Surrender (12 page)

We’d climbed about a hundred metres up what felt like a vertical rock face, and I was about to admit defeat, when Scott spoke his first words since we left the big rata.

‘We’re there,’ he said, and though I had no idea where ‘there’ was, I swear I’d never heard a sweeter phrase. Scott handed me his bottle again, and for the next minute or two I swallowed and thought what a wonderful, life-affirming substance water is. I’d been licking rain from my lips but it hadn’t quenched anything. By the time I’d recovered, Scott had moved to the end of the little clearing, and was squatting in the entrance of a cave-like bite in the stone bank.

‘I reckon he holed up in here.’ He indicated the dark recess. ‘It goes a fair way back.’

I hesitated. I really didn’t know this odd, surly, sockless man, and here I was miles from possible help, no dog, no weapon apart from a very blunt pocket knife on my key ring which, now that I thought about it, was in the pack I’d left at the hut. And I hadn’t told anyone where I was going, besides Wolf, who wasn’t a big talker. How did I even know this
was
the ranger? I’d followed this mountain man into the bush without making any attempt to confirm who he was. I looked again at his lanky legs and sockless tramping boots. Everything about him screamed DOC worker, and no matter how I tried to excite myself into a vision of a mad killer, it didn’t ring true. He was the ranger all right.

In a crouch, I duck-walked into the entrance of the cave ahead of Scott, while he crawled on all fours behind me. He indicated for me to go ahead down the naturally formed tunnel. I’d gone seven or eight metres when the roof pitched down suddenly, and I baulked. The cold was bone-chilling and the smell of rotting humus had a disturbing effect on my soft palate. The reassuring, outside sounds of birds and wind in the trees had already been smothered
out of existence, and I could no longer hear the cosy patter of rain on leaves. This place was already seriously gravelike, and I wasn’t crazy about crawling into a space the size of a coffin. I’ve always been a bit claustrophobic, and this was becoming nightmarish.

‘Duck under the ledge, and when you come out the other side she opens up.’

Scott’s voice was intimately close, and the plain humanness of it helped suppress my rising panic. His hand on my back urged me to kneel, then he shuffled back to give me room on the muddy ground. On all fours, I ducked shoulders, then head, and scraped forward until my front half was under the ledge. I could feel the cave open out in front of me, but it was so black I thought for a moment I’d gone blind. I hesitated again, resistant to entering a blackness so total it was a force in itself. The dark space that opened out ahead didn’t feel like an absence of light, but like a living, breathing void — a nothingness that had little to do with absence.

Except for the awareness that my arse was directly in front of Scott’s face, I doubt I’d have been able to move forward but, as every girl knows, pride can override all fears. I dropped my butt, marine-elbowed my body through the gap, and once inside, with hand on already damaged head to cushion any contact with the ceiling, straightened myself gingerly until I was at full height. I heard Scott shuffle into the cave behind me, then sensed him move some paces further in. I reached out to touch him, but there was only air.

‘It takes about ten minutes for your eyes to fully adapt, so just keep one hand on the wall until you start making out shapes. It’ll start at the edges first.’

Despite the intense cold, sweat broke out on my scalp, and every one of my hair follicles stood up. I held my hand in front of my face and moved it closer and closer until it touched my nose.
Nothing. I could see absolutely nothing. I placed my hands on my cheeks, partly for warmth, mostly for comfort. I really did not like this place. Just when I was about to can out, I caught a very faint gleam from the corner of my eye and recognised it as light filtering from the hole we’d just climbed through. Looked at directly, it was nothing but blackness, but with my head angled I could catch the faintest of glimmers.

I jumped as Scott touched my shoulder.

‘Sorry,’ he said. At least I hadn’t screamed, but it had been close. ‘Last time I was here, I had a torch.’

I thought of reasons he might have been in this cave. There were some I didn’t like.

‘I was collecting giant cave wetas for the sanctuary in Karori.’

Outsized creepy-crawlies had been second on my horror list.

‘Look here on the wall, just above the entrance,’ he murmured.

I murmured back for the comfort of hearing my own voice. ‘What is it?’

Scott’s cold hand came to rest on mine. Taking my fingers between his, he ran the tips gently over the stone. At first all I could feel was stone so cold it was as if my fingertips had been dropped in ice. Then I began to make out a rough indentation the shape of the letter L. Despite my fear, I felt a buzz of excitement.

‘It’s a name?’

‘Well, yes and no.’

He was so close I could feel the warmth of his breath on my neck. His hand still held my fingers. He drew my index finger over the cave wall. I said the letter aloud as we traced each indentation.

‘L … A … R … A.’ He lifted my finger off the wall but kept my hand in his.

‘Lara?’ I said. ‘But that can’t be my John Doe!’

Scott didn’t bother to respond. He placed my finger on the wall
again, finding the ‘L’, then he lifted it to the left.

‘I think your John Doe holed up here all right, but he must have gone outside to die. Or maybe he went out for water or something, and got caught in a storm. Who knows?’

My eyes had finally adapted enough to see the odd gleam of light on the whites of his eyes.

‘But I’m betting this is a note from him.’

We traced along the cold, smooth surface until we met the rough edge of another indentation. This time I didn’t say the letters aloud. I let Scott guide my finger over the whole word, and when we’d traced the final letter he let my hand go.

Apart from the odd grunt and
whoa!
from me as we slid down from the ledge and made our way back to the hut, we were pretty much silent. I think we were both pondering the number of situations that could have led to our John Doe’s death. And wondering what he’d been referring to when he wrote that message to Lara. Then again, for all I know, Scott was thinking about which freeze-dried meal he would have for dinner. I was running through scenarios, but every one brought me back to the same two questions. Who was Lara? And why had my John Doe etched the single word ‘sorry’ to her before he died?

Back at the hut, I was hoping for a nice cup of gumboot before we headed down, but the ranger was keen to check a few traps before nightfall, and first he had to walk me back to where the ridge track joined the main path. I knew I’d be okay from there. Eager to be rid of me, Scott immediately strode on, but I called him back, saying I wanted to use the long-drop before we set off. It was as much as anything an excuse for five minutes’ breather before we continued on our iron-man return trek.

The long-drop was a classic of its kind — a wooden throne arrangement with a hole in the middle. I’m never too keen on baring
my butt over a deep hole in the ground. I’ve heard too many horror stories about snakes and wetas. Flies droned, and I didn’t know how long I could mouth-breathe, so I peed as fast as I could and reached for the toilet roll.

The roll was sitting inside a boot. A very old boot. I held it up to the light and examined it closely. I knew this boot. It was the partner to the one I’d left for Damian to take home for me. The one I’d traced back to its manufacturer in Germany. This was my John Doe’s left boot.

B
y the time I reached home it was late afternoon. Damian had left the evidence box on the desk in my office with a note saying he’d be back later to take Wolf for an evening stroll. Wolf was having a pre-prandial doze and appeared to be quite sanguine about that arrangement. Old dogs — they’re pretty chilled about everything, really.

I spent a few minutes comparing the new boot with the other. There was no doubt they were a pair. It was damp from years in the long-drop so I set it to dry in front of the blow heater under my desk, took the phone into the bathroom, and listened to my messages while I ran a bath and plopped in some big, fizzing, smelly balls of bath salts.

There was a message from Smithy saying he’d called in a few favours and had managed to collate some early forensic results about our John Doe that might be useful. Then he talked for so long about carbon and pollen dating, and esoteric stuff about the effects of rain and soil on human tissue, that I’d already stripped off one-handed and was slowly lowering myself into the near-boiling
bath water by the time he got to the information I needed.

The results confirmed Smithy’s initial belief that the skeleton belonged to a male in his mid twenties, and that the body had been in the elements for thirty-five to forty years.

By the time I’d submerged my entire body, a slow process given the extreme temperature I’d thought this through to its logical conclusion: there was only one match in the police database for a guy in his twenties reported missing between 1968 and 1974. That was Alphonse Grigg’s missing brother Steven, and I’d already discounted him as our John Doe.

One other man was reported missing within that time frame. I hunted around in the backblocks of my memory for his name — Robert something. Or was it Malcolm? Malcolm Robertson. That was it. But he was described as thick-set, and more importantly had a height of five foot seven. Assuming that height was correct, he couldn’t be our John Doe, whom Smithy had estimated at a willowy six foot two. Even without his head he would have been almost as tall as Robertson.

The hot water stung the scrapes on my shoulder but was bliss for the bruising on the back of my neck. Whoever John Doe was, for some reason he’d never been registered with police as missing. I swirled the water around to create steam twisters as I went over the most likely reasons for this. Maybe he was involved with a criminal underworld, and had been taken into the bush and killed, and those who knew about it also knew better than to tell. Possible, but usually some word or rumour of a murder leaks out eventually, and so far I hadn’t found any evidence of, or reference to, that.

It could have been a suicide, of course, but it was unusual for a guy in his twenties to have no one close enough to have eventually reported him missing. I’d worked on cases where older people had cut all ties with relatives, and had no regular friends to notice or care
if they were around any more, but that was unusual for someone in their twenties. Surely he had a parent, sibling, workmate or girlfriend who cared enough to notice he’d disappeared. The only clue I had to his identity was a pair of boots and possibly a message to ‘Lara’, telling her he was sorry.

Scott had agreed to send an email out to all members of the New Zealand Trampers’ Association asking for the person who’d left the boot in the long-drop to get in touch with me directly. I was hoping that person would be able to fill me in on exactly where they’d found it. I figured that was probably where the boot had been taken off, and I was interested to know how far away it was from where the body was found. When the boot was dry, I’d have a closer look at it.

But first I had to thaw out. By the time I’d tramped back to the car park I’d been drenched and my car’s ineffectual heater didn’t even begin to stop me shivering. I glanced at the Wainuiomata Police Station as I drove past, thinking I might see Robbie, but was relieved when I didn’t. It wasn’t just that I looked like shit, though that was definitely a factor. I was getting the yips at the idea of starting something with him. With anybody. I understood the whole ‘moving on’ thing in theory, but in reality I didn’t know if I could move on from Sean. I didn’t know how.

I stirred the water around my limbs. Baths are good places to think, so that’s what I did. I thought about Niki and how it was turning out that I didn’t really know her. I thought about Sean and how much I missed him. I thought about him becoming a dad and was surprised at the effect that had on my stomach. It hurt. I thought about that, too. I swirled the water around some more, then I thought again about Robbie and how badly I’d behaved on our first date. I’d have to apologise for that. I was remembering that great grin of his, and smiling back at the image, when my phone rang. Without thinking, I picked it up off the bathroom floor. As if
I’d conjured him like a genie out of the mist, Robbie said, ‘Gidday.’

I lay very still, hoping like hell he wouldn’t realise where I was. There are very few people in the world I can talk to on the phone when I’m in the bath or on the toilet. Robbie, at this delicate stage of our relationship, wasn’t one of them. The bath, that is. The toilet — probably never.

Robbie asked me how the reccy into the Rimutakas had gone, and keeping very still I told him about the second boot, and about Smithy’s message, and how it was looking as if our John Doe had never been reported missing. While Robbie responded with some reasons why this might be, I watched Wolf push the door open with his nose and lumber in to check on me. I eased myself with extreme caution to a sitting position so as not to make any bath-type noises.

‘If I can pinpoint exactly where the boot was found it might throw up something,’ I said, reaching in slo-mo for a towel. Misinterpreting the gesture, Wolf moved towards my hand.

‘No sign of the skull then?’ Robbie asked.

‘No, but Scott did show me a cave where he thinks our guy died. There was a message scratched into the wall.’

‘What kind of message?’

‘Two words: Sorry Lara.’

Realising I was in a huge water bowl, Wolf lowered his head for a deep slurp. I cupped my hand around the mouthpiece.

‘If we can find Lara, then we can find out why he was sorry and who
he
was,’ I said loudly. Wolf was going for it now, and the more I tried to push him away the more he took it for encouragement. I gave up on my plan to apologise for my rudeness the other night, and finished the phone call as quickly as I could, promising to let Robbie know if any emails about the boot turned up and cutting short his offer of help. I thought as I dressed that I’d probably made matters worse between Robbie and me, which really did piss me
off. But right now, defrosted, dressed, and determined, I had one more thing to do before I tried to set things right with him.

It took me a couple of hours to grab the images I wanted off the blackmail discs Snow’s sisters had given me. The first few were the hardest, but then I got the procedure down to a fine art. I’d drop the disc in, shut my eyes until the whirring of the disc drive quietened, count to twenty, then open my eyes, keeping my focus on the door on the right of the screen.

In each scenario, as soon as the trick entered the frame, he glanced towards the camera. I figured the camera was hidden behind a mirror, and it was the image of themselves — the movement as they entered the room — that caught their attention and spooked them. Whatever it was, it was useful for what I had to do. I’d hit pause and save the screen image, and while the hard drive did as it was instructed, I’d rummage for the next disc, ready to drop it into the drive as soon as the ‘image saved’ icon appeared.

That way I managed to avoid looking at my sister tied to the bed, spread-eagled on a mattress or dressed in whatever fetish outfit the particular john had agreed to — or not agreed to, for all I knew. I managed not to look at Niki at all. Mostly the guys were in normal clothes, sometimes with coats or jackets still on, so presumably they undressed or dressed up once they were inside the room. All of that was no doubt recorded in full colour action but I didn’t need or want to see any of it.

When I’d done maybe a dozen discs, I saved all the grabbed images in a folder and printed off the gallery of photos on one page, rolled it up image-side in, pinged a rubber band around it, and dropped it into my shoulder bag. Then I deleted the digital file. The plastic bag of discs I put in an archival box labelled Tax Year 2001–2002, and stacked it on my shelf between other boxes similarly labelled. Most of these had photos of body parts from
previous police jobs, so the discs were in like company.

The heater had done its work on the left boot and the room now smelt of wet leather and a cloying compost smell that I hoped was just humus and not more connected to one of the big Ds: disease, defecation or death. I placed the left boot in the box with its mate and locked it in my office. The boots would have to wait.

In the grey, flat light of early evening Pussy Galore looked depressed and scruffy. The flashing lights were working hard to glamour things up, but the passersby seemed more interested in getting home to TV dinners and an early night in flannel pyjamas. The Bookends were yawning and stretching their neck muscles as they went about preparing the place for business. They greeted me with identical hitches of an eyebrow, and the broader of the two politely held the door open for me. They didn’t ask for money, so either they were giving me free entry out of deference to Niki, or every night in this place was ‘ladies’ night’. The phrase ‘ladies a plate’ jingled in my head as I once again entered the world of prepaid sex.

There were only a few girls perched on the bar stools at this early hour, and already they looked bored and listless. Maybe they’d worked all day and were waiting for the night shift to relieve them. The spinning lights did their best to sparkle, but the daylight made the girls’ feathers and harem silks appear lacklustre and shabby. In this half-daylight the whole place looked grungy, and not in a good way. It reeked of alcohol, sweat, old socks, cigarette smoke, talcum powder, and something that reminded me of disappointment.

I ordered a tomato juice from a tall, dead-eyed girl behind the bar. I thought our being the only two females with clothes on might make for a bonding experience, but she didn’t seem in any mood to talk so I took my drink over to where the girls leaned against the wall with one buttock hitched on their stools. A pixie-faced girl
was plucking at a length of shocking-pink faux fur wrapped like a feather boa around her neck. I asked her if Chloe was in yet. She glanced at me briefly, then towards the back of the room, before returning to her plucking.

Chloe didn’t looked thrilled to see me again, and even less happy when I said I wanted to ask a few more questions about Niki, but she slid onto the nearest vinyl sofa, looped one leg over the other, aligned one breast with the other, and studied her claws — all of which I took to indicate that I should fire away. The claws were tusk-white, curved, and about half the length of her thin, pale fingers — they had me wondering how she performed certain intimate acts. I forced myself to focus on why I had come.

‘I’ve found out quite a bit about Niki since the last time we talked,’ I said, and waited. Finally her thin shoulders went up and down in a shrug, but she kept her mouth shut and her eyes on her talons.

‘Look, Chloe, I know she was working as a prostitute,’ I said, trying not to sound prim or accusatory. ‘I know about the blackmail scam Snow had going.’

She flashed her heavily made-up eyes at me, and I saw her lip twitch before she went back to studying her fingers. At least it was a reaction, but I wasn’t quite sure what it meant. I took a stab in the dark.

‘Did Snow try to get you involved?’

Chloe adjusted her G-string, placing the talon of her index finger under the shoestring strap across her hip bone and sliding it along to the loop of the bow. I watched the goosebumps form along her bikini line, the raised flesh whiter than the sunbed bronze of the rest of her skin.

‘No way.’ She sighed theatrically to make the point that I was boring her. She uncrossed her legs and for the first time looked directly at me, her voice the sullen whine of the teenager she was.
‘Look, I gotta start work soon, so, like, what do you actually want?’

I took out the rolled-up sheet of photos and slid off the rubber band.

‘I want you to look at these and tell me if you know any of these men,’ I handed the sheet to Chloe. I kept my eyes on her as she studied the gallery, partly to watch for any reaction, and partly so as not to look at the images.

Chloe spent a lot longer looking at Niki than I’d been able to. She seemed to show no interest in, or recognition of, any of the guys, but I couldn’t have sworn to it. She handed the sheet back to me. With the other hand, she tapped her illuminated nipple ring into life. It flickered like a Christmas tree light with a bad connection.

‘Never seen any of them before.’ She gave me a flat look. ‘Can I go now?’

We eyeballed each other for a bit, and just when my anger was about to bubble over, I felt it slip away.

‘Look Chloe, I’m sorry, okay? I can’t expect you to tell me who you know.’ I waited ten seconds, hoping she might anyway. ‘Well, can you tell me what other girls Snow was using for the scam?’

She swapped legs and swung her ankle, the bright red toenails peeking though the transparent plastic upper of her stiletto.

‘Why should I tell you anything? So you can rescue us all, like you didn’t your innocent little sister?’ She had all the world-weary sass of a seventeen-year-old who’s seen too many bad movies. This girl made me feel a hundred years old. Niki did that sometimes — tried to sound ironic and knowing. She’d never fooled me, and neither did this kid.

‘No,’ I said, with as much honesty as I could muster. ‘I just want to find out who paid Snow to murder her.’

I saw Chloe flinch and for the first time she looked unsure.

‘Well, I don’t know who did that,’ she said defensively. She
blinked those Barbie false eyelashes at me again. ‘But, there’s something you don’t know. Something you’ve got totally wrong.’