22 Ways to Get Revenge
Bev Robitai
SMASHWORDS EDITION
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Published by Bev Robitai on Smashwords
Copyright Bev Robitaille Nov 2011
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DEDICATION – to Eric and Jackie in Canada, the best in-laws ever. Love you!
PROLOGUE
Like a fizzing fuse heading for a bomb, a young blonde woman ran at full speed along the pontoon dock, her pounding feet sending waves surging between the gleaming launches moored on each side. She tossed sweat-soaked hair out of her eyes and kept on running, muttering a stream of curses punctuated by the thumps of her feet on the dock.
‘I’ll get you, you miserable bastard.’ Thud thud. ‘This is where you pay...’ Thud thud. ‘I’m going to pull your scrotum over your head...’ Thud thud. ‘And use your bloody testicles for boxing practice!’
She sped down the line of cruisers glancing left and right as she went, searching for the boat she knew she’d recognise, looking for some little detail that would prove she was on the right track. But nothing caught her eye as she ran on and on until the end of the dock brought her to an abrupt halt. She stared around wildly, as if her quarry might suddenly materialise beside her.
‘Where the hell are you? I’m going to rip your sodding dick off when I find you!’
The anonymous boats tugged gently at their mooring lines, mocking her with a chorus of squeaks and groans as rope chafed against rubber. There was nobody in sight.
She cursed colourfully, returned to shore and tackled the next dock, hurrying past the rows of expensive boats until she faced the open lake again at the far end. Still nothing.
She pulled a crumpled photo from her pocket and held it up to the horizon, trying to match the scene in front of her to the picture she held. It showed rows of boats with Angel Lady, the one she was looking for, in front of a stretch of Toronto city skyline, with the slender spire of the CN Tower off to the right of the marina. She squinted to line up the buildings, judging that she was too far to the left and the picture must have been taken from further along the lake shore. Not far though, just a couple of minutes’ walk. She strode along with renewed purpose.
At the end of the next dock, the boats and the city almost matched the picture, with the CN tower lined up against a low building in the foreground, and just a slightly different angle of view.
‘Right, you slimy bastard,’ she muttered. ‘Just a little further and I’ll finally have you. Say good-bye to your balls and hello to life as a soprano.’
She hurried along to the next dock, breaking into a run as she finally caught sight of the boat she was looking for.
The fuse sparked and crackled as it got closer to the bomb.
Her running shoes thudded along the wooden slats, sending echoes booming among the pontoons below. Closer now, she could see the shape of a man standing at the wheel, and a puff of pale blue smoke jetting from the engine exhaust. The Angel Lady was getting ready to leave.
‘Not yet, you lying prick! Wait!’
She put on a spurt to catch the launch before it left its berth, running pell-mell along the dock as the boat’s mooring lines slipped into the water.
‘Wait, dammit! I’ve got to talk to you!’
She hurtled towards the slowly moving boat, legs pumping and arms flailing in her efforts to reach it. The figure at the helm seemed oblivious of her approach.
Suddenly a pile of rags at the side of the dock seemed to catch her feet and she tripped at full speed. In a welter of windmilling limbs she splashed into the oil-filmed waters of Lake Ontario, falling headlong into the ever-widening space behind the sleek white stern of the Angel Lady.
CHAPTER 1
Robyn surfaced from beneath warm scented bath-water and heard her phone ringing insistently in the next room. She briefly considered leaping out to answer it, but relaxed back into the bubbles as she heard the answering machine pick up the call. A muffled male voice left a message and the machine beeped as they hung up.
She added more hot water, letting it soothe away the many stresses of her day. One of her new customers had been particularly demanding, asking for extended photo coverage of an upcoming wedding but with no increase in cost. And as for her noisy next-door neighbour – well, hanging was too good for him. She’d have to sort him out before he drove her insane with the ‘doof-doof’ music that he’d been playing all hours of the night.
Finally, mindful of her electricity bill if not her carbon footprint, she stopped adding hot water, hauled herself out of the tub and towelled off. After smoothing on some kiwi-fruit and aloe moisturiser, she padded into the study and peered at the answer-phone. Two messages? Someone must have called while she was out during the afternoon as well. She pressed the play button and reached for a notepad.
‘Gidday Sis, it’s Pete here. Look, you haven’t heard from Dad, have you? He went into town this morning and hasn’t come back yet, and you know how he likes to be here for afternoon milking. Did he tell you he had any plans for today? Give us a call, OK? Bye.’
Robyn shrugged. The machine beeped, then continued with the second message.
‘Hi Rob, Pete again - look it’s after six and Dad still hasn’t turned up. We were going to check out a couple of ewes in the home paddock this evening but he hasn’t called to say why he’s not here. Have you heard anything? Give us a call soon as, will you? Ta.’
Robyn felt a twinge of unease at the worry in her brother’s voice. Just as she reached for the phone to call him back it suddenly rang beneath her hand, making her jump. She answered cautiously.
‘Hello, Robyn Taylor here.’
‘Ah Rob, you’re home, good. Did you get my messages?’ Pete’s voice was unusually tense. Robyn blinked.
‘Whoa, bro - what happened to "Hi, how are you?"’
‘This isn’t the time, Rob, sorry. I need to know if you’ve seen Dad today.’
‘No mate, I haven’t. So what’s all the drama?’
‘Have you heard from him at all?’ Pete insisted. ‘A text or a phone-call?’
‘No, I haven’t. But he’s probably just down at the pub having a few beers, isn’t he? Why are you so stressed out, anyway? The old fella’s over 18, what’s the big deal? Do you think he’s up to no good, or what?’
‘Don’t make jokes Sis, I’m trying to tell you something. It’s just a feeling, but Dad hasn’t been acting quite normal for the last couple of weeks, and it’s got me worried. Now he hasn’t turned up when I was expecting him, and I reckon something’s wrong. He’d have rung me if he was going to be late or hang round at the pub. Suppose he’s had a heart attack or something on the way home and driven off the road? It’s the middle of winter and he’d freeze to death even if he survived the heart attack and the accident. I’m going to head into town and see if I can find him. Stay by the phone in case he rings you, will you?’
‘Jeez Pete, look on the bright side, why don’t you! Yeah, all right, I’ll man the phone here if that’s what you want. But hang on a sec, what exactly do you mean by “not normal”? Has he been grumpy, worried, depressed, what? Chest pains? Headaches? You’ve got to have more to go on than “not normal”.’
‘I dunno, he’s been sort of preoccupied, vague - it’s hard to put my finger on. Just not right, you know what I mean? Anyway, I’m going to head into town and look for the station wagon... aw, hang on, there’s a call waiting, I’ll get back to you.’
Robyn frowned at the receiver. She started to doodle on the pad. She waited for what seemed like an age before Pete came back on the line.
‘Yeah, Rob, hi - sorry about that. Some joker wanting Dad about insurance, I just had to put him off. Anyway, I’m going to go look for him -’
‘Pete!’ she cut in, ‘I’m sure he’s fine, you’re worrying about nothing.’
‘Hey, don’t just dismiss the whole thing from where you are, you didn’t see his face at breakfast this morning did you? I did, and he looked pretty grim.’
‘OK Pete, maybe I am being dismissive, but I’m sure you’re over-reacting.’ She rolled her eyes at her big brother’s seriousness. ‘Look, give me half an hour to take care of something I have to do here, I’ll call you back then, and I bet you a dozen beers that Dad’ll be home. If he isn’t, I’ll join the hunt. Deal? We’ll sort this out, Pete, don’t worry.’
‘Yeah, all right, but after half an hour I’m going looking for him whether you phone or not.’
‘Sure bro. See ya later, bye.’
Robyn hung up the phone, shaking her head at her brother’s stubbornness. He’d always been the serious one. Of course Dad was all right – he’d probably had a couple of beers at the pub and just needed to stay there for a feed so he could drive home safely.
Right now, it was time to sort out some minor domestic matters a little closer to home. A grin spread across her face as she contemplated the ‘thing’ she was about to take care of. Some stern natural justice was required to teach her inconsiderate noisy neighbour a lesson. Her polite requests to turn down his loud music had been ignored, and even the local council officers had been unable to force him to comply with residential noise regulations, despite complaints from several other people in the street. She was going to have to organise her own retribution.
Dressed in black sweatshirt and dark jeans, she crept through the hedge into her next-door neighbour’s garden.
‘This’ll fix you for keeping me awake with your bloody stereo,’ she said softly. ‘You made me suffer six hours of thumping music last night - I sentence you to blocked pipes and several phone calls to a plumber, ha! Perhaps you should move house, eh?’
She crouched by the wall below her neighbour’s kitchen window and pulled a spray can of expanding foam from her pocket. She inserted the nozzle into the kitchen drain outlet and squeezed the trigger. With a satisfying hiss, yellow foam gushed into the pipe and immediately started to harden, oozing gently out of the end. Robyn removed the overflow with a stick so that the cause of the blockage wouldn’t be too obvious, then gave the same treatment to the bathroom drains. Her neighbour’s morning shower would probably become quite unpleasant as his drainpipes backed up.
After that, she sprayed "Dickhead" in letters a foot high across his front lawn with weed-killer.
With the righteous sense of a job well done, she crept back home, washed off the last traces of the sticky foam and put away the weed-killer. Then she peeled the label off the spray can before putting it in the garbage, just in case the neighbour went looking for evidence.
It hadn’t been half an hour yet, but she picked up the phone anyway and called home.
‘So, Pete, how’s Dad then?’
‘Not here, Rob, so I couldn’t tell you.’ She raised her eyebrows at the edge in his voice. ‘But I just called Smitty at the Blenheim cop shop and he’s going to put the word round for the patrol cars to keep an eye out for him. They can’t start a proper search yet ‘cause he hasn’t been gone long enough, but he agrees that it’s out of character for him to disappear like this so he’s going to give me a hand unofficially. He said some of the fishing boys from Picton are going to come along too.’
‘Jesus, Pete - I didn’t realise it was that serious. Sorry, mate.’ She ran a hand through her blonde hair, frowned, and sat on the edge of her desk. ‘Look, shall I drive over and start looking from the town end of the road while you come in from the farm? If we meet in the middle at least we’ll know he hasn’t gone off the road somewhere.’
‘Yeah, all right, could be a plan. Call in at the cop shop on your way though in case they’ve spotted anything - could save you a long drive out here.’
‘Sure bro, see you soon, OK?’
She threw a warm jacket into the car, then went back with some misgivings to fetch her first aid box as well.
While driving across town to the police station, she wondered guiltily if she should have visited home more often over the last few weeks. In truth, she’d been enjoying the freedom from the fortnightly duty visits that she’d made during the long months of her mother’s illness, and had hoped that Pete and her Dad were getting on all right by themselves. Between working every second weekend photographing weddings, and going home to visit the family, her social life had taken a pounding the previous year and she needed time to repair it. Added to that, her quarter-of-a-century birthday was looming up in September, increasing that vague social pressure she was feeling to ‘find a nice man and settle down’.
She pushed harder on the accelerator and sped along the quiet street, but then remembered where she was headed and eased back to the legal limit.
Blenheim police station was well-lit but very quiet, with no patrol cars parked on the forecourt. Robyn buzzed for admittance, and was relieved to see a face she knew well coming to the door.
‘Gidday, Smitty, how’s it going?’
‘Good thanks Robyn, how are you doing? Come to help look for your old man, have you?’
‘Yeah, what’s the story Smitty, have you heard anything?
‘Not yet, love - come in, come in, it’s freezing out there.’
He guided her through to the inner room, sat her down, and handed her a cup of coffee which she accepted gratefully.
‘It’s not like your old man to go AWOL, is it?’ Smitty cupped his hands round his own mug and looked at her steadily.
‘No, I can’t figure it out. I thought Pete was stressing over nothing, but now I’m getting a bit worried myself.’
‘Has anything been bothering your Dad lately? I mean I know it hasn’t been all that long since your Mum died, but he seemed to be well over that, didn’t he? I mean, not that he doesn’t grieve for her or anything, just that he seemed pretty normal, eh?’ Smitty’s honest face reddened in case he’d caused offence.
‘No, you’re right, he did seem OK. Mum’s death wasn’t exactly unexpected, I mean, we all had plenty of time to get used to the idea, and I thought he handled it really well. No, I’m sure he hasn’t suddenly fallen apart over that.’
She sipped her coffee, choking slightly when the radio burst into life beside her ear with a crackle of static.
‘You there, Smitty? Over.’
He picked up the mike.
‘Yeah, go ahead Tim.’
‘You said to keep a lookout for Reg Taylor? He drives a green station wagon, doesn’t he? There’s one parked at Walter’s Bluff car park and nobody seems to be around. Can you do a vehicle check?’
At the mention of the vehicle registration number, Robyn’s face went still. She nodded to Smitty and he spoke into the mike.
‘That’s the one we’re after, Tim. Have a good look around, will you. I’ll be out there in a few minutes, and I’ve got his daughter with me.’ There was a wealth of meaning in his words. ‘I’ll let the rest of the boys know and they’ll meet us out there so we can cover more ground.’
The ten minute drive across flat pastureland to the coast at Walter’s Bluff went by in a blur of oncoming headlights and white lines on the road.
As they pulled up in the car park at the base of the cliff, Robyn caught her breath at the sight of her father’s car parked alone by the stone steps that led to the cliff-top path, bathed in the lights of the patrol car. Two policemen stood nearby, their breath steaming in the night air. Smitty told Robyn to wait in the car and went over to speak to them.
She watched their expressions, trying to make sense of the frowns, the gestures, and the quick glances in her direction. Finally, unable to bear the waiting, she went to join them.
‘What news then? Have you seen him?’
They wouldn’t meet her eyes.
‘No news, at least, nothing definite.’ Smitty said reassuringly. ‘There are a few scuff marks along the track, that’s all. We can’t tell until we’ve got more people here, and more light. Just hold fire until the others get here, and we’ll all go and look, OK? Go sit in the car for now.’
Robyn shot him a mutinous glance, but obeyed.
The inside of the police car was clean enough, but smelled of smoke with just a whiff of disinfectant to mask the sourness of the occasional drunk it had transported. The dashboard had extra unfamiliar buttons on it - alley lights, siren - giving Robyn the urge to push them to get a response from the three men outside. The radio was equally tempting, but she sighed and folded her arms. This was no time for fooling around.
She wondered where Pete was, somewhere on the long winding drive from the farm into town. Was he stopping at every bend to check for tyre tracks running off the edge? There were plenty of dangerous spots along the rugged hill road, where the encroachment of the sea made for sharp hairpin turns, and sudden washouts were always a possibility. She hated to think of him wasting effort there when he should be here. There was no point in trying to ring him as cellphone coverage was patchy at best in their remote part of the country.
Smitty got back in the car, bringing a wave of cold air tangy with bush and sea.
‘Soon have some back-up on site, and Neville’s at the station, he’ll get in touch with Pete to let him know what’s going on.’
‘He’ll probably see him before long, he’s heading into town looking for Dad on the way. Just don’t book him if he speeds on the way out here, OK?’
‘I think you could count these as extenuating circumstances.’
They smiled at each other, both grateful for the attempt to lighten the situation.
It was another ten minutes before the fishermen arrived, spraying gravel as they pulled up. Four young Maori guys got out and hauled backpacks from among the nets and buoys on the back of the truck, handing round torches and rescue gear with the ease of long practise. ‘We just want to be ready for anything,’ said Smitty, reading Robyn’s face. ‘It’s a long way to come back down if we need something in a hurry.’
She accepted his assurance at face value and joined the group headed towards the steps.
‘Hey Robyn, how’s it going?’ The youngest of the lads greeted her warmly.
‘Hi Matai,’ she said. ‘Good to see you – thanks for coming out on a cold night like this. I hope our old man hasn’t put you guys to a lot of trouble for nothing.’
‘Aw, no worries. Happy to look out for a mate, eh boys?’ The others chorused their agreement.
The path beyond the stonework was steep, slippery with dirt and loose stones, but she’d been there several times before and walked confidently in the circle of lamp-light from the person ahead of her. They pulled themselves up over a series of stone outcrops, moving steadily despite their burdens, each of them looking left and right for any sign of human traffic. Robyn was conscious of the sound of waves crashing on the rocks far below, and shivered in the damp breeze.
They tramped on for several more minutes, then paused to confer.
‘Seen anything?’ Smitty asked the leading officer.
‘Set of prints I’ve been following, about a size 10 boot...’ He looked towards Robyn and she nodded. It was the right size for her father.
‘A jumble of other feet heading in both directions, but nothing conclusive yet. Shall we carry on?’
Smitty nodded.
Far behind them, Robyn thought she heard a shrill whistle, and cocked her head to listen.
‘I think that’s Pete,’ she said. ‘It’s one of his signals. I’ll go back and get him.’
‘Mind how you go - here, take my torch. Make sure you bring it back, OK?’
She smiled at him. ‘Thanks, Smitty. Back in a tick.’
She hurried down the track, pausing to give a shrill two-fingered whistle in reply so Pete would know she was coming. They met at one of the rocky outcrops, and Robyn reached down to give her brother a hand up.
‘Thanks, Rob. Phew, it’s a long time since I sprinted anywhere this steep!’ He bent over, panting. ‘What news? Finding the car’s a good start, but where the hell is Dad?’
‘Damned if I know. What would he be doing way out here anyway?’
She waited while he caught his breath.
‘Well he used to come up here sometimes after visiting Mum in the hospital, said it cleared his mind to get away from it all. Maybe he wanted a bit of peace and quiet?’
‘What! Like the farm isn’t quiet! Get real, Pete.’
She stopped when she saw his wounded look.
‘Sorry, mate. I know you’re worried sick.’ She slipped an arm round his shoulder. ‘Let’s catch up with the search team and see if they’ve found anything yet. Dad must be round somewhere if he left the car here, eh?’
They hurried along the path, both careful to keep to the inward side. On the outer side the torch beam lost itself in empty blackness past pale tussocks flickering on the cliff edge.
They rounded a shoulder of the hill to see a grassy area cordoned off with bright yellow New Zealand Police tape, lit by lamps and torches as the officers and searchers walked in a straggling line across it. Now and again one bent down and picked up an item, leaving a marker in its place. Robyn and Pete broke into a run.
‘Smitty! What have you found?’
‘Where is he, is he here?’
Smitty held up his hand.
‘Hold it, guys, stay where you are for now, will you? We just have to do a scene examination then I’ll be right back. Go sit over there, I’ll be as quick as I can.’
They glanced at each other with shocked eyes, half numb with disbelief.
‘What the hell is this, can you figure it out, Rob?’
She looked at the row of searchers, painstakingly combing the taped-off area.
‘They must be considering it a crime scene. Is Dad the criminal or the victim?’
Her attempt at humour sounded weak, even to her. Pete ignored it. He paced back and forth along the track, looking at his feet.
‘How can they tell anything from this? The ground’s dry as a bone, nothing but dust, and now they’ve tramped all over it with their great big boots anyway. Why are they wasting time, they can see Dad’s not there - why aren’t they moving on?’
‘Steady, Pete. Smitty knows what he’s doing. I know it’s hard, but just wait.’
Smitty walked over to them with something in a plastic bag.
‘Do either of you recognise this?’ He held up a brown leather wallet. Robyn peered closely, holding a corner of the plastic bag to steady it.
‘Yeah, that’s Dad’s! I bought it for him last Christmas, look, there are his initials on the corner. He must have come this way! Can’t we go a bit further and look for him?’
Smitty shook his head seriously. ‘Come and have a look over here. I think we’ve figured out what may have happened to him.’
They followed Smitty across the grass to the edge of the cliff, where the ground fell away almost vertically in a sheer drop to the rocks below.
‘OK, see these prints? Size ten boots, like your Dad’s, right? We can probably make comparison prints from round the farm to confirm that. There’s been a scuffle here, the prints point in several directions as if he’s been circling round facing someone. His wallet was found empty on the grass over there, and a few coins over here.’ He paused to let them assimilate what he’d said. ‘Now, this is going to be the hard part. Look over the edge, carefully now. The bushes are broken as if something quite heavy has crashed against them. Do you see what I mean?’
Robyn’s fist pressed against her mouth, and Pete let out a groan.
‘But OK, suppose there was a struggle, and a robbery - suppose Dad got free and it was the robber that went over the cliff? Dad might have panicked and taken off thinking he’d killed someone...’
Robyn’s voice trailed off. It didn’t sound convincing.
‘The fact that the wallet was found empty suggests that the assailant took the cash out afterwards, when he was alone. I think you’re going to have to prepare yourselves for bad news. It’s unlikely that anyone could survive a fall from that height. I’m very sorry.’
Smitty went off to arrange a helicopter to search the cliff-face and the rocks beneath.
It was a week before the body washed ashore along the coast. The forensic examination revealed abrasions and general contusions consistent with a fall and subsequent pounding by the sea, and an absence of water in the lungs. The Coroner recorded a cautious verdict of death at the hands of person or persons unknown.
The Taylors attended their second funeral in a year.
They were greeted with sympathy by the legal receptionist when they arrived at the family lawyer’s office for the reading of their father’s will.
‘Not a lot of good news, I’m afraid,’ began the young bespectacled lawyer in dry tones. He leaned on his desk in an unconscious copy of the portrait behind him that showed his father at the same desk.
‘There was very little capital left in the reserve fund, and the second mortgage on the farm left your father seriously in debt.’
Robyn and Pete exchanged puzzled frowns.
‘What second mortgage? He never mentioned anything like that. When was that arranged?’ Pete queried the young man, who looked uncomfortable.
‘It was about a year ago, and it wasn’t arranged through our firm, unfortunately. We would certainly have advised against it, particularly with the current state of the farming sector.’
‘But how could you not have known about it? Don’t they run checks on these things - surely you’d have heard and told him not to do it? What the hell have you guys been playing at?’
The lawyer met Pete’s eyes. ‘I can understand that you’re upset, Peter. This has been a difficult time for your family. I assure you that we have always acted in your best interests, but if you would like to consult my father for his opinion, you are most welcome. He keeps a watching brief on the office despite his retirement. If you’re not happy with my handling of the situation?’
Pete shook his head. ‘No, no - it’s OK, I didn’t mean to question your abilities, it’s just that all this is a bit of a surprise. The farm accounts have been fine for years, and Dad never mentioned that he’d even thought of getting a second mortgage - I just can’t understand why he did.’
‘I gather your late mother was ill for a long time, in residential care?’ The question came with quiet delicacy. ‘Some of the treatments were expensive? From what I understand they did alleviate her distress, but the cost was beyond your father’s capacity to pay for very long. I’m afraid he took a gamble, and one which was to prove very ill-advised.’
‘But why didn’t he come to us?’ burst out Robyn.
‘Who was responsible for the bad advice?’ asked Pete.
‘What sort of gamble are we talking about?’
‘He went to some sort of investment broker in Wellington.’ The lawyer steepled his fingers and pursed his lips disapprovingly. ‘This fellow convinced him that he could double his funds in a year with no risk.’
There were simultaneous snorts of derision from both Robyn and Pete. The lawyer smiled thinly.
‘Obviously you wouldn’t have fallen for such a wild promise, but apparently the man was extremely convincing, and by this time your father was clutching at straws. He withdrew all the remaining capital from the farm reserve account and invested it with this broker.
Pete’s face paled.
‘I never look at that account - we never touched it except for major capital expenses, and Dad didn’t plan for any of those this year. Oh my God.’ His face fell into his hands.
‘So what’s the situation?’ broke in Robyn. ‘How bad is it? Do we have to sell the farm, or what? I mean, we’ve got to be practical about this.’
She ignored Pete’s anguished look at the suggestion.
‘Well, no. Fortunately not, under the, er, current circumstances. Your father was sensible enough to take out a substantial life insurance policy several months ago, which guaranteed repayment of the mortgage and allowed a useful working capital for the farm. Also, under the terms of his will, you each get an individual payment of ten thousand dollars once the balance of the estate has been dealt with, and of course you are both joint owners of the farm. I know this was a very important point for your father.
Pete breathed more easily.
‘Good old Dad,’ he said softly. ‘I knew he’d think of the farm first.’ He stood and held out his hand to the lawyer. ‘Thanks for that - I guess you’ll be in touch with anything else we have to do, papers to sign, whatever?’
‘Hold on Pete,’ Robyn cut in, putting a gentle hand on his arm. ‘There’s something more I want to know here.’ She turned to the lawyer. ‘You’re saying that the money was lost, but the life insurance paid up and we’re OK, right?’ He nodded. ‘So what happened to the money that Dad gave this investor guy in Wellington. Can’t we get it back? Where exactly did it go?’
The lawyer leaned back in his seat.
‘I haven’t been able to find out yet. This investment broker Colwyn Symons seems to be a rather slippery character who has a number of clients looking for him - and I suspect that even if he’s located, his affairs will be tied up in court for some years. Apparently yours are not the only funds to have been, ah, mis-invested, shall we say?’
‘When you say "mis-invested", do you mean stolen?’
‘Let’s say that the possibility is there, but it will take some considerable time to unravel the complexities of the transactions made in each individual case.’
‘And are we likely to see any of that money again?’
He spread his hands and smiled sadly. ‘Most unlikely, I’m afraid.’
Back at the farm, Robyn and Pete spent the next few days going through their father’s papers and sorting out his effects for disposal. They spread out all the paperwork on the oak dining table and sat one at each end. Low winter sun angled through the windows catching dust motes as the pages were shuffled and turned.
‘Jeez, this is even worse than sorting through Mum’s stuff. At least she had time to put most of her affairs in order before she had to go into hospital.’ Pete pushed a stack of papers away and sighed. ‘Why do we accumulate so much junk in our lives, Rob? I reckon I’ll have a big bonfire when I’m sixty and start all over again with just the stuff I really need. Then you won’t have to do this for me.’ He smiled weakly, pointing at the pile he still had to sort.
Robyn decided he needed cheering up. She went on the offensive as only a sister could.
‘Good on yer, mate – and while you’re at it, would you please burn all those ghastly old clothes of yours too? I wouldn’t want to be seen dropping them in the charity clothing bin.’
Pete threw a scrunched-up envelope at her and smiled.
‘You’re still a brat, aren’t you? You were just as obnoxious as a kid. Look at this photo, remember this?’ He held out a picture of Robyn as a grim-faced child holding a very dead seagull.
‘Oops, yes, I remember. I hit it in the head with my catapult after it had attacked Blackie. Wasn’t a bad shot, was it?’
‘Well it definitely didn’t peck any more lambs’ eyes, I’ll grant you that.’
‘Didn’t help poor Blackie though, did it? It was rotten for Dad, having to put him down. He couldn’t face me for a week.’ She handed back the photo. ‘Got any more snaps there?’
‘Yeah, check out Dad’s old passports, they’ve got photos in going back to the year dot.’
Robyn flicked through them, seeing the small black and white photographs age decade by decade from the stiff self-conscious pose of youth, to the lean, lined face of a man who’d worked the land for a lifetime. The tan lines across the forehead marked him as an outdoors man used to wearing a hat, but the crinkles at the corner of his eyes were as much from laughing as from the summer sun.
She slowly slipped the rubber bands back round the bundle and went to make a cup of tea.
‘Huh? Oh, thanks, Rob,’ grunted Pete absently as she put a steaming mug at his elbow. He was reading an official-looking letter and frowning. ‘Look at this. It must be from that investment guy in Wellington, dated six months ago. "Golden Fleece Investments" - Dad would have liked the name, he always used to tell us the story of Jason and the Argonauts, and Hercules, do you remember? Listen to these promises... "Dear Mr. Taylor, we are delighted by your interest in our investment offer, and we are entirely confident that we can increase your funds by at least 100% in a year. Our specialised knowledge of the New Zealand sharemarket means that we can take your money, Mr. Taylor, and make it work for you in a way that nobody else can. We are so confident in our services that we guarantee your profit - yes, guarantee it! If for any reason you are unhappy with our performance over the year, we will return all your money, with no charge at all for our efforts on your behalf. You cannot lose!" Blah blah blah. What a pack of bullshit!’ Pete threw the letter down in despair.
‘How the hell could Dad fall for crap like that? He must have been desperate.’
They looked at each other in dismay.
‘How come I didn’t see it, Rob?’
She put her hand on his shoulder. ‘Probably because you didn’t want to. Neither of us did. I mean, things were awful enough with Mum being so ill that we never thought of money troubles as well. Don’t blame yourself, Pete.’
Pete picked up another letter. ‘Listen to this one. "Thank you for your cheque, Mr. Taylor. Rest assured that our expert staff has put your money to work right away. Any time you’d like an update on the current state of your mounting investments, just pick up the phone and call our Managing Director Colwyn Symons who will be happy to personally pass on all the details of your progress." Yeah, sure he will, if he’s not out stashing it away in a Swiss bank account or spending it on a fur coat for his fancy woman. God I wish Dad had told me about this - I could have stopped him.’
‘I told you, don’t beat yourself up over it, it’s not your fault. The guy to blame is this bastard who stole the money. I mean, there’s no way he can get away with making promises like that, is there? It’s got to be against the law, surely?’ Robyn looked more closely at the letter. ‘I wonder if there’s any point in calling this Colwyn Symons character. I know the lawyer couldn’t get hold of him but if he’s still around fleecing people maybe he can shed some light on where Dad’s money went.’
‘Yeah, right! And he’ll send us a cheque for the whole lot plus interest,’ said Pete bitterly. ‘In your dreams, sis. You heard what the lawyer said - legal complexities, tangles of red tape, there’s no way.’
‘Well I’m going to bloody ring him anyway.’ She checked her watch. ‘He should still be at the office, looking for helpless old ladies to steal from.’
She dialled the number and waited, twisting the phone cord round her finger. A recorded message replied in smooth tones.
‘Hi there, this is Colwyn Symons speaking. I’m sorry that the pressure of business prevents me from taking your call right now, but please do leave a message after the tone and I’ll be delighted to get right back to you. Thank you very much for calling.’
Robyn hung up in disgust, rubbing her hand against her jeans.
‘God, what a greasy message! He sounds like a used car salesman. Maybe I’ll try tomorrow.’
She picked up the next letter from the pile. ‘Ha, only three months later, and they’re already weaselling out of telling Dad how things were going. "Dear Mr. Taylor, we are unable to give you the figures you asked for, as the share market is extremely volatile at present, and any current balance will change rapidly from one day to the next. In the right hands, fortunes are being made, so sit tight and wait for our next report. If you wish to take advantage of the rapid rises that some shares are making, we will be happy to increase your investments upon receipt of a cheque..." Jesus! He didn’t send them any more money, did he?’
‘No, not according to the chequebook,’ said Pete. ‘What’s the next letter say?’
‘OK, let’s see..."Dear Mr. Taylor... blah blah blah... your investment has already increased beyond predicted returns, in only six months! We are certain that you will wish to continue to enjoy this outstanding performance, and would strongly advise against withdrawing your money at this particular point as the market is set to rise even further in the immediate future..." Sounds like he asked for his money back. Maybe he wasn’t completely taken in.’
‘He didn’t get it though, did he? I wonder if he ever figured out that he’d been had. He never said a thing to me.’
‘Well he wouldn’t, would he? Dad would never admit he’d been ripped off, he’d be too ashamed. I would too.’
She pushed back from the table and paced across the polished floor, her footsteps sounding loud on the bare wood, then quieter as she stepped onto the rug.
‘The more I read of those letters, the angrier I get. They’re so - so - superior and smug, as if the writer knows exactly what he’s doing and also knows that the poor mug at the other end can’t do a damn thing about it. Doesn’t it want to make you rush over to Wellington and grab Colwyn Symons by the throat and beat the crap out of him?’
‘More your style than mine, Rob. You always were the firebrand of the family. Now let’s get this lot finished, shall we? There’s heaps to do on the farm and I can’t concentrate while this is hanging over my head.’
They returned to the piles, reading through each page and sorting them into some semblance of order. It grew dark outside, so Robyn switched on the light. It still made her smile to flick the switch, now that electricity had been connected to the property after so many years of noisy diesel-generated power.
‘Not like the old days, eh Pete?’ She became aware that he was sitting very still, staring at a document. ‘Pete? What’s up, bro? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’
He glanced up, his face bleak.
‘What was the date on that last letter from the investment company?’
She rummaged through the relevant pile. ‘Ah, June 3rd. Why?’
‘This is the life insurance policy Dad took out. It’s dated three days later. He knew, Robyn. He realised the money was gone and he took out the policy to look after us.’
It wasn’t until some days later that Robyn voiced the thought that had occurred privately to both of them since they’d found the policy. They were standing at the kitchen sink washing the dinner dishes after the last day of tidying up their father’s belongings. Robyn was due to drive home the next day, and Pete was planning to interview a few likely lads to work on the farm.
The evening sun sparkled across wave-tops stirred by a steady northerly breeze. Up on the hill behind the house, a sheep baaed plaintively.
Robyn pushed the window open and drew in a deep breath of fresh air, knowing she’d be back in suburbia the next day. Pete was drying a handful of cutlery.
‘Pete, do you have any doubts about the way Dad... died?’
‘About who robbed him, or what?’
‘About any of it. You said it didn’t make sense that he would have been robbed way out there, remember? Where nobody would have expected him to come along?’
‘Yeah, well it was pretty weird, wasn’t it? It’s a bloody stupid place for a mugger to hang round just on the off-chance that some rich tourist might turn up. I mean, Walter’s Bluff isn’t exactly number one attraction in the Blenheim guide book, is it?’
‘True. So who just happened to be out there when Dad went for a quiet walk?
‘I don’t know! Maybe Smitty’s got it figured out but I sure haven’t.’
He threw the cutlery into the drawer and slammed it shut. ‘Look, I just want to put it behind me, OK? We got nowhere with Dad’s robbery, we got nothing but an answer-phone for Colwyn Symons, there’s nothing more we can do.’
‘Oh come on, Pete! You can’t just let it go like that! Imagine if Dad hadn’t taken out that insurance - we’d have lost the farm as well as the money. You’d be out of a job, you’d have nowhere to live, and all Dad’s work would have been lost. He wanted to build something here that would last for generations, and one crooked bastard could have ruined everything. Doesn’t that rattle your cage just a little bit?’
‘Yes of course it does!’ He clamped his mouth shut for a moment then took a deep breath. ‘I just don’t see that there’s anything to be gained by chasing after shadows. Dad’s dead, the investment money’s gone, and there’s no way of fixing either of those things. But the insurance paid out and the farm’s OK. We have to let it go.’
‘Yeah, maybe you’re right.’ She threw down the wet dish-cloth on the draining board. There was a brief silence. But Robyn just couldn’t leave the subject alone. ‘Pete, it bugs me that the only reason Dad was out there at Walter’s Bluff in the first place was supposedly to clear his mind because he was worried sick about losing the money. Does that sound like a good enough reason to you? Suppose he just staged a fake robbery, because there’d been a real one that he couldn’t do anything about. He might actually have jumped, Pete, all because of that missing money. He might have jumped off a damned cliff just for the insurance payout to replace it - and that Symons character seems to have got away with nicking it.’ She gasped as another thought struck her. ‘Oh God, Pete - how many more people has he done it to besides Dad?’
Suds from her hands splattered across the floor as she gesticulated. ‘It seems so unfair, doesn’t it? I just wish there was something I could do.’
Foam splashed up from the sink and soaked into her shirt-front. She jerked up the plug chain in frustration and watched the water drain away. Pete looked at her sadly.
‘Come on Robyn, you’ll drive yourself insane if you go down that track. Let it go – there’s nothing we can do that will bring Dad back, and he wouldn’t have wanted you ripping yourself apart over it.’
‘Oh to hell with it, maybe you’re right - I’m going home tomorrow and getting on with my job, and you’ve got a farm to run.’ She gave her brother a quick hug. ‘Tell me when the first bloke’s turning up for his interview so I can be out of your way before he gets here.’
She let the kitchen door bang behind her.
In the weeks and months that followed, she went about her job mechanically, her photography lacking much of its usual flair. Weddings were especially difficult for her, being filled with happy family moments that she felt no desire to capture. At the end of each day she returned home reluctantly, and tried to lose herself in a variety of mindless pastimes until it was late enough for her to fall asleep.
It was during the TV news one evening that she saw something that jolted her out of her numbness. There was an interview with a golden-haired man lounging on board a sleek white yacht, and the name at the bottom of the screen said ‘Colwyn Symons, Toronto, Canada’. Robyn sat bolt upright on the couch, fumbling for the remote to turn up the volume. Symons was being interviewed by an investigative reporter who had followed him from New Zealand after his sudden departure some months previously. Robyn sharpened her attention. This must be the same Colwyn Symons. The reporter was asking about the funds that Mr. Symons had invested on behalf of his clients. Mr. Symons replied that sadly, the investment market had not performed as expected, and that as share values had declined, so the investors’ funds had dwindled. It was the kind of thing one had to expect when dealing in a speculative arena such as the share market. He spread his hands and smiled sincerely. There was nothing more that he could have done.
The reporter asked about his sudden departure from the country. A family event in Canada, said Mr. Symons smoothly, followed by an extended holiday. And the luxury yacht, asked the reporter, was it paid for out of investors’ money? Mr. Symons appeared shocked by the question, and hastened to dispel any suggestion that he was the owner of the yacht or indeed had any funds at his disposal at all. The interview was taking place on board solely through the kindness of its owner who had no financial connection with Golden Fleece investments whatsoever.
At this point Robyn came to her senses and flicked on the DVD recorder, watching the last of the interview with mounting outrage. The list of defrauded clients went on and on, including pensioners who had lost their life savings, unemployed workers who had handed over their redundancy payments and were left with nothing, and a family who had a sick child needing costly overseas treatment. All of them had been left penniless, devastated and powerless. The interviewer’s grim conclusion was that legally, nothing could be done about it.
As the credits rolled, she reached for the phone and dialled Pete’s number with shaking fingers. It rang for what seemed like an eternity, while she breathed deeply and forced herself to stay calm. At last Pete answered, sounding breathless.
‘Hello? Sorry about the wait.’
‘Pete, did you see that? On TV - Colwyn Symons was just interviewed. That freaking bastard was there on TV, Pete, he went to Canada with all the damn money.’
‘You’re joking! No I didn’t see it, I was out in the shed fixing the tractor. So how do you know he’s got the money?’
‘Because he’s got a huge fancy yacht and poncy designer clothes and he’s living it up in Toronto - and according to the reporter, he’s bloody got away with it! They can’t touch him, there’s no hard evidence of fraud, and the cops can’t do a damn thing. He’s ripped off dozens of people, not just us, and most of them are left with absolutely nothing. Doesn’t it make you bloody sick?’
Pete was silent.
‘Pete? You still there? Say something, dammit!’
There’s nothing to say, Rob. OK, he’s a smart bastard, but if the cops can’t touch him, there’s not a hell of a lot anyone can do about it, is there?’
‘There bloody is if I go over there. I’ll bloody kill him, I swear it.’ She clung to the phone till her knuckles turned white. ‘I’ll go over there and find him and turn him inside out through his own bloody arsehole! Someone has to get him back for the money he stole. He can’t get away with it, it’s just not FAIR!’
‘Robyn! For God’s sake calm down! Look, be sensible, will you? You can’t go tearing off to Canada.’
‘Why not?’
‘You’d lose your job.’
‘I’ll take unpaid leave.’
‘You haven’t got a passport.’
‘I’ll get one.’
‘You can’t afford it.’
‘I’ve got ten thousand dollars, remember?’
‘Robyn, you can’t! Dad died to give you that money.’
She gasped as if he’d slapped her. ‘Christ, that was a low blow. OK, fine. Just you watch the late news tonight so you see why I have to do this. I’ll call you tomorrow.’
She slammed down the phone and stormed outside to take a walk.
Loud music was playing from her next-door-neighbour’s house as she crossed her garden. She wheeled in fury and screamed at the open window.
‘And you can turn that bloody noise down too, you selfish bugger!’
The music volume dropped abruptly as she strode away.
When she finally returned home, much later, there was a message from Pete on her answer-phone.
‘Rob? Caught the late news. I see what you mean. That Symons character was way worse than I thought. For once, you’re right. If you want to go over there, I’ll back you all the way. Scum like that can’t be allowed to get away with it. Talk to you later, bye.’
She clenched a fist exultantly and started to pack.
CHAPTER 2
Two weeks later, when she’d got her passport and ticket, Robyn drove out to the farm to say goodbye to Pete and to pick up a few last-minute items. Pete looked surprised then suspicious at some of the things going into her bag.
‘Why are you taking fence staples, Robyn?’
‘Might need them,’ she said airily.
‘And what the hell are you doing with the lamb docker?’
‘Er, might pick up some part-time farm work?’
‘Robyn!’
‘Oh all right – look, you won’t be needing it for a while yet, will you? I just thought I might get a chance to use it on our dear friend Mr Symons, you never know.’
‘You’d use the docker on a guy?’ Pete crossed his legs and winced at the very thought.
‘On that dick? In a second,’ she said coolly. ‘He deserves everything that’s coming to him.’ Pete grinned.
‘There won’t be much coming at all, once you’ve finished with him!’
‘Damn right.’ She swivelled the contraption round her finger and dropped it into an imaginary holster. ‘Right, I’m just going to take a last look around in case I’ve forgotten anything.’
‘I think I’ll join you. Who knows what you’ll decide to disappear with.’
They strolled out of the farmhouse towards the shed as a winter sun lifted skeins of mist from the valleys. Gnarled macrocarpa trees loomed through the vapour, echoing with warbles and squeaks from the family of magpies that made their home among the branches. Robyn gave the farm dogs a quick pat, conscious of Pete’s amused gaze.
‘Come on Robyn, aren’t you going to kiss them all goodbye?’
‘No, I’m saving that for you and the horse.’
She cast a quick eye over the implements in the shed but decided her bag was too full to squeeze in anything more. They ambled along beside the sheep pens with Robyn idly flicking bits of lichen off the rails with her fingernail. At the top of the path that led down to the jetty they paused between rough-barked manuka trees to admire the view.
Rich blue arms of sea reached between bush-covered hills, and below them in the bay dotted rows of buoys belonging to a mussel farm were tossing gently in the wake of the latest Cook Strait ferry
Robyn surveyed the scene for a few more moments, then turned to Pete.
‘I guess that’ll do for saying goodbye to the place. Now, are you ready to drive me to the plane?’
As they made their way back towards the farmhouse he looked at her searchingly.
‘I’m ready, but are you sure you’re ready? I mean, you’ve never been very far from home before, have you? One day trip to Wellington on the ferry, and you didn’t enjoy that very much. How are you going to feel when you’re eight thousand miles away?’
‘Aw, Pete! Stop fussing, will you? It’s not as if I’m going to a totally foreign place - they do speak English in Canada, and they’re still part of the Commonwealth, aren’t they? I’m sure I’ll fit right in, find people I can talk to - and it’s only for a couple of weeks anyway. I’ll be fine! I’ll track down Symons, do him over, squeeze whatever reparations I can out of him, and fly home. Simple. If castrating him and ripping his liver out convinces him never to steal again, my work will be done.’
‘I still can’t figure out how you think you’ll find him in a city the size of Toronto.’
‘I told you, I took a photo off the news video that showed his boat and the marina it’s in - he tried to tell the reporter it wasn’t his boat but I know damn well it was. I’ll just check out the waterfront until I spot him, pick my moment, and POW! He’ll be sorry he ever tangled with the Taylor family.’
‘I’m sure he will! Just watch you don’t get charged with assault or anything illegal - it’s too far to come and bail you out.’ Pete grinned. ‘Go get him, sis!’
‘Right then!’ Robyn took a last look round at the green and tranquil hills, and on an impulse grabbed a handful of the sweet lush grass and stuffed it into the pocket of her backpack. Something to sniff and remind her of home, just in case she did get homesick.
They piled her bags into the back of the truck and set off on the long dusty drive to Picton airfield, where Robyn looked dubiously at the tiny six-seater plane that was to fly her across Cook Strait.
‘I guess this is it, then. Look after the place, Pete.’
She hugged him fiercely, shouldered her bag, then strode away across the grass and climbed aboard the little aircraft.
She held onto the armrests firmly as the plane took off, feeling a thrill as it skimmed frighteningly close to the hills at the end of the runway before soaring above the Marlborough Sounds. The sight of the network of sea-filled valleys was a pleasant distraction, and she craned her head to take a last look at the farm before fluffy clouds obscured it from view.
After ten minutes the tip of the North Island came into view below her, an expanse of stark brown ranges where the bones of the land showed through. In the distance Wellington city appeared through patchy cloud. Robyn had a fleeting glimpse of hills covered with houses whizzing past, then turned her head hurriedly to watch the view through the plane’s front window. She gasped as the runway ahead seemed to swoop from side to side and up and down with every gust of wind. Trying to reassure herself that the pilot knew exactly what he was doing, she clung to the armrests to steady herself until the little plane was safely on the ground. After a quick sprint across rain-soaked tarmac to the airport lounge, she ducked into the restroom to drag a comb through her wet and windblown hair.
Coming out, she noticed a phone, and decided that since she was in Wellington, she might as well try ringing Golden Fleece Investments to see if anyone was left at the office.
The signal for a disconnected number told her all she needed to know. Colwyn Symons had definitely done a runner with all the loot, and the company had folded.
She sat down to wait for her boarding call to Auckland.
This time she boarded a much bigger plane along a covered passageway that connected directly to the plane door so she didn’t have to brave the rain and the smell of jet-fuel outside.