The Kiwi Target

go.
    Later, as he lay on his bed trying to go to sleep, he could not get her out of his mind.

CHAPTER 23

    The careful watch that had been kept throughout New Zealand for the two Australians was stepped up in intensity after the attack on Constable Fred Fisher. He was reported in hospital with a brain concussion, burns, and severe glandular injuries, the result of his having been groin-kicked. The brutality of his attackers had created a tidal wave of rage that reached into every part of the well-disciplined police department.
    Its sworn members took out their frustration by working long hours overtime. Firearms were issued in recognition of the fact that unarmed constables were not able to deal with the kind of men who had assaulted Fisher, despite their physical courage and devotion to duty.
    Peter was halfway through his breakfast when Jenny slid into the booth beside him. “Morning,” she said with a briskness that indicated she had not just come from her room.
    “Morning,” he responded. “Been for a walk?”
    “Not far.”
    He remembered that the police station was only a short distance away. “And who did you talk to?” he asked, knowing the answer already.
    “Hubert.”
    “So it’s ‘Hubert’ now, is it?”
    She signaled to a waitress, who nodded in acknowledgment. “He’s my godfather,” she said. “Now, I’ve news for you. We’re going to the Bay of Islands. You’ll love it there—it’s gorgeous. We’re booked on the late morning flight.”
    “We’re through here, then?”
    “For the time being. I passed on what we’d learned and what you told me. One other thing: Kincaid went out last night quite late. The night clerk had to open the door for him.”
    “Do they lock up here at night?”
    “Usually. Kincaid was gone about an hour. He met with someone, another man. We don’t know who he is yet.”
    “But you expect to find out.”
    “Of course. Meanwhile, we’re off to have a good time at the Bay.” She paused a moment. “I think I can promise you that you’ll like it.”

    The call came in to the one-man Russell police station before eight in the morning, but Constable Pettibone was already there. During the almost forty years that he had served with the police, he had never been known to be derelict in his duty. In appearance he was a well-formed man and stood more than six feet tall in his always crisp uniform. His hair had been white for some time, and his face betrayed the fact that he would never see sixty again. The unwelcome specter of retirement loomed before him, but he refused to give in to it, even so much as an inch. Regardless of the time, place, or circumstance, Constable Orin Pettibone was fully prepared to carry out his duties with distinction, as was his custom.
    The few strained words that Mrs. MacTavish spoke to him over the phone engaged his immediate attention. “I shall be there at once,” he declared. “Meanwhile, have you called the doctor?”
    He listened for a second or two and then issued an order. “Call him directly. It’s important that you do so for several reasons. Otherwise, leave everything to me.”
    The moment the line was free, Pettibone put through a quick call to his superior. “I have a reported death under questionable circumstances,” he reported. “I’ll look into it at once and advise.” Since the inspector knew Pettibone thoroughly, he saw no need to send reinforcements to a place as quiet as Russell. During his long career Pettibone had never put in for promotion, but he enjoyed the full confidence of some very high-ranking members of the department.
    None of this was in the constable’s mind as he drove his official car the short distance to the MacTavish home. As he strode up the path to the modest cottage, the door was opened by a woman who seemed about to collapse.
    Pettibone was at her side in a moment. “There, now, Mrs. MacTavish,” he said as he almost literally held her up. “There’s no need for that. I’m here now.”
    He helped the distraught woman into the small living room and put her into a comfortable chair. “Now, tell me just what you found.” His voice was considerate, even gentle, but it also carried a note of command.
    Mrs. MacTavish somehow found the words she had to speak. “When I woke this morning, my husband was not in the house. I didn’t see him outside, and the car was parked in its usual place. So I looked in the garden.”
    Pettibone immediately visualized the small garden