The trouble was that racial feeling was running high, and the police force was being accused of doing nothing about Maori highway violence. The Maori in the police force were taking the brunt of it. In some areas Maori policemen had been quietly transferred to avoid trouble.
In his mind he saw again the tall, bronzed young man with the fair curly hair who appeared to be the leader of the vigilantes at St Peter’s.
He was sure he had seen that face before.
He went to the police computer, looked up the McAndrew file and studied the various photos taken at the time. One was of the vigilante group surrounding the Te Kuiti marae on the morning after the highway bashing.
Why, that’s him in the middle!
It was a media photo. There were no names mentioned in the caption or in the accompanying story. He initiated a check through police files.
No one had driven the black Ford Cortina away after the service. Matthew reflected on its owner. Kate Fairweather had come to see him a few days before, regarding the McAndrew case. She had shown him some research which she had done. This evidence, she concluded, indicated that racial trouble was being deliberately stirred. He had some personal sympathy for what she was saying, but he had to accept that her conclusion was mainly supposition.
“Has anyone investigated the movements of the vigilantes on the night of the McAndrew assault?” she had then asked.
No, the police had not considered this.
Then she had mentioned she had been talking to Susan McAndrew. “I was wondering why you agreed so readily with Inspector Molloy that it was war paint under her nail.”
He hadn’t given it much thought. He had been surprised that his inspector knew anything about Maori customs at all.
“Do you realise that the Maori didn’t use war paint?” she had asked.
He had been taken aback. He was not strong on his Maoritanga.
“Did you analyse the paint?”
The Inspector had not attached much importance to it. In any case at the interview with Susan McAndrew, the paint under her nail appeared to have been removed – probably an understandable revulsion on her part.
He had decided to change the subject. “Are you working with anyone in particular?”
She had paused before she replied. “No, I’m working on my own.”
He wondered whether she were telling the truth. He had made more investigations about her. She seemed a very calm, highly intelligent and competent person, with a background of respectability into which she could merge at will, the sort of person who is able to mastermind a criminal action and cover all her tracks. He wondered whether the huia connection was some kind of front.
Matthew thought back carefully on the incident and the subsequent interviews.
As a policeman he distrusted vigilantes. What did their presence at Te Kuiti and at St Peter’s mean? At St Peter’s, their object was to kidnap Tane Ngata. What was their purpose in that? What were they really doing on the night of the McAndrew assault? But they were Pakeha. How could there be a link?
“How did you know he was Maori?” he had asked Susan McAndrew. Kate Fairweather had by implication asked the same question. Unfortunately, it wasn’t just a simple question. In the present climate in the force it was political and racial dynamite.
Part of the trouble was his superior. Ian Molloy was in charge of both the McAndrew and the Glenfern Hospital case, though he didn’t see any connection between the two. From his experience on the McAndrew case Matthew knew Ian Molloy’s likely reaction. It was not enough for a policeman to have merely feeling on matters of such sensitivity, especially if a supposition about Susan McAndrew’s story came from a suspected kidnapper.
He decided to keep his thoughts to himself.
Randall Richardson, who had already had a response to his prayer about the disappearance of his patient, was surprised at another phone call.
“Randall, it’s Nellie Milliken here; I hope you don’t mind me ringing you, but I’ve just heard the news on the radio. I’m so sorry about what happened at the church tonight, and I’m sure it’s all some terrible mistake. I didn’t want to disturb the vicar as he seems to have policemen climbing all over the church and vicarage so I thought that I would ring you as warden so that you could tell me what I should do.”
Miss Milliken was one of the “old faithfuls” at the church, so old that no one knew her age, but her energy in arranging the flowers, polishing the brass, cleaning the church, knitting garments and making marmalade for the church fair was legendary. “Only too pleased to help, Nellie,” he said.
“I can’t get hold of that dear girl who borrowed my car to take somebody home from church and I’m worried about her.”
“Which girl?”
“Kate Fairweather. I’m in the Ornithological Society, you know, and she’s our secretary, a lovely person. I was so delighted that even though she belongs to one of those dreadful happy-clappy churches she was interested in our healing service and wanted to take a sick friend home afterwards. Now I hope she hasn’t got herself into some sort of trouble with those nasty kidnappers.”
Randall could hardly believe his good fortune. “Hasn’t she got a car of her own?”
“Oh, yes, one of those smart shiny modern cars, but she said she was lending it to someone else.”
“Can you describe your car?”
“It’s a Morris Minor. I’ve had it for twenty years. It doesn’t go very fast. When people behind honk at me, I let them past and then wave at them. But it gets me to church and the shops. I don’t drive at night and Kate picks me up to take me to the bird meetings.
“So you drove it to church tonight. Do you remember the registration number?”
“Just a moment. I always forget it. Let me just look at my diary. Here we are. TW 3400.”
“How long did she say she wanted it for?”
“She said she might need to have it for a few days. She had the friend staying with her and it might be useful.”
“Did she borrow anything else?”
“Only some of my clothes. She said she was organising a skit. She’s full of fun, you know. And she’s doing such a good job with the huia.”
“What does she do?”
“She goes around holiday programmes talking to the children. They all love her.”
“Have you told the police?”
“No, I’d much rather speak to someone at church first.”
“Very proper of you. Don’t concern yourself about it anymore. I’ll do everything in my power to get the car back for you and notify the police if necessary.”
“Thank you so much. That’s a burden off my back. I don’t want to get her into any trouble, you know. Besides we need young people so much at our church.”
“Nellie, I understand you perfectly. What are Christians for if we can’t help each other?”
CHAPTER 32
At nine o’clock on Sunday evening an ancient Morris Minor with a cargo of elderly women swayed and whined its way up the Bombay hill. The lights of Auckland disappeared behind for the last time as it dipped over the top, descending into the blackness of the great Waikato valley and turned off on the road that led to Thames and Coromandel. The lady with the wide-brimmed hat which almost covered her face huddled over the wheel coaxing the last ounce of speed out of the ageing vehicle.
Suddenly lights flashed ahead as cars were parked across the road. A white glove loomed out of the darkness, and behind it a blue uniform.