Poison Bay Page 7

  “I’m not really sure,” Erica said. “I’m no paramedic. In a hospital ward we’d give her warmth and fuel, preferably IV glucose.”

  Rachel cut in. “What about my glucose tablets? We could give her some of those.”

  They all turned and stared. Rachel’s meager remaining supply could be the difference between life and death for herself.

  The group focus shifted to Erica, reluctant team medic. “Maybe if we just gave her one, that might help,” she hedged.

  Adam said, “And we need to try and get over this mountain. How about I carry her? I’ll give her a piggy-back, if she can hang on. If one of you guys takes my pack, and the other takes Sharon’s, we can at least keep moving.”

  Kain said, “It’s too dangerous scouting a route in this weather with two packs on. We have to get over that pass. Hurry!” He turned and started back up the mountain, leaving the load-sharing problem behind him.

  Jack stared at his retreating back.

  Callie said, “It’s okay. He’s probably right about a scout needing mobility. I can carry Sharon’s pack, clipped to the front of mine. Jack, can you manage Adam’s as well as your own?”

  “I’ll give it a go,” he replied. “Kain’s definitely right about one thing—we need to get over this pass before the snow gets any worse.”

  ***

  Another hour, and the wind had risen, and the top of the pass seemed as far away as ever—what little they could see of it. The snow swirled into their faces, stinging their skin. Jack’s eyelashes were working overtime to keep the snow out of his eyes, and he knew they would soon freeze into hard spikes. He longed for his snow goggles, lying in the back of a cupboard at home, souvenir of an ill-judged ski trip seven years ago.

  His heart pounded with the effort of supporting the extra dragging weight of Adam’s rucksack as well as his own. Attached to his front, it banged forcefully on his knees each time he tried to reach a foot up to the next rock. He’d tried it on his back, but it pulled his center of gravity too far backwards, and threatened to send him tumbling down the mountainside to a messy death.

  Ahead of him, Callie labored with Sharon’s pack. She’d always complained about how she’d like to be petite, but her strong frame was a godsend today.

  A little further up, Adam kept making determined, laborious progress up the mountain with Sharon strapped to his back. He had begun with his arms hooked under her knees, as though piggy-backing a child, but she had been too weak to grip his shoulders effectively, and he’d also had no hands available to steady himself in a stumble on the uneven ground. Rachel had been the one to suggest they use a rope and a small tarp like a large papoose to strap Sharon on, and it was a much better solution.

  They hiked close together now, not strung out over a hundred meters or so, as they had done. They needed to be close to each other, and not just for emotional reasons. As the visibility dropped, it became all too easy to lose someone in the whiteout.

  17

  “Peter!” Amber exclaimed, as he walked in the front door of his tiny police station. He’d been home for a quick shower to wash the anxiety of the flight away, and now he wanted to take the pulse of his station and his team.

  “You’re back early,” she said.

  “Quick, better look like you’re working.” He knew she’d take it as a joke, since she was the least idle person he’d ever met. As well as managing their watch house where offenders were detained before transfer to Invercargill, Amber was his front-desk interceptor and all-round source of the local knowledge no one else would tell him. A duffel bag lying on the floor against the counter caught his eye. “What’s this?”

  Amber nodded towards a woman sitting in their “waiting room”, a glorified name for two upright chairs off to the side. “It belongs to Mrs Carpenter. She’s just arrived from Brisbane. She says she’s staying here until she can see the officer in charge.”

  Peter raised one eyebrow at her, and turned to greet the woman in jeans and t-shirt now rising from one of the chairs. A slender, elegant woman, fairly sensible looking, but behind the fashionable glasses her eyes showed signs of recent tears. Tread carefully, Peter, he thought.

  “Peter Hubble.” He held out his hand to her. She shook it firmly and replied, “Ellen Carpenter.”

  “What seems to be the trouble?”

  “My daughter’s missing. She was due home in Brisbane yesterday, but she wasn’t on the plane, and she hasn’t called.”

  Amber chimed in: “Rachel Carpenter, twenty-seven, on a tramping expedition led by Bryan Smithton. We got a call from Interpol this morning. Tom checked with DOC and the panic date is two weeks away.” Peter read the message in the look Amber gave him. Tom was his right-hand man, and had responsibility for Search And Rescue. He had followed correct procedure, and there were no grounds for action yet, but explaining that to a distraught relative was quite a different matter. Especially a relative determined enough to cross the Tasman Sea within twenty-four hours of a no-show.

  Ellen said, “Please take me seriously.” Her look was intense. “Rachel is an insulin-dependent diabetic. And she’s a thoughtful, compassionate girl. She wouldn’t leave me wondering.” She rummaged in her handbag, and he could see her fingers tremble. “I’ve brought the itinerary she left me, just so you can see how careful she is.” There was a slight catch at the edge of the last word.

  Peter touched her elbow and she looked up at him. “Why don’t you come through to my office. Amber, would you mind keeping Mrs Carpenter’s luggage behind the counter please. And get me that form from DOC.”

  After he’d got her seated in his simple office, Peter started making conversation. “So Mrs Carpenter, how far have you come today?”

  “Please call me Ellen. I’ve come from Brisbane. I managed to get a direct flight to Queenstown, and then a shuttle bus down here.”

  “A busy day then.”

  “Yes, and not the most restful night’s sleep before it.” She gave a hint of a wry smile. “I realize I probably sound like a loony. My husband died a year ago, and Rachel has been my support through it all. If she was going to be late, she would find a way let me know. The group had a satellite phone. The fact that she hasn’t called must mean she can’t. I know there will be rules you have to follow, but I need to convince you that something really is wrong.”

  She fumbled to pull several sheets of paper out of her handbag and thrust them at Peter. He smoothed them on the desk in front of him, reading quietly. It was a detailed document. Flight arrival and departure times, addresses and phone numbers of Bryan Smithton and the accommodation in Christchurch, where they would be and what they would be doing on different days, a list of the other members of the party and even the contact details of some of their families. If something had happened out there, this list would be a head start for the investigating officers.

  “Have you called any of these people?”

  “Yes. Callie’s mother wasn’t certain exactly when she was due back. Jack lives with his parents and they were expecting him yesterday. They’re worried. Sharon’s parents haven’t heard anything either and they’re beside themselves. They’d gone to the airport with balloons. She’d never been overseas before so it was a really big deal for them. They’re minding her little boy.”

  “I see.”

  “What was your officer saying before, about the doctor and panicking?”

  “About what?” His frown cleared. “You mean DOC and the panic date. DOC is the Department of Conservation. When tramping parties go into the national park they’re required to register their intentions. They list a ‘panic date’, so that we know when to send the search parties. Sometimes people get delayed a day or two by a flooded river or what-have-you, and sensible trampers have extra supplies to allow for that. Bryan Smithton is definitely a sensible tramper. He would also be able to find food in the environment if necessary. Searches are expensive and difficult. As a rule, we can’t launch a proper search until we pass the panic date, and apparent
ly it’s still two weeks away.” He privately thought it a long panic date, even for someone with Bryan’s skill, but he kept that to himself.

  “Two weeks! I’m sure Rachel didn’t have enough supplies for that long.”

  “Do you know how much she did have?”

  “Not exactly. She definitely took extras of everything, she’s very careful—she’s been on long hikes before in Tasmania. But I’d be surprised if they’d last her more than a week, less if she can’t eat the right things.” Her voice was measured, but he saw her swallow hard.

  Footsteps approached, and Amber appeared to hand Peter a form.

  “Where were they going?” he said.

  “George Sound,” Amber said.

  Memory clicked and he looked at the dates on Ellen’s paperwork again. “That’s the group I saw leaving the other week. Tom’s cousin took them across the lake. Amber, can you check when they’re booked to come back? If they’re not booked with him, check the others.”

  “Sure.”

  “Ten days. Helluva long time to be tramping George Sound.” Peter frowned at the form. “Surely five days would be more than enough.” Something doesn’t add up in all this, but I don’t know what it is.

  “I thought so too. But sometimes he goes off-track to do nature studies or photography or something.”

  “Possible. I’ll pop round to Bryan’s house on my way home, see if there’s anything going on there, check with the neighbors.” He turned to Ellen. “And I’ll drop you at your hotel. You need a good meal and a rest.”

  “So, will you start searching?” Ellen said a few minutes later, as she buckled her seat belt.

  “Not today, it’s too late. And there’s things we need to do first. But I hear your concern. Bear in mind, Bryan Smithton is very experienced. He’d have a mountain radio, emergency beacons, the works. He’ll be able to cope with most things.”

  Ellen drew breath to interrupt, but he cut her off. “No, hear me out. I understand your anxiety—it’s possible Bryan didn’t know about her diabetes when he filled in the DOC form. So we’ll check everything we can, make sure we know what we’re dealing with. Okay?”

  “Okay. Thank you, Sergeant.”

  “Call me Peter. We don’t go in for formality here.”

  “Okay, thank you Peter.”

  He pulled up in front of Ellen’s lake-front hotel. It was expensive, but probably the only place she’d been able to get a booking at short notice.

  “Now, Ellen, I’m serious about what I’m about to tell you.” She nodded solemnly. “You need a proper meal with meat and vegetables, a shower, and then a rest. Lie down, even if you think you’ll never sleep. That’s a police directive. Okay?”

  “Yes sir,” she replied with a shaky smile.

  “I’ll call you here at the hotel when we know something.”

  ***

  Bryan’s house looked neat and bare like it always did, not that Peter had ever been invited inside. He was glad of those bald curtainless windows today, and the evening sun slanting in. He didn’t want to force entry yet, but most of the rooms were visible anyway. The weirdest thing was the grid pattern on the living room floor. Masking tape, by the look of it. Who knew what that was about.

  As he came around the side of the house, he heard the screen door swing and snap into place next door, followed by shuffling footsteps. “Oh it’s you Peter,” said a thin, warbling voice. “How are you dear? And how was Tahlia’s party?”

  “Great thanks Doreen, to both questions.” He smiled and leaned on the fence. She seemed to have become even thinner in the week he’d been gone. The chemo was taking its toll.

  “Are you looking for Bryan?” she asked.

  “Yes, have you seen him?”

  “He’s been gone a week or two. He had a big group of friends here. So lovely to hear young voices and all that laughing. He spends far too much time alone. Arthur!” she called towards the house.

  Steady footsteps sounded on the floorboards and a balding head appeared. “Is everything okay?”

  “Of course, lovey. Do you remember what day Bryan had all those lovely young people in the house?”

  “Oh hello Peter. How was the party?”

  “Good thanks.”

  Arthur looked at least ten years younger than his sick wife, although Peter knew they’d been in the same year at school together.

  “I think it must have been Wednesday, week before last. Remember Doreen, we had to go down to Invercargill for your treatment the next day.”

  “So you haven’t seen him since then? Or anything else unusual?” Peter said.

  “No, not a squeak out of the place,” Arthur said. “But he did have a lot of deliveries over the past few weeks. That was unusual.”

  “Deliveries?” It didn’t seem relevant, but his curiosity was aroused.

  “I asked him and he said they were tramping supplies from Dunedin,” Doreen said.

  “Lots of rucksacks and things,” Arthur affirmed. “I saw them all laid out in his living room later on.”

  “I see. Well thanks for your help.”

  “Is anything wrong?” Doreen said.

  “He’s just a bit late back from the tramping trip, that’s all.”

  “Oh well, he’s very experienced,” Arthur said. “I’m sure they’ll be all right. Just a flooded river or something.”

  “Yes, of course they will,” said Doreen, and turned back to Peter. “And how is Tom’s little girl?”

  “I haven’t actually seen Tom yet. I only got back from Auckland an hour ago. But Lily went into remission about six months ago.”

  Arthur frowned. “I think that might have changed. He was down at Invercargill with her the day we were there. She was having a round of chemo, the poor wee thing.”

  “That’s awful,” said Peter, taken aback. I wonder why he didn’t tell me she was having treatment again. It wasn’t like Tom to withhold any news about his treasured family, good or bad. “I’ve probably been too caught up in my own silly problems to notice.” He sighed and scratched his ear.

  “I’m sure they’re not silly problems,” declared Doreen stoutly. “Anyway, we all get distracted by our daily muddle at times.” She smiled and headed back towards the house on Arthur’s arm. He watched her go, every step a careful one, and found his mind’s eye suddenly full of little Lily Granton at last year’s office Christmas party. Her eyes much too big in a face far too thin; the quiet carefulness of her older brother, making sure the games didn’t get too rough for her—only about nine himself. He should have been pulling his little sister’s hair and putting frogs down her dress—not carrying the weight of the world.

  Peter sighed again and walked over to peer into Bryan Smithton’s living room window again. He did a quick count of the masking-tape grid. Eight spaces. They must have been for the rucksacks and supplies. Ellen Carpenter had mentioned that Bryan paid for all his guests, and supplied their equipment. The grid made sense now, even if it was still pretty weird.

  ***

  Peter’s route home took him near Tom Granton’s place. On impulse, he turned into the street and pulled up near the letterbox of number forty-seven. He turned off the engine, and sat for a moment as it ticked and settled. The front door was open, and he could hear faint sounds from a game show on the television inside.

  “What am I doing here?” he wondered aloud. He was reaching for the ignition key to restart the car and head home, when a movement at the door caught his eye. It was Nyree, with a pajama-clad toddler perched on her hip. She’d seen him and waved, her face breaking into a huge smile.

  He returned the wave, got out of the car and walked across the grass, skirting a blue tricycle being held together mostly by rust.

  “Welcome home, Peter. How was your holiday?”

  “Good thanks, Nyree. Good to be home though. I don’t fancy the big smoke so much these days.”

  She laughed. “Who would? Come on in for a beer. I’m putting this one to bed, but I’d love to hear h
ow it all went. Ted was just on the phone telling me how much you enjoyed the flight home.” She was teasing him now. The pilot was another of Tom’s cousins, and lived in the next street.

  “Yeah, and I can’t wait to throw him in the lockup if I catch him dropping litter or parking his car too far from the curb.”

  Nyree laughed again. “You go through, Peter, and I’ll be out in a minute. Tom will be home soon.”

  He passed between the kids and their television, but they paid him little attention. He saw Lily slumped at one end of the lounge. She looked even thinner, a pink beanie on her head. Her hair must have fallen out again. Peter’s heart ached for her—for all of them.

  He walked through the kitchen to the patio, and went to a battered folding camping chair that creaked as he sat. The Granton’s big rangy dog materialized from under the house, and flopped down at Peter’s feet. His warm flank made contact with Peter’s ankle—the ultimate expression of canine approval. “Hello Hank,” Peter said, and rubbed the dog’s ears. Hank’s strong tail thumped the ground, one-two-three.

  Nyree emerged juggling not just two beer cans, but a steaming bowl of stew, fork embedded, which she plonked on the folding table at Peter’s elbow. Peter looked at it, and then grinned at her. “How did you know I hadn’t eaten?” She waved a hand dismissively and sat in the mismatched folding chair next to him.

  It was very good stew, Nyree’s famous recipe, rich with tomatoes and kumara and other treasures from the overgrown vegetable garden up near the fence, and crammed with tender venison.

  “Still working through last season’s hunt?”

  “There’s a heap of it in the deep freeze. Tom did really well this year.”

  They had a desultory chat about Tahlia’s birthday party, the youth of the guests, the loudness of the music. Nyree’s mood changed when Peter mentioned the missing trampers he was investigating.

  “It’s not as though I’d ever want anything bad to happen to him, but I don’t much like that Bryan Smithton. He’s so negative about everything that it makes life harder for Tom.” This was strong criticism, coming from Nyree.