Reaper, page 14
Eventually he said, ‘We met through our children. My son was dating his daughter.’
He was being so economical with the truth, she had no choice but to push him further.
‘Are they still dating?’
Another pause. ‘No, they are no longer dating.’
He was forcing her to dig now.
‘How did the relationship end?’
He gave her an odd look, and she wondered then if he had cottoned on to the fact she already knew.
‘Why is this relevant?’
‘If their relationship ended badly, then that will have an impact on your relationship with Max Grimes, and how that shapes some of our enquiries into Gary Cochrane’s death.’ She couldn’t get more black-and-white than that.
He nodded. ‘I understand. The relationship ended badly.’
‘How badly?’
He took a very large breath before continuing.
‘My son…’ He paused again. ‘My son took his daughter’s life, before ending his own.’ His voice cracked and again Meredith felt that pang. She could sense McCarten flinch beside her. He had been made aware of this detail, but hearing it in its rawness was very different to reading it on paper.
‘I am very sorry to hear that, and am very sorry for your loss.’ She found it hard to imagine the mass of mixed emotions this man and his family had to go through. Not only losing your child, but to have to face the enormity, and comprehend the evil, of what they had done. Not to mention the judgement about their parenting that would have fallen upon them from all quarters. ‘Are you alright to continue, or do you need a moment?’
‘No, no, I’m okay. Let’s just get this over with.’
‘Okay. What was the context behind you talking with Max Grimes about Nero?’
‘My son had been addicted to methamphetamine and was high when everything happened. We had been talking about drug dealers.’
‘Is Max Grimes a drug dealer?’ It was a question she didn’t want to ask, in case he gave an answer she didn’t want to hear, but she had to ask it.
‘No, no, he’s not.’
The sense of relief was immediate. She didn’t think he was, or ever would be, given the circumstances of his life, but it wouldn’t have been the first time she had misjudged Max.
‘Then why were you talking about drug dealers?’
‘I wanted him to look into some for me. He used to be a police detective. You probably know this already – may have even worked with him.’ He looked at her steadily as he called her out. She didn’t react, kept her face impassive.
‘Is that what brought you to Auckland? I understand that you live in Cambridge, and have only been in Auckland for a number of days now.’ Cambridge was a wealthy satellite town an hour and a half from the city.
‘It was one of the reasons, but not the only one. I do quite a lot of business here too.’
‘Where are you staying, in case we need to contact you again?’
‘I keep an apartment here, up on Karangahape Road. Overall it’s cheaper than constantly paying for hotels. I am in the city that regularly.’
It was a coincidence she couldn’t ignore that the man had an apartment right in the epicentre of the murders. He must be very familiar with the area.
‘So what, specifically, did you mean when you said you had asked Mr Grimes to look into drug dealers for you?’ Now they were getting to the nitty-gritty.
‘I know this will sound bad, but I will be upfront and say I wanted him to find out who the dealer was who sold to my son.’
‘And what were your intentions, if he was able to track this dealer down?’
‘I don’t know – I hadn’t really thought that far ahead. It certainly wasn’t to find him and kill him, if that’s what you were angling at. I don’t even know if this Nero was the dealer that supplied my son.’
‘Did Mr Grimes know?’
‘No, he didn’t know either. He told me he would make enquiries among some acquaintances, see if he could make contact with any dealer, and start from there.’
‘Do you know how far he got with that?’
‘Well, that’s when he told me about Nero. He said he’d been given the name by someone – someone he trusted – and that he’d managed to arrange a pick-up from him.’
‘And when did that happen?’
‘He told me it was on Wednesday but he didn’t tell me what time.’
‘Where?’
‘Myers Park – he said it was going to be in Myers Park.’
This continued to follow Max’s account of events, suggesting it was true – unless, of course, they were both lying.
‘And what did you do with this knowledge? Did you follow him to Myers Park to see the interaction, find out who this Nero was?’
‘No, of course I didn’t. Like I said, I didn’t know what time they’re going to meet up, and I wasn’t going to waste my whole day waiting around just in case. I had better things to do.’
‘You weren’t even a little curious? In case he did happen to be the one who supplied your son?’
‘Of course I was curious. Wouldn’t you be? But what was the likelihood Max would find the right arsehole on the very first try? It was a million to one. Not bloody likely.’ Shane McFarlane’s composure was starting to leave him, and with it, the chances of him letting something slip increased. So Meredith pressed on, intentionally poking the bear.
‘So you’re telling me that you help organise a meeting with a drug dealer who could have been the one who sold the meth that fuelled your son’s crazed actions; then he suddenly turns up dead, and you had absolutely nothing to do with it?’
‘Of course I had nothing to do with it. Don’t try to lay that at my feet.’ He leaned forward across the table, looked her straight in the eye.
There was something in his gaze that made her intensely uncomfortable, that made her want to lean away from it. But she did not.
He raised his hand, finger pointing towards her, jabbing with each spat-out sentence.
‘Max Grimes and I are both fathers looking for answers as to why our children are dead. I gave him an opportunity to find out who did this to them, to find which bastard supplied my son the drugs that ruined his life, and ultimately destroyed Grimes’ daughter’s too. I am not the only one who is hurting here.’
He stood up and grabbed his coat, as if he had decided this interview was over. Meredith didn’t make to stop him. He moved towards the door, but turned to take one parting shot.
‘You should be paying more attention to the one who actually met the dead guy, the one who had opportunity to seek retribution and do something about it. You should be fucking well looking at him.’
40: Max
The streets were quieter than usual – a reflection of the return of incessant rain; or of something else? Max was early on in his rounds, checking in on his people, taking the time to stop and talk if that was what they wanted. And tonight people did want to talk – they wanted him to stay with them a little longer, not rush away to the next. All his conversations carried the same theme. They all wanted to talk about the Reaper. With some the name was spoken in a reverent whisper and a sense of disquiet, with others it was with outright fear.
The name had been splashed across the headlines and was the hot topic on the radio and online news websites. It had even caught the eye of the international press. Max despised social media, but as much as he had hated to do it, out of both curiosity and necessity he’d checked in.
‘The Reaper’ was trending. Comments on any form of social media seemed to bring out either the best in people, with humour, charm or messages of support, or they brought out the absolute worst, particularly from the faceless poison-penners. In this instance it was the latter. The vitriol and hatred being expressed was world class. If it had been directed at the Reaper, that would have been bearable. But it was not.
‘He’s doing us a favour getting those bums off the street.’ ‘Clearing the trash.’ ‘The homeless are a disgrace to this city. It’s a good way to get rid of them.’ ‘Kill the whole damn lot of them.’ ‘Can we put him on the city payroll?’ ‘Give the man a knighthood.’ ‘He’s doing a top job! Keep it going Mr Reaper.’
It was humanity at its worst, and Max had had to stop reading as it broke his heart and bruised his soul. This went far beyond victim-blaming.
And then there were the memes. There was dark humour and then there was cruelty. All he witnessed was cruelty.
A number of his regulars weren’t in their usual spots, and as he approached another small group on Upper Queen Street he realised why. Some of the loners had drifted towards others and were keeping vigil together. He guessed they were hoping for safety in numbers.
He stopped by the three men, greeted each of them: ‘Scottie, Isaac, Red.’
‘Max,’ ‘Gidday,’ ‘Bro,’ came the replies.
They were huddled together on a wide ledge outside a now-closed shop passing around a joint. He waved it away when offered. Much as he would have loved to take the edge off, he had work to do.
‘You guys doing alright?’
‘Well, we’re still alive, if that’s what you mean,’ said Red. ‘Better off than some of those other unlucky bastards.’
The others made tight-lipped noises of agreement.
Max took a look around the place they had chosen to camp. The overhead fluorescent lighting of the veranda was so fierce it made him wince, and he took note of the security camera out front of the store that pointed directly at where they were sitting. The naysayers and privileged often belittled people who lived rough, and as he’d witnessed, the social-media commenters certainly did, but those who had to live by their wits to survive weren’t stupid. These three had situated themselves in a place where they were conspicuous and monitored, somewhere that no self-respecting serial killer would go near unless they were a complete idiot. Which, given the extreme and precise ways the Reaper had gone about killing his victims, he was definitely not. Max wondered how many others would be congregating in places where they felt even a little bit safer. He would find out soon enough. What he didn’t dare wonder was how the Reaper would respond to this. Would it be enough to put him off his spree? Max hoped to God it would be.
‘What have you guys heard?’ Max asked. ‘Anyone got an idea who’s doing this?’
‘Nah, mate. Fucked if we know,’ Red said.
‘It will be some sick bastard getting their jollies off,’ said Isaac.
‘What? Killing homeless folk?’ Max asked.
‘We’re easy targets.’
‘Speak for yourself. I’m sure I can fend off some fucking ghost.’
Red and Isaac were arguing out their points in their inane, stoned fashion, but Max’s eyes were on Scottie. He hadn’t moved a muscle and sat there, eyes downcast, as if he was contemplating something.
‘What did you think, Scottie? What’s your take?’ he asked.
The other two paused their banter, curious to see what insight Scottie would come out with.
‘When there’s been a murder you’ve got to ask yourself who has something to gain.’ Max couldn’t fault that logic. Scottie continued on, words and arms getting more animated. ‘The ones who have something to gain in this stinking place are the bastards who don’t want us on the streets. Because they know we’re the ones who really keep everything under control. It’s not the POLICE, it’s not the council keeping Auckland great. It’s us. We’re the ones guarding this city, keeping the criminals out, keeping away the riffraff. You watch, they’ll get rid of us, and that’ll leave a space for something like organised crime. Nature loves a vacuum. And the mafia are in cahoots with those in charge. The rot goes all the way to the top, I tell you.’ His baritone lilt seemed to add a weight to his words, but the words themselves were utter shite. The other two laughed at his theory.
‘Hey, Scottie, you’ve had too much of the weed, mate. You ain’t a Guardian of the Galaxy, old man.’ Red liked to poke fun at Scottie.
‘Yeah, beam me up, dude.’ As always, Isaac had to chip in too.
But the man in question completely ignored the scorn and ridicule of his compatriots. Max noticed the three-quarters empty bottle of whiskey by his feet and realised he was just another man fuelled by booze-induced certainty. ‘You laugh now, but you’ll see I’m right,’ said Scottie. ‘And when I am you’ll be laughing on the other side of your face. You just wait.’
‘And you came up with this idea all by yourself?’ Red asked. ‘Or have you been talking with those voices in your head again?’
‘It’s not just me who thinks like this. Old George and I have been talking. He agrees with me. And,’ Scottie leaned forward, gesturing for Max to get closer, and whispered at the top of his voice, ‘he even reckons he’s seen the Reaper too, knows who it is, but he hasn’t told anyone because he doesn’t want to end up like Skeet.’ With that he winked at Max, and leaned back against the large panel window.
Alarm bells began to go off inside Max’s head.
‘And did Old George happen to say who he thought it was?’ he asked.
‘I wouldn’t listen to anything he says. Scottie’s just as nuts as Old George,’ Isaac said. ‘Probably nutser.’
‘You know nothing,’ Scottie replied. ‘You know nothing at all, and you can shut your fucking cake-hole before I shut it for you.’
In his drunken belligerence he took a half-hearted swing at Isaac, and Max realised he had to act quickly if he was going to get any information out of the man, even if it was likely the stuff of booze-fuelled fantasy. He got down on his knees on the pavement and carefully took Scottie’s hands in his own. The action startled Scottie, but instantly drew his attention away from Isaac, his surprised eyes seeking Max’s.
‘Scottie, you need to listen to me, because it’s important for Old George’s safety, and probably yours too. What did he tell you exactly? Did he say who he thought the Reaper was?’ This was starting to feel a lot like déjà vu.
The old man leaned forward again, looking left and right before moving his face up close to Max’s ear. Max cringed at the breath, but didn’t move.
‘The stupid old bugger wouldn’t tell me who it was,’ he hissed. ‘But he knew … he knew alright. He wouldn’t say because he was scared – scared he was going to be next, just like Skeet. The Reaper has eyes and ears everywhere. You can’t hide from the Reaper.’ And with that he leaned back, letting out an eerie cackle.
41: Meredith
Shane McFarlane’s words were sitting heavily in Meredith’s mind. She was well aware that a natural reaction to being confronted, to having someone make allusions or outright accuse you of something, was to deflect attention. Many people did this unconsciously. For some it was very strategic; cornered animals would resort to anything to escape, including sacrificing others. But the way he had thrown Max under the bus in such an impassioned manner seemed more than good acting – it felt raw, it felt real. She had to consider that perhaps it was a half-truth – the rawness was because of a very real grief – and that he had channelled that emotion to throw her off the scent. It was a cynical view, but she owed it to herself and to Max to be objective.
She knew she should take anything McFarlane said with a grain of salt, but he was so difficult to read. Fuck. She leaned her elbows on the table, held her head in her hands. It was an unhappy day when she shouldn’t trust her own judgement.
‘Meredith?’
She looked up, and there he was standing before her, concern written on his face. That face. She stood up abruptly, chair legs scraping across the concrete floor.
‘Jesus Christ, Max, what the hell happened to you?’
Silence descended upon the cafe and she realised just how loud that had come out. Max looked mortified at the attention. She quickly gestured for him to sit down, sat back down herself, looking side to side to see if everyone had gone back to their business. A few were still staring at Max.
‘Are you okay?’ she asked. She looked him over properly then, took in the swollen, closed eye, the bruised jaw. Noted the taped and bandaged left hand and how gingerly he pulled out the chair and lowered himself onto it. He was wearing a hoodie with the hood pulled up, trying to conceal as much of the damage as he could, face lowered, avoiding the curious looks of the cafe patrons.
‘I’m fine,’ he said. If ever there was a more hated and dreaded response to that question, she didn’t know it. He was clearly anything but fine.
‘That I don’t believe for a second. Have you been to the hospital, had everything checked out properly? You sure that jaw isn’t broken – or your hand, for that matter?’ She reached out across the table for it, but he promptly slid it underneath.
‘I’ll be fine. The jaw’s not broken, otherwise I wouldn’t be able to talk properly to you, would I?’ His words were slow and slightly drawn so she supposed that counted as properly. He had also carefully avoided answering her question about the hospital, so she knew damned well he hadn’t been anywhere to seek treatment. There was no point pushing that issue. He was stubborn at the best of times.
‘Well, are you at least going to tell me what happened?’ she asked.
‘I would have thought it was pretty obvious.’
Meredith wasn’t used to this level of, not hostility, but – what would she call it? – reactivity from him. It either meant he was in a lot of pain, or he was feeling humiliated. Or both. This conversation was not getting off to a good start, and she wasn’t even sure now if it was a good time to quiz him about Gary Cochrane. But there would never be a good time. She clearly couldn’t go in strong, though. That wasn’t going to get her anywhere.
‘I can see you’ve taken a hell of a beating.’ She softened the tone in her voice, looked him in the eye. ‘Is there anything I can do for you, help you with? Have you at least got some good painkillers?’
