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“He knew of Leon and Associates through Garima,” Lexi sighed. “But used Sam Barnard’s name to avoid identifying himself.” She’d sifted through the thousands of group members of the Hamilton East Community Facebook page. How would she notice a priest unless he used an obvious profile name? “This makes no sense. He took the photograph and owned the negative. Why send us on an investigation via a Facebook group?”
“That’s obvious,” Tarant snorted. “He feared the killer and now he’s dead. It’s genius if you consider it. He forced us to search without involving himself.”
“But someone knew he’d done it,” Lexi mused.
“Did you ever meet Father Donald?” Tarant asked.
“No. I heard him coughing once when he and Gari got sick with that horrid flu. I dropped off soup and changed my brother’s sheets.” She wrinkled her nose. “I stay away from the church and rectory. Our paths would have crossed eventually, I guess.”
“Scared God might get you?” Tarant joked and Lexi nodded to herself.
“Something like that. Wow, so Father Donald is our mystery client. I also discovered he spoke to Trent on the morning he died. They chatted about a book. Father Donald intended to visit him at the prison that afternoon.”
“So, the confession shocked him and then he rallied?” Tarant mused. “He quit his job, cleared out his belongings in a panic.”
“Then calmed and perhaps used the shortcut behind the church to walk back to the rectory.”
“And the killer grabbed him there.”
Lexi followed the snaking line of vehicles back onto the expressway. She groaned at the reduced speed limit signs and endless orange cones spreading into the distance. “When I asked Jock about Monday’s confession, he said only one couple showed up. The woman waited while the man went inside to speak to the priest. He gave a reasonable description but made them sound like tourists.”
“Oh, they are!” Tarant’s voice remained muffled. “I chatted to an old mate in the traffic division. He said Grunwald tracked them down and interviewed them. A couple of holiday makers from Queensland travelling New Zealand. The wife is sick and ticking things off her bucket list. They’re devout Catholics and always attend confession. The husband spoke to the priest, but the wife felt unwell, so they went straight back to their motel.”
Lexi sighed. “And the man didn’t confess to a triple homicide almost three decades ago?”
Tarant chuckled. “We’ll never know. Grunwald eliminated them from his enquiries, so I guess not.”
“Did the police ever find Father Donald’s phone?” Lexi tugged the band from her ponytail and curls and dust cascaded around her face. Irritated, she closed her side window and ramped up the air conditioning.
“No, but they got a list of calls from the service provider.”
“Did your mate give you specifics?” Lexi pressed.
“Nothing exciting. One from the prison which we know Trent Barnard made. And an earlier call from a church lady saying she’d arrive later than usual for her shift.”
“Darlene Barrymore perhaps.” Lexi frowned. “She didn’t mention it. Nor did Garima.”
“Yeah, but Grunwald corroborated it with the woman. Even the cops can’t get transcripts of calls. Her car broke down and she needed to wait for rescue.”
The cones ended and two lanes opened before her like a wide river. Vehicles poured into them like a waterfall. “Is there any information about the other two women’s bodies?” Lexi mused. “The ones Trent pleaded not guilty to killing. The press articles said one remains unidentified, but the other lived in Hamilton.”
“Layla Jasper,” Trent interceded. “I did some research while I sat in the tree house eating mud pies. She disappeared a few years before Liza Barnard. Her husband is a local developer. Built those ugly apartments on Victoria Street. Hikers found Layla’s body buried in a shallow grave a few kilometres from Rangiriri just after new year in 2016.”
“A few months before Trent’s parole hearing.”
“Yeah. The other woman shared the grave with her. Hence the connection. Both garroted using the New Zealand farmer’s favourite. Number Eight wire. Forensic examinations placed their deaths around the same time, and they’d laid in the ground since the late 1980s.”
“And they never named the second woman. How sad,” Lexi mused. “I remember hearing about her discovery on the news. And they’ve never found a DNA match.” She forced her mind away from her mother’s vanishing. It swerved aside like a spooked horse, reluctant to ponder the decades old mystery. Lexi’s teenage research had always led nowhere. It’s how she became fascinated with investigations enough to make it her career. She’d followed cases of missing wives and mothers until they drove her mad. Nowadays she banned herself from considering that every new Jane Doe might be Patrick Allen’s missing wife of two short weeks. A five-day honeymoon followed by nine normal days and then nothing. Gone. As though she’d never existed. Lexi sighed.
“Yeah, they identified Layla by her dental records, but couldn’t find any for the other woman. Perhaps she never sought dental or medical treatment. The coroner remarked on multiple healed breaks on her bones. Some appeared twisted, as though never tended to. But she died around the same time as Layla and occupied her grave. Both garroted. And both local to the Christian camp at Rangiriri.”
“So, they convicted Trent,” Lexi concluded. She scrubbed her eyes with the knuckles of her left hand. The camp’s gritty dust scratched and stung. “I’m exhausted.” She couldn’t suppress her wide yawn. “I need a hot shower and my bed.”
To his credit, Tarant didn’t seize on the opportunity to invite himself to her place. Instead, he stuck with the investigation. “I’ve asked my contact with The People if he knows of any money lending organisations advancing amounts as big as a hundred thousand dollars. Perhaps they called themselves The Church as opposed to having any legitimate affiliation with a religious body.”
“Yeah. Churches are inherently poor. They run on goodwill and begging. Garima’s does, anyway.” She blinked away her brother’s generosity in privately funding St Finbar’s new roof from his inheritance. “Money lenders come and go. It seemed a lot of money for 1995 and they didn’t recoup their loss. Perhaps they went bust.”
Tarant growled low in his throat, but Lexi didn’t hear his next comment. Her phone pinged in its cradle, and she spotted the trailing text of a Facebook message. It winked out after scrolling across the screen. “Catch you later,” Tarant finished. He waited long enough to hear Lexi’s grunt and then ended the call.
It seemed an age before Lexi reached home. Friday’s expressway rush hour contained the usual slow crawling traffic consumed with angry honking, exhaust fumes and impatient drivers. A healing balm washed over her as she entered her peaceful, tree-lined street. Once on the driveway, Lexi checked the Facebook message. Her heart rate hiked as she recognised Doreen Clancy’s profile picture. But it plummeted as she read the unpunctuated capital letters.
‘LEAVE ME ALONE HE IS A MONSTER.’
Lexi frowned at her phone. “Wow,” she breathed. “Keith Barnard really upset her, didn’t he?” Her fingers moved over the keypad as she typed a return comment. A simple request to meet and an apology for upsetting the woman. But it wouldn’t send. After three attempts, Lexi realised Doreen had waited for her to view the message and then blocked her. The profile disappeared as though she’d never existed.
Disillusioned and exhausted, Lexi collected the mail from her post box and collapsed onto the chair in the hallway. She dropped the envelopes onto her hall table before battling her boot laces. The letter from the council caught her attention, and she fingered it before pushing it onto the pile. Her head ached, and she didn’t wish to add angst over another rates rise to her overflowing plate of worries. But a padded envelope proved irresistible, and she tugged it open. Curiosity drove her fingers as she tugged free the single item enfolded in the bubble wrap. The expensive listening device tumbled into her lap; it’s watch face smiling up at her.
