When she stormed into the station ten minutes after Lucas Grogan, smirk on his face, had watched her scramble out of the cage and disembark, she’d had to plug her volley of complaints. Bruce and a bespectacled Wallace were speaking to a man whose bushy beard and moppy mustache must have never experienced a comb-through. Stormy Parker, the PāuaMAC representative, had arrived at the station. She recognized him as the drunkard in the pub who had threatened to slice and dice Theo. He scowled at her. Alexa’s gaff wound throbbed in response. Had he been the one who attacked her?
No. She would have remembered those wiry bristles against her neck.
“Don’t mind me,” she said.
No one introduced her, so she parked herself at Wallace’s desk, noticed Kopae was absent, and powered up her laptop. She had an email from Dr. Kisska from the Dunedin lab with the subject line: Diatom Results.
She listened to Bruce establishing that PāuaMAC was a countrywide agency, divided into five regions, and represented the commercial pāua fishery’s interests.
“Yeah. That’s us,” Parker confirmed.
She opened Dr. Kisska’s email. There was a brief explanation of diatoms: monophyletic group, single-celled heterokont algae, yadda, yadda. She skimmed to the results: the test was negative. No diatoms present in the lung sample. Andy Gray had not had time to drown. The multiple factors contributing to his death had dwindled to blood loss prior to being submerged. Dying from a gunshot to the abdomen was notoriously painful but maybe more toothsome for Lisa and his parents than torn limb to limb by sharks. She composed a thank you to Dr. Kisska as Parker’s voice rose in decibel.
“Pāua are important to Stewart Island’s economy. Caging is interfering with production. I’ve got four or five boys won’t dive. Our quotas aren’t being filled. If that continues, MAC will give another region more quotas and take ours away. You need to ban the caging.”
She didn’t grasp all the stuff about quotas, but Parker sounded sober, not soused.
“The shark cage diving permits come from the Department of Ministry. It’s their decision,” Bruce said calmly.
“They won’t listen, and you’re passing the buck.”
Alexa watched Parker turn his glare to Wallace. “This DI bloke isn’t an islander. He doesn’t care, Kipper. You’ve been here all your life. You know what’s going on. How caging is tearing the village apart. Who is going to help us if you won’t? Do you want a second death on your bloody hands? One of my boys?”
Parker’s plea hung like fog across the room.
Wallace looked stricken. Alexa knew he cared about his flock of islanders.
“Andrew Gray wasn’t killed by a shark,” Bruce said softly.
Parker swiveled his eyes to Bruce.
“He was shot and thrown overboard.”
Parker squinted as though it would enhance his hearing. “What the hell did you say?”
Bruce explained about the gunshot wound found in Gray’s abdomen. “This is confidential information.”
Parker tugged at his beard. “Someone shot Andy? Who?”
“That’s what we’re trying to find out,” Bruce said patiently.
“The newscaster said he was torn up by sharks,” Parker argued. “Says so on the internet, too. And everyone at the pub is going on about it.” His voice trailed off.
Bruce moved his chair closer to Parker’s. “Did you chum Andy Gray’s porch?”
A huge Adam’s apple appeared and disappeared from below Parker’s beard. Like a pale mouse venturing out of its burrow, then dashing back.
Bruce looked at Wallace. “How long ago did Gray make that complaint?”
“Mid-October.”
Parker looked panicky. “You can’t pin this on me.”
“Where were you Saturday afternoon and evening?” Bruce said.
“I don’t bloody know where I was, do I? Mostly at the pub with my mates.” He whipped a phone from his jacket and started scrolling.
“All afternoon and evening?” Wallace asked.
“Can’t say, can I?”
“Do you own Van Kees netting?” Bruce asked.
“What?”
“Just answer the question,” Wallace interjected.
“Look at these,” Parker said, handing his phone to Wallace. “You might find your killer in the comments.”
Wallace studied the screen. “Facebook comments, from a group called Ban the Cage. Damn print is small.” He nudged his glasses up and read out loud:
“Quim Hilton: The courts are dragging their butts. If they don’t ban caging, we will.
Michael Patterson: As long as cage-dive operators keep throwing blood and guts in the water within the sight of my crib and tormenting white sharks for fun and profit, I will fight.”
“Patterson lives up the way. He’s one of my boys,” Parker said.
Wallace cleared his throat and continued.
“Jane Garrand: It is barbaric that a protected species can be baited and harassed for the tourist dollar.
Liz Chambers: I take my eight and nines class kayaking in the bay. A shark followed us.
Keri Barret: Hello. Bloody audacious that apex predators are being trained to associate boats and divers with free feeds, right on our doorstep.
Jo Head: Chumming affects migration patterns of marine megafauna.
Leonard Wilson: So wait. You’re telling me the whites haven’t been coming here for 100s of yrs?
Ed McAdam: If the courts won’t shut them down, we will.
Hani Kawata: DOC allows cage diving boats to teaz and torment sharks in Foveaux Strait so big-money clients can film them smashing into the cages. OUTRAGEOUS.”
Wallace looked up from the screen. “Hani was protesting on the pier. And Liz.”
“People in the community are angry,” Bruce interrupted. “I hardly…”
“Wait,” Parker said. “Read more.”
“Nina Wallace: Stewart Island might seem like a faraway…”
Wallace looked up, reddened, then back down. “It’s the wife. I didn’t know she belonged to this group.” He read silently, then cleared his throat and read aloud:
“…seem like a faraway place to lawmakers in Wellington, but this is where my boy swims. This is where I live and work and play. Ban the cage.
Colleen Diddles: Totally Objectionable. Kiwis are protected, but whites can be taunted.
Nathan Rawner: Paua divers unite. Kill the cagers.”
Wallace went silent.
“Keep going,” Bruce said.
“Tony Adams: When I lived there I remember the great whites—they were huge bastards!!! They are intelligent and keen to learn. You chum, they learn the sound of a boat means a feed.
Andy Gray: Sharks are after the seals, not chum, which is so finely minced that sharks can’t feed on it. The seal population has exploded and the whites keep them in check.”
Wallace looked up. “Fark me dead. It’s Andy.” He pushed his glasses up his nose and leaned in. “The initial comment is dated 2 December, just days before he was killed. The replies aren’t dated.”
“Read the next comment,” Parker said.
“Ed McAdam: I’d like to see a white keep you in check.”
No sound but the clicking of the minute hand on the wall clock as they digested this information.
Parker reached for his phone and pushed back from the table. “See? What did I tell you?”
“We’ll look into it.” Bruce stood abruptly. “We’ll be round to check out your netting. Don’t leave the island.”
“Ha,” Parker said. “Storm’s coming. No one will be going anywhere when it hits.”