Bubs had decided to dance on my bladder, so I’d had to skip out to visit the facilities and avoid creating a water feature in the office. I’d got sidetracked on my way back by a conversation with Laurie, one of the admin staff. She had been regaling me with her three child-birth experiences, none of which imbued me with great confidence for the adventure ahead. I know the mothers on staff were only trying to reassure me, and those that had what I considered were frankly traumatic deliveries involving long labours, agony, rips, tears and stitches in unmentionable places, or having the baby delivered via the sun roof, vowed that you forgot all the bad stuff when you got to hold your new arrival in your arms and gaze lovingly at them. So far I wasn’t feeling it.
The Boss was back from his visit to Aleisha Newman’s family, and they had indicated there was no way in hell they could raise ten thousand bucks let alone a million, short of one hell of a crowdfunding campaign. What they had asked though, was could they pretend to pay the ransom, use some real and some fake money or something, and find a way to bring their baby home? It was understandable. If you were desperate with worry you’d see this as your only chance. Of course, the risks were immense, and I could hear the discussion continuing from halfway down the hallway. The volume indicated things were a tad more animated than when I had left the CIB room, with voices trying to climb over the top of each other.
‘There is no way we can risk leaving the money in such a crowded situation. Anyone could pick up the bag and take off with it.’ The Boss’s voice wasn’t hard to pick out, and as usual when trying to debate a point, he used volume over finesse.
‘Well, we haven’t exactly got a choice, have we? He left a message and no number, so it’s not like we were able to have a nice little chat at the time and talk him out of it.’
Judging by the turn in the conversation, something had come to light in the time I’d been away. I walked into the room and saw four faces standing around my desk. Only two had been doing the talking in the time I’d been in earshot. They all glanced up at me and stopped. One looked pleased to see me, two looked ambivalent, and one looked unimpressed.
‘What?’ I said, feeling suddenly very much the centre of attention. I looked down to check I didn’t have a toilet paper souvenir hanging from anywhere it shouldn’t.
‘You looked like you were about to proclaim something,’ Smithy said.
‘I did?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, I wasn’t, but can you tell me what’s going on?’
‘We’ve just been informed the ransom person has left another message – on the station phone line this time instead of using Crime Stoppers. They’ve instructed us that the money be left in a backpack at 8.45 in the morning at the farmers’ market.’ Paul delivered the news with an eyebrow ‘hi’ and a smile.
‘The farmers’ market?’ I said. ‘That’s a bit random – and bit of a longer time frame.’
The farmers’ market was a Saturday morning institution, held next to the iconic Dunedin Railway Station in the not-so-iconic carpark. Every man and his dog came along to the market to buy anything from fresh fruit and vegetables to breads, cheeses and meats, to local grog, and to that all-important coffee. It was as much a social event as it was a local produce showcase, with lots of people using it as a weekly catch-up spot with their friends. It was crowded, chaotic, and also pretty central, being a few blocks away from the city centre. I suppose as a place to pick up an exorbitant amount of money and have a few different directions for escape, it wasn’t awful, but it was small, quite enclosed and basically not great. Also, by pushing out the drop date, they were giving us plenty of time to put surveillance and contingencies in place. I thought ransom-guy could do better.
‘Anywhere specific there?’
‘Down the northern end, by the “green electrical cabinet thing” – his words. That’s near where the platform ends. There’s often some seating around there, and a few vendors.’
‘But anyone could pick it up and take off with it. You know what people are like – if it’s not tied down they’ll nick it, especially a bag.’
‘That is precisely the point I was trying to make.’ Oddly it didn’t make me feel grateful to have The Boss agree with me.
‘Actually, I think in Dunedin, people are too honest, and someone is more likely to pick the bag up and hand it in to the market office.’ Paul had a fair point there. It also brought another idea to mind.
‘How bulky and hefty is a million bucks?’ I asked. ‘Even if it was in hundred-dollar notes, would it fit in a backpack?’
Judging by the shrugs around the table no one had ever had the opportunity to test it out. There were no lotto winners in the room – well, confessed ones. And if they had won the big one and were still working here, they were idiots.
‘I guess it depends on the denomination,’ said Paul. ‘It would be easy enough to look up.’
‘I’ll Google it. Hang on a tick.’ Smithy directed his attention to his nearby computer. The tick took a bit longer than he thought due to his archaeological method of typing – dig around for the key until you find it. He was also one of those people who typed very loud.
‘Actually, it’s not too bad. A note is around a gram, so a mill in hundies would be around ten KG.’
‘Well, that’s less than I thought it would be,’ said Paul.
I did the maths in my head. ‘They didn’t state what notes they wanted it in, so we could do it in five-dollar notes and they’d have a hell of a problem running off with two hundred KGs’ worth.’
‘Or coins.’ Paul chipped in. We all had a chuckle at that one.
‘But seriously, setting up surveillance at the market and covering the roading around there would be a little challenging. The only high vantage point is the station building itself. Everything else around there is single or double-storeyed.’ The Boss brought it back to the task at hand. ‘How many roads exit from that point?’
‘Anzac Avenue, both directions. St Andrew Street in front and behind the station.’
‘Leith Street and Harrow Street shoot off nearby. And that funny little through street to the one-way south.’
‘They could also scoot through the industrial area behind to the harbour and boat access.’
I was starting to imagine one of those crazy James Bondish chase scenes involving parkour, bicycles, cars and jet skis.
‘Don’t forget the railway lines themselves,’ Sonia piped in.
‘Pardon?’ The Boss seemed to only just have noticed her.
‘The railway lines, they pass through behind everything. He could take off alongside them, or even on one of those vehicles, you can get those jeep-like things that can run on the rails as well as roads. If they had access to one of them you could head north a way before changing vehicles – confuse your pursuers.’
‘No one would think of that,’ The Boss said.
‘She did,’ I piped in. Sonia could be quiet, but she had some unusual ways of thinking, which in my mind made her a real strength in the team. But some others viewed her as weird. Unfortunately one of those was The Boss, so she only scored slightly higher than me in his popularity ratings. The cynic in me did wonder if that was because we both had vaginas.
‘It’s unlikely.’
And that was how imagination and innovative ideas were stifled.
I changed the topic slightly. ‘So what did the message say exactly?’ I asked.
‘We can just play it if you want to hear it – they isolated an audio clip,’ Smithy said. ‘The caller ID was for a non-registered pre-pay number, so not useful – although we can at least contact them back now and possibly get a trace.’ Smithy clicked on a few files on the computer, and then lo and behold, a very Kiwi-accented, male, mid-pitched and slightly shaky voice came across the speakers.
‘We have the baby. If you want her back safely leave the one million in a black backpack behind the green electrical cabinet thing down the end of the farmers’ market at 8.45am. If anyone tries to stop the pick-up or interferes in any way, you will never see her again. If the pick-up gets arrested, we will kill her.’
‘Christ in a hand cart,’ I said.
‘Yeah, it’s a pretty blunt threat,’ said Paul.
‘Yes, it is,’ I said. ‘But it’s not that.’
‘What is it then?’
‘Play it again.’
Smithy duly clicked the play button, and the not-so-dulcet tones replayed across the room. I shook my head as it confirmed my suspicions.
‘Bloody idiot. You’re not going to believe this, guys, but I’m pretty sure I recognise that voice.’