Bound, page 7
‘Where was your husband on Monday night?’
‘He was here with me.’
‘For the entire evening?’
‘Yes.’
‘Can you give me more details about what you were doing?’
‘Well, seeing as you asked, I was fucking him.’ She smiled a smarmy smile. ‘So if you have finished, I am busy.’ With that she shut the door. I could hear the clip, clip, clip of her heels moving across the polished stone floor.
‘Well,’ I said to Sonia, who stood gawping beside me. ‘What do you think of her?’
‘Besides the fact that she’s covering up for her husband?’ she asked, turning towards me. I nodded. ‘That lady is seriously up herself.’
20
Whereas Mrs Angela Powell had aspirations of grandeur, Mrs Sheila Sandhurst was far more what I expected from the wife of a low-life gangster. She looked as hard as nails, with mean, narrow eyes and lank-looking, long, dark hair stringed with grey. When she opened her mouth to speak I could see she was missing a lower front tooth, and those she did possess didn’t look too healthy. She was dressed in a pair of jeans that accentuated her skinniness and a black ribbed jersey that did nothing to expel the impression of a junkie. She lit up a cigarette and dragged on it compulsively, her hands fidgeting the whole time.
The Sandhurst house was also quite a grand affair in Roslyn, or at least had been once, before they had managed to put their taint of shabbiness on to it. It looked like the home of people trying to be something they were not.
‘What do youse want with me?’ she asked. She was trying to act cool and calm, but I could see the flickering of her eyes and I could smell her tension.
‘Jacob has been helping us with our investigations, but we need to confirm his whereabouts on the night of Monday, the eleventh of April.’
‘Well why don’t you just go and ask him?’ She took another drag on the ciggy. Her hand had a slight tremor.
‘We have, but we need someone to confirm where he was.’
‘Well, he was at home with me, so you can bloody well put that down in your notebook.’
Where had we heard this before?
‘And you are certain he was home for the entire night? He couldn’t have slipped out at any point without your noticing?’
‘Are you calling me a bloody liar? God, youse cops are all the same. I told you, he was at home the whole time.’
A likely story, but I didn’t push it, because it didn’t take a fancy-degree-laden psychologist to figure out that the woman was dead scared of her husband.
21
‘Okay, the shotgun information has come through,’ Sonia said as she waved at me from across the room. I don’t know why she felt the need to wave, but I automatically did a double thumbs up back at her. Any distraction was welcome from my favourite pursuit of report writing.
‘Fire away,’ I said.
She rolled her eyes at my lame joke. ‘It was a Winchester Defender 1300 twelve-gauge pump-action shotgun. Eighteen-inch barrel.’
‘Eighteen-inch? That’s short. Was it sawn off?’
‘No, manufactured length.’
It wasn’t for hunting then. ‘No wonder it did so much damage.’ I said. ‘I suppose, with a name like Defender it was probably designed for gun-toting Americans to protect their properties from all those crazies out there, you know, neighbours, humans, pretty much anything that breathes.’ I could never fathom the mentality that saw everything as a threat, and that the best response was to shoot first, and don’t even bother with the questions later.
‘Well, this particular weapon was reported stolen in 2010 from a hunting store in Invercargill that was ram-raided.’
‘That’s a long time for a stolen shotgun to be hanging around before making an appearance.’
‘Yeah, you’re right. It could have been someone’s pet favourite.’
‘Could have been. What about the ammunition?’ I asked.
‘Winchester two-and-three-quarter-inch buckshot. There were still three rounds in the magazine.’
I guessed when you’d just blown someone’s head off, there wasn’t much need for another go.
‘Someone was a little brand conscious, weren’t they? Matching the ammo to the brand of gun? A bit like matching your shoes and handbag.’
Sonia laughed. At least someone around here appreciated my sense of humour.
‘So the shotgun was found further down on Coast Road than the wheelie bin with the clothing, wasn’t it? So they were dumping evidence as they returned to Dunedin,’ I said. ‘I wonder, if we keep looking along the road, if we’ll find the iPhone?’
‘Could be worth sending someone out for a look,’ Sonia said.
‘You volunteering?’
‘Nah,’ she said, with a big grin. I was really beginning to like her.
‘But you’re right. I’ll mention it to Paul.’ He could make that call and run it by the head honcho if necessary. One less chance for me to have my throat ripped out by The Boss. ‘I don’t know why they just didn’t get rid of it all in town. It would be a lot further away from the crime scene for a start, and a lot more places to hide it.’
‘Unless they were worried about getting pulled over on the way.’
‘Nothing like a healthy paranoia to keep you out of clink. So, anything linking the gun to the scene?’ I asked.
‘There was blood evidence on the gun, back spatter on the barrel. It must have been fired close.’
‘You’ve seen the pictures.’
‘Urghhh, yes. I can’t unsee them.’
‘I’ll bet you the blood will match that of John Henderson.’
‘Not taking you up on that bet,’ she said. ‘I’m not into losing money. Now if we could only find out who stole that gun in the first place.’
‘You’ll be lucky. That’s one trail that will be stone, cold dead.’
22
This was turning out to be the day of the women, and you couldn’t have had a more diverse bunch if you tried. Astrid Allen was turning heads as she walked down the green-carpeted hallway to the interview room. She oozed Audrey Hepburnish elegance, with a figure-hugging, black turtleneck sweater, and a knee-length patterned skirt with a pair of slim, shapely legs poking out of the bottom of it. I was walking behind her, so got to observe every guy coming towards us look first at her chest, then her face, and then turn back for a second look at her butt once they were past her. She was also one of those people who, as she walked, swung her hips in a natural way that declared ‘I am Woman’, so when the blokes turned back to gawk, I had to dodge around them so they didn’t walk into me. I wondered if she ever got tired of the attention. Surely it would wear thin after a while. While they were busy lusting after her, I was busy lusting after her shoes, which were an apple green, with chunky, laminated wooden three-inch heels. I had recently discovered my inner Imelda.
‘Thanks for coming in, Astrid,’ I said as we settled into our chairs on opposite sides of the interview-room table.
‘Have you heard how Jill is today?’ she asked. ‘I thought I might go along to the hospital and visit her after this.’
‘She’s having a pretty hard time of it,’ I said. ‘They operated on her shoulder yesterday. And she’s still very upset about everything, probably even more so now it has had time to sink in.’
‘I can’t even imagine how hard it must be for her,’ she said. ‘I can’t get my head around the idea that John is gone, and in such violent and awful circumstances. I can’t stop thinking about it. How would you ever feel safe again after something like that?’ It was a damn good question. Your home was supposed to be your castle, a sanctuary. What with the rising number of home invasions over recent years, and a few unpleasant personal experiences, I realised that feeling safe in your home wasn’t something you could take for granted.
‘The reason I asked you in today is that we have a couple of potential suspects, and we’re trying to work out their exact relationship with John. I was wondering if John had ever dealt with a man called Gideon Powell, and another named Jacob Sandhurst.’ I could tell by her furrowed brow that he had.
‘Mr Powell did come to see John on occasion, every few months or so, nothing regular. I guess his last visit would have been three, four weeks ago.’
‘Would you be able to check on the exact date in your appointments diary?’
‘He never made an appointment, he would just show up and demand to see John.’ The way she said ‘demand’ suggested the same sort of feelings I’d felt when watching Fat Bastard Powell in the interview room. I could just imagine how arrogant he would have been.
‘I’m guessing he wasn’t very pleasant.’
‘No.’ It was a tight-lipped ‘no’.
I played a hunch. ‘And I’m guessing he made some improper comments or advances towards you.’
‘Yes, you could say that.’ I imagined it was an occupational hazard and that she had a well-rehearsed arsenal of fend-offs prepared to deal with it. ‘He was grubbier than most.’
‘Oddly, I have no difficulty in believing that.’ In the brief encounter I’d had with him at the station I’d realised he was the kind of man that looked at a woman, mentally stripped her down, assessed her, and then gave her the type of leer that made her feel like going and taking a shower in disinfectant. Well, that was the effect he had on me. I imagined the response he gave the blonde goddess here would have been truly repugnant.
‘Do you know what his business was with John?’
‘I don’t know specifically, and I am well aware of his reputation and supposed business activities.’ She looked me in the eye, and it reminded me of the look Jill Henderson had given me, with a sigh of resignation, a few days earlier. ‘I respected John, and he was a good employer, but I’m not so stupid as not to realise some of the things he dealt in weren’t entirely legitimate. The fact that someone like Powell came to visit at all was evidence enough, but as far as I was concerned, it wasn’t any of my business, and he kept me out of anything that wasn’t his core trade.’
‘So he didn’t ask you to do anything that would compromise your ethics?’ I asked.
‘No,’ she said. There wasn’t any change in her face, or in the inflection of her voice, no tangible sign, but I knew there was a little undertone of something not quite ringing true there.
‘What about Blair Harvey-Boyd? Was he involved in any of these dealings with Powell?’
‘Not as far as I’m aware. Powell was clearly a homophobe and antagonistic towards him, so anytime he showed up at work Blair made himself scarce.’
Fat Bastard Powell struck me as the kind of Neanderthal man who saw all homosexual people as deviants and rampant perverts. One who openly flaunted his individuality, like Blair Harvey-Boyd, would have offended his sensibilities. I found it quite gratifying to know that a small and effeminate, well-groomed man probably threatened the hardened criminal mastermind more than any gang-related thug or mob-like henchman, although Powell would never admit to being bothered by him.
‘And how did John react to Powell’s visits? Did he seem threatened by Powell at all? What kind of relationship did they have?’
‘I don’t think I ever saw John Henderson threatened by anyone, if that’s what you’re asking. He was just as businesslike and pleasant with Gideon Powell as he was with anyone else, and his demeanour was the same after Powell left. He didn’t seem relieved to see the back of him, or anything like that, so I had the impression they did business as equals.’
My stomach lurched. Given Astrid’s calm and astute observations so far I had no reason to doubt this one, which raised a very important question. What sort of business was John Henderson into if he dealt with someone like super-scum-crim Fat Bastard Powell as an equal? And how far into the spectrum of illegal enterprise had he delved? Accounts so far from his friends and colleagues had John Henderson pegged as a well-regarded entrepreneur, a clean-living, suit-and-tie kind of a man. This information forced me to re-examine that impression because, as far as I was concerned, anyone who was even a slight acquaintance of Gideon Powell’s was tainted by his nefarious stink and therefore set off alarm bells.
It also helped with the question of motive, because we knew all too well that Gideon Powell was a ruthless kind of a man, and anyone who did something against his wishes, or potentially damaging to his cause, seemed to wind up very, very dead, or at least permanently maimed.
‘How did they seem towards each other after their last encounter? Was there any sign of animosity there, any tension you were aware of?’ I asked.
‘None that I can recall. They were always very cordial towards each other. Although, I have to say that Mr Powell was always a lot better mannered towards me when John saw him out of the office.’ The expression on her face said it all.
‘Did you mention his inappropriate behaviour to John?’
‘Yes, and he responded by saying that dealing with it professionally was part of my job and a good skill to learn, as – how did he put it? – life’s full of shits.’ She must have seen my eyebrows take a climb up my forehead. ‘In his defence, though, after I complained, John always walked Mr Powell out to the front door, so he didn’t get the opportunity to be crude.’
‘Was Mr Powell always alone when he came calling?’
‘Not always. I was going to say before that Mr Sandhurst occasionally came with him.’ She visibly shuddered at the mention of that name. My body joined in. I wondered if Sandhurst came along for the ride as the heavy on those occasions? Or the skinny, in his case.
‘How did that work? Were those meetings still as cordial or did Sandhurst’s presence change the dynamics?’
‘I’d say those meetings were as relaxed as the others. If John was bothered by Sandhurst being there, he didn’t show it. The overall impression I got was that they had dealings, they seemed to be on an equal footing, and they all got along. Mind you, with Powell’s reputation, you’d go out of your way to make sure you got along.’
I wondered how a twenty-something young thing even knew what Powell’s reputation was. He was clever enough to keep himself squeaky clean and under the media radar. The vast majority of Dunedin residents would have been blissfully unaware that he and his ilk even existed. We were only too familiar with his operations, however.
I looked her in the eye. ‘I’m curious, Astrid. How is it that you’re aware of Mr Powell’s reputation?’
‘It’s common knowledge, isn’t it?’ she said. She looked calm, but a slight blush brushed her cheeks.
‘No, not really. Most people wouldn’t know anything about that. Had you come across him before?’ I asked.
‘No, but a few friends of mine who move in different circles were familiar with him. He’d come up in conversation.’ She must have some interesting friends, then.
‘So you didn’t have the impression of any animosity between John and either Powell or Sandhurst?’
‘No, none at all. They all seemed very cordial.’
‘And had John seemed different, or did he seem concerned with anything in the time leading up to his death?’
‘No, nothing out of the ordinary. He seemed relaxed. Everything seemed perfectly normal.’
23
‘Okay. So what do we know?’ I posed it as a rhetorical question. ‘We know there was a definite connection between John Henderson and both Powell and Sandhurst. We know they’d both been regular visitors at John Henderson’s business, and these visits were on an unofficial basis. Henderson’s PA said these visits were never booked as appointments so weren’t logged as such. She also said the men seemed to be on equal terms, which in itself should raise some questions, because I’m buggered if I know of anyone who would be brave or ballsy enough to be on equal terms with those two unless they were just as involved in the criminal underworld. And judging by the fact Henderson is now dead, and that the evidence is pointing straight at the other two, the relationship must have soured for whatever reason.’
Paul and I were sitting with our takeaways, looking down at a fuel ship being guided into the oil jetty from the vantage point of the Unity Park lookout. Daylight savings had recently finished, so we got to enjoy a beautiful dusk with the added bonus of the sparkle of city lights. It was a favourite place to chill and take in the gorgeous expanse of the Dunedin harbour spreading out below. Although it was relatively warm, the southerly wind wasn’t very friendly so we were enjoying our dinner in the confines of Paul’s car. Glad it was his, not mine, because he would have to put up with the stunning aroma of stale curry in the morning, not me. Of course the bottom line of all this also meant we were doing that one thing we swore we’d never do – the inevitable pitfall of screwing the crew: talking shop out of hours.
‘Did you want the last onion bhajee?’ he asked. The question came as he was stuffing it in his mouth.
‘No, you have it. Knock yourself out. You can skive off back to your own place later so I don’t have to put up with the bhajee farts.’
‘Bum.’
‘Indeed.’ I smiled sweetly at him, and then got back to the matter at hand. ‘So we can take it that Powell and Sandhurst’s visits weren’t social calls.’
‘Yeah, well, I don’t think they were in there selling Tupperware,’ Paul said.
‘Er, no.’ I smiled and finished the last of my share of the garlic naan. I looked down at the floor of the car and the random scattering of rice and a significant blob of chicken Afghani, and once again gave thanks this was Paul’s car and not mine. I also made a mental note, next time we ate dinner in the car, to go for pizza, or fish and chips.
‘So why the hell were they there then? I was talking to Billy Thorne from the drug squad, and John Henderson has never featured in any of their dealings; in fact he hasn’t so much as blipped on the radar. Billy was just as surprised as we were about the possibility of him being involved in the trade in some way.’
