The Bookshop Detectives: Dead Girl Gone, page 16
‘You all right? Did that woman upset you? I’ve seen her somewhere before I think . . .’
‘I’m fine thanks, Meryl love, just got a lot on my mind.’
‘Always something going on in this tiny place,’ she says. ‘You think it’s a sleepy little village but there’s drama everywhere.’
Oh, Meryl, you have no idea.
Garth: 14 days until Isabella Garrante book launch
Over the ten years we have been running the bookshop, the local Business Association has gone through numerous iterations. Under some regimes we would meet monthly for a social get-together to chat with other retailers and discuss any problems and possible solutions. Under other steerage we would meet twice a year, once for the AGM and once for the Village awards ceremony, at which I am proud to say our little bookshop consistently won the Village’s favourite retailer until they stopped putting it to a public vote, which seemed somewhat counterintuitive.
Currently we are somewhere between the two formats. As well as having the AGM and awards, we meet informally a few times a year at one of the local hostelries. Hence Eloise and I find ourselves mingling in the courtyard to the rear of Piku Chew, a Japanese fusion restaurant which Eloise and I both love. Here a number of eateries cluster around the common courtyard, which has at its centre a circular wooden bench surrounding a budding cherry blossom tree. Adding to the idyllic ambience, deep-green fig vines intertwined with fairy lights run the length of a wide alley to the entrance on Joll Road.
A few association members sit chatting at tables. Others stand about in groups, sharing gossip and making the most of the free drinks and sushi platters. I stick close to Eloise, partly because I’m terrible at small talk and partly because too many loud bangs during my time in the Marines have left me somewhat deaf. In crowds like this it’s incredibly difficult to filter out words from the general hubbub, and I often find myself nodding dumbly in what I hope are the appropriate places. Eloise claims it is selective hearing, although the fact that I am totally oblivious to the incessant chirping chorus of cicadas on a warm summer evening adds some credence to my story.
I keep an eye out for the owners of Red Vines. I know IFG insisted on the bookshop as the venue for her launch, but I wonder if she understands how small and unsuitable it really is. I figure if I can get my proposal to use the winery fully fleshed out as an alternative, she may be persuaded to reconsider.
Unfortunately, the vintners have yet to show, so we are currently chatting dogs with the Design and Copy crew who do all of our printing for events. A supremely friendly Labrador often hangs out behind their counter.
‘Yes, we tried the Mark Vette method,’ says Eloise, gesticulating with the rather colourful strawberry sour cocktail that she clenches in one hand. ‘But Stevie was just terrified of the clicker and hid under the bed whenever he heard the click-click, so it was a bit of a bust for us.’
A large black SUV with tinted windows pulls up at the end of the alley. The rear passenger door opens, and a man wearing a light-blue shirt, pale chinos, deck shoes and a straw fedora steps out. I have no doubt who it is. An unsettling feeling creeps over me, like when you’re gossiping about someone and they walk into the room.
As the owner of Oddbeans, Franklin has every right to be here, and if the rumours about him wanting to run for council are true, then a meeting like this provides him with an ideal opportunity to press the flesh with an abundance of true-blue voters who may be swayed towards his more right-wing machinations. Well, fair enough, but he won’t have counted on me and Eloise. Now he’s here, we should take the opportunity to ask him about Tracey, especially as he’s been ducking our attempts to contact him.
Snaffling a juice from a passing waiter, I loop my free arm through Eloise’s. ‘Nice to catch up with you guys,’ I say to the Design and Copy crew. ‘If you’ll excuse us there’s someone we need to talk to.’
Eloise flashes me a puzzled look as I guide her away.
‘Franklin White,’ I whisper. ‘Over there.’
‘We can’t question him here.’
‘Why not?’ I appreciate that I don’t always understand social etiquette, but this seems like an ideal chance.
‘He’s hardly likely to be forthcoming in such a public venue.’
‘He’s unlikely to be forthcoming whatever the setting, don’t you think?’
Making a face which I’ve come to associate with conflicted uncertainty, Eloise says, ‘I suppose if he’s uncomfortable he might let something slip or might finally agree to a meeting with us in private.’
‘So, we’re doing this?’
Eloise’s face hardens, and now it’s her dragging me by the arm. ‘We’re doing this.’
One of the things I’ve always loved about Eloise is that once she’s committed to something there’s no stopping her. She’s like a bottle-rocket. If you light the blue touch paper, you’d better stand back and enjoy the fireworks.
Franklin has sleazed his way into a group of immaculately groomed women from one of the Village’s many beauty salons. They’re smiling as he jokes about needing cement rather than Botox for his face. And to be fair to them, they were probably all too young to remember the Tracey Jervis case.
I’m certain he catches sight of us as we approach and angles his body away. Eloise is having none of it, manoeuvring us into the group so that we’re standing directly in front of him.
‘Franklin.’ She holds out a hand in a gesture of civility which I know must be killing her inside. ‘We’re Eloise and Garth from Sherlock Tomes. We’ve been trying to get in contact with you.’
‘I know who you are.’ Franklin looks down at Eloise’s hand and ignores it. ‘And I know what you want.’
‘And what’s that?’ I push my shoulders back and breathe in, expanding my chest and drawing myself to my full height, matching Franklin.
‘Excuse me, ladies,’ says Franklin, flashing a brilliant white smile which doesn’t manage to cover his annoyance. ‘It seems these bookshop people and I have matters to discuss.’
He stalks into a quieter corner, assuming that we will follow, which we do. He lowers his voice. ‘You want to drag my name through the mud. You and that bitch Danielle Bright.’
Eloise necks her cocktail and deposits the glass on a table. ‘This has nothing to do with Danielle. We’re only interested in finding the truth about Tracey Jervis.’
‘This has everything to do with Danielle. Do you think I don’t know that you’re plotting with her?’ He shakes his head. ‘I can’t believe you had the balls to actually hold that meeting in my own coffee shop.’
‘We were just talking about the state of local business.’ Eloise folds her arms.
‘So, the subject of Tracey Jervis never came up?’
Eloise’s silence speaks volumes.
‘Yeah, I thought as much.’ Franklin drains his wine glass and points it at her.
My hands raise instinctively. Not that Eloise can’t take care of herself but, gangster or not, if Franklin tries anything I will floor the fucker.
‘I’m not having Tracey ruin my chances a second time.’ Franklin leans closer and gesticulates with the glass. ‘So, you’d better drop all this shit, or it won’t go well for you.’
‘You’re not the first to threaten us, and to be honest the other fellas were scarier,’ I say.
‘The Black Dogs may seem scarier.’ Franklin’s smile is mean, confirming that he set the Dogs on us. ‘But I am someone that you don’t want to mess with.’
I look him up and down. ‘I’ve thrown tougher people than you out of the way just to get to fights.’
‘Forget what you think you know. I always get what I want, and I don’t care how.’ He twists a large gold ring on his finger, and I get the feeling that he’s split faces open with it before. ‘I’m in negotiation with your landlord to buy the whole block. How do you think that’s going to work out for you then?’
It’s impossible to know whether Franklin’s gaslighting us.
His mean smile widens. ‘You think you’re special but you’re nothing, not to me, not to this Village.’
‘Our customers would disagree,’ says Eloise.
‘Who cares about customers. They’re little people, just like you.’
‘Well, sometimes little people can do big things.’ She pokes Franklin in the chest — one escalation away from her throwing a right hook.
He’s unperturbed. ‘You’re not old Havelock, you don’t have streets named after you. My family’s been here for generations and I won’t hesitate to force that bookshop you’re so pathetically proud of out of business.’
Eloise: 13 days until Isabella Garrante book launch
I am absolutely bloody seething. I knew Franklin White was a piece of work, but I underestimated his arrogance. Still, he’s rather underestimated us too — talk about a red rag to a bull. Threaten me or mine and you’ve had it.
In an attempt to lower my blood pressure, we’ve decided to defer having to organise the bloody book launch and instead will visit Trent Meek in Taupō. He wasn’t too hard to find, being an old-school telephone directory kind of guy. Our first conversation started poorly when he burst into tears at the mention of Tracey’s name, but he recovered and suggested it might be best if we drove over to see him.
‘What do you make of Franklin’s threat?’ asks Garth as we set off. We’ve been going over this a lot.
‘He’s full of shit. Just an arrogant, puffed-up piece of nothing,’ I snarl.
‘He’s well connected, and there are all those rumours of underworld shenanigans. What if he could really do us some harm? Oh god. He could ruin the IFG event for us, couldn’t he?’
‘Any more threats from him and I’ll shout it from the rooftops. Who would want to vote in such a corrupt, philandering, cretinous boofhead as councillor?’
‘Errr,’ says Garth, and we both silently acknowledge that yes, many people worldwide have put corrupt, philandering, cretinous boofheads into positions of power quite recently.
It’s one road to Taupō, so we settle into the trip, Garth as usual with pen and paper, eyes glazed. We don’t tend to chat much in the car, and I let my brain rest a wee while, patting Stevie’s silken noggin every now and again, enjoying the peace. Trent Meek has told us he has an enclosed garden that Stevie can snoof around, and we’ll take him for a walk later.
Not far out of Taupō, on the long straight section with forestry either side, I assume the three Harley-style motorbikes that have been cruising a bit behind us for a while will overtake, but they’re hanging back, speeding up, then hanging back again, a bunch of middle-aged arseholes gearing up for a weekend on the lake. I roll my eyes and decide to mess with them a bit, taking 20kph off my speed in a few seconds, causing the bikes to blast past. There’s a lot of whooping and hollering as they go by, and a couple of hand salutes: that’s a bit much for midlife-crisis types. Then I see it — they’re patched Black Dogs.
‘Garth. Garth!’
‘What?’
‘Black Dogs. Do you think they’ve been following us?’
‘I didn’t notice anything.’
No surprises there. The bikers have taken off now, swerving in and out of each other and gunning their engines, making the most of the straight road. Coincidence? Maybe. But I’m unsettled, and Garth looks so, too, but it could be indigestion seeing as he inhaled the pie we bought at the petrol station faster than Stevie with his dog roll.
‘Slow down, Eloise. You’re well over the speed limit. Are you trying to catch them up or something?’
‘What? In this heap of junk? Not likely.’
He laughs but it’s a shaky one. We spend the rest of the trip scanning the road ahead and checking the rear-view and wing mirrors many more times than is natural for jaded, long-term drivers.
The rest of the journey is uneventful and Trent Meek’s place is easy enough to find. It’s a neat, detached two-bedroomed unit on a quiet street, close enough to the CBD that a reasonably fit old person could walk to the supermarket or the pub. The front garden is neatly planted with perennials and the lavender full of bees. I’m strangely cheered by gentle insects getting on with their busy work, oblivious to the bad guys lurking around the corners. We park up on the street and coax Stevo from his safe place in the rear footwell.
Trent has already started down the drive to meet us in his old-bloke leather slippers. He’s slim, wearing what can only be described as ‘slacks’, mustard in colour, and a flannelette tartan shirt. He’s pretty much bald, a few wisps of white combed over his tanned head: the contrasting hair and skin tones make him look like a magician’s wand. He seems really pleased to see us.
‘Hello, you two and oh my goodness you must be Stevie. So pleased to meet you. Oh dear! Shall we get him in the garden?’
In the grips of a panic attack, Stevie strains against the lead, darting back and forth, choking himself and yanking my arm out of its socket. I wind his lead around my wrist, lock the car and gratefully follow Trent up the driveway and through the high wooden gate. Garth follows, his hand flailing against his chest in what appears to be some weird sort of interpretive dance but is actually an attempt to relieve his clothing of pie crumbs.
Stevie spots the outdoor furniture and makes a dive under the table. He’ll settle for a bit now, get his bearings. Trent has the table set for morning tea — plates, cups, sugar bowl, napkins — and is back inside, busying himself with a teapot and a plunger.
‘I don’t know what you like so I’ve made both,’ he says, bringing a tray. ‘But I’ve got beer and lemonade and probably some other things, too.’
‘Oh, coffee please,’ says Garth, sounding desperate.
‘Me too, thanks.’ Our host does one last trip to fetch a plate of what look like homemade Afghan biscuits.
‘Mr Meek, this is wonderful. The Afghan is surely the Queen of the biscuit world,’ I say.
‘And which is the King?’
‘Who cares?’ I reply, and we both laugh in a manner unbecoming of our age and status. I like him. I really hope he’s not a bad guy.
We chat for a bit about the weather, what life is like in Taupō, how he plays bowls and bridge and has made some good friends. He doesn’t come back to the Bay unless he really has to.
‘Why’s that, Mr Meek?’ asks Garth, cutting through the small talk.
He sighs. ‘Trent, please. When Tracey went missing it was indescribably awful. The rumours, the accusations that were flying around. I was so upset because she was such a lovely girl, and talented, too — I’m sure you’ve read some of her poems — and I was very fond of her, but in a fatherly way, no funny business at all. Her own father wasn’t a very nice man and I never had the opportunity to be a dad, so I suspect I projected my sense of loss at never having had children on to Tracey, if I’m honest.’
He is quiet for a moment, contemplative.
‘You would have liked to have had children?’ I nudge.
‘Yes. It’s a regret, but when I was a young man there was no such thing as same-sex marriage or adoption or any of those things that are becoming more common these days. I adored my sister’s children, grown up now, of course, but they’re in Auckland and I didn’t get to see them all that much when they were little.’
‘So you kept your sexuality secret up until Tracey disappeared?’
‘Well, not secret so much as it wasn’t anybody else’s business. When the police interrogated me — and it was an interrogation rather than an interview, I can assure you — the gossip at school was unbearable. Staff, students, parents, everyone looked at me differently; there were complaints from parents wanting to pull their children from my classes. I felt awful, ashamed, even though I knew I had done nothing wrong. I “came out”, as they say, hoping that would take the spotlight off me as some predatory man who had caused Tracey harm, but all it did was make me the target of a different kind of rumour. Parents still didn’t want me teaching their children.’
‘People can be such idiots,’ says Garth, rather accurately.
Trent nods.
‘There was another student who gave a statement that she’d seen you with Tracey, that you’d kissed her,’ I say.
‘Yes, Darpita. She was jealous of Tracey, I think.’
‘Was there any truth to what she said?’
‘What? No, no. Well, not really, but Darpita did see something that, taken out of context, could have looked incriminating.’ Trent is uneasy now, wringing his hands and looking down at his lap. Guilty as they come.
‘Go on.’
‘Tracey came to me after class one day. She was very upset. Her father put so much pressure on her to succeed academically. She didn’t really get much down time at all. If she wasn’t at school or doing after-school work, she was working on projects that would look good on her CV: the poetry book, Franklin White’s political campaign. That one I couldn’t get my head around.’ He sniffs. ‘That man and his politics are odious.’
‘Yes?’ I say, trying not to be too impatient.
‘Mr Jervis had locked her in her room the previous evening because she had mentioned she had a terrible headache and didn’t want to go to her Scholarship Calculus tuition. No dinner, no toilet facilities, and bruises on her arms in the shape of fingers where her father had grabbed and shoved her. The poor dear girl. I hugged her and, yes, I kissed her on the top of her lovely head. My heart was breaking for her.’
‘Did you tell anyone else at school? Take it higher up?’ I ask.
‘No. Tracey swore me to secrecy. She said she wasn’t really in any danger and that her mother was looking out for her. She just needed someone to talk to.’
‘What about her friend, Prudence?’
‘Indeed. What an unlikely friendship. But when they were together it was the happiest I ever saw either of them. I think Tracey confided in Prudence, but I had noticed some kind of strain on their relationship. As if Tracey was growing up, moving on, with her political interests and whatnot.’
‘So what do you think happened to Tracey?’ asks Garth.
A deep sigh, right from the depths of old hurts and raw memories.
