Within Reach

By Ian Douglas

The first novel from Ian Douglas introduces us to Simon Hadlow, a New Zealand Policeman who has many experiences to his credit, including Diplomatic Protection Service and Undercover work.

Simon finds himself in a conflicting situation when his brother in law is arrested on theft and burglary offences and Simon is asked by family member to arrange something to ‘get him off’.

Preferring to transfer out of town, leaving behind his broken marriage, Simon establishes himself in the popular tourist town of Queenstown where he not only develops his career further but his personal life takes a much needed improvement.

A transfer to the Christchurch Policing Area to assist with the management of an off the track Inspector, see’s Simon becoming involved in a particularly gruesome investigation involving the discovery of two severed arms, from different bodies. But where did they come from and what is the link to the Royal Artillery and the Falkland Islands ?

Within Reach develops the character of Simon Hadlow and those people who are associated with him; from DCI Scotty MacPherson, Pathologist Gordon Williams and Area Commander Mathewson through to Melanie Kensington and her family by way of the twists, turns and international travel that Simon encounters along the way to solving this puzzling case.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Oct 11, 2019
• ISBN: 9781796064421

Ian Douglas

Ian Douglas is one of the many pseudonyms for writer William H. Keith, the New York Times bestselling author of the popular military science fiction series The Heritage Trilogy, The Legacy Trilogy, The Inheritance Trilogy, The Star Corpsman series, The Andromedan Dark series, and The Star Carrier series. A former naval corpsman, he lives in Pennsylvania.

Book preview

Copyright © 2019 by Ian Douglas.

Library of Congress Control Number:    2019915889

ISBN:                  Hardcover                        978-1-7960-6444-5

                            Softcover                           978-1-7960-6443-8

                            eBook                                978-1-7960-6442-1

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

No actual events or police cases have been used in this book.

Some of the procedures described are based on past or current New Zealand legislation.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Rev. date: 10/08/2019

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CONTENTS

Chapter 1     Action Stations

Chapter 2     A Call to Arms

Chapter 3     A Blast from the Past

Chapter 4     The Ed Shed

Chapter 5     Spilled Milk

Chapter 6     Front and Center

Chapter 7     Hear Ye, Hear Ye

Chapter 8     Blood Is Thicker than Water

Chapter 9     Sage and Loverage

Chapter 10   The Devil and the Deep Blue Lake

Chapter 11   Posting

Chapter 12   Ships in the Night

Chapter 13   Happy Daze

Chapter 14   The Party Gets Rough

Chapter 15   The Power and the Glory

Chapter 16   Going Home

Chapter 17   Cleared for Takeoff

Chapter 18   No Problems

Chapter 19   White Stones

Chapter 20   A Challenge Is Offered

Chapter 21   Things Go Off with a Bang

Chapter 22   The Return Home

Chapter 23   The Brigadier AWOLs

Chapter 24   Home Soil

Chapter 25   10-10, 10-10

Chapter 26   A Shot and a Life Is Taken

Chapter 27   All Out

Chapter 28   Last Straw

Chapter 29   The Team Regroups

Chapter 30   The Greeks and Scots

Chapter 31   The Debrief

Chapter 32   Fur Gets Ruffled

Chapter 33   All Packed Up

Chapter 34   Posting Number Two

Chapter 35   So This Is Good-Bye, Then

Chapter 36   Boys + Girls + Cars = Trouble

Chapter 37   Two as One

Chapter 38   All in the Cards

Chapter 39   And so Onward

Chapter 40   Pen and Ink

Chapter 41   Breakthrough

Chapter 42   Take Me at My Word

Chapter 43   Mystery Illness Strikes

Chapter 44   Look at Me, Look at Me

Chapter 45   The Mind as a Hole?

Chapter 46   Cottage Couple

Chapter 47   Takeover

Chapter 48   Questions Are Asked

Chapter 49   121(2)(b)(ii)

Chapter 50   A New Start

Chapter 51   The Soviet Mystery

For Helen

Chapter 1

Action Stations

The day was ending; chief pathologist Gordon Williams was collecting together his things from an office fair too small for a man of his stature.

At six feet five inches, Gordon was something of a man mountain. His early medical years had been spent in the Royal Army Medical Corps, as a lieutenant and then as a captain. He had seen active tours of duty in Korea, Malaya, the Hong Kong uprising, Northern Ireland, and then in the Falkland Islands as a major with Sixteenth Field Ambulance. He had service medals from the different campaigns and had also been awarded the DSO during his time in Malaysia and DSM from his service in Northern Ireland.

It was during his active service in the Falklands war, in particular Gordon’s actions during a lengthy and sustained firefight at Goose Green, where Gordon managed to save the lives of six critically injured members of 3 PARA while they were pinned down behind a dry stone wall and taking extensive fire, that he earned the highest commendation of all.

It was a warm sunny afternoon on June 23 that Gordon was fully acknowledged for his service in the Falklands.

He had been summoned, along with other members of the British Army, Navy, and Air Force, to attend Buckingham Palace. He had spent weeks ensuring his best number-one uniform was in order, and if his dress shoes had been polished to any higher gloss, they would be a hazard to passing aircraft.

There were many medals to be presented, and the ceremony was drawn out by a citation being read out explaining why the medal was being presented.

The presentation of medals was done in order of rank, starting off with Private soldiers, and then the NCOs, warrant officers, and, last, onto the commissioned ranks, the officers, as there are usually fewer of them than the others to receive medals.

Gordon had been informed by his commanding officer, a month prior, that you’re up for a gong, Gordie old boy. I must say it’s jolly well deserved, especially for what you did in the Falklands.

Gordon’s assumption had been that he was to receive a commendation medal, as he had done in the past, but he was totally unprepared for what happened after his name was read out.

The officiating adjutant of ceremonies announced with perfect time, pausing between each word so that all could hear.

Lieutenant Colonel (leftright1) Gordon (leftright1) Macintosh (leftright1) Alexander (leftright1) Williams, Sixteenth (leftright1) Field (leftright1) Ambulance, the Victoria (leftright1) Cross.

Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II rose from her throne-like chair in the ballroom of Buckingham Palace and gracefully moved to the presentation dais, where a warrant officer aide-de-camp stood, holding a royal-blue satin pillow, edged with gold braid; a red ribbon formed a perfect diamond border to a Victoria Cross, which was precisely positioned in the center of the royal blue field.

The symbolism may have been lost on some, but the colors red, blue, and gold were the stable belt colours of the Army Medical Corps.

During the ceremony, the words that the then major Gordon Williams, CO, Sixteenth Field Ambulance, had stated moments before he made, what he calls the stupidest decision in my life, were read out.

I will not stand idly by, watching those six poor souls perish, so long as there is something that I have in my power to do, that may save just one of them.

He grabbed his med kit and a rifle, and with that, he dashed from the safety of his position, running, crawling, dashing and darting hitherto, until he tumbled into the slight hollow behind the short stone wall where six injured men of 3 PARA lay.

Throughout his dash to assist the injured soldiers, the firefight continued.

He immediately set to and staunched the bleeding in one soldier who had been shot in the thigh. The bullet had shattered the femur; the blood loss was considerable. Wiping the wound with his battle scarf, he got the fleeting view of an artery spurting blood, but not much and not very hard. With his fingers in the wound—after all, there was no time or resources for a surgical scrub—he found the vessel and pinched it off using his index finger against the nail of his thumb. His left hand deftly found the Gillies artery forceps in his med kit, and he clamped it off. The blood loss slowed. Ripping open the wound dressing taped to the soldier’s webbing, he had just enough time to wrap the wound and tie off the dressing, leaving the finger rings of the artery forceps sticking out from the dressing like gold glasses before moving on to the next man.

The next man was in a very bad way. He had lost his left leg, just below the knee. The tattered end of the leg hung like icicles, dropping blood, not much to be done for the wound in these conditions save for a pressure dressing on the end and a full amp of morphine for the casualty. Gordon shut his eyes and felt across the soldier’s lower arm, feeling the slight resistance to his fingers. He opened his eyes, looked at the arm, and thought, Yes! That’s about the right place. Grabbing a Luer from his med kit, he gently pushed it into the soldier’s arm. A flash of red in the chamber indicated that he was in the vein. Connecting the needle up to tubing and a bottle of Heamaccell, he let a small amount run out the end of the tube and then plugged it into the needle in the arm. Lifting the man’s shoulder slightly, he pushed the plastic bottle under the scapular so the man’s body weight would push the fluid through into his circulation.

Rolling over to the next casualty, Gordon became aware of something warm and sticky on his arm. It was then that he realized he had been shot, high on the left arm, through the deltoid muscle. Probably aiming for my heart, he thought. He’s pulled the shot to the right when he squeezed the trigger. Bastard!

The next man had been shot in the abdomen, a gut shot, the dirtiest and meanest of all wounds as they were always so contaminated. Grabbing the soldier’s wound dressing, which, like all other soldiers, was taped to his webbing straps, opening it, he poured water on it from one of his water bottles and unceremoniously slapped it over the wound, zipping up the soldier’s battle jacket. It held the dressing in place.

The firefight onto their position had eased somewhat as Sixteenth Field Ambulance unexpectedly received support from elements of 3 PARA who had been separated from the main body of the section when they had been contacted by the Argentineans.

The four soldiers from the section just happened to be carrying the section heavy-barreled machine gun, and with this, now set up on the highest ground immediately available, they set about laying down fire on the enemy position, which was another dry stone wall about six hundred meters from where the rest of their section lay injured along with, as they had heard, some crazy medic major who had gone out to patch them up.

Gordon suddenly became aware of a change in firepower. Instead of the poom, poom, poom of the Argentinean 7.62 cal rifles and the return fire of pfat, pfat, pfat from the lighter-caliber 5.56 cal, British Bulldog as it was named, there was now a commanding did, did, did, did of a heavy-barreled machine gun firing 40 cal rounds.

Gordon had diagnosed the next soldier’s injuries before he had even seen him—it was a sucking chest wound, there is just no mistaking that sound! Basic, very basic treatment was all he could offer in the circumstances. Ideally, the casualty should be sat up, leaning over to the injured side, but right now, that position would get one’s head shot off, so it was a combined wound dressing still in the plastic packet that was placed over the wound to provide an airtight seal, and again, the field dressing from off of the webbing was used to hold it in place.

The last man that Gordon reached was a lance corporal who showed little in the way of injury, yet his slow weak pulse and the fact that he was unconscious painted a foreboding picture. Close by was his battle bowler, the side of which was heavily dented with a deep crease running front to back completely down the right-hand side. In positioning the man slightly on his side to help maintain his airway, Gordon noticed the small muddy red discharge from the casualty’s left ear.

The firefight had stopped.

Gordon was suddenly aware that he was being surrounded by soldiers. A shiver of fear ran down his spine, but it quickly dissipated when he was confronted with a heavy Scottish accent from a man fully camouflaged who said, ’Scuse me, bart are yee orkay, sear?

Gordon reached up, patted the man on the shoulder, and said, I am now—thank you for asking. Can you arrange to get these chaps up to the field amb where we can take a better look at them and properly treat their wounds? They will need to be evaced out to Port Stanley once we have them stable enough to move them. Then they can go off to our hospital ship

Oh, aye, I can do thart, all reht, but year a goin with them. Yiv teaken one in yar lug an anoder in yer shewlder. Yer a bloody ero, sear, but ya need a parchin oop fearst.

On Gordon’s return to the UK, he was promoted to lieutenant colonel and became the commanding officer of the RAMC, a position he held for six years before he retired to the relaxed world of general surgical medicine at St. Stephens Hospital.

It was due to a job exchange program during the 1990s that Gordon came to New Zealand, first, as part of a position exchange, and then two years later, after his divorce, to restart his life and establish himself in the pathology lab of Christchurch Hospital, where he had taken up the position of chief pathologist, a position he had held for the past eight years.

Chapter 2

A Call to Arms

Gordon was taking his characteristic Harris Tweed jacket off the coat hanger from behind his door when the phone rang. He looked at the phone, and considering whether to answer, he opted to answer the call rather than let the voice mail take it. He answered in his quiet but powerful voice. Pathology … Williams speaking.

Oh—aah, good evening, sir. Inspector Dave Galligar here. We have something that we’d like you to look at.

Goodness, man, it’s 1845. Can’t this wait till tomorrow morning? retorted Williams.

Well, yes, I know that it is late, sir, but we may have a homicide to investigate, replied Inspector Galligar.

Well, can’t you have your own man look at it, then? I’m not on call to the police!

Oh, yes, sir, I’m aware of that, sir. It’s just that Detective Chief Inspector MacPherson suggested that I call you—he asked for you especially. He wants you to see this in person.

In a dramatic change of tone, Gordon Williams replied, Oh, well, then, if Scotty MacPherson thinks that I should take a look, then take a look I shall, and I’d better not keep the dear chap waiting … What is it that I have to look at?

It’s an arm, sir.

An arm! shouted Williams.

Yes, sir—it’s been found without its body, replied Inspector Galligar quietly. I mean, it’s been chopped off … no, argh … it’s, um … it’s, um … it’s … it’s … it’s had its … it’s been dissected at the shoulder.

Oh, very well, then— where is this arm, then?

Mr. MacPherson is with the photographer, and they are still at the scene.

"I’m very pleased for them, Inspector. But where is the scene, Inspector?" Gordon inquired in a terse voice.

Oh, yeah … It’s in the car park at Cumberland Street Mall, you know, up the top end of Colombo Street where the old city council water station used to be—it’s a clothing bin. We have the area cordoned off, and a squad car is down there now.

Well, you tell them that I’m on my way. I should be there about 1915, if the traffic allows.

Very good, sir. Thank you, sir. I’ll tell the boss that you are on your way, replied Inspector Galligar, who was trying very hard to sound cool, calm, and confident, remembering the words of Detective Chief Inspector MacPherson: … and, Galligar, when you talk to Mr. Williams, do be polite and none of that pneumatic garbage that you usually rattle out. I don’t want to be wiping your brains, as little as there are, off the walls when Mr. Williams has finished with you.

Damn and blast, a bloody arm—what next? Gordon Williams stated as he replaced the phone.

I should have left it for the voice mail.

Chapter 3

A Blast from the Past

Cumberland Street Mall was typical of the urban malls that had been redeveloped; the local video parlor, supermarket, bookshop, two-dollar shop, and an assortment of other enterprises, all under the same roof. In the corner of the car park was a collection of bins for used clothing, set up by a variety of agencies to gather the castoffs and sell on anything that was suitable.

When Gordon Williams arrived at the Cumberland Street Mall, he was immediately directed to the cordoned-off area by a uniformed officer who, in William’s mind, was an expert at stating the obvious. They’re over there, sir, he had said and pointed to the collection of five people standing beside a collection of large clothing drop-off bins. Yes, I think I can find my way from here—thank you, Constable, Williams replied.

Two police cars with their red and blue lights flashing and headlights on pointed to the bright green bin receiving all the interest. A few people from the surrounding houses braved the chilly night air to look at the scene from the footpath nearby. The occasional blink of light signaled neighbors, pulling back the curtains to get a better view from the windows of their front rooms.

A group of five people stood motionless, wrapped in coats to protect them from the growing coldness of the evening. The scene was shattered by the sudden explosion of light from the photographer’s flash unit, and then again and again as the photographic scene evidence started to accumulate on the digital camera.

Good evening, Scotty—what’s so important to drag me out on a night like this?

Hello, Gordon, replied DCI Hamish Andrew MacPherson, Scotty to his friends, shaking the man mountain by the hand; it was a special handshake, known only to members of the Masonic Lodge fraternity. I thought this one would interest you—take a look at this.

Among the assorted plastic bags of clothing, shoes, and other castoffs was a standard council rubbish bag, the end slightly torn open to reveal a thumb and two fingers. The shape of the bag indicated that it contained far more than what it was currently showing.

Here, take this, said Scotty MacPherson as he handed Gordon a torch. Have a look inside the bag at the tattoo on the arm.

Taking a gilt fountain pen from his coat pocket, Gordon held open the torn end of the bag and shone the torch into it. The dismembered arm revealed a tattoo that Gordon immediately recognized. Good God … that’s the crest of the Royal Artillery, Gordon stated with startled surprise. That is a long way from home. What the hell is it doing here?

As soon as I saw it, I thought that you’d be interested, said Scotty MacPherson.

I haven’t seen one of those for … forty years or more, finished Gordon.

How do you think the bag got opened like this—a smooth cut, top to bottom, no puckering or rippling? stated Gordon, looking up to Scotty MacPherson and then changing his glance to Inspector Galligar. It hasn’t been here long—only a few maggots, some eggs still to hatch. We’ve had warm days but cold nights. Tissues still hydrated and no decomposition to speak of. Skin now very waxy in appearance. There’s not much blood, though—that’s unusual. This is a bit odd, continued Gordon Williams Can’t be more than one to two days at the most. I’ll need this down at the shop to find out more. I’ll be able to tell you what he had for breakfast in a few days.

Inspector Galligar looked pale and was staring blankly back at Gordon Williams and then almost inappropriately said, Did it get torn open when it was dropped it into the bin?

Scotty shook his head from side to side and showed a quizzical look on his face. He seemed to be searching for an answer that seemed plausible when a voice from behind him stated,

"Probably binnies."

Probably what? asked Gordon Williams, spinning around to face the direction that the voice had come from.

Binnies, sir. They’re people who go around taking clothing out of these bins and selling it on to the clothing traders or using it for themselves. Sometimes, they even have their own shops and go around raiding these bins to supplement their stock.

Who are you? inquired Detective Chief Inspector MacPherson with a quizzical expression.

Sorry, sir … Inspector Hadlow … Simon Hadlow. I just flew in at 1630 from Dunedin. I was picked up at the airport by a duty constable and taken in to Central, where they’ve given me keys, cards, and a Christchurch ID. Then I was told that I should check in with you and that you were out here on a job and I should come out and see you, in case you needed a hand with something, said the craggy-faced officer as he extended his hand toward Detective Chief Inspector MacPherson. Pleased to meet you, sir.

Yes … likewise was Detective Chief Inspector MacPherson’s warm reply with the vague memory about an inspector transferring in to his command, who had recently passed with flying colors, the sergeant’s to inspector’s course, and who had come with very favorable recommendations from the Southern regional superintendent.

That will be all for now, Inspector. I’ve got it from here. We can catch up with you at the station, probably tomorrow. No need for you to be here came the voice of Inspector Galligar, obviously portraying the embarrassment that the inspector felt by being shown up by another inspector who had just ridden into town and quietly still feeling a bit queasy from how Gordon Williams had spoken so calmly and clinically about the state of the arm.

No, no … I want to hear more, interjected Gordon Williams.

Detective Chief Inspector MacPherson and Gordon Williams listened intently as Inspector Simon Hadlow went on. Inspector Galligar remained behind them, embarrassment still obvious on his face, but he too was interested in what this new officer to his section had to say.

Simon turned slightly to address Gordon Williams straight on. Not knowing who he actually was, he maintained a somewhat formal approach. Well, sir, I’ve just transferred here from down south, Invercargill and Queenstown, and we had a lot of trouble with them, Invercargill especially. It really is petty theft, as the organisations who run these bins miss out, but it is at the lower end of offending, and we didn’t put too much resource into these events—the biggest problem we had was the street kids setting fire to them, added Inspector Hadlow.

So these binnies, as you call them, crawl inside the bin with a torch and rifle through the discarded clothing, taking whatever they want? inquired Gordon Williams.

Yes, sir—that’s about it, stated Simon. Sometimes, they just take bag fills, but other times, when they have time or the bin is in a quieter location, they will cut bags open with a knife that they carry with them and sort through what they want while they are in the bin.

"Now, that would explain how the cut in the bag was made, a knife, very sharp," stated Gordon Williams as if he was answering his own questions.

Detective Chief Inspector MacPherson turned to Inspector Dave Galligar and stated, "Dave, you will need to write this down—

I want you to get this bin and all its contents down to Central, to the Ed Shed. I want the whole thing dusted for prints. I want that arm taken care of with respect and down to pathology for Mr. Williams. You will then go through every item of clothing in this bin and search for a name or address and find out who dropped off clothing here. I want a timeline from when the bin was placed here or last emptied to now. I want all the shops in this mall checked for CCTV, first, for any images of people carrying bags big enough to hold an arm. The offender may have walked through the mall on the way to dropping it off. Then I want all the CCTV footage watched again, this time paying particular attention to what is happening in the background.

Detective Chief Inspector MacPherson raised a finger with every point that he made, emphasizing that each point was a separate action.

Any questions? Oh, Inspector Galligar, I want the first draft of your report on my desk by 0900. I want to do a briefing at 1000. Inspector Hadlow, stand down for the night. I’m sure you have had a long day. I will see you in my office 0730, and we will chat before I give you an induction to my section.

Can I bring coffee with me, sir?

Oh, yes, mine’s an Americano. Good night.

With the senior officers stepping back, the scene became very busy with blue police uniforms scurrying about like ants, each with their own particular jobs to do in silent efficiency. The silence of the cold night was disturbed by the piercing neept, neept, neept of the reversing flat deck truck as it maneuvered close to the clothing bin so that the fitted Palfinger hydraulic arm could be used to lift the clothing bin onto the truck deck for transfer to Police Central for a detailed examination.

David was it?

No! Dave! came a somewhat hostile reply.

I’m Simon. Do you want a hand with anything before I go? It’s just that there seemed to be quite a bit to do, and it all got lumped on you.

"That’s because I’m the inspector running this investigation. I don’t know what you are accustomed to doing, but that’s how we do things here in Christchurch. I’m the inspector, I run the investigation, I have tasks to perform, I get them done, it’s that easy!" came Dave Galligar’s cold reply.

Yeah, OK, I was just offering to help, that’s all, said Simon before he turned and walked to his newly issued car, an almost new Holden Commodore V6. He smiled to himself recalling his last new vehicle and how it ended up looking. No pizza on this one, he thought to himself.

Simon entered the address he wanted to go to into the installed satnav; the guys in the police garage had set it up for him and run him through the options menu. Just for fun, Simon had Clint Eastwood voice giving him directions. Turn left onto Athelstan Street and then left onto Bertrand Street in six hundred meters—got that, punk? came the instructions.

Simon, with Clint’s help, drove to Lyttelton and located the police house. It was actually a cottage, a small cottage. Simon parked on the road and went up the steps to the front veranda. He rummaged through the bundle of keys he had been given until he found the Lockwood key for the front door. It opened with a slight squeak. The house smelled a bit stale. Must have been shut up for a while. Better get some windows open and air it off, and buy some incense, the sandalwood one that Mel likes, Si thought.

Finding the light switch, Simon walked further into the house. The living room was full of cardboard boxes that he had packed in Queenstown. He looked into the kitchen. There was a note on the bench, neatly folded into a triangle so that it sat up on the bench, like a name plate. It simply had Mr. Hadlow written in very neat handwriting and on a quality paper. Simon thought that he could detect the very faint smell of lavender as he unfolded the note to read—

Dear Mr. Hadlow,

I’ve put milk, six eggs, and a packet of bacon in the fridge. There’s bread, butter, and marmalade in the pantry cupboard, and I’ve also left some coffee and tea bags in there as well.

The cottage needs a good airing off, as it hasn’t been used for some time; the beds were all made up today. The SKY TV should get hooked back on by Wednesday.

I will come through and clean on Mondays and Thursdays. I will do your washing, if you leave it in the washhouse. You do your own ironing and folding. There is an iron and ironing board in the washhouse.

Hope you enjoy your stay.

Mrs. Cressy

0275065050

Simon thought that this Mrs. Cressy must be a lovely, thoughtful lady to do these things for him. He made a mental note to get something for her. She is obviously nothing like Mrs. Burrows in Queenstown.

Simon turned his attention to the boxes. They had all been labeled with black marker pen. Simon sorted them out and opened several of them to get a full change of clothes for tomorrow. Meeting with Scotty at Central. Better look presentable. Never know whom I might bump into. Simon found a pair of gray dress trousers and a dark shirt. He wondered about a tie but hadn’t seen anybody wearing one yesterday. He then recalled his father’s advice. It is easier to take one off than to put one on that you haven’t got.

Simon didn’t own many ties, so they were hard to find, but there they were, in with his socks, where else! It was a difficult choice—blue, red, or green, perhaps the Invercargill Cricket Club one. Simon fossicked some more and came up with treasure, still in the Hardy Amies plastic wrapper and encased in tissue paper, the black tie bearing the insignia of Interpol.

Chapter 4

The Ed Shed

The clothing bin had been removed from the Cumberland mall site and taken to the evidence garage at the Central Police Station, which occupied the whole of the inner city block made up of Lichfield, Mountbatten, Windsor, and Lyons Streets.

Central, as it was known as to all members of the police force as well as the ambulance and fire services, catered for the eclectic requirements of a police force that not only served a large city population but also supported the rural stations from around the Canterbury Plains such as Darfield, Otaira, Mount Somers, and the quaint seaside township of Akaroa.

A variety of buildings were situated around the perimeter of a large asphalt sealed rectangle, which was the police parade ground.

One of these buildings was the odd-looking evidence garage, which was an almost standard eight-by-ten-meter Alco car shed, smaller versions of which were scattered throughout the suburban areas as car sheds, sleep-outs, rumpus rooms, etc.

What made this one look odd was the overall size and the fact that it stood atop a 1.5-meter-high concrete block wall, which ran all around the building, and there was only one door, a very large roller door, which took up most of the eight-meter eastern wall of the building, Inside the door was another door, designed solely for people to enter and leave. The building itself was surrounded by a five-meter-high mesh fence, topped off with razor wire and signs, which informed observers that the fence was live.

This is the evidence garage, or Ed Shed as it is affectionately known, as most new officers soon learn it is not the word evidence shortened to Ed that gives the building its name but the Christian name of Eddison Lamont, a stunningly brilliant police officer who ended his police career as superintendent in chief who led the forensic or scene of crime officers, who are referred to as SOCO, for many years and managed to sell the idea of having a secure place, away from the prying eyes of the public and telephoto lenses of the media, where largish items can be examined or reconstructed to unfold the information that they have to the top brass and who inevitably claimed it as their idea.

It was during the Ponderosa Farm murders in 1997, when a Massey Fergusson tractor was reconstructed and substantial evidence gained to prove that the front-end loader bucket hydraulics had been sabotaged, causing them to fail when under a load, which led to the death of a twenty-five-year-old farmhand who the owner of Ponderosa Farms believed was involved with his daughter along with another man from the nearby settlement of Waikuku whom he had accused of having an affair with his wife and whose body was found in the farm offal pit with a .22-caliber rifle. This was the case that caused the Ed Shed to become nationally and internationally known.

Over the years, the Ed Shed has housed a wide variety of vehicles that have been the cause of injury or death, or they have been found with evidence in them or involved in crime. These range from cars, trucks, motorbikes, boats, machinery—there is still an old black-and-white photo of a famous garden chipper stuck to the back wall, a piper cub airplane, a concrete truck, and a helicopter.

Right now, the Ed Shed was home to an electric green clothing bin, operated on behalf of the Plains Welfare Trust.

The bin had been emptied of its contents and was being examined in detail by the SOCO team.

Chapter 5

Spilled Milk

Simon met with DCI Scotty MacPherson at 0730 as arranged; he had two coffees, a cappuccino and an Americano.

You learn quick, son, the older DCI said. You have a fairly impressive record, and I have heard on the grapevine that you have recently done some work with Interpol. Now, that would be an experience that not everybody gets offered. I know that I never got anything like that passed my way when I was an inspector. Good on you. What did Bob tell you about this move to Christchurch?

If you will excuse my bluntness, how should I address you? What is the protocol here in Christchurch? Do I call you boss, sir, or what?

Scotty McPherson smiled and leaned back slightly in his chair. I like you, Hadlow—Simon, isn’t it? You cut to the important things first, how to communicate with your senior officer. How can the passage of information flow if you don’t know how to address someone, so on a one to one such as this, Scotty will do. In the field, Detective Chief Inspector MacPherson or sir. I’m sure that you can work out the in-between bits. Do not call me boss!

Thanks, Scotty. I had an almost similar relationship with Bob Gillmore in Invercargill. Anyway, what did he tell me about this move to Christchurch? Well, he informed me that there was an opportunity to mentor another inspector who is lagging behind the eight ball at the moment, and I would be a good person to assist him to develop further in his role.

You’re good, I’ll give you that. What you just said was the biggest pile of politically correct bullshit I have had the opportunity to hear for some time. The man is an absolute bloody idiot. He can’t follow orders. He doesn’t know how to put a simple report together. My goodness, we have templates for that sort of thing. All he has to do is follow the headings, but, oh, no, he goes off and invents something different each time you ask him to do a job. So why are you here, to save his life before I bloody well throttle him and to help me keep my sanity? He is an absolute handful. To be honest with you, Simon, he’s had more postings around the country than I’ve had hot dinners. Whenever someone has had an absolute guts full of this idiot, they get him posted somewhere else and give him a damn promotion to boot. He came to us from Counties Manukau two years ago. I think the party is still going on up there.

So how do you want me to manage him? Simon asked.

"What I want to do is get you working with him, and I want—no, I am going to put you in as the lead investigator. He will still be involved with the case, but you will be the one leading it, because you have had this recent experience with Interpol and we need to look at how other agencies get things done—I know it sounds a bit wishy-washy, but that’s all right. I won’t be telling anyone how long you have been an inspector as that will undermine what I’m wanting to achieve. Are you OK with that?"

Yes, I’m fine, Scotty.

Great. Let’s get you to work, then, Simon. The hot case on the go at the moment that Inspector Galligar is working on centers on the discovery of a severed arm in a clothing bin. At the moment, all we have got is five-eighths of nine-sixteenths of bugger all. There was a military tattoo on the arm that I was sure was from the British army, that’s why I had Fog ring up my old friend Gordon Williams and have him take a look at it.

Excuse me, Scotty, but what or who is Fog?

Oh, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have let that one slip. It’s the name we have given to Dave Galligar, Inspector Galligar, Fog—just like a Christchurch one in winter, he’s fairly thick.

Simon chuckled. Oh, I see. So this arm, we have no idea where it may have come from. It is actually a real one. Some of those stage props can be very realistic.

Oh, yes, it’s real, all right, even had maggots on it.

Simon had a brief moment where he recalled Dr. Natasha Polatinski and her thick Russian accent. I don’t like zem vigglies, neight, not zem vigglies, which seemed like such a long time ago.

The other gentleman that was with you last night, who was he?

I’m sorry, Simon, I didn’t introduce you. My apologies for that. He was Gordon Williams, chief pathologist at the Christchurch Hospital, quite a brilliant chap, really, ex-military, served in the Falklands. He’s got a Victoria Cross for something he did over there, but he doesn’t talk about it much. Lot of fellas are like that, still even nowadays. Anyway, Gordon took one look at the arm and recognized the tattoo straight away. Bugger, what was it he said? Royal something or others.

I think it was the Royal Artillery. I happened to be standing behind you all at that stage.

Yes, you’re right, Simon. Did you have that written down?

No, just remembered it, really.

Scotty MacPherson raised one eyebrow, looked at Simon, and smiled. I think I’m going to enjoy working with you, Simon. There is still an hour or so before I have a briefing to give, and Fog—I mean, Galligar is going to be giving part of it, so brace yourself. We’re sailing into uncharted waters. Why don’t you take that chance to catch up on what’s happening over in the Ed Shed?

The clothing bin had been emptied of all its contents, which were now in a pile in one corner of Ed Shed. Inspector Galligar had seconded two junior female constables and had directed them to sort the clothing by size and sex of the likely wearer and to check the clothing for any bloodstains, which would be matched to the blood obtained from the severed arm. They were to concentrate on these tasks and nothing else unless he directed them otherwise. This process he called MILK, which stood for Material Itemized List—Key points.

Inspector Galligar had explained to the two seconded officers that their work was going toward a PEPA, pronounced as pepper and stood for Potential Evidence Profile Assessment. This, he had further explained to the junior constables, was part of the overall Forensic Assessment of Facts and Fallacies, or FAFF, to which they were making a valuable contribution.

Walking away from the two newly seconded officers, he felt quite smug how he had impressed the two female officers with his professional-sounding pneumonic vocabulary, all of which he had developed on his own, in his opinion an outstanding demonstration of initiative and intelligence that would stand him in excellent stead for his next promotion.

The SOCO team poured over the clothing bin.

Fingerprints from every external surface had been obtained wherever possible. Many of the external prints were smudged or overlaid by newer prints. Some prints had degraded because of environmental conditions, and it looked almost impossible to lift any clear and identifiable prints from the outside of the bin.

There were, however, some very clear partial prints recovered from the inside of the steel flap that had been welded onto the door of the bin, just above the Abloy lock.

The painstaking process of print identification was now under way.

Dave Galligar received a handwritten report from Sgt. Karen Webb, the SOCO senior officer on-site, about the fingerprints, where they had been found on the clothing bin and the quality of the prints regarding their ease of identification.

The SOCO team were now turning their attention to the inside of the clothing bin, but Dave Galligar did not get to see that as he had already left the Ed Shed to write his report for Detective Chief Inspector MacPherson’s briefing.

With three very clear partial prints lifted from the front of the bin, Inspector Galligar was hoping for an early breakthrough, which he could report to Detective Chief Inspector MacPherson and secure the promotion that he felt he was well overdue for.

Chapter 6

Front and Center

Inspector Simon Hadlow walked through the Ed Shed, looking over the work being done and checking out what activities required assistance, which ones were complete, and who was overworked, needed a break, another coffee, and who was lagging behind.

There was nothing written up. There was no incident board, usually a large whiteboard with all the tasks detailed on it, what officers were allocated to those tasks, status or progress notes and other information that was required, generally a what’s happening board despite whiteboards being on the walls around the building and a number of freestanding ones available.

As he approached the two junior female constables, they looked up and then nudged each other, looking down again at the pile of clothes in front of them.

Simon approached closer and greeted the juniors. Good morning, ladies. What are you up to?

Oh, we’re doing a MILK for a PEPA as part of a FAFF came the reply.

Simon Hadlow just looked at them, thinking to himself, What the hell is a milk, pepper, and a faff—bound to be something that Dave Galligar has dreamed up!

I don’t believe that I have met you yet. I’m Inspector Simon Hadlow, and I’ve just been transferred up here from Queenstown after having been posted there for the last two years.

Hi, Inspector. I’m Julie West, and this is Deb Callaghan. We’ve just graduated from Police College and have been posted here in Christchurch. We were in Central on Wednesday for our induction to the Southern Region before taking up our postings at the Lyttelton station, when we got roped into this investigation by that guy Inspector Galligar.

So what are you up to here? asked Simon Hadlow.

Well, we were told to sort through the clothing and put it in sizes and sex and check for bloodstains.

Is that it? Simon asked.

Pretty much, replied Julie.

He didn’t mention checking for names or addresses?

Julie and Deb looked at each other. Both frowned at the same time and looked back at Simon Hadlow.

It was Deb’s turn to speak, and the underlying tone of being misled was quite distinctive in her voice when she replied. Well, that definitely isn’t something that he mentioned.

Well, I suggest you go back through what you have done and check that there are no names on any of the gear. Let’s think about this with a bit of logic. Baby clothes are often not named as babies grow out of things so fast and they are often passed on, so the likelihood of a name being on them is remote. On the other hand, children may attend preschool, kindy, and school, so a much greater chance of losing their clothing. This would be the area where I would expect to find names on clothes. Then, with the adult sizes, there may be some school uniform style of clothes, but most adults don’t go ’round losing their clothes, so back to where chances are highest—the children’s clothing, Simon Hadlow offered. Well, I better go as there’s lots to do before this day is over. And with that, Simon Hadlow walked off toward the SOCO team standing around the clothing bin situated in the middle of the Ed Shed.

His change in focus was suddenly redirected as Julie West called out to him. Inspector, excuse me, Inspector, there is something else. Waiting until Simon Hadlow was standing back in front of them, Julie West spoke in hushed tones to Simon. Debs found a wallet. Mr. Galligar didn’t give us any instructions on what we should do with any property that we found, and we haven’t got any evidence bags.

Where is it now? inquired Simon.

With nothing given to us to hold anything, we used an old bread bag that we had shaken the crumbs out of to pick it up so we didn’t compromise any evidence with our fingerprints, answered Julie.

Well done, very well done. Good thinking there. Was there anything in the wallet? asked Simon.

I don’t know, sir. Once it was in the bag, it was kinda hard to open, stated Jane.

And where is it now? Simon again asked.

Right here, said Deb as she held her hand bag open so Simon could see inside the inner zipped pocket of the bag.

Great. Good work and excellent skills, said Simon, giving the junior constables lots of positive affirmations for their work and improvisation. Give it to me and I’ll have the SOCO team go over it to see what they can find out. Well done, ladies. Hey, let’s get you organized. Debs, go over and bring one of those whiteboards over here and see if you can find some markers. Julie, do you know if there is any duct tape here? I’ll need a couple of rolls.

Yes, I saw some in the store cupboard earlier on. I’ll go and grab some came Jane’s reply.

By the time Julie and Debs had returned to their corner of the shed, Si was in the process of cutting up the last of five large cardboard boxes with a small but very sharp pocket knife. They watched silently as Si taped three of the opened-up boxes to the floor. He then taped the last two boxes across the back of what he had just done. Then, starting at one end, he bent up the long side of a cardboard box and the box taped down at the back to form a wall and a back. Moving down, he did the same with the second and third box, taping them together as he worked.

When he finished, there were three open pens. Taking the black whiteboard marker that Debs had brought back, he wrote on the back of each pen, baby, kids, adults, in large block letters. Pushing two boxes to the end of the pens, he wrote other and rubbish on these boxes.

Moving over to the whiteboard, Si wrote across the top of the board clothing sorting and then divided the board into five columns. In the first column, Si wrote Deb Callaghan, Julie West, Hadlow, SOCO, Galligar. The second column was headed up transfers, and beneath that, Si printed wallet—SOCO. The next column was headed up other items, under which Si printed wallet and shoes. The fourth column was headed requests, under which Si wrote as a series of bullet points—evidence bags, evidence tape, evidence forms, pens, tags, string. The final column was simply titled done.

Now that should make life easier for you. You two are the only ones to handle this clothing. After that, it’s me, SOCO, and, last, Dave Galligar, and in that order—I don’t want any queue jumping. Even if the good Lord Himself walked through those doors and asked to see some of this evidence, you will, I say again, you will check with me first. All clear on that?

Debs and Julie nodded their affirmation to Si.

OK, transfers. As you can see, I’ve listed the wallet you found and where it has gone to. That’s not too hard. Under other items, I’ve put shoes, which we will look at later, and wallet. If you find gloves, screwdrivers, bags, whatever, you list it here, tag it, and bag it, and then put it in the ‘other’ box at the end. Now, requests. Whatever you want, you put down here. When that request has been met, you enter time and date in the done column. Any questions? Si asked.

Just one—if we want or need you, how do we contact you, sir? asked Debs.

Good point, said Si as he turned to the whiteboard and, in the bottom right-hand corner, in smallish print, wrote 0252 768696. My cell number—I don’t give it to just anyone, you know, so don’t put my name beside it. If I don’t answer, leave a message as I will get back to you as soon as I can, and please do check with me before you discuss anything with SOCO and Inspector Galligar. This is likely to become a high-profile case, and I don’t want any screwups. If you have a problem, then come to me. Please don’t go yabbering around the station about case issues. Oh, and by the way, when it’s just us three, Si, Sime, or Simon will do. It becomes sir or inspector when other senior ranks are around—OK?

That’s fine with us, Julie answered.

Once Simon was out of earshot, Deb and Julie quietly started talking about him. Is he good or what? No one told us about a board like that at college—it makes so much sense, said Julie.

He’s the new guy they’ve brought in. I heard some of the others talking about him in the cafe the other day. Apparently, he’s pretty good. I heard that he’d done some work overseas, in Britain, they said.

Julie looked at Deb, "Did you notice he doesn’t wear a wedding ring?