Containment E-Book

Vanda Symon

• Herausgeber: Orenda Books
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Serie: Sam Shephard
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 397

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2020

Beschreibung

Dunedin's favourite young police officer Sam Shephard is drawn into a perplexing investigation when a series of shipping containers wash up on a sleepy New Zealand beach, and then a body is discovered… 'Fast-moving New Zealand procedural … the Edinburgh of the south has never been more deadly' Ian Rankin 'If you like taut, pacy thrillers with a wonderful sense of place, this is the book for you' Liam McIlvanney 'A sassy heroine, fabulous sense of place, and rip-roaring stories with a twist. Perfect curl-up-on-the-sofa reading' Kate Mosse –––––––––––––––––––––––––––––– Chaos reigns in the sleepy village of Aramoana on the New Zealand coast, when a series of shipping containers wash up on the beach and looting begins. Detective Constable Sam Shephard experiences the desperation of the scavengers first-hand, and ends up in an ambulance, nursing her wounds and puzzling over an assault that left her assailant for dead. What appears to be a clear-cut case of a cargo ship running aground soon takes a more sinister turn when a skull is found in the sand, and the body of a diver is pulled from the sea … a diver who didn't die of drowning… As first officer at the scene, Sam is handed the case, much to the displeasure of her superiors, and she must put together an increasingly confusing series of clues to get to the bottom of a mystery that may still have more victims… –––––––––––––––––––––––––––––– 'Vanda Symon's work resembles Janet Evanovich's Stephanie Plum … she knows how to tell a good story and the NZ setting adds spice' The Times 'It is Symon's copper Sam, self-deprecating and very human, who represents the writer's real achievement' Guardian 'Antipodean-set crime is riding high thanks to the likes of Jane Harper, and fans of The Dry will love Vanda Symon' Red Magazine 'With a twisty plot, a protagonist who shines and beautifully written observations of the cruellest things … this is crime fiction at its best' Kiwi Crime 'Atmospheric, gripping and incredibly satisfying' Random Things through My Letterbox 'Raw, honest, punchy and smirky … if you enjoy a quick-firing, fast-moving tale with a tight storyline, then Containment could be for you' LoveReading

Leseprobe

PRAISE FOR CONTAINMENT

‘Usual top-quality work from Vanda Symon. The Edinburgh of the south has never been more deadly’ Ian Rankin

‘If you like taut, pacy thrillers with a wonderful sense of place, then this is the book for you’ Liam McIlvanney

‘A delightful, twisty read and that leaves you wanting more from the pen of a terrifically entertaining and enjoyable writer’ Live & Deadly

PRAISE FOR VANDA SYMON

SHORTLISTED FOR CWA NEW BLOOD DAGGER

‘Vanda Symon’s fast-paced crime novels are as good as anything the US has to offer – a sassy heroine, fabulous sense of place, and rip-roaring stories with a twist. Perfect curl-up-on-the-sofa reading’ Kate Mosse

‘Sam detects with good humour, dogged determination and the odd flash of brilliance that might even be enough to impress her frosty nemesis, DI Johns’ Sunday Times

‘Antipodean-set crime is riding high thanks to the likes of Jane Harper, and fans of The Dry will also like Vanda Symon’ Red magazine

‘It is Symon’s copper Sam, self-deprecating and very human, who represents the writer’s real achievement’ Guardian

‘Symon’s talent for creating well-rounded characters permeates throughout’ Crimewatch

‘A real page-turner with shocks and surprises throughout … With a twisty plot, a protagonist who shines and beautifully written observations of the cruellest things – crime fiction at its best. This is an outstanding book’ Kiwi Crime

‘Vanda Symon is a wonderful storyteller … Atmospheric, gripping and incredibly satisfying; my only problem is that I read it too quickly and now have to wait for the next instalment!’ Random Things through My Letterbox

‘It wowed me with its twisty journey, weaving various threads together, right through to the shocking, and surprising, ending. This gripping series is a definite must-read for me – and for anyone else who loves entertaining, humorous crime fiction with plenty of heart’ Off-the-Shelf Books

‘Fast paced with short chapters so you just can’t put it down. An attention-grabbing deadly read’ Not Another Book Blogger

‘A brilliantly written, easy-to-read story … The outcome of the case was so unexpected. Shocking. Jaw-dropping. I could not believe it at all. After all that time. Very clever. Sneaky. Just wow’ Gemma’s Book Reviews

‘A well-written book that made me want to rush through it. It’s tense and at times dark, with one of the most heart-breaking scenes I’ve ever read. I’m very much looking forward to going back and reading Overkill’ Macs Book Review

‘A really engaging police procedural … It was inhaled in two sittings and I immediately began to look forward to the next!’ Grab this Book

‘There are plenty of twists and turns, and short chapters keep the pace moving. Sam faces tough decisions in dramatic and traumatic circumstances, which keeps the writing taut and makes for tense reading’ Joy Kluver

‘A satisfyingly meaty police procedural, a taut and atmospheric page-turner with a fantastic female lead. Perfect for fans of Jane Harper, this is a brilliant addition to an already accomplished series, and I cannot wait for Vanda’s next book so that I can see what Sam gets embroiled in next!’ The Shelf of Unread Books

‘I thought the pace was excellent and it was an easy book to read … the author has a lovely writing style … and I have to say that the cover for this one is gorgeous!’ Donna’s Book Blog

‘The ending was very shocking and completely unexpected! I had lots of theories about who the murderer was and what was happening, but none of them proved to be correct. I’m not sure I would have guessed even if I tried, which is always a sign of a great read’ Over the Rainbow Book Blog

‘Well-plotted, clever and satisfying’ Beverley Has Read

‘An emotional, powerful and gripping novel. I loved it and highly recommend it!’ Rather Too Fond of Books

Containment

Vanda Symon

For Mum

Contents

Title PageDedicationPrologue12345678910111213141516171819202122232425262728293031323334353637383940414243444546474849505152535455565758596061626364656667686970717273EpilogueAcknowlegementsAbout the AuthorCopyright

1

Prologue

What started as a small crowd of bewildered residents, huddled against the seeping chill of a dark Dunedin winter morning, had grown to a string of awed and silent spectators leading from the tip of The Mole to the end of the spit. Their vehicles occupied every conceivable snippet of vacant real estate, while those arriving attempted absurd turning manoeuvres in streets never designed for heavy traffic. On the other side of the harbour entrance the distant play of car headlights winding from Taiaroa Head to Harrington and beyond held testimony to similar scenes.

August’s watery sun was rising on the horizon, pushing back the vestiges of an eventful night, revealing an unlikely tableau. Shafts of lemon light struck the bridge of the Lauretia Express, accentuating the unnatural tilt of her peak. Fingers spread along her container deck, the play of light and dark giving it the appearance of a decayed jaw studded with random teeth. The hulk of the stilled ship dwarfed the buzz of tugs, pilot boats and inflatables that strafed the stricken hull with spotlights.

The scale of the accident was all too apparent to the shivering crowd stretched along The Mole. The ship towered above them like an eight-storey building, marooned at an impossible angle. The strobe of camera flashes added to the eerie atmosphere, creating a stilted cinemascope of the Lauretia’s demise.

Those further down on the spit huddled in clusters, staring at the incongruous sight of iceberg-like containers, some beached upon Aramoana’s sands, some not so fortunate to find dry land. People moved in slow-motion swarms, circling, pointing, whispering in reverent tones at a respectful distance. The whispers were 2silenced as three young men approached one of the metal boxes. The low sun bathed them in hallowed light as they ran their hands over the surface, and then grasped the door handle and pulled. The security seal was no match for their determination. The creak of metal grating on metal cut through the tense air, puncturing the silence. A held-breath stillness followed, then there was a collective gasp from the crowd. An invisible line had been crossed, and as if upon a signal, the masses descended, as vultures upon carcasses. Eager hands grasped at doors, greedy arms lifted out cartons, motorbikes, furniture, tossing aside that deemed unworthy, plundering that deemed treasure. Fights broke out among those determined to have the best of the bounty, while the moral minority stood back, appalled but helpless. Anarchy had hit Dunedin.

Soon the detritus of pillage was strewn across the beach; ornaments, books, papers, clothes. Those not actively emptying containers poked through what had been cast aside, pocketing the desirable. An elderly woman, wrapped up against the cold, shoulders draped with her newly found bounty – a red woollen coat – poked another pile with a piece of driftwood. She bent over closer to examine the glimpse of shiny white that tantalised from beneath a pile of garments, and then reached out a hand to push aside the coverings. It took several moments before her mind took in the eyeless sockets of the human skull and another five seconds before her lungs sucked in enough frigid air to unleash a scream.

3

1

‘Jesus bloody Christ.’

Beaches were supposed to be pristine stretches of white sand dotted with colourful shells, artfully strewn scraps of seaweed, cast up driftwood, the only sound the waves gently lapping the idyllic shore. Beaches were supposed to be havens of isolation and tranquillity. Beaches were supposed to be … well, anything but this. The sight before my eyes made me promise to God I would never complain about finding a dog turd on a beach again. A dog turd would be good, a dog turd would be easy. This was … where did I start?

I stood at the top of the wooden steps that led down to the spit. There must have been two hundred people roaming along the sand, and it looked like even more were up on The Mole, going by the number of cars parked stupidly and illegally anywhere and everywhere. It was as if half of Dunedin had simultaneously chosen to take an early Sunday morning joyride to Aramoana. Except that it wasn’t a joyride – looking at people’s faces, there was nothing joyous about it at all. There was awe, anger, disgust and straight-out greed on those faces, but not joy. There was only one reason they were here, and that reason was so vastly out of place, so incongruous, that my mind was trying every trick it could to try to convince me that, no, that wasn’t a bloody great container ship stuck up by the end of The Mole, and no, those weren’t shipping containers stranded on the beach.

How the hell could this have happened? There hadn’t been a storm to wreak havoc and drive the ship off course. And anyway, when the weather was that severe they closed the Taiaroa Head entrance to shipping. The lanes were too narrow and convoluted 4to risk it in poor visibility or high winds. Sure, the breeze had been up in the night, but it hadn’t been that bad. Normally if the wind was getting serious, the tree outside my bedroom window did a bit of a creak and scrape on the glass, not that I’d have heard it over the noise from that bloody party at the neighbour’s. I’d spent the long hours of darkness enduring someone else’s bad taste in music at make-your-eardrums-bleed volume. So much for my hopes of a restful weekend in Aramoana at the crib. Under any other circumstance I’d be grateful for the chance to get away to my folks’ friends’ holiday home to dog-sit their fluffy mutt. Today, not so much. My eyes scanned the warped scene before me. I didn’t think the weather conditions could be blamed for this. No, surely all this had to be human error, or mechanical failure. One thing was for sure: heads would roll. The carnage here on the beach wasn’t the result of nature’s fury; this mess was entirely man-made.

I stumbled my way around the debris. There were books, clothes, furniture, loose papers wafting around like oversized confetti, toys, smashed ornaments, candles, wine barrels, nondescript cartons, unidentifiable tat and people – people everywhere, sifting through the goods casually like they were searching through the titbits on offer at their neighbour’s garage sale.

My eyes kept darting to the ship and its precarious lean. I don’t know if it was an optical illusion, but it looked huge and close; my pre-caffeine brain grappled with the spectacle. It was hard to figure what was stranger in this catalogue of the bizarre – the ship, or the car, on its roof, in the drink, with its wheels saluting the sky. I took it from the presence of the fire engine and a few blue-uniformed officers that the car situation was under control. It was hardly surprising, given the number of cars and the number of their drivers doing dumb-nut things, that someone eventually got shunted off the narrow little road to The Mole car park and into the water. I was amazed there weren’t more of them testing out their vehicle’s buoyancy, or lack of. The driver’s owner was lucky 5 it was shallow there and even more lucky tides and weather had dumped sand over the jagged rocks.

The police presence was small; it was early and a Sunday, and I was guessing there hadn’t been time for the Dunedin Central Police Station to mobilise more staff and get them out here to Aramoana. There was a group of police officers ahead of me trying to maintain a cordon around what must have been some fascinating booty; despite the tape and officers, people were still trying to get to the choicest bits. I recognised the Port Chalmers community constable. He would have been, geographically speaking, the officer stationed closest to Aramoana, if you didn’t count me on my supposed peaceful weekend off at the beach.

‘Hey John, what’s happening?’ He was a big, burly kind of a bloke, much like my partner Smithy; they seemed to breed them big down here. The extra layers of clothing needed to ward off the cold didn’t do anything to slim his silhouette.

‘Bloody mayhem, that’s what’s happening. The sooner we get more back-up out here the better. I don’t know what the hell’s taking them so long. In all my years I’ve never seen behaviour like this. So much for us being a civilised people.’ It was quite evident John Farquhar had done a drop-and-run to get out here this morning: his face bore five o’clock shadow – five a.m., not p.m. – and his dark, time-for-a-trim hair hadn’t seen any attention either. Not that he probably gave a damn; he had a scowl that looked permanently engraved.

‘Where can I help?’

‘Further up the beach would be good.’ He pointed in the general direction of the cribs down the end of the spit. ‘Make sure no one’s doing anything too dangerous. There aren’t enough of us to stop the looting, just do what you can. At least we’ve got this patch contained, finally.’

‘What happened here?’ I asked, moving towards the taped-off area.

‘Old lady found a human skull in among the piles of crap. We’ve cordoned off as much as we can until the SOCOs arrive.’ 6

And it just kept getting weirder.

‘Does it look like it came from a container?’ I asked. The SOCOs, or scene-of-crime officers, would have their work cut out for them. No neat and tidy little crime scene here. It was probably contaminated in every way known to man.

‘Appears that way, but who could tell in this bloody great mess.’

Even with the police presence, people continued to drag objects out of the containers. They probably figured the few police there had bigger things to worry about than their pilfering. But still, I’d never seen such blatant audacity before. They were clearly letting greed outweigh brains, because if they’d bothered to think about it, there was only one road in and out of town, and it would likely be jammed up as hell – with a checkpoint on it. So unless they were prepared to swim with their booty, all it was going to achieve was a criminal record and public humiliation. Not to mention dealing with some very tetchy officers.

My eyes couldn’t decide what to rest on as I walked further along the beach. They flitted from boat to beach to boxes. The sight of the ship across from The Mole was straight-out freaky. The scale of something that big blocking the harbour made the surrounding land, houses and cars seem Lilliputian. It looked like someone had Photoshopped a bloody great leaning tower onto an otherwise unsuspecting landscape. Then there was the beach, strewn with pillaged containers, junk, damaged goods, motorbikes, toys, furniture, packs of disposable nappies – you name it, it was here. God give me strength, and coffee.

The sound of raised voices induced me to break into a trot. The tone and volume indicated things were getting a bit heated. I came around the edge of a container to see a tug of war going on between a guy in his twenties and another man in his fifties. The object of their desire was a sizeable cardboard carton that rattled with a suspiciously non-intact sound as it jerked from one combatant to the next.

‘Get your hands off it, you thieving little bastard.’ 7

‘I got it first. Let go, you stupid old coot.’

‘Excuse me, what’s going on here?’ I said, although it was pretty apparent. With all this stuff strewn everywhere and cartons as far as the eye could see, they’d decided to fight over the same box. How very adult. How very illegal.

The older guy filled me in on the details, speaking through gritted teeth and the overhang of his grey walrus moustache. The strain of the tussle was very apparent on his face.

‘This little shit is trying to take off with the box, and I’m buggered if I’m going to let him.’

‘Tell grandpa here to get his own fucking box. I got it first.’ I’d thought the younger guy was quite attractive, with his curly dark hair and brooding, brown eyes, until he’d opened his mouth.

‘Well, I hate to inform you,’ I said, moving around between them, ‘that it belongs to neither of you, and I’m going to have to ask you both to put it down.’ At that the young guy flicked his eyes in my direction, then returned them back to the task at hand.

‘Fuck off and get your own box.’

‘Nice manners,’ I said, trying to keep my blood pressure down. ‘Let me introduce myself. I’m Detective Constable Shephard. What you are doing is theft, and if you continue, I’m going to have to arrest you. So put the box down.’

‘That’s what I’ve been trying to tell the little shit. It’s not his property and he can’t take it, but he won’t bloody listen, none of them will.’ Moustache Guy, with a look of immense relief, let go of the box, sending the younger chap staggering back a few steps. He still wouldn’t put the thing down, though. He looked around, checked out the various people busy on the beach, then looked back at me, giving me the old up and down, before pointedly turning to walk off.

‘Hey,’ I yelled, ‘didn’t you hear me? You keep walking and I’ll have to arrest you.’

‘Try it,’ he said with a voice that was more threat than invitation. 8

‘Oh, bloody hell,’ I said as I ran alongside him and grabbed at the carton. ‘Put it down right now.’ I wasn’t used to having my authority flouted and it wasn’t doing anything for my mood. I might have been a fraction of his size, but I wasn’t about to be walked away from by anyone.

‘Fuck off,’ he said as he jerked the carton away from my grasp.

‘Let it go.’ Now it was me gritting my teeth, as I reached and got a grip on it again. Once again he flicked it to the side, pulling me off balance, forcing me to let go to avoid a dive into the sand.

‘Okay, you’re starting to piss me off,’ I said, my dander rising. ‘I warned you, I’ll arrest you if you don’t stop what you are doing.’ I made one more grab for the carton. ‘Now let go of the box right fucking now.’

Before I could register what was happening, he did let go, and as I dealt with the unexpected weight of the carton he swung around and punched me, right in the side of the face, hard. White-hot stars and searing pain exploded in my head, and the next thing I felt was cold wet sand as my cheek hit the beach. My water-filtered and swirling vision took in the sight of Moustache Guy tackling my assailant, and getting in a few hits, before the red curtain descended and the lights went out.

9

2

‘How are you feeling?’ The words sounded muffled to start with, then cleared in that weird, whistley kind of way, like when your ears pop after swimming. ‘Whoa, don’t sit up so fast, here you go.’ I felt hands reach around my back as an almighty head-spin took hold. I put my head between my knees.

‘Ugh, what happened?’ I asked. The movement of my jaw sent sharp jolts of electricity through the already substantial burning pain on the right side of my face.

‘Some idiot threw a punch at you. You’ve been out cold for a bit. Here, maybe we should lie you back down.’

God, yes, it all came back to me: the unexpected weight of the carton pulling me forwards, then wham. Didn’t see that one coming. I put my hand up to him to indicate, no, I didn’t want to lie down again. Now I was sitting upright, I intended to stay upright.

‘Did someone nail the bastard?’ I tried to speak without moving my mouth. I could taste the sharp tang of iron and the smell of blood filled my nostrils.

‘Ah, yes.’ Finally my voice-recognition software kicked in. The voice in question belonged to John Farquhar, the Port Chalmers constable. Judging by its close proximity, he was the one propping me up. ‘He got well and truly nailed; too nailed in fact. We’re waiting for an ambulance.’

I tried to recall those last moments from my horizontal viewpoint. ‘By the older guy with the mo?’

‘Stronger than he looks. Mind you, by the look of you, the other chap deserved everything he got.’ 10

‘Is it that bad?’

‘Let’s just say I hope you’re not lined up for any beauty pageants this week.’

I did a little gentle testing to check out the damage. I swung my jaw from side to side, and although it hurt, it did move, which was encouraging. A run of my tongue over my teeth told me they were all still there, although, to my horror, a couple had a bit of a wiggle. The inside of my cheek was a bit mashed; the source of the blood, I imagined. I wiped the sand on my hand off onto my trousers, and then gingerly lifted it up to check out the face.

‘Hey, watch where you touch, Sam. You’ve got a bit of a split there. Here’s a tissue for you.’

I reached up with the tissue and, yup, as suspected, the swelling was pretty much proportional to the pain. There was an egg, complete with lashes, where my right eye should be. When I touched my cheekbone a flash of searing white fire shot through my head, and I sucked my breath in with a hiss. My eyebrow felt sticky, and when I looked at my fingers they were coated in blood. Jesus. I only hoped nothing was broken. I folded the tissue into a wad and tried to apply pressure to my brow – enough to stop the bleeding but not so much that I wanted to pass out with the pain. With my good eye I looked up and noted I had a bit of an audience. I wondered if anyone else had come to my assistance, or if it had been left to Moustache Guy to defend my honour? Judging by the prone recovery-position state of the young guy, Mo Man might have been a little overzealous in his administrations.

‘What’s your name?’

I pulled my focus back to the legs squatting beside me. Dumb question. ‘You know my name, John.’

‘Humour me. I need to check you’re functioning properly. What’s your name?’ He sounded like a schoolteacher.

‘Samantha Shephard, Detective Constable Samantha Shephard. Do you want my serial number too?’

I heard a little snort. ‘And what’s the date today?’ 11

I had to grapple for that one. I wasn’t good with dates at the best of times, let alone when someone had smacked the crap out of me. I had to work backwards. I knew this Friday was Dad’s birthday, but through my foggy head the maths still took a while. ‘Ah, it’s Sunday, Sunday the thirtieth of August, I think.’

‘Can you lift both your arms up above your head?’

I didn’t feel like I could do anything other than hug my knees right now. Bloody stupid question, I thought, until it dawned on me he was checking brain function, not whether I’d done my shoulder in.

‘I copped a wallop, not a stroke,’ I said, but obliged.

‘Good, now smile for me.’ That was pushing it, but I managed a pained grimace that might pass.

‘We’ll put you in the ambulance too, when it gets here. You were out cold for a few minutes, so they’ll want to check you over and make sure you haven’t got concussion.’ I could pretty much guarantee I did. ‘That cut’s going to need stitches, and I imagine an X-ray will be in order too, make sure he didn’t break anything.’

Terrific.

The throbbing in my head had developed a gut-churning accompaniment that shifted from being insistent to urgent, and with a groan I leaned away from John and added to the detritus on the beach.

This day just kept getting better.

12

3

Under normal circumstances I wouldn’t be too pleased about being in such close proximity to someone who’d just beaten the crap out of me, but today was turning out to be far from normal. The young guy was strapped securely into the gurney in the back of the ambulance and looked a damn sight worse for wear than me, which was saying something. Lying there, pale and hurt, he seemed so innocuous and vulnerable, the ferocity of his attack now felt unlikely and unreal, despite the very real and painful evidence I bore. What the hell had he been thinking? To hit anyone like that, let alone a police officer, let alone a woman? Didn’t his parents teach him anything?

I was the kind of girl who was reluctant to take any kind of medication, reserving paracetamol for the stiffest of headaches, but with the hammering and underlying ache going on in my head and face right now, I was willing to adjust my standards. Bring on the dancing drugs, and now would be good, please. The swirling stomach persisted and, despite the earlier emptying out, I still felt nauseated, and clutched at a plastic pot, just in case. Not that I was going to get pain relief any time soon. The ambulance was crewed by the grand sum of one, and he was driving. It was just me and Mr McFists in the back. No kind paramedic to make ‘there, there, ever so there, there’ noises and dole out the good stuff. No one other than me to make sure the beat-up guy was doing all right and not about to make trouble. Not that I thought he would, given he was still unconscious and strapped in. Great to see our emergency services so well staffed and resourced.

I looked out of the ambulance window at the wall of shipping 13containers stacked behind the chain-link fence alongside the road from Carey’s Bay, and then saw the bums and giraffe-like necks of the huge blue-and-white cranes at Port Chalmers loom up, filling the sky. Two more police cars whizzed past on the opposite side of the road, heading out, a bit belatedly, to deal with the mess at Aramoana. I never thought I’d ever see a scene like that in New Zealand. That was the sort of thing that went on in places like East Timor, or even in the United States in moments of desperation and despair after hurricanes, not in little old Dunedin. It just went to show that beneath the thin veneer of civilisation, we were all capable of violence and crime. Even this guy.

At the time I remember he had appeared handsome, clean cut, well groomed and harmless, yet he’d turned feral in an instant and attacked me over nothing – a box of random goods. It showed how all our social conditioning and manners could fly out the window in the face of greed and opportunism. Common sense certainly went south, because this chap clearly didn’t think about the long-term consequences of assaulting an officer. Not just being beaten up himself – who could have foreseen that? – but a criminal conviction, and maybe even a jail term. That would put an end to a vast number of job prospects, and even opportunities for travel. In this day and age, with many countries twitchy about terrorism, even a minor conviction could put paid to any sightseeing trips abroad. Bet he didn’t think about that.

Taking a sideways glance at him my internal alarm mechanisms rang, and I examined him more closely. Something wasn’t right. I leaned over and angled my head to get a better look at him with my good eye. An oxygen mask covered his bloodied face, making it difficult to see anything. What was bugging me? I looked him over once again, and then realised: shit, his chest wasn’t rising. I got to my feet, reaching out to brace myself against the side of the ambulance as we went around a bend, then reached out, fingers searching for the carotid pulse in his neck. Nothing. Fuck.

‘He’s stopped breathing,’ I yelled to the ambulance driver. 14

Training immediately kicked in, and I flipped the bed back to the horizontal, released the top strap on the gurney and pulled back the blanket covering him.

My eyes searched the cabin for the AED, but I couldn’t see it anywhere obvious.

‘Where’s the defib?’ I yelled.

‘Some bastard stole it while we were down on the beach. Start CPR.’

Fuckity fuck.

My fingers felt down his sternum, until I found the right place, clasped my hands, and tried to balance as I felt the ambulance swerving and slowing to a halt.

I pressed down vertically.

Press and release.

Fast and hard.

Press and release.

Having to tiptoe to do it.

Press and release.

Feeling the give in his ribcage.

Press and release.

Praying for his life.

Press and release.

15

4

‘Gidday.’ Paul’s voice sounded strange through the infrequently used neural pathway via my left ear. The right one, normally used, was out of commission and would be for a while. It felt damn weird holding the phone on this side. Paul Frost was a detective in Gore, and despite my previous mantra of not screwing the crew, was the current object of my affections. It was quite a convenient arrangement. He lived there, I lived here, we had fun in the weekends. Nothing too taxing. Although, I had to admit, today Paul and Gore seemed all too far away.

‘Hi.’ My voice gave a tell-tale crackle.

‘Are you okay? What’s wrong?’ I gave him full marks for picking up on the cues. He was good like that.

‘I’m sitting in A&E.’

There was a moment’s silence.

‘What’s happened, are you hurt?’

‘Kind of.’

‘What do you mean, kind of? Were you in an accident?’

‘Sort of.’ The sound of his concerned voice eroded my fortitude. I took a big shuddery breath. ‘Someone had a go at me.’

‘How bad is it?’

‘Black eye, five stitches, big bruise, no fracture, hopefully vision’s okay – too swollen to tell. Loose teeth. Concussion. Bloody sore.’ Short sentences managed to stave off a girly breakdown.

‘Jesus. Did they get the guy?’

‘Yeah. Shared ambulance. He’s not good. He…’ My mind flashed back to the image of standing over him, desperately 16pumping, the blast of pain through my face as I pressed my mouth over his to breathe life back in. ‘I … I had to jump-start him.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Stopped breathing, had to resuscitate him.’

‘You saved the life of the guy who beat you up?’

‘Yes.’

‘Sam.’

That one word expressed his concern, sorrow and amazement. The tears flowed hot and stinging down my face.

‘Who dealt with him? Not the police, surely?’

You could only imagine the furore if it had been one of us. Even in defence of another officer we’d be pilloried by the media as heavy-handed.

‘No. Public. Someone came to my aid.’

‘They must have got a bit carried away, then.’

‘Guess so. Don’t know, didn’t see. I was out of it.’

‘Was this all to do with that ship I saw on the news?’

‘Yeah. People went a bit nuts.’

There was another short pause.

‘God, I can’t even come up tonight. I’m completely tied up with work. Listen, I’ll make a few calls, but I don’t fancy my chances, we’re overrun here. I’m sorry, Sam.’

My heart sank. Normally I’d vote against being rescued by an overprotective male and instead plump for standing on my own feet. But after the day I’d had, heck, sometimes all a girl needed was a knight in shining armour.

17

5

I was feeling a little more together after a hefty dose of something containing a Class B controlled drug and a chat to a friendly voice, even if the voice wasn’t going to be able to make it here in person. Perhaps that was just as well because I doubted I was looking my most attractive.

By the time Smithy turned up, the pain relief was kicking in, the lovely lady from Victim Support had calmed me down somewhat, and I was a little more objective about the events of the morning. Detective Malcolm Smith was my kind of mentor; he was supposed to keep an eye on me while I was still a puppy-detective, although he seemed to like the ‘give ’em space and let ’em learn by their mistakes’ approach to supervision. This normally suited me just fine, although I certainly could have done with his guardian angel presence this morning. Smithy had a face like a dropped pie, a beautiful set of cauliflower ears and a don’t-mess-with-me demeanour. All set in a six-foot-plus frame, it made for a menacing package. Perfect for a detective, or a front-row forward dishing it out in the rugby scrum.

I was getting used to people’s reactions when they caught a look at the face. Smithy didn’t disappoint.

‘Jesus effing Christ, Sam. What does the other guy look like?’

The drugs must have been working, because I managed a laugh. ‘Far worse than me, that’s for sure.’

‘Just goes to show, you shouldn’t pick on the little guy, or gal.’ He gave me a look that hung halfway between sympathy and something I think might have been admiration. ‘I heard about what you did for him. For the record, I’d like to have you around 18if I have a heart attack someday, because you seem to have a knack for bringing people back from the dead.’

I smiled, appreciating the vote of confidence. ‘Duly noted. I can’t promise anything though. It might be a more effective life-insurance policy for you to lay off the beer and the chips.’

‘What? I’ve spent years cultivating this splendid motor,’ he said, jiggling his belly with both hands. ‘Why have a six-pack when you can have a keg? I’m not about to give it all up now.’

I noted the now-familiar awkwardness of those who talked to me – do I look her in the left eye, or do I look her in the right eye and appear to be rude and staring? So far most were non-committal and flicked between the two, so of course my eyes followed theirs, and the constant sway gave me a feeling somewhat like motion sickness. I tried to look down at the floor, but that hurt the muscles in my eyes so I settled for a spot just below Smithy’s Adam’s apple.

‘So, what’s the story then?’ I asked.

‘The beachcombers seem to be under control now.’ That was a nice euphemism for what I saw going on. ‘Was it just me, or did everyone seem to go a bit crazy?’

‘It wasn’t just you. It was like a Hollywood disaster movie, with the scavengers moving in, except the people I saw weren’t extras hamming it up for the camera. They were deadly serious.’ As I spoke my hand drifted to my face. I didn’t wince this time; those drugs were damn good.

‘What about the woman who found that human skull?’ Smithy said. ‘Everyone seems to feel sorry for her – you know, poor old lady gets a big shock. But I’m thinking, what was a supposedly nice old granny doing out stealing other people’s property on a beach? What were any of them doing? It was like stick them out there, isolated with all that temptation and suddenly all morals go out the window.’

‘Can’t answer that one for you, I’m afraid,’ I said. I was starting to feel a touch spacey. ‘It’s a bit of a worry though.’ 19

‘Yeah, very Lord of the Flies.’

I looked back up at Smithy, surprised. ‘I didn’t know you read … Golding.’ I’d had to fumble around in my brain and memories of fifth-form English for that name.

‘I’m full of surprises, but don’t tell anyone. I have an image to maintain.’ He certainly did a good job of maintaining it, with his rough-cast exterior. But now he was showing himself to be a thinking man’s meathead, Richie McCaw on platform shoes.

‘By the way, the guy who did over the guy who bashed you.’

‘Moustache Guy?’

‘Yes, Moustache Guy; he’s been charged with assault. There were so many arrests out there because of all the looting, the court had to do a special sitting to process everyone. He wasn’t remanded in custody though.’

‘Assault? That hardly seems fair. He was just protecting me.’ If he hadn’t come to my rescue, would anyone else have stepped in? I wondered. My normally unshakable faith in human nature had been a bit rattled this morning.

‘It went a little bit beyond protection, Sam. In fact, thanks to you, he’s very lucky he’s not facing a manslaughter charge, or worse.’

‘Yeah, but still, it’s no wonder people are reluctant to go to anyone’s aid nowadays. Not when the chances are you’ll end up in hospital, or in court, and the other bugger will get off scot-free, and probably get awarded damages.’

‘I wouldn’t call being unconscious in ICU scot-free, but I see your point. Don’t you worry, Sam. I’ll be having a little chat with your assailant when he’s up to it. Did he know you were police?’

‘Yes, I told him, and that I was going to arrest him if he didn’t stop what he was doing and put the box down, but it didn’t seem to make any difference.’

‘Not very smart then. Judges get a bit perturbed about things like assaulting an officer. He’s extended his sentence by a fair amount, I imagine.’ 20

‘So what about the skull? That sounds really freaky.’

‘The area’s cordoned off, the SOCOs are there and ESR is on the way from Christchurch. The victim clearly wasn’t killed on the beach this morning, so it must have happened elsewhere. So we have a murder enquiry, a maritime enquiry, several dangerous driving charges, a few assault cases and a shitload of looting charges to keep us busy.’ He rubbed his hands together with glee.

I found it a bit difficult to muster up that level of enthusiasm, but one thing was clear: Dunedin’s reputation as Grand Conservative Central had just been shot to hell.

21

6

I’d been having a delightful conversation with the teeniest, tiniest little spider who was making the most amazing web between the pipe thingies coming out of the wall, bringing oxygen and whatever other stuff they pumped into people. Her name was Crystal and she had been busy explaining why Einstein could not possibly have believed all that stuff about mass and matter, and that she’d told him this, again and again, but he wouldn’t listen, and now look what had happened, and we were all stuck with this cumbersome theory of his. She also thought he should have done something about his hair. I was just about to point out to her that, in fact, we humans were quite taken with the man and his ideas, when my flatmate and favourite friend, Maggie, walked into the room.

‘Maggie, great to see you, come meet Crystal, you’ll like her. She’s great. She was just telling me—’

‘Good God, Sam, look at your face. That’s gotta hurt.’

I put my hand up to my face to make sure it was still there, and then laughed. ‘I know. You’d think that, wouldn’t you? But they gave me this drug, I don’t know what it was, but I must get the name of it because I think it’s rather good, even if I had to have a jab in the bum, and you know I don’t normally like needles, but this wasn’t so bad, and the male nurse was kind of cute, and I’d quite like some more actually, because I feel kind of nice, but it doesn’t hurt anymore, well it does, kind of, but not really, you know?’

‘Do you think they may have given you a little bit too much?’

I looked more closely at Maggie’s hair. She’d clearly forgotten to brush it after she washed it this morning because the titiwai glow-worms were still trying to make their strings of beautiful 22little diamonds to trap the flies. They sparkled and glittered, and their luminosity threw such a pretty light on Maggie’s face. They must have been annoying her though, because she lifted up her hand to swipe them away.

‘Wow,’ I said, as she swept her arm and a multicoloured rainbow trailed the movement. ‘How did you do that? Can I try?’ I waved my arm in front of my face, but it didn’t quite work properly, so I tried again, and again, and then on the fourth and most enthusiastic try it worked a treat, but I nearly fell out of the bed. I gave a squeal of delight, straightened myself back up and practised a few more times, just to make sure I’d got it right.

‘They called me to come and take you home, but I’m thinking that’s not such a good idea right now.’

At that moment Crystal butted in and said, ‘Don’t look, but she’s put her eyes in back to front.’

So, of course I looked, and they were, all of them, and it was so funny that I burst into fits of giggles, which floated out across the air and popped like little bubbles against the walls.

23

7

‘Oh, God, someone shoot me.’ The clamps squeezing my guts gripped even tighter, another wave of saliva flooded my mouth and I retched once more into the toilet. When I was done turning my innards inside out I sat back on my heels and accepted the warm facecloth that was placed in my hand. I held it over my face while trying to breathe away the explosive pain in my head. It wasn’t working.

‘Not enjoying the happy drugs quite so much now, huh?’ Maggie said, with a charming combination of mirth and concern.

‘Ugh.’ I pulled off some toilet paper to wipe my eyes and then blew my nose. It hurt. The happy drugs had well and truly lost their charm. I felt like a dead duck in a thunderstorm.

With some assistance from Maggs, I got to my feet and shuffled over to the washbasin, where I made the unfortunate mistake of looking in the mirror. I immediately wished I hadn’t. On any normal day I quite liked what I saw: large, warm brown eyes under high eyebrows, straight nose, full mouth and smooth, olivey skin, all framed by longish dark-blonde hair with a slight wave. I’d have liked curls. I didn’t consider myself to be beautiful – more, pretty. That was on a normal day. There wasn’t anything normal about this.

My eyebrow looked like a row of five little blue spiders were going for a constitutional along its cracked, red ridge. The bruising had developed into beautiful shades of crimson, purple and black. Their depth of colour and contrast with my general pallor was quite striking. The bruising I could handle. Unfortunately, the swelling was beginning to subside, which meant my right eye had opened up to a slit. And while I could see out of it, which was a 24huge relief, the sight of it alarmed me. A blood vessel had broken, which made me resemble some bruised, red-eyed alien/human hybrid. I made an executive decision to avoid mirrors for a week or two.

‘Ew,’ I said to Maggie. ‘You didn’t tell me about that.’

‘I couldn’t quite find the words,’ she said. ‘It could be worse, it could have been both eyes; and you should be happy your nose is where it belongs.’ She was right. At least I’d taken the blow more to the side of my face. And my sense of vanity felt slightly buoyed by that thought. The cut was right on top of my eyebrow, so any scar would eventually disappear and there’d be no permanent reminders of the assault. I’d just have to live with the artistic bruising, red-eye special, ringing ear and 6.8-on-the-Richter-scale headache for a bit longer.

‘I need some paracetamol,’ I said, and shuffled for the kitchen.

‘That won’t do anything. Shouldn’t you take something stronger?’

‘After that stuff they gave me, no way. It was fun for a while, but man, what a downer.’ I’d been a horribly conservative teenager and had never smoked cigarettes and never tried drugs; way too much of a control freak for that. A token drag on a marijuana joint when I was eighteen didn’t count, especially when the resultant coughing fit took all the fun out of it. And after this experience, I didn’t think any high, no matter how ‘whoa, dude’, would be worth this kind of crap. This experience had made it crystal clear to me that my body and anything potentially hallucinogenic didn’t mix. Trust me to be one of the 0.5 per cent who may experience hallucinatory side effects according to the package insert. Marvellous.

‘For the record, you were really entertaining when you were high, but not so much fun anymore. You’re a bit messy now. Interesting reaction though. I’m sure that doesn’t happen often or else they wouldn’t dare administer it to people.’

‘Yeah, well, aren’t I the lucky one? I can’t actually remember much of the evening. Was I bad?’25

‘I wouldn’t say bad, more like amusing. I really loved the way you got back to nature, communing with the animals, particularly the bugs. Very Charlotte’s Web.’

‘Promise you won’t tell anyone?’

‘I don’t know. What’s it worth?’

My brain wasn’t working well enough to think of a currency with enough appeal, so I lay myself at her mercy. ‘Name your price.’

Maggie’s eyebrows shot up. ‘You must be feeling bad. Lucky for you I’m not the sort to take advantage of the infirm, so a packet of Toffee Pops and we’ll call it square.’

‘Done.’ And we shook hands on the deal.