Free The Mark of Halam by Thomas Ryan Page A

Kenworth truck in a queue of HGVs. His wife, Marama, had made a thermos of coffee. He poured a cup and unwrapped his salami sandwich then settled back to listen to talkback radio. As he listened to an endless stream of disgruntled callers he kept an eye on the cranes at work. It didn’t matter how many times he came to the wharf he never tired of watching the cranes.
    Auckland’s port stretched across the front of the central city business district from the Westhaven boating marina to the helipads at Mechanics Bay, encompassing six wharves. The Fergusson container terminal covered more than thirty-two hectares and moved more than 800,000 twenty-foot-equivalent shipping containers per annum.
    At 10.30pm the forty-foot container was firmly secured onto his trailer. He estimated that, traffic willing, he could get to the bonded warehouse in Mount Wellington and be home before midnight. There was no customs officer available at this time of night. He would leave his truck and trailer in the compound and take a taxi home.
    At the departure gate he showed his documents to port security. They checked the container number and customs tag was still in place. Satisfied all was in order, the barrier was lifted. Wiki paid little attention to the black Range Rover that pulled in behind as he made his way through the series of gear changes needed for his rig to gather speed.

    Barbara Heywood typed in the final details of her discussion with Brian Cunningham. A quick scan of the five hundred or so words brought the nod of a job well done. She closed her laptop. But before it had time to click into sleep mode she re-lifted the lid, opened a new document and typed in a few book title ideas. An author once told her that writing down a title meant at least the baby had been born. Well okay, the baby still needed a body, flesh and blood. A 60,000-word manuscript. She had tired of the circus that was the media and needed a career change. After speaking with Brian Cunningham the voices that had guided her through journalism were now screaming at her that a big story was developing in the city of Auckland. And, she had a ringside seat. She ran the cursor across the lettering of one of her book-title ideas and clicked on a twenty-four font and shaded them in bold black. A smile and a nod and down came the lid.
    She had not gone back to the network after meeting with Cunningham. She had ambled down Queen Street window shopping, then along Customs Street to her Quay West Hotel apartment. Now with her notes typed up the work day was done and it was time to wind down. In the kitchen she pulled a half-empty bottle of Chardonnay from the fridge, poured herself a drink and carried the glass to the sofa. The twelfth floor of the hotel afforded her a view of the lower central business area, the ports and the inner harbour. Across the harbour she could make out lights of Takapuna and followed the sparkle along the Peninsular to Stanley point and Devonport. Devonport seemed so close she felt she could reach out and touch it. She loved the scene, it relaxed her, reminded her of a Christmas tree.
    The sound of a rap song averted her attention. Lydia must have changed the ring on her mobile. Payback before she resigned. Barbara loathed rap music.
    She leaned forward and pushed answer, then speaker.
    “Barbara Heywood speaking,” she said, leaning back in the sofa, glass still in hand.
    “Hey boss, it’s Amy. Sorry to bother you at home,” said her newly appointed assistant.
    “That’s okay. I wasn’t doing much. I thought you were out for the night?”
    “I am. I’m in the toilet of the Chelsea Bar. You know the one. Where all the students and wannabe students hang out.”
    “I know it but I’m not sure I’m comfortable talking to someone sitting on a toilet.”
    “Don’t worry, I’m not doing anything. I needed some privacy. I have information. If I don’t give it to you now I’ll drink too much and in the morning it will be a