Bound, page 15
Langford must have noticed the trend and realised the futility, because as we approached yet another roundabout at a speed I really wouldn’t recommend for the average punter, a rectangular projectile flew out of his car window – well, not so much flew as arched and then exploded in a sea of paper. The bastard had biffed the file boxes. I had to admit that in a surreal kind of way they looked really rather pretty, pages of paper flying across the road and being carried up on the breeze like a flock of oversized white cabbage moths. Driving though them felt akin to ploughing through an A4 blizzard. Unfortunately for us, a traffic sign leapt out from behind one of them and we glanced off it, the hit making a hideous metallic scraping noise that put my teeth on edge, like fingernails down a blackboard. The force dragged the car sideways briefly until Green wrestled it back under control. My heart was pounding so hard in my chest I thought I was going to throw up.
‘Jesus Christ,’ I yelled, the words flying out of my mouth before I could stop them.
‘Well if you’ve got any complaints, you drive,’ Green fired back at me.
I shut my mouth.
A number of other cars fell prey to the unique driving conditions too, and I saw a startled-looking woman end up parked smack in the middle of the roundabout, with a large, new arrow-sign bonnet decoration. There was going to be one hell of a mess to clean up, and I felt a bit sorry for the constables who would end up out there scouring the streets of Albany, trying to locate every last document. The diversion had slowed us down momentarily, and Langford had jumped forward an extra fifty metres and was still accelerating. Green wasted no time in trying to catch him up. Where the hell was the back-up? They hadn’t made an appearance yet.
‘Go left, go left,’ Green yelled. He was the one holding the steering wheel, so I don’t know why the hell he was giving me directions. Then I realised it was Langford he was shouting instructions at, as if he could send out thought waves, and remote-control the man. My mind automatically took up the chant: Go left, go left. The Audi veered sharply left at the next intersection, straight in front of a red Honda that slammed on the anchors and ended up stalled on the middle of the road. Green shot me a grin and I gave him a mental high five.
‘Yes,’ Green shouted. ‘Yes, yes, yes, you sucker. That’s a dead-end street, dickwad. Gotcha.’ I don’t know how the hell he managed to swing around the Honda at speed without collecting it, because I had my eyes closed at the time. All I know is there was a lot of tyre squealing involved and my head hit the side window with a clunk.
‘Shit.’
‘Sorry.’
When we got halfway down the street it was apparent Langford had figured out his error: his car was now slowed, turned and pointing directly towards ours, and I had a nasty thought that the silly bugger was going to try and ram his way past us; but I had underestimated his sense of self-preservation, because it lurched to a halt, the driver door swung open and he shot out and across the road like a rabbit with a dog up its arse.
‘Oh Jesus, he’s gonna run,’ Green said, the resignation heavy in his voice. ‘I hate running.’
‘The suspect has taken off on foot through the back of, ah what’s this street?’ I asked Green, as he was heading out the door.
‘Northcross Drive.’
‘Northcross Drive. The suspect is approximately five foot ten, brown greying hair, wearing a navy-blue suit, apple-green tie and heading through the back of what looks like apartment blocks. We’re pursuing on foot.’
I took off after Green. Desperation must have given Langford wings because he’d made short work of the back fence, and was nowhere to be seen. Great, fences. The guys had a definite advantage there, and Green managed it without too much difficulty, other than a tearing noise. But where I may have been short, I was also quick, and with a decent run-up and not too much of a loss of decorum, I scrabbled over the top of the thing. From the elevated view I could see Langford had made a lot of ground on us, a surprising amount. Just our luck: we had a runner, in all senses of the word. It soon became apparent that Green was not, and it wasn’t long before I had overtaken him.
‘Can you run him down?’ he called from behind.
‘Yes,’ I called back. I might have lacked the pace, but I more than made up for it in stamina. I knew that as long as I kept him in sight, he’d tire before I did. Well, that was the theory, unless he happened to be a national rep, or something equally over-achieving.
It didn’t take long before I was gaining. We’d also gained a bloody dog, which ran alongside me, barking its head off like it was a great game. The barking seemed to spur Langford to run faster.
We’d been running across a park, but were now getting up towards built-up residential streets again and a busy road. I was getting closer.
Forty metres.
Thirty metres.
Twenty.
Ten.
‘Give it up, Langford,’ I yelled between gulps of air. ‘You may as well stop. Can’t you hear the sirens? They’re coming for you.’
He probably couldn’t hear them over the bloody dog. The stupid bugger kept running.
‘Don’t make me tackle you.’
He started weaving from side to side. Bloody marvellous.
I could see the grass was going to be ending sometime soon, so, if I wanted any kind of cushioned landing, I was going to have to do something fast. I threw on a burst of speed and so, dammit, did he. It was just as we reached the joy of asphalt that I was finally in range to throw myself at his legs, the words of my sixth-form phys-ed teacher echoing in my ears: ‘Go low and hard.’ I felt the thwack as my shoulder hit the back of his thighs, and the two of us pitched forward, my arms wrapping around his waist.
In a tackle that would have done the All Blacks proud, I brought him to the ground.
‘Oh fuck,’ was all he said, and lay there like a beached fish, all the run gone out of him.
The dog still pranced around, making pretend growls, interspersed with delighted yelps. Stupid mutt. I wasn’t sure whether I was feeling exhilarated or pissed off, and there was an overwhelming urge to smack Langford around the side of the head for being such an idiot; but ultimately, there was something inordinately satisfying about having left Detective Green in my wake and brought down the bad guy myself. It even overcame the sting of grazed knuckles and knees.
47
Rowan Langford was looking decidedly shitty. But not half as shitty as Detective Tim Green. Although the car chase had only been short-lived, Tim was annoyed by the fact he’d scraped the car, even more rattled by the fact that in the rush to get over the fence he had ripped the pocket on his flash suit, and hideously upset by all the grief he was getting from his colleagues because he’d been outrun by a girl. Langford was not attuned to the general mood. If he was he might have been a little more co operative.
‘Why did you decide to run from us when we arrived at your workplace, Mr Langford?’ Green asked.
‘I wasn’t running from you. I had just realised I was late for an important appointment, so I was in a hurry.’
‘In such a hurry that you failed to notice the vehicle following you with the flashing lights and the siren going?’
‘I had the radio on, sorry. I didn’t hear it.’
‘Ah, so it’s normal driving practice for you to cut dangerously across lanes and travel thirty kilometres per hour above the speed limit, is it?’
He didn’t get a reply to that one.
‘And running away on foot? Not stopping for an officer?’
Silence.
‘Maybe you can answer this question then. Why did you feel the need to throw a carton full of documents out the window while you were rushing to your appointment?’
‘Fine me for littering then.’
Tim Green put his face very close to that of our designated clown. The clown looked uncomfortable about the proximity. ‘You might want to think twice about getting cute with us, Mr Langford. This isn’t some little chat about a minor misdemeanour. We are in the process of investigating a homicide. So it is in your best interests to lay off the funny talk and start answering some questions.’ It was always amazing how the word homicide could coax people into being more reasonable. ‘So how about we start again, and you tell us why you ran and why you threw away all of those documents?’
‘I’m not saying anything until I speak to my lawyer.’
Or not. Why did the bastards always hide behind their lawyers?
‘I’m pretty sure your lawyer would recommend telling the truth, considering today’s debacle.’
‘I haven’t done anything wrong.’
‘So why did you run?’
‘Because you chased me.’
‘Oh, so you’re saying it’s our fault that you sped off and raced through city streets, putting innocent people at risk?’ That was always the way the media portrayed it.
Langford shut up and didn’t say another word.
48
After five hours of searching the manufacturing plant and going through endless files of documents, both hard copy and on computer, we hit some pay dirt. The bulk storage room contained a number of drums of ingredients that could be used in the manufacture of methamphetamine. Not pseudoephedrine, or anything that required the strictest registration and accountability, but there were some of the other ingredients that would be a little difficult to explain if you weren’t involved in a legitimate pharmaceutical manufacturing plant. Most households didn’t need bulk lots of hypophosphorous acid, or iodine, for instance. Yes, sir, my kid grazes himself a lot. Yeah, right. These products didn’t appear to have any legitimate purpose on the manufacturing schedules we checked, so I was guessing they were destined for shipping to underhand enterprises, including those of Gideon Powell in Dunedin.
We’d stopped for a welcome bite to eat, thank God, because I was feeling ravenous, seedy and mildly faint all at the same time. Mr Auckland was eating sushi with that strange combination of delicacy and macho that only men can manage. I’d succumbed to an urge for a mince-and-cheese pie and a cream donut. Apparently I wasn’t supposed to eat cream, according to the pregnant people police, but, what the hell; tell that to my hormones.
‘You know, for some time we’ve been aware of a mystery man, someone quite respectable, who was involved in the supply chain for manufacture. We’d nicknamed him Mr Clean. The drug-squad boys in Dunedin would have been aware of this. I’m beginning to wonder if your John Henderson was our Mr Clean, or perhaps the manager here, Langford.’
‘Could be,’ I said, my mind whirring ahead. ‘Although, I’d wager that John would be more likely. Firstly, he owned the business – although he’d need an insider, a Johnny-on-the-spot up here: Mr I’ve-done-a-runner-with-a-box-of-goodies Langford. But we’d established he had a good relationship with Gideon Powell, his client. With him living in Dunedin, there’s also a nice degree of separation for both sides of the business. For the CIB in Dunedin, we’ve been looking local, but the actual supply chain comes from Auckland; and for you guys, the supply chain is here, but the owner is out of town. Quite neat and tidy really.’
‘Yes, he’d be someone quite useful, especially if he was quiet, professional and flew under the radar. He’d be an asset to any organisation.’
Yes, he would, which raised a very significant question.
‘He’d be a terrific asset, which makes me ask myself why on earth Gideon Powell would have killed the hand that supplied him?’
49
How’s Dad? I typed into the cellphone. I had learned to double check everything before I hit send, courtesy of a few unfortunate incidents with autocorrect. This would not be the time to inadvertently send ‘who’s dead’.
The departure lounge at Auckland airport had lost its charm. Normally I would have said the best thing about Auckland was the departure lounge, or being on the motorway heading south; but having been herded like sheep through security and then left to sit here for hours, courtesy of fog temporarily closing Dunedin airport, I was well and truly sick of it. By the time I got to Dunners and then into the city, it would be after eleven o’clock at night. A bit late to sneak in a visit to Dad.
Even though I was expecting it, the bleep-bleep text reply nearly gave me a coronary. I felt the knot of anxiety screw a little tighter. Between worrying about Dad and then worrying about the imminent pleasure of being stuck like a sardine in a winged tin-can projectile way too high above the ground, and then worrying that Dunedin airport would close again and we’d end up flying to Invercargill and get chucked on a bus for a fun two-and-a-half hour ride back to the city, I was turning into a basket case. I longed for either a lot of wine or diazepam, and wasn’t in any condition to have either.
I worked up the courage to look at the reply from Sheryl:
Not good. Unconscious but groaning. In pain. Staff tweaking morphine. Travel safe xx.
I turned off my phone and headed towards the bar.
50
The morning’s squad meeting drifted by in a tired and sleep-deprived daze. My worst-case scenario had eventuated the previous night, and after two aborted attempts at landing, the aircraft had been diverted to Invercargill because of the fog. The ear-splitting roar of engines and the sensation of being thrown back into my seat not once, but twice as we got to within a hundred and fifty metres of the tarmac in Dunedin hadn’t done anything for my nervous system or my constitution, and I’d had to acquaint myself with the greaseproof bag provided in the seat pocket in front of me. Between airplane rollercoaster rides and bus trips, I had finally got home at three o’clock in the morning a little the worse for wear.
I should have pulled a sickie. Well, actually, I wouldn’t have been faking it, but I was expected to give a full report on yesterday’s events to the group. I managed to get through it, although I was feeling a bit wobbly on my pins. I must have looked bad, because even Dickhead Johns asked if I was feeling all right, which was unheard of.
At least the day before hadn’t been wasted from a case perspective. We had managed to uncover the paper trail that followed several barrel-loads of ingredients used in the manufacture of P from legitimate suppliers in China, to John Henderson’s Global Nutritional in Auckland, to a Dunedin address we knew to be linked to Gideon Powell. Langford’s little attempt at ditching the evidence hadn’t worked after all, the slightly road-soiled documents providing a concrete connection. We also uncovered a bit of double-handling that brought the products to Dunedin, to Eros Global, and then back to Auckland, to another business for distribution to the drug trade. Everything ran through genuine businesses, with what seemed to be proper documentation, which kept it all above board and off the police radar. John Henderson, as it turned out, was definitely Mr Clean.
‘You look like a girl who needs some food and a coffee.’
That was the understatement of the year. Paul had tracked me down immediately after the meeting. No amount of makeup could hide the attack of the pale and sicklies I was suffering this morning. I could see the concern on his face.
‘God, yes,’ I said. ‘Get me out of here.’
‘I’ve got a car, for a meeting at ten. We’ve got time to grab something, then we could head over to the beach for some fresh air.’ It was a bit out of the way, but the idea of looking at the wide-open expanses of the Pacific Ocean held a lot of appeal. It was even a reasonable enough day to consider a quick wander.
‘Sounds perfect,’ I said.
It was a quiet car ride, with me content to sit, warming my hands around the takeaway hot chocolate, head leaning against the window, ruminating about life. I still couldn’t face coffee for some reason. Paul had enough sense to leave me to my thoughts. The background chatter on the police radio punctuating the hum of the engine and tyre noise provided the ambience.
I had to tell him. There was so much going on in my life right now that this was getting to be too big a thing to bear alone. For me this was the elephant in the room, and it felt like the walls of that room were closing in and the elephant was having a growth spurt. But how did you break that kind of news to a man? Hey Paul, you’re going to be a daddy! I’m pregnant, but I don’t know what I’m going to do yet or how much I want you involved, just thought you should know. Did I drop that bombshell on him and then cruise back to work, whistling a happy tune because I’d got it off my chest while he went off to his meeting in shock? There you go, love, have a nice rest of your day.
Paul pulled up beyond the surf life-saving club at St Kilda, near to the bollards the DCC had put across the road to close John Wilson Drive to vehicles. It was apparent from the sideways rocking motion and the insistent whistling noise that it was way too windy over here to get out of the car, not unless you enjoyed being sandblasted and frozen all at the same time. Still, it was good to look out at the whitecaps and the occasional masochist out walking their dog along the beach. It had to be one of the windiest, and thus coldest places in the city, which is why they built a big children’s playground out here. It didn’t seem to stop the punters, though, with little rugged-up figures doing their best on the swings, and running up the stairs of the dinosaur slide.
Paul turned off the engine and then, like a teenager parked up at the beach with a fresh driver’s licence and his girlfriend, he leaned over and took matters to hand in the time-honoured tradition of making out in the car. It was a while before we surfaced for air, and I was amazed at how fast you could steam up the windows.
‘Hi,’ he said.
‘Hi, yourself,’ I replied, grinning, despite my preoccupations. What was it about cars, especially work ones, that made kissing feel somehow gloriously wicked? He reached for his giant-sized coffee from the cup-holder. The waft of it made me wince. Even the smell of coffee wasn’t doing it for me today.
