‘You’ll be a disgraced former policeman. Your word won’t be worth a lot.’
‘Maybe. But you can just about guarantee others will step forward to back me up.’
‘“Just about” doesn’t seem that certain.’
‘Take the risk then. I just wanted to lay it out for you. Keep your nose clean and I’ll keep my stories private.’
McCarthy grinned. ‘You’d do well in prison,’ he said. ‘They’re always needing ex-cops to play pick up the soap.’ He reached across and clapped Devereaux on the side of the knee.
‘Where’re your wife and daughter?’ Devereaux said.
McCarthy’s eye line tracked slowly. The photographs, then back to Devereaux. He clucked his tongue gently. ‘It’s none of your fucking business,’ he said.
Devereaux shrugged. He stood up. ‘Whatever,’ he said. ‘They must be ashamed of you.’
McCarthy said nothing. Devereaux headed back down the stairs to the door.
W
EDNESDAY
, 15 F
EBRUARY
, 12.26
P.M
.
H
ale took a drive south, Otara-bound.
A phone book check for Douglas Haines had yielded nothing. He’d delved deeper. Alas, nothing on the Securities Register, ditto for Land Information and the credit rating databases. He’d called Devereaux’s desk line, but it rang through. He did a ring around, got hold of Pollard down in Manukau.
‘Can you background-check a Douglas Haines for me?’
‘I’m on lunch.’
‘You could talk and chew.’
‘Yeah … hang on, I’m not at my desk. I’m eating a lamb kebab.’
‘Good.’
‘Give us the spelling on “Haines”.’
Hale spelled it. Keyboard noise as Pollard checked the system. A wet noise in his ear, like sauce kissed off a finger.
Pollard said, ‘Nothing. Sorry.’
‘Securities and Land Information was empty, too.’
‘Then I think someone’s passed you a fake name.’
Hale didn’t answer.
‘What’s he done?’ Pollard said.
‘Nothing I know about. He’s just a witness.’
‘For what?’
‘That fight club robbery back on January third.’
‘Huh. Shit. I wonder if they’ve checked him out properly.’
‘If you’ve got the witness lists, they might have got a driver’s licence or an address.’
‘I don’t have the witness lists.’
‘You can get them.’
‘I’ve got mayonnaise on my fingers.’
‘I’d appreciate it.’
Pollard said, ‘Look. You might want to back off and just pass this on to someone.’
Hale said, ‘Yeah. Maybe.’
He pulled up in front of Pastor Drinnan’s house a little before one p.m. The man himself was on weed duty: crouched with shears in hand, tending to a parched tongue of lawn. Low hunch like a parody of prayer.
He stood when he heard Hale’s door close. They shook hands across the low garden fence.
‘Mr Hale. What can I do for you?’
‘I’m having trouble finding this Douglas Haines.’
Drinnan stabbed the shears in the grass. He smiled. ‘He’s out there somewhere. Maybe you need to look harder.’
Hale smiled back. ‘He wasn’t in any of the usual places.’
‘Well, that’s funny.’ He braced a palm on the small of his back, ironing out an ache.
‘Do you have an address or phone number for him?’ Hale said.
‘No, I don’t.’
Hale looked at him. Drinnan met the gaze calmly, unblinking and unperturbed. He said, ‘Don’t do me the discourtesy of thinking you’re going to catch me in a lie. I don’t know how to find the man.’
‘So who does?’
He reached across himself and massaged a tender shoulder. Perspiration had moulded his shirt to his skin. ‘I don’t know. You’re the detective. Ask Leanne. She got him the job.’
‘Leanne Blair?’
‘Yes. I think you spoke to her yesterday.’
‘She told me she hadn’t met him before.’
‘Well. Maybe that was a mistruth.’
‘You mean a lie.’
Drinnan didn’t answer.
Hale said, ‘You think it’s wise to trust someone you know nothing about to be left in charge of money?’
A truck passed on the road behind them. Drinnan waved off the fumes. ‘I trust Leanne’s judgment of character. She’s a good person, Mr Hale. You shouldn’t assume every one’s out to deceive you.’
‘It’s safer than believing nobody is. Thanks for your time.’
Drinnan stood and watched him as he drove away, miniaturised by the rear view. Hale headed round to the liquor store on Everitt Road. Two cars were leaving just as he arrived. He parked nose-in beside the front door and walked in. Leanne Blair was behind the counter. The door buzzed and she glanced up and saw him. He checked the shop as he walked towards her: no customers, two kids from yesterday kicking a ball in the centre aisle.
Blair flicked her eyebrows at him when he reached her.
Hale said, ‘Step outside with me for two minutes.’
‘I’ve gotta watch the till.’
‘Step outside with me for two minutes.’
‘Someone might come.’
He aimed a cocked finger at his lips. ‘Step outside. With me. For two minutes.’
He exited the store and sat on the hood of the car and waited. A moment later the door buzzed and she followed him out.
She stopped in front of him, ducked a cigarette to a cupped lighter. She looked at him over the flame. ‘What?’ she said.
‘How do I find Douglas?’
‘I don’t know. Look in a fucking phone book.’ She laughed.
He stood up, directly in front of her. She took a step back. The wall of the shop was behind her.
‘You told me yesterday you hadn’t met the guy before.’
‘Yeah.’ Her cheeks hollowed as she sucked smoke. ‘I hadn’t.’
‘But you got him the job counting cash back on January third. So how does that work?’
‘What?’
‘I didn’t realise you were hard of hearing.’
‘Friggin’ hell. What happened to Mr Polite from yesterday?’
Hale didn’t answer.
‘Who told you that?’ she said.
‘Who cares? It’s the truth.’
She was backed up against the wall, cigarette in two fingers of an upturned hand.
‘Where does he live, Leanne?’
‘I don’t know.’
Her gaze ran back and forth. There was a lie floating there somewhere, close to the surface. She brought the cigarette to her mouth. He reached out and took it from her. Fluid and precise, thumb and forefinger, somehow unrushed. The thing just left her grip. She stood there a second empty-handed, lips ajar: an accidental mime.
‘Where’s Douglas, Leanne?’
She held her tongue, ogling the cigarette snatch. He dropped it on the concrete and stomped it dead.
‘Where’s Douglas, Leanne?’
‘Back off. Jeez. I barely even know him.’
‘You’re dodging the question. Where does he live?’
He stepped to within kissing distance. Her face was upturned. Hale turned and saw a patrol car idle through the intersection, a slow flare of sun sliding off its windscreen. He dropped back a half-pace.
She smiled slightly. ‘Maybe I could start hollering. Then you’d be in trouble.’
He watched her face. An eyelid gave a subtle quiver. He gambled: ‘Get them over here. We’ll tell them about Doug.’
She didn’t reply. They stood there face to face as the car slipped past. Crackle of grit beneath slow tyres. A skin-deep tingle as wary eyes roved. His guts cooled at the thought of it turning into the parking lot. But it didn’t. It carried on past the intersection and vanished around a bend.
‘Well,’ he said. ‘That was your chance.’
She didn’t answer.
Hale said, ‘Who is he, and where is he?’
He stepped forward again. He could smell the cigarette on her. The closeness had her rattled: she winced slightly, like anticipating a strike.
‘Look, he’s the kids’ dad and he’s not meant to be living near them but he is.’
‘Is Douglas his real name?’
‘Sort of.’
‘Either it is or it isn’t.’ He hadn’t blinked in a while. Her lip started to quiver.
She said, ‘He’s got some stuff in his past that he’s kind of not that proud of. So he uses a different name than his real one to sort of try to keep it all out of the way. You know?’
‘What’s he not proud of?’
She shrugged. Her mouth opened and closed, like she’d
opted out of saying something glib. Hale’s proximity encouraged good behaviour. ‘Little stuff, I guess,’ she said. ‘He used to rough up the kids a bit. Cops told him he’s got to stay clear of everyone. But I like to see him, now and then.’
‘Where can I find him?’
‘Well, he’s not working, so at home probably.’
‘Where’s home?’
She paused.
Hale said, ‘Either you can tell me now, or you can come in the car with me and point it out. You choose. But don’t lie about anything.’
His tone had harshened. It brought a stuttered reply: ‘I — I’m not lying.’
‘Where does he live?’
She looked at the ground, gestured circularly, searching for words. ‘I don’t know the address, but I can tell you where the house is.’
‘I’m all ears.’
He still hadn’t backed off. Tears started to well. She laid out some local directions. ‘It’s sort of on a corner. Not the one on the corner, but the one next to it. It’s a yellowy colour.’
‘What’s his real name?’
‘Why are you asking me all this?’
He put a hand on her shoulder and pushed her hard against the wall. She gasped at the jolt, winced and shied away. ‘Jesus, don’t hurt me. He’s Allen. Doug Allen. His name’s Doug Allen. Please don’t hurt me.’
He let her go and stepped back. She stayed against the wall, bent-kneed and tear-rimmed. Her vulnerability finally registered, and he backed off. The shove had been reflexive. She’d clammed up, and he’d transitioned to use of force, as per long practice.
‘Get away from me, you pig. Jeez.’
The two kids were watching from inside, just out of buzzer range. Wide-eyed, like they’d been front row through the whole ordeal.
Hale moved away and got back into the car. Leanne Blair wiped tears from her eyes and gave him the finger as he pulled away.
Violence found him early
.
’Eighty-four. Cancer had claimed his mother that April. It didn’t muck about: three months, diagnosis to death bed. The memories are discontinuous: he recalls the angst of the prognosis, the bedridden final weeks in wasted delirium. And then she was gone. She wasn’t a smoker, she wasn’t a drinker. The local pastor was stretched to justify the Lord’s reasoning. Everybody was. He remembers them standing there as the hearse pulled away, petals scurrying in its wake, the downcast faces and quiet thoughts of the departed
.
His father took it hard. He’d been resolute through the whole ordeal, but post-funeral he went downhill. Grief imposed an inversion of routine: he drinks long into the night, and sleeps long into the day. Despondency is absolute. But a long-established image of hardened self-reliance rules out the notion of seeking help
.
Hale is young, but prevailing common sense indicates that if his father isn’t working, income is nil. At some point the jar of change in the kitchen will need replenishing. At some point the generosity of his father’s sister will dwindle, and groceries will stop arriving unbidden. The burden of those economic logistics keeps him sleepless and frightened for every minute his father walls himself away, in steadfast pursuit of an empty bottle
.
Visitors are rare, but one day a tray-back ute pulls in off the road and winds its way up the driveway towards the house. Hale watches from a window as the car pulls into the turning bay out front. There are three men in the cab, two big black and tan huntaways tethered in the back. Ears pricked and leashes stretched taut. Bright-eyed and slick-tongued. The engine quits. A weak thread of diesel smoke drifts and disperses. The truck’s doors are grimed with road dust, deep tyre tread traced whitely by lime powder
.
Suspension shakes as the men alight. They’re big guys: wide necks sloping broadly to heavy shoulders, flannel shirtsleeves rolled back over thick cable-tight forearms. Large hands, red and thick-callused
.
Hale steps outside. Beyond the truck, the drive follows a slight slope before it meets the road. Beyond that, the gentle undulations of pastureland, gilt-topped by late sun. To the right, a belt of pine trees serves as shelter from wind off the neighbouring paddocks. To the left, his father’s Land Rover and a rusted-out tractor shelter inside an arched metal shed
.
The air bears that verdant manure and silage odour. The dogs are giddy on it, barking and yelping to be let loose
.
The three guys fan out in the yard, shadows cast gangly and hose-like ahead of them. The two passengers have crowbars. One guy is using his to rehearse a golf swing. The second guy has his gripped at each end, braced across his shoulders. His shirt below the bottom button is parted over a fat gut thatched with black hair
.
The driver says, ‘Heya, matey
.’
Hale says, ‘Hello
.’
‘
Is Daddy home
?’
Daddy. The term is patronising. It rankles. Hale says, ‘No, he’s not
.’
The driver glances at the barn. ‘Are you sure? His car’s here
.’
Hale pauses. Golf swing guy sinks a couple of putts. Hale says, ‘What do you want
?’
The driver laughs. ‘So he is home. Great
.’
‘
He’s in bed
.’
Golf man makes a visor with his hand and checks the height of the sun. ‘Should be up and about, this time of day. Lazy bastard
.’
Hale says, ‘He isn’t feeling well. You should come back another time
.’
The driver shakes his head. ‘No, if he’s in, we definitely need to see him
.’
‘
What for
?’
‘
He owes us some money
.’
‘
No, he doesn’t. He doesn’t owe anybody any money
.’
The guy with the gut laughs. He takes the crowbar off his shoulders and makes a fake baseball swing. Aggressive, head-high. He says, ‘Kid’s a fuckin’ classic
.’
A low laugh rolls back and forth between the three of them
.
‘
How old are you, matey?’ the driver says
.
‘
I’m not your mate
.’
‘
Suit yourself. How old are you
?’
‘
Twelve,’ Hale says
.
‘
Twelve. Jesus. Thought you were older.’ He smiles. ‘He sends his twelve-year-old kid out to warn us off. Holy shit
.’
They all laugh. The guy with the gut kicks a stone skittering towards the shed
.
Hale stands and looks at them. ‘How much does he owe you?’ he says
.
The driver smiles. ‘Yeah, see, now he’s not so sure of himself. How much does he owe?’ He scratches his head. ‘We’ll call it an even hundred
.’
One hundred dollars. One hundred dollars is a lot of money. Much more than what is stashed in the jar in the kitchen
.
‘
Dad doesn’t have money like that at home
.’
The driver shrugs. ‘Well, tough shit, bucko
.’
Hale doesn’t answer
.
The driver says, ‘Okay, look. I’m going to run the clock for you.’ He raises his watch, inspects the dial. ‘We’ll say five minutes. Either you can bring the money yourself, or your dad can, or he can come outside and have a chat with us. If not, we’re going to let the dogs off the chain, and maybe start putting the crowbars to good use. Maybe break a leg or something. Okay
?’
Hale doesn’t answer. He goes back inside. The door to his father’s room is closed. He pushes it open and steps into the room. The air is stagnant, hot and liquor-laced. A faint chemical smell from the heap of clothes he wears to work
.
His father is beneath the covers, foetal and immobile. Hale shakes him gently
.
‘
Dad
.’
‘
I can’t, John. I can’t
.’
‘
There’re people here. They want money
.’
‘
I can’t, John
.’
He doesn’t know whether his father is fully conscious or not. Lucidity is intermittent. He panics at the thought he is going to have to deal with the men himself
.
A shout from outside: ‘That’s one minute!
’
Hale runs back through to the front of the house. The door is closed. He moves through to the kitchen and tips a chair back on two legs and drags it juddering to the entry hall. Careful not to nudge a doorframe. The shotgun case is stored high, roof-level above the little writing desk that holds the telephone
.
‘
Run, run, little piggies. The Big Bad Wolf’s on the way!
’
He hears something break. Maybe one of the rear lights on the Land Rover, shattered by a boot, or a practice golf swing. A bout of hard, wild laughter. He braces the backrest of the chair against the edge of the little desk and stands up on the seat. Tiptoed, he can just reach the twin catches securing the lid on the case. He stretches one-handed and grimaces and pops one side, and then the other. The gun itself is recessed slightly: he has to put one foot up on the desk in order to reach it. He gets an awkward grip on the barrel and lowers it carefully, the thing dense and unwieldy, see-sawing gently against his wrist. He lays it on the floor. A thin sheen of oil residue along the barrels, whorls of his sweat standing up against the lacquer on the stock. He breaks the breech quietly and sights through both barrels and sees fresh air at the other end. A burnt aroma of scorched powder and oil touches his nostrils. Hale stands back up on the chair and finds the box of Winchester 10-gauge shells. He removes two and sits down cross-legged on the floor and feeds the shotgun one per barrel
.
‘
Three minutes!
’
The key to the shotgun’s trigger lock is with the keys to the Land Rover. He hurries through to the kitchen, but they aren’t on their normal peg. He checks the bench top. He looks in the fruit bowl. Nothing
.
Back to his father’s bedroom. No motion from the quilted lump as he approaches the bed
.
‘
Dad, where’s the car keys
?’
His father doesn’t reply. Hale shakes him. ‘Dad, Dad, Dad. Where’re the car keys
?’
‘
I don’t know, John. I don’t know
.’
He hears another smash. Maybe Land Rover brake light number two. The dogs are barking. Hale tries to stay calm
.
There has to be a second key somewhere. He’s never known something to have just one set
.
He checks the top drawer of his father’s dresser: loose change, some Polaroids of his mother, letters from a bank
.
‘
Four minutes!
’
He starts to panic. Breath grows light, shallow pants keeping shy of his lungs. He wants to vomit. He checks the dresser, top to bottom. Nothing. Fingers clumsy with shakes. He crouches and checks the shoe boxes his father keeps beneath the bed. No keys
.
‘
All righty, we’re coming in!
’
Something smashes against the front door. He pictures the lock splitting, the wood along the jamb splintering free
.
‘
Dad, help. Help. They’re going to come inside
.’
His father doesn’t reply. He hears a sudden, dry crack, like the door had split lengthways. He sees the pile of clothing on the floor and kicks it
.
Something tinkles — something metal
?
He scrabbles, hands and knees, checking pockets, checking folds
.
He finds them: the Land Rover keys, and attached: the trigger lock release. The shotgun is on the floor in the entry hall, the breech still open. He runs for it; slams and crashes from the front door. He reaches the gun just as the door gives and Golf Swing man appears in its absence
.
Hale snaps the breech closed. He sights on the guy’s stomach. Low angle with one hand cupped around the trigger guard, it isn’t evident the lock is still in place
.
The guy says, ‘Whoa, shit. Easy
.’
He backs off a few steps, hand raised. The other two move closer for a view through the door, retreat when they see the gun. Hale waits for them to give him some distance, and
then he uses the key off the Land Rover’s ring to release the trigger lock. Shakes and sweaty fingers, it’s third time lucky with the insert. But the gun is now free to fire
.
He gets to his feet and steps past the broken door into the yard. A breeze has the trees lolling frond-like. He raises the gun to his shoulder and draws down on the driver
.
‘
Get in your car and drive away,’ he says. ‘Or I’ll blow your head off
.’
There’s a waver in his voice that the driver catches. ‘That’s a double-barrelled shotgun. You’ve only got two shells
.’
Hale falls quiet a moment. He tries to keep the gun still. ‘So you’ve got a one-in-three chance of living,’ he says
.
The driver laughs. ‘Maybe we could let the dogs off
.’
Hale closes one eye. He hikes the muzzle a fraction and finds the guy’s chin. The gun is too heavy to keep static: the sight traces a loose ellipse
.
‘
If you let your dogs off, I’m going to shoot you in the head
.’
‘
You shouldn’t promise Christmas presents you can’t deliver
.’
Hale looks at him and says nothing. He understands the implication: he has to prove he can follow through. A twelve-year-old with a wavering shotgun and a shaky voice lacks credibility. So he swings the gun left and triggers one barrel and puts a 10-gauge load of number four buckshot through the front windscreen of the truck. The recoil thumps the butt against his shoulder. A kiss of gun smoke plumes radially. Glass explodes in a winking arc
.
The roar of the shot rolls out over the paddocks, returns as faint thunder off the hillsides, a far-off promise of rain. The three guys duck reflexively and fan out, aghast. Hale keeps the gun raised. He realises afterwards there was a reasonable chance of hitting one of the dogs, but he didn’t
.
The shot had left a ringing in his ears. The truck windscreen looks like some raw wound, ragged hard-edged shards lining the perimeter. Pieces are still falling free and tinkling inside the cab. Because of the angle, the driver’s side window has caught maybe a half-load
.
Hale says, ‘Drive away
.’
‘
We can come back,’ the driver says
.
‘
I don’t care. I’ve got a whole box of ammo
.’
They stand staring at him, anchored by the fact he still has one chambered shell left. The dogs are skittish from the shot, hackles raised and prowling back and forth in the tray. The guy with the gut has dropped his crowbar
.
Hale keeps the gun up and trained on the driver as the three of them get back into the cab. Glass shards crack beneath the tyres. He watches them until they reach the road and disappear, and then he lowers the gun and goes back inside
.