Reaper, p.1
Reaper, page 1
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TEAM ORENDA
Reaper
Vanda Symon
For Doug.
Contents
Title Page
Dedication
1: Max
2: The Reaper
3: Max
4: Max
5: Meredith
6: Max
7: Max
8: Max
9: Max
10: Reaper
11: Max
12: Max
13: Meredith
14: Reaper
15: Max
16: Max
17: Reaper
18: Max
19: Max
20: Reaper
21: Meredith
22: Max
23: Max
24: Meredith
25: Max
26: Max
27: Meredith
28: Max
29: Reaper
30: Max
31: Max
32: Meredith
33: Reaper
34: Meredith
35: Reaper
36: Max
37: Meredith
38: Max
39: Meredith
40: Max
41: Meredith
42: Reaper
43: Meredith
44: Meredith
45: Max
46: Reaper
47: Meredith
48: Max
49: Reaper
50: Meredith
51: Reaper
52: Meredith
53: Max
54: Reaper
55: Max
56: Reaper
57: Max
58: Meredith
59: Max
60: Meredith
61: Max
62: Reaper
63: Meredith
64: Max
65: Meredith
66: Max
67: Reaper
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Other titles by Vanda Symon available from Orenda Books
Copyright
1: Max
The wail of sirens wrenched him from what had been a restless sleep. His eyes flicked round his surroundings, heart racing, mind disoriented by the image of a cold concrete room that lingered on from his dreams. Relief washed over him as he took in the familiar sight of bags of insulation batts, sheets of plastic stapled to stripped-back timber framing and the chaotic pile of builders’ detritus. The smooth nylon of his sleeping bag against his skin offered reassurance, and his pulse began to settle, although the pangs of alarm still churned in his stomach. A meagre, grey light filtered through the filthy windows from the overcast skies. He pulled his arm out of the warmth of the bag and checked his watch.
Fuck, he’d overslept. The irony of those words not lost on a man who had tossed and turned for most of the night. He extricated himself from the sleeping bag, rolled it up and jammed it into his backpack. It wouldn’t be long before the builders turned up to start their working day, and he couldn’t risk them finding him here. He suspected they were aware of his presence and was surprised they hadn’t made efforts to make the site more secure, but perhaps they viewed him as a convenient security guard, one they didn’t have to pay. The massive two-storey Victorian villa had once stood proud on the corner just by Grafton Bridge, but nowadays it was a shadow of its former glory, a work in progress surrounded by overgrown grass, high wire fences and the tell-tale signs of renovation. So far he was the only one who had discovered the small gap in the fencing that he could barely squeeze through, and he wanted to keep it that way. The place afforded a roof over his head and solitude, something he still needed at present. But that was it as far as comforts went. There was no water, no electricity and a shit ton of draughts.
As always he took care to leave nothing behind – less a squatter, more a phantom. And he timed his exit from the site so he melted in, unobserved, behind a group of university students walking down the hill towards the traffic lights. But instead of following them across the road and towards the hospital campus, he turned left and headed across the bridge. Walking beneath the canopy of old oak trees that lined Karangahape Road always felt like passing through a gateway to his own territory, his familiar stomping grounds. However, those of a more sensitive disposition, or inclined to superstition, may have viewed the oaks more as sentries for the dead, standing guard over the old cemetery that inhabited the heart of the city. He was not superstitious, nor did he consider himself spiritual or a man of faith, but he found strange comfort in the knowledge that generations of Aucklanders rested here. In times past he had spent many an hour wandering the paths, reading the headstones. Some might see that as maudlin. But he found it a place of reassuring permanence in a world of transience. Someone at some stage had loved these people enough to erect a memorial that would honour them and outlast them all. He wondered if anyone would ever see his life as meaningful enough to want to do the same. Somehow he doubted that. If he was lucky his ashes would be scattered to the wind somewhere he loved. If unlucky, they would never be picked up from the crematorium.
The cooler weather and chill wind meant that the commuters he passed on their way in for another round of the daily grind were cocooned within themselves, intent on their destination, not making eye contact. Not that they did on a warmer day either. All manner of humanity walked this route, from the business man in suit and tie, to the fresh-faced student, to the harried mother with kids in tow. It was also known for what society would consider the more seedy element of Auckland life, but who Max preferred to call the vulnerable and displaced. Not everyone had the security of a job, a permanent home, the luxury of food on the table, and family and loved ones to be cared by and to care for. He counted himself among the lucky ones. He might not have had a permanent home, but he at least had somewhere he could go to earn a buck, shower, have some sense of purpose. He chucked a few gold coins in the cup of a middle-aged woman sitting on the pavement, leaning against a vacant shop front. She was wrapped up against the cold in a very well-loved-looking eiderdown, and a small pile of grocery bags stuffed with her belongings provided a physical barrier to the wind. The tinkle of coins in the bottom of the cup made her look up, and a toothless smile cracked her face.
‘Thanks, Max.’
‘You take care, Karina.’
As much as it could, the community looked after its own.
He turned down Pitt Street, heading towards the gym, but immediately broke his stride as he saw the array of police cars pulled up around Beresford Square and the construction site that would one day be the new Karanga-a-hape Rail Station. Were they the sirens he’d heard earlier? He counted four vehicles, which indicated something serious was going down. He also took in the presence of an ambulance. Not a good sign. He slowed his pace further and decided to take a slight detour on his way to work. There were enough people walking in the vicinity that his curiosity would go unnoticed.
But the closer he got to the scene the more he realised he didn’t need to worry about being spotted, as a number of spectators were milling around, blatantly watching what was going on with a train-wreck fascination. The police attention seemed to be focussed part way down Samoa House Lane. A constable was on point duty at its entrance, next to the Fale, keeping the nosey at bay, and from what Max could see the medics and officers were gathered around a recessed doorway at the rear of the building. Judging by the stance and body language of all involved, no one was in any particular hurry, and it wasn’t being set up as a crime scene. He could only speculate that either someone had had an accident but was otherwise okay, or their day had started very badly. He suspected the latter.
2: The Reaper
The shadows shimmy and fracture as a shape slips across the opening and melts into the blackness opposite. He has been tracking this creature for two weeks now, his quarry oblivious to the attention, instead absorbed in his world of acquiring cheap booze, scavenging for food and bumming cigarettes. If ever there was a case for getting scum off the streets, it is this man. He is loath to call him a man, to bestow upon him that title implies there is some worth, some redeeming feature that warrants it. From what he has observed this trash is a blight on society. Even among his fellow homeless and rough sleepers he is someone who is feared and reviled. Removing him is going to do everyone a favour. One less bum on the streets, one less blight on the city.
Darkness has descended and the life and buzz of the shop assistants and office workers – the legitimate – is replaced by the night shift: the sex workers, the nutters, the degenerates, and those who have let themselves sink so far as to become the lowest of the low. The bottom feeders, as one significant leader has referred to them, handing a mandate to those who have the means and the balls to take care of business. People like himself.
The prey wobbles a booze-fuelled shuffle down the lane, settling on a spot under the entranceway at the rear of a building. He sits down with his pathetic bag of belongings. He pulls out a sleeping bag that even in this poor light is clearly stained with god only knows what. The shadow watches, waiting while the prey settles in, arranges his treasures around him as always, including a framed picture of a woman, presumably the woman who spawned him, and a ba ttered houndstooth flat cap, strategically placed for any coins that might drop his way.
Just the biscuit tin to go, he thinks, and sure enough, the red ANZAC-day memorial tin with its stained-glass-style poppies emerges from the bag. The lid is prised off and filthy fingers extract a tarnished mouth organ. Moments later the mournful sound of shit harmonica-playing drifts through the air, surely driving people away, not enticing them to drop money into the cap. Putting an end to this godawful din will be a public service.
He glances around, checks for prying eyes before he pulls the hood further down over his head and strides down the laneway. The bum startles as he comes to a stop before him. His head eclipses the street-lamp behind, throws shadows over the street-weary face. The harmonica falls from the scum’s lips.
He reaches into the pocket of his long great coat, notes the bum’s eyes following his hand and widening with alarm. The look of fear transforms into a look of desire as the piece of shit takes in the hip flask of brandy that emerges. The bum’s hands reach out, tentative at first, but then greedily as he realises the offering is intended for him.
‘Keep warm, old man.’
The bottle is snatched from his grasp.
‘Bless you,’ comes the reply, ‘bless you,’ the lid already being twisted off, the flask rising to eager lips.
The hunter turns and exits the narrow lane, merges back into the shadows.
‘Keep safe,’ he mutters under his breath, a grim smile spreading across his face. ‘Keep safe.’
3: Max
There was something meditative about the backward-and-forward rhythm of a mop, the repetitive cadence of sweep out, reach and stretch, pause, sweep back, reach, pause. Some may have found cleaning floors, and cleaning toilets for that matter, demeaning, beneath them. But Max was grateful. Grateful for the opportunity to earn some money, pittance and under the table as it was, and grateful for the time to calm his mind. The action stilled his brain, helped wipe aside the dark thoughts that intruded, unannounced and shocking. The shrink said they would ease with time. Max doubted it, wondered if they would be a life-long feature on his mental landscape. In a strange kind of a way he didn’t mind if they were. It meant he would never forget – and he didn’t want to forget. That terrible, terrible moment in time – the loss of his daughter, someone he loved so much, and losing her in such a cruel, cruel way – shaped who he was, what he had become. It was something he would always have to carry. He did hope the acuteness of that pain – that cruel, cruel pain – would subside. But in the meantime, he would sweep, he would mop – a poor man’s self-soothing mechanism.
The soothing was interrupted by an insistent buzzing in his back pocket. At first he hadn’t even noticed it – his mind had not made the connection, so seldom did people ring him. He stood up straight, leaned the mop against the wall and pulled the phone out.
It wasn’t a name he had expected to see.
‘Meredith, what can I do for you?’ Somehow a ‘long time no hear’, or a cheery ‘hi’ didn’t seem right, and she never called unless she wanted something.
‘Max. How are you doing? You okay?’ She was always better at the social niceties than he was. Probably one of the reasons she was still a detective and he wasn’t. For him those days in the police were over.
‘Yeah, as good as I can be. What’s up?’ He wasn’t about to describe how he was really feeling, and he was confident she didn’t really want to know.
‘I need your help with something.’ There was a pause. ‘It’s not pleasant.’ In Meredith speak, that meant it would be bloody awful.
‘What sort of something?’
He heard the sigh before she replied. ‘There was an unexplained death on the streets downtown last night.’ Max’s mind jumped back to the ambulance and huddle of police cars on his way in to work this morning. ‘The deceased was a homeless man.’ She paused. ‘We need your help to identify him.’
She’d used the words ‘unexplained death’. That implied it wasn’t as a result of violence, or anything obvious and visible. He thought about the people he knew who lived rough and wondered which poor bastard had succumbed to the elements, or whose body had finally chucked in the towel after years of booze and abuse. She was right, it wouldn’t be pleasant, but everyone deserved some kind of dignity in death, to be reunited with family and the people who loved them, or may have once.
‘I’m sorry to hear that. But sure, I can help.’
‘Thanks,’ she said, and he knew from the tone of her voice she meant it. Detective Sergeant Meredith Peters could come across as a cold-hearted bitch – just ask any juniors who had pissed her off – but underneath she was someone with an unwavering sense of justice, and a deep need to put things right.
‘One o’clock okay?’
‘Yeah, see you then.’
Shit. This wasn’t the kind of start to the day that he’d wanted.
4: Max
The Auckland City Mortuary may have looked pretty innocuous from the outside, but the inside represented a world of pain. With the possible exception of the pathologists, no one present was ever happy to be there, especially not the dead. Meredith had arrived before him and was quietly talking with the technician. Meredith was a striking woman, tall, freckled skin, red hair pulled back in an easy ponytail. Max’s heart gave a lurch whenever he saw her, but it was more a pang of guilt than any other base emotion. Theirs wasn’t that kind of a relationship. Never could be.
‘Thanks for coming, Max. Appreciate it.’ She held out her hand to shake. He took it. It was warm, the skin smooth. He felt acutely aware of how cold and rough his was. ‘You’re looking well,’ she said. They both knew that was stretching the truth. What she meant was he looked better than last time, which wouldn’t have been difficult.
‘I just hope I can help you out with an ID.’
‘I hope so too.’
It was a sad indictment on society that the police had had to resort to a former, or so they thought, homeless man to identify a homeless man. The fact he still hadn’t picked himself up enough to afford housing and get a roof over his head was something Meredith didn’t need to know. He didn’t want her pity or her judgement. If he couldn’t help with the identification, next on the list would be staff at the City Mission, or the Salvation Army or the night shelter – organisations that on scant resources tried their best to help. They knew their regulars, and some took the time to get to know them, listen to their stories without judgement, offer what solace and services they could. And Max was very aware that when it came to those living on the streets, family could be hard to track down as many had given up on their kin or checked out and were nowhere to be seen.
‘Do you know who it is, or have you suspicions?’ he asked Meredith, as the technician led them along to one of the smaller viewing rooms. With just the two of them performing this grim task there was no need for a family space.
‘One of the inner-city constables seemed to think it was a chap known as Skeet.’
Max frowned, he hoped the constable was wrong. Skeet may have lived rough, but he was a harmless enough old guy. Hell, he’d even looked out for Max in his own way when Max was at his lowest. Last time he’d seen Skeet he was his hale and hearty self, mouthing off at anyone who would listen, and hadn’t looked under the weather in any way. That was only three days ago.
The sickly taste of dread filled his mouth as they approached the body discretely draped in blue. No matter how many times he did this, the anonymous form of a person hidden under cloth was confronting. If the corpse was in a bad state of repair you were usually pre-warned. But even if they looked peaceful, there was still the stark realisation someone you knew, in whatever capacity, was dead. What could be unpredictable was how you reacted to it, the feelings you had to push down in the name of being professional. It was an uncomfortable reminder of the fragility of life and your own mortality.
He heard Meredith take in a big breath. She wasn’t immune to it either. ‘Shall we?’ she said.
They stopped at the gurney and the technician drew the drape down.
It wasn’t the face he was expecting.
‘Shit.’
