The Bookshop Detectives: Dead Girl Gone, page 13
I look up, nose in plastic, to see Garth staring at me, gob open rather unattractively. He huffs exasperatedly.
‘What?’
‘We have just discovered something quite shocking, there’s all this —’ he gestures to the Tracey wall — ‘to look at, and you’re straight in the fridge sniffing the milk. A bit parched, are you? Getting the kettle on first?’
‘Stop being a twat. It’s fresh. Tama comes here a lot. Anyway, we’re not in any rush.’
I return the milk to its home and move to the centre of the unit. The back wall is also covered in notes, profiles of victims and suspects, crime scenes and investigations. There are four filing cabinets and shelves full of box and lever-arch files above the sink bench.
‘This is a lot of stuff. He’d lose his job if anyone found out about this.’
‘It’s like Trump’s classified documents trove at Mar-a-Lago,’ breathes Garth.
Not quite, but also not far off. It’s a massive no-no for a copper to take stuff out of the nick. It compromises the chain of evidence, risks falling into the wrong hands and is a huge breach of privacy for all involved. Given the risk, why would Tama do this, and why would he trust us with it? I’m starting to feel the weight of responsibility, and try not to give in to panic. Gangsters, rogue coppers, two soft old booksellers out of the job for over a decade. Are we in way over our heads?
‘Are we in way over our heads?’ gasps Garth, starting to hyperventilate.
I give him a little shove to bring him back from the brink of a full-blown panic attack.
‘I think,’ I begin slowly, trying to organise my thoughts, ‘that we assume only we and Tama know about this place and its contents, and that he really wants our help because something is well off and he can’t sort it through official channels.’
‘So he comes to a couple of has-beens?’ scoffs Garth, breathing more deeply now.
‘Speak for yourself. Also, this is clearly bigger than a cold case we can have a bit of nostalgic fun with. I reckon there is danger, yes, but there might be more if we don’t investigate.’
Garth nods, parking his bum on the top of a filing cabinet.
‘I am actually going to put the kettle on and we can settle in and have a good look through this stuff, then decide what to do next. There’s only one mug, so we’ll have to share.’
Garth becomes intent upon reading every word on the Tracey wall, so I start on the nearest filing cabinet; it’s one of the smaller ones with only one deep drawer, so not too daunting. Alas, it’s practically empty, just an old Yellow Pages and some take-away menus. Over to the double-storey monster it is then.
I prise the mug from Garth’s fingers, rest it on top of the monster cabinet and open the top drawer. Bingo. The tabs are labelled with names and locations I already recognise from our initial, scant snooping. I’m immediately drawn to Franklin White, written in a surprisingly careful, cursive hand. I grab the folder and retreat to the desk, retaining possession of the coffee.
Inside the folder are various photographs, some crystal clear, some blown out or pixelated. The first shows a man in a grey suit, quite tall and slim, head down, briefcase shielding him from rain as he gets into a car — a nice car, too, looks like a Mercedes, although I’m no expert. His back is to the camera and it’s impossible to tell his age or race. The next shows the car driving away — it could be in a Havelock North street, but from the Art Deco buildings and amount of traffic I’m picking Napier or Hastings.
The third photo is the most interesting, and very clear. Two massive-looking men have their backs to the camera, power stance, shoulders hunched as if their arms are crossed, heavy leather waistcoats with the Black Dogs patch. I peer at another two men facing them and the camera, and fetch my reading glasses from my trouser pocket. Same grey suit, same build: white guy, quite handsome, face set in a placatory smile, hands palm out. He’s younger, slimmer and his suit is cheaper, but I’d know that entitled smirk anywhere. It’s Franklin White. The person standing next to him is also white, taller, thin, hair long with a slightly bohemian feel — he has a tee-shirt underneath his jeans jacket, and it’s paired with jeans and Chucks. There’s an androgynous, almost Bowie-like look to him. I do a quick Google images search and confirm my suspicion: it’s Oddbean all right. So, Franklin, and maybe Oddbean were being surveilled, and unless they were doing some kind of community liaison were in with some pretty dodgy characters.
There are some newspaper clippings in the folder, articles and interviews with Franklin about his run for government. There’s one headlined ‘Local Politician Turns to Poetry’, with a grainy image of Franklin with his arm around . . . yes, it’s Tracey. I feel a bit nauseous and put the coffee down. The article revolves around Franklin and what a great guy he must be to sponsor the poetry book. It barely mentions Tracey, the actual person who did all the work and made the opportunities for the poets. There’s a load of general information, too, on Franklin’s now ex-wife Victoria White: background, education, business deals. Who the hell wrote this?
I leave the folder on the desk and go back to the cabinet to look for an Oddbean folder, and there it is. More photos, this time of the art gallery; news clippings, a menu for the coffee shop even. There’s a photo in which Oddbean looks happy rather than cool and moody. He’s standing next to a man and woman, both in their mid- to late twenties. Hard to tell if they’re a couple or not — the body language is friendly but not too close. Oddbean has his skinny, pale arm draped over the guy’s shoulders. He’s wearing a tee-shirt with the sleeves cut off and some kind of chain on his left wrist. There’s a pendant or charm attached to the chain but I can’t make it out. The other guy is shorter than Oddbean, bushy eyebrowed and freckled; he’s wearing a green shirt and blue cords. The woman, high cheekboned and bubbly, has her head thrown back and is laughing. It’s a lovely photo and makes me smile.
By now Garth has retrieved the coffee and is muttering about backwash and dregs as he flicks though the cabinet.
‘Trent Meek,’ he murmurs.
‘The teacher?’
Garth holds up a couple of pages stapled together. ‘Uh, yeah. There’s a statement here from someone called Darpita Reddy, a classmate of Tracey.’
‘Read it out,’ I say.
‘Okay. Blah blah blah, student at Te Mata High, was in the same English class as Tracey and the teacher was Mr Meek. Aha. Oh, I see—’
‘What?’
‘Darpita says she actually saw Meek with his arm around Tracey in the corridor after school, and . . . oh . . . She also says she saw Meek kiss Tracey. She went back into the English room after class as she’d forgotten her assignment sheet and . . . and I quote, “Mr Meek was embracing Tracey. As I entered the room, he planted a kiss on her head. As soon as they saw me, they sprang apart and Tracey pretty much just barged out of the room. Mr Meek played it cool and asked if he could help me but I just wanted to get out of there.”’
‘Shit. I think we need to visit Mr Meek.’
‘I think we do. There’s a scribbled note saying he’s in Taupō. No actual address.’
‘Shouldn’t be too hard to find. We were detectives.’
‘Let’s gather as much of the Tracey stuff as we can and get on home. I’m getting claustrophobic.’
‘What? Take stuff out of here?’ I ask.
‘Yes, I think so. It’s not a police station, it’s not supposed to be here. Tama clearly wants us to have it and it’ll be much more convenient if it’s at home. I don’t think we’ll get raided any time soon.’
We methodically begin to pack up the tragic story of Tracey Jervis, then Garth pauses. ‘Do you think Tama could have sent us the book in the envelope?’
Garth: 21 days until Isabella Garrante book launch
Eloise pulls the Tomato to a halt just around the corner from Janet Jervis’s villa. On my lap is a shoulder bag containing the envelope and book that were so mysteriously dropped at the shop and started this whole investigation — or started it for us at least. I also have a bundle of Janet’s witness statements. And yes, there are more than one — three to be precise — although this is not unusual.
First there would have been a missing person’s report. If the officer is on to it, a statement may be taken at that point. Usually, this statement is little more than the description of the misper, when they were last seen, and events leading up to the disappearance if they were out of the ordinary, such as an argument. Then, if the person has not materialised after a couple of days, a more detailed statement is taken. This is the CYA statement, because you are starting to have some concern that this is not just a runaway and so you have to Cover Your Arse in case the wheels come off. The third statement is taken by a detective when it appears more than likely that the misper is a victim of crime. Although at this stage the person giving the statement is not officially a suspect, they actually are, because the police are by nature suspicious and everyone involved is a suspect until proven otherwise. The detective will therefore be trying to get as precise details as possible not only about the misper but also about the movements of the person giving the statement in case they conflict with other accounts or evidence gathered.
Shuffling through the statements, I turn to Eloise. ‘Are we going to mention the inconsistencies?’
‘We’re not supposed to have seen the witness statements.’
‘We can’t just ignore the fact that in Janet’s first statement she doesn’t mention any altercation, then in her third statement she recalls that Tracey had argued with her father before going out to meet Prudence for the fireworks.’
‘Exactly. In her third statement she recalls it. Tracey’s been missing for days and Janet’s spent every waking moment thinking about it. She’s had time to remember.’
‘Or time to rehearse her story.’
Eloise pats her tummy. ‘My copper’s gut says she’s being truthful.’
It’s a plausible explanation and Eloise is better at judging these things than I am. ‘What about the bag?’ I say.
In the first two statements Janet doesn’t even mention that Tracey had a bag with her when she left home, even though it was later confirmed to be missing from her room. On the surface, this does not seem untoward, because the bag was never found. However, in the third statement Janet says, ‘I am one hundred percent certain that when Tracey left she did not have her school backpack with her’, which comes across as forced, unnatural even, as we don’t tend to be interested in things the victim doesn’t have.
‘The date of the third statement places it after Tracey’s schoolbooks were found in the Redwoods,’ says Eloise.
‘They didn’t find a schoolbag though.’
‘No. But if you’re a suspicious detective taking the statement, and you know about the items found in the Redwoods, what are you going to be thinking?’
I drum my fingers against the dashboard. ‘That I want to tie Tracey to the bag in case it’s later found in the murderer’s possession.’
‘Exactly, so the D taking the statement pressures Janet to remember the bag. Janet is firm in her belief that Tracey didn’t have the bag and insists that this is documented in her statement. Hence the clunky inclusion.’
‘I still think we shouldn’t trust Janet. If she wasn’t directly involved, her husband could have been.’
‘And he’s recently died, so don’t go making any undiplomatic accusations.’
‘Of course not.’ I open the car door. ‘You know me.’
‘And therein lies the problem.’
As we wait at the front door I cast my eye over the garden. It is not overly large but plenty big enough to bury a body. I’m pretty sure the police would have searched it thoroughly; that said, the police still make mistakes. I remember working with a copper called Cuffer Wallace who early one morning stopped a man walking out of the woods with a spade. The man joked that he had just buried his wife, and Cuffer let him on his way. As it turned out, the man had just buried his wife.
Janet invites us in and I take the same seat as before. I keep the envelope and book hidden in a shoulder bag; it’s an old interviewing trick of not letting the suspect know what evidence you have until you choose to reveal it. We’ve told Janet about the strange delivery to our shop, but she doesn’t know what the envelope and book look like — unless she’s the one who left them for us. I’m hoping her reaction when we reveal them will give us an idea of whether this is the case.
While Janet busies herself making tea, Eloise browses the books in the front room. She glances towards the kitchen, checking that Janet isn’t looking, then hurriedly points towards one of the shelves. I squint at the titles, but the spines are too narrow to be able to make them out. Probably poetry.
‘What?’ I whisper.
In a frantic, exaggerated gesture, Eloise points to the bookcase again, then mouths something I can’t entirely make out — for frog’s sake, possibly — then she pulls a novel from the top shelf and waves it at me. It’s an Isabella Garrante. All of the top shelf are Isabella Garrantes and all in pristine condition.
She shoves the novel back and pretends to be interested in a Lloyd Jones that she hastily pulls from the shelf then slides back into position as Janet rejoins us and places a tea tray on the table.
‘Thanks for seeing us again.’ I reach into the bag but keep my eyes on Janet. ‘We’ve brought the package we were sent.’ I pull out the envelope.
There’s a slight raise of her eyebrows but no great show of emotion.
I take out the copy of See You in September. Again, Janet barely reacts. I flick slowly through the pages with the highlighted words that spell out the message. Still nothing, until I get to the last page, the one with TRACEY JERVIS written in Biro. Then Janet’s eyes widen, and she sniffs, taking in a sudden breath.
Eloise places a comforting hand on her arm. ‘I’m sorry if it’s a bit of shock.’
‘No. It’s all right. You think you’ve dealt with these things, that it’s all over, until you realise that it isn’t.’
‘I can’t even begin to imagine.’ Eloise removes her hand so that Janet can drink her tea.
I wish we could have videoed the interview so that later we can rewatch that moment to try to interpret the response. Janet definitely reacted more strongly to the handwritten words than the highlighted text. Could this be the handwriting of Tracey’s killer? Is that what Janet has just realised?
Not for the first time I feel guilty about re-investigating the case and opening up old wounds.
Eloise gestures to the envelope and book. ‘Does this mean anything to you?’
‘She didn’t join a cult, if that’s what you’re implying,’ says Janet, clearly familiar with the book’s plot.
I take the book back and try a new tack. As I replace the novel, I manoeuvre the envelope so that the writing on the front faces Janet. She catches sight of it — and again her breathing changes. Her response is less marked than before, but it’s there, I’m certain of it. I glance at Eloise to see if she noticed, too. It appears not. Her attention is once again focused on the bookshelves.
‘Kitty at the shop said that you’re a bit of a poet?’
‘I dabble. Just for my own enjoyment. I’ve never been published, not like Tracey.’
‘How did you feel about that? The poetry book, I mean?’ asks Eloise.
‘At first, I was so proud of her.’
‘At first?’
‘No, I’m still proud. Only if she’d never done the poetry book, Franklin White would never have got his hooks into her.’
‘You think Franklin is to blame?’ Eloise again places a comforting hand on Janet’s arm.
‘Him and Tracey’s father. Neither could just let her be a schoolgirl.’
Eloise flashes me a look that tells me not to interrupt. I take a sip of my tea instead, letting the pause in conversation lengthen. I become acutely aware of the click, click, click of the second hand of a clock from the kitchen. Eloise must be doing her swede: she hates ticking clocks.
‘Tracey’s father, he always pushed her too hard — with schoolwork, with sport, with the poetry book — and in the end he pushed her away from us.’
I ball one hand into a fist, digging my fingernails into my palm to stop me from asking if she thought Tracey’s father was more directly responsible. Eloise would never forgive me. Instead, I dwell on Janet’s strange phrasing: Tracey’s father. Not Kelvin, not even my husband, but every time Tracey’s father. Odd.
Eloise: 20 days until Isabella Garrante book launch
It’s the last Thursday of the month, so I grab a poetry book from the shop shelf and package it up addressed to ‘A brave Uncommon Poet’. We sponsor the monthly open mic, Uncommon Poets, at The Uncommon Room. The bar is a magnet for anyone who needs a safe and welcoming place to hang, and for those who scribble their heart’s rages and desires tonight will be a blessed release. Garth is not joining me, claiming to have a lead on Prudence to investigate. He was not forthcoming on the details, so I suspect it was an excuse to avoid the poetry.
The main bar is a long, narrow affair with art painted straight onto the concrete walls, dim lighting, a disco ball and many twinkly lights. There are couches and crazy old brocade chairs, a plethora of living plants hanging from the ceiling despite the lack of sunlight, and a mix of punters young and old, strait-laced and flamboyant, human and canine. The poetry crew is already there, putting poets’ names in the hat to be drawn out randomly during the course of the evening to determine the order of performance. One day I will put my own name down, but not yet.
I wander over. Instantly I feel thumbs press deeply into the knot of muscle in my shoulders and a painful but quite amazing sensation takes me over, making my knees buckle a little. It can only be the landlord, Gordon, Garth’s Dungeons & Dragons mate.
