30

Cross-legged, I sat on my bed and settled in for an afternoon of research with Gaby’s course material spread about me, smorgasbord style. It didn’t take long before I had to make the grudging admission that this woman was really good. Her writing style was concise, flowed easily and was very readable. Her tutor seemed to agree with me – all of her assignments had great assessments.

Gaby appeared to have been highly organised and capable, so I was still puzzled that she didn’t seem to keep an appointment diary. When I’d asked Lockie about it, he’d directed me to a little diary near the phone, a giveaway from the local pharmacy. Now, of course, even that diary was admitted as evidence and out of my reach. I had flicked through it briefly on the night she went missing, but didn’t see anything that could be of interest. It had a few coffee dates and birth dates written in it, but that was about all. Perhaps she had a great memory for times and dates. Me, I had to write everything down, otherwise I knew damned well I’d forget something. My world ran off to-do lists. The other alternative was she kept an electronic diary on her phone, but likewise, that was held in evidence and out of my reach for now. If she did, I might be able to access it from her laptop later.

Notebooks were another favourite tool of mine. God only knew I had enough of them. My long-term goals notebook, short-term goals, computer stuff, police stuff, ideas notebook, things-I-couldn’t-find-any-other-place-to-put-them notebook. My mother laughed at my seemingly obsessive need for them, but they were better than having lots of loose bits of paper floating around to get lost. I considered my notebooks an essential organisational tool. I wondered if Gaby did too.

‘Here we go.’ I pulled a large black spiral-bound volume out of her filing box. Under it were hidden a couple of small 3B1 schooltype notebooks. ‘A woman after my own heart.’

In more ways than one, when it came down to it.

I started with the smaller ones. The first contained websites and email addresses; I had one of those too. The other seemed to be an ideas notebook, quick jottings about potential stories. The Volunteer Fire Brigade’s reaction to having to undergo unit standards training; Bill Ward’s Matchbox car collection – an idea that had made it into an assignment I had just finished reading; tourism opportunities in Mataura; fundraising for the new town library. Mostly human-interest stuff. Nothing I deemed worthy of a murder. Not that I deemed anything worth killing over.

The little notebook was obviously the hatchery; the big black book was the incubation chamber for ideas to grow into fully fledged stories. A photograph of Bill Ward grinning proudly in front of his beloved cars. We all knew never to bring them up as a topic of conversation at the pub unless we had a few hours to spare. Jotted around his photo were numerous notes and thoughts on the subject, including information about the value of such vehicles, especially in their original boxes. Frankly, I was surprised by their worth. Made me wish I’d looked after my toys better when I was a kid. She’d written down the dates and times she’d rung Bill. She’d even logged a call to an antiques dealer in Dunedin to ask about saleability. So I’d been right: Gaby was a very organised kind of a girl. This was her diary; it was just not in the form you would have expected.

The skeletons of several other stories were recorded there too – including, in clear blue biro, the story she must have been at work on when she died.

‘Eureka. Thank you, Gaby.’

My elation was short-lived. Her pending article on bovine tuberculosis was not exactly earth-shattering, and most certainly not worth a murder. She can’t have been very far into her research, as she hadn’t logged many calls – just an email to the Ministry for Primary Industries, which covered all matters agricultural, and a call to Darryl Fletcher – a local vet. There was a bit of paperwork, though. Tucked in between the pages were a couple of newspaper advertisements cut out of the Southland Times. ‘Cattle farmers, for your next premovement TB test’, blah, blah, blah, and another: ‘Stop before you go’, again outlining the procedures to be undertaken before moving cattle. I scanned down the pages and suppressed a yawn. Oh yeah, this was riveting stuff. There was a web address at the bottom of the page. If I had any difficulty getting to sleep, I’d look it up.

Also tucked in was a sample Animal Status Declaration from P. K. Rawlings Ltd, Phillip Rawlings’ stock-carrying firm. There was another name to add to my follow-up list. But meantime, I’d start by calling our friendly vet Darryl – see what sort of things Gaby had been asking him about. Her log recorded that she’d questioned him about national protocols on TB testing and that he’d referred her to MPI. Gaby was nothing if not thorough.

Then I’d check out Gaby’s computer. I’d driven straight over to Gore to collect it when I’d left Lockie’s; there was no way I was going to risk the police beating me to it. But it felt odd – thinking of the police as competition, or even the enemy. One unforeseen hitch had been the demand for payment on pick-up, and for the printer that had been in for repair too. I couldn’t understand why you’d get a printer repaired – it was probably cheaper just to buy a new one. However, she had and it would have looked a bit suspicious to leave the printer behind, so I’d had to fork out for both of them. Thank God for plastic. Pity it had maxed out my credit card, though.

I closed the notebook and was just about to throw it back into the box when I noticed a corner of paper poking out between some pages near the back. I opened the book to where it was marked, and was disappointed to find only a blank page and an old Telemax envelope. The irony of that find wasn’t lost on me. I turned it over and – ‘Bloody brilliant.’

Gaby must have been a bit of a recycler, for there on the back of the envelope she had written a to-do list, and presumably a current one, as a couple of items had been crossed off – ring the vet, worm Radar. So she would have visited the vet, killed two birds with one stone. This was more like it. She’d also written her intention to call my favourite lush, Trevor Ray, as well as Phillip Rawlings – she had one of his documents so had been there already – and John Fellows, a manager at the local freezing works.

I blinked hard and had to reread the last name on her calling list to make sure I had seen correctly. But there it was: Sam Shephard, with a question mark.

Why the hell would she want to call me? I would have thought she’d rather have an anaesthetic-free arm amputation than a private conversation with me. As I recalled our last one-on-one hadn’t gone that well. Could have been something to do with the fact I was rather drunk at the time and the lack of inhibitions meant I had got a little offensive. Not my proudest moment. I sat the note down on my crossed legs and contemplated it some more. If it had been a policing matter, I was sure she would have bypassed me and called the Gore station direct. I couldn’t imagine she’d call me for any personal matter. If she’d been going to give me a barrelling about past behaviour, it would have happened a long time ago. Besides, she didn’t need to. She had already punished and humiliated me in the best way she possibly could have – by being gracious, dignified and above it all.

I stared again at the cover of her black book. It must have been something to do with the story, surely. Maybe she thought I could help her with some facet of TB. God only knew what. Did she already have suspicions about something and want to sound me out about it? Nahhh. I was just going to have to stay terminally curious about that one.

The rest of her list was mundane: pick up computer, buy printer paper, new ink cartridges, book the car in for servicing … Nothing to set the world alight. I squinted to make out one of the small pictures she’d drawn at the bottom of the envelope, and felt a tingle shoot up my spine as I recognised the shape. It was simple but clear – a skull atop a cross. A subconscious doodle? I shivered and pulled my eyes back up to the top of the page. At least I had a decent list of contacts. Where to start? Where to start? My own name on that list had really thrown me.

I started by reaching for the phone. There was no dial tone. The line didn’t sound dead, though; it was all a bit strange. Gaby’s reference to the Telemax man jumped to mind, and I couldn’t resist the need to look over my shoulder. I was about to hang up when a tentative ‘Hello?’ just about made me wet my pants.

‘Hello?’

A giggle I recognised lilted into my ear.

‘Is that you, Maggie?’

‘Of course it is, dumb-nut. What were you doing? The phone rang, then you picked up and didn’t say a thing,’ she said, her voice full of humour. ‘You wouldn’t get a job as a receptionist like that.’

‘I’ll bear it in mind. If you must know, the phone didn’t even ring this end. I’d picked up to call someone else. You gave me a hell of a fright. It’s just as well I’m wearing my Hanes self-cleaning underwear. Anyway, to what do I owe the pleasure?’ Maggie never called during the day. The works telephone policy extended to lab staff too.

‘A heads-up really. What’s your worst nightmare?’ There were plenty of those at the moment, so I picked one at random.

‘Johnny Depp finally realises I’m the woman for him the day after I walk down the aisle with Joe.’

‘Joe?’

‘You know, Mr and Mrs Bloggs’ boy.’

‘Ah, yes. Well this trumps even that horror.’ She paused for effect. ‘You and your Tweety Pie pyjamas were on the midday news.’

It took me a few seconds before I could respond. Then: ‘Oh, Jesus – Mum and Dad! They always watch the news.’ But it wasn’t my parents, plural, I was worried about. ‘What will Mum say?’ I knew what she’d say: that was the problem.

‘I take it from that comment,’ said Maggie, ‘that you haven’t called them at all, to let them know what’s going on? It might have helped.’

I had thought about it, but something urgent to do with the case always seemed to come up. It was a bit late now; the shit and the fan had made contact.

‘No, I was going to. God, I’ll never hear the end of it now. Mum will think I didn’t want to tell her. She’ll blow it all out of proportion.’

‘Sam?’ Maggie interrupted. ‘You were on national TV. That’s a pretty big proportion to be blown out of. Everyone in the staffroom at the works saw it, probably half the people in Mataura saw it. Didn’t make the best of impressions, I’m afraid.’

That took a while to sink in.

‘What did they say, exactly?’ I asked.

‘They didn’t say outright that you were a suspect, but made much of your being suspended from the case, and then linked in to recent cases of police officers on the wrong side of the law. It wasn’t very pretty.’

I didn’t need to look across to my mirror to know my face was a shade or two whiter.

‘Thanks for the update, Maggie.’

‘You be careful now. The majority of people won’t believe that you could be involved. But there may be one or two—’

‘Yeah, I know, I know.’ There was always going to be some loony who might want to have a go at me. I’d have to watch my back, though I wanted to think a couple of years doing my best for the community would count for something. We would see.

‘I’ll come straight home tonight, OK?’

‘Yeah, thanks, Maggs. See ya.’

It was cowardly, but I left the phone off the hook while I worked out what to do. Maggie’s news had taken the edge off my urge for action. After a few minutes, though, I came to the conclusion I was damned if I acted and damned if I didn’t. I wasn’t that good at selfpity, so decided to carry on – I owed it to Gaby and, now, more than ever, to myself.

This time I didn’t bother to disguise my voice when I rang the station. I didn’t recognise the receptionist’s voice and they didn’t recognise mine, which suited just fine. I was transferred straight through.

‘You just caught me, Sam. I was on my way out,’ Paul Frost said. I could hear him rustle some paper and zip up a bag in the background. ‘Have you found something else?’

I waited a moment, to see if he would make any reference to my recent fame. Didn’t look like he would, so I ploughed on.

‘No, no, just checking in. Off to anything exciting? Are there new developments?’

‘This? No, I’m just off to follow up a cattle-rustling report, nothing exciting.’

‘They’re sending detectives for cattle rustling now?’

He chuckled. ‘Yeah, there’s a surplus here. Anyway, someone had to go, seeing as they got rid of the general dogsbody.’

He seemed to be in a good mood; I might be able to wheedle a bit out of him.

‘So, how is the case progressing?’ I asked.

‘Nothing spectacular. I’m waiting to hear back from our British counterparts about our friend Dr Walden. Twelve-hour time lag is a pain. The tradesman lead has given us a bit more information to follow up on. By the way, I had to tell the Boss a little white lie as to how we got that lead. Didn’t think it wise to give you the credit, considering he expressly forbade you from meddling. Didn’t think it would help your cause any.’ He got no argument from me there. ‘Telemax didn’t have any technicians in the area, or any records of faults on that day. We’re following up with sign writers and graphics companies to see if they’ve had any requests for Telemax signage recently. There have been a few reports of sightings of a white late-model van with the logo on its doors in the area on Tuesday.’

‘Someone really went to a lot of trouble. It sounds very professional.’

‘It certainly does, which reminds me. They’re getting a warrant to access your banking and telephone records. I warned you they might.’

‘They’re what? You can’t be bloody serious. They still think I’m a suspect?’

‘You know as well as I do no one truly believes you had anything to do with this, but it’s procedure. If any of this goes to the Police Complaints Authority or Professional Standards, we can’t be seen as favouring you. It’s bullshit, but it’s reality.’

‘Bloody dismal reality.’ That knotty feeling had made an unwelcome return to my intestinal tract.

‘Just cooperate. Make an uproar, and they’ll think you’ve got something to hide. You haven’t got anything to hide, have you?’

I believe the term ‘pregnant pause’ was applicable here. He was helping me out, so a little trust was in order.

‘Did you see the midday news?’

‘No, should I have?’

‘I had a visit from a reporter this morning. She caught me by surprise, so I wasn’t at my best. Apparently they aired it at lunchtime and it didn’t paint me in a good light.’

‘Oh, great. Lucky you. They called by here too, for some official comment on the case. Frederickson dealt with it. Didn’t occur to me they’d be banging on your door. I’d better watch the news tonight, then.’

‘I sure as hell won’t be. I have no desire to see myself condemned.’

‘I don’t blame you.’ Paul’s sympathy convinced me I might as well throw all my cards on the table.

‘I should let you know that I’ve got the use of Lockie’s vehicle.’

‘How the hell did you manage that?’

‘Well, he’s decided I’m his best bet when it comes to uncovering Gaby’s killer. I’m afraid he doesn’t trust you guys to do it.’

‘Thanks.’

‘Also—’

‘There’s more?’

‘He let me have a good look through Gaby’s things and take away some of her journalism course notes. The forensics guys had already been through and they told him they’d finished at the house. He wasn’t very impressed with their manner, by the way. They left a bit of a mess, and he felt they didn’t accord Gaby’s things the dignity they deserved. Anyway, that aside, I haven’t found anything else obvious, but I’ve got a few leads I’m going to follow up.’

‘Anything you’d care to share?’

‘Not yet, but you’ll be the first to know if there’s anything worth pursuing.’

‘Take care, Sam. The Boss won’t look kindly on tampering with potential evidence. It could reflect badly on you.’

‘God, Paul, you’re starting to sound just like him. I’m not bloody stupid, you know. Give me some credit for brains. I’ve given you valuable leads, things the so-called experts missed, so you never know, I may well dredge up something important. I do know how to treat evidence and I am perfectly well aware of what’s at stake here.’

I must have sounded pretty pissed off because Paul changed his tone markedly. ‘Just watch your back, that’s all I’m saying. Look, I’d trust you to solve this over these bussed-in goons any day, but there are a lot of politics involved here. Don’t become a casualty.’

‘I’m starting to think you care,’ I said, and laughed.

‘Yeah, well, I wouldn’t get too carried away. I just want to make sure I don’t get transferred to Mataura when they fire you. Got my own interests to watch.’

‘Thanks. There I was thinking it was sentiment. Dash a girl’s dreams, why don’t you?’ But I’d pushed the jest a little too far, and made a quick subject change to hide my embarrassment. ‘So who reported the cattle rustling?’

‘A couple of them were done last night. The Rawlings’ property and Trevor Ray’s.’

‘Oh.’ Those names had popped up a bit lately. ‘Who are you off to first?’

‘Trev’s, it’s closer.’

I’d give him an hour’s head start, then I’d pay a little visit to Mr Ray myself.

I just hoped he hadn’t seen the news.