Bound, page 6
He had an honour guard of sorts. A collection of officers and detectives lined the corridor, their silence and threatening stances providing a surreal moment. The man in question seemed impervious to the show of strength. I stood next to Smithy, poised to act, knowing full well that if he decided to have a go there wouldn’t be a damn thing I could do to stop him. He didn’t move; instead he glared, liquid venom streaming from his eyes. Their gazes locked, and whether Powell recognised Smithy, or merely recognised enmity when he saw it, he flicked his head with an ‘up yours’ and a sneer. I sensed Smithy’s muscles tense, but he held his ground. He must have realised that while getting a cheap shot in here might feel good, the hangover wouldn’t be worth it. Paul, who was guiding Powell to the interview room, eyed Smithy with caution, then, when he realised no challenge would eventuate, his eyes found mine. Trust me, was the silent communication. It wasn’t necessary.
DI Johns followed up as rearguard.
‘That’s enough people, get back to work,’ he said as they disappeared into the interview room and the door shut behind them with a sharp clank. The moment it closed there was a stampede for the adjacent viewing room. They had chosen to conduct the interview in a room with a two-way mirror. Smithy cleared a path in front of him and no one argued when he occupied the middle position. I sidled in next to him.
DI Johns was in charge of the interview, with Paul riding shotgun. Their voices crackled tinny over the speaker. They undertook the formalities while Fat Bastard Powell regarded them like they were minion scum. Just looking at him repulsed me, with his jowls and beer gut monuments to excess, his lank, long hair pulled back into a ponytail like some middle-aged greaser trying to reclaim his youth. Add to that the knowledge of the type of life he led, and he was truly loathsome. He was utterly sure of himself, so much so that he had waived his right to legal representation.
‘Where were you on the night of Monday the eleventh?’
‘I was at home fucking my wife. Where were you?’
The DI didn’t bat an eyelid. ‘I was at a crime scene actually, at the home of John Henderson. You may have heard about it.’
‘That the one out at Seacliff? Lucky you.’
He didn’t have a care in the world. His arrogance made him even uglier, if that was possible. He was one of those people where the ugliness on the inside seeped through to tarnish the outside. I doubted even a mother could love this man.
‘Yes, but not so lucky for you.’
‘Is that right? And why would that be?’ He checked his watch and yawned. ‘And can you hurry, I’ve got a haircut in an hour.’ He needed it.
‘We have evidence that puts you at the scene of the crime.’
Fat Bastard Powell laughed and leaned back in his chair. ‘What did you do, pull it out of your arse? You can’t have any evidence because I wasn’t there. As I said, I was at home with the missus.’ He gave the DI an up-and-down look. ‘I bet she’s a better lay than yours, if you’ve even got a wife. Or do you prefer the blokes? Would you rather fuck this dickhead beside you?’
To their credit, neither the DI nor Paul rose to the bait; in fact the two of them wore an expression that rather resembled boredom. They also didn’t answer, so the silence hung there and got heavier by the second. Powell took a few moments to realise his goading wasn’t working. His face underwent a subtle transition from full-on boast and bluff to slightly uncertain boast and bluff. After a few moments more, it was him who broke the spell.
‘What do you mean you’ve got evidence that puts me at the scene of the crime? What evidence?’ He sat forward, arms on the table. Someone had decided to take an interest.
‘We have your fingerprints.’
He snorted. ‘Well you can’t have. Because, as I said earlier, I wasn’t there.’
‘We have your fingerprints from inside a rubber glove, one that happened to be worn when you shot John Henderson’s head off. We know this because it is covered in his blood. You obviously haven’t been watching enough TV, because if you did you would realise we can get prints off gloves, easy, prints like yours.’ It wasn’t actually that easy, but no one quibbled.
‘Well it’s a crock of shit. You can’t possibly have my prints. I’m being stitched up. Is this how you do your policing nowadays, plant evidence? Make an innocent man look guilty? Well, it’s a load of fucking crap. I’m not saying another word to you fucking arseholes until I get my lawyer.’
16
Jacob Sandhurst, aka The Cockroach, looked like he’d prefer to scuttle back under the dung heap where he belonged. Compared to Fat Bastard Powell, he was a string bean. In fact, I imagined side by side they would resemble Laurel and Hardy, except The Cockroach had really bad skin, and neither of them wore bowler hats. Also, The Cockroach’s skinniness reflected overall ill health – self-inflicted ill health. His mere presence seemed to make a room feel grubbier. Unlike Fat Bastard, Sandhurst didn’t look overconfident; in fact he looked pathologically suspicious, his eyes constantly darting around, his body a ball of nervous energy. My guess would have been that he was picked up pretty close to the time he would normally be due to top up his bloodstream with his chemical of choice. Oh dear, how sad. The viewing room wasn’t quite as full as it had been for the big guy, although Smithy was still here, rumbling away like some dormant volcano preparing for a revival.
The questioning seemed to take a similar path to Fat Bastard’s, and mimicking his boss’s initial strategy, The Cockroach had waived his right to any representation. You had to admire the conceit of these sods, they thought they were untouchable. We had news for them, however, and were all looking forward to seeing them take a fall. This time it was Paul in the driving seat. From what I’d seen, his questioning style was quite laid-back in that ‘lull you into a false sense of security then deftly rip your throat out’ kind of a way. Seeing Paul there, so professional, so authoritative, so masterful, gave me the overwhelming urge to drag him off somewhere private and give him a thorough interrogation of my own.
‘So, where were you on the night of Monday, the eleventh of April?’
‘What’s it to you?’ The sneer on his face with his pursed little mouth reminded me more of a fly than a roach – still a filthy critter though.
‘Shall I repeat the question for you? Where were you on the night…’
‘I’m not deaf, or stupid. Why should I tell you?’
‘Well, Mr Sandhurst, considering we’re conducting a murder inquiry, and we’ve gone to all the trouble of bringing you in, I thought it might be in your best interests to answer any questions in order to eliminate yourself from the list of suspects. Unless, of course, you were involved in some way.’
‘Who got done?’
Paul folded his arms and looked at him like he was some errant ten-year-old. ‘Jacob, now you’re treating us like we’re stupid, because if my memory serves me correctly, I informed you of who had been killed when we popped by your house to pick you up, so don’t bother trying that one. Where were you?’
‘I was at home.’
‘And is there anybody who can corroborate that?’
‘The missus will.’
‘Will she now?’ I imagined the womenfolk in their organisation were all accustomed to saying they were at home on the sofa with a cup of tea watching TV, or shagging wildly in bed, whenever a cop asked their partner’s whereabouts. I didn’t have any doubt as to the consequences for them if they decided to be awkward and say they didn’t have the foggiest.
‘Yes she will, because that’s where I was.’ His leg was jiggling away, and even though his hands were clasped together on the table, he still managed to tap his thumbs together at a furious tempo. A gleam of sweat glistened on his pockmarked face.
‘That’s curious, because, you see, I have a few issues with you saying you were at home. We have evidence that just so happens to put you at the scene of John Henderson’s murder. How do you explain that?’
The other leg started jiggling too. ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’
‘Well, we have fingerprints, your fingerprints, which proves you were there when it happened, and the evidence doesn’t lie.’
‘Well you’ve got it all wrong, because I had nothing to do with that man getting done. How could I? I wasn’t there, so don’t you try and pin this one on me. That’s police corruption, that is. I want my lawyer, and I want him now.’
And so they scuttled for cover.
17
The background bleep, bleep of a heart-rate monitor punctuated the eerie silence in the room. Dad looked peaceful as he slept. As I sat there, I found my eyes naturally drawn to his chest, making sure it was still rising and falling with the rhythm of life. I’d snuck down for a quick visit during my lunch hour and had timed it nicely as Mum and Sheryl had popped out for some food, so I could forgo the usual eggshell-walking, and just sit and watch. He looked so small, draped with the white cotton hospital blanket, his limbs bird-like forms with no substance. There was something about the clutter of cords, drips and monitors that diminished what was left of the man. The skin of his hand felt dry and papery in my grasp, the bones and tendons palpable under my touch. I felt a big, fat tear loll its way down my cheek.
18
‘Bastard’s still denying it,’ Smithy said, his hand gripped around an industrial-sized mug of his disgusting brew of coffee. I looked at his white knuckles and feared for the mug’s safety.
‘Well, he’s hardly going to turn around and say, “Yeah, of course I did it, I confess, now lock me up and throw away the key,” is he?’ I refused to stoop to instant coffee and had picked up a takeaway flat white from The Fix on the way back from the hospital. Standards had to be maintained, after all. ‘He must realise his usual non-stick coating isn’t going to wash this time. He’s got everything to lose, so of course he’ll go down fighting. And if that fighting involves pulling out the old police-planted-the-evidence card, and other such bullshit, then that’s what he’ll do.’ It was amazing how often that defence reared its ugly head. You’d think the crooks would get a little more inventive and come up with something more imaginative, or at least realise it was the quickest road to pissing us off.
‘He’s going to walk.’
I looked up at Smithy. Disgust marred his already craggy face.
‘What do you mean, he’s going to walk?’ I said.
‘The evidence isn’t conclusive enough to arrest him and remand him in custody, so he gets to go and enjoy the sunshine for a while.’ Smithy’s voice was carefully even, but even the least attuned person in the universe would have been able to sense his displeasure.
‘How was it not conclusive enough?’
‘Because the gloves and protective clothing weren’t found at the actual scene, and we have to wait for confirmation that the blood all over them was John Henderson’s before we can go and do the bizzo.’
‘So the fact they were found in a wheelie bin within a kilometre of the scene isn’t sufficient to keep him in custody? God, DNA will take weeks to come through. Who decided this?’
‘Their lawyers made a song and dance, so your boyfriend and Dickhead Johns backed off.’ I tried to ignore the enmity in his voice.
‘Well, maybe they were right to.’ The look I got from Smithy wasn’t very polite. I threw him a ‘grow up’ look in return. ‘If you think about it, we are all desperate to nail Powell after what he did to you and Reihana. This is probably our one and only shot at getting him. The stakes are high. We’ve got to do this right, so maybe that’s the best course of action. That will give us time to examine all the other evidence and make sure that when we do get a warrant for their arrests, the case is cast-iron, rock solid, absolutely crystal-clear perfect, and there will be no way in hell either of them will be able to worm their way out of it. They’ll go down for good.’
Smithy drained the last of his coffee then banged the mug on the table with such force the handle sheared straight off. He stood there looking at the now defunct handle gripped in his hand. ‘They won’t walk away from this one, I’ll make sure of it,’ he said and stormed out of the room.
19
Gideon Powell was going to be tied up for another hour or two, so we grabbed the opportunity to pop around and visit Mrs Fat Bastard before he had the chance to come home and coach her. Powell’s home was a blatant show of wealth that was designed to give a big up-yours to anyone and everyone. It was a grand, flashy affair on the Otago Peninsula perched up on Highcliff Rd, with a stunning view down the harbour towards Port Chalmers. The surrounding countryside was quintessential New Zealand, with the mop-top crowns of cabbage trees standing sentinel above a swathe of flax and toitoi. In stark contrast to the natural beauty, Powell’s home was a McMansion straight out of Tackyville with bronzed horse heads on the stone plinth gateposts and Grecian-style urns lining the sweeping car entrance. I wondered if the horse heads were a nod to an infamous Hollywood gangster. Then again, I didn’t think Mr Powell was that sophisticated. His security system was, though, with electronic gates topped with cameras barring the way. I half expected to see a couple of semi-rabid Dobermans come running up to snarl and salivate behind the bars. None did though. I pressed the buzzer and waited for a response.
‘Who is it?’ The accent was Kiwi, but it had a definite plum.
‘Detective Shephard and Detective Constable Richardson of the Dunedin Police.’ I held my identification card up to the camera. Smithy was no longer allowed near this case, so I had brought along the latest newbie for company. She was a quiet kind of a girl, the observing kind, but very likeable. ‘We’d like to speak with Mrs Angela Powell, please.’
There was a pause.
‘Why?’
‘We need to ask her a few questions regarding a police investigation.’
Another pause.
‘You’ve already got Gideon. What do you need with me?’
She was direct, I’d give her that, and polite. If it had been her husband talking to us there would have been a string of expletives that would have curled anyone’s toes by now.
‘We need to verify his whereabouts on Monday, the eleventh of April. Can we come up to the house please?’
There was an even longer pause, and I didn’t like our chances.
‘Do you have a warrant?’ Now those chances looked even more remote.
‘No we don’t have a warrant. But your cooperation would be helpful, for our investigation and for your husband.’
We waited. After a few minutes the security speaker gave that strange tik-a-tik-a-tik-a noise my computer gave when someone near to it was sending or receiving a text message. Not long afterwards it happened again.
There was a loud buzz and the automatic gates swung open. She’d acted under advice, then. We drove up to the house, the driveway arcing around the circular lawn with its central cherubic fountain, the spouts of water originating from the parts of the anatomy that small boys loved seeing how far they can shoot from. Classy. We pulled in under the expansive portico protecting the front door.
When I rang the doorbell I wouldn’t have been at all surprised if a zoot-suited butler had answered. Instead a beautifully coiffed woman and a pair of ankle-biter Pomeranians did. So there were guard dogs of a sort, but somehow I couldn’t bring myself to feel intimidated by these two. They looked like a mobile tripping hazard.
‘Hello Mrs Powell, I’m Detective Shephard, and this is Detective Constable Richardson. May we come in?’
She looked down her nose at us, made easier by the fact that she was taller than both of us and had the strategic advantage of higher ground. ‘I’d prefer it if you didn’t. We can have this conversation here, if you don’t mind.’
At least standing on the front doorstep was preferable to having this conversation over the intercom. Angela Powell looked like she paid homage to the Coco Chanel school of personal grooming. She wore a modern take on the little pink suit, a ruffle-necked blouse, unbuttoned enough to show plenty of cleavage, with a long strand of pearls knotted at about nipple level, white sheer tights and white six-inch stilettos. A cigarette in one of those fancy long holders would have completed the look perfectly, as would a pearl barrette in her hair, but she hadn’t gone that far. More remarkable was the fact that she looked barely thirty. What the hell was a woman that young and beautiful doing with a revolting piece of humanity like Gideon Powell? Mind you, all you needed to do was look around and you’d see what the attraction was. Many women overlooked glaring physical and emotional relationship inadequacies for the sake of a lifestyle and plenty of baubles. Angela Powell was clearly of that ilk.
‘Well, can we get on with it please? I do have other things to do.’ She held up her hands and made a show of checking her manicure. What she lacked in foul language she made up for with condescension, and she was very good at it.
‘As you are aware, your husband has been helping us with our enquiries into the murder of John Henderson, which occurred on Monday night.’ It sometimes amazed me how easily I could slip into cop speak, especially when I had an observer.
‘It’s not like he had any choice; and I wouldn’t exactly call it helping, would you?’ she shot back at me.
I smiled. Well, actually, it was more of a grimace. ‘He has been answering our questions…’
‘Until his lawyers told him to stop.’ I could see she wasn’t going to make this easy so I got straight to the point.
