The Mangrove Murder (1/4)

(Part one)

The sun had only half risen. Waitematā harbour was slowly turning from a faint gleam to a shining mirror. The Northwestern Motorway, an unnatural line bridging the mainland and Traherne Island, was eerily quiet except for the odd freight truck or bus. A cyclepath shadowed the motorway but was lower down, near the water’s edge. Now it too was empty except for a lone jogger, a woman moving at a cracking pace until she saw something slumped on the path ahead of her. It was a dark mound that touched the tangle of mangroves at the shore.

Joan Harris was fed to the back teeth with drivers chucking litter out of their windows onto the cyclepath. Did they not have any clue that this was actually a nature reserve? And this was ten times worse than litter--it looked as though some joker had deliberately stopped on the motorway to dump a big black garbage bag. She whipped her phone out of her fanny pack, intending to take a photo to send it to the Council. Taking a few steps nearer and bending over the item, she decided to call the police instead. The dark thing had not been a garbage bag at all, but a corpse in a leather jacket.

***

The jacket yielded a wallet and the remains were identified as Kenneth Rapp.

The homicide detective assigned to the case, Tessa Dale, knew the name. Rapp was one of New Zealand’s best known book reviewers and magazine editors, most recently one of the top editors at the news website NZ Now.com. She liked his pieces—they were entertaining, quite conversational and snarky. Nothing high-brow or pompous at all. She dimly recalled some kind of scandal connected to his name.

Crime-scene business took half the day. Once she was sure forensics had everything in hand and the coroner had orally suggested death by asphyxiation, Tessa drove to the CBD, stopping for a couple of samosas at Mt. Albert Dairy.

Arriving at the NZ Now newsroom, she asked to speak to Editor-in-Chief Ian Buell. He one of those wiry white guys whose age seems to stay frozen between the ages of 30 and 70. He wore a crisp white ironed cotton shirt, jeans, Italian-made shoes with decorative holes and sharp points.  His tall head was shaven and he wore fashionable glasses with thick black frames. His irises looked so pale as to be almost colorless. His manner was controlled and cautious.

When Tessa informed him that his colleague had been found dead, his eyebrows shot up but his expression was otherwise unreadable. He led her out of the busy open-plan workspace and into his office. It was an oddly antiseptic space—no photos, no plants, no knick-knacks not even a poster. She’d seen IKEA concept offices that had more personality. The room’s only interesting feature was the enormous picture window giving out onto an expansive view of the Harbour and marina.

Buell indicated a couple of designer armchairs to the side of his desk. Tessa sat down in one, he in the other.

She waited for a minute to let him settle himself. It was generally a mistake to rush this kind of thing. Death forced those in its wake to adjust to a sluggish, distorted reality.

He removed his glasses, rubbed a hand over his face, replaced his glasses, gazed at her blankly.

“Bloody hell,” he said flatly.

“I realize this must be hard for you,” Tess said, tempering the standard spiel with as much sympathy as she thought she herself would want in a similar situation. “But, I’m afraid I willneed to ask you some routine questions.”

He nodded.

“Can you confirm that Kenneth worked here and in what capacity?”

“Yes, he did. He’s editor of the books page. Was.”

“Do you have a contact person, a family member? The next step will be to notify them.”

“Skye his partner should be at home. I have her number somewhere here.” He found it on his phone and showed it to her—Tess took a picture of his screen and saw his hand was shaking.

“What about your own relationship with Kenneth? Were you close?”

“Ken was probably my oldest friend and collaborator. We both worked at The Watcher, back in the ’90s. We’ve worked together on and off since then.”

“So you were close enough to know what was going on in his personal life?”

He hesitated for just a second, then nodded.

“Any idea as to what might have led to his death? Did he ever mention suicide, for example?”

“Suicide?” For a moment Tess thought she saw relief, but then he frowned. “He’d been going through some rough stuff lately but it wasn’t anything worse than he’s been through before. He hardly seemed depressed. So he killed himself?”

“It’s too early to say,” Tess said. “You say he didn’t seem depressed…How did he seem to you?”

“Distracted. Stressed. Worried…”

“You know why?”

Buell hesitated, squirmed a little.

“It might be important,” Tess said in the warm, caring tone that often succeeded in drawing people out, persuading them to tell their terrible secrets.

“He told me in confidence…” Buell hedged.

“Whatever you say won’t go any further,” Tess promised untruthfully.

“He was going to leave his partner. He was going to tell her last night.”

“I see,” said Tess, hoping for more. “Another woman?”

“No, no. Ken said he just wanted his own space back. He wanted to focus on Izzy, his daughter, who’s in bad shape. She’d left home last year and she was making some bad decisions. He wanted her to come back home to live with him for a while, where he could keep an eye on her. He was a good dad. Skye resented it. Part jealousy, part selfishness. Ken was finding her a bit needy.”

“What’s going on with his daughter, exactly?”

“Izzy wants to be a painter. She’s hanging with some bohemian types as well as more…hardcore characters. She’s fairly naïve and Ken was afraid she’d get hurt.”

“What kind of hardcore people?”

“Gang-bangers, drug dealers, pimps… you know.”

“I see. How old is Izzy?”

“Seventeen.”

Tessa resisted asking if Izzy was either using drugs or on the game—it seemed clear she was.

“Skye wasn’t worried about where Izzy was headed?”

Buell looked even more squirmy than ever.

“Skye’s practically the same age as Izzy. She’s never been a parent. From what Ken told me Skye had a hard childhood. I suspect she thought Izzy a spoilt white kid.”

“Sounds like Kenneth had a fair amount of drama to look forward to between the partner and the daughter. Was there anything else that may have been worrying him?”

“Yes. As preposterous as it sounds, he’d been getting hate mail.”

“What, death threats?”

“Yes. Ken was usually pretty relaxed at hate mail. He’s used to criticism and it doesn’t faze him. After all, he’s a fairly polarizing figure. But this was different. It was snail mail, delivered here to the office. And everything suggested this person was stalking him. Knew his home address, knew about Izzy and Skye, all of that. Ken showed me one and I told him he should go to the police.”

“Did he?”

“No.”

“Do you know how many he got?”

“At least two—I think a lot more. The last one was yesterday morning--a post-it note stuck to his desk. It shook him badly. He went home early.”

“What time?”

“Nine-thirty. He got in at eight, chatted with me for an hour then went to his desk. He found the note, showed it to me. I said that if he didn’t call the police I would.”

“And did you?”

“No. He asked me not to.”

“Why?”

Buell seemed to be wrestling with some argument in his head. He shook his head.

“No idea,” he said.

***

Izzy Rapp was all arms and legs, a tall thin intense young woman. She had long black hair, watchful dark eyes and a mouth halfway between a pout and a sneer. Her oversized sweater and long skirt made her look even more fragile than she probably was. She was sitting on a wooden stool in an art studio, a canvas on an easel behind her. The painting looked to be some kind of study in green and did not particularly appeal to Tessa’s taste, though she never pretended to know anything about art. Other canvasses were arrayed on the edge of the room, leaning against the walls. In one corner there  was a rolled-up yoga mat, pillow and blanket.

Buell had suggested Tess would find her here and he’d been right. It was some kind of Victorian-era warehouse that had recently been converted into a kind of communal workspace for artists of various stripes. Tessa had heard someone playing on a drumkit in one of the other rooms and glimpsed a couple of sculptors at work.

The young woman had spun around on hearing Tessa enter the room and stared at the intruder.

“Hello Isabel. I’m detective Tessa Dale. I’m afraid I have some bad news,” Tessa said gently. “Your father is dead. His body was found this morning.”

Izzy stared and her and made a sharp movement of her shoulders that might have been a shiver or a shrug. Tessa went on.

“I want to tell you that I’m very sorry and that should you need any help we can connect you with a grief counsellor. We don’t know exactly how he died so I’ll need to ask you some questions.”

Izzy remained silent and unresponsive except for jiggling her leg impatiently.

“Can I ask you a few questions?” Tessa persisted

The same quick shrug. The detective was starting to feel unnerved and a little irritated.

“When was the last time you saw your father?”

“Dunno, two months ago.”

“His home address is in Remuera. Do you know why he would have been near Traherne Island?”

“No idea,” the same shrug.

“Did you visit your father’s office yesterday?”

She nodded.

“He wasn’t there. Just Ian.”

“What time did you go in?”

She shrugged and scratched at her arm.

“Why did you want to see him?”

“I needed money. Look, I don’t know anything about this. There’s no point talking to me,” she said with a kind of bored detachment. “I don’t know what that man was doing. He disowned me so why should I care what happens to him?”

“What makes you say he disowned you?”

“It’s true,” Izzy glared at her, the first glimmer of real emotion in that face. “He kicked me out of his house a year ago because of his girlfriend.”

“You were angry, I guess,” said Tess.

“No, just disgusted,” the bored mask returned.

“Right. Well, next thing: I need to know your whereabouts from 7 o’clock last night to six o’clock this morning.”

“Why?”

“Standard procedure for a homicide investigation.”

Izzy’s pupils contracted and Tessa heard a small but perceptible gasp.

“I was here.” Izzy nodded towards the yoga mat in the corner of the room.

“The whole time?”

“Yep.”

“Anyone who can confirm that for us?”

“My boyfriend and friends were here until about ten o’clock.”

“Mind writing their names and numbers here?” Tessa handed her a notepad and pen. Somewhat to her surprise, the girl obliged.

Three names: Theodore Fuller, Fern Vanier, Rick Slade.

“Right,” Tess sighed. “Well, thanks. Take care of yourself Izzy. You’ll probably see me again. Meanwhile, if you want to chat or need anything, here’s my card.

Izzy made no motion to take it, keeping her arms folded across her chest. Tessa put it carefully on the ledge of the easel.

“Bye now,” she said softly before letting herself out.

***

“Now for the girlfriend,” Tessa said to herself, starting the car and activating her Spotify list. Ambient music, a Japanese album that had something to do with a water garden. Her shrink said she should find time for quiet contemplation during the day. Meeting Izzy had disturbed her. It wasn’t the ‘uncooperative’ manner—God knows she was used to that. No—after all, why should anyone be ‘nice’ to police, especially the police?

It was more that things didn’t entirely add up. Ian Buell hadn’t mentioned seeing Izzy at the office yesterday, yet Izzy had mentioned seeing him. Buell had been surprised by the suggestion of suicide; Izzy had gasped at the suggestion of murder. And neither of them seemed to like the victim. She was used to seeing some kind of emotional reaction but these two—there was a kind of void where their hearts should be. At least where Kenneth Rapp was concerned.

She decided to forget it for the duration of the drive, to concentrate instead on the vivid blue of the sky, the fluffy few white clouds, the posh houses and lush gardens of Remuera. Finally, she arrived. A modern architectural creation, a combination of glass and wood surrounded by white gravel and a few pungas. There was a light on. Skye must be home.

Tessa parked on the street and took a few deep breaths before getting out of the car.

Tessa rang the doorbell and heard footsteps inside. She didn’t know exactly what she expected but it wasn’t the person who opened the door. This was a petite young woman with dreadlocks pulled into a bun. Her eyes were red but she welcomed Tessa in with a warm, dimpled smile.

“You’re the detective, eh?” she said. “Come in, come in. You want something to eat? Water?”

“No, thanks very much. You’re Skye?”

“Yep. That’s my name,” the woman laughed. She had a nice, open, artless laugh.  “Have a seat on the armchair if you like. I’ve just been parked here binge-watching Real Housewives of Auckland. To get my mind off it, you know.”

Skye threw herself on the couch, drew her knees up near her chin and hugged them.

“So you know?” Tessa asked.

“Yeah. Ian Buell called to let me know. Pretty nice seeing as he hates my guts, eh.” She smiled lopsidedly. A couple of tears spilled down her cheeks and she pushed them away.

“I’m so very sorry,” Tessa said uselessly.

“Mmmm,” Skye shook her head. “Anyway. How can I help you?”

“Just by answering some questions. I wanted to know about Kenneth’s state of mind lately. Was he worried about anything? That kind of thing. And also if you can tell me what he did yesterday, if you’re aware.”

Skye blew her cheeks out.

“Well, let’s see. He left for work yesterday at about seven in the morning. He was away until seven at night. Then he came here and broke up with me. That took a couple of hours. I guess I didn’t make it very easy on him,” she broke into sobbing. Tessa waited.

“Then…” she continued, “He pissed off in his stupid sports car. And as he was going I yelled at the top of my lungs, ‘I hope you die, bastard! I’m pretty sure the neighbors will back you up on that one. I have a set of lungs.” This struck her as hilarious and she burst into a fit of giggles.

Tessa smiled.

“You didn’t hear from him after that?”

Skye wordlessly nodded and handed Tessa her phone. There was a text thread between her and Kenneth’s phone:

SKYE: Come home babe. Let’s talk. We can work it out.

KEN: You better be out of the house tomorrow bitch. You won’t see me again.

The time stamp on Ken's message was 4.03 am.

“May I take your phone?” Tessa said. “I’ll return it tomorrow. But this could be important evidence.”

Skye nodded dumbly.

“I felt like an idiot. I couldn’t sleep you see. I was desperate for him to call me. I was sure he still loved me really. Then I got that and realized he truly hated me.”

“No, Skye,” Tessa said gently. “You don’t understand. Kenneth was already dead when that text was written.”