Bound, page 10
‘I take it you have security cameras?’ I had spotted two cameras on our little recce of the shop; one was pointed right down the costumes aisle. That one had the rather amusing, handwritten ‘smile for the camera’ sign pinned, crooked, to the wall immediately below it.
‘Yes, there are; three I think. My boss is the one in charge of those and he’s not in until tomorrow, but I’m sure he’d help you out if there was something specific you were looking for.’
That was great for us, and bad for us. Great as it meant there would be three different angles of the shop and months’ worth of recordings, and bad for us because it meant we would have to sit through months’ worth of recordings. But if those two thugs had been in here to get masks, we’d spot them. The boredom would be worth the evidence supporting the fact they planned this thing to the nth degree.
‘Okay, thanks for your help. We’ll call in tomorrow, then. Does your boss have a card?’
‘I think so.’ She pulled open a drawer and started ferreting around, before producing a rather cheap-looking business card. I handed her one of my flash ones. I still got a buzz about seeing my name with ‘Detective’ in front of it, printed alongside the police insignia. One of those cheap thrills. The thrill didn’t last long though, because this was only the first coin shop we’d been in, and there were several more to go.
31
I felt like I was tiptoeing down the hallway of the hospice. It was quiet, but in a peaceful kind of a way, not that horrid, echoey hospital-like way. This place felt light and airy and it seemed to ooze a calm solidity.
‘Your dad is in here. Your mum and Sheryl are with him,’ the nurse said as she guided me to his room.
‘Thanks,’ I said and poked my head around the corner.
I wasn’t sure what I was expecting, but this wasn’t it. It seemed too normal. If you didn’t know you were in a hospice, this could have been mistaken for a cosy bedroom in anybody’s house, with a view out to a garden, a couple of armchairs, pretty art prints on the walls, a bedside table, and a man looking like he was sleeping peacefully in the midst of it. The only giveaways were the occupants of the chairs: my mother, looking grim, and Sheryl, looking like she was trying to ungrim Mum.
‘Hi guys,’ I said and went over to give Mum a kiss on the cheek, then Sheryl, followed by Dad on the forehead. His skin felt papery under my lips and I noted a little frown furrowed between his brows.
‘This is a nice room,’ I said, by way of breaking the ice.
‘It’s a vast improvement on the hospital, that’s for sure,’ Sheryl said.
‘How is he?’ I asked, looking at what seemed a tiny form tucked under the blankets. His days of being a strapping, strong farmer seemed a very distant memory. His spindly arms looked like they wouldn’t have been capable of lifting a pillow, let alone throwing a hay bale. He hadn’t been eating or drinking for a few days, and I noted they hadn’t set up a drip for fluids. Since he was here, there wasn’t any point.
‘The move seems to have tired him out. He’s been asleep the whole time here. He won’t rouse,’ Sheryl said, and I could plainly see the affection tinged with sadness in her expression. ‘The staff are tweaking his medication because they think he is still in some pain. They’ve put him on a syringe driver so he gets twenty-four-hour coverage and they’re increasing his morphine dose slightly. They’re doing their best to make him comfortable.’
The thought of him being in pain was unbearable. I looked again at the marked furrow between his brows.
‘Have you heard from Mike? When’s he coming over?’ It must have been hard for my brother to be getting updates second-hand. But I knew his work meant he had to leave off coming from Melbourne as late as possible. I only hoped he hadn’t left it too late.
‘Yeah, he’s flying in tomorrow.’
I softened my voice. ‘How are you going, Mum?’
She looked at me, went to open her mouth, and then closed it again before turning towards Dad, a big tear lolling its way down her cheek.
32
My first duty for Friday morning was to attend the funeral of John Henderson. I was there both to support Jill and to represent the New Zealand Police. It wasn’t often I got to dust off my dress blues nowadays, and I always felt a special kind of pride when I pulled them on. A few of my colleagues were here too. Naturally DI Johns was one of them, in his dress uniform, because the media were certain to be here. Cynical, wasn’t I? Dunedin had turned it on with a stunning autumn day, azure sky and a light, warm, scented breeze. It seemed incongruous with the occasion. Weddings should have sunshine, funerals should have rain, as far as I was concerned. In my experience the weather turned arse about face way too often. No amount of frantic praying from stressed-out brides had swung it in fair fortune’s favour at the weddings I’d been to.
It was always interesting to observe who came out for these events, and events they were. High-profile murders always brought a huge crowd, and there were at least five hundred people here. The church was chocka. I didn’t pick John Henderson as a religious man, particularly with his line of business, but then it was amazing how many people found a new reliance on God to get through dark times. If I was in Jill’s position I would have clutched at every bit of comfort available, too, although personally I would have been expecting to be struck down by lightning for hypocrisy.
I looked around at the faces in the crowd. I often wondered if half as many people would have come out if the dearly departed had shuffled off this mortal coil courtesy of a heart attack, or choking on dinner. I also wondered how many professional mourners came along to these things just so they could get a free cup of tea and some savouries. I wouldn’t have had the cheek. According to the newspaper one of the big local funeral homes had to have a wee word to a regular only recently, especially after he started filling his pockets with the food. There were a number of familiar faces. Blair Harvey-Boyd was here, resplendent in expensive black. The tall, bald chap on his arm must have been Mr Chingford-Owen – Gregory, not Greg.
Even though Astrid Allen’s mourning attire was tasteful and demure, leaving only her hands and face uncovered, she still managed to turn every male head in the room. Well, with the exception of the Harvey-Boyd-Chingford-Owenses.
What did surprise me, though it shouldn’t have really, was the presence of a few people of interest to our Organised Crime Squad. It could have been coincidence – Dunedin could be a small town and everyone seemed to know everyone – but I didn’t think so. John had many secrets, it would seem. They would be followed up later – this wasn’t quite the right time.
All eyes turned to Jill and Declan Henderson. Jill had only been discharged from hospital the previous day. She was putting on a brave face. It must have been a phenomenal effort for her to walk up that aisle, and she leaned heavily on her son. She looked very much the glamorous widow, but while the makeup hid the last of the bruises, it couldn’t hide the gaunt and agonised appearance of her face. Declan stood tall and straight in his suit. I could see plenty of his mates in school uniform were here to support him too.
Everyone was asked to rise. It was time to pay our respects.
33
The hunt was still on for Gideon Powell and Jacob Sandhurst. Declan’s statement that they had previously been to the Henderson house, despite claiming otherwise, added to the growing mountain of evidence against them. Regular police were out door-knocking at their favourite haunts again, and being a little more insistent than they had been the day before. There was nothing like the funeral of a murder victim being plastered all over the television news to give everyone a sense of urgency; that and having The Boss giving us all a kick up the arse. According to border control, neither of them had tried to leave the country. Not that they needed to. There were plenty of backwater places to lose yourself in New Zealand, especially down this end of the country. We were having a mild autumn, Indian summerish, so it wouldn’t even be too unpleasant if they decided to go bush for a while.
Paul had been busy interviewing Angela Powell that morning, while some of us were off funeraling. He gave me a rather entertaining version of events. Surprise, surprise, she was still playing the good little gangster wife: swearing her husband’s innocence and vowing not to have any knowledge of where he was. Such dedication in one so young. Most admirable. Paul had referred to her as the Trumped-up Trophy Tramp. It actually suited her quite well.
I had the dubious pleasure of keeping Smithy out of people’s way for the afternoon. Since when did I become the designated babysitter? I took him for a trot into town to see if the owner of Lucky Coins was in residence. Smithy was unusually quiet, and clearly out of sorts. He even missed the opportunity to hassle and move along his favourite unlicensed busker from Albion Lane. Two-tone, as we nicknamed him, couldn’t believe his luck. He’d seen us coming and begun gathering up the coins scattered in the bottom of his dinged-in, moth-eaten excuse for a guitar case, but I don’t think Smithy even noticed him. I could see the gap-toothed smile flit across the guy’s face as we walked past him. He gave me a questioning look. I just shrugged and smiled. It was his lucky day. By the time Smithy and I reached George Street, the semi-rhythmic strumming and seriously flat singing had started up again, extra loud. Why the hell people gave him money, I’d never know. It only encouraged him, for heaven’s sake. I was glad I wasn’t a shopkeeper around there.
Lucky Coins had its usual throng of students and mums with pushchairs admiring the crap. The girl I’d talked to the previous day was on duty again, and as soon as she saw me she waved and reached over to press a buzzer. A few minutes later a man in his mid-twenties appeared from a room off to the right. The shop-girl pointed us out to him and he came straight over.
I did the introductions. ‘Hi. Detectives Shephard and Smith. We would like to ask you a few questions that relate to an ongoing investigation.’
‘Hi, I’m Robert Chang.’ He reached out and shook our hands with a limp-fish grip. ‘Susie told me you’d called by yesterday.’ Unlike his employee, Robert had a very pronounced Chinese accent, but like Susie, he also seemed very young. Mind you, I thought, age was no barrier to an entrepreneurial streak, as long as you had the resources to set yourself up. I wondered if he’d started out as a student here at the university and then moved on to bigger, brighter things. It wouldn’t have taken too much capital to set this up, and the stock value wouldn’t be massive, it was all cheap junk anyway.
‘Would you like to come into my office?’ I followed him, but noticed I’d lost Smithy to the kids’ toys section. He was probably better out of the way.
The office was as big a mess as the rest of the place. We sat at a cheap veneer table that was covered with an array of dirty, floral-patterned mugs.
‘Sorry about the mess,’ he said, but he didn’t look it. ‘What can I help you with?’
‘We’re trying to confirm the identity of a person or persons who may have come in here and purchased two of your clown masks. Susie explained to us yesterday that your till records are too general to help, but I was wondering about your video surveillance cameras and how far back your recordings go?’
Robert blushed and looked a little embarrassed.
‘Is there a problem with that?’ I asked.
‘Yes, a little.’ He wriggled in his seat. ‘The cameras are there from the previous business, but I haven’t actually connected them up to the computer system here yet. I am going to; in fact I have a man coming next week to do it. We have a bit of a shoplifting problem, you see. It’s not too bad because I have a few staff who wander around, and big signs pointing out the cameras.’
I resisted the urge to roll my eyes.
‘Is it for something serious?’ he asked. Like we’d be here if it wasn’t?
‘Yes, it is actually,’ I said.
The annoyance must have shown in my voice because he leaned forward and almost whispered, ‘Really, very serious?’
That little urge I got to slap dorks started my hand a-twitching.
‘Yes, a murder inquiry.’
He looked at me intently, then got up and slowly closed the office door, but not before having a good look around the shop to see if he had been observed. It was very theatrical, very Secret Squirrel.
‘I’ve got something that might help, but you can’t tell anyone.’
‘And why would that be?’
‘Because I don’t want staff to know.’ The expression on my face spurred him to elaborate. ‘Look, I haven’t been having too many problems with shoplifting – everyone has that, it’s small-time. But I have had a big problem with staff stealing.’ I thought of fresh-faced Susie out there and wondered if she’d had her hand in the till. ‘I got a private detective in, and he’s put in a secret camera, right above the till. That might be able to help; but the whole apparatus is hidden in the ceiling space, and I’d have to get him to come down after hours and get the footage.’ That explained the secrecy.
‘That could be very useful. Can you arrange that please, and then give me a call when you have it?’
‘Of course.’
‘Who did you use?’
‘Private investigator?’
No, plumber, idiot, of course I meant private investigator. The words wanted so badly to fly out of my mouth, but instead I managed a restrained, ‘Yes.’
‘A guy called Fripp, Benny Fripp.’
None of us was particularly fond of the private detectives. Most were ex-police anyway, but one or two had crossed the line between a private investigation and police operation in recent years, hampering the real detectives, and causing a bit of a public furore. Fripp was okay though, he had a solid name for himself.
When I finally wandered out, Smithy was waiting by the door, clutching a white plastic bag bulging with bits.
‘What did you get?’ I asked.
He held it open for me to see. There was a tacky-looking mermaid costume for Katie and an almost realistic plastic gun for Luke. There was also some colourful-looking stuff with Chinese writing on the package that I guessed must be Asian candy. It was all very nice playing dad and getting the kids a few pressies, but I wasn’t so sure his ex-wife Veronica would be that thrilled about this lot.
I looked at Smithy standing there – unshaven, sweaty, aromatic – and not in a good way, suit rumpled and with what looked like a sauce stain on the front of his shirt, and was struck yet again by how much his standards had slipped. In fact, it was downright sad. He’d slid from being a sharp, determined and valuable detective to this vision of slovenliness in front of me. Even though he’d had his trials – no one would deny that – it was still no excuse for giving up on, well, everything. Friends were supposed to tell people these things, weren’t they?
‘You look like crap, Smithy. You need to go home, have a shower, shave and do some washing.’
‘What?’ He turned and looked at me like I was a nutcase. ‘What do you mean?’
‘You look like shit, you stink, and you’ve got food all over your clothes.’ I pointed to the stain. ‘It’s not professional – it’s not a good look. Go home and do something about it.’
He gave his pit a bit of a sniff, looked down at the brownish spot, gave it a rub, then looked at me again.
‘Why don’t you just fuck off and mind your own bloody business?’ he said and stalked off.
Ah well, his response was not unexpected. And I could have been a little more subtle about it, I supposed. But at least I tried.
34
The day was turning into one of those. It was Saturday morning, and I had been all settled in at the breakfast table with the morning paper, a big mug of tea and some toast and peanut butter, enjoying a chat with Maggs, when the phone rang. The day before we had been at a funeral, fare-thee-welling a murder victim, and now we were faced with the discovery of another one. It was a case of all hands on deck. Bye-bye day off, bye-bye Sudoku, bye-bye cryptic crossword, hello work.
Now here I was, standing in the chill morning air, not exactly feeling spiffing, when I would rather have been curled up at home in my PJs, towelling robe and fluffy slippers. Someone had discovered a body down by the Otago Yacht Club. Crass thought though it was, there was one positive thing about it. Considering how bad we all felt about the lack of progress on the Henderson case, the bustle of a new case might help to get some people out of the funk of arrests gone bad, and give them something constructive to do. Smithy being candidate number one. In fact, he had been assigned to the case and was already in attendance.
I had to look from a distance beyond the cordon on Magnet Street while the SOCOs did their thing. One less person to contaminate the scene. I spent the time gazing at Forsyth Barr Stadium, which loomed in the background, and listening to the hum of traffic on the nearby State Highway 88.
Despite all the fuss and furore in Dunedin over the new stadium being built in the first place, there was no denying that it was an impressive edifice. I’d had a few trips up to Dunedin with Dad at the time it was being built, and watching the actual construction process had been fascinating, from its first skeletal bones, to the fleshing out of concrete-tiered seating, to filling it all in and finally the impressive roof. We weren’t the only ones who kept regular tabs on the process: there was always an array of cars and spectators keeping up with the play. Every time they held an open day at the construction site the place had been inundated by the curious. Kids large and small had come out to ogle at the cranes and feel dwarfed by the damned impressive structure, including us. And being a Southern Man, once opened Dad had dragged us along to the stadium to join in the fever of supporting the Otago Highlanders, and best of all, seeing the All Blacks play. He was your typical rugby-mad Kiwi bloke. I couldn’t help the sigh that escaped – I’d planned on popping into the hospice this morning to see if he was more comfortable and settled. I guessed that was on hold for now.
