“You would have to call out the head of the wildlife association or something, mate,” Gary urged his brother in all sincerity.
Cecil was contemplating the suggestion, under the influence of all the new information he just got from Elaine. His brother was not wrong either, he realized. “That is a good idea,” Cecil said. “I’ll call Mr. Olden. He is the senior manager of the Wilderness Society. Maybe he could assist us in locating the origin of this poison.”
“Good idea,” Elaine smiled. “According to the people at the media branch of the Wildlife office, Olden has been actively battling this dingo poison thing for some time. He was looking for the suppliers of the poison, I know, so that he could launch a global legal battle on these people.”
“Great, then he will know what to do,” Cecil confirmed. “As soon as I know what is poisoning these animals I can have a bit more credence when I contact him.”
“But that still doesn’t tell us why they are mutilating the livestock,” Gary added the first genuine contribution to the relevant conversation. For a moment, he actually sounded mature.
“That is alright,” Elaine answered. “As soon as we know the strain of venom used, we will know if it corroborated with the ongoing cases in Australia.”
“Alright, then, let’s get going, bro,” Cecil told Gary. Both picked up the large boxes containing the borrowed forensic apparatus and bid the forthcoming Dr. Foxworth goodbye.
“Fuck me, but it is hot today!” Gary was heard exclaiming in the parking lot.
“Great. Just when I thought you would not embarrass me,” Cecil complained as they loaded the boxes in the SUV.
“Come on, don’t tell me this heat is not making your skin melt,” Gary defended.
Cecil sighed. “Get in the car, Gary.”
The sweltering day was no kinder on the search party that Sgt. Anaru had gathered. They arrived at the station at 7am, had a quick breakfast of sandwiches and coffee and completed the roll call from Const. Ballin’s clipboard. A heatwave had been predicted for most of South Island, but it was not due until a few days later. Then again, nature did not care for mortal predictions, and by the moaning of the men and discomfort of most living creatures it was safe to assume that it had arrived prematurely.
“Right friends, it is time to go out to Nekenhalle and see if we can find Mr. Harding!” Sgt. Anaru declared from the cement fence wall he was perched on. His brow glimmered with sweat, and under his damp black curls, his neck was drenched in perspiration that stained the top of his uniform collar. “Now this is going to be Day 1 of the search for Mr. Harding. Depending on how meticulously we comb the area around the house and mountain, we will add another day or two onto the search.”
The men were fanning themselves with rolled up newspapers and hats, most of them wearing T-shirts and jeans with good hiking boots. Although their attire was on the thick side, the boots and jeans were imperative for protection. New Zealand may have had no large predators or snakes, but it had plenty that could hurt a man up in the bush. Ticks and mosquitoes could not beat denim and hiking boots were necessary for obvious reasons.
“Now, we have a water car coming up with us, so don’t worry about getting thirsty. As you might know, this particular farm does have a small dam, but it is on the other side of the hill, through thick brush and matagouri. So don’t be stupid and wander off, else we will be looking for you tomorrow,” the charismatic officer continued. “Take your canteens to the water car before we start the search, people! We will not have time to mess around too much looking for water, so carry it with you and hydrate as you need it, alright?”
A resounding answer of ‘yes, sir’ echoed through the small cement parking area before they all dispersed to their respective vehicles. It was a relatively smooth ride up to the farm. Dispatch had contacted Sgt. Anaru to inform him that Dr. Harding would be available to join the search the following day, if need be.
“Why? Is he still in Christchurch?” he asked the dispatch officer as they traversed the snaking road toward the infamous mountain that marked Nekenhalle on the watery looking horizon.
“On their way back, sir,” dispatch replied. “His brother is going to come join the search, though, as soon as they are back.”
“Very good, thanks,” the sergeant answered. He looked at Const. Ballin. “Heather, you alright, love?”
“I’m not going to lie, Mick. I am fucking terrified, but it feels much better having all these blokes with us,” Const. Ballin admitted. He placed his large, calloused hand on hers and pressed affectionately.
“Don’t worry, I won’t let anything happen to my fiancé, would I?” he smiled.
Heather scoffed and smiled. “Anything almost happened to me yesterday.”
Sgt. Anaru kissed her hand and countered smoothly, “Yes, but it didn’t, did it?”
Soon after, the bonnet of the police vehicle reared its nose over the last rise of the road and the entrance to Nekenhalle became visible. Heather’s heart started beating faster as she leaned forward to look up at it. “There it is — the gates of hell.”
Sgt. Anaru agreed with her, but he did not say it. Const. Ballin did not need her fears affirmed by his concurrence. The vehicles crowded the normally barren and desolate shoulder of the road until one of the men used his bolt cutter to dislodge the heavy padlock. He unwrapped the enormous chain from the frame, but it took three men to push the gates open. The sound that erupted from the antique hinges started all those who heard it; a loud screech that sounded like a crying woman in the jaws of steel cogs, a most abhorrent welcome to Nekenhalle.
19 The Common Denominator
Nina did not think that Harris was far off in his jest of asking the corpses how they had died of snakebites and if there were actually snakes present on the ship. After he excused himself and left for work, Purdue and his colleagues sat down at the dining table.
“There might be a way to ask them, you know,” she smiled, reaching into her satchel. She produced a small book that used to be covered in red canvas material, but with its age and deterioration, it was reduced to a pig-eared, ripped article with rust spotted pages.
Purdue looked intrigued. “What is that?”
“This, old boy, is from my own attic collection. I call it ‘The Grisly Tales of the Fallen Reich’, but you can just call it our saving grace,” she explained.
“Please tell me what I want to hear,” Purdue said, looking quite ready for good news. His long fingers played with the pages of the lab results while he waited for her to make his day.
“I might just,” she replied, opening the book on the table. Inside it was blue pen scribbles in German, the lettering thickened by the dissolving ink into the fiber of the page. “Look, this, whoever wrote this, was using the same insane grammar while talking bollocks in a supposed love letter to Heike.”
She flicked the book upside for Sam and Purdue, who were sitting opposite her at the table. Together they grabbed hold of the book and pulled it nearer to peruse the contents.
“This Heike must be a hot bird,” Sam muttered. “She’s been around the SS a few times, it seems.”
Purdue wanted to laugh at Sam’s remark, but he was too awestruck by the similarities in words and phrasing. “Astonishing,” Purdue raved in a whisper. “Absolutely astonishing.”
Sam scrutinized the writing, understanding some of the words, but having nowhere near the knowledge of German as his friends. As Purdue read through another piece, his concentration gradually drifted back to the Williams girl and her bloody punishment for aiding him. It only reiterated the constant blame that he bore for people involved in his ventures getting hurt or killed.