Settlers' Creek (17 page)

Box drove his ute over the long bridge that crossed the Kaipuna River. Below him, the river had shrunk down to two thin braids running through expanses of dry shingle. The wheels clattered rhythmically over the joins in the bridge. On the far side of the river he turned off the highway towards the coast and five minutes later was driving through Kaipuna itself. It was a fishing town spread thinly around the edge of a broad crescent bay. The beach was nothing but ocean-rolled stones, grey and smooth as eggshells. On the other side of the road were the houses.

Box drove slowly past a street sign streaked with seagull shit. Like almost every other place that had a road following the waterfront, this one was called Marine Parade. At the east end of the bay was a long wharf. Half a dozen fishing boats were tied up to orange buoys. Box passed a cluster of hangar-shaped buildings, standing behind wire fences. He guessed that was where fish and crayfish were processed straight off the boats.

Box hadn’t been to Kaipuna in something like twenty years. He remembered the town as nothing much more than a fish and chip shop, a dairy, a petrol station and a couple of pubs. It had been the type of town where nothing much happened, and it happened a lot. He could see already that there were a lot more motels and motor parks than he remembered. And a large youth hostel. Further up the road there were several restaurants and at least half a dozen cafés, and a big information centre with a tourist bus just pulling up into the car park, where another bus was already parked, engine still running. Asian tourists were filing out of it like ants out of a busy nest. Pottery and art shops. A place selling only paua shell souvenirs. Rental cars and Maui campervans were parked up and down the road. People sat in the sunshine at tables outside cafés.

Box pulled into the petrol station. He’d driven up from the city in one non-stop leg and his body was stiff. He waited until the handle of the pump automatically clicked off, then went inside. A young guy wearing a blue petrol company uniform was standing behind the counter, long blond hair poking out from the bottom of a green and black beanie.

‘Just the petrol.’

‘That’s eighty-two.’

Box handed over his credit card. ‘Is there something special on in town?’

‘How do ya mean?’

‘There seems to be a lot of people around.’

‘Nah, this is pretty normal. You should see it around Christmas, it’s nuts.’

‘I’m here for a couple of days. What is there to do?’

The kid shrugged as he ran the card through the machine,
lifting his shoulders so that they touched the ends of his hair. ‘The information centre’s just down the road.’

‘Sure. But what would you recommend?’

He blinked at Box. ‘Dunno really. You could probably go out and see the dolphins. Most people do that one.’

‘Is that Pacific Encounter?’

‘Yeah. If you don’t mind getting wet you can swim with the dolphins. Or the seals. With the seals you don’t have to go out in a boat.’

‘Isn’t it a bit cold for swimming?’

‘They give you a good wetsuit. Want your receipt?’

Box took the paper and his card from the young man’s hand. ‘Thanks for your advice.’

‘Okay.’

‘One more thing. Do you know Tipene Pitama? I think he lives around here.’

‘No. Sorry, dude. I’m not a local. I’ve only been here a couple of months.’

‘Where are you from?’

‘Northland.’

‘What’s the attraction? Why come down here?’

‘The surfing. Up the coast it’s primo.’

Box did a u-turn that took him into the car park outside the information centre. Just inside the door was a display of brightly coloured brochures and flyers. He found one that had the name Pacific Encounter on the cover, above a photograph of a dolphin leaping high out of the water.

Box turned the brochure over and read the back. According to the blurb, Pacific Encounter was owned and operated by an outfit called Mana Group. He looked through more brochures and found out that Mana Group also owned the Glow Worm Cave tours, plus the backpacker hostel. They
probably ran other stuff as well that he just hadn’t found yet.

There certainly wasn’t a shortage of things to do in Kaipuna. Box picked up flyers about mountain bike rentals and dirt and quad bikes. There was a small aquarium down by the wharf. Several fishing charters guaranteed that you’d land a catch. There were also river tours through a network of limestone caves that seemed to involve wetsuits and inflatable car inner-tubes.

A Maori woman who’d been sitting behind the information desk stood up and came over to him. She wore a black merino polo-neck under a dark grey jacket. A large circular greenstone pendant hung around her neck.

‘Kia ora.’

‘Hello.’

‘Can I help you with anything?’ Big smile.

‘Yeah, I’m looking for something interesting to do.’

‘I should warn you, it’s a bit late in the day. Most of the tours and activities leave in the morning. How long are you staying?’

‘Tomorrow would be okay. I might be interested in seeing the dolphins.’

‘I’d recommend it, for sure. At this time of year there are heaps. You’d have a good chance of seeing at least one big group if you went out tomorrow morning.’

‘Sounds good. I haven’t been here for years. Things have certainly changed.’

‘Yes. Tourism has made a big difference.’

Box nodded. ‘I see a lot of the businesses are run by Maori.’

‘That’s right. The local hapu have been very proactive. In fact, if you’re interested in the history of the tangata
whenua there’s a tour of the old pa site in about half an hour.’

‘I’ll think about it. Are you local?’

‘On my mother’s side, but I was brought up in Napier.’

‘How long have you been living here?’

‘Almost five years.’

‘Then I guess you know Tipene Pitama?’

‘Sure.’ There was that two-hundred-watt smile again. ‘Tipene is one of the bosses over at Pacific Encounter.’

‘Really? I know him from years ago. I thought I might look him up while I was in town.’

Her smile suddenly vanished and she frowned. ‘He’s usually down at the office but he won’t be there today. He’ll be at the tangi up on the marae. I’m sorry to have to tell you, but Tipene’s son died.’

Box struggled to keep his voice casual, forced his jaw to relax. ‘I’m really sorry to hear that. How did it happen?’

‘I’m not sure. His son wasn’t living in town. I just heard that it was an accident. I think he lived with his mother somewhere down south.’

‘Not the best time to catch up with Tipene then. I’ll leave it for another day.’

She nodded. ‘That would probably be best.’

‘Thanks for your help.’

Box went to go, then turned back as if something had just occurred to him. ‘I might drop a card in Tipene’s letterbox, you know, giving my condolences. Can you tell me where to find his house?’

‘That’s a nice idea. I’m sure he’d appreciate it. I’ve got the address somewhere.’

She went back behind the counter. As she walked the big greenstone pendant pendulumed across the top of her
chest. Box watched as she flicked through a blue plastic folder with the Pacific Encounter logo on the cover.

‘He’s up at the new subdivision. I’m just not sure about the number.’ She spoke without looking up. Her finger ran down a list. ‘Here it is, right — sixteen Plover Crescent.’

‘Sixteen. Plover.’

‘You have to drive out onto the highway and then head north up the coast for about ten minutes. The subdivision is called Seaview. It’s up on a hill. It’s signposted — you can’t miss it.’

‘Thanks.’

A momentary look of doubt appeared on her wide face. ‘How did you say you know Tipene?’

‘Through rugby. Except he was Steve back then, plain old Steve Sullivan.’

She relaxed, nodded and smiled.

‘Thanks again for your help,’ said Box.

‘Remember if you want to book anything for tomorrow we’re open late tonight and from eight in the morning.’

‘I’ll definitely think about it.’

Out in the car park the autumn sun was warm on his face. A grounded flock of seagulls was jostling for space at the feet of an Asian family as a boy of about ten threw the birds potato chips. Box guessed the family were Japanese but he had no real idea. Japanese was just the tourist cliché, wasn’t it? They could just as well be Korean or Chinese. Personally, he couldn’t tell the difference just by looking at them. Their tour bus sat on an angle across the car park like a giant red Lego brick, the engine still running. The tour guide was speaking loudly, obviously trying to herd the coloured jackets and camera lenses into an orderly group.

Box walked through the middle of the seagulls and
they scattered. Some took to the air briefly but most made bobbing runs out of his way. The boy said something in a language that Box didn’t understand and laughed. His high laughter mixed with the smell of the diesel fumes from the bus and the indignant squawking of the gulls.

Box’s stomach turned over and he thought that he might throw up.

‘What can I get you?’

For a moment he didn’t know what the woman was asking. And then his brain turned over. ‘A long black, thanks.’

‘Okay, dear.’

He had walked unthinking across the road — didn’t know if he’d even checked for cars — and through the door of the first café he’d come to, plonked himself down at the first table.

When his coffee came the waitress stood loitering by his table. She was about sixty, maybe the owner. ‘I don’t mean to be rude, but are you okay?’

‘Do I look that bad?’

‘No. Sorry, I just thought I’d ask.’

‘Thanks.’ Box forced out a dopey smile.

She smiled back at him, obviously not convinced, returned to the counter. Box poured three sachets of sugar into the scorching black liquid and took a sip. The swirling hollow of nausea in his stomach was still there. He felt suddenly emptied out, cored and hollow.

To take his mind off the way he was feeling he watched the people walking by on the footpath. Apart from the
package-tour Asians, the tourists were mostly young. Despite the sunshine they wore bright jackets against the autumn air and expensive walking shoes.

The locals were just as easy to spot. They dressed in jeans and T-shirts with sweatshirts or bush shirts over the top. The men from the fish-processing plant up at the wharf walked staunchly down the street in blue overalls and white gumboots. A good percentage of the locals were Maori — certainly a lot more brown faces here than you’d see in the city. Box counted a dozen in the time it took him to finish his coffee. None of the faces were familiar to him from the house. None of the men were ones who’d come to the funeral home that morning.

As he drained the last of his coffee, Box thought about what the hell he was going to do now. He didn’t pretend that he had anything even close to a plan. He was running on instinct. Coming to Kaipuna had been a reflex reaction to what had happened that morning. Beyond finishing the coffee in his hand he had no idea what his next move was.

If he refocused his eyes he could see his own image in the café window. He was sitting so still that his reflection looked like an unflattering portrait. No, not a portrait, a caricature. No wonder the waitress had asked if he was all right. He looked tired — worse than tired. It would be fair to say that he looked like shit. His cheeks were scooped-out hollows and his eyes were caves.

When was the last time he’d eaten? Didn’t know. It was no wonder he was feeling nauseous.

He went up to the counter and ordered a beef sandwich that he had no interest in. The waitress was still giving him curious looks but she didn’t ask any more questions.

He’d thought that he would have trouble getting the sandwich down but when he took it back to his table and
undid the Gladwrap he caught a whiff of the horseradish and the pink tongue of beef inside. He suddenly felt as though he hadn’t eaten in a week.

Box wolfed the food in about four bites.

And then he simply sat and let his thoughts drift.

Six hours earlier, he’d been in their bedroom, standing in front of the mirror, all thumbs with his tie. The phone in the kitchen had started to ring.

They were due at the funeral home in half an hour. The plan was for them all to accompany Mark in the hearse over to the bay for the funeral.

Heather came in carrying the cordless phone. ‘It’s for you. It’s the funeral guy.’

‘Thanks, love. Hey, you look great.’

And he’d meant it, she did. With everything that had been going on with the business during the last couple of years, Box sometimes worried that he was losing sight of what was happening right under his nose. Heather was turning into a beautiful young woman. Hell, she was one already. In one of her mother’s dark dresses with a white jacket over the top, her hair piled up on her head, she could have passed for twenty. Just a pity they weren’t off to a wedding or a christening where she could dance, have a good time.

He lifted the phone to his ear. ‘Box.’

‘It’s Bevan Rogers. I’m afraid we’ve got a problem.’ There was an edge of panic in his voice. Box realised that the man was speaking in a breathy whisper, as though afraid of being overheard.

‘What is it?’

‘Mr Pitama is here. He’s insisting on taking Mark’s body with him.’

‘That’s ridiculous, it’s all sorted. The funeral is in a few hours.’

Heather was still in the room. She was watching his face.

‘You need to come here as soon as you can. He’s being very insistent. I don’t think I can stop them.’

‘He can’t do that.’

‘Do you want me to call the police?’

‘Yes, for Christ’s sake, why haven’t you done it already? I’ll be there in ten minutes. Don’t let them take him.’

‘Please, hurry.’

Box hung up.

‘What’s happened?’ Heather asked. ‘Dad?’

‘Don’t worry, stay here. I’ll be back soon.’

Box almost ran into the kitchen. Liz was already dressed. She was standing at the counter, just staring down at her empty hands. ‘Jesus, Box, what’s the matter?’

‘Come on, hurry.’

‘What is it?’

‘Tipene and his mates are trying to steal Mark from the funeral home. Come on!’

The ute was parked on the driveway. They both got in and Box backed quickly out onto the street. He heard his back wheels squeal as he straightened up and pulled away. He had a glimpse of Heather standing in the doorway of
the house. She was crying.

Liz sat silently. She knew better than to talk to him, not now. At the first set of red lights they came to Box slowed, waited for a yellow Volkswagen to pass in front of them and then drove through.

Seven and a half minutes after he hung up the phone Box pulled into the car park of the funeral home. The director was standing outside, obviously waiting for them. He looked pale and shaky. ‘They’ve just left.’

‘Have they taken Mark?’

The man nodded quickly several times. ‘I’m sorry, there were six of them. I just couldn’t stop them.’

‘Which way?’

He pointed up the road, north. ‘Only about three or four minutes ago. They’re driving a red car, a Nissan, I think. I wrote down the number plate.’

Box jumped back into the ute. The engine was still running. Liz put her hand on his. ‘Box, don’t. Leave it up to the police.’

‘I can catch them.’

‘And then what?’

‘Get out if you don’t want to come.’

She sighed. ‘Okay. Let’s go.’

Box figured that Tipene would try to get onto the eastern ring road. If they were going to take Mark back to Kaipuna then the most direct way would be to drive through the northern suburbs until they met up with the motorway. He drove the ute north through the suburbs and then past a mall where the traffic slowed to a crawl and had him swearing and thumping the steering wheel in frustration.

Once he was past the mall the new housing developments rolled out like ready-lawn. And then even they disappeared
and Box was driving next to farms and big market gardens. They’d still seen no sign of Tipene’s red SUV.

They were driving past a big roadside fruit and vegetable stall, with signs out advertising apples and pears and real fruit ice cream, when Liz let out a small breath. ‘There.’

Two cars ahead was Tipene’s Nissan. It wasn’t speeding. As far as Box could tell they were in no hurry. The flatbed on the back was covered by a tarpaulin. Box followed for about ten minutes. He could see that there were three people inside.

Next to him Liz had used her cellphone to call the police. She was talking to someone, telling them where they were.

Without any warning, a white car that had been directly behind them pulled up alongside. Box registered movement out of the corner of his eye as the car began to angle in front. Box braked hard to avoid an accident. Liz made a high involuntary noise and dropped the phone as she was thrown forward, her seatbelt locking hard across her chest.

They both braced as the ute went off the road onto the shingle verge and then it was bucking over the rutted grass. Box had to fight the wheel to stop them ending up in a wide ditch.

It took the ute about thirty metres to come to a stop.

Box looked over at Liz. ‘You all right?’

‘Yeah. Just frightened.’

‘Sure?’

‘I’m fine.’

The white car that had run them off the road had pulled over about ten metres ahead. ‘Wait here,’ said Box.

Liz was talking as he got out of the ute but he’d stopped listening.

There was no movement from the car angled across the verge in front of him. Obviously the occupants were waiting to see what Box would do.

Box went around to the back of the ute. He used a key to open the big box, reached in and took out his crowbar and hefted it experimentally, feeling the weight, then walked around the front of the ute towards the white car.

‘Box! Box!’ It was Liz.

He didn’t look at her. ‘Stay in the ute,’ he almost grunted.

He was halfway to the car when three men got out. Three Maori. Box could only remember seeing one of them before: the tall one with the twice-broken nose had been to the house. They hadn’t been introduced.

The three stood in a line facing him.

Box got within two metres and then stopped.

The guy on Box’s left, the one with the gelled hair and the flash clothes, spoke. ‘Hey, we don’t want any trouble.’

Box didn’t reply. The crowbar hung from his hand.

The man who had spoken wiped his palm on his jacket, pursed his lips and looked up and down the rural strip of road. ‘Tipene doesn’t want you to interfere, that’s all.’

‘He’s taken my son’s body.’

‘His son, eh.’

‘There’s no point arguing with you people.’

The biggest of the three, the one standing in the middle with his tattooed forearms crossed in front of his chest, frowned. ‘What the fuck’s that supposed to mean.’

‘I’ve been talking to Tipene. That was obviously a waste of time. He just took Mark anyway.’ Box took a step forward.

The big Maori in the middle did as well. The two men were only just out of each other’s range. He had his eyes locked on Box’s. ‘Go on, mate. I’d like to see you try.’

‘Chill, bro,’ said the man with the broken nose and put his hand on the big man’s shoulder. ‘We’re just supposed to stop him interfering. I reckon we’ve done our job, okay?’

The big Maori’s dark eyes hadn’t left Box’s. He grunted. ‘Yeah, right.’ He stepped back into line.

‘I’m sorry it had to be like this,’ said the man with the broken nose.

‘It didn’t.’

‘Look, I wouldn’t expect you to understand, but it’s real important that Tipene’s son is buried in Kaipuna, with his people.’

‘I’m his people.’

‘It’s a spiritual thing.’

Box shook his head. ‘Nah, you’re just thieving bastards.’

The big Maori bristled and clenched his fist. Box half raised the crowbar.

‘Come on,’ said the guy in the jacket. ‘Leave it.’

They all turned and walked back to the car, keeping their eyes on Box right up to the last second before they got back in. Box didn’t move.

‘And don’t bother following,’ called the driver before he slipped inside. ‘If you do we’ll just have to stop you again.’

Box watched them drive up the road a few hundred metres, then pull over to wait and see what he’d do next.