When Point offered an apology for formality Albertson responded, ‘Nothing less than I would have expected.’ He glanced at his watch. Seven minutes to go.
Point seemed to have missed the bandage. He asked no questions. Albertson guessed he was focused on how soon he’d receive his pay-out. It’d been months since he’d signed authority to AFR.
Point handed Albertson over to Martini. ‘Please take Mr Battersby, who’s here from Australia, to the visitors’ room. He needs to question Titman.’ Four minutes. Albertson looked at Point. ‘Before you go, can I ask something of you? As you no doubt noticed, I’ve sprained my wrist, which means I have some physical limitations if you know what I mean.’ Point nodded but looked confused. ‘But it’s also imperative that I question Thomas in private. I wonder if it would be possible to have him restrained while we start the interview. The subject matter won’t be to his liking, as I’m sure you’ll appreciate.’
Apologetic and frowning, Point replied, ‘I should have Lonny sit in with you.’
Two and a half minutes. ‘To be honest, if it happened that way, we may as well go home now. It would be a complete waste of our time. After he gets used to the restraint, I’m going to hypnotise him – one of the specialties of our company and much more effective than leg breaking. The presence of anyone else or any interruption whatsoever will be counter-productive to extracting information about…’
‘Of course,’ replied Point hastily. ‘Anything to help.’
‘I’d prefer to be in his cell with him, again to minimise distractions and maximise his focus on me.’ And, he thought, without your prying CCTV monitors. ‘If your warden waited outside Mr Thomas’s cell without disturbing us that would be appreciated. When I’m finished, Thomas will be asleep. He needs to wake without surprise so as to have no memory of the interview, or your position would be compromised. I hope I don’t need to say any more.’
He made a subtle nod toward Martini. ‘Of course.’ Point turned to Martini. ‘Make it happen the way he said, Lonny.’
Brilliant, Freddie. Well thought out again.
‘Will do, boss.’
Into overtime now: one degree Celsius plus one and a half minutes. Martini stood aside to let Albertson into the cell, then walked over to Thomas and ordered him to turn around and put his hands behind his back. Exactly as Albertson had hoped, he looked a broken man. No longer upright with confidence, he was stooped and appeared to have aged another decade. Grey bristles around his jaw added to an overall impression of decrepitude.
‘Why? You can’t do this.’
‘Just do it or you’ll have an after-shower treat.’ He handcuffed Thomas and led him to the chair. Sitting him down, he walked out of the cell, locking the door behind him without another word. Two minutes past one degree Celsius. Albertson loosened the wrist bandage to remove the syringe and when Martini left, he placed a sign over the observation window: ‘Silence please, hypnotherapy in progress.’
‘You’re the lying cunt who gave evidence against me. What the fuck are you doing here?’
Feigned disappointment, ‘Oh, language please, Mr Thomas. I described looking after your friend Derek. Sure, I popped in a comment about your interest in sux, but the cops told me about the magazine and the stuff in your garage. Nothing personal against you – I was just helping them. Got to stay on good terms with the police, you know.’
‘You arrogant arse wipe. How can you stand there and say you lied like that.’
‘I thought you might remember me more fondly for looking after your late friend.’
‘You think that has any relevance now? Why are you here? And why has that pervert handcuffed me in my own cell?’
‘The answer to the first question is that it’s routine procedure to have a doctor examine new inmates over seventy years of age. The answer to the second question is that I insisted on your privacy while I conducted your medical examination. I’m not all bad, you know. Your restraint was a condition they imposed when I insisted that you should have the privacy you deserve. I hope that’s in order as I won’t be here long.’
Albertson noticed Thomas release some tension from his shoulders before he asked, ‘So why not in the medical room?’
‘Norovirus. It’s being completely disinfected top to bottom.’ Albertson stood and moved behind Thomas. He told him he would start with a short neurological test and that he might feel some discomfort. ‘Rate the sensation of discomfort on a ten-point scale. One is low, ten extreme.’
Albertson gave the same injection as before, the only difference being the size of the bolus for weight.
Thomas said, ‘Four.’
‘Excellent.’ Albertson sat on Thomas’s bunk facing the prisoner’s back. He opened the briefcase, removed the false bottom and unwound the garrotte.
‘Does the name Fraser-Clark ring any bells, Titman?’
Albertson knew Thomas couldn’t have answered even if he wanted to.
‘No?’ continued Albertson. ‘Well, we haven’t got long so I’ll get to the point. You’re the last of four jurors who sent my father to the gallows. You killed an innocent man, wrecked a family and finally you’re paying the ultimate price. Of those four jurors you were the most deserving of a trial for crimes you didn’t commit, to say nothing about losing your precious money. I, along with your daughter’s former boyfriend, stitched you up. It was, if I say so myself, as neat a piece of work as any I’ve done in any operating theatre.’
Albertson jerked the garrotte around Thomas’s neck. Before pulling it tight, he sneered and said, ‘Perhaps you’d care to briefly reflect whether all that money, all those lies that sent my father to his death, are actually more important than drawing your last breath in here.’ Albertson leant in and whispered in his ear, ‘With me? ‘No? Never mind. Your procedure won’t be quite the same as happened to my father or to Apsley, Donaldson and Dench after him. But in here there are some natural constraints, are there not? ‘It’s unfortunate, but I have to compromise on the torture. That means you’ll be spared a broom up your anus, just as I endured as a boy. But your gay admirer outside might be your consolation prize. I believe he’ll fancy your warm, lifeless body. He’ll have the opportunity to credit me with sodomising you. No doubt you wouldn’t put it past him.’
Tightening the garrotte, he twisted and pulled, wishing Thomas a happy journey to hell.
Thomas’s eyeballs looked as though they’d roll out of his skull and his tongue would unfurl from his gaping mouth. His killer kept the pressure on until he was confident life was extinct. Had he the time, he’d have happily used the garrotte to saw though the man’s neck, removing the head from his shoulders, replicating his father’s decapitation in the bungled execution of 1955. Albertson checked for a pulse. None.
He turned up the collar of Thomas’s shirt and replaced the ligature in his briefcase, together with the used syringe and needle. He reaffixed the bandage to his wrist and refitted the false bottom of the briefcase.
Knocking on the door to be let out, Albertson removed the note across the window and let it slip to the floor, placing his index finger over his closed lips. Thomas, with chin on his chest, would look asleep as expected. There’d be nothing unusual in the blue shirt collar buttoned to the top.
As he passed Martini, he reminded the warden that no one was to be allowed in the cell until he’d returned and ended the hypnosis.
Albertson walked into Point’s office with the hundred grand cheque in his hand and a smile on his face. Point, grinning, asked if Albertson had learnt any more about missing funds. ‘Unfortunately not. But I sense I’m making progress. It might entail more than one session.’
Chapter 48
I haven’t seen him in a while,’ said Peter Stipe, looking at his watch. ‘But he did say he was popping out for a meeting with a source. Thought he’d be an hour.’
‘But I haven’t been able to get hold of him for at least two hours,’ Sasha said. ‘Do you know where h
e was heading?’ They were in the offices of The People. Sasha had been frantically looking around the editorial floor as she approached the desk of Stipe’s PA. Hot and out of breath, she wiped her forehead, and pulled the shirt away from her skin.
What’s wrong? Is he in some kind of trouble?’
Sasha exhaled noisily. ‘I hope not but I don’t know. I left a voice message on his phone that was disturbing enough for him to have contacted me. And he hasn’t.’
‘He’s normally pretty good at messaging. Let’s have a look.’
They walked back along the long, narrow space, under the harsh light from fluorescent tubes. To their left was an editorial meeting room, occupied, and to their right, a row of partition screens affording minimal privacy to the desk jockeys. At intervals along the window ledge small fans recirculated stale air. ‘This is his station,’ said Stipe.
Ben’s desk wasn’t far from the editor’s office. A bright green plant by the partition revealed that it was artificial when Sasha distractedly rubbed a leaf between thumb and forefinger.
‘Can I have a nosey?’ she asked.
‘Be my guest.’
Her first impression was one of untidiness. He had copies of The Press scattered around, suggesting he liked to keep a close eye on what the competition was up to. An unwashed coffee mug had left the stain of a ring beneath it and a polystyrene cup still held the dregs of water. As she wriggled the mouse she could hear someone the other side of the partition having a conversation with a disgruntled reader.
Ben’s screen crackled to life, revealing a photo of the two of them on their most recent weekend away together, Mt Cook in the background. But getting beyond that required a login and password. She looked at a desk spike with old messages of names and numbers that meant nothing. A grey plastic business card holder revealed one card sticking out of place: it was the courthouse number.
As she turned away to have a final glance at the credenza under the window she saw a note on the floor. On it was a mobile number. ‘None the wiser, sorry,’ said Stipe when he returned.
‘Would you mind trying it?’
Stipe smiled. ‘Best we do it off Ben’s desk phone.’ As he reached for the handset he added, ‘Our number comes up blocked at the other end.’ Stipe punched in the nine digits. He let Sasha hear the voice message from Doctor Avery Albertson.
****
Outside Albertson’s house she pulled new batteries from one pocket in her leather jacket and loaded them into the Dictaphone that she’d already tested and stowed in the other. Forty-five minute tapes that were unused would help. Making sure the microphone end was upright in her pocket Sasha took a deep breath and let it out slowly.
She was no closer to figuring out what she expected to find or how she might deal with the situation that unfolded. But there could be no turning back. And if she was certain about one thing, it was that Albertson wouldn’t be getting within an arm’s length of her, recording or no recording device.
The pellets of driving rain stung her face as she ran to the shelter of an awning that stretched across the front of the house. She turned the recording machine on and knocked on the front door. No reply and no sign of movement inside. She sprinted down the drive and round to the back of the house. Her hopes faded as she noted no cars in the drive, the garage empty and the door up. She knocked again at the back. Same result, but enough light was touching a kitchen table for her to see a champagne bottle, pen and paper.
It was an old bungalow with French doors. One of the little panes had an oval crack extending from the corner. Looking around she saw a cactus plant caught in the beam from a neighbour’s outside light. A rock garden! Pulling her jacket up, she dashed forward, grabbed a pointed stone and ran back. Using the stone, she tapped on the glass and extended the crack. She looked around before wrapping the stone in a handkerchief and pushing hard on the glass, which soon gave way. Sasha waited, listening for a response from inside. Nothing. She knocked out the dangerous shards, inserted her arm and groped for the handle. Basic Yale, no deadlock.
Sasha saw her shadow on the kitchen wall to her left. She felt like some character in a movie. She slipped the stone into her jeans pocket. Half the size of a fist, it was a tight fit. She sneaked towards the kitchen table, her heart letting her know it wanted out of her chest.
The piece of paper she’d seen revealed a list of eight names, all with the word ‘deceased’ written after them, followed by the name of a city. Four had died in Christchurch, and four overseas. Circumstantial, but a good start. With the handkerchief she picked up a corner of the list and placed it in an empty supermarket bag on the bench. This she folded carefully and placed in her back pocket.
Another thunderclap drove a shiver down her spine. An ornate rimu coffee table in the living room had two drawers on each of its longest sides. Napkins in one, coasters in another, gay porn magazines in the third. It was the fourth drawer that grabbed Sasha’s attention. Two pages of notes.
The first page began with a sketchy plan for a name she didn’t recognise to visit the prison and something about a recovery file. She drew her head back when she saw ‘RP’. Surely this was Ron Point? The words, ‘Restrain and hypnotise’ meant little until she saw ‘TT’. She gasped. On the second piece of paper, the words, ‘Mt White Bridge. SH 73, 24 k this side A Pass, turn right. Cross river, gravel rd parallel 2 river 5 k on, gas, wet gear, food, docs.’
She’d visited Mt White with Ben. There was a hut or two out that way for trampers and fishermen. From her peripheral vision she saw car lights flash up the drive. Shit. Then she jumped as the thunder roared overhead. The flash had been lightning. Now all he could hear was the din of the rain on the roof.
Where are you, Ben? Are you alive? She shivered at the thought he might have been given a dose of sux, but if Thomas was in danger inside prison, maybe they’d take Ben hostage as leverage? Too risky to kill Thomas without an exit strategy. She had to warn Ron.
Not knowing the number she stalked the rooms of the house looking for a phone book. But the light was so poor she couldn’t read the listings. Yet turning the light on might attract suspicion. She found the smallest room of the house and sitting on the toilet lid she made the call. She frowned at the disconnected line sound. She peered at the numbers she’d called and saw her mistake.
Moving into the bedroom she saw the wardrobes had been emptied. Calling again she got no answer. There was no alternative. She’d have to drive to the prison. At least that was on the way to Mt White.
Without thinking, she tried her car door the usual way, but the harder she tried, the less success she had. She felt rain ease its way down her neck. Shit! Pulling her jacket collar up, she slowed down, made sure the key wasn’t hard against the lock frame and jiggled two quarter turns and back to upright before the full turn. The bloody safe opened.
Relentless rain smashed into her windscreen; the wipers struggled to cope. Then her phone cut out. The radio weather update revealed why.
And for all of the South Island except Nelson/Marlborough, electrical storms, hail and heavy rain over the next twenty-four hours. Wind gusts up to 130 km/hour in inland Canterbury have combined with hail storms to make driving conditions on State Highway 73 treacherous.
‘Tell me about it,’ she said aloud. Surfing the radio frequencies in the hope of hearing something uplifting, she didn’t see the danger till red brake lights were in her face. Her Audi fish-tailed, then water planed on the road. Steering left to avoid rear-ending the vehicle in front, she yelled, ‘No’, as she skidded to a halt. For some minutes she sat, staring out at the pounding rain, wincing as the tension drained from her arms and shoulders. The 6.00 PM news led with the storm damage throughout Canterbury. Rivers and streams were swollen; many had now broken their banks. It was no night to be out.
Chapter 49
Tyler heard footsteps, the car driver’s door slam and the throaty roar of the engine before he rolled slightly towards the front of the
boot. They were on the move again. He tried counting the seconds, as Sasha might do, but stopped when he reached 1200, the heavy rain puncturing his concentration.
Now, he felt the car slow again, heard the tyres on gravel before it stopped and the menacing footsteps walk his way.
‘Would you like to ride more comfortably now?’
He couldn’t see the face, only the torchlight bearing down on him that also caught the rain coming into the boot. Ben nodded. He’d been bound and gagged with masking tape. Because of his height, his knees had been close to his chin and the ride had been desperately uncomfortable. His left hip ached, his neck was stiff and he felt nauseous: a feeling he attributed to the effects of the injection. He grimaced as Albertson ripped the tape off his mouth and when his kidnapper helped him out he was unsteady on his feet.
Despite the unrelenting rain, he moved as slowly as possible to the passenger door, trying to identify where he was. The car lights gave no clue.
As Albertson climbed in on the driver’s side he was briefly silhouetted by lightning. He no longer resembled the distinguished professional in the witness box. His lips looked as though they were made of aluminium, and his cheeks were deathly grey.
‘You’ll be wondering why you’re still alive.’
With the inside light still on, Ben saw the bright whites of Albertson’s eyes. He murmured, ‘It had crossed my mind.’
‘You’re part of our exit strategy, Tyler, but only as long as you remain useful.
****
Sasha left the tree-lined boundary between prison and highway and turned onto the internal road that would take her through eucalypts and pines to the prison office. There’d been no let-up in the rain. She slowed to read signs caught in her headlights. Frustrated by streak marks from worn wiper blades, she peered through the wet windscreen.
Sasha struggled to get anyone to come to reception. It took four long depressions of the switch at thirty-second intervals before a reluctant officer strolled into view.