They were halfway through their list when the call went out. Any excuse. The boys from the Fire Department got the jump on them as usual. The message from Central came through at the same time as an appliance rushed past them in the other direction. Without even consulting Bryce, Evan yanked the wheel and flicked on the pursuit system. It was great to see the startled face of Joe Public as this wolf sprang from its sheep’s clothing, flouting every known road rule. It had to be the best part of the job. By the time they arrived the crowd of rubber-neckers made it difficult for the fire appliances to get close so their first job was to chase them back until the uniform boys arrived.
The house was large, grey, with a row of roses leading to a stained glass front door. Behind it there was a pall of smoke that drifted between the houses in the windless morning. The house was in a street filled with others like it, all quietly competing for prominence.
A woman, still in night clothes and slippers, identified herself as a neighbour.
‘Glennis and Tony are overseas. It’s their son, Jamie who made the bomb. He’s trouble that one. One of those white faced kids who dresses all in black. A vampire or something …’
There was no stopping her and Evan felt duty-bound to start taking her statement. Who knows, there might be something useful in the prejudice and gossip she spouted. Statements change with every telling, that was for sure. Things were added and other bits removed as the initial emotion died and personal interest took over.
The uniforms arrived ten minutes later. Three cars at the same time. It was always this way. They immediately took charge of the crime scene, driving back the onlookers and freeing up Bryce and Evan to get around the back and inspect the damage.
The main house was one of those big old bungalows built during the 1930s. Copied from a Californian style, it was more generous than the usual Kiwi equivalent, with wide verandahs, stucco pillars, and shingled bits here and there. The back of the house had once been the showcase: it had leadlight windows and broad steps down to the garden. The pliable lead framing had weathered the blast and hung like thick cobwebs around the corners of the window frames. The bevelled and coloured glass that would have once painted refracted patterns on the back wall, now formed a sparkling carpet on the floor of the verandah.
The back garden was long and sloped gently down into the valley, where a hundred years or so ago a little bush-clothed creek would have burbled. Now the water ran underground through massive concrete culverts and most of the bush had gone, making room for blocks of town houses. Somehow this section had been allowed to maintain its original, luxurious dimensions and had not succumbed to the frantic hunger to cash up and cram in more housing.
At the bottom of the slope, past the broken trees and flattened delphiniums, lay what remained of the sleepout. The Auckland Fire Department were picking through the smoking remains, warily, in case there was some explosive remnant lurking amongst the debris. The fibrolite walls had turned into frisbee-sized pieces that had distributed themselves around the neighbourhood. (For months after the event elderly neighbours would still be arriving at the local police station with a piece hoping it might ‘help the police with their inquiries’.) The remaining studs holding up the roof all leaned downhill.
‘What are you guys doing here. Don’t tell me there was a burglary here too?’
It was Detective Sergeant Willets: Willy to everyone on the squad but still Sarge to them. They were the new boys and rank was rank.
‘We were in between three and four on our list when we heard the call,’ said Evan, glancing at Bryce for confirmation.
‘So what have you done? Get anything?’
Evan pulled out his notepad. It was lucky he had something otherwise the sarge would think he was just here to gawk too. ‘The neighbour, Mrs Drummond, was first on the scene. She was the one who dialled 111. That’s her over there in the dressing gown.’ He pointed to where Mrs Drummond was busy giving her statement to whoever would listen.
‘She says these people are called the Winters. He’s an importer. They are away in Thailand on holiday. The only one left here is their son, Jamie.’
‘Is that all?’
‘Well, we’d just got started when the uniform branch arrived so we came round the back.’
They all stared at the little shed, or what was left of it. The firemen had stopped blasting the smoking frame with CO2 and one was trying to squeeze in under the collapsed roof.
‘Any idea what caused it?’
‘I hadn’t got that far.’
There was a yell from under the roof and the other two firemen squatted down to peer in. They all moved forward.
‘What’s happening?’ Willets asked.
The older of the firemen turned to face him.
‘There’s a body … or bits of one.’
Willets went down to crouch behind the firemen. People began to arrive. One of them carried a heavy suitcase. They knew him, by sight anyway. His name was Trembath. He was the specialist guy. Ex-army, now a consultant whenever things went bang. He walked over to where Evan and Bryce stood and put down the bag.
‘Hi, boys, you first here?’
‘First cops anyway,’ said Bryce, hoping they would be able to stick around for a while.
‘Been at one of these before?’
They both shook their heads.
‘This is the third clan lab I’ve been to this month. Of the exploding variety that is. About fifteen non-bangers.’
‘This typical?’ asked Evan. Anything to get him talking, he was one of those guys, just loves to blab, and you could pick up a lot once he got going.
Trembath shook his head. ‘Too much bang for a solvent flare. Must have been something else in it. Something with more percussive potential than just chemicals igniting in a closed room.’
‘Like what? Dynamite?’
The older man laughed. He had the know-all laugh of the visiting expert.
‘Classic! You’ve been watching too much television, lad.’
Evan and Bryce endured the patronising old fart as they waited for his answer.
‘More likely a drum of solvent. LPG bottle maybe, they do a good-sized pop. I don’t think the CIA are involved.’ He laughed again and turned to them, as if waiting for them to join in.
Bryce looked down to where Willets was talking to the senior fireman. The sarge kept looking up towards them with a sort of pissed off expression on his face. Mind you, when didn’t he have a pissed off look? He was born with one, they reckoned. Bryce shifted on the spot. ‘Hey, Evan, we’d better get back to the list.’
‘This is a doozy though,’ said Trembath, as if trying to keep them there. ‘Last time I saw a bang like this was in a campervan at Piha beach. Mobile labs. Really hard to catch those bastards. These guys usually cook a batch and then move on. The only way we know they’ve been there is the big scorch mark where they’ve poured the spent chemicals out on the ground. Toxic stuff they use, eats through anything. This time, though, there was more than a burn mark. The chassis was the only piece left. Classic!’ He laughed at his own story. It seemed to be a habit, punch-line or not.
‘You wouldn’t think they could fit a lab in a van,’ said Evan.
‘They can fit it in a hatchback, lad. They’ve got it as small as two suitcases.’ He was about to regale them with a new story when Bryce chipped in.
‘We’d better be off, Evan; here he comes.’ Willets was making his way up the hill.
By the time they got back to the round, the numbers had swollen to a good-sized crowd. A TV broadcast van was attempting to nose its way through the cordon but was being rebuffed by Tim Richards, a uniformed officer from their intake.
It was disappointing to have to turn their car around and head once more for the Eastern Bays with their list. As they eased clear and made for Remuera Road, Bryce turned to Evan and said, ‘I remember there was a Jamie Winters in our year at Grammar. How old was this guy?’
Evan shrugged, watching for a gap in the traffic. “Dunno. Didn’t get that far.’