Expectant

PROLOGUE

The group swaggered their way down Moray Place, voices loud, giving each other light-hearted grief. They were like any group of teenagers – full of themselves, finding their own fun, out a bit too late on a school night. They came around the bend, heading downhill towards George Street, but as if on cue, they took a left and ducked down the red-brick Victorian alleyway. The swagger dropped, hoodies were pulled up, and the banter pitch dropped to a soft murmur. The low lighting barely threw shadows as they descended the darkened, tunnel-like passage. One of them stopped as he entered, running a hand across the mural, tracing the line of a spindly leg.

‘What about here? Everyone will see it.’

The others slowed, turned back to consider the proposal.

Timi shook his head. ‘Nah, you can’t do that. That’s art. We don’t shit on other people’s art.’

The others turned and moved on. With a shrug, the youth followed them down towards the open courtyard, still running his fingers along the wall. It was late, and patrons of the hip bar along the side of the lane had toasted their last drinks and gone home. Apart from a couple of cars, the place appeared deserted. All angles and alcoves, the courtyard provided plenty of opportunities out of sight of prying eyes.

‘Over here – this one is perfect.’

They stood in front of the wall, a blank canvas awaiting their touch.

‘Sweet.’

The quiet was broken by the staccato rattle of ball-bearing peas clicking up and down as spray cans were shaken. They set to, arms sweeping and circling, the sharp tang of solvent and paint cutting the air. They worked in well-practised unison, their moves throwing choreographed shadows in the dim light. They worked quickly – being caught wasn’t an option – and the downside of their chosen alleyway was there was only one way in, and one way out. It was high-risk, but it would be worth the reward of having an epic tag here, right in the middle of town.

The schhhhh of the spray and shuffling and murmuring of the boys drifted into the night, but then, unnoticed at first, another sound infiltrated, a moaning, low and sporadic.

Timi stopped spraying, tilted his head, straining to listen. There it was again. His heartbeat bounced up. Had someone spotted them? Were they sprung? His head spun around, looking up towards the entrance, but there was no one there. Then he heard it again and realised it wasn’t coming from the street, and it didn’t sound human. It sounded like an animal, and it was coming from further down the alley. He placed his spray can down on the asphalt and walked cautiously in the direction of the noise.

‘Hey, whatcha doing, bro?’

Timi lifted his hand, signalling them to stop.

‘I heard something. I think there’s a dog or something down there.’

‘Well, don’t let it get ya. Might bite you, give you the rabies or something.’ The sentence was followed by a giggle.

Then he heard the sound again, and there was some quality about it that set every nerve on high alert. It was the sound of suffering, it was the sound of pain, and it was a sound that compelled him forward, urgency overcoming fear. He rounded the corner of a small alcove and stopped dead, his mind grappling to come to terms with what he saw.

The dark stains had to be blood, so much blood. She was lying on her back, both hands clasped around her gaping, oozing belly. The light and shadows must have been playing tricks on his eyes, because he couldn’t be sure, but it looked like she’d been sliced in two. His nose was assaulted by a hot, sweet smell that left a metallic tang in the back of his throat.

‘Jesus,’ he uttered.

Her eyes lifted slowly to meet his, and she let out that primal groan, and everything about the fucked-up sight before him triggered the urge to run.

He stepped backward. ‘Guys,’ he yelled, ‘come here.’

‘What is it, bro? A cute puppy dog?’ More giggling.

‘You got to get here now.’

The panic in Timi’s voice must have got them moving, because moments later three figures appeared behind him.

‘What’s the prob—. Holy fuck.’ Hands grabbed at Timi’s arms. ‘We got to get out of here, bro. We got to get out of here now. We will be in so much shit if they find us here with her. Come on. We have to go.’

Timi staggered backward with the pull, backing away from the woman sprawled before them.

‘But we can’t just leave her here,’ he said, pushing away the hands. ‘She needs help.’

‘Nothing’s going to help her, and if they find us with her, they’ll think we did it. Come on, Timi, we gotta go.’ Desperation laced his mate’s voice, and the others echoed it. ‘Come on’ and ‘Let’s get outta here.’

‘But what if she dies? And we didn’t help. We’ve got to do something.’

‘Jesus, Timi, she’s gonna die. No one’s gonna survive that, and if the cops find us, they’ll think we done it – they always think people like us done it. Don’t be a dick. Come on, man.’

‘Yeah, move it, Timi.’ The others turned and took off, the sounds of their retreating footsteps echoing off the brick walls.

But Timi stood there, staring, torn. He looked over his shoulder after his mates bolting for freedom, then looked back to the woman, to those exhausted, fading eyes. Decision made, he made his move.

He stepped forward and knelt down beside her, angling his body as close as he could get. Fuck, there was so much blood, and he could feel the wetness of it seeping into the fabric of his jeans. He placed one hand over hers, and with the other reached up and gently cupped her face.

‘It’s okay. I’m here, I’m gonna get you some help,’

She closed her eyes and a big tear rolled down the side of her nose.

‘You’ll be okay,’ he said, softly rubbing his thumb along her cheek, keeping his eyes fixed on her face, resisting the pull to look further down.

‘I’m here,’ he whispered. ‘You’re not alone.’

CHAPTER 1

‘Are you Timi’s parents?’ It was a rhetorical question really. The incandescent man before me was the spitting image of the boy, but with about twenty-five years’ extra wear and tear. The woman with him looked a seesawing tussle of upset and ropable.

‘Where is he? Where is the little shit? I can’t believe we’ve been called down to the police station at this hour.’ This was delivered with a fair amount of gusto, and given the fact he was at least a foot taller than me and clearly agitated, it was rather intimidating. ‘Wait till I get my hands on him.’

No one was going to be getting their hands on Timi anytime soon. Given the circumstances, we’d taken the exceptional act of letting him use the showers, and found him some clean clothing – although, alas, it was police-custody issue. Our youth-liaison officer was still with him, having accompanied the poor young lad through the process of being photographed, swabbed and examined for forensic evidence, before finally being able to cleanse himself of the woman’s blood. He hadn’t been formally interviewed yet – that was still to come, and in the light of day – but we knew enough to realise he’d had the kind of night you wouldn’t wish upon anyone, let alone a teenage boy.

‘Hi, I’m Detective Sam Shephard.’ I reached out to shake Thomas Felipo’s hand, and as my arm extended his eyes dropped, took in my extremely rotund midriff, and with an almost apologetic look cautiously took my hand. Whoever thought a pregnant belly could so effectively defuse a pissed-off parent. In fact, there had been a number of occasions when my condition had helped calm a situation, which was a good thing, because if it came to beating a hasty retreat, I was now in waddle rather than run mode.

‘Come through, let me explain the situation.’

The stark lighting in the family interview room did nothing to soften the expressions of anger that morphed into horror, then disbelief, on the faces of Timi Felipo’s parents. It was now 1.00am, and I was quite sure the lighting was doing me no favours either. Sina Felipo sat silent, her hands clasped in her lap as she struggled to absorb the events of the night and what it meant for her son. Her husband for the most part was fixated on why Timi was out in the first place and was barraging me with questions about the tagging. I don’t know if it was a deflection thing, but he was completely missing the point about the extraordinary actions of his son, and the profound effect it was likely to have on him. I was tired and borderline hangry, and it took immense patience to calmly redirect his focus away from the fact his teenager had been out vandalising public places with his mates, to the fact that he had committed an act of incredible bravery and humanity.

‘Yes, he was down the laneway with a group of his friends tagging, and there is no way I can condone that,’ I said, for what felt like the millionth time. ‘But what he did was remarkable. When all his friends ran off because they were scared of what they had seen and of being caught and potentially blamed, he chose to stay. He chose to stay with a horrendously injured woman, who he knew was probably going to die, right there and then. He offered her what comfort he could, he made sure she didn’t die alone. That is an incredible thing for anyone to do in those circumstances, let alone a sixteen-year-old boy. You should be very proud of him.’

‘But he shouldn’t have been there in the first place. We brought him up better than that.’

‘We thought he was at his friend Oscar’s house to study, not out on the streets. He lied to us.’ It was the first time Sina had really participated in the conversation, and I felt disappointed that she too chose to take the offended-parent angle.

‘True, he was doing something wrong. But when it came to the crunch, he made the courageous choice.’

‘So, what will happen to him now?’ she asked.

‘Well, for a start, the most important thing is that he is supported and looked after. He’s had a big shock. He witnessed the result of an awful, vicious crime, and he was alone with a dying person. That is a lot to deal with, so he’ll have our counsellors spend time with him and talk him through all that. There was no way he could have prevented her dying, so we have to make sure he knows that in his heart of hearts. That is where it will be really important for you to support him and keep an eye on him.’

‘But will he be charged for the tagging?’ Thomas asked.

‘That I can’t say for sure. The circumstances are pretty unique, and the trauma he has suffered will be taken into account, I’m sure. Before all that, though, he’ll have to make a statement about tonight, and ultimately, when we do find out who was responsible for this heinous crime, he may have to appear in court to testify. But we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. For now, take him home for some sleep, and bring him back in the morning so we can take his statement.’

I hoped to God they had listened to my words about support, and focussed on how brave their son had been and what an awful experience he’d been through. Although I suspected there would be harsh words about why he was in the alleyway in the first place.

What that boy needed was hugs not hassle.

CHAPTER 2

Dunedin was waking up to the news of the horrendous crime committed on its streets overnight, and I was waking up to the shocking details the media and general public still weren’t party to – details we didn’t have last night. Courtesy of my expanded girth and imminent popping I always got a chair at the briefings these days, and, man, was I glad of it this morning. Even The Boss, who usually revelled in the drama of standing front and centre, looked sickened by the report being delivered by Detective Malcolm Smith, AKA Smithy.

‘The woman who was murdered last night was thirty-one-year-old Aleisha Newman. Her partner has been spoken with, and he is still contacting family, so her name has not been released to the media. What he was able to tell us – and this changes the case completely – is that Ms Newman was thirty-eight weeks pregnant.’

There were some confused looks about the room, but the relevance of that statement hit me immediately, and I felt a wave of cold rush its way down my face. My hands immediately wrapped themselves around my own very pregnant belly as I braced myself for what I knew would be coming next.

Smithy released a large breath and continued. ‘Last night, before this information came to hand, and based on a first report from the attending ambulance staff, we thought we were looking at a homicide by stabbing. It is now apparent that the victim died as a result of the massive trauma and blood loss of having her unborn child cut out of her. That child is now missing.’

A collective gasp went around the room, followed by a stunned silence. I couldn’t help the swell of tears that sprung into my eyes. A large hand reached over and clamped onto mine. I turned and saw my horror reflected in Paul’s eyes.

When I looked back to the front of the room DI Johns was staring in my direction. Usually in team meetings a stare from The Boss, AKA Dick Head Johns, meant I was going to get called out for special attention of the unwanted kind, but this time he gave a tight-lipped, almost apologetic frown and then looked down at the floor.

‘We will have more details after the postmortem, but the paediatric and gynaecological specialists at the hospital say the child could still be alive, and until this is proved otherwise, we are going to assume that they are. So, this case is now a murder and a kidnapping.’

CHAPTER 3

The air in the CIB room was sombre to say the least. We had all walked back to the office lost in our thoughts. Mine were turbulent, chopping from anger to disgust to disbelief to horror. My hyperactive imagination could almost feel the slice of steel below my belly, and I couldn’t help but wince as my hands, yet again, cupped the precious cargo. I felt a reassuring wriggle within.

‘Well, that’s about the most horrific thing I’ve ever heard in my life.’ Otto had been around for a long time and had spent considerable time serving overseas, so coming from him that was saying something.

His words broke the ice, and a torrent of comments and exclamations washed around the room. The overwhelming theme was utter disbelief that something so awful could happen in good ole New Zealand, let alone boring Dunners. Dunedin was pretty much Grand Conservative Central. The most exciting things that happened here usually involved drunk students or the ever-present illicit drug scene. This was the kind of abomination that happened in violent, lawless countries, not here. I couldn’t get a word in edgeways. Not that I wanted to. I was tired and emotional, and afraid my voice might betray me. The banter stopped as suddenly as it started with the arrival of DI Johns – he who must be obeyed.

‘Right, everyone. As you can imagine we are going to be under immense pressure to find whoever did this, and fast. The people of Dunedin are going to be nervous and scared until we get this monster behind bars.’ He didn’t need to point out the obvious, but never missed an opportunity to make a dramatic speech. ‘And it’s not just pressure locally. We’re already fielding calls from international media outlets. The scrutiny will be intense.’

He paused, as if waiting for comment, or acknowledgement. None came.

‘Do you understand?’ he asked, real slow. I resisted the urge to eye-roll.

A murmur of obligatory ‘yes, sir’s’ and ‘uh-huh’s’ circulated the room.

‘As I said in the station briefing, Detective Smith will be in charge of the operation, and in a moment he will allocate the lead roles.’ Now that he was in a small room with the less-impressionable detectives, rather than leading the briefing to the full cast, The Boss spoke with a little less theatre. A little.

‘The majority of you will be involved in this case, but Detective Shephard, you will be dealing with current cases that are not so urgent.’

What the…? I had already interviewed a potential witness and set the ball rolling for them for support and follow-up statements. Why the hell was I being excluded now? Dick Head Johns had a history of keeping me away from the coal face in investigations and giving me the shit jobs, but I’d thought we’d all grown up a bit and started moving on from there.

‘I’m sorry, sir, I don’t understand. I’ve already been active in the case from the first callout, why am I not able to continue?’

‘Well, given that you are only going to be here for another few weeks and are on light duties, your time is best used elsewhere, finishing up cases rather than starting on a new one.’ It was semi-reasonable logic, if your idea of logic involved taking a passing glance at a situation and that glance happened to be myopic. I wasn’t about to get shelved that easily. And anyway, I was pretty sure he’d be expecting some pushback. I didn’t want to disappoint.

‘But given the pressure we are under to get this murder solved, as you stated clearly in the briefing, and we’re going to be very much in the spotlight, isn’t it better to have as many detectives working on the case as possible?’

The rest of the room went conspicuously silent, and I could sense everyone holding their breath to see the reaction to someone questioning The Boss’s decisions. It didn’t happen often, and when it did, the results weren’t always favourable. I don’t know whether it was the pregnancy thing, or the lack of sleep thing, or that I’d simply run out of fucks to give when it came to The Boss, but I was in a ‘don’t just accept it’ kind of mood.

The Boss drew in a large breath that made his nostrils flare.

‘Detective Shephard, given your imminent departure for maternity leave, there is no point whatsoever you starting on a new case.’ His tone was careful but tinged with something else. Condescension? Always. But this time with a pinch of … what was that? Concern? Before I could figure out the angle, he dropped the clanger. ‘I also don’t believe, because of your own advanced state of pregnancy, that you would be able to remain objective and emotionally detached from this case.’

The vacuum created by everyone behind me sucking in air almost pulled me backward. I felt a wave of heat rush up my face as my brain absorbed the statement, replaying the words in my head. I couldn’t remain objective? What the actual fuck? My eyes flicked over to Paul and took in the startled look on his face. He gave me a slight shake of the head, his eyes widening with warning. When my eyes found their way back to The Boss, Smithy, standing behind Dick Head Johns, was mirroring Paul’s micro-message. For once they were in agreement. The Boss bore the expression of someone who fully believed they were right, and were being reasonable.

I inhaled deeply and started to count to ten before I had a crack at showing him just how reasonable I thought he was being. By the time I reached five I’d taken in Smithy’s waist-level, hidden hand gestures: You, me, talk. I wanted so badly to ask Johns if that meant he was going to stand Paul down from the case too, because he wouldn’t be able to be objective, being the father of the offending bump and all. I wanted even more badly to ask if that meant every time a bloke was killed, none of the male detectives would be allowed on the case because they couldn’t be objective, because, you know, they all had penises, just like the victim. But at ten I let out the breath I’d been holding, bit my tongue and sucked it up. I was here to win the war, not the battle.

CHAPTER 4

‘Don’t even start. You don’t need to say it.’ Smithy got in first before I could unleash the tirade of anger and frustration he knew was coming. He had wandered along to the kitchenette and was in the process of mixing his standard coffee with three sugars. I was a bit of a coffee snob and only drank the barista variety. His particular brew of instant crap was referred to as ‘tragic coffee’, but only behind his back, of course.

I was just about to say it anyway when Paul appeared around the corner, sliding with Krameresque style and the look of someone about to make a proclamation.

‘And don’t you start either,’ Smithy said, waving his teaspoon.

Paul took pause, noted the waving spoon and turned his attention to me. ‘That was a total load of bollocks. Of course you can be objective. In fact, I’d have thought given that’ – he pointed to my ample girth – ‘you’d be both objective and probably the most motivated person in the room, or at least second-most motivated.’

The vote of confidence made me feel a bit better, but also spurred me on.

‘You know he’d never say something like that to one of you guys, and especially not in front of everyone. He just can’t help shitting on me, arrogant bastard.’

Smithy eyed the open door, tapped his ear then pointed out to the hallway. He was right. It wasn’t exactly private. I lowered my voice, leaning forward to make sure I was heard.

‘He’s a misogynistic—’

‘Yeah, yeah, enough of that. Not denying it.’ Smithy still had his teaspoon in hand and was waving it around like a conductor. ‘And we all know he can’t help