Overkill E-Book

Vanda Symon

• Herausgeber: Orenda Books
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 447

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018

Beschreibung

When the body of a young mother is found on the banks of New Zealand's Mataura River, young female police constable Sam Shephard begins an investigation, with horrifying and very personal implications. Book one in an addictive, atmospheric new series. *** SHORTLISTED for the CWA John Creasey (New Blood) Dagger 2019*** ***SHORTLISTED for the Ngaio Marsh Award*** 'The tensions within a tightknit village, along with various aspects of Kiwi society, are laid out with real authority, but it is Symon's copper Sam, self-deprecating and very human, who represents the writer's real achievement' Guardian 'Lively evocation of small-town life, with a plot that grabs the reader's attention with a heart-stopping opening and doesn't let go' The Times 'An achievement that blends heart-stopping thrills with deep, believable characters in a stark New Zealand setting. It will leave readers reaching for the next Sam Shephard mystery' Foreword Reviews –––––––––––––––––––––––––––––– When the body of a young mother is found washed up on the banks of the Mataura River, a small rural community is rocked by her tragic suicide. But all is not what it seems. Sam Shephard, sole-charge police constable in Mataura, soon discovers the death was no suicide and has to face the realisation that there is a killer in town. To complicate the situation, the murdered woman was the wife of her former lover. When Sam finds herself on the list of suspects and suspended from duty, she must cast aside her personal feelings and take matters into her own hands. To find the murderer … and clear her name. A taut, atmospheric and page-turning thriller, Overkill marks the start of an unputdownable and unforgettable series from one of New Zealand's finest crime writers. –––––––––––––––––––––––––––––– 'A sassy heroine, fabulous sense of place, and rip-roaring stories with a twist' Kate Mosse 'Symon has created a compelling series lead, and her treatment of small-town New Zealand is superbly atmospheric. This one's a cracker' Liam McIlvanney 'Overkill certainly feels like the beginning of something great. It's a clever first novel and a dark thriller that's well-paced and well-plotted … with a satisfying and fitting ending' CultureFly 'Symon nicely balances action, character and story in a well-drawn rural setting, and realistically speckles the book with light-hearted moments and humour throughout' Kiwi Crime 'Powerful, coolly assured, and an absolute belter of a read' LoveReading 'The key to the novel for me is definitely the humorous portrayal of the one-woman police band, both extremely naïve and too eager to prove herself in the eyes of her superiors and against the silent backdrop of her parents' disappointment' Crime Review 'With a twisty plot, a protagonist who shines and beautifully written observations of the cruellest things, Overkill is crime fiction at its best and this is an outstanding book. I predict that this series is going to soar here in the UK and it deserves to' Crime Watch 'The author's style of storytelling is smooth and engaging, making Overkill very easy to read, which is enough to keep you cranking through the pages. The ending is a cracker … We'll look forward to the next in the series because with the author's storytelling skills, the first is a pleasure to read' Crime Fiction Lover 'Overkill is Symon's first novel, but it reads like the polished effort of a genre veteran. More, please' Booklist

Leseprobe

PRAISE FOR OVERKILL

‘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

‘This was an excellent read. It wasn’t just the setting that made the book stand out. Symon is wonderful at characterisation, and the supporting characters spring to life from the page’ Sarah Ward

‘Finally, UK readers get to discover New Zealand’s own Queen of Crime. Vanda Symon is a big talent and everything she writes is fast, intelligent and utterly gripping. In Sam Shephard, Symon has created a compelling series lead, and her treatment of small-town New Zealand is superbly atmospheric. This one’s a cracker’ Liam McIlvanney

‘One of the best in this genre that I’ve read in years’ Trena Marshall, Waikato Times

‘A rollicking good read’ Kim Knight, Sunday Star Times

‘Symon nicely balances action, character and story in a well-drawn rural setting, and realistically speckles the book with light-hearted moments and humour throughout’ Wild Tomato Magazine

‘Overkill marks a bold beginning for a new voice, and a new hero, in crime fiction’ Crime Watch

‘Sam Shephard does not disappoint, and she is one of my favourite heroines’ Steph’s Book Blog

‘One of the best female protagonists ever to come out of New Zealand, Sam Shephard (Shep) is a delight. As she treads her own investigative path, she ends up literally and metaphorically knee deep in shit as the tension rises and we fear for her safety as she makes one questionable decision after another … Overkill is written with pace and verve; it really flows well and is both engrossing and highly enjoyable. The characters stand out and I identified with Sam to the point that I was literally shouting at her to watch out as the final scenes played out. Verdict: a great start to a series I want to read more of and a ballsy protagonist I already love to bits’ Live and Deadly

‘A wonderfully evocative sense of place plus an engaging and intriguing main protagonist means Overkill is a must read’ Liz Loves Books

‘Overkill moves at break-neck speed, plunging the reader and Sam into a mystery that is cleverly thought out and impeccably told. The tense atmosphere and the multiple twists and false leads make this a breathtaking and compelling read’ Random Things through My Letterbox

‘Symon has a wonderful writing style; her vivid descriptions of settings conjured such crisp images in my head … There is an incredibly “real” feel to this book. The way that the plot pulls together is superb and leaves you with a satisfying conclusion’ The Quiet Knitter

‘A taut, atmospheric and page-turning thriller, Overkill marks the start of an unputdownable and unforgettable series from one of New Zealand s finest crime writers’ Bloomin’ Brilliant Books

‘Sam Shephard is quite an engaging and attractive character … The rural setting is very well described, and the book is written in a smooth style that makes it a page-turner’ A Crime Is Afoot

‘The relentless pace of the story carries us along, with short chapters that are long on action. I didn’t want to put down my copy’ Richard Fernandez, Café Thinking

‘A wonderful page-turner. Sam Shepherd is a gritty character, persistent, intuitive, a lateral thinker’ Mysteries in Paradise

‘I loved this crime thriller from the moment I started reading the chilling prologue, through every spellbinding chapter and right through to the shocking ending. Overkill features short, snappy chapters, which move the plot forwards at a fast pace, with great literary writing. Tension and emotion spill from every page, and I found myself whizzing through from beginning to end. I genuinely couldn’t stop reading, addicted not only to the gripping, twisty plot but also to its great sense of place and range of believable characters – a perfect combination’ Off-the-Shelf Books

‘Sam Shepherd is a likable and engaging character. She reminds me of Sue Grafton’s Kinsey Millhone in many ways. She shares the doggedness and disregard for her own safety in the pursuit of answers and can also be a little childish, to her own detriment … the last third of the book was quite a page-turner and the ultimate resolution was both well crafted and very credible. Overall this was an entertaining debut novel and I will certainly look for the next in the series’ Reactions to Reading

‘Massively addictive and compelling. Vanda Symon has written something very special here: an intense and powerful thriller told with a combination of prose and narrative that elevates Overkill head and shoulders above the pack and makes it a serious contender for one of the year’s best reads’ Mumbling About…

‘With one of the most chilling prologues I’ve ever read, Overkill had me gripped from the opening paragraph’ Joy Kluver’s Blog

‘A really enjoyable story, I loved Sam as the lead character and I warmed to her straight away. I thought she was excellent and was rooting for her throughout’ Donna’s Book Blog

‘An intense and atmospheric procedural which vividly evokes a sense of place and a powerful new personality’ Murder, Mayhem & More

‘Of the many admirable aspects of Symon’s storytelling, chief is her creation of Sam Shephard, a protagonist you want to follow; headstrong, passionate, and flawed. A talented detective, but not infallible. Shephard puts herself out there, cares, makes mistakes … She’s human, real, and well rounded … a great read. Symon populates a good story with great characters, and unique touches in a distinctly Kiwi setting’ NZLawyer magazine

‘Sam is in a race against time and a white-hot violent battle to save herself and her friends ensues. And as a backdrop to all this, the tight-knit community, cadence and usages in the New Zealand dialogue, references to local plants and wildlife and the rural way of doing things round everything off nicely and make Overkill all the more readable. We’ll look forward to the next in the series because, with the author’s storytelling skills, the first is a pleasure to read’ Crime Fiction Lover

OVERKILL

VANDA SYMON

For Mum

Contents

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Prologue

The day it was ordained that Gabriella Knowes would die there were no harbingers, omens or owls’ calls. No tolling of bells. With the unquestioning courtesy of the well brought up, she invited Death in.

Death politely showed his identification and explained that there had been a telecommunication problem in the area. He then requested Gaby check if her landline had a dial tone.

She left him on the doorstep under the watchful gaze of Radar, hallway sentinel, and turned back into the house. She recalled she had left the phone in the bedroom after her usual morning chat with her mother, and smiled at the memory of her mother’s excitement when she told her about Angel’s first faltering steps.

The distant clatter of plastic told her that Angel was happily strewing Duplo around the lounge floor.

Gaby picked up the phone and pressed the ‘Talk’ button: sure enough, no dial tone.

‘You’re right, it’s dead,’ she said, as she walked back to the door. ‘It was fine an hour ago when I was talking to Mum. Are everyone’s phones down?’

‘Just the homes in this block. It seems to be a localised fault,’ he said.

‘How long will it take to fix?’

‘Well, if I can come in and check each of your jack points, we can eliminate them as the problem.’ The man bent down to pick up a large black tool bag. ‘In any case, we should have it sorted out within two hours, so you won’t be without a phone for too long.’

Gaby opened the door wide for him. ‘Oh sure, come in. But would you mind taking your shoes off? We’ve just got new carpet and I’m still a bit precious about it.’

‘Of course.’ He put the bag down and leaned over to untie his work boots. ‘We’ve carpeted recently too. Where are your jack points?’

She walked down the hallway and pointed into the bedroom.

‘There’s a phone in there, another in the dining room through here,’ she waved her arm to the right, ‘and one in the bedroom straight ahead. I’ll shut the dog away so he doesn’t hassle you.’ She grabbed Radar by the collar.

‘Thanks for that. I’ll start in there,’ he said, and indicated the main bedroom. He shifted his bag out of the way and closed the front door. Gaby watched him for a moment as he found the jack point in the bedroom and began to unzip the bag.

‘I’ll leave you to it,’ she said.

She deposited the dog in the end bedroom and went back to the lounge, where Angel was sitting on the floor amid a riot of coloured plastic. She bent over and kissed the top of her daughter’s wispy blonde head, then continued through to the laundry to empty the machine and put on the next load. It never ceased to amaze her how much extra washing one kid could produce. She had just tossed in the last of the towels when she heard footsteps approach. She turned and was surprised to see the Telemax man carrying Angel on one hip.

‘Oh, you found my Angel. Come to Mummy, poppet,’ she said, and stepped through into the kitchen, arms outstretched to take her.

But the man backed away into the dining room, putting the table between them.

‘Sit down,’ he said.

‘No, no, just pass her straight to me, she’ll be fine.’ Again, she reached out for her Angel.

‘Sit down at the table,’ the man said, all pleasantness gone from his voice.

‘What are you doing? Just give her to me.’ Gaby was moving around the table. Unease weighted the bottom of her stomach.

‘Sit down. Now.’ His tone made it clear there was no room for discussion, and his right hand drew what looked like a flick knife from his pocket. ‘You’ve got such a pretty girl here. It would be a pity to have to spoil that face.’

Gaby lowered herself onto the chair; her legs no longer had the strength to support her. She could feel her heart hammering in her chest and struggled to hear over the pulsating, rushing noise in her head. The world had started to turn grey around the edges. She sucked in a deep breath and thought, Don’t faint, don’t faint. Think. Look for something – a weapon, anything. But she couldn’t tear her eyes from her daughter who, oblivious to the threat, was smiling in the stranger’s arms.

‘We can make this easy or we can make this hard. It’s up to you,’ he said as he adjusted Angel’s weight on his hip. ‘I need you to write a note.’

‘If it’s money you want, my purse is in the bedroom. Take it, take anything, just give me back my daughter.’

‘Ah, money. Well, no. It’s not that simple.’

Gaby watched him gently tease Angel with the flick knife, tickling her under the chin. Angel giggled and kept reaching out, trying to grab at it. Gaby felt her gorge rise, and swallowed back hard. She could not allow herself to retch or faint. She had to keep a cool head. With her eyes she begged Angel not to hit the damned button by accident. Then her anger flared up, momentarily breaking through the fear. She leaped to her feet.

‘What do you want, you fucking sick bastard! If you hurt her, I will kill you, I fucking swear—’

‘Well, I’m afraid I’m not the one who’s going to be dying today.’ A contemptuous grin spread across the man’s face. ‘Like I said, we can make this easy, or we can make this hard. It’s up to you. Me, I have a job to do. I don’t personally like hurting children, so if you cooperate, we can just get this done and your daughter will be fine. If you make any trouble…’ With a lightning-fast action he activated the flick knife and deftly removed a lock of Angel’s hair.

Gaby flopped back onto the chair, fighting the urge to vomit as she watched the curl drift down to the floor. Her hands flew up to her face, to physically hold back the need to scream. It took her several seconds to regain control. She forced herself to lower her hands back to the tabletop, to battle the constriction in her throat.

‘I’ll do anything,’ she whispered, and then looked up to meet his gaze. ‘Just don’t hurt my baby. For God’s sake, just leave her alone.’

He looked at her, appraising, then reached down and pressed the blade of the knife on the table. The click as it closed made Gaby flinch.

‘Now get a pen and a piece of paper. I need you to write that note.’

Gaby reached over and grabbed at the pen and pad she kept by the telephone; she almost dropped them, her hands were shaking so much. ‘What do I have to write?’ she asked.

‘Oh, I think we’ll keep it simple. “Sorry, Honey, I love you” – something like that.’

‘What?’

‘Let me spell it out for you. You are going to die. I want you to write a simple, fitting suicide note. That’s it. It’s not that hard. Now write.’

His words hit like a blow to the stomach. A gasping sob escaped her and she grasped the edge of the table to steady herself. The man was tall, muscular and probably twice her weight. He had Angel, squirming now, tired of being held and wanting her mother’s arms. Disbelief surged up, and Gaby found herself banging her fists on the table. A keening noise escaped her mouth.

‘Don’t be so bloody childish, lady. It’s not going to help you or your daughter. I’m going to get my bag. You, pull yourself together. Try anything, and it’s the girl who will pay.’ He turned, still carrying Angel, and walked out into the hall towards the bedroom.

She had only a moment; she had to think. There was no way she’d let people believe she’d killed herself, no way she could leave that legacy for Angel or Lockie. Quickly, and with a badly shaking hand, she scrawled a note on the pad, then ripped the piece off, screwed it up and flung it into a pile of old newspapers in the kitchen. Maybe, just maybe, he’d miss it.

She could already hear the man’s footsteps returning. She breathed heavily. Her heart still raced, but suddenly, Gaby felt strangely calm, almost disconnected, a mere observer. A thought entered her head and as soon as it solidified her lips formed the question.

‘Why?’

He came back into the room and swung the bag up onto the table with one arm, making a heavy thud.

‘Why?’ she asked again. ‘Why are you doing this to me? What did I ever do to you?’

‘To me? Nothing. I’m just doing my job, lady. Shit happens.’ He hoisted Angel up where she’d slid down from his hip. ‘Now get on with writing that note before I get pissed off.’

Gaby picked up the pen again and tried to think of a way to get the message across – this was not her doing, not her in control. There was no way she would dream of committing suicide. The last few months had been hellish, but she loved her husband and she lived and breathed for her daughter. Surely Lockie knew that. Her mother would know it too. She would know Gaby could never leave her Angel.

Gaby made herself stand up. She watched the man’s muscles tense, then relax when he realised she was reaching across the table to the box of tissues by the window. She looked outside, but there was no one there, no hope of rescue. It was up to her. Tissues in hand, Gaby sat back down, then blew her nose hard. She shoved the used tissues into the pocket of her track pants, and cursed herself for not putting the secret note in there too. Too late now. Or maybe he would have found it anyway.

She took a deep breath and set her mind to the note. She wrote the words with deliberation, and managed to minimise the shaking of her hand. She only hoped it was enough. Enough for Lockie to know it wasn’t right, wasn’t her.

‘There you are, you bastard. One fucking note.’

‘I’m glad you’ve decided to play the game,’ he said, and moved around beside her.

Gaby held her breath as he looked the note over.

‘That’ll do the job,’ he said. ‘See, it wasn’t so bad.’ He patted her on the head as if she were a pet puppy, and she flinched away from his touch.

Angel had started to writhe and grizzle. She lurched over, arms outstretched for her mother. Gaby reached up to take her, but the man pulled the child back against his body, moved around to the other side of the table and set Angel down in the chair opposite.

‘Now what?’ Gaby asked, voice flat. She sat, shoulders hunched, hands limp where they had dropped in her lap. The black tool bag was on the table between them, another barrier to her Angel.

‘Now we get to work,’ he said.

He completely unzipped the bag, and she watched as he pulled out a small rolled bag and placed it just out of Angel’s inquisitive reach. Then he reached back in and pulled out a large bundle of black fabric. He shook it out to its full size and tossed it down onto the carpet. Gaby’s heart leaped in her chest, bile rose up into her throat: she had seen enough movies to recognise a body bag when she saw one.

‘This is what you are going to do,’ the man said, as he unrolled the first small bag. It contained several syringes, vials and a prescription box of tablets all in their own pockets. ‘I am going to give you an injection, but I will make it as painless as possible. If you struggle, if you do not do exactly as I ask, I will kill your daughter and make it look like you did it. If you cooperate and just let this happen, she’ll be left alone.’

Gaby looked across the table to where her beautiful Angel was investigating the bag. She blinked back the tears, but this time couldn’t halt their path down her cheeks.

‘How can I trust you to leave her?’ she said in a small voice.

‘Lady, what choice do you have?’

Gaby watched as he drew up a dose from the vial with businesslike precision. For a moment she wondered if she could jump him – grab the syringe and stab him in the neck with the bloody thing. But he was too big, Angel too close. He knew exactly what he was doing, and she was just another job.

‘Go and get a glass of water,’ he said.

Gaby looked up as he moved around behind Angel and pointed the loaded syringe at her shoulder. The child was distracted at play with the empty vial and went to put it in her mouth.

‘Uh-uh, Angel, yucky. That’s not for eating.’ Gaby said it without thought, and stood up, hand reaching out to grab the vial from her daughter’s fingers.

‘Get the fucking water!’

Her hand dropped.

She went into the kitchen and got a glass out of the cupboard. As she walked across to the sink, her eyes darted to the knife rack on the counter. She looked back up at the man and her eyes met his. He gazed back, eyebrows arched in question, and then combed his fingers gently through Angel’s hair. Gaby pulled her eyes away and filled the glass with water. She walked back to the table and sat down with her hand clawed around the tumbler.

He tossed her the box of tablets. She misjudged the catch and they bounced off her chest to clatter onto the table.

‘Take some. Five or six will do.’

Her hands shook as she opened the box and managed to pop four of the tablets out of their foil strip into her hand; another slipped out and onto the floor.

‘Pick it up.’

She bent down, and the tablet danced through slippery fingers before she managed to trap it. Gaby sat back up and shook off the giddiness that swept over her. She carefully placed the tablet next to the others and glanced at the label on the box before stopping dead. The prescription was in her name.

‘What the hell? What have I done? Why is this happening to me? What the hell have I done to deserve this? For God’s sake, tell me.’

‘I don’t know, lady. I just do the job and collect the money. Now shut the fuck up and take the fucking tablets.’ He yanked on Angel’s hair and pointed the syringe at her exposed throat.

‘No!’ Gaby screamed and jumped to her feet. Angel had erupted with a screech, her tiny arms flailing desperately at the hand that pulled her hair. She rubbed at her head when finally the man let go, her face a blotch of pink, her mouth dropped. ‘I’ll take them, I’ll take them,’ Gaby gasped. She threw the tablets into her mouth and tried hard not to gag as she washed them down with the full glass of water. Then, arms outstretched, she pleaded for her daughter.

‘Please let me hold her. Please.’

‘Not yet.’ He jerked his head towards the lounge. ‘Go and lie down on the sofa.’

With barely obedient legs, Gaby walked around the end of the table and into the lounge. How could Angel grow up thinking her mother killed herself and abandoned her? Fresh tears wound their way down her face.

No.

She wouldn’t do this, couldn’t do this without a fight.

Before her resolve fled, she wheeled around and with a cry launched herself at the man.

The response was immediate and brutal.

He dropped Angel to the floor; she erupted into a scream that tore through Gaby’s heart. The massive hands reached out and stopped Gaby dead, wrapped around the fabric at her throat, lifted her off the ground and propelled her backwards, her legs pedalling pointlessly in the air. He threw her into the sofa with a strength that forced the air out of her lungs, and then, with shocking speed, strode back to Angel and yanked her up by the hair.

‘You stupid bitch,’ he bellowed. ‘Do you want me to hurt her? Do you?’

He dropped the pink-faced child, shocked by now into silence, onto the floor again. Then he was standing over Gaby once more, syringe back in his hand, his face twisted with anger.

‘Lie down and keep fucking still.’

All fight evaporated.

Gaby’s eyes couldn’t leave her daughter’s as she pulled her legs up and then stretched her body out along the sofa.

‘Keep fucking still,’ he growled, as he jabbed the needle through her clothes into the flesh of her buttock and then slowly pushed the plunger down. Gaby could feel where the liquid entered, a cold stream against the warmth of her body, a venom commencing its deadly path. The sting lingered well after he withdrew the needle.

It was done.

Gaby looked up to her killer, gazed squarely into his eyes and asked, ‘Can I hold her now?’

He turned away and, to her relief, walked over, picked up Angel, brought her over and laid her on Gaby’s chest. At last she had Angel safe in her arms. But she knew there was nothing she could do. Already the effects of the drug were apparent; she could feel inertia creep over her as it pervaded her entire system.

She hugged and stroked her Angel as she repeatedly whispered, ‘I love you, Angel, Mummy loves you, I’m so sorry, I love you so much.’

Gaby quietly sobbed. Then she buried her face in Angel’s hair, and rocked and cried herself to sleep.

1

The cellphone ring snapped me out of my trance. Well, it didn’t ring, strictly speaking. It performed an electronic abomination that would have made Bach scream with indignation.

‘Ah, God damn it.’

I slowed up, pulled the phone from my running-shorts pocket and gulped in a few quick breaths.

‘Shephard.’

‘Gore Watch House.’

It would have to be work. They could find you anywhere.

‘Hi. What’s up?’

‘We have had a missing person report come in. Wyndham Road. Are you able to attend?’

Wyndham Road? I knew several people down there. I glanced down at my watch and calculated it would take another ten minutes to run home.

‘Yes, I can be there. It could be half an hour, though. You caught me out on a run. What number?’

‘One fifty-three. The Knowes household.’

‘Knowes?’ Lockie? Missing? My heart rate jumped up again.

‘Yes, the reported person missing is Mrs Gabriella Knowes. Mr Knowes called it in.’

‘Thanks. I’ll be there soon.’ I hung up, tucked the phone back in, then set off at a jog in the direction of home. My quiet little winddown after work was out the window.

Gaby Knowes? At least it wasn’t Lockie. Curious, though: he wasn’t the kind of man to panic if the wife was late home and there was no dinner on the table. And it was only 5.15pm. He must have only just got in from work and called the police straight away.

As the sole-charge policewoman at the Mataura station, it was my lot to be on call more often than not. But call-outs after hours were a rarity now. When I lived at the police house behind the station, I was fair game for the slightest gripe at any hour of the day, or night. The situation had improved only when I moved to a flat and put some distance between me and the job. Nowadays call-outs were usually for a fracas at the pub or a minor car accident – something quick to sort out.

I looked up at the horizon, judged that there were, at best, two or three hours of light left and took off at a trot, preferring the regularity of running on the road rather than on the scraggy roadside gravel and overgrown grass, and having to dodge the matchstick roadside markers. There was only the odd car to worry about, and they generally gave me a big swerve. Occasionally, I’d get some idiot who’d almost force me into the drainage ditch, but they were the exception around here. For the most part, farming folk were very polite. I knew most of the occupants of the houses on the outskirts of town. Molly Polglaise had lost her husband of forty-five years only a few weeks back; her granddaughter had moved in for a month or so as consolation company. The smell of her freshly trimmed macrocarpa hedge reminded me of Christmas. The Mayberry household had a new baby. John, who was out watering the garden, gave me an absentminded wave as I passed. Considering it had rained the day before, I wasn’t quite sure why he was bothering.

Mataura was quintessential small-town New Zealand, although if I was being honest, it was a slightly shabbier and more run-down version of it. Like most towns, it struggled to provide employment and ways to entice the young folk to stay. How could it compete with the excitement of the city? It had a smattering of pubs, stores – mostly empty – and churches: the main ingredients for life in the sticks, although the pubs saw a lot more patronage than the churches. I knew the area intimately, and its residents. That included Lockie Knowes, though I hadn’t had more than a passing conversation with him for an age. The fact I’d avoided him probably had something to do with that. Since he’d married the city girl and settled down to do the family thing, I’d pretty much sidestepped any contact – an achievement in itself, given the size of the town and my job. Now it looked like a good dose of professional detachment would be required. I would have to ignore the tightness in my stomach.

I slowed up the pace only when I reached the gateway to my house and its slightly skewiff letter box. Running was my vice – freedom of the road, isolation, being able to tune out everything but the rhythmic rush of blood pumping and powerful breathing. A legal high.

Bugger the telephone.

The sight of Lockie Knowes’ house evoked visions of the British Country Living dream – elegant villa, white picket fence, perfectly groomed gardens surrounding a lush lawn, wisteria-draped veranda, bounding dog, radiant wife holding cherubic child. Well, it would have been if there hadn’t been a problem with the wife.

I parked the police four-wheel drive on the grass verge and listened to the gravel crunch underfoot as I walked up the driveway. Lockie must have been lying in wait, as I’d barely made it past the letter box when he came out to meet me, his daughter, Angel, resting on his hip. He wasn’t what you would call classically handsome, but being tall and muscular, with rugged, well-worn features, his presence demanded attention. He certainly got mine. I was shocked to see the straight-out fear etched in his eyes; its potency overrode any potential awkwardness.

‘Lockie, what’s up?’

‘Something is really badly wrong, Sam. I just don’t know what to do. Do I go looking or wait at home? Then there’s Angel – what do I do with her?’ One hand held a little too tightly on Angel’s leg; his free hand tugged at his hair. This was a Lockie I’d never seen.

‘Slow down. Tell me from the beginning. I take it you’d just got home from work? What happened?’

‘She wasn’t here, she was nowhere. I walked in, and nothing. She’s always home. What’s worse was Angel. She was asleep in the middle of the floor – filthy crappy nappy, and just lying there on the floor. At first I thought she was dead. My God, I panicked. I grabbed her, gave her a hell of a fright – thank God, she was OK. But no Gaby.’

I guided him back towards the house. ‘It’s getting a bit cool out here. Let’s get inside.’ Angel was wearing only a singlet and I could see tiny goosebumps on her arms. ‘You’ve checked everywhere, she hasn’t just left a message and…?’

Lockie’s face crumpled. ‘There was a note.’

‘What kind of note?’ I hoped my voice sounded neutral.

‘I don’t know, I don’t know what to think. I don’t want to think it.’

I kicked my boots off at the door and followed him into the house. The carpet looked new; it smelled new too. The place was a mess. Toys everywhere, clothes strewn – it looked like a hurricane had hit. By the description Lockie had given, it was probably hurricane Angel, left to her own devices. I picked my way through the rubble and followed Lockie to the table. He stopped and pointed at a lone piece of paper on an otherwise clear surface. I moved around to get a look at it.

My dearest Lachlan, I’m so sorry. Look after Angelica. I love you both. Gabriella.

‘Shit, Lockie.’ Not good. Again, I forced my voice to remain neutral ‘This was sitting on the table?’

He just nodded.

‘OK. Sit down.’

He sat. He was still holding Angel, as if he feared she too would disappear into the ether.

‘Have you rung anyone? Family, friends?’ I had a few ideas of my own, but to be honest, I didn’t think Gaby Knowes had many friends.

‘I rang her mum in Queenstown. She’s on her way. I don’t know her friends’ phone numbers.’

‘Has she ever gone off and left Angel before? Been missing before?’ I approached that one carefully. I had to ask.

‘No, no, she’d never do that, to me or especially to Angel. She wouldn’t even leave Angel in the car alone to go into the store; she’d always get her out in case some lunatic stole the car or hit it. She’s always cautious, overly cautious. She would never leave Angel alone.’ He brushed his fingers through Angel’s hair and kissed the top of her head as she nuzzled in closer to him. ‘This is so unlike her. Something has happened to her, I know it. This, this,’ he gestured around him, ‘it’s just not her.’

‘What about around the house? Is her car gone? Purse? Shoes? Where was the dog? Does it look like she popped out on an errand?’ It was a bit rapid fire, and Lockie looked a touch overwhelmed, but my mind was racing through the possibilities.

‘Radar was shut off in the spare room. Made a hell of a noise when he heard me come home, poor guy.’

‘Would Gaby normally put him in there?’

‘Well, no, he’s got a kennel by the garage. She’d put him in there if she was going out.’

‘So what about her car?’

‘It’s in the garage. I didn’t think to see if her purse was here.’ He stood up and disappeared down the hallway to search.

It didn’t look good. That note could have meant Gaby had buggered off and left them, or worse, she’d decided to kill herself – but that hardly seemed likely. Firstly, she didn’t seem the type, if there was such a thing. Who really knew what was going on behind people’s façades? But mainly, she had a great husband and a gorgeous little girl. You would have to be pretty bloody desperate to leave that. I scanned the room. Other than the massive toy mess, nothing seemed to be amiss. Furniture seemed properly positioned and there were no obvious signs of a struggle, no blood. I looked up as Lockie came back into the living room. He had a handbag.

‘That’s her only one?’ I asked.

‘No, she’s got a few, but it’s got her purse in it.’ His voice shook.

‘Cellphone there?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Shoes?’

‘I think they’re all there, I’m not really sure. She could have more. She’s a woman, after all.’ It was a valiant attempt at humour.

Angel was starting to whinge and wriggle; she pushed her tiny hands against her father’s chest to get away from his grasp.

‘Have you had a chance to give Angel her dinner yet?’ Feeding her might at least stop the whining and distract Lockie for a moment.

‘No, I just changed her and gave her a biscuit.’ His chin quivered again.

‘Why don’t you get her some dinner and get her ready for bed while I make a few phone calls,’ I said. He looked relieved and headed into the kitchen, talking away quietly to Angel. I guessed to comfort himself as much as her.

The telephone calls didn’t serve much purpose. The two people I thought Gaby might contact had not seen or heard from her. If that note read the way it looked, she would not have wanted to see people anyway. She was either long gone or dead already. I looked through the living-room window and could see the light was beginning to fade. Could we mount a search tonight?

‘Fuck,’ I heard Lockie exclaim.

‘What is it?’

He was standing in the kitchen, staring at the sink. From behind him I could see a prescription box and empty tablet strips in the bottom of the sink, next to a large glass. Lockie was frozen to the spot and I had to shove him out of the way.

‘Excuse me, I need to get a proper look.’

Hypnovel. A sleeper. I recognised the name: my mum used to take them on the odd occasion. The pills had been made out in Gaby’s name and, going by the date, dispensed only the previous day. The box indicated there would have been thirty tablets. This changed things dramatically. I was pretty sure that wouldn’t be a good thing in one hit.

‘Did you know Gaby was taking sleeping tablets?’ I said.

‘No, no, she wasn’t. She wouldn’t have. I would have noticed. Anyway, she’s still breastfeeding.’ He ran his hands through his hair, intensifying his expression of misery. ‘God, she wouldn’t have a glass of wine, let alone tablets. She wouldn’t have taken anything if she thought it could harm Angel; even Panadol she thought twice about. No, there’s no way she’d have been taking those.’

That was emphatic.

‘Did she have any medical conditions?’ I asked. The image of Gaby lying unconscious and dying under some bush barged its way into my mind, and I made a conscious effort to push it aside in favour of objectivity. Dramatics wouldn’t serve anyone.

‘No, healthy and, I thought, happy.’ He reached out to pick up the tablet strips, but I placed my hand on his arm to stop him. ‘Sorry, Lockie, I’ll need to keep those as evidence, and also the note.’

I looked around the rest of the kitchen. It was pretty tidy other than the tablets in the sink, some dishes, baking on cooling racks and the beginnings of Angel’s dinner on the counter.

‘I’m going to pop out to the truck to get my kit and have a look around outside. You get Angel organised and into bed, then we can sit down and plan what to do. You can do that?’

‘Yeah.’ The strain in his voice was obvious.

Even after all these years, the urge to nurture him overwhelmed. But it was not the time, or the place. I turned, headed for the front door and flicked on the outside light switch on the way past. It would be getting dark soon enough. I jogged down the driveway, and a sense of urgency overtook me. When was the last time anyone had spoken to Gaby? When did she scull those tablets? I collected the kit and torch from the police truck, then methodically worked my way over the yard and surrounds.

The Knowes’ house was separated from its neighbours’ by 150 metres or so in each direction. There were several large trees, macrocarpa and totara, which acted as a framework for the traditional garden. Rectangular beds of roses and perennials flanked each side of the long gravel driveway; a lavender hedge bordered the veranda. Everything was neat and well maintained. Someone clearly loved gardening, and previous experience told me it wasn’t Lockie. He only liked gardening if it involved chainsaws and RoundUp. I didn’t get why people would want to emulate the perfect British country garden in New Zealand. Me, I was all for native plants, the sort that drew in the birds – cabbage trees, flaxes, kowhais, toetoe – nothing too prissy, but even I had to admit the Knowes garden was beautiful: structured and open with plenty of well-manicured lawn. From a more practical but slightly sinister standpoint there were no dense areas of bushes or shrubbery that could conceal a person. I moved around behind the house to the garage. Radar was there in his kennel and run. He gave a token woof as I approached, but that was it. I gave him a scratch under his chin as he came up to sniff me.

‘You’re a great guard dog, I see,’ I said in that special voice saved for babies or pets. ‘You’re just a big lump of porridge. I think you’d lick an intruder to death.’ He reinforced my view by giving my hand a thorough cleaning. I scanned the back of the section. Again, the view was unimpeded and visibility helped by a full moon on the rise.

I hadn’t realised how close the house was to the water. I walked to the back of the section, through a dense row of agapanthus – standard issue on rural properties – and up to the wire and batten fence. There was only another twenty metres or so of long grass down to the Mataura river. The surface wasn’t visible from where I stood, just a dark slash in the dim-lit landscape where it cut its path through the fields, but I could hear its gurgling song. I walked along the fence line until I reached a wooden strainer post and then climbed over. From there it was long grass and the occasional broom bush to negotiate.

Once at the edge there was a four- or five-metre drop down to the water, which, at this point, stretched thirty metres across to the far side. The bank wasn’t too steep though. I stood, hands on hips; I watched the rippled reflection of the moon as it marked time in the steady current, listened to the river’s accompaniment. It seemed a possibility. Drug yourself up to the eyeballs, then ease down into the river. Drowning was supposed to be a reasonably gentle way to go; numbed by hypnotics, it would be a pain-free way out.

The path from the house to here was not difficult. I worked my way down the slope to the water’s edge. There was a slick of dew on the grass, so it took a bit of care not to slip over. Gaby could have made this trip earlier in the day when the grass was dry, so even if the drugs had started to kick in she could easily have managed it. For that matter, she could have walked down to the river, waited for the sleepiness, then slipped in. The fence was the only obstacle, but if I could do it, Gaby, who was half a foot taller again, wouldn’t have any problem. I looked around and didn’t notice any obvious tracking in the grass to the river’s edge, but light was poor and decisions had to be made.

I looked down at my watch. It was just after 6pm. Could I muster up a search party tonight? I crouched down and ran my hand in the water; the ripples’ concentric circles fractured the reflected moon. The water was frigid, even for this time of year. If there was even a remote possibility Gaby was still alive, I had to pursue it, and quick.

I’d ring Bill Stevenson to see if he could get a jet boat out onto the water. I knew he didn’t take them out in the pitch black, but it was a clear evening and with the full moon visibility might be good enough. The Eastern Southland Search and Rescue group had had a night-training session less than a month ago; they’d be sure to help. With them and some of the locals, we’d have a sizeable search party, and soon.

Still, time was not on Gaby’s side.

2

A crisis in a small town and everyone wanted to help; it was one of the beauties of a rural community. Within twenty-five minutes of the call going out, the jet boat was in the water, working its way upstream from near Wyndham, and the pub had disgorged itself of patrons eager to join in the search. I’d also called in for back-up from the Gore police station, thirteen kilometres up the road; my Mataura community station came under its umbrella.

I was now walking knee deep in damp grass along the river’s edge. A ballet of torchlight criss-crossed the fields and groves along the bank, a scene repeated on the far side of the dark and now ominous Mataura. I shivered, not just from the chill that seeped through my damp trousers. The river proved difficult to search on foot. Often, we had to clamber back up the bank and over farm fences when faced with a scarp or impassable scrub. At least the jet boat made better progress. The water level was higher than normal, making for an easy passage. Bill had promised one quick sweep of the river while there was still some light, then he’d get out again at first light if needed. But the Mataura was never straightforward to search, with banks of willows, and coal benches which jutted out beneath the water and could conceal a body. I began to hope the gamble of a search of the river wasn’t a waste of time. What if there was some other simple explanation?

Despite the oddity of the note, there was a part of me that still fervently hoped Gaby Knowes would turn up at home, returning from a friend’s place, having lost all track of time. That all she’d have to do was live down the stigma of having abandoned her child for a few Chardonnays and a gossip session with the girls. It was a futile fantasy. Instinct told me Gaby was already dead and it was now a matter of when we found the body, not if. Bodies that didn’t beach straight away invariably popped up after seven days, when the gases from decomposition finally built up enough to make them float in our chilly southern waters. My predecessor had had the task of searching for a couple of people who had died after going into the river off the Mataura bridge.

This was my first.

It was by far the most serious event I’d encountered in the time I’d been on the beat in Mataura. Other than the scuffles of those who worked hard and played hard, life here was ordered and mundane. The country had a gentle rhythm that revolved around the milking habits of its dairy herds, and the shifts at the freezing works. Most of my time was spent in the investigation of farm equipment and vehicle theft. There was a lucrative black market for motorbikes, quad bikes and other small farm vehicles – they were plentiful in districts like this, with the trend towards lifestyle blocks and townies looking for a slice of rural paradise. Down shifters, they euphemistically called them; bloody nuisances was more accurate. And probably a bit harsh, but the locals did take a while to warm to new residents: just look at Gaby Knowes. The rat-race refugees had a standard-issue uniform, which included a quad bike to go with the Aertex shirt and Hunter Wellington gumboots. The bikes were easy pickings for both the opportunist and the more organised criminal element. Fortunately, the latter didn’t hit here often. A strong rural Neighbourhood Watch had made a decent impact on theft.

My head jerked upwards in response to a distant report, and my eyes followed the graceful red arc of a flare against the night sky. It would have been beautiful had it not been for the sense of foreboding.

‘Shit,’ I muttered.

I called across to Dave Garret, who was working to my left. ‘That’ll be the jet boat; they must have found something. What do you think? That would be a good K away?’

‘At least.’

‘The terrain is pretty crap from here. I’m going to climb back up there and run along the road till I find them. You and the others continue along the bank, just in case.’

‘Yeah, sure, Sam. We’ll catch up soon enough.’

I was right: once I’d climbed the bank, the road was only two fences and twenty metres away. I negotiated the fences and set off at a run in the direction of the flare, my eyes straining for any sight of the boat. The road was higher than the river and I was afraid I’d miss it. The moonlight helped to some extent, but it was still difficult to distinguish bank from bush from animal. I didn’t like running at night at the best of times, but in these circumstances, and with my breath unnaturally loud in the darkness, I was more than a little creeped out.

At last I caught a glimpse of light down to my right. It had taken just over five minutes to get here. The spot was downstream from an area known as Sam’s Grief. Appropriate. I made my way across the paddock towards the bank; the sheep did not approve of my intrusion and flocked to a distant corner. At least they were sheep, and not cattle, or worse, deer. From this distance, I could now see the pools of torchlight that illuminated a prone figure on the bank, as still as the dark hump of the jet boat parked near by. I swallowed hard. It had to be her.

Another realisation hit. Shit, I was on the wrong side of the river. I climbed the fence, then, with as much control as I could muster in the wet grass, slid down the bank to the river’s edge. Its once pleasant sound now seemed malicious. A beam of torchlight from across the water struck me in the eyes, then descended to my boots.

‘Is that you, Sam?’

‘Yes, it’s me. Is it shallow enough for me to get across here, or will I have to go back to the bridge?’

‘Wait there, I’ll come over and get you.’

A portly figure detached itself from the group and walked over to the boat. The roar of the engine ripped the air, and I was startled, even though I had expected it. Bill Stevenson pulled alongside and, with skill, managed to hold the boat steady while I leaped on board.

‘Thanks,’ I said. That was the extent of conversation. The journey to the other side took mere seconds. I got out, straightened my clothes, drew a deep breath and walked over to the group. I was acutely aware of the squelching sound my boots made as I came near; there were no voices to mask it. Then the circle opened to admit me: I may have been acknowledged, but I had eyes only for what lay at its heart. I knelt beside the pitiful figure of Gabriella Knowes where she lay face down in the sand, her clothes plastered to her motionless body. She had landed in a small shallow, with her head and chest on the silt-covered stones and her hips and legs still in the water. I reached out for her throat and felt for a pulse I knew would not be found. Her skin felt cold and waxen, and I pulled my hand away, repulsed by the touch of death. I had seen dead bodies before, some as a result of violence, but most in their beds, where gentle old age had claimed them with dignity, not crudely like this, strewn as flotsam. I stood up and examined the array of faces around me. Some were solemn and subdued and looked anywhere but at the body. Others stared at her with a morbid fascination that I found disturbing and voyeuristic. I shuddered.

‘Gentlemen,’ I said, to draw their attention. ‘Thank you for coming out tonight to search for Gaby.’ Their focus was now on me and I felt an unspoken pressure to say something appropriate to the occasion. ‘I know it will be small comfort to Lockie now, but we have found her. He will be able to grieve for her, instead of forever wondering what happened. He will be grateful to every one of you for stepping up to help at such short notice. As you can understand, there will be an investigation as to the exact circumstances of this tragedy. This will be done with as much sensitivity as possible, but this is a small town and everyone knows the Knowes family, so please show them your compassion. They will need it.’ I hoped they would get the hint to keep speculation and idle gossip to themselves. ‘Who found her?’

‘Me. It was me.’ It was the quiet voice of Craig Stevenson. Poor Craig. He was only seventeen and, to judge by the bloodshot eyes, overwhelmed by the evening’s events.

I laid a hand on his arm. ‘Thanks, Craig. That must have been bloody hard for you. We all appreciate it, we really do. Has she been moved at all or is this how you found her?’

‘She was lying like that, but we pulled her clothes down over her a bit.’ He sniffed back the tears and his dad put a big arm around his shoulders.

‘That’s OK. She would have appreciated your giving her some dignity. Thank you. I’m going to take some photographs, then we’ll cover her over.’

By now more searchers had been drawn to the area, like moths to a flame. The danger was they’d trample heavily over the ground, obscuring possibly vital evidence. The Gore officers hadn’t yet arrived at the site – I hoped they wouldn’t be long.

‘Thank you again.’ I spoke as loud as I could, but out of respect for Gaby I didn’t want to yell. ‘If you can all go straight back to The Arms as arranged, I will be there as soon as possible to say a few words. It’s a real plus that we’ve found her this quick. Now we must do all we can for Lockie and Angel and give Gaby some privacy.’