The Mark of Halam (12 page)

Hank Challis stood when he saw Barbara standing in the doorway. As always she was surprised at the size of the man. Large in all directions. Then at the shock of thick white hair swished back Elvis Presley style and plastered in place with hair cream. Beady eyes surveyed her from beneath charcoal black eyebrows sprouting in all directions like blackberry bushes.

He pointed to one of the two chairs in front of his desk.

“Nice to see you, Barbara. How can I help you?”

Barbara rolled out the story. It only took her five minutes, but all the while Challis continuously checked his watch and rifled through sheets of paper. More than once she had to
bite back her irritation. But she was determined to keep her cool in front of this man, even if it killed her. When she’d finished he didn’t
appear to notice at first. Then there was a sudden rise of the
blackberry bushes.

“Ah. I see. Well, little lady. I hate to be a source of disappointment for you, but I’m not certain I can give approval to allowing a young member of staff being placed in such a dangerous position. Apart from the legal ramifications – and I’m sure there must be many – if something went wrong I’d be held accountable.”

“Come on, Hank. Our job is news gathering. Going undercover for research is the job we all signed on for, for Christ’s sake.”

“Be that as it may, if there is danger I can’t allow it. Fights between protestors and citizens pissed off at being inconvenienced are happening all the time. Hell, yesterday two men were taken to hospital. You want me to give permission to plonk Amy in the middle of that? No. Not likely. Besides, this is hardly earth shattering, Barbara. Professional protestors have been around for eons. In fact I would guess the general public probably believes that all the protestors are professional. Does anyone really care who’s paying them?”

Barbara said, “The police have an interest in this other than civil disorder.”

“Really?” Challis said, feigning interest but running his finger down the page of his diary.

“They have reason to believe that whoever is funding the protestors may be connected in some way to the man killed over the weekend and the attack on two women a week ago.”

Challis’s mouth dropped open.

“That seals it. It isn’t going to happen.”

Barbara shook her head. How on earth this tub of lard ever worked for CNN as he said he did defied belief. The guy did not deserve to sit at the desk as producer of the most successful news show in the country. She must have really pissed someone off on the top floor.

“Is this not something the police could do?”

Barbara said, “Yes. But it would take time and we don’t have time. Amy has got herself into this group. Someone out there is murdering people. This could lead to the break they need to find him. The police would credit Channel Nine with the capture.”

Challis nodded. “When you put it like that it certainly raises the stakes, and of course I’d agree to help if I could, but I can’t, so there it is. A closed book.”

“What do you mean ‘a closed book’? Who the fuck do you think you are?”

Challis eyed Barbara with mild amusement. She suspected from Challis’s expression that he considered her IQ to be lower than a newt’s. The seat groaned under his weight as he leaned forward. Elbows planted on the desktop, he brought his two forefingers together to support his chin. His overt impatience morphed into a forced look of concern.

“I’m the producer and those are my
rules
. Now, your show. Let’s talk about the Bradley interview and the incident in the Domain and of course this killer you’re so concerned about.”

Her hands dropped into a clasp on the table. Barbara felt her colour rising.

“This is just bullshit.”

Challis’s eyebrows shot heavenwards. A crinkle formed above either nostril as if he’d been subjected to a very bad smell.

“Look. I understand how upsetting this must be for you. I have daughters. So I do have some understanding of how the female mind works. Your tenacity is admirable, but my advice is to relax. Don’t fight the system. You can never win. You get what I’m saying here?”

The air of finality couldn’t have been plainer. Barbara glanced around the room at the symbols of Challis’s achievements hanging in ornate frames on the walls. Some were in the form of photos of him standing next to second-level world celebrities – one a US open golf champion. It was definitely the office of an egotist.

She hoisted herself to her feet.

“We’re having staff drinks tonight. If you come along, maybe I can buy you a drink?”

His eyes dropped to ogle her chest. She resisted the urge to fold her arms. Disgusted, she turned and stormed out of the office, slamming the door behind her.

23.

T
he black Range Rover kept two cars between it and Jeff’s BMW. The four occupants sat in silence. There was nothing to be said. They knew what had to be done.

In the BMW, Barbara sat quietly in the passenger seat, still seething after her meeting with Challis. She had spoken to Brian Cunningham and to Amy; Amy would continue with her undercover work but if asked it had been her idea to go it alone. Brian promised Barbara he would appoint detectives to watch over Amy. Challis could go to hell. She was not about to let the biggest story of her career slip from her grasp because her new boss, Hank the Yank, didn’t have the balls for it. The page on her notepad remained empty of words; she was too distracted to ask questions. She would give Jeff the third degree on the way back.

An hour and a half later, as Jeff’s car ascended the Brynderwyn mountain range, he spotted the Range Rover in his
rear-view
mirror. He had noticed it earlier but had thought nothing of it at the time. Years of training to spot and slip tails had become second nature. Knowing Akbar was out to kill him had heightened his awareness. Without thought he constantly scanned his
rear-view
mirror every time he drove. The heavy traffic had made the Rover harder to spot. He slowed and pulled closer to the verge to allow cars to speed past. The Rover kept its distance. He slowed again and again the Rover stayed back. There was no doubt. They were being followed.

“Get Brian Cunningham on the phone, Barbara,” he said handing her his mobile phone. “His number is in the contact list.”

“Is there a problem?”

“We’re being followed by a black Range Rover.”

Barbara went to turn but Jeff stopped her.

“Don’t look. I don’t want them to know we’re on to them. Not yet.”

Barbara nodded and dialled the number. Cunningham answered. Barbara pressed speaker.

“Brian. Jeff here. I’m at the top of the Brynderwyns and about ten minutes from Waipu. I’m being followed by a black Range Rover. No doubt about it.”

“Can you get through to Whangarei?” Brian asked.

“Not without gas.”

“Okay, Jeff. Be careful. The driver of the truck we found in Esat Krasniqi’s warehouse said he was stopped by four men in a black Range Rover. They were armed.”

Jeff said, “Can you do me a favour?”

“Go ahead.”

“We’re at the top of the Brynderwyns now and I can see the lights of Waipu. Phone the local cop and ask him to meet me in front of the supermarket. Tell him he needs to be armed but dressed in civvies and no police car. I’ll drop Barbara off then lead them away. I can’t get into a shooting match in a small place like Waipu. Not if these guys have machine guns and there’s no time for backup to arrive from Whangarei.”

Jeff’s eyes were drawn to the petrol gauge. The red light flickered and stayed on. That was all he needed. “I’ll be less than ten minutes, Brian.”

“Doing it now,” Brian said, and rang off.

At the bottom of the Brynderwyns, Jeff slowed. He needed to allow time for the village cop to get to the supermarket ahead of him. It was only a few hundred metres from the police station but shit happened and he could get delayed. Jeff turned off the highway into the Braigh, the road that led into the Waipu village main street: a 500-metre stretch with a smattering of cafés, shops and restaurants. It got busy on market days and in the summer when holiday makers came to enjoy the beaches of Ruakaka, the Cove and Lang’s Beach. Jeff had spent much of his youth surfing at the Cove. He checked his mirror. The Range Rover was still behind them. Any suspicions that it had not been following him had now vanished. As he passed the memorial for soldiers lost in past wars Jeff saw a man ahead standing beside a car. Dressed in track-suit bottoms, a T-shirt and running shoes he looked like a holiday maker but Jeff recognised the demeanour of a policeman.

“Well done, my friend,” he said out loud, as he pulled over next to the cop.

The Range Rover stopped a hundred metres away and turned off its lights.

He touched Barbara on the arm.

“Whatever you do, do not look at the vehicle,” Jeff said. “This needs to look casual and pre-arranged.”

“What are you up to?”

“No time to explain. Just trust me. Your safety is what’s important. Now get out of the car.”

Jeff climbed out before Barbara could protest. He forced a smile as he walked around his vehicle to the police officer. It took great will not to look towards the black vehicle.

“You must be Jeff Bradley. I’m Gareth Wilson,” the officer said.

“Gareth,” Jeff said, holding out his hand. Gareth shook it but looked confused. “This is Barbara Heywood.” He tilted his head toward Barbara now out of the car holding the top of the passenger door. “I’m leaving Barbara with you. I have something in the boot.” Jeff lifted the lid.

“Inspector Cunningham told me I was to do exactly as you asked but I’d still like to know what’s going on,” Gareth said as he leaned forward, now looking even more confused as he watched Jeff fiddle about in the empty space.

“You are to wait a few minutes until I’ve left and then take Barbara back to the station. Do not look but a hundred metres down the road is a black Range Rover. Make sure they follow me before you move. I don’t want them following you. Is that clear?”

“These guys are bad news?” Gareth asked.

“Very bad.”

Jeff took out a bag of tyre-changing tools and passed them to Gareth, then slammed down the boot lid. A worried and bewildered Barbara watched Jeff walk to the driver’s door.

Barbara said, “Where the hell do you think you’re going? I’m coming with you.”

“Just stay here with Gareth. If I have to knock you out and throw you in his car, I will.”

Barbara paled.

“Jeff, I’m the police,” Gareth said. “Tell me what’s going on. If need be I’ll arrest whoever is in the vehicle.”

“Gareth, listen to me. The men in the vehicle are terrorists. They are after me and they don’t care who else they kill to achieve their end. I am going to lead them away and I need you to get Barbara to safety. There is no time to argue.”

“Even so,” Gareth tapped his tracksuit pocket, “I am armed.”

“These guys have machine guns and there are four of them. You wouldn’t stand a chance. It is best I lead them away from the town and along the coast road. My chance will come.”

Jeff held out his hand and smiled. “Make out like we’re brothers. It has to look convincing.”

Gareth reluctantly shook Jeff’s hand and then stood back as Jeff climbed into the BMW and drove away. Gareth didn’t look up as the black car followed. He caught it passing out of the corner of his eye.

“Okay, Jeff, you’re making the sacrifice,” Gareth whispered. “I promise I’ll get Barbara to safety.”

Gareth drove the length of Waipu’s main street in two minutes. He turned into a driveway beside the pizza restaurant. Barbara observed the eatery was filled with diners, oblivious to the unfolding drama. As with most rural police stations it had a house attached. The lone constable was responsible for all of the surrounding district. Gareth rushed the door to his house and flung it open, Barbara on his heels.

“Miriam,” he yelled. “We have company.”

“What’s up?” A voice called back.

A pretty woman appeared in the hallway, drying her hands on a tea towel. She ran a hand across her hair when she saw Barbara.

“Miriam, this is Barbara. Barbara, meet the wife. We have a problem, Miriam. I’m collecting extra ammunition for my handgun and leaving. I need you to look after Barbara until I get back,” Gareth said.

“You can’t be serious,” Barbara said. “I’m coming with you.”

“Like hell you are.”

Miriam said, “This must be the reason for the call from Whangarei
station. Cars have been dispatched.”

“That will be Inspector Cunningham. Good, I’m going to
need the help. Right then. Miriam, you man the phones and I’ll get my ammo.”

Gareth disappeared along the hallway. Miriam turned her attention to Barbara.

“Can I make you a coffee?”

“No thanks, Miriam. I’m going with your husband.”

“He won’t like it. You’ll need to stick to him when he dashes past.”

The petrol warning light was now permanently on. Jeff assessed he might make it beyond the Cove but not much further. Certainly not as far as Mangawhai, and he’d be lucky to make Lang’s Beach. Lights reflected in the rear-view mirror indicated the Range Rover was keeping its distance, its headlights stalking him like the eyes of a mythical beast. Homes along the riverbank to his left and
right were dotted across the rolling landscape; the inhabitants settling
down to dinner, all unable to help. Another kilometre and he would pass the entrance to the Cove camping ground, and then isolation until Lang’s Beach. Nowhere land. That’s where they’d make their move. It was what he would do if he were in their shoes. They were not locals and therefore likely to be unfamiliar with the terrain, but Jeff, throughout his military career, had been in many similar situations. They would recognise when the time was right to strike. He always had.

Time to consider his options. The lack of petrol ruled out trying to outrun them. He could abandon the vehicle and run into the darkness. Try and seek refuge in a farmhouse. He dismissed that idea. It would endanger the farmer and his family and secondly, if they had a night scope, he would be an easy target on the barren landscape.

He could now see the glow of lights from the Waipu camping ground. Past it was a winding uphill drive to Lang’s Beach. A move needed to be made before then. For what he now had in mind he needed light. The lights from the camping area would be his last chance.

As if reading his mind they closed.

He accelerated. Accelerating meant wasting precious petrol but he needed to stay ahead. As he raced past the camping ground entrance the motor began to stutter. Jesus. Come on old girl, just a little further. He started up the rise then stopped in the middle of the road. The Range Rover slowed and stopped also. The two vehicles were thirty metres apart. Jeff tightened his seat belt. His hand gripped the gear lever.

“Okay, Jeff. This is not a great plan. But a bad plan’s better than no plan. Right?” He pulled the gear lever into reverse and crushed the accelerator to the floor. The BMW jumped backwards and sped towards the black Range Rover. He spun the wheel at the last moment and hit it on the driver’s door. Both vehicles slid across the
loose gravel and over the bank, plummeting three metres into the shallow
stream below.

Flickering headlights beamed into the night sky like fairground searchlights.

Gareth returned to the lounge with a box of shells. “I’d be happier with a shotgun. Can’t be helped. Any news on the cars from Whangarei?” Gareth asked his wife.

“Ten minutes. You be careful. Bullets kill. Keep your silly head down.”

He kissed Miriam on the cheek, waved and disappeared through the door.

Barbara noted the worried look on Miriam’s face. She had paled. The policeman’s wife stood silent in the centre of her lounge; behind her on the wall hung a wedding photo. Barbara recognised a younger Miriam and Gareth. Both smiling. A happy day. Now she saw a different Miriam. The brave face shown her husband erased, now, a worried wife, wringing her hands and her face the colour of chalk dust.