It was a less friendly place. In fact all of New Zealand was a less friendly place.
The large white notice was placed on two heavy wrought-iron gates in a high split-stone wall which was built right across a headland on the seaward side of the road. The wall was about eight feet high.
His colleague in the Law Department had said Dr Hawthorne liked to be private here. The locals said they were never invited.
It was seven o’clock Thursday.
He eased the red Honda Accord into a grove of puriri, well beyond the little headland so that it was hidden from the road, climbed up the hill on the inland side of the road and checked his map. On the map, the headland enclosed a bay and in the bay were the old wharf and the deep-water anchorage. This was apparently part of the marine reserve which Dr Hawthorne policed. The configuration of the headland was such that neither the wharf nor the anchorage could be seen from the road or the shore outside the property.
He drove back to the little flat at the head of the bay. There was no stream here, but a valley or natural depression led a short way up into the bush and ended in a bluff. It was a pleasant, level place, grassy, with puriri and karaka trees dotted around, and it looked almost landscaped. Then he saw the notice, in the same style as the one at the gates.
It looks as if Dr Hawthorne owns all of this bay and on both sides of the road.
Keeping himself hidden in the trees, he quickly walked up to the head of the depression and examined the bluff. It was limestone. Excitedly he climbed round the side and up to the top of the bluff, looking for caves and slits. The surface, like the surface of the flat, appeared to be landscaped. There was evidence of karaka and kohekohe having been planted in several places relatively recently.
This place is very tidy.
Eight-thirty. The long summer day was drawing to an end. He drove up a few yards and parked the Honda off the road among some trees, stretched his sleeping bag out on the back seat, and munched a ginger nut, wishing he’d had more than a snack in Opotiki. He could just see the little flat from between the trees.
There were very few cars now. He heard a vehicle approaching from the Opotiki direction and then a black Land Rover appeared round the corner and stopped alongside the notice. He picked out the lettering, “Pataratara Marine Reserve”. Two men got out, dressed neatly in golf shirts and white shorts. They separated and walked swiftly over the flat and in and around the groves of trees. In a few minutes they had between them covered its whole area. Without any word or sign they got back into the Land Rover and headed in the direction of Pataratara Lodge. Shortly afterwards, he heard a faint whirring sound like electronically controlled gates opening, then the revving of an engine and another similar whirring sound.
So these are the private rangers. Very thorough too.
Eleven o’clock. It had been dark for an hour or so. The cars had long ceased to run on the lonely road. The moreporks had begun to sound back in the bush. The crickets had started their plaintive singing. Down below in the bay the water was lapping gently on the rocks.
David was tired after his long, hot drive down from Auckland. Yet he could not sleep. The landscaped limestone bluff kept coming back into his mind, as did the notice and the two private rangers who had searched the little flat to make sure there were no campers. It was very smartly run.
Dr Hawthorne had bought it three years ago – at the same time as Tane had disappeared. If the limestone bluff he had inspected was continuous with the Waitoa limestone, the old course of the Waitoa might just have come out here. But there was nothing that gave any evidence of such a possibility. The landscaped grounds, the notices, the elaborate security were typical of the private lifestyle which New Zealand’s rich and famous were increasingly requiring at their elaborate holiday mansions.
Perhaps if he played his cards right, he might even be invited here in the future.
He walked down to the flat and up the hill. The heavy iron gates were securely locked. Alongside in the wall was an electronic control box where you keyed in a number. What should he do? Did he make contact? “I’m sorry to wake you but I’m Dr David Corbishley. I’ve come to check out this property briefly for an underground outlet before I go to Australia, even though Dr Hawthorne told me there isn’t one.” Or should he say “I’m Dr David Corbishley, I’m a consultant to one of Dr Hawthorne’s overseas clients. Do you mind if I have a quick look around his property?”
To tell the truth he had never anticipated this situation, and the more he thought of it, the more ridiculous it became. Who am I? Investigating all possibilities like a good scientist. Does this justify me in sneaking round a client’s property? He laughed out loud. It was surreal.
“Keep to rocks!” His own advice to Tane. Just common sense. He thought of Dr Magnusson. What a future lay before him if he played his cards right!
And I don’t want to miss that flight to Australia tomorrow night.
He turned as if to go back. Then he thought of Tane. That piteous upturned face and the appeal in his eyes. He found himself eyeing the wall curiously. He never knew what got into him next. There was a puriri growing near the wall. As a boy he could not resist tree climbing. Impetuously he swung himself up on a branch to look inside the grounds. He saw that the top of the wall was covered with broken glass. Carefully he manoeuvred himself along the branch until he could put one foot on the wall, then the other, placing them gingerly between the shards of glass. On the other side was a grove of ancient pohutukawa. There was no branch to climb down. Without even a thought he jumped and landed with springing knees on a carpet of the Christmas blooms which had recently fallen. He could smell the honeyed nectar.
He looked back at the wall, and realised it was almost impossible to get back up in the same place.
That’s torn it. Might as well have a look around.
He kept away from the driveway, moving down through the pohutukawa. Soon he could hear the water just below him, and smell the seaweed on the rocks. There would be deep water off shore, the Marine Reserve. Still no lights. He wondered where the house was.
There was not a star in the sky, the water was black, and the night windless. Absently he reached down and raked through the fallen blooms with his fingers. Suddenly, he felt something hard. Shaped like a twig, yet it was not a twig. It was metal and hollow. As he rubbed it, there was a slight vibration and a low hum.
He tensed and listened. Only the crickets and the water lapping, and the thumping of his heart.
Suddenly the night erupted. Dogs barked, lights shone, and shouts came from a short distance along the headland.
He pondered the option of meeting his pursuers and trying to explain his presence there, but realised it might be difficult, especially explaining it all to the dogs. So he took off, half running, half creeping through the trees, making towards the only place where he could find safety from the dogs’ sense of smell – the water. Now it was just below. He eased himself down to it over pohutukawa roots and then rocks covered with seaweed.
The dogs and lights were now only a few yards away, the dogs following his trail. He lowered himself into the water, welcoming its cool, silky embrace. He took a big breath and, submerging quietly, swam underwater till he was well clear of the shore. He repeated this several times. Then he looked back towards the land.