Suddenly a black cloud came from nowhere and covered the sun. She felt a chill. Rangitoto had metamorphosed. Now it loomed up out of a purple sea, dark, sinister and menacing, no longer a benevolent kaitiaki but a boding figure of impending doom.
She shuddered. Did she imagine that the previous occupants of Auckland had once beheld another horror? Rangitoto, meaning red sky or sky blood. That was how they remembered Auckland’s most recent volcano.
Then she thought back to all those sickening letters and articles.
What is happening to our beloved Tamaki Makaurau?
CHAPTER 20
It was a curious experience being the victim of a highway assault.
Susan McAndrew took some weeks to recover from the trauma of the hold-up and the assault. At first she was more concerned about Jim’s recovery, but his head injuries were not serious and his other wounds had soon healed sufficiently for him to return to work. She, who was more often at home, had time to reflect.
Her friends had called around or phoned or written. Some of them took the view that the best comfort to her was the knowledge that the offenders would be severely dealt with, preferably by the infliction of the same injuries. However, as the offenders were nowhere to be found, let alone dealt with, this did not help.
In addition, she and Jim received a visit from an anonymous public-spirited group which was initiating local and political action about the hold-ups. They were told that their membership, like the visit, would be entirely confidential.
“You can use my name,” said Jim. “Anything to stop the bastards.”
Susan was uneasy. “What’s this you say in your pamphlet about Maori terrorism?”
The answer did not satisfy her. She had not signed because she did not like the idea of her name being used in a campaign which could be described as racist. She was working with Maori women in Plunket and knew that they were just as concerned as she was about the attacks. Moreover, she felt a sense of inadequacy over the identification of the assailants. Because Jim had been knocked unconscious, the police had to rely on her. Yet it had been dark, the shock of the assault and her fear of a personal attack had stunned her, and afterwards there was the delayed shock.
She recalled the interview with Detective Inspector Molloy and Sergeant Piriaka.
“I know it’s distressing for you, Mrs McAndrew, but have you any memories of the appearance of the people who assaulted you?”
“They all had balaclavas and masks. The only person I saw closely was the one who pulled me out of the car. He was a big man, a Maori, very strong.”
“If he had a balaclava on, how did you know he was Maori?” Sergeant Piriaka had asked.
“He had brown skin and tattoos on his arm, and when he spoke it was with that Maori intonation.”
“What happened when he pulled you out of the car?”
“He had hold of my hair and I tried to scratch his arm with my finger nails.”
“Did he loosen his grip?”
Yes, he wrenched his arm away, and all I got was some of his paint in my fingernail.”
“Paint?” asked Sergeant Piriaka.
“War paint,” explained the Inspector. “Apparently they put it on before each assault. It’s a custom before going into battle – like the haka.”
The Maori sergeant seemed pleased at his chief’s knowledge of Maori customs.
There the interview had ended. They had mentioned the possibility of an identification parade, but this had not eventuated, and Susan was relieved because the thought of being face to face again with a possible assailant was terrifying.
“You won’t know me, Mrs McAndrew, but I’m an accountant and the Secretary of the Ornithological Society.”
“Ornithological Society?” The voice sounded puzzled.
“I have a query about the recent highway attacks, and I was wondering if I could come and speak to you.”
To Kate’s surprise Mrs McAndrew did not ask for further explanations and was happy to make an appointment.
The house was in a tree-lined Epsom street, a comfortable bungalow with beam ceilings and an oregon-panelled entrance hall. Kate had parked her Ford Cortina outside and was in her smart grey business suit. Susan McAndrew turned out to be a bright, cheerful woman, probably in her late forties.
“I hope your husband is feeling better.”
“Back at work already, and we’ve got a new car too. There was a public appeal as well as the insurance money. People have been so good.”
“I’m so glad he’s recovered. But I do have a little question. You see, I’ve been doing some quite unofficial research. I’m really sorry to bring it all up again.”
The voice was more guarded. “I’ve given a report to the police. Still, what was the question?”
“I’m curious about the assailants. You must be concerned that they have never been identified.”
“I’m sure the police are doing their best.”
“Were you sure that they were Maori?”
“That’s curious, it’s just what Sergeant Piriaka asked.”
Kate listened with interest to Susan McAndrew’s account of her interview with the police.
“What colour was the paint in your nail?”
“It was browny.”
“Did Sergeant Piriaka make any comment?”
“No, but Inspector Molloy said it was war paint, and I think the sergeant was quite impressed.”
“I suppose they have to psych themselves up for something like that.” She stood up. “Thank you very much, Mrs McAndrew. I hope raising the matter again hasn’t been upsetting for you?”
“Not at all.” The tone was pleasant, though a little mystified.
CHAPTER 21
You wouldn’t want to go off the road here!
Carefully David crept round the outside of a hairpin bend, sounding his horn as he went. There was hardly room for another car to pass and a few feet away was a long, almost sheer drop down to where the long rollers crashed in white foam over the black rocks and the seagulls screeched.
Where on earth has Pataratara got to?
He remembered the coast from childhood holidays. He had camped there with his parents. They, knowing that the best sites, usually on headlands, were likely to be urupa or burial grounds, had always asked the local Maori beforehand where they could camp. He remembered one holiday in a pohutukawa-fringed bay right up the coast. There had been a Maori family nearby who had been very good to them, shown them the best fishing places and dropped in a few crayfish.
This coast was part of the Maori as it never could be part of Pakeha. The Maori had an understanding with the sea. They knew every reef, every ledge, every rock, every islet and every fruitful hole. They respected it, and in turn it yielded them its harvest of kai moana.
He remembered the rivers too, the wide, stony beds and the strong bridges that spoke of fearsome torrents, the sullen, whirling grey waters, and the cold wind that swept down from the misty peaks of the Raukumaras. When you came to a river, there was a sudden change from the peaceful coastlands. These rivers had the mood of the mountains behind, wild, uncontrolled, fearsome. The Maori spoke of taniwha, the treacherous currents that could claim a life or sweep away a bank. He heard of the road which the river repeatedly washed away where it abutted on the river bed. It would have been better if the Pakeha road builders had consulted the local whanau first, they said.
Strange how he had forgotten it all, and seeing the coast again, it all came flooding back. But it was all in the past now, and those same properties where they had camped with friendly permission were beginning to have large notices and padlocked gates. Even some roads to beaches were being blocked off and large notices advised that access and camping was only with the permission of some Trust Board or other.