Bound, page 14
None of this really helped in establishing a clear motive. Would resentment at John taking away one of his trophies be enough to make Gideon Powell commit murder? I doubted it. Men like that treated women like commodities – yet another business transaction. But it might have swayed the decision. But, then, why would he have brought The Cockroach along for the ride?
‘Was Jacob Sandhurst ever a client?’
‘Oh, God no.’ She looked so repulsed I thought she might be ill. ‘I would have rather taken a beating, run away, anything to avoid that.’ I seconded that motion.
‘Is there anything at all you can give me about Powell that might shed light on why he killed John?’
‘Sorry, like I said earlier, they seemed to have a solid, respectful relationship. But I don’t know any details about what that relationship was. I didn’t want to know. I wanted to keep as much distance between myself and that man as I could. He was a dangerous and despicable person. And you have to know that if I could help you I would, because I owe John Henderson everything … and Jill. If there was anything I could do to help you nail his killer, I would.’
I didn’t doubt it for a second.
42
‘Shephard.’
I’d heard his footsteps coming down the hallway so had already assumed the brace position by the time he arrived at the door. I wasn’t the only person in the squadroom. Sonia was there too. I noticed she had steeled herself too, so her radar must have finally tuned in to his frequency.
‘Yes, sir?’
‘What are you doing?’
There was a loaded question. My mood-o-meter hadn’t had time to gauge his in the three seconds I’d seen of him. When in doubt, take the cautious approach, especially if you still wanted your throat intact at the end of the encounter. I chose my words carefully.
‘Do you mean with regards to the case?’
‘No, I mean with regards to what you plan to eat for lunch. Of course I mean the bloody case.’ Bad mood confirmed.
‘I was looking into the manufacturing side of John Henderson’s business, seeing if there were any ingredients he imported for production that could also be used in the production of P. Trying to establish that link between Henderson and Powell.’
‘So where is his manufacturing plant?’ DI Johns asked.
‘All of the nutraceuticals are manufactured in Auckland. So if there is any evidence of the bulk buying and importing of ingredients that could be used in the manufacture of P it would be up there, whether that was product actually awaiting delivery down here, or invoices and packing slips.’
He grumbled to himself a bit before coming back to look at me. I felt uncomfortable under his gaze. There was always something predatory about it. There weren’t many people in this world who could make me feel vulnerable.
‘Okay, you’re on a plane tomorrow. Get it organised.’
‘What?’ I said, the word blurting out before I could rein it in.
He gave me a ‘how dare you question me’ look.
‘You are going to sort it out up there.’ He spoke slowly, like I was some idiot.
I thought of the beloved man lying in the bed in Otago Community Hospice. The thought of being that far away was unbearable. ‘I’m sorry, I can’t do that. My dad is very ill. I don’t want to leave the city.’
‘Well I’m sorry, Detective, but I have two murder investigations happening here, we are short-staffed as it is and I have to be very careful who I allocate where because of conflicts of interest. You are going to Auckland. End of story. I can’t spare anyone else.’
‘Can’t one of the Auckland detectives go on our behalf?’ Sonia asked.
‘And who asked you? You can keep your opinions to yourself.’ Shot down in flames. I appreciated her trying, though. ‘I need someone from here to go. It’s your job, Shephard. Now go and sort it out.’
With that he stormed off down the corridor, leaving two red-faced women in his wake.
‘Fuckwit,’ I heard Sonia say under her breath.
‘Bastard,’ I echoed.
43
‘Sam, wait up.’ Shit, it was Paul.
I was playing dodge the cruise-ship passengers walking through the alleyway of Albion Lane. They were a dead giveaway with their matching nylon tracksuits and big, expensive cameras.
‘I feel like I haven’t seen you for ages.’ That might have been because I was avoiding him. ‘You okay? You didn’t look that happy this morning. How’s your dad?’
He put his arm around my shoulder and drew me in close. I felt my body tense up for a moment before relaxing against him. Despite my inner turmoil I realised that a hug from him was precisely what I needed right now. I stopped walking and gripped his waist tightly.
‘Whoa, you’ll squeeze me to death there, girl,’ he said.
I felt my eyes welling up and a wave of sheer exhaustion wash over me. I’d been staving it off all day, but his warmth released the flood and I felt my body start wracking with the sobs. He shuffled me over to the side of the footpath then discreetly turned me around so passersby couldn’t see that I was having a moment; or, if they did realise, they couldn’t see who was having a moment. I felt his chin rest on my head and he didn’t say anything, just gently rocked me from side to side.
‘Has he died?’ he asked quietly, after a time.
I shook my head. The mere mention of the death word started me off again.
‘Ah, Sammy, you’re having a hard time of it, aren’t you?’
I marvelled at how he managed to express his love, support and grief in so few words. How could I ever question the heart of this man? Here I was carrying his child, and instead of wanting to blurt it out and share the joy, and try not to let it be overshadowed by Dad, I couldn’t; I had to conceal it, figure out how I felt about it, and if I even wanted this. I felt foolish, guilty and sick at heart all at the same time.
‘How about we go get a coffee or something, hey? Unless you need something a little stronger than that?’ God, what I would have given for a big glass of pinot noir right then, but that wasn’t about to happen anytime soon.
‘Coffee would be good.’
‘I’ve got some news that will make you feel better,’ he said.
Fortunately for me there was a café to hand, and it was dimly lit, so no one had to see what I was sure would be my beautiful, bloodshot eyes.
‘So what’s the good news?’ I asked, when he came back from ordering the drinks. I’d opted for English Breakfast tea in the end. The thought of coffee had made my stomach turn a little.
‘The good news is that we’ve tracked down Sandhurst’s wife.’
‘Really? But I’m taking it The Cockroach wasn’t with her.’
‘No, I didn’t mention there was a bad news part too, did I? Either she’s holding out, or she doesn’t know where he is.’
‘Where did they find her?’ The family home had been notably empty since Wednesday.
‘At a crib out at Karitane.’
‘So she was that close. Was it theirs?’
‘No, some friend’s. Anyway, she didn’t take too kindly to being told that Gideon Powell was dead and that we were very interested in having a chat with her husband.’
I could imagine some of the colourful language that would have flowed out of that dentally challenged mouth.
‘I’m guessing she’s standing by her man.’
‘Yup. The usual “he didn’t do it” rubbish, along with “the police framed him”. Bit tired of hearing that, really.’
‘It is a little lacking in imagination.’
‘Does that cheer you up a bit?’ he asked, giving me the big, blue, crystalline doe eyes.
‘Not as much as it would have if you told me they’d found Sandhurst, but it does, a little.’ I managed a smile.
‘Do you want to come over tonight? I could cook you something nice, we could crack open a good bottle of red and wash away our sorrows.’ It sounded very appealing, but there were a myriad of reasons why I couldn’t do that.
‘Sorry, I’m on the early flight to Auckland in the morning.’
‘Why?’
‘Johns is sending me on a P hunt.’
‘I didn’t think you’d want to head out of town right now, not with Jock so sick.’
I felt the tears prick at the corner of my eyes again. ‘The bastard didn’t give me a choice.’
‘Sod,’ he said, and reached over for my hand. ‘Is there anything I can do to help?’
I felt tired and confused and fraught, but despite that, or perhaps because of it, there was one special kind of comfort I needed that I knew damn well he could give.
‘Well, you could come over later tonight, just for a while.’
44
I’d gone for a run after work. I had to blow out the cobwebs, relax into the rhythm of my feet on the road, try and make sense of the turmoil in my head. The cadence of left foot, right foot, left foot, right foot was so reassuring, so predictable and regular. I had run down through the green belt to the city and then across through the university, past its gloriously gothic-looking registry building, felt a momentary shudder for a murdered young woman as I ran past Gore Place, and then up through the lush greenness of Lovelock Ave. My feet took me towards the Northern Cemetery. I hadn’t planned on going there, but it was as if something inside me knew better than my conscious self that I needed to come here, to acknowledge death, and the imminence of it, instead of skirting around its edges, not daring to look it in the eye. The simple and unavoidable fact was that my father was going to die.
I stood in front of the enormous folly that was the tomb of William Larnach, he of the landmark castle. His tomb was a miniature of Dunedin’s First Church, as grandiose a monument to death as you could get, although one that was looking in dire need of repair right now.
‘Dad is going to die.’
I said the words out loud.
The wind took them and swirled them around my head. They cut and hurt and stung my face, but they made a sad kind of sense.
I said them again.
‘Dad is going to die.’
With a sigh I turned and started to run back down the hill.
My dad was going to die, and soon.
There was something he needed to know.
45
The only illumination in the room came from the low lighting in the hallway. It was late, and there was no one else there, just me and him. I watched the slow rise and fall of his chest, listened to the quiet wheeze of his breath. I smiled as I thought back to the times in the past when I’d quietly sidled up to him, when I’d needed a chat, advice, reassurance, and he’d taken me in his big, strong arms and told me that everything would be okay. Oh, how I wished for that right now. For him to say Sam-a-Lamb, you’ll be fine. You’re doing the right thing. It will all be okay.
I knelt down on the floor by his head, looked at the little crease between his brows and gently brushed a wisp of his greying hair aside.
‘Hey Dad.’ I felt my voice choke. ‘I’m pregnant. I’m going to have a baby.’
I’m sure I saw the little crease soften.
46
Flying sucked. There was nothing comforting about being in a glorified tin-can ten thousand metres above sea level. There was nothing comforting about it when the turbulence made you feel slightly seedy. There was certainly nothing comforting about it when you were seated next to someone with a baby on their lap. To give the frazzled mother and restless child their due, the little girl was intolerably cute, with a mass of dark curls, and she didn’t cry; but she was entertained with snacks, lots of snacks, and a number of them landed up on my clothes. By the time I disembarked, and resisted the urge to kiss the ground, I had a nice range of sticky fruit-fingers on my shirt and barbecue rice-cracker crumbs on my trousers. So much for landing in Auckland looking as fresh as a daisy.
Fortunately for me, I was met at the airport by Detective Tim Green from the Auckland Drug Squad. Unfortunately for both of us, we had to contend with morning rush-hour traffic. In Dunedin, rush-hour traffic was more like rush-minute traffic. In Dunedin you felt seriously, seriously miffed if you had to wait through more than one traffic-light cycle. In Dunedin, a long traffic queue was considered to be any amount over five cars. Auckland defied my southern logic. Whatever possessed the population of an entire city to hop in their individual cars and flood the roads at the same time? I actually laughed as we crawled past the hundred-kilometre-per-hour speed sign on the motorway at five kilometres per hour. I could have walked faster than this. Had anyone ever reached one hundred, or was that an aspiration?
We were coming up to the one part of the journey I was looking forward to – driving across the harbour bridge. I was a card-carrying anti-Aucklander, but even I had to admit that, with the sun glinting off the water, the boat masts in the marina and the backdrop of skyscrapers and the impressive silhouette of the Sky Tower, the central city harbour was a beautiful place. That pleasure was gone soon enough.
‘Couldn’t you just stick the siren and lights on and hop in the bus lane?’ I asked. I was finding being stuck in traffic more claustrophobic than being stuck in the plane, and that was saying something.
‘Well I could, but then I’d let you explain it to the powers that be why you decided to use them in a non-emergency situation.’
‘No one would know, no one would tell.’
‘Yes they would. These things have a way of coming back to bite you.’
‘Well, it is an emergency. I’m feeling sick – sick of the traffic.’ I looked either side of me at the cars, crawling in unison, the sole occupant behind each wheel. Everyone looked tense and miserable. ‘Do you do this, drive to work?’
‘Hell no,’ he said. ‘I’ve got more sense. I take the train.’
We pulled up outside the manufacturing plant for Eros Global, which was in an industrial area in Rosedale, on the North Shore. It went under the slightly more socially acceptable title of Global Nutritional. The whole thing oozed respectability and higher purpose. The reception area was immaculate, with modern office furniture and lush plants, hired no doubt.
‘Detectives Green and Shephard to see Mr Langford please.’
The young woman behind the counter blushed slightly and it didn’t take a rocket scientist to realise she was more than impressed with my colleague. He could have been the original template for tall, dark and handsome. His suit looked high-street tailor-made rather than something off the rack from Hallensteins, like most of my co-workers wore. He oozed Auckland. He also oozed charm.
‘I’m afraid Mr Langford has just popped out. Was there something I could help you with?’
‘Did he say when he was coming back?’ I asked.
She looked disappointed that I’d spoken, and still directed her answers to Green.
‘No, he just said something had come up. Would you like me to try and call him for you?’
‘That would be good, thank you.’
She went about trying to ring the boss, and Green and I stood in the corner speculating.
‘What do you reckon. Done a runner?’ he asked.
‘It could just be an overwhelming urge for coffee. But I doubt it. I’m with you. What’s the bet he doesn’t answer his phone.’
We smiled at each other as the reception chick announced: ‘He’s not answering his phone – he must be driving. I’ve left a message. Do you want to wait?’
‘Actually, we’ve got a warrant to search the premises, so we won’t wait, if you don’t mind,’ Green said.
‘Oh,’ she said, looking confused. ‘Was there anything in particular you were looking for? Can I help you with that?’
I had to give her full points for holding her poise. I imagined part of her being so helpful was for Detective Green’s benefit, not mine.
‘You could give us a quick tour of the premises and then show us where Mr Langford’s office is. When he went out, did he take anything with him? Did you notice?’ Green said.
‘Well no, I didn’t notice anything, so I guess not.’
Receptionist Chick’s voice was overshadowed by the sound of an engine revving. I looked out the window and saw the brake lights of an Audi glowing red as the car jerked forward, trying to inch its way into the traffic.
‘Jesus, is that him?’
Receptionist Chick stammered something vaguely affirmative while Tim Green grabbed me by the arm and hauled me bodily out the door and in the direction of the car.
‘Get in,’ he yelled.
I was fumbling with my seatbelt as Tim threw our unmarked Holden into reverse. I swung my head around in time to see Audi Guy screech out into the traffic and head north up the road.
‘Get onto comms, call for back-up,’ Tim yelled as he too screeched into the flow of traffic.
At least we had the advantage of flashing lights and a bloody loud siren. Some officers loved the sound of those sirens. I loathed them; they seemed to trigger some primeval response in me that made me want to curl up and hide. That and high-speed driving. I grew up on a farm – the tractor barely made it to twenty. With one hand I clung on to the door handle for dear life. The other was messing around with the radio. The communication centre wanted to know our exact location, but how the hell was I supposed to know? I tried to read the street signs, but being thrown about so much in the car made this rather difficult.
‘Call out the road names,’ I said to Tim and then relayed them as best I could. Being tossed around in a swerving, weaving car wasn’t what I was expecting when I woke up this morning, and it certainly wasn’t my idea of a fun way to get a guided tour of Auckland. I felt a sudden urge to pray. I also wished I’d worn my Hanes self-cleaning underwear.
My sense of direction was thoroughly screwed, as Langford’s tactic for escape seemed to involve taking every turn he could, and so many of them involved roundabouts it wasn’t funny. He also seemed to be avoiding the main roads, which helped us as there was less chance of getting caught by traffic. Green was matching each twist and turn and was slowly gaining on him. The grim determination on his face told me we were going to be seeing this one out to the end; there would be no backing off unless absolutely in the interests of safety.
