“Sir,” Purdue heard. Carefully, Harris peeked around the corner. “Sir?”
“Morning Harris,” Purdue smiled, trying in vain to compose himself enough to look civilized. It turned out that he was rather more exhausted than he had realized, and it took only half a bottle of whisky and three games of snooker to punch him in the head.
“Morning sir,” the thirty-something scientist replied, clearing his throat. “Just coming to say that we harvested as much tissue as we could find,” he paused uncomfortably, “which was actually not much in the end, sir.”
Purdue nodded. “I understand. I did not expect you to deliver a healthy spleen in a Ziploc bag, you know?”
Their chuckling shook Sam out of his slumber and his eyes sprung open. It was highly amusing to behold, how the hungover Sam Cleave tried to identify the object weighing him down. Pulling a hideous face in his hazy state of consciousness, he peered down at the source of the hot patch on his belly. “Bruich?” Sam asked, and a little smile crept onto his face. “Hey, lad! When did you get h—,” he started, but instantly changed expression. “Christ! My skull is broken.”
“And you are out 200 quid, old boy,” Purdue added insult to injury. He turned to Harris to resume the discussion. “So, did you find enough to analyze, though? I have to have these specimens back inside a week, you know?”
“I know, sir,” the tired Harris nodded obediently. “I will submit the samples to the lab for examination on my way home. They will call you directly when the results are ready.”
“Excellent,” Purdue replied. “Thank you so much for the extra effort, Harris. Where is Sharon?”
“She is in the kitchen with your cook, having some espresso,” Harris reported. “Shall I call her?”
“No, oh no, please, let Lance drive you back to the lab and take both of you home. You cannot drive like this. Go take some rest. I will remunerate you both for the overtime, of course, as soon as my assistant arrives.”
“Thank you, Mr. Purdue,” Harris said. “Good day, Mr. Cleave… and good luck!”
“Ta!” was all Sam could call out that did not assault his brain with a dull stabbing shudder when he spoke.
“Is Nina up yet?” Sam asked.
“Probably,” Purdue guessed. “It is 12:30, did you know?”
“Geez, the whole morning missing, and I can feel it,” Sam remarked, petting Bruich, who was not keen on being lifted off his master’s warm belly. He let out a loud, drawling meow to voice his discontent, but it did not serve him well to get his way. Sam carried him with when he and Purdue ventured in the same direction until they split up.
“Aren’t you getting some tea?” Purdue asked. “Nina is in the kitchen.”
“I have an unholy leak to deal with first,” Sam relayed. “Keep the pot on for me. I’ll be right there.” Bruich took off from Sam’s arms, but his tall, rugged master was too preoccupied to collect him from the floor. Besides, Sam knew that Bruich and Nina got along for one distinct reason — both were equally headstrong. He let the cat run his way and jogged for the downstairs bathroom Purdue reserved for visitors.
Behind him, he could hear Nina’s fresh tone greeting Purdue, and the forensic people leaving through the kitchen’s second door with a jovial din.
4 Padlocked Gates and Dead Roads
When Cecil Harding arrived at the gateposts of his father’s farm, his stomach churned a little. His father did not approve of his choice of vocation and he was preparing himself mentally for another verbal bout about not casting his lot with the family to continue in the livestock business — like being a veterinarian was not close enough. At just before 8pm, he pulled his rental up to where his GPS told him the farm was. Even though his father knew he would be arriving sometime between 6pm and 9pm, as discussed during their last phone call, a chain was locked around the frame.
“Typical,” he scoffed, stretching his fingers in two fans of tension on the wheel. “Jesus, I don’t believe this!” Infuriated after his long journey, he was not in the mood for any more hold-ups. He had been awake since he came by ferry over the Cook Strait, and with driving the rental from Picton on the north shore of the South Island all the way down here was five hours of hell.
Roadworks along Highway 7 had delayed him considerably, not to mention ate a lot of extra fuel. By the time he reached Ahaura, he could not stand the hunger anymore. However, upon arriving at a local bar, Cecil found that the kitchen closes at 5pm, a mere eight minutes before he arrived. Bearing onwards to hopefully make it to a hot meal at his destination, he pushed on through the meandering roads of Arnold Valley with a little less enthusiasm than before.
And now this. His cell phone delivered only a weak signal. Only the third attempt to get in touch with his father yielded a ring tone at all, but even that was left unanswered. Cecil had his father’s temper, not a man of great virtue in patience, and like his brother, he had a healthy appetite. Between his rumbling stomach and his refusal at the gates, he was stewing by 10pm, when he was still not able to gain entry to the gate of Nekenhalle Farm.
Against his better judgement, Cecil drove to the nearest gate on the small bush road, hoping that he could find out what was going on from a neighbor. It was unlike his father to have relinquished control to anyone else, but anything unforeseen could have happened while he was en route. The horizon seemed to be divided between the black tree line of the hills and the growing dark blue of the clear sky that was falling to night. Upon the road in front of him, the illumination of his car’s headlights did little to break the darkness. He could barely see more than a few meters ahead, having to go at a slow speed for the sake of wild life. The last thing he needed was to hit an animal and lose his deposit.
Dust danced in the lights, drifting eerily through the beams of his rental car. Cecil was driving in the opposite direction from where he had come, so the road was completely unfamiliar. Although he grew up on the western part of South Island, Cecil found that a lot had changed since he left to pursue his veterinary studies.
Now he was 34 years old, physically chubby, and still single. His brother was afforded pardon for the latter, for now, while he was young. But Cecil had to hear it every time he saw his family and he still had not the heart to tell them that he was gay. While he was already steaming for the inconvenience of being locked out, thinking of the inevitable conversations with his father about his future only put a worse taste in his mouth.
As he travelled along the godforsaken road, he had to really strain his eyes to find concealed entrances, often taking his eyes off the immediately road to read signs. Twice, Cecil thought he had found a neighboring farm, but realized that the signs read as distance markers and served as local demarcation beacons.
“Oh, for Pete’s sake!” he exclaimed aloud in the dark car. The green lights of the dashboard accentuated his deep frown as he searched the sides of the road. Listening to the radio served no point, even where there was sufficient reception. Right now, just about everything irritated him.
At once, a man appeared in his headlights, crouched over something big and white that almost stretched the width of the road. The rented Hyundai SUV Cecil drove, screamed to a halt as his feet slammed on the brakes.