Taken By Experts: Taken By Experts, #1

Chapter 1

HE HEARD IT SECONDS before he saw it; a throaty roar through a clinging drizzle on an Auckland city street late at night; increasing revs, low gears and spinning rubber as screeching tyres failed to grip on a loose surface. In a snarling crescendo of flying gravel it sped away, carving a path into the darkness in search of its diminishing echo. No headlights, just the briefest glow of brake lights as it took a corner leaving one vivid impression of a dark mass, blacker than the night. That was all he was allowed. Then it was gone. Silence took control. Heard before seen and then no longer seen, no longer heard. A happening not easy to explain for one who had imbibed  an unrationed measure of alcohol.

‘So tell me again, sir, the make and registration of the vehicle.’

‘How can I tell you again what I didn’t tell you before? I told you I didn’t really see a thing. It was there and it was gone; just a blur, not even that. If I hadn’t heard it I wouldn’t have seen it. Now when can I get out of here?’

Greg Parkinson was agitated and tolerated the situation only because he was forced to, being more than a little drunk and therefore slow in response and understanding. It was a sobering thought, but he was still shocked and horrified at what he had seen. He was forced to study the circle of strangers who had cornered him in the open loading bay of the Auckland waterfront warehouse. They were policemen, uniformed most of them, although their immediate spokesman, a tall man in a dipping trilby wore a double breasted raincoat belted tight over an acceptable waist line. His collar was raised at the back and the rain-proof fabric retained the moisture it had been able to gather in his thirty yard dash through the torrent from car to shelter. Designer sand coloured lace up boots and a show of denim gave an indication of casual apparel beneath. He had identified himself as a detective chief inspector.

‘Rudolph sir, Philip Rudolph, CIB. Now settle down and answer a few basic questions. It will be easier for you.’

With impatience verging on desperation Greg looked beyond the ring of flat caps and glistening wet weather gear to the road; and across that road to the rigid waterfront railings where he’d been standing when this bizarre situation had begun to unfold. The steel balustrade was reminiscent of the entrance to Buckingham Palace, a ten foot Victorian fortification designed to deny access and egress, but not to obscure the view of an ingenuous Auckland container port that remained active twenty four hours most days. The rain fell in torrents while the ferry building’s timepiece told anyone with ears that it was 3am. On the vilest of mornings Greg was perplexed. He’d been here since 1:30. He’d done no wrong, yet was having more than a little difficulty convincing those around him that this was the case.

‘Wouldn’t you like to be free of this, sir? Just answer the questions.’

Greg took a breath. ‘Why don’t you start again? What was the question? You wanted to know what I’m doing ’ere?’

‘A good place to start,’ said Rudolph and nodded to a colleague to take notes. ‘Let me first confirm, Gregory Parkinson, 17 River Bank Walk Matakana? A long way from home aren’t we sir?’

‘It’s Greg Parkinson.’

‘And a phone number there Greg?’

‘No, I don’t ’ave one.’

‘Your mobile then?’

‘No, I don’t ’ave one and don’t want one.’

A discerning look from the inspector was contemporaneous with the next question.

‘And now can you tell me why it is you’re here lurking around the central business district of Auckland at an hour not considered reasonable?’

‘You really surprise me inspector. ’Ere I was thinking New Zealand was a free country.  No way was I lurking as you so smartly put it. I’m on my way ’ome; at least I thought I was until I ran into this lot. It would be good if I could find my car. It’s parked around ’ere someplace.’

‘You’re having trouble finding your car, sir. You can’t remember where you parked your car?’

‘It wouldn’t be the first time. Parking isn’t really easy to find downtown on a Saturday night. You might know that.’

Rudolph indicated the street with its vacant kerb stones stretching into the darkness.

‘There seems to be no shortage at the moment.  Where’s your car now?’

‘If I knew that I wouldn’t be standing ’ere talking to you would I? You might try parking down ’ere sometime.’

‘So why were you here, lurking?’

‘’Ave it your way then. I’d been drinking and ’ad a skin full. I’m pretty well pissed now I might add and I was walking it off. I can’t drink and drive, can I?’ sneered Greg with a touch of disdain.

‘So you heard it and hardly saw it?’

‘That’s what I said.’

‘That’s if it was there at all.’

‘So what are you suggesting, inspector? You got some kind of problem?’

‘I’m saying that it would be easy for the person, or persons involved in this crime to say there was a car. It could be implied it would transfer suspicion to another party, another party who doesn’t exist.’ Greg was drunk and proudly so, but by this time he was coming down fast. It had been a premeditated binge which had started at seven the previous evening. A double celebration: his fiftieth birthday, nineteen years married and five years divorced to the day. There’s nothing like being alone he had thought in his first week of freedom, but he had systematically changed his mind on each day of those five subsequent years. Now he wasn’t sure what he thought.  He remained silent contemplating the policeman’s last statement and had to be prompted out of a brooding anger. ‘So what are you thinking, Mr Parkinson?’ The inspector knew Greg’s intoxication would make the truth more obvious.

Greg studied those he now recognised as accusers. He gestured towards the rear of the building and visibly shuddered.

‘Are you trying to involve me in that mess, inspector? You think I am person, or persons? I’ll tell you what I’m thinking.’ He felt a drunken contempt which was dangerous for him in this situation. ‘I’m thinking of joining the police force, that’s what I’m thinking. What do I need to qualify, a day pass to Disneyland?  ’Oo dreams up these crazy ideas of yours, Enid Blyton? What am I thinking? I’m thinking I should have minded my own bloody business in the first place and not put my nose anywhere near.’

‘But you did. Why?’

Greg had nothing to hide. He took his time.

‘Well in the first place I was curious. I was looking for my car.’

‘Why would your car be in the loading bay of a private warehouse?’

‘It wouldn’t and never was. And in the second place I was busting for a gypsy’s and this looked like a good place to splash my boots; good enough, anyway.’

‘Gypsy’s?’ queried Rudolph, ‘you’ll explain.’

‘Gypsy’s kiss; rhyming slang, guv’nor, where ‘ave you been?  You work it out.’

He paused as a mild understanding registered on the inspector’s face which was quite visible now in the glare of the improvised lighting set up by the police team. How clear it was now, this macabre setting. The entire area had been cordoned off with a decorative display of banded police incident tape identifying yet another crime scene in the largest Polynesian city in the world. On a landing high above the loading bay a panelled door stood open at an odd angle across the walkway, ready to topple, supported by one lower hinge. The same harsh light streamed from within as a select team of investigating officers studied in finite detail each of the fourteen treads that made up the staircase. Cameras flashed and samples were retrieved as silent beings in clinging white elasticised disposable attire declared everything as evidence.

‘Okay. I’ve got it this far. You were relieving nature in the dark. That’s something I can believe,’ said Rudolph, ‘However, what occasioned you to walk thirty metres into a darkened interior, climb a staircase that would be unseen by you and enter the office above? Looking for a restroom, maybe to wash your hands, so you kick down the door?’

‘I told you I’d ’ad a few. I just ducked in ’ere to shake hands with the king and I was about done and ready to leg it when I ’eard someone calling. It wasn’t loud, but loud enough, like they were sick; moaning even.’ He raised his head to indicate the door. ‘Look at the damn door. ’Ow the hell could I kick it down when it opens outwards?’

‘You heard moaning.’

‘I said that.’

Greg was becoming preoccupied with his clothing as if suddenly aware of its condition. He was wearing a single breasted lightweight raincoat hanging loosely over what he deemed to be his best suit when in fact it was his only suit. Its heavy, blue serge was certainly conducive to the lower temperatures of Auckland and its wet August climate. This was an historic garment. In the act of donning it for his Saturday night exploration of the city’s liquor land Greg had painted a picture from his past. He well recalled the stooped Jewish tailor, a long time friend who had run his roll of inches over him in the dim basement of his southeast London workroom on that trip back in his first year of freedom; divorcehood. Greg had stood straight and admired himself in the full length mirror as the old man nipped and tucked, pinned and marked with his smooth chalk.  Within seven days he had produced the finest garment for an amazingly few pictures of the queen folded into the old man’s deft palm.  Greg grew inches when wearing it and strutted the pavements of Woolwich like a toff. The history of Jerry Rosenstein and Greg Parkinson went back many years to when Greg’s father had a veggie barrow in the markets directly opposite the alley leading to Jerry’s place, which is the same today as it was then. Jerry owned the building, a four level Victorian brick composition and had never allowed change from its original design. For thirty years he had capitalised on structured office space leased to local business people while  retaining for his own sartorial services the meanest of hovels in the cellar.

Greg was a big man; six foot tall since he left school at fifteen and as skinny as a rake then, but now no longer lithe, filled out and as solid as a rock. He carried merriment in his ghostly grey eyes that seemed never to fade beneath a tussle of dark hair that required little combing. His further claim to heritage was the score of years he worked the markets, during the last three of which he had control of the busiest retail meat outlet in Woolwich, a position he relinquished when relocating to the colonies twenty five years before. Matthews Butchers of Woolwich stood high on a glazed corner overlooking the Arsenal and the covered stalls of Beresford Square market which was home from home for the colloquial diehard traders. As was tradition each owed the others favours. A suit from Jerry Rosenstein was a week’s wages in anybody’s language, but it would have been payment enough for Jerry to see his old butcher mate striding away like a gent in Italian shoes from his premises, wearing the hand sewn blue serge. It was warming for Jerry that Greg thought to come to him after a score or more years away. That suit was new then, but much the worse for wear now in the garish surrogate lights of the loading bay. Rudolph’s questions kept coming, but they seemed not to register with Greg as he sobered. He experienced almost a seizure as he lost concentration and became aware as if for the first time of the blood that stained the sleeves of his coat and soaked the knees of his suit; blood on his shoes. The inspector’s voice resonated as though from a hollow cylinder.

‘The blood, Mr Parkinson, it’s time you told me about the blood. How did you get in that condition?’

‘Like I said I ’eard moaning, but by the time I got there she was dead.  It was totally dark. I couldn’t see much at all. They were both dead. It must have been ’er moaning.’ The horror of it struck him. ‘God, I need a drink.’ Things became clearer as his intake of alcohol lost its grip and he told it the way he remembered it.

Greg’s welcome at the Viaduct Tavern had expired at the same time as the credit on his cash flow card. It was his birthday. What the heck?  He always knew when he’d had enough and the calculated funds available in his booze account were designed to prevent him overspending, falling flat on his face and making a complete fool of himself. It had worked well in the past and continued to do so. It was after midnight and before 1am, that’s all he knew with time being of little consequence to him. His car was somewhere on the waterfront and he had a rough idea where, but it wasn’t a good plan to find it too soon as he was responsible enough to not attempt to get behind the wheel, full of ale as he was. The night had been one to remember and now one better to forget. Having shaken free the shackles of boisterous company, both male and female, he had declined the multiple offers of transport home. Whose home, hers, his, theirs? It was of little consequence. What did matter was he’d had one hell of a good time, but then had come the time to be alone. There were worse things than being alone. A walk in the rain in the general direction of his Calais served as a reasonably sobering exercise. He planned to leave his keys on a rear wheel then sleep off his condition in the back seat. He’d pulled that stunt before and passed the test. You can’t be drunk in charge of a vehicle if you have no keys.

‘Just waiting for a designated driver officer,’ had worked well before.

The intensity of the rain varied as Greg made slow progress along Quay St, a straight stretch of waterfront road that seemed to reach forever into the gloom. On one side were towering characterless buildings, on the other a sentinel iron fence encasing the dock area which housed a likewise characterless predominance of shipping containers. It poured, then it didn’t as the rain settled to a steady drizzle.  An easterly wind approaching gale force had him learning forward from the vertical. The crazy thing about being pissed was the loss of logic which had him seeking his car which he was unable to drive when he should have been sheltering from the storm.

A bus shelter jumped out and blocked his way, jolting him to almost full consciousness and he accepted its sanctuary to take the time to assess his surroundings. A cruising taxi slowed, throwing out its bait, but he ignored it and seated himself on the wet bench, immediately regretting the consequences. Traffic was light; much less than would be expected on this day of the week, at this time of night, at this unknown hour of the morning. But then came a throaty roar, spinning rubber, flying gravel, announcing what he judged to be another drunken fool strengthening his ego on power and irresponsibility. It flew by; he heard it before he saw it and then it was gone.

Sunday morning, coming down. Well done Kris, he thought, but I’m a long way from down yet and I need a leak. He hurried his step back the way he’d come in search of an alcove, a wall to accommodate his emission. One soon presented itself in the form of a vacant warehouse loading bay, its interior in deep shadow, its forecourt wallowing in limited street lighting which exposed the mess of rain sodden junk mail at his feet; and the words of the prophets on walls of ancient brick. Three drunken strides and Greg was swallowed by the darkness where he proceeded to complete this most imminent piece of business.  He was seriously contemplating something other than his navel when he had the curious thought as to why a man needs a wall against which to empty his bladder.  In the middle of this wet night with not a soul in sight he could have stood in the middle of the road to blatantly do the business and no one would have been the wiser. He was considering a Freudian relevance to this and was zipping his fly when sound attracted him.

It was a strangled cry, a whimper from within, deep in the bay and from on high. It had him peering up into the rafters, into the darkness. He wasn’t alone, but somewhere close to hand someone was and they were calling woefully for help.  Greg inched his way into the darkness and stumbled upon stone steps that serviced a loading platform at tailgate level.  Staggering up the half dozen steps he found himself on a platform and he rattled into a locked iron grill that led to a cold store. The monotonous hum of refrigeration motors came from within, but the anxious cries of someone in pain came from above, drawing him up a wooden staircase to where an open door tottered at an odd angle on broken hinges. His hand on the railing was withdrawn in disgust as it failed to grip on the clammy surface. It had the feel of oil, but emitted the unmistakable odour of a characteristic with which he, as a butcher, would be ever familiar; blood. He felt horrified, scared, and numb as he stumbled in the darkness of the landing and staggered through the doorway. There was no sound from the pitch black interior and he took a moment to catch his breath before sliding his moist palm along the wall in search of a light switch. It was a flickering array of fluorescent lighting strips that eventually stuttered into life to illuminate the drab, sub standard office that was no more than four metres square and sparsely furnished. A standard changing room wall locker stood in one far corner and in the other, chest high, a Chubb High Security safe.

Behind a desk and seated upright facing the door was a man who became more visible to him as the starter bulbs of the neon strips took effect. Greg checked himself and waited, expecting words to come. The dark steel of the man’s eyes drilled holes as they locked onto their visitor. Greg didn’t know what he expected, then realised they were eyes that saw nothing.  He was a large man, obese even, but weight wasn’t his problem. His mouth gaped and his stare was frozen in death.  Each lateral tooth in that expensive jaw gleamed with gold. This man would never speak again. He looked to be sixty. His clothes spelled success as did the Rolex on a bared wrist and the gold chain and double diamond gold loop in the right ear. His number one haircut reflected the neon and he was probably taller sitting than he would have been standing. A healthy man would have weighed three stone less and it was clear he would never stand again.  He hadn’t died easily.  Blood was everywhere for both forearms were lashed to the arms of his chair with automotive plastic ties and all the fingers of each hand had been sheared at the second knuckle joint. This presented a bizarre sight with each finger stump adorned with an assortment of gold and diamond rings. Of the severed digits there was no immediate sign. A wound below the neckline was unseen, but could be imagined. It had bled profusely through the Prada dress shirt which was designed to fit, but no longer did. It had been slashed open at the front and his necktie had been tightened into a strangle knot in the folds of flesh at the throat.

Greg was horrified. He became aware he was standing in a pool of the man’s blood. This was the work of a demon. Still drunk he made an attempt to retrieve the phone that had been ripped from the wall. It lay on the bare wooden boards against the safe and as he bent forward he saw a second figure slumped between the safe and the locker. The hair was shoulder length and blonde. She was on her knees, arched forward, her head braced against the side of the safe. It appeared she was wearing a knee length red and white coat, but no! More horror as Greg realised it was a stock issue white smock that had absorbed her life blood. She was unmoving. He felt for a pulse. There was none, but her flesh was warm. He assumed they were her cries that had drawn him here. There was blood on her hands, blood on the phone which was close to where she lay and an excess of blood formed a growing pool on the floor. 

And was it a woman? Greg took a minute to decide and then decided it wasn’t important at this stage even though the fine boned effeminate hands supported the fact. He grabbed the phone from the floor and fumbled in a clumsy effort to reconnect it to the wall and was amazed to get an immediate dial tone.  He dialled 111 then waited no time.

‘Emergency, fire, police, or ambulance?’

Greg took a breath.

‘All of the above.’

RUDOLPH HAD REACHED a stage where he was ready to believe Greg Parkinson was a victim. The truth wasn’t disguised by his drunken babble. 

‘No more questions, Greg, but yes,  just one more. The safe!  Was it open when you arrived? Closed, or what?’

Greg’s thinking was much clearer now.

‘I didn’t touch anything. Just the phone and felt for the woman’s pulse. Everything was just the way you found it.’

‘And the light switch. The blood on the wall was yours?’

‘Not mine, but off my hands. That would be right.’

‘Another question, Greg.’

‘You said no more.’

‘One more. What else did you hear?’

‘What else? I don’t know. I told you, just moaning.’

‘Before that when on the road. Did you hear shots, or what sounded like shots?’

‘Nothing like that.’ A shake of the head.

‘We’ll need your clothes, and your shoes for forensics. One of our cars will take you home.’

‘I’ve got a car.’

‘We’ll bring you back again.’

‘It’s an ’our and an ’alf’s drive, three ’ours there and back.’

‘Not the way we drive. We’ll be quick, unless you want to spend the night as a guest of Her Majesty’s government. We’ll locate your vehicle in your absence. That shouldn’t be difficult. Give my sergeant the keys and the details.’

Chapter 2

RUDOLPH STOOD ON THE street away from the crime scene and yearned for his bed, but knew it was a while away yet. The blackbird, a vociferous member of the dawn chorus, had spoken. It was indeed dawn. The tired policeman consulted his watch and looked to the east; 7:15. With no sign of rain and a deficiency of cloud the sun was claiming the day as its own as it inched above the horizon, a glowing orange orb on a silver backdrop, its reflection bouncing from the tranquillity of Auckland’s harbour. Today would be a different day for many reasons. No rain was a blessing for those sickened by the depths of a sodden winter, but a sorry morning had broken for the two deceased persons who were still resident in the dispatch office of Air Chill Cold Storage.

Thirty years of police work for Phil Rudolph were having their effect. At fifty eight he was getting signals that suggested to him it was time to step aside with his wealth of experience and clear the way for someone younger.  Ken Evans was such a man. A true friend who wouldn’t want that to happen even though it would bring for him all the promotions and financial benefits he deserved. Rudolph had been dragged from his bed an hour after his head had hit the pillow this morning for another routine crime call which was never routine. The face in the bathroom mirror hadn’t been his. It was his father’s and Phil shook his head in disbelief as he recognised the high forehead and receding hairline with flecks of silver among the not so silver. The cheeks had hollowed out in recent years, but the eyebrows bushed the way his dad’s had and the steely power in his grey eyes would always be piercing and often uncomfortably interrogating.

‘I’m looking more like him every day,’ he’d said to his wife on more than one occasion.

‘That can’t be bad,’ was always her stock answer with the rider sometimes of, ‘he was a lovely man.’

First light had brought the expected. It was too early for Sunday morning church goers, but the gathering of dog walkers and exercise fanatics from nearby apartments had the makings of a rubbernecking crowd. They, together with the odd vagrant and arbitrary passing motorist who chose not to pass added to the nuisance of the news media who at the worst of times could sniff out a story when there was none.  David Freeman was a freelance journalist who had been pleased to be prised from his bed an hour before dawn to respond to inside information from an anonymous source.  For  the better part of two hours he’d been jostling with rival television crews and peers  from radio stations,  dodging puddles as he enhanced his version of events. In the freshness of the dawn he faced his cameraman yet again to go live to his newsroom with breaking news.

‘This is David Freeman reporting live from Auckland’s waterfront. Our cameras are outside the premises of Air Chill Cold Storage which since the early hours of this morning have been the focus of extreme police activity. To date no one has been available to confirm reports of a double fatality at the property, however, we are standing by for a press conference to be conducted by the head of the investigating team at 8am to bring us up to date with the situation. Air Chill Cold Storage is a privately owned company whose major shareholders are the colourful brothers Clegg, the local property barons and prominent horse racing personalities. Anton Clegg has been in the news lately as the subject of Serious Fraud Office inquiries since the collapse of several investment companies with which he is involved. All attempts to contact the owners have been to no avail but we stand by for updates.  I end by repeating it has yet to be confirmed there has been a double fatality within these cold walls.  David Freeman for Independent News.’

The reporter ended his statement abruptly and brushed aside his cameraman at the sight of Philip Rudolph standing alone in a side alley next to the cold store. He bounded forward demanding an explanation from his long time buddy and school friend. They’d survived university together in the seventies with Dave finding the attraction of journalism more inspiring than the flatfooted potential of police work. Both had graduated with honours with Phil Rudolph becoming one of the more over qualified entrants to law enforcement.

‘You’re a bit of a slug, Phil,’ blurted the newsman. ‘You could have given me the heads up on this one.’

The inspector wasn’t in the mood and rebuffed his colleague.

‘There’s nothing to tell, Dave. Wait your turn. You know the rules.’

‘There’re people dead I’m told, a homicide, maybe more than one. What’s going on?’

‘You’ll know in time. You want dead people? Go to the cemetery.’

‘You’re handing me crap, Phil. This would have to be big to get you out of your cot in the middle of the night.  Come on, tell me what you know. What’s going down?’

‘8am a full media conference. Stay awake if you can.’ Rudolph seemed more at ease. ‘Who’s your contact? Who do I know who knows you?  Who do I have to sack?’

‘I can’t reveal a source, Phil, you know that. You said it yourself, I know the rules.’

‘When I find out who it is they’re gone.’

‘It’s no one you know. Relax.’

‘I’ll tell you something for nothing Dave. I’ll relax when you get back on the road behind that tape. You’ll know what there is to know when it’s time for you to know. Not before. Now get out of here!’

A disgruntled David Freeman withdrew to the designated area with a further respectful retort.

‘I thought we were mates,’ he said to Rudolph’s back as the inspector returned to the job at hand. ‘Who is it in there?’

Rudolph ignored him which wasn’t hard to do and moved back inside and up the stairs to the crime scene. He was greeted by his direct subordinate Detective Sergeant Ken Evans who was pleased to report the forensic team was ready to depart after four hours on the job.

‘Do we have any positives, Ken?’

‘It’s clear there’s been a shooting. They found a spattering of shell cases scattered around.’

‘IDs?’

‘Yet to be confirmed, but looking likely.’

‘And?’

‘It’s much as we thought first up. The big guy is one of the Clegg brothers and his wallet tells us it was Anton Clegg, the bad one of the two. The second deceased is known to us as Lionel Bates, his faggot. He was pretty well cut up and it seems in death they were not to be divided.’

‘Faggot? Not a woman, Ken?

‘Most certainly not. He looks every bit a woman, but certain characteristics contradict that and common knowledge has it Clegg had the tendency to bat for the opposition.’

‘They both died the hard way.’

‘That’s absolute. A little short of torture it would seem for the big man and indications suggest his rent boy was made to watch.’

‘Rent boy? All supposition, of course,’ said Rudolph who had been considering the probability of torture in the time spent in the fresh air when Dave Freeman had been in his ear. Why would anyone resort to torture; for what reason? Logically he had decided there could be just two reasons for such a sadistic act. One was vengeance, retribution for an injustice and the other would be simply to gain information. The first idea could not be discounted for Anton Clegg was notorious for sleazy deals with which he had been involved that in many cases had deprived many people of life savings. These were transactions of embezzlement which had created situations where some investors had taken their own lives. With minor convictions through the courts and being a twice discharged bankrupt Anton Clegg was no stranger to Rudolph’s circle of activity. Basically the man was a bad penny. He was known in his peerage circles as Sailor Clegg, a despicably ruthless individual who continually sailed close to the wind. In contrast, his twin brother Alexander Clegg was a respected public figure. The brothers were born thirty five minutes apart and the main difficulty for anyone associated with either of them was the fact one was a mirror image of the other, but as far as character and reputation were concerned it was hard to credit the two men had come from the same womb.

Alexander had a long history of benevolence in society, serving on the boards of several charities while being recognised publicly for his willingness to share his good fortune with those less favoured. Now sixty three years of age his portly figure decried his achievements of twenty five years earlier when winning both a gold and silver medal for his country in field events at the Commonwealth games. Recognised by the Governor General for his services to sport and the heart foundation he received a knighthood in 2003. He never married, but was a congenial soul who was always ready with a smile to match the gleam in his eye. Alexander Clegg was a man of extreme wealth who lived mostly alone on his lifestyle acreage in Clevedon where he spent much time with the true love of his life\; Horses, racing livestock.  Following a mild stroke four years earlier he had acquired a personal physician with a live-in facility on the Clegg farm known as The Stables.

Anton Clegg was an outright bastard in anybody’s language; end of story. His Parnell home offered all that would be expected of a man of his means. Two acres of mature gardens surrounded a five bedroom mansion supported by an indoor tidal pool and tennis courts. His employees were few, select and well paid. Two gardeners and a strongman valet, Matthau Vatsavai proved to be sufficient with Vatavai as head man in control of most things. Slow moving Vatavai was never far from his master’s side. Two metres tall and almost a metre wide his Samoan heritage was never contained within the Italian suits he wore. He seldom spoke out of turn. His one hundred and thirty five kilo frame was solid muscle and said it all to those seeking answers. So where was he now and where had he been when he was most needed when his master was being butchered? Was he indeed the butcher?

‘And what of a motive?’ observed the inspector. ‘This is not a simple robbery,’

‘Hardly simple,’ agreed Evans, ‘and yet to be determined a robbery. The ironmongery on what remains of Clegg’s hands would amount to half of what I earn in a year, so obviously that wasn’t a point of interest. I don’t know about the safe, though. We can’t get in there yet to see what they’ve been up to.’

‘And who’s on the way here; key holders, shareholders, directors, the other Clegg?’

‘Appropriate calls have been made, Phil, we have had a bit of a non result in that direction until now.’

The Cold Store was crawling with forensic examiners who were in the process of leaving, but had been delayed by the arrival of a hard faced lady of senior years.  Eileen Cauldron, pathologist, was battling sixty and had held her coroner’s position for more years than she had intended. She continued to resist the growing urge to