14

The sound of chair legs screeching across the wooden floor grazed my eardrums and did nothing for my already jangled nerves as I watched the procession of officers enter and settle into place. The Mataura Elderly Citizens Centre had been promoted from sometime housie venue to official command centre. There was more rank here than a dung heap, and I was acutely aware they were soon going to have their collective attention focused on me. It was incredible how quickly the police behemoth could shuffle into action when it had to.

It was now 6pm, only four hours after I’d called the District Commander, and here they were, illuminated under a flicker of fluorescent light: a collection of CIB detectives and officers from as far afield as Invercargill and even Dunedin.

Time is of the essence in any murder investigation as evidence has a nasty habit of being cleaned away and even the hottest of trails chills with time. The first twenty-four hours are vital. In this case, because of the efforts of the killer to disguise the crime, we’d already lost that window. But the hours couldn’t be wound back. We’d have to make do with a cool trail. This lot would be out this evening, door-knocking and poring over the crime scenes.

Lockie and what was left of his family were now involved in a murder investigation, and their home was under the microscope that was the ESR forensics team flown down from Christchurch. I didn’t fancy their chances of finding new evidence – Leonore’s cleaning frenzy would have seen to that.

The Gore station commander, Senior Sergeant Ron Thomson, tapped me on the shoulder and whispered into my ear. ‘Show time.’ He smiled, with what he probably thought was reassurance, and nodded towards the hordes. ‘They don’t bite. Just give them the rundown, you’ll be fine.’

Ron Thomson cut an imposing presence: tall, solid and with a face that in its resting state looked bloody mean. The powers that be were probably relieved he worked for us and was not on the other side of the ledger. We always referred to him as the Boss. Despite his exterior, he was quite approachable and had a hard-earned reputation for being firm but fair. He also had more hair on his chin than the top of his head, but no one was brave enough to make light of the fact.

I rubbed damp hands down my trouser legs and hovered behind him as he moved towards the lectern, ready to address the troops. Normally, I considered this room to be spacious, but with the number of bodies crammed in on chairs and desks and lining the walls, any glimpse of the wallpaper was obscured by a sea of blue. It felt uncomfortable, stuffy, and smelled heavily of male, even with the windows thrown open.

As Senior Sergeant Thomson began the formalities, welcoming everyone present, and thanking them for gathering so promptly, I took the opportunity to examine the array of faces while their attention was elsewhere. Some were familiar, and there were plenty I had never seen before. The majority of the district staff had been called in for the meeting; local knowledge was a valuable tool.

Paul Frost, a Gore detective, gave me a wink. I wrinkled my nose at him: God, he was a trier. He’d asked me out on a date a few times, and didn’t seem to be deterred by the fact he was consistently refused. Persistent? Oh yes. Thick-skinned? Definitely. Too egotistical to accept a woman might not be interested? Absolutely.

The mention of my name pulled my attention back into focus. The Boss had wrapped up his introductory spiel; I was next in the hot seat. I wiped my hands again and, with a here-we-go glance at him, exchanged places.

If the Senior Sergeant dwarfed the lectern, I struggled to see the front-row faces over the top of it. The fact was not lost on some of the more obnoxious local chaps in the audience.

‘Stand up, Shep! We can’t see you.’ That was Paul sodding Frost.

‘Oh, sorry mate, she is standing.’ His partner in crime, Darren McKenzie, this time.

I gave them my very best ‘may-your-private-parts-wither-and-die’ look, as a wave of laughter washed around the room. Apparently, the others thought it was funny too. I wasn’t particularly amused, especially in light of the fact they were right. But I tried to look casual as I stepped around the lectern to address the room from the side of the rotten bloody thing. At least the laughter had broken the tension.

‘Thank you very much for your astute observation,’ I said, ‘although I liked the view better when I couldn’t see the front row.’

Another ripple flowed around the room, so I used the moment to regroup. My voice was fragile and high-pitched; it took a conscious effort to lower it to something that at least sounded informed and confident.

As I related the information we had, which was precious little, the vague nausea that had been touring its way around my innards began to ease. We would, I said, have to start out with very little in the way of clues. We knew the first scene in this distasteful crime took place in Lockie’s home, but we needed to locate where Gaby was assisted or dumped into the river. We knew the script for the Hypnovel was forged, though unfortunately the perpetrator hadn’t had an attack of the stupids and presented the original script. All of the region’s pharmacies had been notified to keep on the lookout for it. As it turned out, the tablets were just a prop. We would have to wait another twelve hours for the interim blood-level results from ESR.

I reported that no suspects immediately jumped to attention. Naturally, the first person looked to was the victim’s spouse, and Lockie had been eliminated easily. A quick phone call to the works had confirmed he’d been on site all day. He’d eaten lunch in the canteen with his shift supervisor, so had a solid alibi.

I’d never considered him a possibility. Statistics might tell us the spouse is often the most likely candidate, but in this case they’d be wrong. Besides the alibi, and the fact that his performance as grief-stricken husband would have been worthy of the highest accolades had he killed Gaby, I didn’t think I could have been such a bad judge of character. I’d lived with the man for two years; I was pretty bloody sure I knew him. He didn’t have the stomach for a good argument, so I couldn’t picture him having the wherewithal to kill off his wife. He was Mr Peace-at-all-costs.

I didn’t mention to the assembly my unease about Dr Walden. I had nothing concrete on him, but he’d hovered on the fringe of my attention after our meeting. His mother couldn’t have stressed upon him the importance of a first impression quite the way mine had; as a result, it had made me think about his access to prescription pads and his drug knowledge.

Of course, the other question that screamed to be asked was why? Gaby Knowes was a young mum in a small town. God knows I didn’t particularly like her, but it was difficult to imagine she could have made enemies desperate enough to kill. Angel had been spared. A killer with a conscience? Or a killer lacking the guts to kill a child? Perhaps Angel was alive by grace of the fact she was too young to talk.

God, if only she could.