Holy Orders

by Angus McLean

  He rolled onto his side and clutched at his leg, groaning.

  Molly got out of the car, her face pale but excited.

  ‘Good work,’ I said with a grin.

  I surveyed the four crooks we had in front of us. A clean sweep, plus the other dude back on the farm. The big guy Mike had tangled with was doing a good starfish on the asphalt. I could see a King of the City tat on the back of his neck.

  Molly had got her phone out and was already dialling 111.

  I took a breath, covered Mike while he tied the bat man’s hands behind him, then put the Glock away again. Enough rough play for one day, and I didn’t want to be the guy with a gun when the cops turned up.

  Fifteen

  Buck pulled up at the rear of his office and let out a groan.

  As if the last three hours at a community meeting hadn’t been bad enough, his day had just got worse. Complaints about the lack of police patrols in some of the safest streets in the city, complaints about dog fouling on the footpaths, complaints about inconsiderate parking outside the school.

  And now Detective Inspector Hugh Kennedy, standing waiting by the back door with a folder in his hands, flakes of dry scalp decorating the narrow shoulders of his black suit.

  Buck got out and approached, trying for friendly. ‘Morning sir.’

  Kennedy skipped the preamble. ‘We need to talk,’ he said. ‘Inside. Now.’

  Buck felt his hackles rise. He unlocked the door, killed the alarm, and led the way in. Kennedy didn’t muck around. Stood over him when Buck took a seat behind his desk.

  ‘You have some questions to answer,’ Kennedy said, giving it his best growly voice.

  Buck looked at him blankly. ‘Okay.’

  ‘Your mate Crowley has really got you in it this time, hasn’t he?’ Kennedy’s eyes were locked firmly on Buck’s chin, and his small teeth were exposed in a tight smile that reminded Buck of a mummified corpse.

  ‘Has he?’

  ‘Don’t play the innocent with me, Buckmaster. I know you two are thick as thieves.’

  Kennedy leaned down, one hand on the desk. Buck could feel his hot, sour breath on his face. He stifled a cough.

  ‘Yeah we’re mates,’ he said. ‘Everyone knows that. But I still don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘When did you last have contact with him?’

  Buck shrugged, wondering where all this going. ‘I got an email from him yesterday,’ he said.

  ‘Mmmm?’ Kennedy leaned forward a little further. ‘And?’

  ‘He’s beating me in the online rugby comp.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘You know, the online rugby sweepstakes? You pick the winning team and the score each week?’ Buck shrugged. ‘He’s beating me. Again.’

  Kennedy’s brow wrinkled. ‘I said not to muck me around, Constable Buckmaster,’ he snapped. ‘I don’t care about some stupid sweepstake. I care about serious crime, and your mate is in it up to his neck.’ He waved the folder in his other hand. ‘Grievous Bodily Harm is what we’re talking about here. Unlawful Possession of a Firearm. Discharging a firearm.’

  Buck frowned. ‘Is this that thing down in Ngatea?’ he said.

  ‘Exactly! Tell me what you know about that.’

  Buck could feel his eyebrows shrivelling from the onslaught of Kennedy’s breath. He stifled another cough and tried to breathe through his ears.

  ‘I read it in the paper this morning.’ Somehow he’d guessed the Chase crew would be involved. Typical. ‘I only know what I read.’

  ‘Huh.’ Kennedy stared out his chin. Buck was fairly sure his chin would survive, but he was getting sick of this. ‘That’s not what I hear.’

  ‘Whatever you’ve heard must be wrong then, sir,’ Buck replied stiffly. ‘Because I don’t know anything else about it.’

  Kennedy opened his mouth to speak but Buck cut him off by abruptly standing up. Kennedy was forced to take a step back. They were almost nose to nose.

  ‘I respect your position, sir,’ Buck said, ‘but I don’t know anything about what you seem to think I know. I’ve done nothing wrong and quite frankly, sir, I’m sick of the insinuations that I have.’

  He could feel his heart pounding in his chest and he knew he was walking a very fine line here. It was never a good thing to butt heads with a senior officer, but he was sick of being bullied. Maybe it was the right time for the Mike Manning approach.

  Kennedy was fixated on Buck’s left ear, his eyes darting side to side but never daring to meet his gaze.

  ‘I don’t like your attitude, constable,’ he finally said. A tiny pink tongue darted out to moisten his thin lips.

  Buck said nothing, just focussed on keeping himself in check. Slowing his breathing down, jaw clamped firmly shut.

  ‘I could have you on a charge for this,’ Kennedy said.

  Buck sucked in a slow, deep breath. And went for it.

  ‘And I could have you up for bullying and harassment,’ he said, not quite believing he was even saying the words. Once out, the cat would never get back in the bag.

  Kennedy gulped and physically stepped backwards, bumping into a shelf of crime prevention pamphlets. The pamphlets cascaded to the floor but neither man seemed to notice.

  ‘So,’ Kennedy said. ‘That’s how it’s to be.’

  Buck stayed schtum, deciding discretion was the better part of valour right now.

  Kennedy pursed his lips. ‘You’ve made your bed,’ he finally said. ‘And now you’ll need to lie in it.’

  Buck gave a short nod. This was it. The gloves were coming off.

  Kennedy spun on his heel and went for the back door. He paused there and turned back. His eyes finally met Buck’s, holding the stare for a brief moment. It was long enough for Buck to know that he didn’t like what he saw there.

  ‘This is not over,’ Kennedy said. With that he pushed through the door and let it bang behind him.

  Buck stood still, blood pounding in his ears. He forced himself to suck down a breath. His mouth felt like the bottom of a bird cage, but oddly, he felt himself smiling. Grinning, even. He let out a short laugh. The release of tension made his shoulders shake and he laughed harder.

  It had been a long time coming, and who knew what would come of it, but man that had felt good.

  He rubbed a hand over his face and his laughter trailed off to a chuckle then subsided completely. But the smile remained.

  Bright sunshine poured in through the front windows of the tiny office. It was shaping up as a nice afternoon.

  Sixteen

  The smell of barbecuing lamb chops wafted across the deck and into the kitchen. Jacketed potatoes were baking in the oven.

  I disconnected the phone and put it on the breakfast bar. Mike passed Molly and I each an ice cold Corona. We clinked bottles and drank.

  ‘That was the D from Thames,’ I explained. The whole matter had been passed to the CIB there, being a bit beyond the capabilities of the two response cops based at Ngatea. ‘They’ve charged all those boys. The blokes in the truck were part of the same crew, the Kings of the City. All PRNs, obviously.’

  Getting a criminal record automatically gave you a Personal Record Number, or PRN. It was a common term for crooks.

  ‘Any issue over their…ahhh…capture?’ Mike said. He took a long swallow of his beer and belched into his hand. ‘Excuse me.’

  I shook my head. ‘Not really. We had a pretty good conversation around self-defence.’ I gave a wry smile. ‘Although he did mention that it appeared they had got the worst of it.’

  Mike shrugged. ‘As they should.’

  ‘What about that guy Chapman?’ Molly said. She took a large bowl of garden salad from the fridge and put it on the dining table.

  ‘His lawyer has arranged to bring him in tomorrow. He’s prepared to talk but wants to do it on his terms and not be treated like some street hood.’

  Mike snorted. ‘As opposed to a thief who tries to kill people.’

  Molly pu
t her bottle down and handed me a plate. ‘Those chops should be ready. And I’m pleased.’

  I cocked an eyebrow in my best Roger Moore.

  ‘Pleased?’

  ‘That I hit that guy with the car.’ She pulled a face. ‘Apart from him scratching the bonnet, I mean.’

  I smiled. Suave and sophisticated, or as near as damn it. If only I had a distinctive cheek mole and some decent threads.

  ‘You’re quite the tiger, aren’t you Molly?’ I needed to work on my upper-class Brit accent.

  She rolled her eyes and Mike chuckled.

  ‘Shut up and get the food,’ she said, ‘I’m starving.’

  ‘Did you manage to get the tracker back from that dude’s car?’ Mike said. He used a pair of tongs to move the chops from the grill to the plate. They were nicely coloured and smelled divine.

  ‘What tracker?’ I deadpanned, and I saw the recognition in his face. We’d been bugged once before and I was still a little paranoid.

  We took the food back inside and sat around the table. Molly brought the jacket potatoes from the oven. The skins were crispy and steam rose when they were cut open. She added a dollop of cottage cheese to each spud and topped them with chopped chives. That’s how we roll at our place.

  ‘So how’s the house-hunting going?’ Molly said. She used a pair of wooden salad servers to help herself.

  ‘Not bad.’ Mike cut into his chop and took the first bite. Juice ran down his chin. Naturally I didn’t tell him. ‘Prices have definitely gone up though.’

  Molly glanced at me and unspoken words passed between us. Chappy’s words looped through my head like an earworm. It’s not like he couldn’t have helped me.

  ‘Are you a bit short mate?’

  He grunted, clearly not wanting to talk about it. Sometimes you’ve just gotta push a little.

  ‘A bit.’

  We were silent for a few moments while we all got started on the meal. Molly had outdone herself again. Barbecuing the meat was, of course, the biggest part of it, but I don’t like to boast.

  ‘The place in Stonefields look any good?’ I said. I washed down a mouthful down with cold Corona.

  ‘Real good.’ Mike finally wiped his chin. ‘Bit out of reach though, so I’ll keep looking. Got a good agent now.’

  I saw the gleam in his eye but said nothing. I knew that look.

  ‘How much short are you?’ I said.

  He chewed slowly, considering his answer. ‘Probably about forty k.’

  I nodded and glanced at Molly, passing the baton to her.

  ‘We’d like to help out,’ she said.

  He stopped with his fork halfway to his mouth.

  ‘For real?’

  ‘For real.’

  ‘I can’t let you do that,’ he said with a shake of his head. ‘Very kind, but I can’t ask you to do that.’

  ‘You’re not asking, mate,’ I said. ‘We’re offering.’

  ‘You’ve got forty k lying around?’ he said doubtfully.

  ‘No, but we’ve got thirty. Reckon you could beat them down another ten?’

  Mike tried hard to hide a smirk. ‘I’ll work on the agent.’

  ‘I’m sure you will.’

  Molly caught on but said nothing. Yet.

  ‘It’s a loan,’ I said, ‘just so we’re clear. Not a gift.’

  Mike gave me a withering look.

  ‘Really,’ he said. ‘And I thought you were being generous.’

  ‘Three percent interest,’ I said. ‘Cheaper than the banks.’

  ‘Dan.’ Molly’s tone was firm. ‘Don’t be silly.’ She turned to Mike. ‘Interest free. Don’t listen to him.’

  Mike swallowed hard. ‘Thank you,’ he said quietly. ‘I really appreciate it.’

  Molly nodded and smiled. I grinned.

  ‘You’ll just have to work harder to pay it off,’ I said. ‘Or sell a kidney.’

  Mike put his utensils down and lifted his bottle.

  ‘To friends,’ he said.

  We clinked bottles and drank. Enough said.

  THE END

  BONUS CHAPTERS

  Prologue

  Village of Magas

  Drina Valley, North-Eastern Bosnia

  June 1995

  Death came at dawn.

  The sun was creeping over the lip of the valley and the village was starting to come to life. It was a small settlement of simple houses, many already damaged by various attacks over the years and repaired as best they could be.

  The main road into the village was rutted and narrow, potted with holes and horseshoe imprints.

  The trucks of the short convoy crushed the ruts flat as they rolled down the road from the south, heavy diesel engines throbbing and gear boxes grinding as the drivers struggled to maintain momentum and stability at the same time.

  The villagers heard the trucks coming and knew it was not good news. People started to come out of their houses, peering up the road to try and see who it was. Could it possibly be a UN visit? Probably not. Nobody cared enough about these poor peasants to send the UN to them.

  A few people started to make haste, rousing their families and getting ready to run. But it was too late.

  The first truck rounded the last bend and gunned it straight into the centre of the village, a small town square surrounded by a few basic shops and shuttered buildings. The head elder of the village had been awakened and shuffled out in his coat and hat, his pyjama legs flapping in the light morning breeze.

  The first truck ground to a halt and the rear flap opened, discharging a dozen armed soldiers. They quickly spread out across one side of the village square, rifles at the ready and game faces on. They wore the standard Serbian Army uniforms with the shoulder patch of the Red Wolves, the feared elite paratroop unit.

  The elder felt his gut go cold as he recognised the men before him, and he knew without a doubt what was about to happen.

  More trucks rolled into the town square, a jeep in the middle of the convoy making directly for the elder. It pulled up beside him and the front passenger got out. He was a tall, barrel chested man in an impeccably smart uniform, and with a face like stone. His black eyes bore into those of the elder, who immediately recognised him.

  Josef Durakovic, Major. Commanding Officer of the Red Wolves.

  The elder felt his bladder loosen and warm urine trickled down his leg.

  Durakovic walked slowly towards him as the soldiers kicked in the doors of the houses nearby, dragging the occupants out at gunpoint, women, children, men, old and young alike. Screaming, terrified.

  They were bundled into a group in the centre of the square, soldiers surrounding them, rifles raised threateningly. The soldiers were calm and in control, waiting for orders.

  Durkavoic halted a metre short of the elder, his eyes never leaving the face of the old man.

  ‘You know who I am?’ Durakavic asked softly.

  The old man nodded slowly.

  Durakovic nodded too.

  ‘Then you know why I am here,’ he stated.

  The old man nodded again, slowly.

  ‘I know,’ he croaked through a mouth dry as tinder. ‘You come to kill us.’

  Durakovic’ thin lips twitched into a smile, fleetingly then gone.

  ‘Yes,’ he agreed. ‘All Muslim pigs like you. You had your chance to go. You didn’t go.’

  ‘We had no chance,’ the old man croaked angrily, tears welling at his eyes. ‘We are just peasants, we are nothing to you. We don’t fight.’

  Durakovic nodded again, not smiling now.

  ‘That is correct,’ he said. ‘You are nothing to us.’

  His right hand went to the holster on his hip, and undid the flap. As he started to draw out his pistol, the old man took a step forward and spat as hard as he could. The dry white spittle landed on Durakovic’s tunic front and hung there.

  ‘Serbian shit,’ the old man snapped hoarsely, and Duracovic’s pistol came up.

  The single shot made the civilians ju
mp, and the bullet blew a spray of blood and brain matter into the air behind the old man. The body dropped like a stone into a crumpled heap of stick-like limbs and thin tatty clothes.

  A woman screamed and her scream echoed around the town square.

  Durakovic turned to the sergeant standing nearby, and holstered his pistol.

  ‘Kill them,’ he said calmly.

  The snarl of automatic fire was deafening as bullets ripped through the throng of people, and within seconds magazines were being rapidly changed as the eager soldiers tried not to be the last one to get a kill.

  Silence fell again and the soldiers began to move between the bodies, single shots ringing out now as they administered kill shots to those still twitching.

  Durakovic let his eyes wander across the buildings around them, seeing the odd flicker of movement as civilians who had been hiding made a break for freedom. He was happy to let them go; they would spread the word of what had happened here today, and his reputation would spread further.

  He turned to his sergeant again and an unspoken warmth passed between the two men.

  ‘Burn it,’ Durakovic ordered.

  Chapter One

  Botany Town Centre

  Manukau City

  July 2015

  The afternoon rush hour always started early on a Friday, which suited Bahar Pasha well.

  It meant that by the time she had finished work and closed up the reception desk at the medical clinic, walked to the Starbucks and got herself a creamy cappuccino-her weekly treat-and made her way to the car, traffic had cleared enough to give her a good run home.

  Botany Town Centre always got busy on a Friday with the cinema, the pub, and the various eateries all picking up trade. People knocked off work and came to shop or meet friends and relax.

  She checked her watch as she crossed the car park towards the red Nissan Sunny. 615pm. She should be home by 630 and be eating dinner by 7. She could put her feet up and finish the magazine she had borrowed from reception. She smiled to herself, a stocky woman with greying black hair and a weathered, hard face. Life in New Zealand was good.