My Brother's Keeper

Chapter 12



SATURDAY 24 NOVEMBER 2012

Karen’s house on the rise of Mt Victoria was bigger and flashier than I’d expected. It’s hard to break the old prejudice that criminals are all working class and poor. She had written her address on the back of the down-payment cheque I still hadn’t got around to banking. First thing Monday I’d deposit it and send her an invoice for the extra days in Auckland, plus expenses. Given her no-show, I was tempted to add the cost of Ned’s dinner to the invoice, plus extra remuneration for loss of pride over the naked she-devil incident. My anger had dissipated a little but the memory of Sunny running barefoot down the length of the wharf would haunt me for a long time to come. I resented being party to Sunny’s humiliation and I was going to let Karen know it.



There was no response to my knock. Personally, I can’t be confronted by a door handle without attempting to turn it. Turning being its only raison d’être and all, it seems impolite not to. That’s my excuse, anyway. The front door opened into a T-shaped wide hallway with a warren of spacious rooms leading off on either side. All the doors stood open except the one directly on my right. I paused in the entranceway and called Karen’s name, turning my head to one side to listen for a response. It had been a typically turbulent Wellington landing and one ear was still blocked from the flight. My stomach rumbled loudly in the silence. It wasn’t just the cold breeze from the open door that made me shudder. There was an unnerving stillness in the air. The closed door on my right was paint-stripped rimu. Sanded and oiled. Closed. A big decorative brass doorknob confronted me, begging to be turned.

Karen was lying on the floor, her head propped up against the base of the bed. She was wearing a cross-over style silk dressing gown that was tied at the waist and decorated with large brightly coloured parrots. The slump of her body made the top gape open to expose a brown puckered nipple. Her legs were stretched out in front, crossed at the ankles, hands splayed open in her lap. My knees clicked as I knelt and held two fingertips to her throat. The skin was cool. I let my breath out but didn’t seem able to take in a full lungful of air to replace it. Karen’s head was tilted forward as if she was studying the upturned hands in her lap. Her hair smelt of Pantene conditioner. I knew already I’d never use it again. Squatting closer, I could make out a dark-bluish patch beneath the hair feathering her neck. A bruise or graze maybe. The silence in the room was complete. My toes cramped, forcing me to shift position. Now I was kneeling beside her, my head at the same height as hers. I twisted to look up into her face and caught the oily gleam of an eye. Mascara clumps weighted the lashes. How very still a dead body is. My fingers twitched with the desire to tug the gown up over the exposed nipple. What harm would it do? I could say I shifted it by accident when I was feeling for her pulse. My fingers edged towards the lapel … The shock of my phone ringing almost toppled me into Karen’s lap. I recognised the ringtone: ‘Hey, That’s No Way to Say Goodbye.’ The song was eerily fitting.

‘Sean?’ my voice sounded normal.

‘Hey, listen, I banged into Joe Morton on the street this morning and he said he’s interested in having a look at the house. You know he always loved our place.’ He sounded so very alive. The body lying in front of me was so very dead. ‘Shall I tell him to give you a ring, or get him to contact the agent?’

My stomach rumbled again. It seemed obscene to be hungry in the presence of death. ‘Can you come here?’

‘Where? I thought you were in Auckland.’

‘No, I’m here.’

‘What’s up?’

‘Someone’s dead. My client, I mean. She’s dead.’ I turned my face towards the light from the bay window. It made talking about it easier.

‘I only just got here and found her. It doesn’t have to be you that comes, but can you send someone?’ I gave him the address. He told me to go sit outside and instructed me not to touch anything.

‘Touch absolutely nothing at all,’ he repeated in the way that has always made me want to do the opposite.

I confirmed the address, told him I was fine and didn’t need to keep talking to him until the car arrived. I managed to thank him for the offer, though. And I went outside like he told me to. And I didn’t touch anything. But I did take photos with my iPhone. Since I did it without moving my feet more than absolutely necessary I reckoned it was fair. I turned my phone towards the overnight bag lying open on the window seat, some clothes folded neatly beside it, click. And then I turned it towards the clothes still on their hangers that lay across the unmade bed, waiting for Karen to inhabit them, click. From where I stood, pretty much in the middle of the room, I turned and took a whole panorama of photos and then from the doorway, I turned and took one more. Karen hadn’t moved. Of course she hadn’t moved, but I stared at her for a long time, willing her to prove me wrong. Her head remained tilted forward, her focus still on the upturned hands in her lap. From the doorway it looked as if she was reading an invisible book, or engaged in a silent remonstrative argument with herself. When I thought of all the cops and technicians who would soon be swarming over the place, I wished I had tugged the gown over her exposed nipple. But with Sean’s lecture still echoing, it was too late now. My whispered apology to her hung in the silence. Then I went outside, sat on the veranda steps and waited for the cavalry to arrive. I knew the cavalry would be closely followed by the circus. There’s something about death that brings out the best in us. It’s called life. Raging, adrenalin-fuelled, blood-surging life. It’s obscene, I know, but that’s just the way it is. Now, forty-five minutes after finding Karen’s body, I could feel that adrenalin draining away. It left me feeling flat and a bit weepy.

Detective Inspector Aaron Fanshaw looked to be in his early thirties. That was young to have been made an inspector in a big city like Wellington. But I may have been wrong about his age. He was probably one of those perpetually youthful guys who don’t age until they’re in their sixties when they then suddenly let go of the reins. Right now he had a gym body and the height to carry it off. Maybe Aaron was the reason Sean had decided to get his own body into shape. He was already higher up the police hierarchy and pay scale than Sean. Or maybe it was having a baby that had made Sean aware of his own mortality and had initiated his bid for a longer life.

Sean had introduced Aaron and me and then walked away, leaving us to talk. We moved to a wrought-iron garden seat with a view of the gate and the entrance to the house. He slipped a little black notepad out of an inside pocket. The yellow Space Invaders icon on the bottom corner made me smile. I explained my relationship to Karen and the reason for turning up on her doorstep and he nodded but kept his eyes on the notes he made in a flowing longhand. I thought about skirting around how I had entered the house without being invited, but seeing the uniformed and plain clothes cops file down the path I knew this was too important to lie about or obfuscate. If someone had killed Karen, the cops needed to know the facts; the front door had been closed, but not locked. Aaron gave no response to my admission other than a nod, though he did underline the word ‘unlocked’. He made the telling of it easy, letting me start at the beginning and talk my way through to the end without interruption. From the garden seat I could see Sean pacing up and down outside the dairy across the road, mobile phone pressed to his ear, free hand gesticulating as he talked. He may have been ordering fingerprint experts and photographers. Then again, he may have been telling the pixie that he’d bring home nappies for the baby and a bottle of wine for them when he finished work. I don’t know what he says any more.

When I’d finished telling Aaron everything, he asked me to accompany him back into the house. In preparation, I clenched my hands and shoved them deep into my jacket pockets; it’s the best way to ensure you don’t touch anything at a crime scene. Aaron nodded in acknowledgement and indicated the plastic runner someone had placed on the floor to protect the carpet. Well, not to protect the carpet, but any evidence there might be on the carpet. If it was a homicide, at some point they would ask for my shoes, too. Hands on my shoulders, Aaron guided me carefully through the bedroom doorway, ensuring no part of me touched or brushed against anything. A squeeze of his fingers indicated I should stand still.

‘Just point out exactly where you walked,’ he instructed. His fingers were warm on my shoulder. ‘And try to remember everything you touched.’

Maybe an hour had passed since I’d felt the coolness of her skin beneath my fingertips and in that time Karen had gone from being a person to being a dead body. Or, put more simply, Karen had gone, full stop. I marvelled again at the stillness. The beseeching upturned hands continued to beseech. The exposed brown nipple was a rebuke, but I was pleased now that I hadn’t prudishly tugged the dressing gown over it. Maybe it was the presence of Aaron or the sound of hushed chatter as police and technicians gathered. Maybe it was that rigor mortis had begun to set in and the limbs were stiffening in the unmistakable rictus of death. Whatever it was, there was no mistaking this was a crime scene with a dead body at the centre of it. I thought I could smell death, but that was probably just the cloying smell of peppermints. Funeral directors, morgue staff, crime scene cops; they’re always surrounded by the ubiquitous scent of peppermint. As I described to Aaron how I had approached the body, felt for a pulse, squatted and looked up into Karen’s face, it was like watching a slow-mo film version of myself. I assured Aaron I hadn’t touched any part of Karen’s body except her neck where the carotid pulse should have been. And wasn’t. When I finished speaking he ushered me back outside, ensuring I kept to the narrow plastic runner on the floor. His comfortingly warm hand remained on my shoulder the whole way. Oscar Fa’atua, a detective I knew from police barbecue days with Sean, was running crime scene tape across the doorway to the bedroom. He raised his eyebrows in a ‘wassup?’ gesture as I was ushered out. Oscar must have been put in as OC Scene then. Good for him. Aaron walked me down the path past a duck line of white disposable boiler-suited ESR technicians, each carrying their own little trade toolboxes. There was an unmistakable, barely suppressed air of excitement among them — homicide. In police bars and forensic scientists’ and lab technicians’ morning tea rooms, they would admit openly that homicides were the best crimes to land. Unless the victim was a child. I’ve never met anyone involved in a case who was blasé about the murder of a child; I hope I never do. As soon as we’d stepped outside the house, Aaron was besieged by cops, all needing answers to questions. I left him to it after promising to come into the station on Monday to give a full formal statement and fingerprints.

Sean was leaning against my car. He held out a paper cup.

‘I’d rather it was a cigarette,’ I said, but gulped the coffee anyway. Trim milk, two sugars. He remembered.

‘You alright?’ he asked, looking away from me.

‘I’m fine,’ I said and looked away from him too. I felt his gaze turn back in my direction. He was waiting for me to speak.

‘Is there anything you want to tell me?’

I was feeling guilty about the photos I’d taken and had a paranoid notion Sean knew about them. My mobile seemed heavier than usual in my back pocket and I was excruciatingly aware of it. As if sensing the attention it was getting, it rang. It wasn’t a number I recognised.

‘I’d better take this,’ I said, and waited for Sean to move away. He didn’t. I gave him what he used to refer to as ‘a look’. My phone kept on ringing. He took his time, looking from me to the phone and back to me again. I returned his look with a bug-eyed one of my own. It did the trick. He walked away with one hand raised. It was either a casual wave goodbye or him warding off the juju of my bug-eyes. I flicked the phone to answer.



‘Is this Diane Rowe?’ I knew immediately who it was. ‘It’s me. Sunny.’ I walked quickly down the street, trying to put as much space between the phone and Sunny’s dead mother as I could. It wasn’t that I thought Sunny would overhear anything significant, and I knew Karen was past hearing anything at all, it was more a sense of decency.

‘Have you seen her yet?’ she asked. As I scrambled for an answer, I had a flash of Karen’s exposed brown nipple; the beseeching hands in her lap; the oily gleam of her eye; the oppressive stillness. ‘Well, anyway, when you do,’ she continued, ‘you can tell her from me she’s a selfish bitch.’ I listened to the break in her voice. ‘I didn’t think she could hurt me again but you can tell her from me that somehow she did. So, you know, well, tell her congratulations.’ I saw again the overnight bag and the neatly folded pile beside it; the clothes carefully laid on the bed ready for Karen to give them shape. ‘And you can tell her from me that today was the worst day of my whole life. Apart from the day she tried to kill me, that is.’ She made awful little hiccupping sounds between words. It was heartbreaking to listen to. I had to say something.

‘She was coming to see you, Sunny. I promise you.’

Sunny barked a laugh. ‘Yeah? So what stopped her?’ I bit my lip. It wasn’t my job to tell Sunny her mother was dead. The sobbing got louder. ‘What stopped her!’ she repeated. ‘It must have been something really important.’ The sarcasm was flat.

Shit. I took a deep breath. ‘Sunny, listen to me. I have something to tell you.’

‘What? Unless you can tell me why she didn’t meet me, there’s nothing you can tell me.’



I waited until I knew she was listening. ‘It’s bad news, I’m afraid. I’m sorry, Sunny. Your mum—’ I kicked myself for using the ‘m’ word.

Sunny was on full alert. She knew something was up. ‘What? What about her?’

‘She’s dead, Sunny. Karen is dead. That’s why she didn’t come to see you today.’ I listened to the uneven breathing. ‘Is your dad there?’ A long silence followed.

‘No,’ she said finally, her voice very quiet.

‘Salena?’

Sunny coughed an ironic laugh. Fair enough, I thought. From what I’d seen of their relationship Salena wouldn’t be of any use to her anyway.

‘Are you totally sure she’s dead?’

‘Yes, I’m totally sure,’ I said. She sniffed loudly. ‘Is there someone you can go to now? Someone you can talk to? Someone you trust?’ Again the silence. I held my breath, worried that I’d made a seriously bad decision in telling her.

‘It’s okay,’ she said. Surprisingly, she did sound okay. I waited while she blew her nose. ‘I’m alright. Dad will be back soon.’

I kept her talking until she heard Justin’s car pull up outside. She broke down again when she knew he was there; when she knew she could break down. I sat in the car and knocked back the dregs of Sean’s bitter coffee. Professionally, it had been wrong to tell Sunny her mother was dead but it felt ethically wrong not to tell her. Emotionally, it was f*cked either way. The whole situation was what I think is called a lose-lose.



The last of the sun had dropped down behind the hills, leaving Oriental Bay in shadow. I flicked the car heater on. The warm air revived the homely odour of dog, but not just any dog. It was the distinctive, aromatic, comforting odour of my dog. I breathed it in deeply.

I was back in Wellington. Home.