The Mark of Halam Page 2

  He stiffened as something brushed his leg. It was the cat. He bent and stroked it. A tongue as coarse as sandpaper licked at his fingers. Pets did not exist in the camps and roofing-iron shelters of his youth. There was seldom enough money to buy food for the family let alone an animal. He made a mental note to have a cat in the house he built. A cat reflected substance.

  He made his way up the hall. The cat followed. There was little chance his movements would wake her; each step was now cushioned by carpet. The bedroom door was wide open. Enough residual light shone through from the lounge for him to make out the contour of her body under the blankets, her back to him. This was too easy. He watched for a moment. Sympathetic. She slept the sleep of the innocent. A child of God. She would not suffer. He might be a killer but he was not a monster.

  He sidled across to the bed and selected a pillow from the pile in the space beside her. How many lovers had shared her bed? For a woman who turned heads when she entered a bar, he suspected many.

  He held the pillow to his chest, knuckles white beneath the gloves as his grip tightened. His eyes fixed on her unmoving torso then moved up the silhouette to the back of her head. Knees touched the bed. His tongue flicked to moisten his mouth. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. In a single movement he was astride her, her arms trapped beneath the blankets. His weight on the mattress caused the bed to lurch sideways and bump the bedside table. The lamp wobbled then toppled over the edge and fell to the floor, the light bulb shattered. Beneath him the woman, now awake, struggled against his hold and turned onto her back. He sensed the blonde’s face looking up, her eyes wide open. Confused.

  He pushed on the pillow and smothered the bewilderment.

  “Rest easy, my child. It will not take long,” he whispered.

  The second bedroom door opened. Light from within splashed along the hallway.

  “Ann? Are you okay? What broke?” a sleepy voice called out.

  In the glow of the light he could see the blonde woman. Startled, he looked at the pillow. Who the hell was this?

  “What’s going on? What the fuck . . .” the blonde woman screamed. “What are you doing? Get off her . . . you bastard!”

  A glass object flew toward him. He ducked. The projectile missed by centimetres but smashed through the bedroom window. Who was the woman beneath him? The flatmate? She bucked and threw him off balance. He slid from the bed.

  “You bastard.”

  The blonde woman rushed into the room. She reached behind the bedroom door. A baseball bat appeared in her hand. He grasped the bed linen and pulled himself to his knees. The blonde threw herself across the bed swinging the bat. It struck him on the shoulder and he yelped like a kicked puppy. She swung again. Wild. Directionless. The bat hit the wall and bounced out of her hand. Then she was on him, punching, scratching at him.

  A strong bitch.

  He remembered her athletic build, an amazon woman. Gasps for breath came from his victim. In no time she would gain enough strength to help her friend. He would have to fight two. A neighbour must have heard the breaking window. The police might not be far away. He needed to get away. With an effort he pushed the blonde off him and swung his fist. It collided with her face.

  She cursed, cried out in pain. Her grip now loosened, he crawled backward and away from her assault then scrambled to his feet and ran from the bedroom. At the apartment door he paused to compose himself. Coughing, moaning and crying came from the bedroom, but no footsteps, no one was coming after him.

  In the corridor he decided against the elevator and ran into the stairwell. Halfway down he remembered the note on the kitchen door. The woman was not dead. Would the note still have an impact? Too bad, it was too late to retrieve it now.

  4.

  Jeff Bradley’s eyelids flickered open. He reached for the phone.

  “Hello,” he mumbled, still half asleep.

  “Jeff, it’s Quentin.”

  The digital clock on the bedside table read one-thirty in the morning. “Bloody hell, Quentin, do you know what time it is?”

  “Late o’clock. I’m sorry. But I had no choice. I have a problem and I need you.”

  “Okay, but it better be life threatening.”

  “It is. Someone tried to murder Mary and her flatmate tonight.”

  Jeff, suddenly awake, flung his legs over the side of the bed.

  “Are they all right?”

  Quentin said, “Mary got whacked in the head. She has a black eye so I’m told. The attacker tried to suffocate Ann. Stuck a pillow over the poor girl’s head. As you can imagine they’re both traumatised to hell.”

  “Give me a second.”

  Jeff stood, walked to the light switch and flicked it on. He used the few moments to clear his head. Someone had attacked Mary; a reflexive clench of his fist.

  The darkness gone, he sat back on the bed. His right hand ruffled the hair at the back of his head. A habit he indulged in when waking himself up.

  “Okay, Quentin, carry on.”

  “The thing is, Jeff, they can’t stay where they are. Ann’s from Wellington and Mary’s parents are away. Nowhere for them to go at short notice, not where they’d feel safe and secure. The police called me and what could I say. Jeannie is happy to have them here but she’s worried the attacker might follow. I can’t convince her differently. It’s the kids. If they got hurt . . .”

  “Are the police leaving someone?” Jeff asked, now fully alert.

  “No, mate. They insist there’s no need to worry. Not tonight at any rate. They’ve said a patrol car will pass by every so often and I’ve been given a number to call in an emergency. That’s it.” Quentin paused. “Look, I hate to ask it. Jeannie said she’d rest easier if you were on the scene. I don’t get a pass mark when it comes to hero types. My wife has it in her head a special forces soldier will protect her family better than me.”

  “Ex-special forces,” Jeff smiled. “When will they arrive?”

  “Within the hour.”

  “I’ll be there in forty minutes.”

  5.

  Mary Sumner and Ann Lindsay sat huddled together on the bright red two-seater settee, blankets draped over their shoulders. The policeman introduced himself as Wayne Johnson, “but call me Red, everyone does,” took a chair from the kitchen and placed it in front of the coffee table. He faced the back of the chair toward them then climbed aboard as he would a horse.

  Mary watched him, but Red said nothing. Loud voices in the corridor distracted her. She turned to see a man and a woman, both in civilian clothes, enter. The man led the way, the woman, smaller in stature, was barely visible behind the male officer’s bulk. Red rose from his seat, faster than casual. The man whispered in the woman’s ear and she shook her head, then moved ahead of him. Mary studied the woman. She had a dark complexion, either Maori or Pacific Islander. Too hard to tell. She would go with Maori. Red stepped back from the chair.

  The woman offered Mary a sympathetic smile and said, “I’m Detective Senior Sergeant Moana Te Kanawa,” a tilt of the head toward her companion, “and this is Detective Ross.”

  Te Kanawa was a Maori name; Mary congratulated herself, right first time. She often played games in her head when nervous or running long distances, it helped pass the time.

  “Red. Get some female officers up here. And find out where the doctor is.”

  Moana turned the chair round the right way and sat. Detective Ross stood behind her.

  Mary flicked away a wisp of blonde hair with the back of her hand then gave her full attention to the sergeant. Ann let her head fall onto Mary’s shoulder.

  Ross tapped his sergeant’s arm. “I’ll have a quick shifty through the cupboards for a whisky.”

  “Brandy on the top shelf over the sink,” Mary said, her voice a touch above a whisper.

  Ross gestured a thanks with his hand.


  “Mary, we’ve spoken to your boss,’ Moana said. “He and his wife are waiting for you and Ann. They’ve a spare room.”

  Mary nodded.

  Ross returned with two glasses, a quarter filled. Mary took the offered drink and gulped half the contents but Ann showed no interest and her glass was placed on the coffee table.

  “That must hurt,” Moana said, then reached out and gently ran the tips of her fingers over the blue-black swelling developing around Mary’s left eye.

  “It’s not so bad.”

  Moana took out her notebook and set it on her lap, pen poised. “Are you up to giving details of the assault?”

  Mary nodded.

  “In your own time, Mary.”

  “A noise woke me. Breaking glass. The lamp had fallen off the bedside table . . . when he attacked Ann. Anyway, I thought I’d better check. When I went into the corridor the light from my bedroom lit up Ann’s room. And I saw a man. On the bed. He had a pillow over Ann’s head.”

  Mary paused. Her eyes watered. But her voice held steady. She had promised herself she wouldn’t cry. Her right hand shook. She held it with her left.

  Moana prompted, “Lucky for Ann you’re a light sleeper.”

  “That’s just it. Normally when I sleep I go into a coma. But not tonight. Tonight I was in Ann’s room. She was in mine. Her bed is uncomfortable.”

  Mary noted the mention of swapped rooms brought an exchange of eye contact between the two officers.

  “Why had you changed rooms?” Moana asked.

  “Ann has a DVD player in her room. I wanted to watch a movie and Ann wanted to sleep so she went to my room.”

  “Then what happened?”

  “As I said I saw a man on top of Ann. But I was still half asleep. At first my brain didn’t register what my eyes were looking at. It was all a bit weird but I couldn’t work out why. Then I saw the pillow over Ann’s head. I knew that wasn’t right. That’s when I screamed. My first thought was to find a weapon of some sort. Ann had a snow globe on her dresser. You know the type. It has a Christmas scene in water and when you shake it up it snows.”

  Moana nodded. “I know what you mean. An auntie gave me one when I was about ten. I still have it.”

  “Ann’s was about the size of a baseball. Easy to throw. Anyway, her dresser is close to the door so I reached out and grabbed it and tossed. If I’d been more accurate it would’ve split the asshole’s head open. But I missed.

  “Then I remembered the baseball bat I keep behind my bedroom door.” She shrugged. “I ran into the room and grabbed it. He had fallen on the floor by this time and all I could think was, now the prick is on the ground I can beat the shit out of him. Sorry.”

  Moana waved a hand. “Don’t worry, Mary. The guy was definitely a prick.”

  Mary smiled.

  “Anyway,” Mary continued, “I think I got in a few good shots and then he hit me and that’s about all I remember. I must have lost consciousness. When I came round he’d gone.”

  “I’m afraid you’ll have a black eye for a few days as a memento. Did you get to see his face? Could you identify him again?”

  Mary nodded. “When he looked up, the light caught him full on. I’ll never forget it. And I have a photographic memory.”

  “Really?” Moana stood up.

  Mary’s eyes followed the sergeant as she strode to the door.

  “Red, get a police artist up here right away, I don’t care if you have to drag someone out of bed, but get someone here. And where the hell is that doctor?”

  6.

  They’re here.”

  Jeannie stepped back from the curtain and made her way to the front door. Jeff caught up with Quentin’s wife as she pulled the door open. He rushed past her, leapt from the top step and ran across the lawn to the police car. A female officer helped Mary from the car, a blanket still draped around her shoulders.

  When Mary saw Jeff she managed half a smile and as he took her in his arms she fell against him, her head resting on his chest. A change in her breathing pattern told Jeff she was weeping, softly, almost inaudible. He bent and scooped her off the ground, and held her as if he were cradling a small child. “You’re safe now,” he whispered and gave a reassuring squeeze as he carried her into the house. Behind him, Jeannie and Quentin were fussing over Ann.

  Once Jeff had assured Mary he wasn’t going anywhere and he would be right outside the door, he made his way into the kitchen and left it for Jeannie and Quentin to make the two women comfortable.

  After twenty minutes Quentin joined him. “The sleeping pills from the police doctor seem to have worked. Mary and Ann have crashed. Jeannie has gone to bed.”

  Quentin put two cups on the bench. The coffee pot bubbled away on its element. Lettering across the front of the coffee packet read ‘A Taste of Arabia’. Jeff’s nostrils agreed it must have come from that region; it smelt like camels. Jeannie Douglas told anyone who would listen she travelled the world with her coffee. Every few weeks a new blend. But this time he doubted the origin printed on the pack. The last time he had drifted through Saudi he saw no coffee plantations, only desert.

  Quentin dumped the two mugs none too carefully on the unprotected mahogany table top. Brown liquid slopped over the rim. He ripped off a paper towel from the roll on the holder above the sink and sponged up the dregs.

  “The police sergeant who phoned said they believe Mary was the target. She had been stalked and the attack planned. Ann was supposed to be away for the night only she cancelled at the last minute. They swapped rooms for some reason and so poor Ann copped it.”

  “Why do they believe Mary was stalked?”

  Quentin shook his head.

  “No idea. The sergeant didn’t say.”

  “Okay,” Jeff said, thoughtful. He lifted his mug to allow Quentin to clean under it. “Jeannie is right to be concerned if that’s the case. Mary could still be in danger.”

  “The police think not immediately. Not for a few nights anyway. Too risky they say. But who knows. The guy is clearly a psycho. He might feel his unfinished business can’t wait.”

  Jeff nodded. “I won’t disagree. But working on logic, he would need to find out where she is. That will take time. I think the police are probably right. Tonight is too soon. However, if he has been stalking Mary then he’s followed her to the office. He might also have followed you home.”

  “Jesus, I hadn’t thought of that.”

  “You need to consider it. Even if he hasn’t done so already he might now give it thought. You could be placing Jeannie and the kids in danger.”

  “Tomorrow I’ll hire twenty-four-hour security, but tonight, my friend, you’re it. I’m going to meet with the police in the morning. I know the detective sergeant in charge. We’ve run across each other in the courts. I’ll ask her how much security I need.”

  Jeff nodded. “Want me to come with you?”

  “Would you? That would be great. Thanks.”

  Jeff sipped his coffee. Quentin checked his watch.

  “Time for bed. Jeannie threw blankets and a pillow on the couch. Thanks for coming.”

  “No worries.”

  When Quentin had gone Jeff sat on the couch to remove his running shoes. It crossed his mind that if the killer had followed Quentin he might be outside right now. He switched off the lights then slowly pulled back the drape and peered into the darkness. No movements in the shadows that he could see.

  Tonight he would sleep on the floor. He needed to stay alert.

  7.

  Sergeant Moana Te Kanawa leaned against the third-floor window frame and looked down on the city scene. She watched a patrol car cruise along Mayoral Drive until it stopped at the lights where Mayoral crossed Queen Street. When the lights changed to green the patrol car turned left and disappeared from sight. Her attention was drawn to the Sky City Tow
er; claimed by its owners to be one of the world’s tallest constructions but to Moana it looked like a giant syringe reaching into the sky to jab God. A view of the sea was blocked by a concrete forest of commercial and apartment buildings.

  Auckland, a two-port city, servicing both the Pacific Ocean and the Tasman Sea, had continued to expand upwards and outwards like an insatiable, gluttonous land hog. And now most of its one and a half million citizens lived across fifty kilometres of highway and on the slopes of more than forty extinct volcanoes stretching from Papakura in the south to the northern beaches town of Orewa.

  Somewhere in that impossibly large search area hid the man who had attacked Mary Sumner and Ann Lindsay.

  Moana half-turned and cast an eye over her team. It had been a late night. The orders had been to grab some sleep and be in the station before midday. Detectives sitting round the trestle table rested heads on hands, some yawned, others flicked pen tops and stared at the array of notes and photos strewn across the tabletop.

  Moana strode to the front of the room and held up the identikit photo. “Lucky for us we have this likeness of the attacker. Can anyone tell me what that means?

  “It means we are knocking on doors.”

  “Right first time, Red. It’s all we have. There is no other evidence. Until there is wear soft shoes and get walking.”

  A few exaggerated groans drew a glare from Moana.

  Her team of five men and one woman would be working round the clock until they found the would-be killer. Plans had been made and now the lot of the copper had kicked in. Their lives would be put on hold. No dinners, no kissing the kids good night, no beers with friends, dates and budding romances cancelled.

  Sure, there had been no murder, but they would treat it as a murder all the same. That the two women had survived through the efforts of the gutsy Mary Sumner did not lessen the truth that they might both have died. And they needed to assume the assailant might try again. No one fantasised that knowing what the offender looked like would make discovery easier. Identikit sketches were not photographs. The killer would have altered his appearance; shaved off his beard, maybe dyed his hair.