Cemetery lake

by

PAUL CLEAVE

What began as a routine exhumation of a suspected murder victim quickly turns complicated for private investigator Theodore Tate…Theo Tate is barely coping with life since his world was turned upside down two years ago. As he stands in the cold and rainy cemetery, overseeing the exhumation, the lake opposite the graveyard begins to release its grip on the murky past. When doubts are raised about the true identity of the body found in the coffin, the case takes an even more sinister turn. Tate knows he should walk away and let his former colleagues in the police deal with it, but against his better judgement he takes matters into his own hands. With time running out and a violent killer on the loose, will Tate manage to stay one step ahead of the police? Or will the secrets he has buried so deeply be unearthed?

Also by Paul Cleave

The Cleaner

The Killing Hour

S

Published by Arrow Books 2009

13579 10 8642

Copyright S Paul Cleave, 2008

Paul Cleave has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

This book is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

First published in New Zealand in 2008 by

Black Swan, an imprint of Random House New Zealand

First published in Great Britain in 2009 by

Arrow Books

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A ZIP catalogue record for this book

is available from the British Library

ISBN 9780099536253

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To Joe — who got the ball rolling

chapter one

Blue fingernails.

They’re what have me out here, standing in the cold wind,

shivering. The blue fingernails aren’t mine but attached to

somebody else — some dead guy I’ve never met before. The

Christchurch sun that was burning my skin earlier this afternoon has gone. It’s the sort of inconsistent weather I’m used to. An hour ago I was sweating. An hour ago I wanted to take the day

off and head down to the beach. Now I’m glad I didn’t. My own

fingernails are probably turning blue, but I don’t dare look.

I’m here because of a dead guy. Not the one in the ground

in front of me, but one still down at the morgue. He’s acting

as casual as a guy can whose body has been snipped open and

stitched back together like a rag doll. Casual for a guy who died from arsenic poisoning.

I tighten my coat but it doesn’t help against the cold wind.

I should have worn more clothes. Should have looked at the

bright sun an hour ago and figured where the day was heading.

The cemetery lawn is long in some places, especially around

the trees where the lawnmower doesn’t hit, and it ripples out

from me in all directions as though I’m the epicentre of a storm.

In other places where foot traffic is heavy it’s short and brown where the sun has burned all the moisture away. The nearby

trees are thick oaks that creak loudly and drop acorns around the gravestones. They hit the cement markers, sounding like bones of the dead tapping out an SOS. The air is cold and clammy like a morgue.

I see the first drops of rain on the windscreen of the digger

before I feel them on my face. I turn my eyes to the horizon where gravestones covered in mould roll into the distance towards the city, death tallying up and heading into town. The wind picks up, the leaves of the oaks rustle as the branches let go of more acorns, and I flinch as one hits me in the neck. I reach up and grab it from my collar.

The digger engine revs loudly as the driver, an overweight

guy whose frame bulges at the door, moves into place. He looks about as excited to be here as I am. He is pushing and pulling at an assortment of levers, his face rigid with concentration. The engine hiccups as he positions the digger next to the gravesite, then shudders and strains as the scoop bites into the hardened earth. It changes position, coming up and under, and filling with dirt. The cabin rotates and the dirt is piled onto a nearby tarpaulin.

The cemetery caretaker is watching closely. He’s a young guy

struggling to light a cigarette against the strengthening wind, his hands shaking almost as much as his shoulders. The digger drops two more piles of dirt before the caretaker tucks the cigarettes back into his pocket, giving up. He gives me a look I can’t quite identify, probably because he only manages to make eye contact for a split second before looking away. I’m hoping he doesn’t

come over to complain about evicting somebody from their final resting place, but he doesn’t — just goes back to staring at the hollowed ground.

The vibrations of the digger force their way through my feet

and into my body, making my legs tingle. The tree behind me can feel them too, because it fires more acorns into my neck. I step out of the shade and into the drizzle, nearly twisting my ankle on a few of the ropey roots from the oak that have pushed through the ground. There is a small lake only about fifteen metres away, about the size of an Olympic swimming pool. It’s completely enclosed by the cemetery grounds, fed by an underground stream. It makes this cemetery a popular spot for death, but not for recreation.

Some of the gravesites are close to it, and I wonder if the coffins are affected by moisture. I hope we’re not about to dig up a box full of water.

The driver pauses to wipe his hand across his forehead, as if

operating all of those levers is hot work in these cold conditions.

His glove leaves a greasy mark on his skin. He looks out at the oak trees and areas of lush lawn, the still lake, and he’s probably planning on being buried out here one day. Everybody thinks that when they see this spot. Nice place to be buried. Nice and scenic.

Restful. Like it makes a difference. Like you’re going to know if somebody comes along and chops down all the trees. Still, I guess if you have to be buried somewhere, this place beats out a lot of others I’ve seen.

A second flatbed truck sweeps its way between the gravestones.

It has been pimped out with a wraparound red stripe and fluffy dice in the window, but it hasn’t been cleaned in months and

the rust spots around the edges of the doors and bumper have