The Snow Tiger / Night of Error Read online

  ‘You’ll see. Come on. It’s not far so you needn’t dress.’

  ‘Slippers,’ said Stenning. ‘I’ll need slippers.’ He went back into the room and reappeared seconds later.

  As they went through the foyer McGill called out, ‘What about that doctor?’

  ‘On his way with the ambulance,’ said the porter.

  ‘Can you turn on the lights in the car park?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ He turned and opened a door behind him and snapped switches. ‘A car accident?’

  McGill didn’t answer that one. ‘You’d better rouse the manager. Come on, Stenning.’

  They hastened across the car park which was now brightly lit. Stenning said, ‘Someone hurt?’

  ‘Ian – and he’s hurt bad. Over here.’

  A startled exclamation was torn from Stenning as he looked down at the bloody body of Ballard. ‘Oh my God! What happened?’

  ‘It was no car accident, that’s for sure.’ McGill took Ballard’s wrist, ignoring the blood. ‘I think he’s still alive – I’m not sure. Where’s that goddamn doctor?’

  ‘What do you mean – it isn’t a car accident? It looks bad enough to be one.’

  ‘How in hell could he be hit by a car here?’ McGill waved. ‘The space between these cars is only three feet.’

  ‘He could have crawled in here.’

  ‘Then where’s the trail of blood he left?’ McGill stood up. ‘What you’re looking at, Stenning, is a man who has almost been beaten to death – and I’m not sure about almost. It’s what happens when a man gets walked over, Stenning.’ His voice was harsh and accusing.

  Stenning’s face was white. McGill said in a shaky voice, ‘You sit in your plush offices in the City of London and you manipulate men, and you set up what you call experiments, for God’s sake, and you talk of people being walked over.’ His finger stabbed down at Ballard’s body. ‘This is the reality, Stenning. Look at it, damn you!’

  Stenning swallowed and his Adam’s apple bobbed up and down in his skinny throat. ‘There was no intention of …’

  ‘No intention of murder?’ McGill laughed and it was an ugly sound in the quiet night. ‘What the hell else do you expect to happen when you interfere with a maniac like Charlie Peterson?’

  Stenning was a lawyer and his mind worked on tracks as precise as a railway engine. ‘I saw Charlie Peterson and Ballard in the hotel tonight. They had a long conversation and it wasn’t amiable – but that’s not proof of anything.’ He turned his head and looked at McGill. ‘Do you know it was Peterson?’

  ‘Yes,’ said McGill bluntly.

  ‘How do you know?’

  McGill paused. He suddenly realized he was still holding the envelope of photographs. He looked at it for a moment and his mind worked fast. ‘I know,’ he said, lying deliberately. ‘I know because Ian told me before he passed out.’

  In the distance a siren wailed as the ambulance approached.

  THE HEARING

  LAST DAY

  THIRTY-ONE

  At ten o’clock Harrison walked into the hall and sat on the rostrum flanked by Rolandson and French. He waited until the rustling had stopped, then said, ‘I have to report that Mr Ian Ballard was seriously injured in a car accident in the early hours of this morning and is at present in Princess Margaret Hospital. He is in a coma and Dr McGill is, quite understandably, with him.’

  There was a surge of noise. In the Press gallery Dan Edwards frowned, and said, ‘Damn! I wonder if that affects the story?’

  ‘What story?’ asked Dalwood.

  ‘Oh, nothing. Just something I was getting a line on.’ He nudged Dalwood. ‘Look at Charlie Peterson. He’s laughing fit to bust a gut.’

  Harrison tapped with his gavel to restore order. ‘We are now at a stage of the Inquiry when the evidence of Mr Ballard and Dr McGill is not absolutely essential, so there is no need to adjourn. Call the first witness, Mr Reed.’

  Twenty-four hours after the avalanche the number of those still missing had been cut down to twenty-one. All the others had been accounted for – dead and alive. Ballard said glumly, ‘There’s still no sign of Joe Cameron.’

  Jesse Rusch said, ‘A friend of yours?’

  ‘I suppose so. I hadn’t known him long. I don’t suppose there’s much hope for him now, but perhaps it’s better that way. His daughter was killed.’

  ‘There’ve been too many people killed here,’ said Rusch, thinking of Baker. ‘And some of those deaths were unnecessary.’

  ‘All of them were,’ said Ballard bleakly.

  Turi Buck came up and silently held out a piece of paper. Ballard took it, then looked up. ‘The Marshall family, all four of them?’

  ‘We’ve just dug out the house – or what’s left of it.’

  ‘Dead! All of them?’

  ‘Yes.’ Turi went away, his back bent.

  Ballard made four violent slash marks on the list before him. ‘Seventeen.’

  ‘We’ll be able to get bulldozers in this afternoon,’ said Rusch. ‘That should speed things up.’

  ‘And it could be dangerous,’ said Ballard. ‘A bulldozer blade could chop a man in half.’

  ‘We’ll be careful,’ said Rusch. ‘We’ll be real careful. But speed is important now. If anyone buried is still alive now they can’t last much longer.’ By the tone of his voice he doubted if anyone could possibly be still alive.

  Cameron was almost totally exhausted. He had been asleep or perhaps unconscious – it did not matter which – but now he was awake again. His whole body was racked with pain and the fierce headache was still with him. He had been sick during the night and had been afraid of choking on his own vomit, but he had managed to twist his head to one side and so had not suffered that particularly ugly death. Also during the night he had uncontrollably voided both urine and faeces and now the stench of himself sickened him.

  He became aware of a sound and, at first, thought it was human and his hopes rose. It sounded as though someone was chuckling quietly. Cameron called weakly and then listened as the distant laughter went on. He thought he was going mad – who would be laughing in the middle of a snowdrift?

  His senses swam and he passed out for a few minutes. When he awoke again he heard the sound but it had subtly changed. It was now more of a gurgle than a laugh or a chuckle, a sound such as might be made by a contented baby in its cot. After listening for a long time he knew what it was and again became afraid. He was listening to the sound of water.

  Presently he was aware that his head was becoming wet. A trickle of water had entered the cab and swirled about his scalp as he hung there suspended upside down, and now he knew that he would drown. Not much water need come in to cover his mouth and nose – no more than six inches.

  On the surface two young men were piloting a bulldozer through the hummocky snow alongside the river. The driver was John Skinner, a construction worker from Auckland; he was also a member of the Alpine Sports Club. His companion was a university lecturer and a member of the Canterbury University Ski Club called Roger Halliwell. Skinner stopped the bulldozer by the river, and said, ‘The flooding upstream will stop as soon as the river clears that snow away.’

  ‘I hear a lot of cattle were drowned,’ said Halliwell.

  ‘No people, though. That bloody avalanche must have been bad enough without the risk of drowning.’ Skinner looked around. ‘Now where was it that the Yank wanted us to dig?’

  A section of snow in the river bed slumped as it was undercut by water and Halliwell looked at it idly. Then he said, ‘I think I saw something down there.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I don’t know. Something dark. It was round.’

  ‘A boulder, maybe.’

  ‘Perhaps.’ Halliwell frowned. ‘I’m going to have a look.’

  He dropped from the bulldozer and walked to the edge of the river and then put his foot delicately on to the snow. It was soft but bore his weight without him sinking too much. He walked on slowly, lifting each leg
high. As he progressed the snow became more slushy because it had been penetrated by the river water, and suddenly he sank up to his waist. He had a nightmare vision of going right down, but he found himself standing on something.

  He put his hand down into the snow and encountered a shape which he explored. It was a wheel with a tyre on it. ‘There’s a car in here,’ he yelled.

  Skinner jumped down and undipped a wire rope from the rear of the bulldozer. There was a big snap-shackle on each end, one of which he clipped to a stout bar on the bulldozer. ‘Can you catch this?’ He whirled the other end of the rope around his head.

  He missed on his first cast, but Halliwell caught it the second time. There was some difficulty in finding somewhere to attach the shackle. Halliwell knew it had to be an integral part of the chassis of the buried vehicle and he groped around in the snow for some time quite unsuccessfully.

  In the cab Cameron was close to drowning. The water covered his nose even though he withdrew his head into his shoulders like a tortoise trying to retreat into its shell. There was only a matter of an inch to go before it covered his mouth. While he could do so he took a deep breath.

  The truck lurched and water washed over his head. When the movement had finished Cameron’s head was completely under water and he battled to keep his breath. The truck moved again, this time upwards, and Cameron screamed at the pain and thought his back was being broken. The bulldozer hauled the truck bodily from the river bed and on to the bank where it lay on its side.

  Halliwell ran up to it. ‘There’s someone in here,’ he said in wonder. ‘And he’s alive, by God!’

  Within the hour Cameron was in a helicopter on his way to Christchurch. But he was a badly broken man.

  Newman was unlucky.

  All night he had been digging upwards in total darkness. He had to dig a hole at least two feet in diameter to accommodate the shoulders of a broad man. There had also to be steps cut in the side where he could stand. For digging he used whatever came to hand. His most useful tool was a ballpoint pen which he jabbed repeatedly into the snow above him, breaking it out, chunk by chunk. Often the snow dropped into his eyes, but that did not matter because it was dark anyway. Twice he dropped the pen and that did matter because he had to go down and grope with gloved hands until he found it. He lost time there.

  In one sense he was lucky. He did not know how far he had to dig and had he known it was as much as sixty feet it is doubtful if he would have ever begun. But during the time he was under the snow it had begun to settle and compact as the air was squeezed out of it. While this made it a harder material to penetrate it also meant that it lessened the distance he had to dig to a little over fifty feet.

  He dug alone because the others in the cave had lapsed into total apathy.

  Fifty-two hours after the avalanche the sky was darkening and Sam Foster, a Ranger from Tongariro, debated with himself whether or not it was worth while having his team continue the search. There were still a few men missing but it was inconceivable that any would be alive even if found. Perhaps it would be better to call off the search until the morrow.

  He strode into a gently sloping cup-shaped hollow and was somewhere in the middle of it when the snow gave under his feet. Newman had dug to within a foot of the surface, and when Foster’s weight broke through one of Foster’s boots slammed into his head. He fell down the hole he had made. It was not a long fall because the bottom of the hole was packed with the debris of his digging. But it was enough to break his neck.

  The others, of course, were rescued, excepting Haslam who was dead already. Newman was the last person to die in the valley. The last person to die as a result of the disaster at Hukahoronui was Mrs Jarvis, the oldest inhabitant, who lingered tenaciously in hospital for a week before she succumbed.

  There was a second avalanche on the west slope of Hukahoronui that year but it happened in the spring thaw. There was nobody there to kill.

  THIRTY-TWO

  At three-thirty in the afternoon McGill parked his car and hurried across Durham Street towards the Provincial Government Buildings. Instead of going into the chamber where the hearing was being held, he went upstairs to the entrance to the Press gallery and had a word with the usher. Presently Dan Edwards came out to see him.

  ‘I keep my promises,’ said McGill. ‘You’ve got your story.’ He gave Edwards an envelope. ‘A photostat of a letter which is self-explanatory and some photographs which I’ll explain to the Chairman. What’s going on down there now?’

  ‘Harrison is winding things up. A pathologist is giving medical evidence.’ Edwards paused, his thumb beneath the flap of the envelope. ‘Talking of that – how’s Ballard?’

  ‘In a bad way.’

  ‘These bloody hit-and-run drivers.’ He saw McGill’s look of surprise, and said, ‘One of the boys checked at the hotel. It was obviously hit and run, wasn’t it?’ He regarded McGill closely. ‘Or am I missing something?’

  McGill poked his finger at the envelope. ‘You’re missing your story.’

  Edwards pulled out the copy of the letter and scanned it. His jaw dropped. ‘Jesus! Is this straight up?’

  ‘I’ll be giving the original to Harrison in less than five minutes.’

  ‘Thanks, McGill. Maybe I’ll give you a case of beer.’ He went back into the Press gallery and found a young reporter. ‘Take this back to the office. Give it to the editor – in no one else’s hands, understand. Off with you.’

  He regained his seat and Dalwood said curiously, ‘Anything doing?’

  Edwards grinned broadly and nodded down into the hall. ‘The fireworks are due to start any minute.’

  McGill walked across the vestibule, past the two policemen standing outside the chamber, and went inside. Harrison turned his head, and said to the witness, ‘Excuse me, Dr Cross. Good afternoon, Dr McGill. How is Mr Ballard?’

  ‘He’s still unconscious, Mr Chairman.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear it. It’s good of you to return, but not really necessary under the circumstances.’

  ‘I think my return was very necessary, Mr Chairman. I am in possession of fresh evidence.’

  ‘Indeed? Step forward, Dr McGill. You are excused for the moment, Dr Cross.’

  The pathologist stepped down and McGill stood before the rostrum. He took an envelope from his pocket. ‘I received this letter and discussed the contents with Mr Ballard. We both agreed that it was too important to conceal even though it could destroy a man’s reputation.’

  He handed the letter to Harrison who opened it and began to read. It took him a long time and the lines of his face deepened as he read. At last he raised his head, and said, ‘I see. Yes, it would have been wrong to withhold this.’ He looked at the letter again. ‘I see that each page is signed and countersigned, and has the seal of a notary public. Would that be the American equivalent of our own Commissioner for Oaths?’

  ‘It is almost the exact equivalent, Mr Chairman.’

  Harrison’s eyes roved about the room. ‘Mr Lyall, would you mind stepping over here?’

  Lyall looked surprised, but said, ‘Not at all, Mr Chairman.’ He got up and walked over to stand next to McGill.

  Harrison said in a low voice, ‘This concerns one of your clients. I think you’d better read it.’ He held out the letter.

  A few minutes later Lyall said nervously, ‘I don’t really know what to say, Mr Chairman.’ His face was pale. ‘I feel inclined to withdraw from this case.’

  ‘Do you?’ Harrison’s voice was grim. ‘This is not a case, Mr Lyall; it is a Commission of Inquiry. Apart from that, I doubt if anyone would respect a lawyer who deserted his client when things became hard.’

  Red spots burned in Lyall’s cheeks. ‘Very well,’ he said abruptly. ‘But is it admissible evidence?’

  ‘That is something which I and the assessors will have to decide,’ said Harrison heavily. He took the letter from Lyall and passed it to Rolandson.

  McGill said, ‘I have other supportin
g evidence.’

  ‘No evidence can be brought to support this letter if the letter itself is not admissible,’ said Lyall. ‘And if you admit the letter there will certainly be grounds for appeal.’

  ‘There’ll be no appeal,’ said McGill. ‘And you know it.’

  ‘You are not here to argue a lawyer’s case, Dr McGill,’ said Harrison in tones of freezing rebuke. He turned to Rolandson. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘I think it’s appalling,’ snapped Rolandson.

  ‘I mean, is it admissible?’

  ‘Let me read it all.’ Presently Rolandson said, ‘It has been witnessed under oath. It is admissible.’

  Harrison gave the letter to French, who read it and soon looked as though there was a bad smell under his nose. He tossed the letter down. ‘Certainly admissible.’

  ‘I think so, too. I’m sorry, Mr Lyall.’ Harrison passed the letter to the Secretary to the Commission. ‘Read that aloud, Mr Reed.’ He paused as though confused by the discord of what he had uttered.

  Reed scanned the letter and then began, ‘This is a letter from a Mr George Albert Miller of Riverside, California, and is addressed to Dr Michael McGill.’

  He read the letter slowly and in an even tone which contrasted oddly with the events Miller described. When he had finished he said flatly, ‘Each page is signed by Mr Miller and countersigned by Carl Risinger. Each page is impressed with the seal of a notary public.’

  The silence in the hall was total and seemed to last forever. It was as though time had stopped. There was a strange movement as people twisted in their seats to look in one direction. It was as though Charlie Peterson had developed a new form of attractive force – all eyes turned towards him like compass needles towards a magnet.

  He was sitting slumped in his chair, his face white and his eyes staring. Next to him Eric had withdrawn and was looking at Charlie with a baffled expression. Liz was sitting upright, her hands in her lap, and staring rigidly ahead. Her brow was contracted and her lips compressed. She was very angry.

  Charlie’s eyes flickered from side to side and he became aware that everyone was watching him in silence. He jumped to his feet. ‘It’s a lie!’ he shouted. ‘Miller is a liar. He started the avalanche, not me.’