The Only Secret Left to Keep: Detective Ngaire Blakes, #3

By Katherine Hayton

Sometimes a secret is all you have left.

 

Detective Ngaire Blakes is back on the case when a skeletonized murder victim is discovered—a crime that took place during the Springbok Tours of 1981. A period that pitted father against son, town against city, and police against protestors.

 

When the victim is identified as Sam Andie, a young African American man, Ngaire must investigate whether racial motives were behind the death. Meanwhile the forensic pathologist asserts that a police baton could easily have been the murder weapon. Or could Sam's death be connected to his girlfriend—a young woman convicted of a savage double homicide in the same week he disappeared?

 

With files missing, memories hazy, and a strident false confession muddying the waters, Ngaire must sift through the detritus if she hopes to find the truth hiding deep beneath the lies.

 

The Only Secret Left to Keep is the third mystery in a series set in the darkest shadows of New Zealand. If you enjoy puzzling mysteries, strong female leads, and the thrill of psychological suspense, then you'll enjoy the latest story in the Ngaire Blakes trilogy.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Katherine Hayton
• Release date: Aug 28, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201228057

Book preview

1

The fires raged glorious above the city. Detective Ngaire Blakes stared at the advancing line of flame, entranced, while Detective Deb Weedon parked the car as close to the cordon as she could get.

The people on the hilltop road, high above Christchurch, were caught in a weird dance between urgency and stillness. Even the ones ferrying possessions from their house to their cars would stop, mid-step, a primeval urge to stare overcoming the need to grab their belongings, so instead they gazed at the flickering flames of fire on the hillside above them.

If it hadn’t been for the army and police supporting the evacuation, Ngaire supposed that in the morning some folks would still be peering vacantly at the fire—utterly transfixed, while their home and contents burned around them.

Where do we go from here? she asked Deb, trusting her friend to know the hills better than she did. As part of Deb’s training for rugby, she often ran up and down these steep roads, using gravity to build up her thigh muscles for a future scrum.

Deb pointed down an alleyway leading out to a park. Down there and around the corner. The reserve backs onto the area where the body was found.

As she pointed, a policeman emerged out onto the park lawn and waved up to them. Deb lifted her hand to shield the morning glare while Ngaire waved back. The poor man looked exhausted. Sweat coursed off his forehead and curled the hair of his fringe and sideburns. His skin shone with the same dark red as a painful sunburn, while the tip of his pink tongue peeked out from between his teeth—mouth opened to pant.

Morning, Ngaire said as he clambered the last few steps up to meet them. Even with his black uniform, she saw the patches of dampness spreading out from his armpits.

Are you, he paused to flick open his notepad and gulp in another breath, DC Weedon and DC Blakes?

That’s us, Ngaire agreed, eyebrows raised as she waited for him to return the favor. After running a shaking head across his wet forehead, he did.

My names PC Rand. I’m one of the responding officers who caught the kid.

The kid?

The one what found the body, he said. Rand jerked his head down the steep climb where he’d just come. We’ve got him held down there, waiting for youse to turn up and interview him. I think he’s more scared of the skeleton than he was of the fire or being caught.

How old is he? Ngaire asked, following Rand as he turned to lead them back down the alley. The station didn’t have many details.

Rand shrugged, then held up a finger as he stopped and leaned forward, gasping.

Are you all right, mate? Deb said, coming up behind him. If you need to grab a few minutes in your car before returning, I’m sure we can find our own way. The smoke up here is enough to take anyone’s breath away.

Rand nodded, then fished out a couple of white masks, handing them over. Sorry. Forgot. I can’t wear the damn things, give me claustrophobia.

He headed back toward the roadside, apparently taking Deb up on her offer.

The fire’s been put out around there, right? Ngaire asked concerned.

Deb laughed as she slipped a mask over her face, adjusting the elastic straps to get a closer fit. Ngaire mimicked her, ignoring the immediate sense of restriction that accompanied the equipment. The wound on her chest itched, an echo of panic. She rubbed it idly until it subsided, barely noticing the too-familiar sensation.

Shouldn’t we have one of those for company? Ngaire said, pointing to the broad shoulders of a suited-up firefighter. Just to be safe.

In response to the offhand remark, Deb shook her head and shrugged. After a moment, Ngaire realized it wasn’t in answer to her question. The mask muffled her voice so effectively that Deb didn’t understand what she was saying.

The remark wasn’t worth the effort of removing the facemask to repeat, so Ngaire just pointed down the alley and set off.

The quip may have been meant as a joke, female comradery, but for a second, Ngaire’s mind went to Finlay. Couldn’t he be here, standing strong, loving and protecting her? No. That hurt so much that her thoughts skittered away from it. She turned to look at the smoldering hillside again, willing herself to focus back on the fire.

Her breath condensed on the inside of the mask and soon the bottom half of Ngaire’s face was in a dripping sauna while the top was exposed to the drying breeze. The fierce winds were the main reason that the fire in the hills continued to burn. In its absence, the helicopters dropping buckets of water could work nearly all the daylight hours. With it, they were relegated to sitting back on the tarmac like plump insects clothed in warning colors of yellow and red.

The firefighters worked around the clock to try to save all the properties that they could. The strong water pressure from their hoses flattened rickety fences as they damped strips of lawn for a fire break around every house. Two streets over, they’d already had to evacuate and give the houses over to the whims of nature.

Before they left, the dispatcher insisted that the fire had cleared the area they were heading into and wouldn’t be returning that way. Despite his assurances, Ngaire’s stomach crawled with unease. The power of destruction she’d witnessed on the nightly news couldn’t be held off with mere words. If the fire turned and came sweeping back in its tracks, she and Deb could be in a footrace for their lives.

Or she was over-dramatizing.

As they walked out into the open hillside, the scene before them was one of utter devastation. Charred land, burned free of the scrubby trees that fought each day for life next to the wild gorse that thrived in the harsh conditions. Everywhere Ngaire looked was black, brown, and gray—a complete absence of color and life.

The ash floating in the air caught in her hair and on her skin. When Ngaire looked down at her forearm, it was taupe with the fine gray powder settling on it. She pushed her fingers through her hair to brush her fringe back, and they came away streaked with black marks. Under the weight of the powder, her curls flattened into lank waves.

On the far side of the park, Ngaire saw the white flap of an evidence tent. Further down, another PC signaled their attention, a lad wrapped in a silver survival blanket sitting at his side with a paramedic squatting in front. She and Deb made a beeline for them, grateful to have a focus in the midst of the burned-up land.

DC Weedon and Blakes, Deb said. Your mate Rand is taking a breather up in your patrol car. He seemed a bit the worse for wear.

The PC nodded and pulled down his mask. I’m Cunningham and this boy here—he nodded at the blanketed kid—he’s Steven Thomer. Tripped over the body early this morning. Literally, he added after a moment.

Is he okay? Ngaire asked the squatting paramedic. The man looked up and nodded. He’s got a sprained ankle that I’ve strapped up—he’ll need an x-ray on it later. Other than that —he shrugged— just suffering a bit of shock.

Steven, Ngaire said, touching him lightly on the shoulder. During her short conversation, the boy hadn’t once looked at her or Deb, preferring to stare straight down at the ground. Are you okay for us to ask you a few questions? We can go somewhere more pleasant if you prefer.

Not too pleasant, Cunningham said in a gruff bark. When Ngaire raised her eyebrows, he continued, Steven here’s been targeting the evacuated houses. While their owners are forced out, hoping like hell they still have a home to come back to, this young man decided to help himself to their possessions. He’s under arrest.

Ngaire’s concern for the boy miraculously evaporated. How did you find the body?

The boy shook his head, continuing to stare at the burned ground between his feet. After a moment of silence, Deb prodded him in the side of his shoulder.

We’re not going away mate. Not until you answer our questions. When Steven shook his head once more, Deb blew air out in an agitated puff. If you make us take you back to the station for questioning, that wastes half our day and we have to tell the magistrate that you’ve been uncooperative. What’s your record like?

This time, Cunningham interjected, looking triumphant, He’s been through the juvenile court on a couple of occasions, burglary mainly. Been on diversion already and Steven’s just turned eighteen, so this is his first crime as an adult.

That’s not going to be a good look with the courts, Steven, Ngaire said. Not when they’ve bent over backward already to keep you out of prison. A judge isn’t going to look kindly on it if you can’t even be bothered to help.

Let’s go, Deb said, pushing her lips out and sniffing loudly. She placed the mask back over her face, obscuring half her expression. The other half openly broadcast that she was pissed off.

I was running away, all right? Steven said. The mask across his face turned the sentence into muffled word fragments, and the paramedic reached up to pull it away. The boy repeated himself and shook his head. I tripped. My leg felt like there was a shard of metal thrusting up, right into my ball sack.

Cunningham and the paramedic winced while Ngaire and Deb just stared blankly, waiting for Steven to continue.

I tried to run again, there was someone on my tail and my girlfriend Tracy will kill me if I bring home another court date. His eyes started to water with the easy tears of self-pity. I hopped along for a while, then fell over. Some bloody skull was staring straight back at me.

The boy held his hand out, about two inches from his face. Right there, it was. Empty eye sockets and a bloody big grin. I screamed fit to burst, I tell you. My heart bumped like it was about to explode.

Ngaire knew that sensation well enough, but she decided to save her pity for someone who needed it.

Did you know the body was up here? she asked. As Steven went to open his mouth, she poked him in the arm. If you do and we find out later you lied to us, that’ll mean prison time for sure. Tracy will like that even less.

Nah, I swear. He shuddered, and Ngaire wondered if the beads of sweat rolling down his face were from the heat or fear. I’d give anything not to have the sight of that bloody skull rattling around my brain.

Cunningham shrugged. We good here? The sooner we get him to the hospital for that scan, the less likely someone will take pity on him later.

"Oi," Steven said in defiance, but too timidly for it to land with any weight.

Ngaire looked at Deb, who nodded back to her. Yeah, she said. Unless we receive anything telling us different—she snapped her fingers to ensure Steven paid attention—and I hope to hell we won’t, then he’s all yours.

Lucky me, Cunningham said. He nodded to the paramedic, You okay to support him back up, or do you want me on the other side?

As the two of them negotiated the steep walk, Ngaire pulled her mask back up while she and Deb peeled off to head toward the white evidence tent.

The ground under the tarpaulin angled away down the hill, leaving the top and bottom sides a foot difference in height. Inside, a blue-suited forensic team, looking like grown up Smurfs, were on their hands and knees at the edge of a collapsed mound of dirt.

Careful, one of them said, getting to his feet and gesturing the two of them back out of the tent. All the earth around this bit is unstable. Half of it came down in a mini-landslide.

I’m DC Blakes, and this is DC Weedon. Have you managed to establish any details yet?

The man stared at her in confusion until Ngaire remembered her mask. She pulled it down around her neck and repeated her introduction.

I’m Dr. Gangarry. At the moment, we’re still trying to uncover the remainder of the skeleton. He reached up to scrape his fringe away from his sweating forehead. From the red marks already crisscrossed over the otherwise smooth skin, Ngaire guessed the gesture was a habit.

It looks like the body was in a compact position, but the landslip has scattered the remains. Dr. Gangarry turned back to the scene and waved his hand over the slipped earth like a magician highlighting a spread deck of cards. It’ll be a bitch to sort out the scraps of clothing that belong from the random detritus that’s built up over the years. We’ll be digging out here for another day just to find the origin of the grave.

How many years old are we talking about? Deb asked, shouldering her way into the tent.

Ten? Twenty? Not less than that, but it could easily be more. Once a body has lost this amount of tissue, it’s hard to tell. The doctor looked down at his watch.

Are we keeping you from something? Deb asked, wearing her sarcasm on her sleeve.

Yes, Dr. Gangarry replied. I have three post-mortems stacked up already today. He flicked his arm out again. This doesn’t really need my supervision. The techs are perfectly capable of documenting everything as they find it.

What if something’s missing?

The doctor turned back to Ngaire with one wry eyebrow raised. Well, it’s not going to get up and walk off by itself. That ship sailed for this poor bugger a long time ago.

The body is male, then? Deb asked.

The doctor nodded. It’s almost certain this is an adult male. There’s not much more I can tell you until the bones are back in the examination room in the morgue. He shrugged. Given their age, maybe not a lot more even then.

Ngaire walked a few steps forward to see the bones in more detail. Are we dealing with a murder?

Dr. Gangarry gave an exaggerated sigh. Ngaire heard the rebuke hiding behind, What a stupid question.

With the way the body was found, it’s impossible to say. This area has only built up recently. He turned and pointed to the row of houses, each one in similar cladding and with landscaped plants at a similar stage of growth. Even five years ago, you wouldn’t have found these houses stacked along here. A man on foot could have wandered off the road, died, and rotted without anyone being close enough to sense it.

Smell it, Ngaire translated in her head.

Given the minimum time frame we’re looking at, it wouldn’t be unusual for the body to settle and be covered over with scrub and dirt. He turned back to face the two officers and shrugged. Or the poor bloke was murdered and stuffed into a shallow grave.

Thanks for narrowing that down for us, Deb said, and Ngaire ducked her head to hide a smile.

I can’t tell you what I don’t know. Give me a couple of days, and I might have something useful for you. The doctor turned and looked back at the excavation. We’ll also try to keep everything near to the body as intact as we can, though, after this length of time getting assailant DNA if it is a murder will be touch and go at best.

Excuse me? a voice called out from further inside the tent. Dr. Gangarry? Sergeant Blakes?

Deb snorted as a young civvie walked up, holding a dirt encrusted object on her outstretched hand.

It’s just Detective, Ngaire said. What is it?

I think it’s an old badge, the CSO replied. It was close by the ribcage, and I believe that it was probably buried at the same time as the body.

Ngaire pulled a pair of gloves from her pocket and snapped them on before picking the small item from the woman’s outstretched hand.

You took a photograph of this?

Of course, the tech answered. Did you want me to bag it up for you?

Instead of answering, Ngaire stroked the dirt to see how loose it was. A clump of dried mud flicked off, revealing a dull metal casing with black and white writing on the front.

What’s it say? Deb asked, leaning over.

Something, something, the tour. Ngaire brushed the hidden letters lightly and dislodged another layer of built-up soil. Women against the tour.

That might date it better, then, the doctor said. Good find, Wilkins.

The woman blushed and backed up a step, looking uncertain on whether to get back to the hole in the ground or stay.

What do you mean? Ngaire asked. Do you know what event this is from?

Dr. Gangarry looked from Ngaire to Deb to Wilkins and shook his head at their puzzled expressions.

The tour, he said, not enlightening anybody. Apartheid? Race wars? Protests? He sighed deeply and ran a gloved hand through his fringe again, this time leaving streaks of charcoal on his forehead like made up wrinkles. The Springbok tour of 1981. We could be looking at a thirty-six-year-old corpse.

2

I f you start investigating another old murder you’ll begin to get a reputation, Deb said, using her swipe card to open the rear security door to the station. I’ve seen how those things work on the telly. You do a couple well, and pretty soon you’re dying a slow death amongst the paper files of the cold case division.

We don’t have a cold case division.

Not yet. Deb waggled her finger. But just you wait. I’ve got a feeling that Gascoigne has something special lined up for you.

Yeah, right. Ngaire smiled, but anxiety made her throat clutch so that she had to swallow twice to get rid of the lump. I got the distinct feeling that I’m still under probation.

Deb laughed. You’ll be on probation until the day you retire. Having the temerity to leave our blessed union and then, she twirled her right finger in a circle above her ear, being idiotic enough to come running back.

Ngaire tossed her notebook down on the desk pad and logged into her computer. You should be grateful I did, otherwise you’d still be traveling shotgun with Redding.

There are worse things I could be doing, Deb said, taking a seat at her own desk and spinning on her chair. I could be working on a forty-year-old murder case, for example.

If it is a murder.

Deb snorted. Did you really buy that ‘he could have wandered off the main road and died’ bullshit.

I presumed the good doctor was talking about suicide.

Well, duh. Deb spun her chair around to face Ngaire. When was the last time you saw a suicide do the world a favor and bury themselves?

I heard of a guy who topped himself inside a funeral parlor once. Ngaire pressed enter on her first page of notes and waited for the semi circle to stop rotating. The dude bundled himself into a coffin before taking an overdose.

Deb stopped spinning. That’s sick. Who found him? Some grieving family shopping for a casket?

Ngaire remembered where she’d heard the story first. Finlay had a wealth of strange anecdotes or tall tales always at the ready. No. The funeral director found him almost straight away. He’d triggered the alarm. They carted him off in an ambulance, and he survived.

Deb looked at her expectantly, but Ngaire just raised her hands. True story, so there’s no punchline. They pumped his stomach, and he was right as rain. She paused and then amended her statement. Or as right as anybody who wants to kill themselves in a coffin can be.

A door slammed open on the far side of the station and Gascoigne strode out into the main room. Ngaire had heard on the grapevine that the district commander had been breathing down his neck about the exploding burglary rates and it tallied with the decrease in her boss’s mood. She couldn’t work out if an old murder made that situation better or worse.

What did you find out?

And hello to you, too.

Not much at this stage. The team will continue to excavate the bones until they’ve located as much of the skeleton as they can find. If it was a murder, Dr. Gangarry doesn’t think they’ll be able to get a profile. The DNA will be too degraded, and there’s little chance of them being on file.

Gascoigne drummed his fingers on the edge of Ngaire’s desk. No cause of death?

Not even sure if it’s suspicious at this stage. The body is an adult male, and they found a badge near the body from the Springbok tour.

The DS turned to her, a deep frown creasing his forehead until a decade’s worth of wrinkles appeared. The body’s that old?

I told Ngaire you might want her to head up the cold case division if she can solve this one, Deb interjected, earning herself scowls from two different directions. She sighed. It’s possible there’s no connection between the badge and the body. The landslip tossed everything about up there, and that’s after the fire already had a go.

Gascoigne crossed his arms. What makes you think it wasn’t connected?

The badge said, ‘Woman against the tour’ and the skeleton was probably male, Deb said. The doctor said everything got moved about so much he might never be able to sort out what remnants of clothing belonged to the body and what was just rubbish blowing about.

What do you think, Ngaire?

Deb raised her eyebrows and tilted her head. Well, excuse me.

Until Dr. Gangarry gets back to us, we don’t have any other leads to follow. If you wanted us to start with missing persons, that gives us a date and sex to narrow it down, at least.

Did the court process the kid who found the body yet?

Ngaire shrugged and looked to Deb. I think they’ve processed him out on bail already. Did you want us to pick him up?

He just fell into the body? There’s no suggestion that he knew it was there and wanted to cause a distraction?

Not from the reports of him screaming his head off. I think he was more concerned about getting away from the skull than he was about his arrest and his twisted ankle. Ngaire shrugged. From what I gather, he was an opportunistic burglar.

Yeah, Deb added. Neighbors went back to their evacuated house to check if the cat had come back and caught him going through their drawers. He’s gone through the youth court up to now for burglarizing homes, but just graduated into an adult.

It was as though Gascoigne didn’t even hear her. Follow up on the missing persons and see if there’s any likely candidates, he said, his eyes already tracking the entrance of another set of officers. He rapped his knuckles on her