, I’ll talk to Hunter while you do it.’
My turn to be opportunistic. I start in on the story without prompting, so I can tell it the way I want to instead of responding to Sinclair’s questions.
‘We are convinced that Stuart Browning took her both times,’ I say, never taking my eyes off hers, determined not to let her butt in. ’The rumours we picked up about him were disturbing. Another woman had disappeared a couple of years ago – and he was connected to her too. We gradually came across more information that suggested the involvement of some form of intelligence service – the concealed camera in her flat, the block on Hope’s police file and the mention of “another agency” investigating. Hope wrote about events that might be the reason she was surveilled, as you will see from the stories Dao is emailing to you. It all fits. I don’t know how many intelligence branches there are – or who they sub-contract to – but I’m sure Browning works for one of them.’
Sinclair looks silently at me, waiting for more. No change of expression at all. Either she has thought of this possibility herself or she is very patient.
‘We found out where he lives and put a GPS tracker on his truck. We thought he’d use that rather than his good car to go to wherever he held her. Dao can show you where the tracker is – she attached it. We followed him here yesterday and lost him. This morning we followed him again and our dog found Hope’s body – completely by chance, I might add. He’s not a search dog, but he took off while we were having lunch. We didn’t expect to find Hope dead. We thought Browning might have a cabin up here or that he rented a place – we were hoping to find her alive. After we found her I called 111, which took a while, and Dao and Scruff went off the path and got lost.’
‘I did not go off the path just like that,’ says Dao. ‘I know better than that. I needed to pee, and Scruff came with me. We were only a few metres in from the path, and then he took off after an animal. I don’t know what it was, some little oblong thing. And he didn’t come back, so I went after him, calling for him to come back, but he didn’t. And then we were lost.’
‘OK, I apologise. I didn’t mean to imply you just carelessly wandered off. But we eventually found each other, probably an hour or two after my 111 call. And on the way back we spotted a shipping container in the bush, way off the path.’
Sinclair’s eyes are riveted on mine. ‘A shipping container?’
‘Yes – it seemed very strange, so we went and looked at it. There’s a dead woman inside.’
If this whole thing wasn’t so tragic, the expressions that flit across Sinclair’s face during our talk would be highly entertaining. Some are so subtle you would miss them if you blinked, but this time her face goes from stunned to excited. Is she imagining the media attention and the possible benefit to her career that this complex story will generate? Admittedly most of it so far has been given to her pre-packaged by us, but still, it won’t do her career any harm.
‘So you went inside it? Did you touch anything?’
‘The door was open,’ I say untruthfully, not wanting to explain that I had wrapped my T-shirt around my hand and why they won’t find my fingerprints on the door.
‘We went in and I don’t think we touched anything at all inside. There is a dividing wall with a door, which was open. The inner space is very dark, and we just peeped around the edge of it and saw a corpse. She’s been there a long time – looks nearly mummified. We didn’t go in and we came straight out.’
‘Why didn’t you mention this earlier? It’s pretty significant.’ Her eyes move from my face to Dao’s and back, watchful and focused.
‘I don’t know,’ I say slowly, as if I am thinking, not just following my own script. ‘I suppose we started by telling you we knew who Hope is and that led down a track of how we knew her identity and how we came to be here. It’s taken a bit of time. And now we’re getting to the rest of it.’
‘Fair enough. Just hold on a moment.’
She walks around the cars, gets her phone out and stands on the edge of the road for several minutes. When she comes back, she has made a decision. ‘Take me to the container now and then you can leave. I’ll be in touch about a formal statement tomorrow.’
Dao asks if she can run down to our car and get her hoodie. ‘It’s cooling off,’ she says innocently, ‘and I have Hunter’s sweatshirt. I’ll leave Scruff in the car when I get the jacket.’
Sinclair says OK, so I give Dao the key and she runs down the road with Scruff. I move out between the vehicles and stand on the far side of the road, where I can see her until she reaches the car. I can feel Sinclair’s eye watching me; she understands why I do this. Dao comes back with her jacket and hands me the sweatshirt. There is no gun bulge in her T-shirt.
Sinclair tells the constable that she will send someone down so there are two of them looking after the truck and then we walk up to the clearing where Hope’s body lies. The scene is now like something out of a TV drama. People in white overalls and with covers over their shoes are picking things up and putting them into plastic bags. They have erected a square tent over Hope’s body and crime-scene tape runs across the clearing close to where the path enters it. They are setting up spotlights on collapsible stands and running cables along the edges of the bush.
We stand quietly wa
tching while Sinclair talks to a man, who digs around in a couple of cases lying open on the ground and hands her things that she stuffs into her pockets.
She comes back to where we are waiting, pulls off a long tail end of the tape tied to a tree and rolls it around her hand while she walks ahead of us back to the main track.
‘And now I want you to show me where the container is, so we get a GPS location for it.’
We go back down to the fork in the track and start up the other branch. We talk sporadically while we walk, but it’s nothing like an interview. Sinclair is interested in what Dao is doing; she has heard about Dao’s aptitude for mathematics and asks if she is studying. Dao replies in a friendly way, but she is beginning to flag. We got little sleep last night and have spent a long day walking in hilly terrain, not to mention today’s traumatic episodes. She needs to get away from here.
It takes time to find the exact location where we spotted the container. There are several places on the high ridge where the landscape opens up; we stop several times and scan the downhill slopes. When I spot that distinctive straight line, I point it out to Sinclair, but she can’t see it in the fading light.
Dao goes to stand right beside her and points. ‘Look to the right of that very tall ponga tree down there in the little gap – the one in a group of three. See the straight horizontal line behind the bushy things? That’s the top edge of the container.’
Sinclair takes pictures of the scene below us and in both directions along the track.
Before we start down the slope, she gets the crime-scene tape out of her pocket and ties it around a tree at the point where we will leave the track to descend the slope.
The trees block the late slanting sunlight and it is darker under the trees as we slowly make our way down. Dense undergrowth fills the spaces between tall trees, supple-vines and air roots dangle and catch on our clothes, a fallen tree trunk makes progress laborious.