Expectant, page 7
What got to me most, though, was people dobbing in their neighbours because they hadn’t even realised there was a new member of the family on the way. How on earth did they not notice? And how on earth did we become so disconnected from each other? Neighbourhoods just weren’t what they used to be. It was as if, in this crazy, busy world, people weren’t even taking the time to get to know the people they lived smack next door to. Back when I was young, you couldn’t do anything without the neighbours prying or keeping an eye out. Everyone in the area quietly made sure we all kept safe. All us kids herded together, and we could be out all day adventuring around the countryside, and get home and Mum could give us a report on where we’d been and pretty much what we’d been up to, courtesy of the spies-and-eyes network. Back in my youth neighbours lent each other stuff, swapped excess veggies from the garden and used to bring around a casserole when a new baby arrived – not phone the police.
CHAPTER 18
Under normal circumstances, if you got caught scrolling – doom or otherwise – through your social media while at work you’d get the side-eye, or the tut-tuts, or if it was The Boss, the thermo-nuclear telling-off. Most of us tried to check it on the sly though, under the noses of, but hopefully not noticed by, our colleagues – seeing if anyone had liked our latest post, how many hearts we got for the cat being cute destroying a toilet roll, or if we had struck the proverbial jackpot and someone had commented on our splendid baking effort. What amused me the most was the blokes around here surreptitiously holding their phones just under the edge of the desk, trying to look down with their eyes and not move their heads. They weren’t fooling anyone.
Today, though, I had a mandate to scroll through social-media feeds – hell, I was being paid to do so. It never ceased to amaze me what people shared on the web. Aleisha Newman’s Facebook, Instagram and Twitter accounts were all still active. No one in her family had posted a statement about her untimely and awful demise. As much as it would be painful, confirming the worst would actually be a good thing to do, not least to stop all her friends and acquaintances second-guessing about their Aleisha. It was understandable though, given the circumstances, and I guessed they had bigger things to worry about.
Her Facebook page had moderate security settings so I couldn’t see everything, but her Insta and Twitter had complete public access. Aleisha had been what I’d consider a modest sharer as far as volume was concerned, but her content was loaded with her personal life. Her Instagram in particular was packed with photos portraying what looked like a fun and loving family. Family frolicking at the beach, family goofing off in the whale’s mouth at Marlow Park, family in the butterfly house at the museum, family pretending to sleep in a pile on a sofa. The last post before her death had me reaching for the tissues. The reel showed her, Justin and Charlotte dancing and cavorting around what looked like their lounge room, all pointing to Aleisha’s very expectant belly, to the strains of ‘The Final Countdown’. That one required a wee walk and a few moments to compose myself.
There was an abundance of colourful and exuberant pictures of Charlotte. Charlotte feeding the ducks at the Botanic Garden. Charlotte trying to eat an ice cream that looked bigger than her head, and in the process spreading most of it across her very earnest-looking face and her pink unicorn T-shirt. Charlotte standing perched in her mum’s high heels, wearing nothing but a smile, nappy, string of beads and a floppy hat. I did wonder how Charlotte the teenager or adult would feel about all and sundry having seen her in various states of silliness, messiness and nakedness. I guess it was the cynicism that came with the job and with dealing with the more predatory elements of society that made me cringe every time I saw a friend post naked or semi-naked photos of their kids online. I’d seen too much of the depravity out there to excuse their naivety.
Paul and I had already had the discussion about how we were going to tackle that conundrum. In a world where we were used to seeing everyone’s most personal moments and the day-to-day play of their lives, how did you share enough to keep friends and family satisfied, but keep yourself and your loved ones safe? We’d decided on the ‘no identifiable photos of the kid until they were old enough to understand and give their consent’ approach. I didn’t know how well that would go down in our family, as my siblings were definitely in the over-sharing camp, but hopefully they wouldn’t notice among the avalanche of other family feeds. Actually, second thoughts: avoiding the issue wasn’t going to work. I would have to have grow some kahunas and have that conversation with my mother. She always took great delight in splashing photos of her grandchildren all over Facebook. I’d look forward to that talk like a hole in the head.
Searching through the snapshots of Aleisha Newman’s life had left me feeling sickened and saddened at the loss of what looked like such a vibrant and loving woman. As I continued scrolling through her Instagram photos, it occurred to me that the one advantage of our every moment being posted for the world to see, was that she’d left an extensive record of herself. She existed. She was. There weren’t that many photos of me around. My younger years were in the days before the explosion of the internet and digital photography. Taking pictures and getting them developed and printed was an expensive faff back in the day, and being the youngest child, the novelty of taking lots of pictures of the kids had worn off by the time I arrived on the scene. There were plenty of Mike and Steve, but not so many of me.
I wasn’t sure how far back I’d look. There was nothing in any of her feeds so far that triggered my internal alert settings, but I continued down a few more rows. By this stage in the moonwalk backward through time we were getting to pictures of Charlotte as a baby. In fact a few more swipes down there was a picture of her as a newborn, swaddled in cheerful green hospital linen in her transparent plastic bassinet. Something about the picture perturbed me so I clicked on it to make it fill my screen. You had to admit most newborns looked pretty squidgy, and Charlotte was no exception, but it was cute squidgy. Apart from the hospital-issue linen, she wore what looked like a dusky-pink, fine merino wool hat with a little knot tied in the top. Keeping watch over her slumbers, tucked in the corner of the bassinet was a golden-fluffed teddy bear wearing a tiny tartan waistcoat. I wondered if he was still on guard duty on her bed today. My childhood guardian, Mrs Mary Bear, was still a companion, even if she did look a little the worse for wear.
At last the cause of my unease came into focus, staring me in the face. It was a prime example of people letting their emotions overcome their brains and not thinking about what else they might be sharing with the world along with those cute photos of their newly arrived pride and joy. In full sight, attached at the head of the bassinet, was Charlotte’s hospital information card, complete with her name, parents’ names, midwife, date of birth and National Health Index number.
Dumb, dumb, dumb, plain dumb.
It was identity theft just waiting to happen.
CHAPTER 19
In the past I had always admired the spindly, owl-like bird mural at the entrance to the alleyway. It perked up the area, gave it some intrigue. Dunedin was blessed with some incredible street art, including a lot hidden down the recesses and odd thoroughfares of the inner city. It was well worth the effort to hunt them down. Today the bird’s long scaly legs and hooked beak felt sinister, the look it was giving its rat companion in the palm of its hand predatory.
Having talked with Timi, I felt the need to finally come and check out the scene of the crime with my own eyes. Police photographs were all well and good, but there was something about being there in the flesh, experiencing the sounds, the smells, feeling the temperature, the mood of a place … Part of me had been putting it off though. The thought of getting that physically close to where the woman had been murdered – a young woman not unlike me – gave me the heebie-jeebies. But it needed doing. Work was finished for the day so I decided to set aside my misgivings and take a detour on the way home.
The alleyway had been re-opened to the public for the benefit of the two bars whose premises hid down there, although I didn’t think its recent notoriety would be good for business. Then again, there were always the morbidly curious – those that got a kick out of being in close proximity to a murder scene. Hell, in some cities in the world murder tourism was a thriving business. Jack the Ripper was a name that came to mind, but as soon as it did I tried to shove it straight back where it came from. Too close to this case for comfort. There was also the possibility that this murderer was the special kind of sicko who liked to observe others marvelling at their handy work, needed that kind of perverse glorification, so a part of me considered the value of continuing to monitor the surveillance video footage or even set up better coverage, in case the killer came back for a little visit. It was something to raise with the team.
Last time I’d been down this particular Victorian alleyway it was for a boozy night out with the girls to celebrate Maggie’s birthday. That was back in the days I could enjoy a boozy night out, before I had a passenger on board. On that occasion I’d tottered down on spindly heels, half cut, on the arms of my gal pals, concentrating hard on not going arse over kite. This time I waddled down stone-cold sober, in sensible shoes, still concentrating on not slipping, which was made all the more challenging by the fact I couldn’t see my feet. It was a steep incline to what was a less than aesthetically pleasing destination at the best of times. Today’s glum, overcast skies did nothing to alleviate the sense of foreboding. Goosebumps erupted on my skin, and not just from the drop in air temperature as I descended from the street. The ceiling of the tunnel had an unusual stepped structure that accommodated multiple levels of the building above and what looked like the angled underside of a set of stairs.
Once down the dark tunnel section I emerged into the red-brick surrounds of the open courtyard. I wandered a little further down the slope and once at the centre turned around and looked back up towards the street. Cars whizzed past the entranceway as they made their way around Moray Place, pausing when the traffic backed up due to the lights at the intersection with Princes Street. The occasional pedestrian walked past, but none looked down this way. Despite the street itself being busy, it felt like a sequestered world down here, the sound of traffic muffled all the more as I worked my way around the edges of the courtyard area. There were half a dozen cars parked here now it was opened up to the public again. The only remaining crime-scene tape was further around, in the area where Aleisha Newman had been found.
There was something fascinating about the steadfastness of the industrial architecture, its snaking coils of pipes and ducts. It was hard to tell how many buildings backed onto this enclosed yard with its odd angles and overlaps. There was only one way in and out, unless you had access to one of the buildings, and although it felt isolated and out of sight of the street, without a secondary escape route it seemed a very risky place to undertake even a petty crime like tagging, let alone something as monumental as murder.
My eyes took in the black, gaping yaw of the entrance to the private underground carpark on my left. Even in daylight it was creepy. No wonder Timi and his friends had avoided it. My gaze then moved around, clockwise, to the wall that Timi and his friends had decided to upgrade. The boys had succeeded in tracing out the basic outline of their moniker before they were interrupted by other, more deadly events. I stepped up close to the wall, getting a sense of their proximity to it, imagined the sound of their hissing cans, and overlaid it with the kind of noise someone stricken, someone fighting for life, would make. Like a wounded animal, was how Timi had described it – low, primal. My shudder was entirely involuntary. It transformed into a tightening under my belly that took my breath away, buckled my knees and forced me to reach out, hand steadying me against the cold, smooth brick. It passed almost as soon as it came. Bloody Braxton Hicks contractions. My body was practising for its big moment, so I was getting quite a few of those now. If that was a little taster of things to come, I wasn’t looking forward to the main course.
Once I had regained my composure I walked further along the wall to the corner. From this vantage point I could see in multiple directions. To my left was an off-shoot of the alleyway, lined with that modern accessory no respectable alleyway seemed to be without – a regiment of wheelie bins, and also some blue plastic barrels that I guessed contained waste oil from the surrounding restaurant’s vats, or were for organising refuse of some kind. Directly across from me was the entrance to the Pequeño Lounge Bar, the quaint and boutique establishment that was a favourite of mine. The white painted-brick exterior offset the glossy black of the doors that enclosed a rich and warm interior that reminded me of those speak-easy bars from prohibition days. The effect was smart and oddly welcoming within these grungy surrounds. Just down from the bar was the other, smaller bird mural Timi had been talking about, the one that marked the entrance to the out-of-sight recess where he had found the tragic source of the noises. But you didn’t need detective skills to figure out where the murder had taken place – a bank of floral tributes adorned the ground.
I worked my way around to the area still surrounded by crime-scene tape. The forensic crew had done their work, but we still wanted the area cordoned off. An opportunity for final examinations, and also a mark of respect for the woman who had lost her life there. Several of the bunches of flowers placed around the perimeter had cards, and there were two small teddy bears standing guard. They were looking a little the worse for the weather. I squatted down and worked my way along, reading the messages within each card. I also took a shot of each with my phone camera. You never knew what could be useful.
From my down-low angle I also scanned around, seeing what was visible and what wasn’t. The angle was such that the tunnel way and Moray Place were obscured. I noted the spray-painted corner outlines of Aleisha’s vehicle, which had served as an additional visual barrier between the crime scene and entrance to the street.
The door to the Pequeño was clearly visible from this corner but would have been partially obscured by the vehicle. It was interesting that the crime had taken place on a Monday night, the one day of the week the Pequeño was closed. Coincidence or design? Somehow I suspected the latter. No one in their right mind would chance being discovered in the middle of what was essentially a surgical procedure by some merrily drunk patron staggering out of the bar door. Not that anyone who would perform such an act could be considered in their right mind. I hauled myself to my feet, pausing halfway for the savage headrush to pass.
I lifted the tape and walked a little further down the side shoot so I had an unimpeded view of the scene. Basement-level windows and a door faced out onto the area. Red fire-escape stairs zig-zagged their way down from the top storey to the ground. Other than outdoor heat-pump units, there didn’t appear to be any obvious electrical fittings in this area – lights, security cameras. Breathing in deeply all I could smell was the hint of damp, mossy brick. It screamed lonely. Finally I turned my attention to the ground. Ground that had until very recently been soaked in blood. My mind threw up the mental image of Timi, kneeling there next to Aleisha, desperate, and I had to turn and walk off the wave of chill and emotion that threatened to engulf me. I walked down past the wheelie bins, concentrating on the red solidity of the wall, rather than the tragic scene at my back. Writing caught my attention, and I paused before a curious message, traced my fingertips along someone’s poetry, scrawled out one white word per brick:
Many solemn nights
Blonde moon, we stand and marvel
Sleeping our noons away
A hedonistic haiku? Had a few beers or whiskeys brought out someone’s inner philosopher? With its intimate scale yet earnest outpouring it was a far cry from the grand gesture that Timi and his friends were set on creating. What message were they trying to express? I hadn’t paid attention to the actual wording of their tag. Most of the bold, graphic tags I had seen on the sides of railway carriages and on unsuspecting walls were all about identity – this is who we are, take note, world. I was guessing Timi and his crew’s would be the same. Curious now, but also actively avoiding a return to the emotional trap that was the crime scene, I walked back around the corner to where the boys had started their work. It was impossible to make out any pattern from right in front, so I backed up as far as the mouth of the tunnel. The experts always said it was better to appreciate art from the centre of the room.
One of the first things I contemplated was their choice of place to tag. The paintable surface was a tapered segment between the slope of the hill the building was on and the straight line of the first row of windows above it. It was low to the ground, and there wasn’t that much space. I guessed it was chosen because these kids were young, and none of them were that tall. They didn’t have to dangle precariously and risk life and limb, and didn’t have to bring along something to climb up on. It made life simple.
Even standing from a distance the extremely stylised letters were difficult to string together. The first was definitely a B, and there was another B further along. There were two Os. My inner crossword geek was able to fill in the rest.
