Women Killers of Aotearoa: Introduction

Terror is a man but wickedness is a woman, Helena Kennedy

In sentencing Helen Milner to 17 years non-parole as part of her sentence, Justice David Gendall commented that “murder by poisoning has always been seen as amongst the most pernicious of crimes”. Poisoning is of course the preferred mode of despatch for women killers. Yet when Milner’s treatment is compared with that of New Zealand’s male murderers, her trial and sentencing appear disproportionate at best and unjust at worst.

In 2005, murderer Peter Wayne Ryder was released on parole after serving 11 years of his life sentence. To refresh your memory, Ryder murdered a 10-year-old child by beating him to death over a two-day period after noticing $5 was missing from his wallet. Ryder immediately went on to reoffend and was returned to prison. In 2013 he was again released on parole and again went on to reoffend, this time attacking his ex-partner.

Many will recall the shocking murders of Christine and Amber Lundy by husband and father, Mark Lundy. Like Milner, Lundy was found guilty of murder on largely circumstantial evidence. Unlike Milner, however, Lundy was granted the right to appeal his convictions, first to the Court of Appeal and then to the Privy Council. Furthermore, despite being found guilty in two separate trials, Lundy will be given the right to apply for parole after serving 17 years - less time than Milner. Lundy’s wife and daughter were beaten to death with “something resembling a hammer”, apparently a less abhorrent crime than “pernicious” poisoning.

The disproportionate sentencing of women for serious crimes has been widely documented and championed by Justice for Women in the UK and the National Organization for Women (NOW) in the US. In 2008, the UK Government removed the widely used ‘crime of passion’ defence available to men who murdered their wives if they could demonstrate their actions were because their wives had failed in their duties. Previous, allowed, defences have included, for example, a meal not being cooked on time and “nagging”.

Unlike their UK and US counterparts, women convicted of murder in New Zealand are unable to turn to an advocacy agency to articulate their plight. Instead they must rely solely on the legal system, a defence and the judgement of a jury. However, in cases of complexity or where gender norms are not always adhered to, this becomes a sometimes difficult business. For example, in the case of Vicky Calder, a reputable, middle-class, biologist and academic there were two lengthy and complex trials before she was finally cleared of murdering her husband by poisoning in 1994. Most defendants have neither the stature or status needed to garner the extended consideration of a trial jury.

While bias in the sentencing of women is generally accepted by most commentators, it is neither reliably unfavourable or predictable. Indeed, much research on the comparative treatment of women and men in sentencing has focused on the leniency shown to women. This sometimes occurs where there has been consideration of parental responsibilities or reflects the perception by some in the judiciary that women respond better to rehabilitation.

However, in situations where women deviate from social norms, their treatment is often worse. Convicted child killers like Myra Hindley, found responsible for multiple murders, became an icon of evil. Her defence of being influenced by Ian Brady, failing to persuade either the all-male jury or the public at large. Even today Minnie Dean, the only women to have been executed in New Zealand, is referred to as the “Baby Farmer”. Dean was famously hung in 1895 after being tried for the of three, possibly more, children in her care. Evidence of the painfully high levels of infant mortality among the often infirm and invariably neglected children that were fostered to baby farmers at the time featured little in her trial. Women who are found guilty of infanticide have historically received harsh treatment by the courts and Dean was no exception, despite protesting her innocence to the end.

In looking at some of New Zealand’s more notable female murderers, we can gain insight in to not only the circumstances that help make a women murder, but also perceptions of women in New Zealand society at a given time.

The cases of Tracy Goodman and Natalie Fenton are particularly startling examples of an apparent lack of compassion or even understanding within our judiciary and wider society. Indeed, it is in our response to these women and their crimes that we get the best insight and clearest reflection of society’s view of women criminals and what we expect from women in general. 

"She is an evil vindictive bitch and deserves what she gets"..."Her only redeeming benefit is her stupid"..."She has all the atributes of a dog except loyalty"..."She is a cookie-cutter psychopath"..."this evil ugly bitch"

These are some of the comments made on the blog following Helen Milner’s sentencing. In fairness, a small amount of browsing will also find references to Mark Lundy being fat. But our enthusiasm for spectating social deviance has not lessened since the seventeenth century witch trials.

It was witnessing the media response to Milner that my interest in public perceptions of women criminals was first peaked. I had returned to New Zealand after twenty years living in the UK and was still catching up with current affairs. I recall sitting in front of the TV and watching the trial of the “Black Widow” with a mix incredulity and distaste. The headline status given to the trial, day after day after day. Stories of Milner from friends and foe alike, salacious recollections presented as fact. And the images - angry, dark, ugly – always of Milner either as she sat scowling in the dock or filmed as she jumped in to her car, trying to escape an ensuing TV team, issuing threats as she drove off.

What struck me most about Milner’s trial was that, no matter how clear the evidence was, or was not, at her trial, we, the public had seen and heard very little of it and yet were more than prepared to find her “guilty”. 

As I delved deeper into the research around women killers, I learned we were not always the society we seem to have become. The story of Alice May Parkinson is a case in point. Parkinson shot her would-be fiancé, Burt West, four times on 2 March 1915 before turning the gun on herself. West died a few days later while Parkinson survived. Parkinson was tried and found guilty of manslaughter with a recommendation of leniency from the jury. This was disregarded by the court and Parkinson was sentenced to life with hard labour.

Let us consider for a moment the response to Parkinson in 1915 - penniless, desperate and abandoned, driven to kill – with Natalie Fenton in 1999 – exploited, abused, penniless, child prostitute who killed one of her “clients” when she was just fifteen years old.

Parkinson’s case was taken up by the New Zealand Truth newspaper along with left-leaning political groups, trade unions and feminists, culminating in public meetings and petitions and eventually released in 1921.

Contrast this with Fenton, branded New Zealand’s youngest female killer and, perhaps not surprisingly, preferring prison after a brief and unsuccessful period on parole. No public meetings were held to end child prostitution, no judgements were made of Fenton’s victim, a man who openly boasted that he liked sex with underaged girls. Perhaps most worrying, no-one even seemed particularly surprised by Fenton’s circumstances.

This may in part be because women criminals are more common and their crimes more serious. The past 30 years there has been a dramatic increase in the rate of female offending, including violent crime. This is an international trend and highlights the changing role of women and the new demands upon them. But there are also some interesting emerging trends.

As elsewhere, New Zealand women are appearing in court more often for serious violent offending. Between 2007 and 2014 about 20% of all NZ homicide convictions were female compared with 13% between 2000 and 2006 and only 10% between 1988 and 1993, suggesting that violent offending by women has doubled over the past twenty years.

Furthermore, violent crime by women is increasing in frequency and seriousness. While it remains true that most violence is committed by men, where domestic violence is concerned, most of us would probably be surprised to learn that the level of partner violence committed by women is at least as high as it is among men.

A longitudinal study of around 1000 males and females born in Dunedin in 1972 – 1973 found that not only did females report having assaulted their partners more often than men, men reported more often being victims than women. This surprising finding needs to be seen in the light of the overwhelming evidence showing male violence is more serious and women are twice as likely to be injured in domestic violence incidents and three times as likely to be killed.

Another palpable difference in the treatment of men and women offenders is the way women suspects are sexualized. Helena Kennedy, legal counsel for Myra Hindley, points to the trial of Amanda Knox, both by the judiciary and the media as being instructive. Every detail of Knox’s sex-life was examined during her trials while the confession and prosecution of her co-accused was all but lost. Knox was accused of promiscuity, of being HIV positive, accused of deviance and generally hounded by a sex-obsessed media.

Anne Jones, author of the most authoritative work on this subject, shares Kennedy’s observations. Jones suggests that women murderers unleash “moral panics” in the public and even suggests their elevation often coincides with advances in women’s equality. She references the trial of Ruth Ellis – the last woman to be hanged in England. After being found guilty of murdering her lover in 1955, a time when women were being shooed back into domesticity after the war, Ellis was easy fodder for misogynist elements in the media. Jones’s theory, Kennedy writes, has most potency in the legal response to women who are involved in political crusades, or are fighting for equality - women who most seriously confront male authority.

Kennedy is both observant and informed and the examples she provides are as compelling as the cases are wide ranging, be it nineteenth century suffragettes or modern-day Jihadists. The treatment of women remains a powerful barometer for society and women’s place within it.

So what is the picture in New Zealand and what does it tell us about who we are today and how we got here? In the following chapters we will look at New Zealand’s most “notorious women killers” to see what insights can be gained from our response to, and treatment of, these women. Because we are considering these women and their crimes chronologically, it may also be possible to gain some insight into how New Zealand society has changed over time…or not.

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References

Jeffries, S. (2001) Gender Judgments: An Investigation of Gender Differentiation in Sentencing and Remand in New Zealand. Christchurch. University of Canterbury.

Nagal, I. & Johnson, B. (1994). The Role of Gender in a Structured Sentencing System: Equal Treatment, Policy Choices, and the Sentencing of Female Offenders under the United States Sentencing Guidelines. USA. The Journal of criminal Law, Vol. 85, No 1. Northwestern University, School of Law.

Greg Newbold Crime, Law and Justice in New Zealand.

Pretty Boy

If you had said to Jimmy Gracey that he would die in the arms of a man while wearing a dress and high heels he would have issued one of his famous king punches and left you lying in a pool of your own blood, before celebrating with a beer.

He blamed his mate, Kurt, for what he was wearing that day. But it was Jimmy who strode in to the department store on the High Street and asked to see the range of extra-large dresses. And it was he who purchased the yellow one with the diamond pattern with the explicit purpose of wearing it out that evening.

Even as he stood wearing the dress in the motel room, he felt more of a man than he had for years. He pointed the replica pistol at the unsuspecting John as an open handbag swung from his arm and watched and waited while Kurt grabbed anything and everything he could.

Fewer than 15 minutes later they were heading west in a new SUV and almost $500 richer. They agreed that Jimmy would drive and that they would not remove their wigs and dresses until they were near the State line.

But Jimmy was ill-prepared for the 20 minute car chase with Police through the unfamiliar roads of Baltimore. With a recent conviction for assault was still fresh in his memory and on his record, he was glad when Kurt finally saw an empty slip road and yelled at him to turn-off.

As they sped they missed the “National Security Agency - No Public Access” sign. They swerved around the armed guards and kept going until Jimmy took two bullets, saving him from the humiliation of being arrested in a dress, but killing him dead.

Take Away

 “Easy as draining a jug of beer,” she said to him through small yellow teeth. “All I had to do was drive to the hospital after 10pm, ask where the emergency room is, put on one of those gowns I nicked when I was getting by boobs fried, head to maternity and grab the little bugger.”

“What are you going to do with it?” he asked his mother over the baby’s screams.

“Get some money for it ya wally.” She was lighting a cigarette, unmoved by the noise in the room. Beer stains were visible on the front of her night gown and her hooded eyes were red with tiredness.

They sat in the room that passed as the lounge of her prefab house, the air made blue by smoke and sunlight and rang with the sounds from the TV and the child.

He winced at the noise. “Have you fed it?”

“Sure, but it’s not hungry, an’ I don’t plan to have it for long.”

“So how long have you had it then?” he said reaching across the small table between them to take a cigarette.

“Only a week,” she said.

“A week!” he spat out the smoke he had just inhaled and jolted forward. “What the bloody hell are ya doing? You barely dragged me up, what makes you think you won’t kill it?”

“Aw keep ya nuts in their sack. That’s why you’re here.” She pulled the tab on a can of beer which hissed and a small mound of foam dropped on to her stomach before the can could reach her mouth.

“Oh, fuck… We’re fucked… Fuck me… What the fuck?” he chanted to himself. With his head bowed he waited for her to continue.

“You’re going to go in to the bank,” she began. But before she could finish he looked up at her, his eyes wide with incredulity.

“The bank? Why the bloody bank? We goin’ to rob it I s’pose, armed with a baby and dressed in a hospital gown.” But neither of them was laughing.

“We got to go somewhere where we’re not recognised,” she said. Her gaze had shifted to the baby and he realised she was serious.

“What about all the bloody cameras?” he asked.

“Yeah, I guess -”

“Got it! The council office,” she said pointing her cigarette at him and depositing ash on the floor in the process. “And you’ll give ‘em a letter saying we’ve got the baby an’ if they want it back they got to pay for it.”

“I won’t do it,” he said. “Pay how? How we going to pick up the money without getting caught?”

He drew his legs up in front of him and wrapped both of his arms around his knees as if somehow shrinking in size would remove him from the situation.

“Then you can take your tail out of here and crash somewhere else,” she snarled. “And you can take that stolen piece of crap you’ve got hidden on my back lawn with ya!”

With that she threw her half-full beer can at him, narrowly missing his head but having the desired impact none-the-less. 

They stayed in that room. He occasionally shot glances between her and the child while she dozed until there was a knock at the door. She instantly lurched upwards and hissed, “Quick, hide the baby.”

But before he could move she had grabbed the laundry basket with the small creature in it and darted to her bedroom, slamming the door behind her.

He waited for a moment to see if the caller would give up and go away. But soon there was another knock and it sounded louder and more insistent this time.

He stood up and instinctively grabbed his keys, wallet and cigarettes from the coffee table. He then set off on a slow circuit around the room, switching off the TV and standing on a beer tab “Crap!” before finally reaching the door.

“Who is it?” His heart pounded. He looked back at his mother’s closed bedroom door and tried to think.

“It’s me, Bill from next door.” The voice was familiar so he stepped forward and slowly opened the door.

“Yeah?” He cringed at the uncertainty in his own voice.

The neighbour shunted his large frame up to the top step until he was so close he was able see the oily glow of the visitor’s skin.

“That bloody dog of yours is tearing up the bins on the street again,” Bill said loudly.

He looked over the neighbour’s shoulder but could see nothing other than the last glimmer of the day’s sun thinly coating the tops of a couple of cars.

“Ok, I’ll go get him,” he said. But before he could close the door there was a low gurgle and then a loud baby’s cry from his mother’s bedroom.

     Visibly interested, the neighbour stretched to look past the doorway and into the fog of the front room.

     “I thought I heard a baby crying,” Bill said. ”Been here about a week hasn’t it?” his short neck craning to scan the inside of the house. “Didn’t know you had a kid.”

“Yeah, well, it’s my ex-girlfriend’s. I’ll sort the dog out,” he said and shut the door without any further hesitation.

     He went to the kitchen at the back of the house, reached over the large bag filled with used disposable nappies and grabbed the lead off a nail on the wall. He waved a fly away from his face and when he turned he saw his mother standing in front of him.

“Who was it?” she asked in a lowered voice.

“Neighbour, complaining about the dog.”

“Do you think he heard the baby?” she asked.

“I think the whole neighbourhood heard the baby,” he said.

“What did you say to him?”

“Said it was my ex-girlfriend’s.”

“You’ve never had a girlfriend,” she raised her hand. “Bloody dog. Mutts, both of ya!”

But he was ready for her this time and quickly leaned back so he only felt the breeze from her hand is it passed his cheek.

She turned and stormed to her room and slammed the door.

About a hundred and fifty metres up the street he could see the dog’s big tan shoulders, its head deep within the bin it was enjoying.

“Mac,” he called to the dog - named after his preferred take away and where he found the animal. But the dog remained undisturbed.

The lead dangled at his side as he made his way up the street towards the dog, feeling good to be out of the house. The pavement under his bare feet still held the day’s warmth and the mechanical grinding of cicadas was beginning to give way to the singing of crickets.

When he reached the dog he stood for a moment, reluctant to interrupt its obvious enjoyment. In the distance he could hear a stereo, some children’s voices and the squealing of car tyres. He bent down and put the lead around the dog’s thick neck and paid little attention to the noise of squealing tyres as it grew louder and closer.

“C’mon boy,” he said and turned to begin to walk back towards the house. Suddenly, three cars rounded the corner at the end of the street, sped down the road and screeched to a halt near the gate of his mother’s small, faded yellow house.

He stood motionless and watched as men scrambled from darkly coloured sedans, some towards the front and others towards the rear of the house. There were no voices at first, just the bang of the front door being kicked and moments later his mother’s voice. At least he thought it was her, as she had never made that sound before. It was a high pitched howl and then a more familiar guttural noise and then clearly the words, “It’s his…lying bastard…”

     He stared as they bundled her and the laundry basket in to separate cars and before he knew it they were gone, almost as quickly as they came, tyres still screeching and with lights flashing now.

He did not know how long he stood there, but eventually he could feel the dog pulling on the lead. As he approached his mother’s house he saw the door was open and a light still glowed inside. He paused briefly to be reassured by the silence and then walked down the gravel drive and around the back of the house, not noticing the neighbour’s curtain move as he passed.

He pulled the grey tarpaulin off the ute he parked there a few days earlier and after some quick work had replaced its number plates with those from his mother’s grey sedan parked nearby.

     He opened the ute’s passenger door and motioned to the dog who needed little encouragement. He climbed into the driver’s seat and after placing a small torch in his mouth he reached under the dash. Moments later the vehicle lit up and began to hum. Mac’s big open mouth and flapping tongue smiled at him. He could see that the recent rummaging had left a new stripe on the bridge of the dog’s nose and suddenly felt hungry.

     “C’mmon boy, let’s get a take away,” he said, before reversing out of the drive.

Memory 24

The corridor stretched out before me. Shiny, long, pale coloured walls smelling of strongly without stinking, like when mother was cleaning. My grandfather's hand felt warm and dry and he did not speak. He looked paler than I remembered and he didn't look down at me.

     We walked for what seemed ages. A left turn, then a right, but the walls always looked the same. A lady in a stiff white dress walked towards us and smiled at me but didn't seem  happy. Eventually we reached one of the many doors and my grandfather stopped and looked around and then finally looked at me.

     "Wait here, I won't be long. Don't make any noise and just wait. I won't be long", he was whispering bit his voice was still loud in the empty hallway.

     He went in to the room. I looked around and saw some people wheeling something that looked like a machine. Another person walked past and smiled at me as I leaned up against the wall.

     Eventually my grandfather came out of the room and said, "It's ok to come in now".

     I stepped in to room and immediately recognised my mother sitting next to the big metal framed bed in the centre of the room. She didn't speak but may have smiled. My grandfather took my hand again and walked me up to the bed. In it there was a man. He had no hair and was the colour of old paper.

     "Say hello to your father", my grandfather said.

I looked around the room but there was no one else in it. I looked up at my grandfather and he was looking at the man in the bed. I looked at him again and saw he had a mole on his right cheek just like my father did. I looked at my mother and she nodded her head and there was a small smile this time.

     "Hello daddy", I said to the man in the bed. "Why does daddy smell?" I asked.

In an instant the grip on my small hand became crushing and my grandfather swung me around and dragged me, half skating and half running from the room. When back in the corridor he looked down at me, his face deep crimson.

     "Don't you ever say that again," he said. But all I could see were the veins on his neck and his large, watery eyes. That's when I realised daddy was dying.

Alice

As Alice clung to the pole of the driveway light, she was able to dimly recall a walk with her long-time friend Katheryn through the bush of the Waitakere Ranges. It struck her as surprising that despite being able to vividly picture the pattern on the completely impractical summer frock her friend wore that day she could not for the life of her remember her own name.

She looked around for something she recognised, but was familiar only with the Waitakeres where she had spent nearly all of her life. She could see long fingers of shade stretching as far as the city in the distance and began to wish she had taken a jacket with her.

Suddenly a new looking dark blue sedan appeared from around the corner of the long driveway and came towards her with surprising speed. But she paid it little attention as she looked past it and towards the horizon still scanning for something familiar to walk towards.

The car continued past her and then abruptly stopped before just reaching the top of the driveway. If she had not been so anxious she was she would have heard voices, slightly raised and then silent before the car began to reverse towards her.

“Are you alright?” Carol asked from the passenger seat of the car. Alice did not turn or answer.

“Are you looking for someone? Can we help you?” she persisted.

Alice looked around to see who was speaking and said “No.”

“We’re going to be late.” The driver's gaunt, profile was motionless apart from regular flinches on either side of his down-turned mouth.

“Oh for pity’s sake Dwight, why are you always in such a ruddy hurry. Poor thing is shaking like a leaf.”

Carol got out of the car and walked around to Alice. She was slim and smartly dressed and when she stood next to Alice’s elderly frame it became apparent that she was also quite tall.

“Hello there. Where are you going?” Carol said and rested her hand gently on the shoulder of Alice’s cardigan.

“I was just going for a walk, but now I can’t remember where I parked my car.” Alice replied looking nervously around her.

“Are you visiting someone dear?” Carol looked in to Alice’s pale eyes for some recognition but just saw fear and confusion.

“No, I don’t think so. My car’s here somewhere. I just need to find it.” Alice replied confidently.

“Well I can tell you it’s not down our driveway. Best to look up the road.” Dwight shook his head and checked his watch.

“Hop in our car and we’ll take you up the road to see if you can find your car.” Carol said smiling at Alice.

“What on earth makes you so bloody sure there is a car?” Dwight tried to lower his voice.

“We can’t leave her here.” Carol reached over and opened the rear door.

“Where do you suggest we take her?” Dwight turned and checked the rear seat of the car and quickly moved an empty shopping bag to cover the seat nearest the rear door.

 “Where are you taking me?” Alice still clutched the lamp post.

“Just to see if we can find your car dear. Not far at all.” Carol smiled and put her arm under Alice’s and tried to release her from the post.

“You’re not going to do anything funny with me are you?” Carol had Alice’s attention now as did the open car door.

“Oh please,” Dwight sighed.

“I promise that as soon as you want us to we’ll stop and let you out.” Carol maintained a reassuring smile and gently eased Alice in to the car.

“Does this look familiar?” Carol found herself scanning the streets as they drove as if she knew she what she was looking for. Alice was looking more relaxed and seemed to be enjoying the drive. “I’m not sure,” she replied.

“What’s your name dear?” Carol tried to sound conversational.

“Oh, why it’s…ummm. Well how silly. I can’t remember. I must have bloody Alzheimer’s.” Alice said looking out the window.

“At last, some clarity.” Dwight muttered to no-one in particular and stopped the car at a T-junction. Then he turned to Carol with one hand hanging off the top of the steering wheel.

“Where to now? And just so we’re clear, it’s now after 6 and dinner is at 7 and the invite is only for two.”

“Perhaps you were visiting family?” Carol offered hopefully.

“I don’t think so,” Alice frowned. “I don’t have any children, I’m sure of that.”

“Odd becomes bizarre,” Dwight said. “If she can’t remember her name what makes her so sure she has a car or can even drive for that matter?” But before Carol could answer Alice shot her response over the seat to Dwight.

 “I most certainly can drive and my car is red.”

After a brief pause Dwight decided to drive back towards their home street and once there he pulled up behind an old crimson coupé parked behind a small line of cars about 100 meters before his own driveway.

“I’m going to ask Chris and some of the neighbours if they have mislaid any of their elderly relatives. I suggest you call the Police and get some advice on what to do with our elderly passenger. Specifically, where can we deposit her?”

With that Dwight got out of the car and stood drawing fresh air in to his lungs to clear the unfamiliar odour from his, thankfully company owned, car. He scanned a semi-circle of houses in the quiet tree-lined street and after a brief deliberation decided to start with those houses that had the most cars parked outside.

“Do you have a purse or anything on you that might help us?” Carol looked at Alice who was now staring straight ahead hopefully.

“I think that might be my car,” she said.

Carol followed Alice’s eyes towards the coupé.

“Are you sure?” She asked.

“I think so.”

After a couple of minutes Carol noticed Dwight coming from the large brick house they had parked outside with one of the neighbours. Though she had not lived in the area long enough to know their names it was evident from the curious look on the woman’s face that Dwight had not met with success.

While Dwight headed off towards another house the neighbour approached.

“Hello there,” she smiled at Carol. “I’m Gail. Who do we have here?” She bent and waved at Alice who did not wave back.

“Hello Gail. We haven’t met. I’m Carol from number 21.” Carol stretched a hand out of the passenger window and the two women shook cordially.

“Unfortunately, we don’t know who this lady is either,” Gail said. “Have you called the Police?”

“No, not yet. That’s the next option. She seems to think that the red car in front might be hers. Do you know who drove it here?”

Gail looked at the coupé and shrugged.

“Sorry, no. I’ve never seen it before.”

Carol got out of the car and walked towards the coupé accompanied by Gail.

“Not really the type of car my Mum would drive.” Gail offered helpfully.

The interior of the vehicle was a muddle of detritus and fragments from an undetermined life. Both women stood beside the vehicle too afraid to take their examination any further and noticed Dwight jogging slowly out of house number two and over the road to another neighbour’s property. “Six twenty,” he muttered tapping his watch as he passed Carol and Gail.

Before long Dwight and Carol’s sedan was surrounded by a willing but helpless group of neighbours chatting and offering their best insights.

“You need to report a missing person,” a dark haired man wearing board shorts and an All Blacks cap offered.

“And the purpose of that would be..?” Dwight asked while rummaging through his leather jacket looking for his cell phone.

“After you do that the Police can officially start a search.” The reply made Dwight chuckle.

“And when the Police discover that we have lost no-one but have in fact found someone they would no doubt thank us for our vigilance?” Dwight said dialling.

“Sod it, I’m out of here.” The dark haired man said and spun around and stormed back towards his driveway.

“Chrissakes, what’s his problem?” Dwight said to the other two men gathered on the side of the road. The neighbours had now somehow naturally divided in to two neat, gender specific groups.

Chris, the retired but recently promoted chair of the neighbourhood watch committee, shrugged his shoulders.

“He’s Police,” said Mike.

Dwight looked up at the tall, fifty something bearded man who stood in front of him.

“No wonder he just wants to bark orders at people… Hello?” Dwight said moving away from the group to begin his phone call.

“We should have the street BBQ we never had in February,” Gail said conversationally.

“I’d assumed you’d had it and just didn’t ask Dwight and me because we put in a resource consent for a two story garage,” Carol replied and all women three stood silent for a moment before Carol started smiling. “Don’t worry, it’ll never happen. Dwight just likes the idea of having the biggest everything on the street.”

“Chris was seething,” Linda, a new arrival, said smiling back at Carol. “Called it a scar on the street and refers to the garage as a Dwightmare”.

“Mike even called his lawyer!” Gail added struggling to contain herself, “And has nicknamed your husband Blight.” The women dissolved in to collective laughter.

“Bugger!” Dwight said replacing his phone in his breast pocket. Carol turned to watch him approach.

“The bloody new CEO has just made a surprise appearance at Dan’s dinner and I’m standing in the middle of the road trying to rehome an octogenarian.”

Carol, implacable and still flushed from the recent laughter, “Oh, for heaven’s sake Dwight they’ll be just having drinks until 8. We’ll get there in plenty of time to watch your sycophantic colleagues creeping around your new boss - God help us.” She rolled her eyes and winked at the other women.

“She thinks this might be her car,” Gail said.

Dwight frowned at the faded, deep red coupé. He could not recall ever seeing the dated sports styling and ‘STOP DRILLING’ bumper sticker parked on the street before.

“So why don’t you look in it?” He walked quickly up to the car and tried the passenger door, locked, and then the driver’s door, which opened immediately. He gingerly climbed in to the car and looked around the shabby interior and started searching. He grabbed a piece of paper on the passenger seat, read it before discarding it and then checked the glove compartment and the door pockets. Eventually he located a bottle of pills on the floor of the passenger’s side and another piece of paper. He read the label carefully.

Alice Littlewood

Take twice daily with food

Tramadol 50mg

Then he read the piece of paper which had been lying next to the pill bottle.

Best West Pharmacy

New Lynn

Auckland ph 09 455 8100

Ms Alice Littlewood

1165 Piha Road

Auckland

Tramadol 50mg…

“Nailed ya!” Dwight said clutching the paper in his hand and turning towards the assembled neighbours.

“I believe we have identified our elderly explorer,” he said to Chris and Mike as he stood dusting off his black Armani jeans.

Carol watched Dwight as he approached and noted the look of victory on his face. “I’m pleased to say that now all we need to do is call the Police and get them to pick up Ms Alice Littlewood and deposit her at her Piha address,” he said.

“Sorry Dwight, I can’t do that,” Carol replied.

“What the hell are you talking about? Watch this,” he said turning to Alice.

“Alice? Alice is that you?” Almost immediately the elderly passenger turned to see who was speaking to her.

“I can’t just leave her and let her get dumped somewhere on her own. She’s clearly not well.”

“Christ Carol, I know you’d love to get out of this dinner. But surely an evening with a semi-conscious eighty year old with advanced dementia is slightly worse than dinner at Dan’s?”

The other neighbours quietly transitioned from watching the exchange to making their own subdued conversations.

“You go Dwight,” Carol said passively. “I’ll drive her home in my car and see that she gets settled in safely. I’ll come along later if I get back in time.”

Dwight looked between his watch and Carol and shrugged. “If you’re sure,” he said.

“Positive,” Carol replied.

“I’ll come with you.” Gail said, judging it was safe to re-join the conversation.

“Me too!” Linda added, smiling warmly at Carol.

“Oh great, so now it’s bloody Piha Rescue.” Dwight said to no-one in particular. 

The following Monday saw Dwight driving through the rain in a long line of traffic out towards Titirangi. Though it was late summer it was already getting dark and his delayed departure had not resulted in any lessening of the traffic on SH16.

It was, he reflected, an odd weekend. First, the last minute invite by Dan on Friday to dinner on Saturday. Was it an afterthought? Then the surprise arrival of Dylan, the new CEO and then, most notably, his own late arrival. He hated being late. In all six of his last corporate reorganisations he had above all else prided himself on delivering on time, to target and on budget. Scuppered at the first hurdle by an aging reprobate. Ridiculous.

And the conversation at dinner. Though he arrived only 40 minutes later than the others it was as if he had arrived at the end of the evening. Dylan already had nicknames for half of the room and Dwight was certain he heard him refer to an earlier discussion about his aspirations for the group of companies.

 “Shit!” Dwight braked suddenly to avoid a 4 x 4 moving in to his lane without indicating.

He was certain that Carol’s absence was noted. No doubt chalked up by Dylan in some mental note labelled ‘personal life imbalance’. Why had he let it happen? The other neighbours could have driven the old biddy home. Why did it need three of them to take her for heaven’s sake?

“Bugger,” he said noticing he had forgotten about the road works on Titirangi Road and realising he had missed the turn off to avoid them.

He sat in the traffic and tried to recall how Dylan interacted with him during the brief discussion they had on Dan’s balcony.

“You come with a formidable reputation,” he had said. Christ that could mean anything. Reputation as the biggest idiot in the industry, most detested man in the building, the biggest prick this side of the black stump.

“Oh crap,” he said realising he had promised Carol he would be home by 7pm to meet with their architect to discuss the plans for the garage and annex.

Well, I guess that makes us even, he consoled himself as he steered his car around a roundabout and towards the winding and narrow ascent of Scenic Drive.

What was the other thing Dylan had said? Something about change being constant. Then he remembered.

“Everyone has expectations and no career is without its disappointments.”

What the hell does that mean? Future tense or past? The bastard speaks in constant riddles. Dwight could feel the light stirrings of butterflies in his stomach recalling how Dylan had looked away from him when Dwight had spoken about how much he enjoyed new challenges.

Suddenly the Mozart he had forgotten was playing in the car was interrupted by a loud ringing tone. Dwight looked down at the words ‘incoming call - number unknown’ glowing on the dashboard display.

As he started to feel along the steering wheel for the green ‘answer’ button he was able to visualise it on the bottom left-hand side next to the red ‘hang up’ button.

Be just my luck to end my first conversation with Dylan before it even started, he thought.

Slowing the car to a respectable 70kmph he glanced down at the illuminated buttons.

“Nailed ya!” Dwight said for the last time as he hit the ‘answer’ button. As he looked up he was immediately confronted with a car careering towards him having travelled across the centre line and in to half of his own lane.

He swerved in time to successfully avoid any contact with the approaching vehicle but failed to avoid one of the areas more substantial Totara trees. So Dwight breathed his last while pinned to an ancient native while the crimson coupé that caused his demise continued its unpredictable descent down Scenic Drive. 

The Clipper

She was standing in a street.  
She was always standing in a street in those days. She was staring at the footpath opposite. Brief flashes of a red dress were caught between passing strangers’ legs. A shudder as the grip of London’s cold tightened with the passing hours. 
She could have been waiting for a bus, but one passed leaving her standing in a sepia wake. The city’s rank smells were pumped regularly from the sewers below and the shop vents above. Cigarette smoke mingled with diesel, beer and cheap food and in a few hours’ time fresh piss and vomit would join the heady mix. 

           Nicky watched Della as she smiled, sometimes speaking, sometimes appearing to move to the music that poured on to the street from nearby doorways. 
Soho was getting busier and the evening was drawing in, the sky already dark. Footsteps grew less urgent and more inclined to linger and explore the opportunities that the night might offer or withhold. 

Eventually she saw Della had struck up a conversation with a pale looking young man in a suit, carrying a briefcase. He was smiling and speaking to her while eagerly checking the streets around him. Soon she had her hand resting on his arm. A familiar gesture he probably thought, but even more familiar to Nicky. Della’s beauty seemed wildly improbable on these smoke stained streets, making easy to see why the men she noticed felt lucky. 

They were walking now, Della and her gentleman friend. Nicky was nearby, having circled back around Wardour Street to be in position to meet Della in Meard Street. A light fog had started to fill the busy air of the narrow street. Nicky paused, but not for long. A wave and a smile from Della drew her near to watch the familiar conversation play out.  

She would get them a room. A decent one, so it would feel special. At this range Nicky could see he was younger than she thought, perhaps 20. A boy wanting to be a man. Della explained a deposit would have to be paid to get a room key. The money would be refunded when the key was returned. Of course Nicky could be trusted, but anyway she would stay with him. 

His reluctance in drawing his wallet from his jacket pocket made Nicky nervous. On hearing that the sum required would be £50 for both the deposit and the room, he visibly faltered. The wallet was returned to his breast pocket along with Nicky’s hopes for an end to the evening’s pursuit. Della moved in front of him for maximum impact. His voice plaintiff while Della’s was calming and confident.  

He looked down to the briefcase and after a pause and a reassuring hug from Della he opened it. The contents were initially lost in the darkness but after a few seconds of searching an envelope emerged. He held it momentarily, perhaps a promise or a debt crossed his mind before he reached in to it and passed several bills to Della who in turn passed them to Nicky.  

Suddenly a man’s voice shot towards them from the end of the street. “You thieving little bitch, get here!” Both women immediately recognised the unmistakably figure of a man they had fleeced a couple of nights before. His corpulent form made steady but uncoordinated progress up the paved street towards them.  

Nicky’s eyes flashed towards their male companion who, now filled with realisation pushed Della to one side and lunged towards her. “Run!” It was Della’s voice. Nicky watched her as she regained her footing long enough to grab a handful of the boy’s blond hair.  

The footsteps were fast approaching so Nicky took aim and kicked the boy in the groin with all the strength she could summon and flung herself at the briefcase. She successfully tackled the bag from its owner and scurried towards a doorway and out of reach. The struggle between Della and the boy was taking on gladiatorial proportions as her fur coat flew and he struggled to defend himself against the nails and heels of the wild beast he wrestled with.  

“Bitch, thieving bitch!” The accuser made his final approach and stretched his arms out to join the fray. His aim and attention concentrated on the action in front of him while his stunted legs managed a brief jog as he passed Nicky in the doorway. Her response was quick and direct, the briefcase making its penultimate appearance, sliding out on to the footpath before sending its victim to the ground and a brutal face first landing.  

Della in the meantime was beginning to succumb to the grip of her much recovered attacker who had successfully wrestled her in to a restraint hold by taking up position behind her and gripping her arms. He was confident enough to try to view the outcome of the struggle beside him and so turned his head only to see his briefcase, for the last time, being hurled towards his face. The impact stunned him, forcing him off his balance and in the direction of the prostrate body of Nicky’s previous victim. But his grip on Della’s discarded coat did not falter. The image it created as it landed on the bodies of the two men proving so bizarre it forced all those within range to stop and stare at the animal remains in front of them.  

‘You gonna eat that or what?’ Nicky’s roommate Gale was staring at the remnants on Nicky’s plate. A strip of bacon, half an egg and the crusts of two pieces of toast. ‘I thought you weren’t hungry’, Nicky looking in to Gale’s already clouded over eyes before allowing them to follow the long greasy hair towards the wrists that jutted out from her ill-fitting jumper. Her skin almost translucent and flecked with the marks of a poor diet. 

‘I just hate wasting it. Y’paid good money for that’, Nicky rolled her eyes and pushed the plate at Gale. ‘Told you I’d get yours’, Gale not hearing started to gnaw at the bacon.  

The room was buzzing with refugees from Camden’s market. A group of young goths in one corner noisily celebrated hard won prizes from hours of trawling second hand clothes stalls while a couple of brightly dressed Rastas filled another corner with lively patois. Only the blasts of fresh, cold air that came with each opening of the café door penetrated the dense mix of bacon and cigarette smoke that hung in the warm fetid air.  

‘How’s Della?’ Gale methodically licked the food from each of her fingers. ‘Yeah, a’right’, Nicky reflected. ‘Saw her nearly get skinned alive last night.’ Gale’s face changed slowly to reveal a cigarette stained, but still charismatic smile.  

‘You girls should just put out and get paid proper and stop screwing around. One day you’ll get thumped good and proper’.  

‘Is that where you’ve been then?’ Nicky searching unsuccessfully for signs of her roommate’s habit. ‘I’ll tell where I been’ Gale visibly livened up and for a moment Nicky was able to see the young woman that inhabited the ill-fitting clothing.  

‘I was working at the door of club last night. Fuck it was as cold as a witch’s tit. A group of blokes arrives. Think they were a sports team or sommit ‘cos they was built like brick shithouses, the lot of ‘em. Giants of pricks they were.’ Gale reaches for Nicky’s near empty tea mug and swills the last of its contents. 

‘Anyways, after about thirty or so minutes there’s a right ruckus. I mean they’re tearing the fuck’n place to shreds. So, like a prat I go to see what’s goin’ on and I mean they’re levelling it mate. Chairs flying, the screen’s in shreds. They got Eddie by the throat up against the wall while one of them’s pissing on his leg. And then one of ‘em clocks me standing there. Woah man I legged it.’ Her laughter continuing above an ensuing cough. 

‘But this is the best bit’, Gale reached across to Nicky’s cigarette packet. ‘I’m not as daft as I look’. Nicky looked up from Gale’s most recent theft. ‘When I heard the racket in the club I stuffed the door takings in my pocket, just in case. So tonight I’m going to celebrate.’  

Nicky let a small smirk creep up on her. ‘Well you jammy little git’, both women’s smiles reflecting recent good fortune. ‘But why wait until tonight?’ Nicky leaned conspiratorially towards Gale. ‘Why not start as you mean to go on and buy me some more tea’. The smoke from Gale’s cigarette forced her to close one eye as she drew on it. ‘Right you are vicar’. And with that she jumped up from her chair and headed for the counter, a slight wobble in her walk the only outward sign that her celebrations had already commenced. 

They made an improbable picture. Della sitting in her fur coat, immaculately made up, as always, Nicky sitting beside her in jeans and leather jacket. The sea in front of them foamed and hissed with seasonal change as each expended wave retreated across the pebbles.  

They had sat like that for almost an hour. An occasional word or observation broke their silence, their stillness singling them out from the buffeting wind and relentless chorus of the sea.  

‘Good idea to come to Brighton Nick’. It was Della who decided to break the deadlock. ‘I’m glad you came’, Nicky said leaning forward and folding her arms on the railing.  

‘Well it’s not the celebration I thought we was having, but it’s good to be out of London. Christ, I’ve not been down here for years. My mum used to drag us down on the train in the summer. Ain’t changed much since really’. The memory brought with it a smile. ‘How you feeling?’ She turned to Nicky and rested an arm on her back.  

‘Not sure, sad I guess’. ‘She’d been alright on the street. You could ‘n done nothing Nick, it was down to her, poor cow’.  

Nicky lifted her head and looked up, past the pebbles, past the waves to the horizon that’s always invisible in the city. Della followed her gaze and smiled. ‘The next time we get clobbered we’ll take the ferry to France eh?’  

‘She was fifteen Dell, same age as me’. ‘I know hon. But it don’t mean nothing. You gotta remember, she wasn’t murdered, she wasn’t unhappy, she wasn’t bad, she was just a junky. An’ junkies always get fucked up. Do like I do and never let drugs or cocks in ya less you have to.’   

‘Never knew anyone that died before. Have you?’ Nicky looked at Della and waited for the reply. ‘Of course you haven’t, you’re too young. It’s nothing new.’  

Suddenly Della smiles. ‘How about chips with vinegar?’  

‘Dunno, don’t feeling very hungry’. Undefeated Della continues  

‘Ok, how about a walk on the pier?’ Nicky shrugs and resumes her horizontal vigil. A dog walker passes them unable to hide his curiosity.  

‘You know why I love it here?’ Della continues. ‘Cos it’s so easy to imagine what it was like years ago when those ladies sat here in their long dresses with their brollies to protect them from the sun with a fella on their arm. Must have looked magical, but a bit mad’.  

‘Mad like us’, Nicky continued to resist Della’s cheer.  

‘C’mmon kid, let’s get going’. She slapped Nicky on the leg and stood up while taking one more look at the sea. ‘Where?’ Nicky remained seated. ‘I’m freezing my bollocks off in this dress Nick. What the hell do you want to do?’  

Nicky could feel guilt creep over her already uncomfortable emotions. ‘Sorry Dell, I just can’t stop seeing her lying there’.  

Della sat down again and put her arm around Nicky. ‘I know’, she offered and then let the moment drift. ‘Tell me something, what would Gale do if she were here?’  

At first a pause as Nicky considered the question. Then, slowly but inevitably a slight smile before she turned to Della, ‘She’d be trying to win something in those stupid arcades on the Pier. And when that didn’t work she’d try and jimmy the machines’.  

Della again rose to her feet, ‘Then that is exactly what we shall do. And after we’ve buggered up every machine on the pier we’ll get a pint before getting the train back to London. C’mmon misery guts’, taking Nicky by the hands she pulled her up. ‘Gawd you weigh next to nothing. And you’re not going back to that bloody squat ever again alright?’  

They were walking now, but Nicky had stopped listening. She was looking at a couple of marks she had not noticed before on the skin of her wrists. ‘Can we get fish ‘n chips?’ she remarked to no-one in particular.