Beehive Blues

By Emma Lewis

Meet Detective Sergeant Penny Forsyth: her career heading for a dead end; her biological clock ticking towards its use by date; men still an unknown quantity in her life. Then death in the Beehive presents her with the chance to change all that as she delves into the relationships of those who work at the heart of the New Zealand’s Government.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Emma Lewis
• Release date: Jul 20, 2014
• ISBN: 9780473291228

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BhB title.jpg

Published by Emma Lewis

Copyright 2014 Emma Lewis

Cover design by Dexter Fry

Formatting by www.formatting4U.com

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from the author at [e-mail]. This book is a work of fiction. The characters, events, and places portrayed in this book are products of the author’s imagination and are either fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

For more information on the author and her works, please see www.EmmaLewis.com

ISBN: 978-0-473-29122-8

Chapter One

I had no idea when I woke up on Valentine’s Day, it would be a turning point in my life. Why should I? I wasn’t expecting so much as a bunch of flowers let alone a candlelit dinner. So far those experiences had eluded me. Or maybe I had eluded them. Hard to tell. True, this was my last day with the Organised Crime and Drug Unit but after ten years in the New Zealand Police Force I had moved around so often it was no big deal. In fact, when I thought of where I was going next, quite the opposite.

I opened my eyes to find the sun streaming in. Not a breath ruffled the early morning stillness. Up in the Pouhutakawa tree next door a tui dropped bell like notes into the silence and a small unidentified creature rustled about in the flower bed below. I stretched luxuriously. In a perfect world, time has no place.

But this is not a perfect world. It only took a second for my eyes to alight inadvertently on the little travelling clock beside my bed to dispel the illusion. I love that clock with its blue leather case and gilt rim, an eighth birthday present from my Nan – but not when the dial reads 8.15 a.m. on a week day.

With a jolt I leapt out of bed. Into the shower, out again, white knickers, grey skirt, grey and white silk knit top, the lightest shoes I could find that would support  steel tips, pearl earrings, hair, bed made, apple juice, poached egg, toast, coffee, a second cup a must no matter what, teeth, keys, handbag, out the door.

The phone, a rush back inside.

Hello dear.

Hello Mum. Don’t sound too exasperated but what an hour of the morning to call.

I just thought I’d tell you I’ve met this marvelous man.

My mother is always meeting marvelous men.

Well he’s not exactly marvelous I suppose but he owns this most fabulous yacht.

I thought boats bored you

Teeny ones do - and cruises - but this one’s just right. It’s the size of a house: ensuite, sun deck, Jacuzzi, the works. Anyway he’s taking me down to the Sounds for the weekend so dinner tomorrow night is out I’m afraid, Penny. I thought we could change our date to lunch time today.

I’m not sure that I can make it. We have a raid on a P lab this morning.

On your last day? How inconsiderate. You really will be well rid of that boss. I have to meet George at 7.45. We have booked to go to the Opera but how about any early dinner?. Say 6.30.

No time left to argue.

O.k.

See you sweetie. Must hurry. I’m due in Court in an hour. That sick making phony Americanism again. No one else in New Zealand has a mother who calls them sweetie. It makes my stomach churn.

I rushed upstairs and pulled a red jacket out of my wardrobe, then dived down to retrieve a pair of red patent leather  sandals. I tossed them in the back of the car and revved down the hill.

A toddler could have crawled down Willis Street faster than the traffic. With every idle moment visions of my boss, eye brows raised, chest expanding, buoyant at the prospect of bailing me out intensified. All that sunshine seemed positively offensive. I inhaled slowly and exhaled even more slowly. Sometimes yoga breathing techniques help to calm you down. Unfortunately, they are not infallible. By the time I turned into Harris Street, I was totally wound up. The silver and bronze Nikau Palms climbing up the ramp behind the library, usually a source of delight hardly got a glance. 

I held up my magnetic card and the barrier to the car park under the Police Headquarters went up like magic. I’m still getting used to this perk – a really useful one in a city where parking spaces cost an arm and a leg. It came with the promotion to detective sergeant. I wonder what business guru thought it up. It’s designed to give you a pat on the back for being upwardly mobile, and it works even if, as in my case, it’s veering wide of the mark. On this occasion however it failed to enchant. I found its stately progress decidedly irritating.

I emerged from the lift to confirmation worst fears can be realized. Dermot O’Brien, my boss was standing in front of it, flanked by the rest of the team, all poised to go without me.

You’re late. He looked at his watch. Eight minutes late.

Sorry… The traffic… I mumbled. I’d rather face a raging drunk than Steve O’Brien when he had it in for me – which was most of the time after I got my promotion.

We are all here, he said pointedly to me, then looking round. But I suppose she needs a beauty sleep more than we do, eh boys?

I wished I was the kind of person who could laugh it off and say ‘That’s right’ but I am not. His cronies echoed his laugh. Others, embarrassed, poured into the lift. I followed suit, burying myself in among the hairy arms. I know why O’Brien had it in for me. I spoilt all that male bonding thing he had going. Telling his extensive repertoire of dirty jokes in front of me made him uncomfortable. He left me out as much as he could but you can’t completely ignore your sergeant.

I’m pretty sure he was the one who ‘recommended’ me for the Diplomatic Protection Squad. I certainly didn’t apply. Prestigious it might be but smoothing out the mess when a bored diplomat’s wife is caught shoplifting or trailing behind some bigwig who isn’t in any danger, doesn’t do it for me.

I wasn’t sad to be leaving the drug squad though and not just because of O’Brien. I wasn’t going to miss the stench or the diminished specimens of humanity we rounded up. And I didn’t want to go back to the uniform branch either.

It is nosing about for leads and following them up that’s become an addiction for me. Not much of that where I was heading. For the first time, I was having second thoughts about my choice of career.

After eighteen months the excitement of drug busts might have faded a bit but in the car on the way out to the Hutt I could still feel the adrenalin pumping - which was just as well. You never knew what reaction you were going to get.

Why would you want to do that, dear? Mum asked when I told her I was thinking of signing up. No pay to speak of, horrid clothes, dealing with the nastiest people. No intellectual stimulus. Do have another think.

When I left school I wasn’t looking for intellectual stimulus. I wasn’t a top student like my parents, a disappointment I know. What I wanted was essentially contradictory, excitement and a controlled and disciplined environment. A friend of Mum’s said sardonically, it sounded as if I should join the police force. I turned it over in my mind and decided he was right. After a topsy turvey childhood, law and order was exactly what I needed.

I hoped there wouldn’t be, but we found two children in the P house we raided that morning. The children are the worst. Those impassive little ghosts with unkempt hair still haunt me in the wee, small hours of the morning. I don’t need any more glimpses of that particular inferno on earth. One of the less edifying things I have learnt in this job is that sometimes it isn’t a privilege to be born.

Get them out of here till the social worker comes, O’Brien ordered.

He meant it as a put down. It’s not the task you normally allocate to a sergeant. He figured he had me in a corner; if I laid a complaint the odds were my career would suffer worse than his. I suspected he might be right. I told myself at this point I didn’t care. I had enough experience to do any of the tasks on a raid blindfold. At the same time I knew I was letting myself down, letting him get away with it.

I signaled to the kids to follow me. A couple of houses up the road we came across a path leading to the Hutt River. I spotted a bench on the grassy verge right behind the P. house and headed for it. The children followed suite.

We sat down and I stole a glance at them. They were very still, no discernible emotion on their pallid little faces.

You can get up and play, I told them but they didn’t move. What about throwing stones in the river?

The girl, the elder of the two, shook her head almost imperceptibly.

It should have been relaxing, sitting there basking in the sun, listening to birdsong and water rippling over the stones but these children unnerved me, saddened me beyond bearing. Drunks, knife wounds, the carnage of car crashes I can take now, though in my first year I thought I was going to have to quit to save my sanity. Children like these are a different story, so closed inside no emotion cracks the surface unless it has the force of explosive anger or they are old enough for their hollowed out personalities to start disintegrating, usually with the extra impetus of alcohol or drugs.

If kids from homes where parents or other caregivers knew how to love and care for them had been in these children’s shoes they would have been howling their eyes out worrying about what was to become of them, indignant at their fate, angry at the injustices they were suffering. These two had learned long ago the world was an uncertain place; to expect anything was to court disappointment; to ask was to invite punishment.

Coming in contact with kids like these has given me a new perspective on the vagaries and miseries of my own childhood. Yes, I had to live with the knowledge that whenever Mum packed me off to Perth to see my father. This wasn’t because he wanted to see me, but because my mother had hassled him into taking me. Usually it coincided with the beginning of one of Mum’s new relationships. These signaled another unsettling period in my childhood, especially before she learnt better than to sell up and move in with the ‘heavenly’ man.

Memories of sitting in the back seat of my father’s Worsley with its shiny walnut trim hedged in between two much younger half-sisters absorbed in playing and squabbling with each other, their parents equally absorbed in their own conversation, antennae attuned exclusively to those two wriggling brats behind them, never failed to dredge up dismal feelings of being totally unwanted.

Like these children I knew what it was like to hold back on protests and the fear of rejection if I expressed my wants but the deprivations of my own childhood were small beer compared to what the two beside me were suffering.

And whatever the shortcomings of Mum’s parenting, I never doubted I was loved; always fed nutritious food, kept clean, given clothes I liked to wear, read to in fits and starts, taken on excursions, given the benefit of her take on the world.

Sitting there on the park bench I thought the negatives in my upbringing probably had something to do with the situation I found myself in. They presented challenges, but they weren’t insurmountable if I had the guts to face them. Whereas I doubted if the same could be said for these children – maybe if someone took them in and loved them well – but chances of that happening were not great, infinitesimal if the truth be told. If your parents don’t give you the care you need, no-one else is likely to. Sad but true.

From over the fence a shrill voice yelled, I got kids. Where are you taking my kids, you fucking bastards!

I looked over at the children. Still no visible reaction.

Come on, I said, getting up. Let’s go down to the shops and I’ll buy you an ice cream.

Obediently they climbed down from the bench and followed me silently along the river bank.

As I hoped, the prison van had gone when we got back to the house. No chance of a scene. A social worker standing at the gate came forward to claim her charges.

Have they got gear?

I’ll go inside and have a look, I offered.

It meant donning a mask against the toxic fumes. In a bedroom on top of the unmade beds I found a heap of kids’ clothes. I couldn’t make out if they were supposed to be clean or dirty, some of each maybe. There were no books but I found a shiny new transformer under a pillow and a tatty Barbie doll on the old television. I looked around for school backpacks but couldn’t find any. In the end I stuffed the gear into four Countdown bags lying around in the hallway.

I forgot to ask, the social worker said when I handed them to her, did you take samples of the kids’ hair?

The adults yes, but not the children’s. We don’t need it for a prosecution.

No, but it may help the family court to decide what should be done with them. It should tell us how long they have been living in there. The mother said they had been staying with an auntie and were just visiting but we checked and the auntie died three months ago.

Even this lot wouldn’t be giving their kids the stuff.

’No, but look at all the fumes they have been breathing in. You can smell it from here. Why didn’t anyone report them? her eyes took in the peeling paint and uncut grass, bits of old cars and machinery littering the neighbors’ front yards.

She shrugged. Probably clients. The hair? It’s worth a try.

I went back into the kitchen where O’Brien was checking the evidence against an inventory.

The social worker wants samples of the kids’ hair to be tested.

What for?

I told him.

Bloody waste of time if you ask me, he sneered.

I didn’t say anything.

Alright, I’ll come and do it when I’ve finished this.

‘I’ll do it."

No, if we are going to do it, we might as well get it right.

I swallowed. I reminded myself if there was one thing I was good at, it was being meticulous in taking physical evidence.

I will, I assured him. It did not sound as assertive as I would have liked.

He sighed as if it was all he could do to keep his patience and looked around for the sample bag. But I was closer. I picked it up and marched back up the corridor.

You can take the evidence out to Kenepuru when you’ve done it, he shouted after me. "It’ll make up for being late this morning.

No use telling him I had been at the office making sure all my files were up to date and packing up my desk until 8 p.m. the night before, long after he’d called it a day. 

Any reminder I hadn’t figured out how to cope with O’Brien got me down. Winding my way through Moonshine Valley to Porirua, I thought of my old boss from the serious fraud office. He had gone out of his way to boost my confidence. Even when I moved on, he kept an interest in me and encouraged me to apply for my promotion. His endorsement probably got it for me. He meant well but what a poisoned chalice that turned out to be.

I texted Mum to say there was no way I would make it.

She texted back to say late, late lunch was still on. She would change our booking to 2 o’clock.

At the ESR Forensic Science Centre at Kenepuru the reception area was vacant. I rang the bell three times. No-one came. I went over and peered in the window of a door I knew led to the labs, pressing my hands against the pane. To my surprise the door opened. The whole place seemed deserted. I walked hesitantly down the corridor until I came to the lab where I knew some of the tests from P Labs were done. Inside it looked empty and I almost walked out again. Then tucked away at the far end I spotted a very dark head bending over some sort of complicated apparatus.

I cleared my throat. He did not look up.

Excuse me.

He raised a hand and waved. It might have meant ‘wait’ or ‘go away’.

I decided to wait.

Five minutes later by the wall clock I began to wonder what to do. I couldn’t just leave. There were receipts I needed as part of the evidence trail but at this rate I was still going to be very late and that meant Mum would be on to her second or third glass of wine, kissing the afternoon away.

‘Excuse me, I said again, Is there anyone I can give this stuff to?"

I pointed to the evidence bags poised on the bench in front of me, a futile gesture because his head remained glued to the eye piece.

Only a minute now and I’ll be with you. His voice had a sing- song lilt.

Three minutes later and I stepped out into the corridor. There had to be someone else around.

You won’t find anyone, the voice called after me. They are all attending a lecture.

Even the receptionist?

It is on ethical issues. Our boss decided everyone should attend.

But not you?

I am leaving tomorrow and my culture here was at a critical point. He looked up, smiling a little impishly, a little ruefully. I did not time it very well.

He had the nicest smile.

You want a receipt for these?

"Yes please.

Another P lab? he said opening the evidence bag.

Yes.

I watched him check the lists.

There are some children’s hair samples in there. I pointed out. The social worker wants to know if they will give an indication of how long they were in there.

They could do. We shall see.

He handed me a duplicate copy of the receipt. Our eyes met. I could see he felt the same way I did; a bit sick at the thought of those children, frustrated the world’s problems were too big for any individual to solve. There oughtn’t to be any need to be doing this.

Thanks, I said pocketing my copy. and scurried out the door.

He smiled back at me. My heart gave an unexpected flip.

I got to the Matterhorn as the waiter delivered a bottle in an ice bucket to our table.

Hello Mum,

Darling!

Sorry I couldn’t make lunch.

Actually I couldn’t have either. The closing statements took longer than I expected and I had to go back to Chambers after the hearing. But here we are at last. She added expansively before leaning back and casting a critical eye over my appearance.

I must say you are looking better now you are out of that dreadful uniform, she said waving a hand in the direction of my clothes. The effect is a little too understated though. You should bring it up with more color, a red, white and black scarf or a necklace, maybe. You want people to notice you.

Here it goes again. I needn’t have bothered going back for the red jacket and sandals.

I met my mother’s gaze with unnatural calm. I have no particular desire for people to stare at me.

Not stare at you darling, admire you.

My mother‘s expensive hot pink silk jacket featuring a large, convoluted collar certainly drew attention. She could carry it off. I’d just feel stupid.

Mum hedged off an awkward silence by raising her glass. I thought we should celebrate. Here’s to the new job. All that foreign travel at the taxpayer’s expense. And think of the fascinating people you are likely to meet.

Maybe.

We took an appreciative sip.

Divine, my mother said.

If there is one thing we have in common, it’s Pol Roget. Not that I would ever think of buying it. It’s way outside my budget.

Apart from Pol Roget we are as different as chalk and cheese. She can’t understand how I live within my budget and I can’t understand how with her income she can’t. Well no, that’s not true. Splashing out on Pol Roget at the flimsiest excuse is one reason but the real explanation she isn’t well off by now is all those disastrous relationships. It is only in the last few years she has begun to learn how to hold on to her assets.

You would think a lawyer would have been clued up from the start but then my mother’s private and professional lives are entirely divorced from one another. It’s hard to imagine the tear stained tipsy mother I often encounter with the cool, collected woman in the court room. It’s a complete mystery to me how she manages to carry on a successful commercial litigation practice. One of her colleagues told me it is quite within the bounds of possibility one day she will be a high court judge.

It isn’t in my nature to flit with flair from one drama to the next, hitting incredible highs and sometimes frightening lows. I used to feel superior about it but now I am not so sure. At least it led to her having me, which is an experience she says she wouldn’t do without.

I mean you could meet a man in this job, Mum said with the optimism of the greater part of two glasses of champagne bubbling through her veins.

Mum.

The note of warning sent her on the defensive.

You aren’t getting any younger, darling. She reminded me tentatively.

I’m only twenty nine. I retorted. Give me a break.

Well dear, there never seems to be anyone. You aren’t a lesbian by any chance?

No Mum.

"I have often wondered. They still seem to manage to have children. You are quite sure?"

Yes Mum.

Well why don’t you have a man by now?

Leave it Mum.

Well why don’t you? You aren’t bad looking these days, now you’ve filled out a bit and lost those dreadful spots.

Leave it.

Alright, come down from your high horse. But I do want grandchildren someday. Clarice Spinner has two and she says it is great fun without the responsibility, much better than having children. Not that I’m not glad to have had you, she added quickly seeing my expression. She closed her eyes. And I am so glad you are not in that ghastly job anymore. You have no idea how it worried me thinking about what all those chemicals you must have breathed in could be doing to your reproductive system.

Once my mother gets a bee in her bonnet it never stops. Now its babies and it is hard work not letting on this particular obsession is touching a raw nerve. There is no way I’d let on, but I’ve actually begun to toy with the idea of planned sole parenthood.

The waiter came and recited the specials.

Raymond give us a moment to think about it.

She takes food very seriously.

I bumped into the Assistant Commissioner who used to be your boss at the High Court the other day. He said you are rising in the ranks very quickly.

So I thought too, until O’Brien gave me this bum steer, excuse the language. Somehow all that free time with no distractions has been filled up with study. These days I know more about some aspects of the law than Mum, though I have come to appreciate what a fine grasp on the laws of evidence she has, especially on that convoluted concept of hearsay. But she couldn’t beat me when it comes to the weight of new technological evidence.

Mum leaned over the table and clasped my hand. I am sorry dear I was so negative when you said you wanted to join the police force. I imagined you tramping the streets forever.

So had I.

What comes after senior sergeant?

Senior sergeant, Inspector, District Commissioner, Assistant Commissioner, Deputy Commissioner, Commissioner. I wouldn’t get my hopes up. Hardly any women get to be inspectors, let alone Commissioners.

How backward! It used to be the same in law - well it still is to a certain extent I suppose.

The waiter came with our mains.

My mother said graciously, The crayfish entrees were superb Raymond.

She took the opportunity to ask for glasses of pinot noir.

I’m still on call, I reminded her. My long weekend doesn’t start until midnight.

On your last day in the job? Surely!

We are short staffed, I reminded her.

The concept is unknown in law firms where long hours are driven by ambition and the desire to sustain a well-heeled lifestyle. Rostering me until midnight was also an example of Dermot O’Brien’s getting at me.

Mum raised her eyebrows, drawing fine lines across her forehead. I only wish you could achieve a little more balance in your life. All work and no play, it’s quite true it can make you exceedingly dull. Have a fling darling.

You have to have someone to have a fling with. Easier for some.

I mean these days you shouldn’t have any trouble. Brighten yourself up a bit. Be more outgoing. Get yourself noticed.

Yes  Mum. A change of subject was becoming a pressing necessity. Tell me about this new man.

I am not sure he is my new man. It’s a bit early to tell. It had never been before. He’s very different. Witty - oh not in the way you hate, you know cutting someone to pieces all the time like Charles or that rotter Dunstan. I think you might like George. He’s a judge. On the quiet side, but with that calm air of authority that makes you sit up. A widower, no children. I mean if it worked out, it could end up being very advantageous to you too Penny.

Mum!

I know, it’s very mercenary of me and I am not like that – you know that darling – or I wouldn’t be in this mess, destined to slave away in a wig and gown until my dying day – but it is a bonus, you have to admit.

A muffled buzz from inside my bag saved me from having to comment.

I have to go, I said when the call ended.

Not on your last afternoon!

There are jobs and jobs.

It was my new boss.

But you don’t start until next week!

I know but something urgent has come up.

So inconsiderate! You need coffee.

I have to go.

No you don’t. Finish your dessert while I order coffee.

My mother snapped her fingers at a waiter with a verve not seen since Aunt Agatha in P.G. Wodehouse. My daughter needs a double espresso immediately.

Yes ma’am.

Will you end up on the news? she asked me.

Not me Mum. I don’t do press interviews.

Defiantly I went to stand up.

‘Sit down!" my mother commanded.

The raspberry parfait looked temptingly up at me. I decided to do as I was told.

There dear, my mother said as I gulped down the last sugary mouthful of strong coffee. You will do a much better job on a full stomach and a clear head. Now tell me what it’s all about and off you go.

I looked around. Apart from a waiter preparing tables for dinner, the place was almost deserted. .

There’s been trouble at Parliament, in the Beehive. It could end up being murder.

I snatched up my bag and hurried towards the door.

Chapter Two

‘Try to imagine what is like to be them’; ‘Put yourself in their shoes.’; ‘Think of what your suspects, the victims had for breakfast – if they had breakfast, if not why not. What not having breakfast might mean,