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The Snow Tiger / Night of Error
Desmond Bagley
Double action thrillers by the classic adventure writer set in New Zealand and the Pacific.THE SNOW TIGERFifty-four people died in the avalanche that ripped apart a small New Zealand mining town. But the enquiry which follows unleashes more destructive power than the snowfall. As the survivors tell their stories, they reveal a community so divided that all warnings of danger went unheeded. At the centre of the storm is Ian Ballard, whose life depends upon being able to clear his name…NIGHT OF ERRORWhen Mark Trevelyan dies on a journey to a remote Pacific atoll, the verdict that it was natural causes doesn't convince his brother, Mike. The series of violent attacks that follows only adds to his suspicions. Just two clues - a notebook in code and a lump of rock - are enough to trigger off a hazardous expedition, and a violent confrontation far from civilization…Includes a unique bonus - Desmond Bagley's personal account of the writing of Snow Tiger.



DESMOND BAGLEY
The Snow Tiger AND Night of Error



COPYRIGHT (#ulink_13e2c678-6bfa-594d-be95-fee3a3ef705d)
HARPER
an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF www.harpercollins.co.uk
The Snow Tiger first published in Great Britain by Collins 1975 Night of Error first published in Great Britain by Collins 1984
Copyright © Brockhurst Publications 1975, 1984

Desmond Bagley asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of these works

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication.
Source ISBN: 9780007304813
Ebook Edition © OCTOBER 2012 ISBN 9780007347704
Version:2018-10-12

CONTENTS
Cover (#ub8b81ef7-96c8-5d71-aabd-750cfcd10211)
Title Page (#u64ebc86f-3f33-5e17-8654-f886befe3bbd)
Copyright (#u0ebc0127-d7ee-5dac-bf45-c0b0a653b068)
The Snow Tiger (#u6bd04361-6e97-5e2a-a850-a8b86e036dcb)
Dedication (#u79856b88-1e7e-5d91-9101-4d2c4285c62d)
Epigraph (#ub49b9e40-db33-5f74-b4fb-e0db1e0445db)
Prologue (#u22145710-47b3-537f-8a6e-1f59a104d609)
Part 1 (#u3812ce78-b9bd-5712-b4ae-32eb7e8aa676)
One (#ue912eb89-9e55-5a0f-83fb-7eeb4f140666)
Two (#u8733dd5d-0321-55d7-840d-8f4b5f0d6f79)
Three (#ud3cbca8b-bfbc-5589-b5a1-cccf480251d9)
Four (#u58739bec-1e1d-5636-8470-209c96a6c99b)
Five (#u715b9a26-8126-5ab0-bcab-2d0ec17a8c98)
Six (#ub80762a8-ed0c-53a7-b709-b385e5e6197d)
Part 2 (#ue8be92e0-386d-5238-805e-6ff2e521454a)
Seven (#u2252b810-d3db-5bdf-b232-9db4e4b863d9)
Eight (#u58dbe363-ad1e-5c37-8e21-e478c268c57f)
Nine (#ueebd3d6a-b7df-513d-aeae-798166605126)
Ten (#u82d5b8a5-fbb2-58da-a08a-e81c09e5bb86)
Part 3 (#ua8e88961-768d-53c4-b2a8-15038840839f)
Eleven (#u22d24816-70e9-589b-9b3c-3e81182e401c)
Twelve (#u05f51f59-e725-55fd-b25f-83f575cafa63)
Thirteen (#u95072028-7fef-540b-ad54-aaff2f78c689)
Fourteen (#ub5f26495-ad6e-5563-a721-efeeae8f9a97)
Fifteen (#uac02df72-9237-5173-a5c9-fafa4140fb3b)
Sixteen (#ua7bdd0a8-bb2e-5820-a9b7-f30dbe569950)
Seventeen (#u7ed6972b-f0cf-581a-8353-0729dc38c22a)
Part 4 (#litres_trial_promo)
Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)
Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Twenty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)
Twenty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Part 5 (#litres_trial_promo)
Twenty-Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Twenty-Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Twenty-Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Part 6 (#litres_trial_promo)
Twenty-Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Twenty-Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Thirty (#litres_trial_promo)
Part 7 (#litres_trial_promo)
Thirty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
Thirty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Thirty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)
Night of Error (#litres_trial_promo)
Dedication (#litres_trial_promo)
Epigraph (#litres_trial_promo)
Preface (#litres_trial_promo)
Map (#litres_trial_promo)
One (#litres_trial_promo)
Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Three (#litres_trial_promo)
Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Acknowledgments (#litres_trial_promo)
Keep Reading (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
Praise (#litres_trial_promo)
Also by the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)

THE SNOW TIGER (#ud96ac954-83a4-560a-a0e4-fff56c293d08)

DEDICATION (#ud96ac954-83a4-560a-a0e4-fff56c293d08)
To JOAN, on her birthday. I said I would and I did.

EPIGRAPH (#ud96ac954-83a4-560a-a0e4-fff56c293d08)
Snow is not a wolf in sheep’s clothing – it is a tiger in lamb’s clothing.
Matthias Zdarsky
Absence of body is preferable to presence of mind.
Anon.

PROLOGUE (#ulink_7cf5571b-01b8-5262-a213-9cf05adc54af)
It was not a big avalanche, but then, it did not need to be very big to kill a man, and it was only because of Mike McGill’s insistence on the Oertel cord that Ballard survived. Just as a man may survive in an ocean with the proper equipment and yet drown in a foot of water, so Ballard may have perished in a minor slippage that would have gone unrecorded even in avalanche-conscious Switzerland.
McGill was a good skier, as might be expected considering his profession, and he had taken the novice under his wing.
They had met in the ski lodge during an après-ski session and had taken an immediate liking to each other. Although they were the same age McGill appeared to be the older man, possibly because of his more varied life, but he became interested because Ballard had much to teach of areas other than snow and ice. They complemented each other, which is not an uncommon basis for friendship among men.
One morning McGill proposed something new. ‘We’ve got to get you off the piste,’ he said. ‘And on to soft snow. There’s nothing like cutting a first track.’
‘Isn’t it more difficult than on the piste?’ queried Ballard.
McGill shook his head decisively. ‘A beginner’s myth. Turning is not quite as easy, but traversing is a cinch. You’ll like it. Let’s look at the map.’
They went up by the chair-lift, but instead of going down by the piste they struck off to the south, crossing a level plateau. After half an hour they arrived at the top of the clear slope which McGill had chosen, following local advice. He stopped, resting on his sticks, while he surveyed the slope. ‘It looks all right, but we won’t take chances. Here’s where we put our tails on.’
He unzipped a pocket of his anorak and produced a bundle of red cord which he separated into two coils, one of which he handed to Ballard. ‘Tie one end round your waist.’
‘What for?’
‘It’s an Oertel cord – a simple device which has saved a hell of a lot of lives. If there’s an avalanche and you get buried there’ll be a bit of that red cord showing on the surface to show where you are so you can be dug out fast.’
Ballard looked down the slope. ‘Is there likely to be an avalanche?’
‘Not that I know of,’ said McGill cheerfully, knotting the cord around his waist.
‘I’ve never seen anyone else wearing these.’
‘You’ve only been on the piste.’ McGill noted Ballard’s hesitancy. ‘A lot of guys don’t wear cords because they think it makes them look damn fools. Who wants to go down a slope wearing a red tail? they say. To my mind they’re damn fools for not wearing them.’
‘But avalanches!’ said Ballard.
‘Look,’ said McGill patiently, and pointed down the slope. ‘If I thought there was a serious avalanche risk down there we wouldn’t be going down at all. I checked on the snow reports before we left and it’s probably as safe as the nursery slopes. But any snow on any slope can be dangerous – and it doesn’t have to be in Switzerland; people have been caught in avalanches on the South Downs in England. The cord is just a precaution, that’s all.’
Ballard shrugged and began to tie the cord. McGill said, ‘We’d better continue your education. Do you know what to do if the snow does slide?’
‘Start praying?’
McGill grinned. ‘You can do better than that. If it goes at all it will go under your skis or just behind you. It doesn’t go in a rush so you have time to think about what to do – not much time, mind you. If it goes underfoot you might have time to jump higher up the slope, in which case you’ll be out of it. If it starts sliding behind you and into you remember just one thing – you can’t ski out of it. I might be able to, but not you.’
‘So what do I do?’
‘The first thing is to get your wrists out of the loops of the sticks. Throw the sticks away, then snap off the quick release fastenings on your skis. They’re supposed to release automatically in a fall but don’t trust them. When the snow hits you start swimming upstream and try to head up to the surface. Hold your breath and don’t get bunged up with snow. When you feel yourself slowing bring one arm in front of your face, but not too close – that will give you an air space to breathe, and maybe you can shout so that someone can hear you.’ He laughed at the expression on Ballard’s face, and said lightly, ‘Don’t worry, it may never happen. Let’s go. I’ll go first, not too fast, and you follow and do what I do.’
He launched himself down the slope and Ballard followed and had the most exhilarating ride of his life. As McGill had said, turning was not as easy in the soft snow and his ankles began to ache, but schussing was a joy. The cold wind stung his cheeks and whistled past his ears with a keening sound but, apart from that, the only sound was the hiss of his skis as they bit into the virgin snow.
Ahead of him, at the bottom of the slope, he saw McGill execute a stop christiania and come to a halt. As he drew alongside he said enthusiastically, ‘That was great! Let’s do it again.’
McGill laughed and pointed. ‘We have a way to go to get back to the chair-lift; it’s around the spur of the mountain. Maybe we’ll have another crack at it this afternoon.’
At about three in the afternoon they arrived at the top of the chosen slope and McGill pointed to the two sets of tracks. ‘There’s been no one here but us chickens. That’s what I like about this – it’s not as crowded as the piste.’ He handed an Oertel cord to Ballard. ‘You go first this time; I want to watch your technique on the way down.’
As he knotted the cord he studied the slope. The late afternoon winter’s sun was already sending long shadows creeping across the snow. McGill said, ‘Keep to the centre of the slope in the sunlight; don’t go into the shadowed areas.’
As he spoke Ballard took off, and McGill followed leisurely, keeping an eye on the less experienced skier and noting any faults for future instruction. All went well until he noted that Ballard was swinging to the left and towards slightly steeper ground where shadows lay. He increased speed, calling out as he did so, ‘Keep to the right, Ian. Keep to the main slope.’
Even as he shouted he saw Ballard apparently trip, a slight hesitation in the smooth downward movement. Then the whole slope started to slide taking Ballard with it. McGill skidded to a halt, his face pale, and kept his eyes on Ballard who was now plunging out of control. He saw him throw away his right stick and then Ballard was hidden in a swirl of powder snow. A rumble filled the air with the noise of soft thunder.
Ballard had got rid of his sticks but found himself in a world of mad instability. He managed to release his right ski but then found himself upside down and rotating violently. He struck out vigorously with his arms, sternly repressing the rising tide of panic within him, and tried to remember McGill’s instructions. Suddenly he felt an excruciating pain in his left thigh; his foot was being twisted outwards inexorably until it felt as though his leg was being unscrewed from the hip.
He nearly passed out from the pain but, after a sharp intensification, the pain eased a little. The tumbling motion ceased and he remembered what McGill had said about making an air space about his mouth, so he brought up his left hand across his face. Then all motion stopped and Ballard was unconscious.
All that had taken a little over ten seconds and Ballard had been carried not much over a hundred feet.
McGill waited until there was no further snow movement and then skied to the edge of the disturbed scar of tumbled snow. He scanned it quickly then, jabbing his sticks into the snow, he removed his skis. Carrying one stick and one ski he walked carefully into the avalanche area and began to quarter it. He knew from experience that now time was of the utmost importance; in his mind he could see the graph he had been shown a few days earlier at the local Parsenndienst Station – the length of time buried plotted against the chance of survival.
It took him half an hour to explore the area and he found nothing but snow. If he did not find Ballard he would have to begin probing with little chance of success. One man could not probe that area in the time available and the best bet was to go to find expert help – including an avalanche dog.
He reached the lower edge of the slide and looked up indecisively, then he squared his shoulders and began to climb upwards again through the centre of the slide. He would make one quick five-minute pass and if he did not find anything by the time he reached the top he would head back to the ski lodge.
He went upwards slowly, his eyes flickering from side to side, and then he saw it – a tiny fleck of blood red in the shadow of a clod of snow. It was less than the size of his little fingernail but it was enough. He dropped on one knee and scrabbled at the snow and came up with a length of red cord in his hand. He hauled on one end which came free, so he tackled the other.
The cord, tearing free from the snow, led him twenty feet down the slope until, when he pulled, he came up against resistance and the cord was vertical. He started to dig with his hands. The snow was soft and powdery and was easy to clear, and he came across Ballard at a little more than three feet deep.
Carefully he cleared the snow from around Ballard’s head, making sure first that he was breathing and second that he could continue to breathe. He was pleased to see that Ballard had followed instructions and had his arm across his face. When he cleared the lower half of Ballard’s body he knew that the leg, from its impossible position, was broken – and he knew why. Ballard had not been able to release his left ski and, by the churning action of the snow, the leverage of the ski had twisted Ballard’s leg broken.
He decided against trying to move Ballard, judging that he might do more harm than good, so he took off his anorak and tucked it closely around Ballard’s body to keep him warm. Then he retrieved his skis and set off down to the road below where he was lucky enough to stop a passing car.
Less than two hours later Ballard was in hospital.
Six weeks later Ballard was still bed-ridden and bored. His broken leg was a long time in healing, not so much because of the broken bone but because the muscles had been torn and needed time to knit together. He had been flown to London on a stretcher, whereupon his mother had swooped on him and carried him to her home. Normally, when in London, he lived in his own small mews flat, but even he saw the force of her arguments and succumbed to her ministrations. So he was bedridden and bored in his mother’s house and hating every minute of it.
One morning, after a gloom-laden visit from his doctor who prophesied further weeks of bed-rest, he heard voices raised in argument coming from the floor below. The lighter tones were those of his mother but he could not identify the deeper voice. The distant voices rose and fell in cadences of antagonism, continuing for a quarter of an hour, and then became louder as the running fight ascended the stairs.
The door opened and his mother came into the room, lips pursed and stormy in the brow. ‘Your grandfather insists on seeing you,’ she said curtly. ‘I told him you’re not well but he still insists – he’s as unreasonable as ever. My advice is not to listen to him, Ian. But, of course, it’s up to you – you’ve always done as you pleased.’
‘There’s nothing wrong with me besides a bad leg.’ He regarded his mother and wished, not for the first time, that she would show more sign of dress sense and not be so dowdy. ‘Does he give me any option?’
‘He says if you don’t want to see him he’ll go away.’
‘Does he, by God? He must have been touched by an angel’s wing. I’m almost inclined to test this improbability.’ Sending Ben Ballard from a closed door was fit for inclusion in the Guinness Book of Records. Ian sighed. ‘You’d better show him in.’
‘I wish you wouldn’t.’
‘Bring him in, Mother; there’s nothing wrong with me.’
‘You’re as pig-headed as he is,’ she grumbled, but went to the door.
Ian had not seen old Ben for a year and a half and he was shocked at the transformation in the man. His grandfather had always been dynamic and bristling with energy but now he looked every day of his eighty-seven years. He came into the room slowly, leaning heavily upon a blackthorn stick; his cheeks were hollow and his eyes sunk deep into his head so that his normally saturnine expression was rendered skull-like. But there was still a faint crackle of authority as he turned his head and said snappily, ‘Get me a chair, Harriet.’
A small snort escaped her but she placed a chair next to the bed and stood by it. Ben lowered himself into it creakily, planted the stick between his knees and leaned on it with both hands. He surveyed Ian, his eyes sweeping the length of the bed from head to foot and then back to the head. A sardonic grin appeared. ‘A playboy, hey! One of the jet-set! I suppose you were at Gstaad.’
Ian refused to be drawn: he knew the old man’s methods. ‘Nothing so grand.’
Ben grinned widely like a shark. ‘Don’t tell me you went on a package tour.’ One of his fingers lifted to point to the leg. It trembled slightly. ‘Is it bad, boy?’
‘It could have been worse – it could have been taken off.’
‘Must you say such things?’ Harriet’s voice was pained.
Ben chuckled softly, and then his voice hardened. ‘So you went skiing and you couldn’t even do that right. Was it on company time?’
‘No,’ said Ian equably. ‘And you know it. It was my first holiday for nearly three years.’
‘Humph! But you’re lying in that bed on company time.’
Ian’s mother was outraged. ‘You’re heartless!’
‘Shut up, Harriet,’ said the old man without turning his head. ‘And go away. Don’t forget to close the door behind you.’
‘I’ll not be bullied in my own home.’
‘You’ll do as I say, woman. I have to talk business with this man.’
Ian Ballard caught his mother’s eye and nodded slightly. She made a spitting sound and stormed out of the room. The door slammed behind her. ‘Your manners haven’t improved,’ Ian said flatly.
Ben’s shoulders shook as he wheezed with laughter. ‘That’s why I like you, boy; no one else would have said that to my face.’
‘It’s been said often enough behind your back.’
‘What do I care about what’s said? It’s what a man does that matters.’ Ben’s hands tightened momentarily upon his stick. ‘I didn’t mean what I said about you lying in bed on company time – because you’re not. We couldn’t wait until you’re up and about. You’ve been replaced.’
‘Fired!’
‘In a manner of speaking. There’ll be a job for you when you’re fit enough. I think it’s a better job, but I doubt if you will.’
‘That depends on what it is,’ said Ian cautiously.
‘Nearly four years ago we opened a mine in New Zealand – gold. Now that the price of gold has gone up it’s beginning to pay its way and the prospects are good. The managing director is an old idiot called Fisher who was brought in for local reasons, but he’s retiring next month.’ The stick thumped on the floor. ‘The man is senile at sixty-five – can you imagine that?’
Ian Ballard was cautious when the Greeks came bearing gifts. ‘So?’
‘So do you want the job?’
There had to be a catch. ‘I might. When do I have to be out there?’
‘As soon as possible. I suggest you go by sea. You can rest your leg as well on board a ship as here.’
‘Would I have sole responsibility?’
‘The managing director is responsible to the Board – you know that.’
‘Yes, and I know the Ballard set-up. The Board dances on strings pulled from London. I have no wish to be office boy to my revered uncles. I don’t know why you let them get away with what they’re doing.’
The old man’s hands whitened as he clutched the knob on top of the blackthorn. ‘You know I have no say in Ballard Holdings any more. When I set up the Trust I relinquished control. What your uncles do is their business now.’
‘And yet you have a managing directorship in your gift?’
Ben offered his sharklike grin. ‘Your uncles are not the only ones who can pull strings from time to time. Mind you, I can’t do it too often.’
Ian thought about it. ‘Where is the mine?’
‘South Island.’ Ben’s voice was studiedly casual. ‘Place called Hukahoronui.’
‘No!’ It was torn from Ian involuntarily.
‘What’s the matter? Scared to go back?’ Ben’s upper lip drew back showing his teeth. ‘If you are then you’re no good blood of mine.’
Ian took a deep breath. ‘Do you know what it means? To go back? You know how I loathe the place.’
‘So you were unhappy there – that was a long time ago.’ Ben leaned forward, bearing down heavily on the stick. ‘If you turn down this offer you’ll never be happy again – I can guarantee it. And it won’t be because of anything I’ll do, for there’ll be no recriminations on my part. It’s what you’ll have to live with inside yourself that’ll do the trick. For the rest of your life you’ll wonder about it.’
Ian stared at him. ‘You’re an old devil.’
The old man chuckled deep in his throat. ‘That’s as may be. Young Ian, now listen you to me. I had four sons and three of them aren’t worth the powder to blow ‘em to hell. They’re conniving, they’re unscrupulous and they’re crooked, and they’re making Ballard Holdings into a stink in the City of London.’ Ben drew himself up. ‘God knows I was no angel in my time. I was rough and tough, I drove a hard bargain and maybe I cut a corner when it was needed, but that was in the nature of the times. But nobody ever accused Ben Ballard of being dishonest and nobody ever knew me to go back on my word. With me it was a word and a handshake, and that was recognized in the City as an iron-clad contract. But nobody will take your uncles’ words – not any more. Anyone dealing with them must hire a regiment of lawyers to scrutinize the fine print.’
He shrugged. ‘But there it is. They run Ballard Holdings now. I’m an old man and they’ve taken over. It’s in the nature of things, Ian.’ His voice became milder. ‘But I had a fourth son and I hoped for a lot from him, but he was ruined by a woman, just as she damned near ruined you before I had the wit to jerk you out of that valley in New Zealand.’
Ian’s voice was tight. ‘Let’s leave my mother out of this.’
Ben held up his hand placatingly. ‘I like your loyalty, Ian, even though I think it’s misplaced. You’re not a bad son of your father just as he wasn’t a bad son of mine – not really. The trouble was I handled the matter badly at the time.’ He looked blindly into the past, then shook his head irritably. ‘But that’s gone by. It’s enough that I got you out of Hukahoronui. Did I do right there?’
Ian’s voice was low. ‘I’ve never thanked you for that. I’ve never thanked you for that or for anything else.’
‘Oh, you got your degree and you went to the Johannesburg School of Mines and from there to Colorado; and after that the Harvard Business School. You have a good brain and I didn’t like to see it wasted.’ He chuckled. ‘Bread cast on the waters, boy; bread cast on the waters.’ He leaned forward. ‘You see, lad; I’ve come for repayment.’
Ian felt his throat constrict. ‘What do you mean?’
‘You’ll please an old man by taking this job in Hukahoronui. Mind, you don’t have to take it – you’re a free agent. But I’d be pleased if you did.’
‘Do I have to make up my mind now?’
Ben’s voice was sardonic. ‘Do you want to talk it over with your mother?’
‘You’ve never liked her, have you?’
‘She was a whining, puling schoolmarm, afraid of the world, who dragged a good man down to her crawling level. Now she’s a whining, puling woman, old before her time because she’s always been afraid of the world and of living, and she’s trying to do the same to another man.’ Ben was harsh. ‘Why do you think I call you “boy” and “lad” when you’re a grown man of thirty-five? Because that’s all you are yet. For Christ’s sake, make a decision of your own for once in your life.’
Ian was silent. At last he said, ‘All right, I’ll go to Hukahoronui.’
‘Alone – without her?’
‘Alone.’
Ben did not appear to be elated; he merely nodded his head gravely. He said, ‘There’s quite a town there now. I doubt if you’d recognize it, it’s grown so much. I was there a couple of years ago before my damned doctor said I shouldn’t travel any more. The place even has a mayor. The first mayor’s name was John Peterson. Quite a power in the community the Petersons are.’
‘Oh Jesus!’ said Ian. ‘Are they still there?’
‘What would you expect? Of course they’re still there. John, Eric and Charles – they’re still there.’
‘But not Alec.’ Ian appeared to be addressing the back of his hands.
‘No – not Alec,’ Ben agreed.
Ian looked up. ‘You’re really asking for something, aren’t you? What the hell do you expect of me? You know damned well that putting a Ballard into Huka is like putting a detonator into a stick of dynamite.’
Ben’s eyebrows rose. ‘The Petersons being the dynamite, I presume.’ He leaned forward. ‘I’ll tell you what I want. I want you to run that bloody mine better than it’s been run up to now. It’s a tough job I’ve handed you. That old fool, Fisher, couldn’t keep control – that’s one thing. For another, Dobbs, the mine manager, is a chronic fence-sitter – and, for number three – Cameron, the engineer, is a worn-out American has-been who is holding on with his fingertips because he knows it’s the last job he’ll ever have and he’s scared witless that he’ll lose it. You have to put some backbone into that lot.’
Ben leaned back in his chair. ‘Of course,’ he said musingly, ‘the Petersons won’t welcome you with open arms. It’s not likely, is it, when it’s a family tradition of theirs that they were robbed of the mine? A lot of poppycock, of course, but that’s what they believe – and, Ian, always remember that men are not governed by facts but by what they believe.’ He nodded. ‘Yes, I can see you might have trouble with the Petersons.’
‘You can stop needling,’ said Ian Ballard. ‘I said I’d go.’
The old man made as if to rise, then paused. ‘There is one thing. If anything serious should happen – to Ballard Holdings or to me – get in touch with Bill Stenning.’ He thought awhile. ‘On second thoughts, don’t bother. Bill will get in touch with you fast enough.’
‘What’s this about?’
Don’t worry; it may never happen.’ Ben got slowly to his feet and made his way to the door. He stopped halfway across the room and held up his blackthorn. ‘I doubt if I’ll want this any more. I’ll send it to you tomorrow. You’ll need it. When you’ve finished with it don’t send it back – throw it away.’
He paused outside the door and raised his voice. ‘You can come in now, Harriet. No need to listen at the keyhole.’


THE HEARING First Day (#ulink_b2e7159c-1db6-5833-9476-fcadac480322)

ONE (#ulink_254c3862-7944-53ac-89b4-7d725d4b8d33)
The great hall was unexpectedly and floridly magnificent. Built in the mid-nineteenth century at the height of the Gothic Revival and designed by an architect who was, equally unexpectedly, a direct descendant of Simon de Montfort, it brought medieval England to the Southern Hemisphere and to that more-than-English city, Christchurch. Lofty, with an arched ceiling, painted and carved, it abounded in corbels, pillars, lancets and wood panelling, and every surface that could possibly be carved was carved to a fare-thee-well. There was also a lot of stained glass.
Dan Edwards, doyen of the Press of Christchurch, was blind to the incongruity of the scene; he had seen it too often before. He was more concerned about the floor which creaked abominably as the ushers walked beneath the Press gallery setting out note-pads and pencils. ‘The acoustics are lousy,’ he said. ‘And that bloody kauri floor doesn’t make things better.’
‘Can’t they oil it or something?’ asked Dalwood, who was from Auckland.
‘They’ve tried everything but nothing seems to work. I’ll tell you what – let’s do a pool. If I miss anything I’ll take it from you – and vice versa.’
Dalwood shrugged. ‘Okay.’ He looked over the edge of the Press gallery to the dais immediately beneath. Three high-backed chairs were set behind the rostrum, and before each chair was a new foolscap note-pad with two ball-point pens to the left and three newly sharpened pencils to the right. Together with the water carafes and the glasses, the whole looked remarkably like place settings at a dining table.
Edwards followed his glance and then nodded towards the public gallery, already full, at the north end of the hall. ‘They’re going to make a meal of this.’
Dalwood nudged him and indicated the door beneath the public gallery. ‘There’s young Ballard. He’s brought a legal army with him.’
Edwards studied the young man who walked at the head of a phalanx of older, soberly dressed men. He pursed his lips. ‘The question is whether they’re representing him or the company. If I were Ballard I’d be keeping a tight sphincter.’
‘A sacrificial lamb?’
‘A lamb to the slaughter,’ agreed Edwards. He looked down at the rostrum. ‘Things are happening.’
The hum of conversation died as three men took their places at the chairs behind the rostrum. One of the two stenographers looked up and held his hands poised expectantly over the keys of his machine. There was a rustle as everyone arose.
The three men sat down and a fourth came forward and sat at the desk in front of the rostrum. He laid a sheaf of papers before him and consulted the uppermost document. The man above him, in the centre of the rostrum, was elderly with a shock of white hair and deeply lined face. He looked down at the virgin pad in front of him and pushed it away. When he spoke he spoke quietly and in an even voice.
‘In the winter of the year, on the eighteenth of July, a disaster occurred in the township of Hukahoronui on the South Island of New Zealand in which fifty-four people lost their lives. The New Zealand Government has appointed a Commission of Inquiry, of which I am Chairman. My name is Arthur Harrison and I am Rector of Canterbury University.’
He moved his hands apart. ‘With me are two assessors, both well qualified by their knowledge and experience to sit on this Commission. On my left we have Professor J. W. Rolandson of the Department of Scientific and Industrial Research.’ Harrison paused. ‘In the interests of brevity his department will, in future, be referred to as the DSIR.’
Rolandson smiled and nodded.
‘On my right sits Mr F. G. French of the New Zealand Mines Department. The gentleman immediately below me is Mr John Reed, barrister-at-law; he is Secretary to the Commission.’ Harrison surveyed the tables in the hall. ‘There are several interested parties present. Perhaps they would identify themselves, beginning from the right.’
The well-fed, middle-aged man seated next to Ballard rose to his feet. ‘John Rickman, barrister, representing the Hukahoronui Mining Company, Proprietary, Limited.’
There was a long pause before the man at the next table got to his feet, and Edwards whispered, ‘Ballard has no personal representation.’
‘Michael Gunn, barrister, representing the General Miners’ Union of New Zealand and the relatives of its members who lost their lives in the disaster.’
‘Alfred Smithers, barrister, representing the Ministry of Civil Defence.’
‘Peter Lyall, barrister, representing Charles Stewart Peterson and Eric Parnell Peterson.’
There was a sound of surprise in the room, a compound of sudden involuntary movement and indrawn breath. Edwards looked up from his notes. ‘Why should they think they need legal help? This sounds promising.’
Harrison waited until the stir died away. ‘I see we are greatly endowed with legal aid. I must therefore warn the legal gentlemen present that this is not a Court of Law. It is a Commission of Inquiry which is empowered to make its own rules of procedure. Evidence will be heard here which would not necessarily be admissible before a Court of Law. The object of this Commission is to find the truth of what happened during the events which led up to the avalanche at Hukahoronui, during the avalanche itself, and what happened afterwards.’
He leaned back in his chair. ‘Adversary tactics, such as are common in law courts, will be frowned upon here. We wish to find the truth unimpeded by legal technicalities, and the reason we wish to find the truth is to make certain that such a disaster does not happen again. The force of this consideration is so great that the Commission hereby rules that any evidence given here may not be used in any future legal action other than criminal which may eventuate as a result of the avalanche at Hukahoronui. The protection of lives in the future is of more importance than the punishment of those who may be felt to be guilty of acts of omission or commission arising out of the disaster. The Commission is legally empowered to make such a ruling and I hereby do so.’
Gunn hastily rose to his feet. ‘Mr Chairman; do you not think that is an arbitrary decision? There will be matters of compensation arising. If interested parties are denied the use of evidence in a future legal action, surely an injustice will be done.’
‘Mr Gunn, I have no doubt that the government will appoint an arbitrator who will study the findings of this Commission and make the necessary dispositions. Does that satisfy you?’
Gunn bobbed his head, a pleased expression on his face. ‘Indeed it does, Mr Chairman.’
Dalwood murmured to Edwards, ‘No wonder he’s pleased. It’s all going to happen here – a bloody drumhead courtmartial with no holds barred.’
Edwards grunted. ‘He’ll not get much past old Harrison.’
‘And now we come to the question of witnesses. Some citizens have come forward voluntarily to give evidence here, others have been subpoena’d by one or more of the interested parties.’ Harrison frowned. ‘I, and my fellow members on the Commission, have been much exercised as to how the evidence should be taken, and we have decided that it shall be taken in chronological order, insofar as that is possible. Because of this, any person giving evidence may be asked to step down before his evidence is wholly completed if we find it necessary to do some filling in. It follows, then, that all witnesses should hold themselves in readiness at all times during the sitting of the Commission.’
‘Mr Chairman!’
Rickman was on his feet. Harrison said, ‘Yes, Mr Rickman?’
‘Such a condition is likely to be onerous on certain of the witnesses. Some of them are busy men with duties which lie outside this room. This is likely to be a long inquiry and I do not feel that such a condition is entirely fair.’
‘When you refer to certain of the witnesses can I take it that you refer to Mr Ballard?’ asked Harrison drily.
‘Mr Ballard is one such witness,’ conceded Rickman. ‘Out of consideration for him it would be better if he could give his evidence and retire.’
‘Is Mr Ballard a citizen of New Zealand?’
‘No, Mr Chairman; he is a United Kingdom subject.’
‘And would his retirement from this hall be as far away as England?’
Rickman bent down and spoke quietly to Ballard who replied in equally low tones. Rickman straightened. ‘It is true that there are certain matters in the United Kingdom which urgently require Mr Ballard’s attention.’
Harrison’s voice was cold. ‘If I thought it was Mr Ballard’s intention to leave New Zealand during the sitting of this Commission I would ask the relevant authority to relieve him of his passport. This inquiry is a serious matter, Mr Rickman.’
‘I am sure it is not Mr Ballard’s intention to flout the authority of the Commissioners,’ said Rickman hastily. He bent down again and spoke to Ballard, then he rose and said, ‘Mr Ballard has no intention of leaving New Zealand at the present time.’
‘I would prefer to hear that from Mr Ballard.’ Harrison leaned forward. ‘Is that correct, Mr Ballard?’
Ballard stood, and said in a low voice. ‘That is correct, sir. My time is at the disposal of the Commissioners.’
‘In that case you will have no objection to attending this inquiry with the rest of the witnesses. Thank you.’
In the Press gallery Edwards said, ‘My God! Whoever Rickman is representing, he’s not representing Ballard. He set him up just to knock him down.’
Harrison said, ‘This inquiry will not have the formality of a law court, but neither will it be a free-for-all. Representatives of the interested parties may address the witnesses at the discretion of the Chairman. It will not be necessary to disturb the sacro-iliac by standing each time – a mere raising of the hand will suffice. The assessors may question the witnesses in their respective fields of expertise.’
He put his hands together. ‘Since we are gathering information in chronological order it becomes necessary to decide at which point of time to begin. From depositions laid before the Commission I gather that it was the appearance of Mr Ballard in Hukahoronui which led to a series of events which may – or may not – have relevance to the disaster which took place some weeks later. That is for this inquiry to decide. Be that as it may, I think the first witness should be Mr Ballard.’
Reed, the secretary, said, ‘Will you come forward, Mr Ballard, and sit down there?’ He indicated an ornately carved chair a little to the right of the rostrum. He waited until Ballard was seated, then said, ‘Your name is Ian Dacre Ballard?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And you are managing director of the Hukahoronui Mining Company, Proprietary, Limited?’
‘No, sir.’
A hum as of a disturbed hive of bees filled the air. Harrison waited until it had died away, then said quietly, ‘All present will be silent during the questioning of witnesses.’ He leaned forward. ‘Thank you, Mr Reed; I’ll take it from here. Mr Ballard, at the time of the avalanche were you managing director of the company?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Can you give me a reason why you are no longer in that position?’
Ballard’s voice was colourless. ‘I was suspended from my duties a fortnight after the disaster.’
‘I see.’ Harrison’s eyes flicked sideways as he saw a hand raised. ‘Yes, Mr Gunn?’
‘Can the witness tell us who owns the Hukahoronui Mining Company?’
Harrison nodded to Ballard, who said, ‘It’s a wholly-owned subsidiary of New Zealand Mineral Holdings, Limited.’
‘And that company is just a shell instituted for legal and financial reasons, is it not? Who owns it?’
‘It is owned substantially by the International Mining Investment Corporation.’
‘And who has the controlling interest in the International Mining Investment Corporation?’
‘Mr Chairman!’ Rickman said sharply. ‘Is there provision in your procedure for objections?’
‘Of course, Mr Rickman. What is your objection?’
‘I cannot see what this line of questioning has to do with an avalanche on a hillside.’
‘Neither can I,’ said Harrison. ‘But no doubt Mr Gunn can make it clear.’
‘I think the answer to my last question will make it quite clear,’ said Gunn. ‘I asked who owns the controlling interest in the International Mining Investment Corporation.’
Ballard raised his head and said clearly, ‘Ballard Holdings, Limited, registered in the City of London.’
Gunn smiled. ‘Thank you.’
‘Well, well!’ said Edwards, scribbling rapidly. ‘So he’s one of those Ballards.’
Dalwood chuckled. ‘And Gunn is gunning for Rickman. Up the workers and down with international capital. He smells money.’
Harrison tapped lightly with his gavel and the hall became quiet again. ‘Mr Ballard, do you own shares – or any interest whatever – in Ballard Holdings? Or in any of the companies mentioned?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Does any of your family own any such interest?’
‘Yes; my three uncles and some of my cousins.’
‘Not your father?’
‘He is dead.’
‘How did you come to be appointed managing director of the Hukahoronui Mining Company?’
Ballard shrugged. ‘The company is an old family concern and I suppose that …’
‘Can the witness describe his qualifications for the position?’
Harrison jerked his head around to identify the source of the interruption. ‘You will oblige me by not calling out in this hall, Mr Lyall. Further, you must not interrupt a witness.’ In a milder voice he said, ‘However, the question is relevant and the witness will answer.’
‘I have a degree in mining engineering from Birmingham University. I have done post-graduate studies in South Africa and the United States.’
Lyall had his arm firmly in the air by this time. ‘But no practical experience as a mining engineer?’
Pink spots glowed in Ballard’s cheeks but he appeared to be in control as he said to Harrison, ‘May I finish answering Mr Lyall’s first question?’
‘Of course.’ Harrison looked at Lyall. ‘Mr Lyall: you will not interrupt the witness, and you will address your questions through me unless I indicate otherwise. Go on, Mr Ballard.’
‘I was about to say that, apart from the engineering studies, I attended the Harvard Business School for two years. As for practical experience as a mining engineer, that would be called for if I professed to be a mining engineer, but as managing director my field was rather that of business administrator.’
‘A valid point,’ said Harrison. ‘A managing director need not have the technical expertise of the men he directs. If it were so a large number of our managing directors would be immediately unemployed – and possibly unemployable.’
He waited until the laughter died away, then said, ‘I do not see the point in further questioning along those lines, Mr Lyall.’ As Lyall’s hand remained obstinately raised, he said, ‘Do you have a further – and different – question?’
‘Yes, Mr Chairman. I am reliably informed that when Mr Ballard appeared in Hukahoronui he was unable to walk except with the aid of a stick. Is this correct?’
‘Is this relevant, Mr Lyall?’
‘I believe so, sir.’
‘Witness will answer the question.’
‘It is correct.’
Lyall, his hand up, remained punctiliously silent until Harrison nodded at him curtly. ‘Can you tell us why?’
‘I broke my leg in a skiing accident in Switzerland.’
‘Thank you, Mr Ballard.’
‘I can’t say that I see the relevance,’ observed Harrison. ‘But no doubt it will appear in time.’
‘It was in an avalanche,’ said Ballard.
There was dead silence in the hall.

TWO (#ulink_52127fb9-462b-53fb-b2cd-bb64946c74cf)
Harrison looked across at Lyall. ‘The significance still escapes me,’ he said. ‘And since Mr Lyall does not see fit to pursue the subject I think we should carry on. Mr Ballard, when did you arrive in Hukahoronui?’
‘On the sixth of June – six weeks before the avalanche.’
‘So you had not been there very long. Was Hukahoronui what you expected?’
Ballard frowned in thought. ‘The thing that struck me most was how much it had changed.’
Harrison’s eyebrows rose. ‘Changed! Then you had been here before?’
‘I lived there for fifteen years – from infancy until just after my sixteenth birthday.’
Harrison made a note. ‘Go on, Mr Ballard. How had Hukahoronui changed?’
‘It was bigger. The mine was new, of course, but there were more houses – a lot more houses.’ He paused. ‘There was a lot more snow than I seem to remember from my childhood.’
Professor Rolandson of the DSIR said, ‘It is a matter of record that the snow precipitation in the Southern Alps was exceptionally high this past winter.’
Ballard had been depressed as he drove west from Christchurch in a company Land-Rover. He was going back to his origins, to Hukahoronui which lies in an outrider of the Two Thumbs Range, and which he had never expected to see again.
Hukahoronui.
A deep valley in the mountains entered by a narrow rock-split gap and graced with stands of tall trees on the valley slopes. A river runs through, cold from the ice water of the high peaks, and there is a scattering of houses up the valley, loosely centred about a church, a general store and a village school. His mother had once been the schoolteacher.
He hated the place.
It was a bad place to get to in thick snow. There had been heavy snowfalls and even with snow tyres and four-wheel drive Ballard found the going tricky. As far as he could remember there had not been a snow like that in those parts since 1943, but of that his memory was understandably hazy – he had been four years old at the time. But he had particular reasons for remembering the heavy snow of that year.
After a lot of low gear work he eventually reached the Gap and he pulled off the road on to a piece of level ground overlooking the river gorge where he contemplated Hukahoronui.
It had certainly changed, just as old Ben said it had. In the distance was a little township where no township had been. On one side, under the western slope of the valley, was a cluster of industrial buildings, presumably the milling works and refinery belonging to the mine. A streamer of black smoke coming from a tall chimney was like a stain against the white hillside beyond.
The township spread along the valley floor with most of the houses to the west of the river which had been bridged. The valley people had talked inconclusively for years about putting a bridge across the river, and now it had been done at last under the prodding thrust of an affluent economy. That was probably to be chalked up on the credit side; you had to pay the price of the mine to get the bridge.
Beyond the township there did not seem to be much change. In the far distance Ballard saw Turi’s house beneath the great rock called Kamakamaru. He wondered if the old man was still alive or whether the smoke coming from that distant chimney rose from the fireside of another. Turi had been an old man even when Ballard left the valley, although age in a Maori is difficult to estimate, especially for a youth of sixteen. At sixteen anyone over forty is verging on decrepitude.
But there was something else about the valley that was strange and Ballard was puzzled to determine what it was. A change had occurred which had nothing to do with the mine or the new town and he tried to match up sixteen-year-old memories with the actuality before him. It was nothing to do with the river; that still ran the same course, or seemed to.
And then he found the change. The hill slope on the western side was now almost completely treeless. Gone were the stands of tall white pine and cedar, of kahikatea and kohekohe – the hillside had been stripped almost completely bare. Ballard looked up at the higher slopes of the mountain to where the snows stretched right up to the base of the crags in one smooth and beautiful sweep. It looked good for skiing.
He switched on the engine and went on down into the new town. As he approached he was impressed by the way it had been laid out. Although much detail was blanketed by snow he could see the areas which, in summer, would be pleasant open gardens and there was a children’s playground, the swings and slides, the seesaws and the jungle gym, now white-mantled and stalactited with icicles and out of use.
Although the house roofs were heavily laden with snow the road was quite clear and had apparently been swept recently. Coming into the town centre he came across a bulldozer clearing the road with dropped blade. There was a name on its side: HUKAHORONUI MINING CO. (PTY) LTD. It seemed as though the mine management took an interest in municipal affairs. He approved.
There were houses built along the bluff that projected into the river; when Ballard was a child that was called the Big Bend and that was where they had their swimming hole. Peterson’s store used to be at the base of the bluff, and so it still was, although it took him a long time to recognize it. In his day it had been single-storey with a corrugated iron roof, a low building with spreading eaves which protected against the summer sun. There used to be chairs on the veranda and it was a favourite place for gossip. Now it was two-storey with a false façade to make it look even larger, and there were big plate-glass windows brightly lit. The veranda had gone.
He pulled the Land-Rover into a designated parking place and sourly wondered when parking meters would be installed. The sun was setting behind the western slopes of the valley and already the long shadows were creeping across the town. That was one of the drawbacks of Hukahoronui; in a narrow valley set north and south nightfall comes early.
Across the street was a still-raw building of unmellowed concrete calling itself the Hotel D’Archiac – a name stolen from a mountain. The street was reasonably busy; private cars and industrial trucks passed by regularly, and women with shopping bags hurried before the shops closed. At one time Peterson’s had been the only store, but from where he sat in the car Ballard could see three more shops, and there was a service station on the corner. Lights glowed in the windows of the old school which had sprouted two new wings.
Ballard reached for the blackthorn stick which was on the back seat and then got out of the car. He crossed the road towards the hotel leaning heavily on the stick because he still could not bear to put too much weight on his left leg. He supposed that Dobbs, the mine manager, would have accommodated him, but it was late in the day and he did not want to cause undue disturbance so he was quite prepared to spend a night in the hotel and introduce himself to the mine staff the following morning.
As he approached the hotel entrance a man came out walking quickly and bumped his shoulder. The man made a mutter of annoyance – not an apology – and strode across the pavement to a parked car. Ballard recognized him – Eric Peterson, the second of the three Peterson brothers. The last time he had seen Eric he had been nineteen years old, tall and gangling; now he had filled out into a broad-shouldered brawny man. Apparently the years had not improved his manners much.
Ballard turned to go into the hotel only to encounter an elderly woman who looked at him with recognition slowly dawning in her eyes. ‘Why, it’s Ian Ballard,’ she said, adding uncertainly, ‘It is Ian, isn’t it?’
He hunted through his memories to find a face to match hers. And a name to put to the face. Simpson? No – it wasn’t that. ‘Hello, Mrs Samson,’ he said.
‘Ian Ballard,’ she said in wonder. ‘Well, now; what are you doing here – and how’s your mother?’
‘My mother’s fine,’ he said, and lied bravely. ‘She asked to be remembered to you.’ He believed white lies to be the social oil that allows the machinery of society to work smoothly.
‘That’s good of her,’ said Mrs Samson warmly. She waved her arm. ‘And what do you think of Huka now? It’s changed a lot since you were here.’
‘I never thought I’d see civilization come to the Two Thumbs.’
‘It’s the mine, of course,’ said Mrs Samson. ‘The mine brought the prosperity. Do you know, we even have a town council now.’
‘Indeed,’ he said politely. He looked out of the corner of his eye and saw Eric Peterson frozen in the act of unlocking his car and staring at him.
‘Yes, indeed,’ said Mrs Samson. ‘And I’m a councillor, imagine that! Whoever would have thought it. But whatever are you doing here, Ian?’
‘Right now I’m going into the hotel to book a room.’ He was sharply aware that Eric Peterson was walking towards him.
‘Ian Ballard.’ Peterson’s voice was flat and expressionless.
Ballard turned, and Mrs Samson said, ‘Do you two know each other? This is Eric Peters …’ Her voice tailed away and a wary look came into her eyes, the look of one who has almost committed a social gaffe. ‘But of course you know each other,’ she said slowly.
‘Hello, Eric.’
There was little humour in Peterson’s thin smile. ‘And what are you doing here?’
There was no point in avoiding the issue. Ballard said, ‘I’m the new managing director of the mining company.’
Something sparked in Peterson’s eyes. ‘Well, well!’ he said in tones of synthetic wonder. ‘So the Ballards are coming out of hiding. What’s the matter, Ian? Have you run out of phoney company names?’
‘Not really,’ said Ballard. ‘We’ve got a computer that makes them up for us. How are you doing, Eric?’
Peterson looked down at the stick on which Ballard was leaning. ‘A lot better than you, apparently. Hurt your leg? Nothing trivial, I hope.’
Mrs Samson suddenly discovered reasons for not being there, reasons which she explained volubly and at length. ‘But if you’re staying I’ll certainly see you again,’ she said.
Peterson watched her go. ‘Silly old bat! She’s a hell of a nuisance on the council.’
‘You a member, too?’
Peterson nodded abstractly – his thought processes were almost visible. ‘Did I hear you say you are booking a room in the hotel?’
‘That’s right.’
Peterson took Ballard’s arm. ‘Then let me introduce you to the manager.’ As they went into the lobby he said, ‘Johnnie and I own half of this place, so we can certainly find room for an old friend like you.’
‘You’re doing well for yourself.’
Peterson grinned crookedly. ‘We’re getting something out of the mine, even if it isn’t raw gold.’ He stopped at the reception desk. ‘Jeff, this is Ian Ballard, an old friend. You would say we were friends, wouldn’t you, Ian?’ He drove over any reply that Ballard might have made. ‘Jeff Weston is manager here and owns the other half of the hotel. We have long arguments over which half he owns; he claims the half with the bar and that’s a matter for dispute.’
‘Glad to meet you, Mr Ballard,’ said Weston.
‘I’m sure you can find a good room for Mr Ballard.’
Weston shrugged. ‘No difficulty.’
‘Good,’ said Peterson jovially. ‘Give Mr Ballard a room – the best we have.’ His eyes suddenly went flinty and his voice hardened. ‘For twenty-four hours. After that we’re full. I wouldn’t want you to get the wrong idea of your welcome here, Ballard. Don’t be fooled by Mrs Samson.’
He turned on his heel and strode away, leaving Weston open-mouthed. Ballard said lightly, ‘Eric always was a joker. Do I sign the register, Mr Weston?’
That night Ballard wrote a letter to Mike McGill. In it, among other things, was the following passage:
I remember you telling me that you’d be in New Zealand this year. Why don’t you come out earlier as my guest? I’m in a place called Hukahoronui in South Island; there’s a hell of a lot of snow and the skiing looks great. The place has changed a bit since I was here last; civilization has struck and there are great developments. But it’s not too bad really and the mountains are still untouched. Let me know what you think of the idea – I’d like to meet your plane in Auckland.

THREE (#ulink_845a1955-d36b-5114-bf2d-b17adad61f10)
Harrison sipped water from a glass and set it down. ‘Mr Ballard, at what point did you become aware of danger by avalanche?’
‘Only a few days before the disaster. My attention was drawn to the danger by a friend, Mike McGill, who came to visit me.’
Harrison consulted a document. ‘I see that Dr McGill has voluntarily consented to appear as a witness. I think it would be better if we heard his evidence from his own lips. You may step down, Mr Ballard, on the understanding that you may be called again.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Ballard returned to his seat.
Reed said, ‘Will Dr McGill please come forward?’
McGill walked towards the rostrum carrying a slim leather satchel under his arm. He sat down, and Reed said, ‘Your name is Michael Howard McGill?’
‘Yes, sir; it is.’
Harrison caught the transatlantic twang in McGill’s voice. ‘Are you an American, Dr McGill?’
‘No, sir; I’m a Canadian citizen.’
‘I see. It is very public-spirited of you to volunteer to stay and give evidence.’
McGill smiled. ‘No trouble at all, sir. I have to be here in Christchurch in any case. I leave for the Antarctic next month. As you may know, the Operation Deep Freeze flights leave from here.’
Professor Rolandson stirred. ‘You’re going to the Antarctic and your name is McGill! Would you be the Dr McGill who wrote a paper on stress and deformation in snow slopes which appeared in the last issue of the Antarctic Journal?’
‘Yes, sir.’
Rolandson turned to Harrison. ‘I think we are fortunate in having Dr McGill with us. I have read many of his papers and his qualifications as an expert witness are unimpeachable.’
‘Yes, indeed.’ Harrison waggled an eyebrow. ‘But I think his qualifications should be read into the record. Will you tell us something about yourself, Dr McGill?’
‘I’d be glad to.’ McGill paused, marshalling his thoughts. ‘I took a B.Sc. in physics at the University of Vancouver and then spent two years with the Canadian DSIR in British Columbia. From there I went to the United States – M.Sc. in meteorology at Columbia University and D.Sc. in glaciology at the California Institute of Technology. As to practical experience, I have spent two seasons in the Antarctic, a year in Greenland at Camp Century, two years in Alaska and I have just completed a year’s sabbatical in Switzerland doing theoretical studies. At present I work as a civilian scientist in the Cold Regions Research and Engineering Laboratory of the United States Army Terrestrial Sciences Centre.’
There was a silence which was broken by Harrison. He gave a nervous cough. ‘Yes, indeed. For simplicity’s sake, how would you describe your employment at present?’
McGill grinned. ‘I have been described as a snowman.’ A ripple of laughter swept across the hall, and Rolandson’s lips twitched. ‘I should say that I am engaged on practical and theoretical studies of snow and ice which will give a better understanding of the movement of those materials, particularly in relation to avalanches.’
‘I agree with Professor Rolandson,’ said Harrison. ‘We are very fortunate to have such a qualified witness who can give an account of the events before, during and after the disaster. What took you to Hukahoronui, Dr McGill?’
‘I met Ian Ballard in Switzerland and we got on very well together. When he came to New Zealand he invited me to visit him. He knew that I was coming to New Zealand on my way to the Antarctic and suggested that I arrive a little earlier than I had originally intended. He met me at the airport in Auckland and then we both went down to Hukahoronui.’
Lyall held up his hand, and Harrison nodded to him. ‘How long did the witness know Mr Ballard in Switzerland?’
‘Two weeks.’
‘Two weeks!’ repeated Lyall. ‘Did it not seem strange to you on such a casual acquaintanceship that Mr Ballard should undertake such a long journey involving an air flight from South Island to North Island to meet you at the airport?’
Harrison opened his mouth as though to object, but McGill, his face hardened, beat him to it. ‘I don’t understand the import of the question, but I’ll answer it. Mr Ballard had to attend a board meeting of his company in Auckland with which my arrival coincided.’
‘I didn’t understand the tenor of that question, either, Mr Lyall,’ said Harrison grimly. ‘Does the answer satisfy you?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘It will speed this inquiry if irrelevant questions are kept to a minimum,’ said Harrison coldly. ‘Go on, Dr McGill.’
In the Press gallery Dan Edwards said, ‘There was some sort of malice behind that. I wonder what instructions the Petersons have given Lyall.’
McGill said, ‘There was a lot of snow on the way to Hukahoronui …’
Fifteen miles from Hukahoronui they came across a Volkswagen stuck in a drift, the skis strapped on the top proclaiming its purpose. It contained two Americans helplessly beleaguered by the snow. Ballard and McGill helped to haul the car free and received effusive thanks from the two men who were called Miller and Newman. McGill looked at the Volkswagen, and commented, ‘Not the best car for the conditions.’
‘You can say that again,’ said Newman. ‘There’s more snow here than in Montana. I didn’t expect it to be like this.’
‘It’s an exceptional season,’ said McGill, who had studied the reports.
Miller said, ‘How far is it to Huka …, He stumbled over the word but finally got it out by spacing the syllables. ‘Huka-horo-nui?’
‘About fifteen miles,’ said Ballard. He smiled. ‘You can’t miss it – this road goes nowhere else.’
‘We’re going for the skiing,’ said Newman. He grinned as he saw Ballard’s eye wander to the skis strapped on top of the car. ‘But I guess that’s evident.’
‘You’re going to get stuck again,’ said Ballard. ‘That’s inevitable. You’d better go on ahead and I’ll follow, ready to pull you out.’
‘Say, that’s good of you,’ said Miller. ‘We’ll take you up on that offer. You’ve got more beef than we have.’
They hauled the Volkswagen out of trouble five times before they reached Hukahoronui. On the fifth occasion Newman said, ‘It’s real good of you guys to go to all this trouble.’
Ballard smiled. ‘You’d do the same, I’m sure, if the position were reversed.’ He pointed. ‘That’s the Gap – the entrance to the valley. Once you’re through there you’re home and dry.’
They followed the Volkswagen as far as the Gap and watched it descend into the valley, then Ballard pulled off the road. ‘Well, there it is.’
McGill surveyed the scene with a professional eye. Instinctively he looked first at the white sweep of the western slope and frowned slightly, then he said, ‘Is that your mine down at the bottom there?’
‘That’s it.’
‘You know something? I haven’t asked what you get out of there.’
‘Gold,’ said Ballard. ‘Gold in small quantities.’ He took a packet of cigarettes and offered one to McGill. ‘We’ve known the gold was there for a long time – my father was the first to pick up the traces – but there wasn’t enough to take a chance on investment, not while the gold price was fixed at thirty-five dollars an ounce. But when the price was freed the company risked a couple of million pounds sterling in establishing the plant you see down there. At present we’re just breaking even; the gold we’re getting out is just servicing the capital investment. But the pickings are getting richer as we follow the reef and we have hopes.’
McGill nodded abstractedly. He was peering through the side window at the rock walls on either side of the Gap. ‘Do you have much trouble in keeping the road clear just here?’
‘We didn’t seem to have trouble years ago when I used to live here. But we’re having a fair amount now. The town has got some of the company’s earth-moving machinery on more-or-less permanent loan.’
‘It’ll get worse,’ said McGill. ‘Maybe a lot worse. I did a check on meteorological conditions; there’s a lot of precipitation this year and the forecast is for more.’
‘Good for skiers,’ said Ballard. ‘Bad for mining. We’re having trouble getting equipment in.’ He put the car in gear. ‘Let’s get down there.’
He drove through the town and then to the mine office. ‘Come in and meet the senior staff,’ he said, then hesitated. ‘Look, I’m going to be a bit busy for maybe an hour.’ He grinned. ‘Finding out if they’ve made a fortune while I’ve been away. I’ll get someone to take you to the house.’
‘That’ll be fine,’ said McGill.
They went into the office building and Ballard opened a door. ‘Hello, Betty. Is Mr Dobbs in?’
Betty jerked her thumb. ‘Inside with Mr Cameron.’
‘Fine. Come on, Mike.’ He led the way to an inner office where two men were discussing a plan laid on a desk. ‘Hello, Mr Dobbs; hello, Joe. I’d like you to meet a friend who’ll be staying in Huka for a while – Mike McGill. This is Harry Dobbs, the mine manager, and Joe Cameron, the mine engineer.’
Dobbs was a thin-faced New Zealander with a dyspeptic expression who looked as though his wife’s cooking did not agree with him. Cameron was a broad-shouldered American pushing sixty but not admitting it. They shook hands, and Ballard said, ‘Everything okay?’
Cameron looked at Dobbs and Dobbs looked at Cameron. Dobbs said in a thin voice, ‘The situation is deteriorating at the same rate.’
Cameron chuckled. ‘What he means is that we’re still having trouble with this goddam snow. We had a truck stuck in the Gap yesterday; took two ‘dozers to get it out.’
‘If we can’t keep up essential supplies then output is going to be restricted,’ said Dobbs.
‘I don’t think we’ll make a profit this half year,’ said Ballard.
‘Mike, here, says things will get worse, and he ought to know – he’s a snow expert.’
‘Don’t take that as gospel,’ protested McGill. ‘I’ve been known to be wrong.’ He looked through the window. ‘Is that the mine entrance?’
Cameron followed his gaze. ‘Yes, that’s the portal. Most people think of a mine as having a vertical shaft, but we just drove an adit into the mountainside. It slopes down inside, of course, as we follow the reef.’
‘It reminds me of a place in British Columbia called Granduc.’ McGill slanted his eyes at Cameron. ‘Know it?’
Cameron shook his head. ‘Never heard of it.’
McGill looked oddly disappointed.
Dobbs was saying, ‘… and Arthur’s Pass was closed for twelve hours yesterday, and the Haast has been closed since Tuesday. I haven’t heard about Lewis Pass.’
‘What have those passes to do with us?’ asked Ballard. ‘Our supplies come from Christchurch and don’t cross the mountains at all.’
‘They’re the main passes across the Southern Alps,’ said Dobbs. ‘If the government can’t keep them open, then what chance do we have? They’ll be using every machine they’ve got, and no one is going to send a snow plough to clear a way to Hukahoronui – it’s a dead end.’
‘We’ll just have to do the best we can, Mr Dobbs.’ Ballard jerked his head at McGill. ‘Let’s get you settled in, Mike.’
McGill nodded and said to the room at large, ‘Nice to have met you.’
‘We’ll have to get together,’ said Cameron. ‘Come over to my place and have dinner some time. My daughter’s a great cook.’
Dobbs said nothing.
They went into the outer office. ‘Betty will show you where the house is. The bedroom on the left at the back is yours. I won’t be more than an hour.’
‘Take your time,’ said McGill.
It was nearly three hours later when Ballard turned up and by that time McGill had unpacked, taken a walk around town which did not take long, and returned to the house to make an urgent telephone call.
When Ballard came into the house he looked tired and depressed. When he saw McGill he winced as recollection came back. ‘Oh hell! I forgot to tell Mrs Evans we were coming back. There’s no grub ready.’
‘Relax,’ said McGill. ‘There’s something in the oven – McGill’s Antarctic Burgoo, as served in all the best restaurants south of latitude sixty. We’ll eat well.’
Ballard sighed in relief. ‘I thought we’d have to eat in the hotel. I’m not too popular there.’
McGill let that pass. ‘There’s just one thing I can’t find – your booze.’
Ballard grinned. ‘Come on.’
They went into the living-room, and McGill said, ‘I used your phone. I hope you don’t mind.’
‘Be my guest.’ Ballard opened a cupboard and took out a bottle and two glasses.
‘You get your supplies from Christchurch. I know you’re tight for space but is there a chance of getting a parcel in for me?’
‘How big?’ McGill made sketching motions with his hands, and Ballard said, ‘Is that all? We can do that.’ He checked his watch. ‘That truck Cameron had trouble with is leaving Christchurch with a load. I might be able to catch it before it leaves.’
He crossed the room and picked up the telephone. ‘Hello, Maureen. Ian Ballard here. Can you get me the Christchurch office?’
‘I had a look round town,’ said McGill. ‘It looks mostly new.’
‘It is. When I lived here it was a tenth of the size.’
‘Nicely laid out, too. Is most of it mine property?’
‘A lot of it. Houses for the married couples and single quarters and a club house for the bachelors. This is a mine house. My predecessor lived in one of the old houses but I prefer this one. I like to be on the spot.’
‘How many mine employees?’
‘At the last count it was a hundred and four – including office staff.’
‘And the total population?’
‘A bit over eight hundred, I’d say. The mine brought a fair amount of prosperity.’
‘That’s about what I figured,’ said McGill.
An electronic voice crackled in Ballard’s ear, and he said, ‘This is Ballard at the mine. Has Sam Jeffries left yet? Put him on will you?’ There was a pause. ‘Sam, Dr McGill wants to talk to you – hold on.’
McGill took the telephone. ‘McGill here. Do you know where Advanced Headquarters for Operation Deep Freeze is? Yes … near Harewood Airport. Go to the Headquarters Building and find Chief Petty Officer Finney … yes, finney as in fish … ask him to give you the parcel for me … McGill. Right.’
‘What was all that about?’ asked Ballard.
McGill took the drink which Ballard offered. ‘I just thought I’d keep myself occupied while I’m here.’ He changed the subject. ‘What’s with your Mr Dobbs? He looks as though he’s swallowed a lemon.’
Ballard smiled wearily and sat down. ‘He has a chip on his shoulder. He reckons he should have been put on the board of directors and have my job, instead of which he got me. To make it worse, my name is Ballard.’
‘What’s that got to do with anything?’
‘Don’t you know? If you trace things back far enough the whole mine is owned by the Ballard family.’
McGill spluttered into his drink. ‘Well, I’ll be goddamned! I’ve been hobnobbing with the plutocratic capitalists and never knew it. There’s a name for that kind of thing – nepotism. No wonder Dobbs is acid.’
‘If it’s nepotism it isn’t doing me any good,’ said Ballard. There was a touch of savagery in his voice. ‘I don’t have a penny except my director’s fees.’
‘No shares in the company?’
‘No shares in this or any other Ballard company – but tell that to Dobbs and he wouldn’t believe you. I haven’t even tried.’
McGill’s voice was soft. ‘What’s the matter, Ian? Come from the wrong side of the family?’
‘Not really.’ Ballard got up to pour himself another drink. ‘I have a grandfather who’s an egotistical old monster and I had a father who wouldn’t co-operate. Dad told the old boy to go to hell and he’s never forgotten it.’
‘The sins of the fathers are visited on the children,’ said McGill thoughtfully. ‘And yet you’re employed by a Ballard company. There must be something there somewhere.’
‘They don’t pay me any more than I’m worth – they get value for money.’ Ballard sighed. ‘But God, I could run the company better than it’s run now.’ He waved his glass. ‘I don’t mean this mine, this is a piddling little affair.’
‘You call a two million pound company a piddling affair!’ said McGill in wonder.
‘I once worked it out. The Ballards control companies with a capital value of two hundred and twenty million pounds. The Ballards’ own shareholdings are about forty-two million pounds. That was a few years ago, though.’
‘Jesus!’ said McGill involuntarily.
‘I have three rapacious old vultures who call themselves my uncles and half a dozen cousins who follow the breed. They’re only interested in loot and between them they’re running the show into the ground. They’re great ones for merging and asset-stripping, and they squeeze every penny until it hurts. Take this mine. Up in Auckland I have a Comptroller of Accounts who reports to London, and I can’t sign a cheque for more than a thousand dollars without his say-so. And I’m supposed to be in charge.’
He breathed heavily. ‘When I came here I went underground and that night I prayed we wouldn’t have a visit from the Inspector of Mines before I had time to straighten things out.’
‘Had someone been cutting corners?’
Ballard shrugged. ‘Fisher, the last managing director, was an old fool and not up to the job. I doubt any criminal intent, but negligence combined with parsimony has led to a situation in which the company could find itself in serious trouble. I have a mine manager who can’t make decisions and wants his hand held all the time, and I have a mine engineer who is past it. Oh, Cameron’s all right, I suppose, but he’s old and he’s running scared.’
‘You’ve got yourself a packet of trouble,’ said McGill.
Ballard snorted. ‘You don’t know the half of it. I haven’t said anything about the unions yet, not to mention the attitude of some of the town people.’
‘You sound as though you earn your pay. But why the hell stick to a Ballard company if you feel like this?’
‘Oh, I don’t know – some remnants of family loyalty, I suppose,’ said Ballard tiredly. ‘After all, my grandfather did pay for my education, and quite extensive it was. I suppose I owe him something for that.’
McGill noted Ballard’s evident depression and tiredness and decided to change the subject. ‘Let’s eat, and I’ll tell you about the ice worms in Alaska.’ He plunged into an improbable story.

FOUR (#ulink_9f2d4446-a872-57fd-bad5-86f527aad404)
The next morning was bright and sunny and the snow, which had been falling all night, had stopped, leaving the world freshly minted. When Ballard got up, heavy-eyed and unrested, he found Mrs Evans in the kitchen cooking breakfast. She scolded him. ‘You should have let me know when you were coming back. I only learned by chance from Betty Hargreaves last night.’
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I forgot. Are you cooking for three?’ Mrs Evans usually ate breakfast with him; it was a democratic society.
‘I am. Your friend has gone out already, but he’ll be back for a late breakfast.’
Ballard consulted his watch to discover that he had overslept by more than an hour. ‘Give me ten minutes.’
When he had showered and dressed he felt better and found McGill in the living-room unwrapping a large parcel. ‘It came,’ said McGill. ‘Your truck got through.’
Ballard looked at what was revealed; it was a backpack which appeared to contain nothing but sections of aluminium tubing each nestling in an individual canvas pocket. ‘What’s that?’
‘The tools of my trade,’ said McGill. Mrs Evans called, and he added, ‘Let’s eat; I’m hungry.’
Ballard toyed with his breakfast while McGill wolfed down a plateful of bacon and eggs, and pleased Mrs Evans by asking for more. While she was out of the room he said, ‘You asked me here for the skiing, and there’s no time like the present. How’s your leg?’
Ballard shook his head. ‘The leg is all right, but sorry, Mike – not today. I’m a working man.’
‘You’d better come.’ Something in McGill’s tone made Ballard look at him sharply. McGill’s face was serious. ‘You’d better come and see what I’m doing. I want an independent witness.’
‘A witness to what?’
‘To whatever it is I find.’
‘And what will that be?’
‘How do I know until I find it?’ He stared at Ballard. ‘I’m serious, Ian. You know what my job is. I’m going to make a professional investigation. You’re the boss man of the mine and you couldn’t make a better witness. You’ve got authority.’
‘For God’s sake!’ said Ballard. ‘Authority to do what?’
‘To close down the mine if need be, but that depends on what I find, and I won’t know that until I look, will I?’ As Ballard’s jaw dropped McGill said, ‘I couldn’t believe my eyes at what I saw yesterday. It looked like a recipe for instant disaster, and I spent a damned uneasy night. I won’t be happy until I take a look.’
‘Where?’
McGill got to his feet and walked to the window. ‘Come here.’ He pointed at the steep slope above the mine. ‘Up there.’
Ballard looked at the long curve, blinding white in the sunlight. ‘You think …’ His voice tailed away.
‘I think nothing until I get evidence one way or the other,’ said McGill sharply. ‘I’m a scientist, not a soothsayer.’ He shook his head warningly as Mrs Evans came in with a fresh plate of bacon and eggs. ‘Finish your breakfast.’
As they sat down he said, ‘I suppose you can find me a pair of skis.’
Ballard nodded, his mind busy with the implications of what McGill had said – or had not said. McGill dug into his second plateful of breakfast. ‘Then we go skiing,’ he said lightly.
Two hours later they were nearly three thousand feet above the mine and half way up the slope. They had not talked much and when Ballard had tried McGill advised him to save his breath for climbing. But now they stopped and McGill unslung the backpack, dropping one of the straps over a ski-stick rammed firmly into the snow.
He took off his skis and stuck them vertically into the snow up-slope of where he was standing. ‘Another safety measure,’ he said conversationally. ‘If there’s a slide then the skis will tell someone that we’ve been swept away. And that’s why you don’t take off your Oertel cord.’
Ballard leaned on his sticks. ‘The last time you talked about avalanches I was in one.’
McGill grinned. ‘Don’t fool yourself. You were in a little trickle – a mere hundred feet.’ He pointed down the mountainside. ‘If this lot goes it’ll be quite different.’
Ballard felt uneasy. ‘You’re not really expecting an avalanche?’
McGill shook his head. ‘Not right now.’ He bent down to the backpack. ‘I’m going to do a little gentle thumping and you can help me to do it. Take off your skis.’
He began to take aluminium tubing from the pack and to assemble it into some kind of a gadget. ‘This is a penetrometer – an updating of the Haefeli design. It’s a sort of pocket pile-driver – it measures the resistance of the snow. It also gives us a core, and temperature readings at ten-centimetre intervals. All the data for a snow profile.’
Ballard helped him set it up although he suspected that McGill could have done the job just as handily without him. There was a sliding weight which dropped down a narrow rod a known distance before hitting the top of the aluminium tube and thus driving it into the snow. Each time the weight dropped McGill noted the distance of penetration and recorded it in a notebook.
They thumped with the weight, adding lengths of tubing as necessary, and hit bottom at 158 centimetres – about five feet.
‘There’s a bit of a hard layer somewhere in the middle,’ said McGill, taking an electric plug from the pack. He made a connection in the top of the tubing and plugged the other end into a box with a dial on it. ‘Make a note of these temperatures; there’ll be fifteen readings.’
As Ballard took the last reading he said, ‘How do we get it out?’
‘We have a tripod and a miniature block and tackle.’ McGill grinned. ‘I think they pinched this bit from an oil rig.’
He erected the tripod and started to haul out the tube. As the first section came free he disconnected it carefully and then took a knife and sliced through the ice in the tube. The sections were two feet long and the three of them were soon out. McGill put the tubes back into the pack, complete with the snow cores they contained. ‘We’ll have a look at those back at the house.’
Ballard squatted on his heels and looked across the valley. ‘What now?’
‘Now we do another, and another, and another, and another in a line diagonally down the slope. I’d like to do more but that’s all the core tubing I have.’
They had just finished the fourth trial boring when McGill looked up the slope. ‘We have company.’
Ballard turned his head to see three skiers traversing down towards them. The leader was moving fast and came around in a flashy stem christiania which sent the snow spraying before he stopped. When he lifted blue-tinted goggles Ballard recognized Charlie Peterson.
Peterson looked at Ballard with some astonishment. ‘Oh, it’s you! Eric told me you were back but I haven’t seen you around.’
‘Hello, Charlie.’
The two other skiers came up and stopped more sedately – they were the two Americans, Miller and Newman. Charlie said, ‘How did you get here?’
Ballard and McGill looked at each other, and Ballard wordlessly pointed to the skis. Charlie snorted. ‘You used to be afraid of falling off anything steeper than a billiard table.’ He looked curiously at the dismantled penetrometer. ‘What are you doing?’
McGill answered. ‘Looking at snow.’
Charlie pointed a stick. ‘What’s that thing?’
‘A gadget for testing snow strength.’
Charlie grinned at Ballard. ‘Since when did you become interested in snow? Your Ma wouldn’t let you out in it for fear you’d catch cold.’
Ballard said evenly, ‘I’ve become interested in a lot of things since then, Charlie.’
He laughed loudly. ‘Yes? I’ll bet you’re a hot one with the girls.’
Newman said abruptly, ‘Let’s go.’
‘No, wait a minute,’ said Charlie. ‘I’m interested. What are you doing with that watchamacallit?’
McGill straightened. ‘I’m testing the stresses on this snow slope.’
‘This slope’s all right.’
‘When did you have this much snow before?’
‘There’s always snow in the winter.’
‘Not this much.’
Charlie looked at Miller and Newman and grinned at them. ‘All the better – it makes for good skiing.’ He rubbed the side of his jaw. ‘Why come here to look at snow?’
McGill bent down to buckle a strap. ‘The usual reason.’
The grin left Charlie’s face. ‘What reason?’ he asked blankly.
‘Because it’s here,’ said McGill patiently.
‘Funny!’ said Charlie. ‘Very funny! How long are you going to be here?’
‘For as long as it takes.’
‘That’s no kind of answer.’
Ballard stepped forward. ‘That’s all the answer you’re going to get, Charlie.’
Charlie grinned genially. ‘Staying away for so long has made you bloody prickly. I don’t remember you giving back-chat before.’
Ballard smiled. ‘Maybe I’ve changed, Charlie.’
‘I don’t think so,’ he said deliberately. ‘People like you never change.’
‘You’re welcome to find out any time you like.’
Newman said, ‘Cut it out, Charlie. I don’t know what you have against this guy and I don’t much care. All I know is he helped us yesterday. Anyway, this is no place to pick a fight.’
‘I agree,’ said Ballard.
Charlie turned to Newman. ‘Hear that? He hasn’t changed.’ He swung around and pointed down the slope. ‘All right. We go down in traverses – that way first. This is a good slope for practising stem turns.’
Miller said, ‘It looks good.’
‘Wait a minute,’ said McGill sharply. ‘I wouldn’t do that.’
Charlie turned his head. ‘And why not, for Christ’s sake?’
‘It could be dangerous.’
‘Crossing the road can be dangerous,’ he said contemptuously. He jerked his head at Miller. ‘Let’s go.’
Miller pulled down his goggles. ‘Sure.’
‘Hold on,’ said Newman. He looked down at the penetrometer. ‘Maybe the guy’s got something there.’
‘The hell with him,’ said Charlie, and pushed off. Miller followed without another word. Newman looked at Ballard for a moment, then shrugged expressively before he followed them.
McGill and Ballard watched them go down. Charlie, in the lead, skied showily with a lot of unnecessary flair; Miller was sloppy and Newman neat and economical in his movements. They watched them all the way to the bottom.
Nothing happened.
‘Who’s the jerk?’ McGill asked.
‘Charlie Peterson. He’s set up as a ski instructor.’
‘He seems to know you.’ McGill glanced sideways. ‘And your family.’
‘Yes,’ said Ballard expressionlessly.
‘I keep forgetting you were brought up here.’ McGill scratched his cheek reflectively. ‘You know, you could be useful. I want to find someone in the valley who has lived here a long time, whose family has lived here a long time. I need information.’
Ballard thought for a moment and then smiled and pointed with his ski-stick. ‘See that rock down there? That’s Kamakamaru, and a man called Turi Buck lives in a house just on the other side. I should have seen him before now but I’ve been too bloody busy.’
McGill hung his backpack on a convenient post outside Turi Buck’s house. ‘Better not take that inside. The ice would melt.’
Ballard knocked on the door which was opened by a girl of about fourteen, a Maori girl with a cheerful smile. ‘I’m looking for Turi Buck.’
‘Wait a minute,’ she said and disappeared, and he heard her voice raised. ‘Grandpa, there’s someone to see you.’
Presently Turi appeared. Ballard was a little shocked at what he saw; Turi’s hair was a frizzled grey and his face was seamed and lined like a water-eroded hillside. There was no recognition in his brown eyes as he said, ‘Anything I can do for you?’
‘Not a great deal, Turi,’ said Ballard. ‘Don’t you remember me?’
Turi stepped forward, coming out of the doorway and into the light. He frowned and said uncertainly, ‘I don’t …, my eyesight’s not as good as … Ian?’
‘Your eyesight is not so bad,’ said Ballard.
‘Ian!’ said Turi in delight. ‘I heard you were back – you should have come to see me sooner. I thought you had forgotten.’
‘Work, Turi; the work comes first – you taught me that. This is my friend, Mike McGill.’
Turi beamed at them. ‘Well, come in; come in.’
He led them into the house and into a room familiar to Ballard. Over the great fieldstone fireplace was the wapiti head with its great spread of antlers, and a wood fire burned beneath it. On the walls were the wood carvings inlaid with paua shell shimmering iridescently. The greenstone mere – the Maori war axe – was still there and, in pride of place, Turi’s whakapapa stick, his most prized possession, very intricately carved and which gave his ancestry.
Ballard looked around. ‘Nothing has changed.’
‘Not here,’ said Turi.
Ballard nodded towards the window. ‘A lot of change out there, though, I didn’t recognize the valley.’
Turi sighed. ‘Too much change – too quickly. But where have you been, Ian?’
‘A lot of places. All over the world.’
‘Sit down,’ said Turi. ‘Tell me about it.’
‘Tell me about yourself first. Did that beautiful young lady call you “Grandpa”?’
‘I am a grandfather five times now.’ Turi’s shoulders shook. ‘My sons are men and all married. Both my daughters are mothers.’
‘Tawhaki,’ said Ballard. ‘How is Tawhaki?’ He had been Ballard’s playmate as a child and a constant companion as he grew older.
‘He does well,’ said Turi. ‘He went to the University of Otago and took a good degree.’
‘In what?’
Turi laughed. ‘In economics. Imagine a Maori knowing about economics. He has a post in the Department of Finance in Auckland. I don’t see him often.’
‘You must give me his address. I’ll look him up when next I’m in Auckland.’ Ballard saw Turi regarding McGill with interest. ‘Mike, here, is very interested in snow. He’s so interested he’s going to Antarctica later in the year.’
Turi’s seamed face broke into a grim smile. ‘Then there’s something for you here, Mike. We have a lot of snow; more than I can remember since 1943.’
‘So I’ve seen.’
Ballard went to the window. On the other side of the valley the cedar branches drooped heavily under the weight of snow. He turned, and said, ‘What happened to the trees on the west slope, Turi?’
‘Above the mine?’
‘Yes,’ said Ballard. ‘That slope has been stripped.’
McGill became alert. ‘The slope used to be timbered?’
Turi nodded and then shrugged. ‘When they put in the mine they wanted props. Kahikatea make good mine props.’ He looked up. ‘The Petersons own that land; they made a good profit.’
‘I bet they did,’ said Ballard.
‘Your mother shouldn’t have sold it to them.’ Turi clasped his hands. ‘Then they blasted out the stumps and put the land down to grass for hay. They run cattle on the river flats; Herefords for beef and a few dairy cows. That’s also become profitable now the town has grown.’
Ballard said, ‘Didn’t anybody think of what would happen when the snow came?’
‘Oh yes,’ said Turi. ‘I did.’
‘Didn’t you say anything? Didn’t you object when they put up the mine building? When they built the township?’
‘I objected. I objected very loudly. But the Petersons were louder. Who would listen to an old man?’ His lips twisted. ‘Especially one with a brown skin.’
Ballard snorted and looked at McGill who said slowly, ‘The stupid bastards! The stupid, greedy bastards!’ He looked about the room and then at Turi. ‘When did you come to the valley, Mr Buck?’
‘My name is Turi, and I was born here.’ He smiled. ‘New Year’s Day, 1900. I’m as old as the century.’
‘Who built the house?’
‘My father built it in about 1880, I think. It was built on the site of my grandfather’s house.’
‘And when was that built?’
Turi shrugged. ‘I don’t know. My people have lived here a long time.’
McGill nodded. ‘Did your father give any reason for building on the same site? Under this big rock?’
Turi answered obliquely. ‘He said that anyone building in Hukahoronui must take precautions.’
‘He knew what he was talking about.’ McGill turned to Ballard. ‘I’d like to test those samples pretty quickly. And I’d like to come back to talk to you, Turi, if I may?’
‘You must both come back. Come to supper and meet a couple of my grandchildren.’
As Turi accompanied them to the door Ballard said, ‘You don’t think much of the mine, do you, Turi?’
‘Too many changes,’ he said, and shook his head wryly. ‘We now have a supermarket.’
‘You know I’m in charge of the mine now – and I don’t like it much, either. But I think my reasons are different. You’re going to see more changes, Turi, but these I think you’ll like.’
Turi thumped him gently on the arm. ‘He tamariki koe? You’re a man now, Ian; a real man.’
‘Yes,’ said Ballard. ‘I’ve grown up. Thanks, Turi.’
Turi watched them put on their skis and, as they traversed the slope which led away from the house, he waved and called, ‘Haere ra!’
Ballard looked back over his shoulder. ‘Haere ra!’ They headed back to the mine.

FIVE (#ulink_a3a48616-dbc5-5687-88fe-fe1721b3cda8)
The late afternoon sun poured through the windows of the hall, rendered multi-coloured by the stained glass. Patches of colour lay across the tables; the carafe of water in front of Ballard looked as though it was filled with blood.
Dan Edwards loosened his tie and wished he could have a cold beer. ‘They’ll be adjourning pretty soon,’ he said to Dalwood. ‘I wish old Harrison would get a bloody move on. All this talk of snow doesn’t make me feel any cooler.’
Harrison poured himself a glass of water and sipped. He set down the glass, and said, ‘So you took samples of the snow cover on the western slope in the presence of Mr Ballard. What were your findings?’
McGill unzipped the leather satchel and took out a sheaf of papers. ‘I have written an entire report on the events that occurred at Hukahoronui – from the technical side, of course. I submit the report to the Commission.’ He gave the report to Reed who passed it up to Harrison. ‘Part One consists of my findings on the first series of snow profiles which was submitted to the mine management and, later, to the municipal authorities of Hukahoronui.’
Harrison flipped through the pages and frowned, then he passed the papers to Professor Rolandson. They conferred for a moment in low voices, then Harrison said, ‘This is all very well, Dr McGill; but your report appears to be highly technical and contains more mathematical formulae than the majority of us are accustomed to. After all, this is a public hearing. Could you not describe your findings in a language that can be understood by others apart from yourself and Professor Rolandson?’
‘Of course,’ said McGill. ‘Indeed, I did so to the people in Hukahoronui.’
‘You may proceed; and you may expect to be questioned – in the interests of clarity – by Professor Rolandson.’
McGill clasped his hands in front of him. ‘Snow is not so much a substance as a process; it changes in time. It begins with a snowflake falling to earth and becoming part of the general snow cover. It is a six-sided crystal and not very stable, and sublimation begins – a sort of evaporation. Eventually the crystal becomes a small, rounded granule. This is called destructive metamorphism and results in a higher density because the air is squeezed out. At the same time, because of the evaporative process, there is water vapour in the snow mass and, due to the low temperature, the separate granules tend to bond together by freezing.’
‘This bond is not particularly strong, is it?’ asked Rolandson.
‘The bond is not strong, when compared with other materials.’ Rolandson nodded and McGill went on. ‘The next thing to take into account is the temperature through the snow cover. It’s not constant – it’s warmer at the bottom than the top, thus forming a temperature gradient. If you look at Graph One you will find the temperature gradient of those first five samples.’
Rolandson flipped pages. ‘Not a very steep gradient – not more than two degrees.’
‘It’s enough for the next stage in the process. There is still a lot of air in the snow cover and the relatively warm air at the bottom begins to rise carrying water vapour with it. The vapour precipitates on the colder granules above. There is now a building process at work which is called constructive metamorphism, and a new kind of crystal begins to form – a cup crystal.’
‘Could you describe a cup crystal, Dr McGill?’
‘It’s a conical shape with a hollow in the blunt end – the cup.’
‘And how large is a cup crystal?’
‘A well-developed crystal may run to half an inch long, but you can take a quarter-inch as average.’ McGill paused, and when Rolandson remained silent, he said, ‘Graph Two shows the penetrometer readings – that is the resistance of the snow to stress.’
Rolandson studied it. ‘This is the resistance in kilograms plotted against depth?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘There’s a discontinuity half way down on all five samples.’
‘Yes, sir; that’s a layer of surface hoar.’
Harrison interrupted. ‘If it is not on the surface how can it be described as surface hoar?’
‘It was on the surface. When the surface of the snow is colder than the air above it then there is more sublimation of water vapour – something like the condensation on the outside of a glass of cold beer.’ (In the Press gallery Dan Edwards sighed in anguish and licked his lips.) ‘In this case I should imagine it happened on a clear and cloudless night when there would be a lot of outgoing radiation. Then the hoar, or frost, would form on the surface producing flat plates of thin ice.’
Again Harrison brought up the objection. ‘But this discontinuity, as Professor Rolandson calls it, is not on the surface.’
‘No,’ agreed McGill. ‘Normally, when the sun hits it in the morning it disappears. In this case, I imagine that clouds came over before sunrise and it began to snow again quite heavily. The layer of hoar was covered and preserved.’
‘With what significance?’ queried Rolandson.
‘Several things could happen. The layer is quite hard, as you can see from the penetrometer readings. It is also quite smooth and could form a sliding surface for the snow above it.’ McGill extended two fingers. ‘Secondly, a layer of hoar is formed of flat plates of ice fused together – that is, it is relatively impermeable to air. This means that the most likely place for cup crystals to form would be just under the hoar layer.’
‘You emphasize cup crystals. In what way are they dangerous?’
‘They are dangerous because of their rounded shape and because there is very little bonding between one crystal and another.’ McGill tugged at his ear. ‘As a very rough analogy I would suggest that it would be very difficult for a man to walk on a floor loosely packed with billiard balls. It’s that kind of instability.’
‘Was there any evidence of cup crystals forming at this time?’
‘They had begun to form in sample one, the highest up the slope. I had reason to believe that the process would continue which would result in a marked decline in stability.’
‘Go on, Dr McGill.’
McGill put up a third finger. ‘Three, the weather forecast at the time indicated more snow – more weight – on that slope.’ He dropped his hand. ‘All things considered I came to the conclusion that the snow cover on the western slope of the valley of Hukahoronui was relatively unstable and thus formed a potential avalanche hazard. I so informed the mine management.’
‘You mean Mr Ballard?’ asked Harrison.
‘Present at the meeting were Mr Ballard; Mr Dobbs, the mine manager; Mr Cameron, the mine engineer; Mr Quentin, the union representative.’
‘And you were present during the whole of that meeting?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Then I think we can take your evidence as best evidence of what occurred at the meeting, subject to later appraisal. However, the time has come to adjourn for today. We will gather here at ten in the morning when you, Dr McGill, will again be a witness. The hearing is adjourned.’

SIX (#ulink_05e7af74-db7f-5d0d-b9a6-512e7cdfb246)
The participants of the hearing flooded on to the pavement of Armagh Street and began to disperse. Dan Edwards, heading rapidly beerwards, stopped when Dalwood said, ‘Who is the tall redhead talking to Ballard? The girl with the dog.’
Edwards craned his neck. ‘Good God! Now what the hell goes on there?’
‘Who is she?’
‘Liz Peterson, the sister of Charlie and Eric.’
Dalwood watched Ballard pat the Alsatian and smile at the girl warmly. ‘They seem on good terms.’
‘Yes – bloody funny, isn’t it? Charlie has got his knife so deep into Ballard that he’s in blood up to his armpit. I wonder if he knows Liz is fraternizing with the enemy?’
‘We’ll soon know,’ said Dalwood. ‘Here come Charlie and Eric now.’
The two men came out of the building, unsmiling and exchanging monosyllables. Charlie looked up and his face became thunderous. He snapped something at his brother and quickened his pace, elbowing his way through the crowd on the pavement. At that moment a car drew up and Ballard got into it and when Charlie reached his sister Ballard had gone. Charlie spoke to his sister and an argument seemed to develop.
Edwards watched the by-play, and said, ‘If he didn’t know he does now. What’s more, he doesn’t like it.’
‘And the dog doesn’t like Charlie. Look at it.’
The Alsatian’s upper lip was curled back in a snarl and Liz Peterson shortened her grip on the lead and spoke sharply to it.
Edwards sighed. ‘Let’s get that beer. The first one will hiss going down.’
Mike McGill was driving the car. He slanted an eye at Ballard and then returned his attention to the road. ‘Well, what do you think?’
‘Your evidence was good. Very concise.’
‘Rolandson helped; he fed me some good lines. He makes a good straight man to my comedian. You didn’t do too well, though.’
‘I’m doing all right.’
‘Wake up, Ian! That son of a bitch, Rickman, is going to deliver you bound and gagged if you don’t stop him.’
‘Save it, Mike,’ said Ballard shortly. ‘I’m too bloody tired.’
McGill bit his lip and lapsed into silence. After ten minutes he swung off the road and parked in the forecourt of their hotel. ‘You’ll feel better after a cold beer,’ he said. ‘It was goddam hot in that courthouse. Okay?’
‘All right,’ said Ballard listlessly.
They went into the hotel bar and McGill ordered two beers and took them to a discreet table. ‘Here’s mud in your eye.’ He drank and gasped with pleasure. ‘God, how I needed that!’ He replenished his glass. ‘That courthouse is sure some place. Who designed it – Edward the Confessor?’
‘It’s not a courthouse – it’s a sort of provincial House of Parliament. Or it was.’
McGill grinned. ‘The bit I like about it are those pious texts set in the stained glass windows. I wonder who thought those up?’ In the same even tone he said, ‘What did Liz Peterson want?’
‘Just to wish me well.’
‘Did she?’ said McGill sardonically. ‘If she really meant it she’d operate on that brother of hers with a sharp knife.’ He watched the condensation form on the outside of his glass. ‘Come to think of it, a blunt knife might be better. The Peterson lawyer was really sniping at you this morning.’
‘I know.’ Ballard took another draught. It seemed to do him good. ‘It doesn’t matter, Mike. You and I know the evidence is on our side.’
‘You’re wrong,’ said McGill flatly. ‘Evidence is how a lawyer puts it – and talking about lawyers, what about Rickman? You know what he did to you this morning, don’t you? He made it look as though you were trying to renege. Hell, everyone in that hall thought you were trying to slip the country.’
Ballard rubbed his eyes. ‘I said something to Rickman just before the hearing opened, and he got it wrong, that’s all.’
‘That’s all? That’s not all – not by a thousand miles. A smart guy like that doesn’t get things wrong in a courtroom. If he got it wrong then he meant to get it wrong. What did you say to him, anyway?’
Ballard took out his wallet and extracted a piece of paper. ‘I was leaving the hotel this morning when I got this.’ He passed it to McGill. ‘My grandfather’s dead!’
McGill unfolded the cablegram and read it. ‘Ian, I’m sorry; I really am.’ He was silent for a moment. ‘This Harriet – is she your mother?’
‘Yes.’
‘She wants you to go home.’
‘She would,’ said Ballard bitterly.
‘And you showed this to Rickman?’
‘Yes.’
‘And he got up on his hind legs and, by inference, demonstrated that you are a coward. Hell, Ian; he’s not representing you! He’s representing the company.’
‘Six of one and half a dozen of the other.’
McGill regarded Ballard and slowly shook his head. ‘You really believe what the Chairman of the Commission said, don’t you? That all they want is to get at the truth. Well, that may be what Harrison thinks but it’s not what the public want. Fifty-four people died, Ian, and the public want a scapegoat. The President of your company knows …’
‘Chairman.’
McGill waggled his hand. ‘To hell with semantics. The Chairman of your company knows that, too, and he’s making goddam sure the company isn’t the goat. That’s why he’s employed a sharp cookie like Rickman, and if you think Rickman is acting for you then you’re out of your mind. If the company can get out from under by sacrificing you then that’s what they’ll do.’
He thumped the table. ‘I can write the scenario right now. “Mr Ballard is new to the company. Mr Ballard is young and inexperienced. It is only to be expected that so young a man should make unfortunate mistakes. Surely such errors of judgment may be excused in one so inexperienced.”’ McGill leaned back in his chair. ‘By the time Rickman is finished with you he’ll have everyone believing you arranged the goddam avalanche – and the Petersons and that snide lawyer of theirs will fall over themselves to help him.’
Ballard smiled slightly. ‘You have great powers of imagination, Mike.’
‘Oh, what the hell!’ said McGill disgustedly. ‘Let’s have another beer.’
‘My round.’ Ballard got up and went to the bar. When he came back he said, ‘So the old boy’s dead.’ He shook his head. ‘You know, Mike, it hit me harder than I thought it would.’
McGill poured more beer. ‘Judging by the way you talked about him, I’m surprised you feel anything at all.’
‘Oh, he was a cantankerous old devil – stubborn and self-opinionated – but there was something about him …’ Ballard shook his head. ‘I don’t know.’
‘What happens to the parent corporation … what’s it called?’
‘Ballard Holdings.’
‘What happens to Ballard Holdings now he’s dead? Is it up for grabs?’
‘I shouldn’t think so. The old man established a trust or something like that. I never really got the hang of it because I knew I wouldn’t figure in it. I imagine that things will remain pretty stable, with Uncle Bert and Uncle Steve and Uncle Ed running things pretty much as they are now. Which is to say badly.’
‘I don’t see why the shareholders put up with it.’
‘The shareholders don’t have a bloody thing to do with it. Let me tell you a fact of financial life, Mike. You don’t really need fifty-one per cent of the shares of a company to control it. Thirty per cent is enough if the other shares are fragmented into small parcels and if your lawyers and accountants are smart enough.’ Ballard shrugged. ‘In any case, the shareholders aren’t too unhappy; all the Ballard companies make profits, and the kind of people who are buying into Ballard companies these days aren’t the type to inquire too closely into how the profits are made.’
‘Yeah,’ said McGill abstractedly. This was not really of interest to him. He leaned forward and said, ‘Let’s do some strategy planning.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I’ve been figuring how Harrison’s mind works. He’s a very logical guy and that works in our favour. I’m going to give evidence tomorrow about the meeting with the mine management. Why me?’
‘Harrison asked if you’d been present during the entire meeting – and you had. He picked you because you were already on the stand and it was quicker than calling another witness. That’s what I think, anyway.’
McGill looked pleased. ‘That’s what I think, too. Harrison said he’d take evidence in chronological order, and he’s doing just that. Now what happened after the mine meeting?’
‘We had the meeting with the town council.’
‘And what will Harrison ask me?’
‘He’ll ask if you were present during the whole of that meeting – and you’ll have to say no, because you left half way through. So?’
‘So I want to pick the next witness, and knowing how Harrison’s mind works, I think I can swing it.’
‘Who do you want for the next witness?’
‘Turi Buck,’ said McGill. ‘I want to get on record the history of Hukahoronui just to ram things home. I want to get on record the sheer stupidity of that goddam town council.’
Ballard looked broodingly into his glass. ‘I don’t like doing that to Turi. It might hurt.’
‘He wants to do it. He’s already put himself forward as a voluntary witness. He’s staying with his sister here in Christchurch; we’ll pick him up tomorrow morning.’
‘All right.’
‘Now, look, Ian. Turi is an old man and may be likely to become confused under hostile cross-examination. We’ve got to make sure that the right questions are asked in the right order. We’ve got to cover the ground so thoroughly that no one – not Lyall nor Rickman – can find a loophole.’
‘I’ll make out a list of questions for Rickman,’ said Ballard.
McGill rolled his eyes skyward. ‘Can’t you get it into your thick skull that if Rickman questions Turi it will be in a hostile manner.’
Ballard said sharply, ‘Rickman is representing me and he’ll follow my instructions.’
‘And if he doesn’t?’
‘If he doesn’t then I’ll know you’re right – and that will free me completely. We’ll see.’ He drained his glass. ‘I feel sticky; I’m going to have a shower.’
As they left the bar McGill said, ‘About that cablegram. You’re not going back, are you?’
‘You mean running home to Mamma?’ Ballard grinned. ‘Not while Harrison is Chairman of the Commission. I doubt if even my mother could win against Harrison.’
‘Your mother isn’t Jewish, is she?’ asked McGill curiously.
‘No. Why do you ask?’
‘Oh, it’s just that Jewish mothers are popularly supposed to be strong-willed. But I think that your mother could give a Jewish mother points and still win.’
‘It’s not a matter of a strong will,’ said Ballard soberly. ‘It’s just straightforward moral blackmail.’

THE HEARING SECOND DAY (#ulink_6964ad52-4586-58d6-bbc9-4c33e78ba4e3)

SEVEN (#ulink_0ce4cc21-770e-5f0b-a157-377b9925906e)
McGill and Ballard found Turi Buck waiting outside his sister’s home at nine-thirty next morning. Although it was still early the weather showed signs of becoming oppressively hot. Ballard leaned over to open the back door of the car, and said, ‘Jump in, Turi.’
‘I’m past jumping anywhere, Ian,’ said Turi wryly, ‘But I’ll endeavour to accommodate myself in this seat.’
Sometimes Turi’s phrases had an oddly old-fashioned ring about them. Ballard knew he had never been formally educated but had read a lot, and he suspected that Sir Walter Scott was responsible for some of the more courtly expressions.
‘It’s good of you to come, Turi.’
‘I had to come, Ian.’
In the Provincial Chamber, at precisely ten o’clock, Harrison tapped the top of the rostrum gently with his gavel, and said, ‘We are now prepared to resume the inquiry into the avalanche disaster at Hukahoronui. Dr McGill was giving evidence. Will you please resume your seat?’
McGill walked to the witness chair and sat down. Harrison said, ‘Yesterday you referred to a meeting of the mine management at which you presented a report. What happened at that meeting?’
McGill tugged at his ear thoughtfully. ‘The problem was to explain the evidence and to get them to accept it. Mr Ballard had already accepted it. Mr Cameron wanted to go through the figures in detail, but he came around in the end. The others weren’t as convinced. It went like this …’
It was Cameron, the engineer, who saw the true significance of the cup crystals. ‘Could you draw a picture of one of those, Mike?’
‘Sure.’ McGill took a pencil from his pocket and made a drawing. ‘As I said, it’s conical in shape – like this – and it has this hollow in the blunt end. That’s why it’s called a cup crystal.’
‘I’m not worried about the hollow.’ Cameron stared at the drawing. ‘What you’ve sketched here is a pretty good picture of a tapered roller bearing. You say these are likely to form under that layer of hard hoar frost?’
‘Correct.’
‘That’s not good,’ said Cameron. ‘That’s not good at all. If you get a lot of weight on top pushing downwards vertically by gravity then there’ll be a resultant force sideways on the slope. The whole hillside could come down on ready-made bearings.’
Cameron passed the drawing to Dobbs who looked at it with Quentin, the union man, peering over his shoulder. ‘Any of those cup things there now?’
‘There are indications of them forming in one of the samples I took. I’d say the process is well under way.’
‘Let’s have a look at your stress figures.’ Cameron grimaced as he began to go through the equations. ‘I’m used to working with stronger stuff than snow.’
‘The principle is the same,’ said McGill.
Dobbs handed the drawing to Ballard. ‘Are you seriously telling us that there’ll be an avalanche which will fall on this mine?’
‘Not exactly,’ said McGill carefully. ‘What I’m saying, at this moment, is that there is a potential hazard that must be watched. I don’t think there is a present danger – it’s not going to come down in the next hour or even today. A lot depends on future events.’
‘Such as?’ asked Ballard.
‘The way the temperature goes. Future snow precipitation. An appreciable rise in wind speed wouldn’t help much, either.’
‘And the forecast is for more snow,’ said Ballard.
McGill said, ‘When you have a potential hazard like this you have to take precautions. Protecting the mine portal, for instance. There’s a steel construction called Wonder Arch which comes in useful. It was developed at Camp Century in Greenland specifically for this type of application. It’s used a lot in the Antarctic.’
‘Is it expensive?’ asked Dobbs. His voice was clouded with doubt.
McGill shrugged. ‘It depends on how much money you put against lives on the balance sheet.’ He turned to Cameron. ‘Joe, remember me asking if you’d heard of Granduc in British Columbia?’
Cameron looked up from the figures. ‘Yeah. I hadn’t.’
‘Granduc is remarkably like your mine here. They installed Wonder Arch – put in a covered way to the mine portal.’ He rubbed the side of his jaw. ‘It was like closing a stable door after the horse has gone; they put in the arch in 1966 after the avalanche of 1965 when twenty-six men died.’
There was a silence broken after a while by Cameron. ‘You make your point very clearly.’
Ballard said, ‘I’ll put it to the Board of Directors.’
‘That’s not all,’ said McGill. ‘You got to look at the situation in the long term. That slope is dangerous mostly because it’s been stripped of timber. It will have to be stabilized again, and that means building snow rakes. Good snow rakes cost sixty dollars a foot run – I doubt if you’d get away with under a million dollars.’
The sound of Dobbs’s suddenly indrawn breath was harsh.
‘Then there’s the snow deflection walls at the bottom,’ went on McGill inexorably. ‘That’s more – maybe even half a million. It’s going to cost a packet.’
‘The Board won’t stand for it,’ said Dobbs. He stared at Ballard. ‘You know we’re just paying our way now. They’re not going to put in all that extra capital for no increase in production. It just isn’t on.’
Quentin stirred. ‘Would you want to close down the mine?’
‘It’s a possibility,’ said Ballard. ‘But it’s not my decision.’
‘My people would have something to say about that. There’s a lot of jobs at stake.’ Quentin looked at McGill hostilely and threw out his hand. ‘And who’s to say he’s right? He comes busting in here with his tale of doom, but who the hell is he, anyway?’
Ballard straightened. ‘Let’s get one thing clear,’ he said. ‘As of yesterday Dr McGill became a professional consultant employed by this company to give us advice on certain problems. His qualifications satisfy me completely.’
‘You didn’t talk to me about this,’ said Dobbs.
Ballard gave him a level stare. ‘I wasn’t aware I had to, Mr Dobbs. You are so informed now.’
‘Does the Chairman know about this?’
‘He’ll know when I tell him, which will be very soon.’
Quentin was earnest. ‘Look, Mr Ballard; I’ve been listening carefully. There’s not been an avalanche, and your friend hasn’t said there’s going to be one. All he’s been talking about are potentials. I think the Board is going to need a lot more than that before they spend a million and a half dollars. I don’t think this mine is going to close – not on this kind of talk.’
‘What do you want?’ asked McGill. ‘Avalanche first – and protection later?’
‘I’m protecting the men’s jobs,’ said Quentin. ‘That’s what they put me in here for.’
‘Dead men don’t have jobs,’ said McGill brutally. ‘And while we’re at it, let’s get another thing quite clear. Mr Ballard has said that he has engaged me as a professional consultant, and that is quite true. But fundamentally I don’t give one good goddamn about the mine.’
‘The Chairman will be delighted to hear it,’ said Dobbs acidly. He looked at Ballard. ‘I don’t think we need carry on with this any more.’
‘Carry on, Mike,’ said Ballard quietly. ‘Tell them the rest. Tell them what’s really worrying you.’
McGill said, ‘I’m worried about the town.’
There was a silence for the space of ten heartbeats and then Cameron cleared his throat. ‘It’s snowing again,’ he said, not altogether inconsequentially.
‘That just about finished the meeting,’ said McGill. ‘It was decided that the mine management should consult with the town council that afternoon, if possible. Then Mr Ballard was to communicate by telephone with the Presi … Chairman of his company.’
Gunn had his hand up, and Harrison said, ‘Yes, Mr Gunn?’
‘May I question the witness, Mr Chairman?’ Harrison inclined his head, and Gunn proceeded. ‘Dr McGill, the meeting you have just described took place a long time ago, did it not?’
‘The meeting took place on the sixteenth of July. On the Friday morning.’
‘It is now December – nearly five months later. Would you say that you have a good memory, Dr McGill?’
‘About average.’
‘About average! I put it to you that you have a much better than average memory.’
‘If you say so.’
‘Indeed, I do say so. When I listened to your evidence – when you related the conversations of others ad verbatim – I was put in mind of a stage performance I saw quite recently in which a so-called memory man amazed an audience.’
‘Mr Gunn,’ interjected Harrison. ‘Irony and sarcasm may, or may not, have their place in a law court; they have certainly no place here. Please refrain.’
‘Yes, Mr Chairman.’ Gunn did not seem put out; he was aware that he had made his point. ‘Dr McGill, you have given evidence that Mr Quentin, the elected union leader at Hukahoronui mine, seemed – and I use the word advisedly – seemed to be more intent on filling the pockets of his comrades than in preserving their lives. Now, Mr Quentin is not here to defend himself – he was killed in the disaster at Hukahoronui – and since I represent the union I must defend Mr Quentin. I put it to you that your recollection of this meeting so long ago may be incorrect.’
‘No, sir; it is not incorrect.’
‘Come, Dr McGill; note that I said that your evidence may be incorrect. Surely there is no loss of face in admitting that you may be wrong?’
‘My evidence was correct, sir.’
‘To traduce a dead man when it is not necessary is not thought to be good manners, sir. No doubt you have heard the tag, “De mortuis nil nisi bonum.” ‘ Gunn waved his arm largely. ‘The good and wise men who caused this hall to be built saw fit to include cogent aphorisms in these windows to guide them in their deliberations. I draw your attention to the text in the windows just above your head, Dr McGill. It reads: “Be not a hypocrite in the sight of men, and talk good when thou speakest.”’
McGill was silent, and Gunn said, ‘Well, Dr McGill?’
‘I was not aware that I had been asked a question,’ said McGill quietly.
Harrison shifted uneasily on his seat and seemed about to interrupt, but Gunn waved his arm again. ‘If it is your claim to have a memory so much better than other men then I must accept it, I suppose.’
‘I have an average memory, sir. And I keep a diary.’
‘Oh!’ Gunn was wary. ‘Regularly?’
‘As regularly as need be. I am a scientist who investigates snow, which is an evanescent and ever-changing substance, so I am accustomed to taking notes on the spot.’
‘Are you saying that while that very meeting was in progress you were actually taking written notes of what was said?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Ha! Then a period of time must have elapsed between the meeting and when you wrote down your impressions. Is that not so?’
‘Yes, sir. Half an hour. I wrote up my diary in my bedroom half an hour after the meeting ended. I consulted my diary this morning before I came to this hearing to refresh my memory.’
‘And you still insist on your evidence as it relates to Mr Quentin?’
‘I do.’
‘Do you know how Mr Quentin died?’
‘I know very well how Mr Quentin died.’
‘No more questions,’ said Gunn with an air of disgust. ‘I am quite finished with this witness.’
McGill glanced at Harrison. ‘May I add something?’
‘If it has a bearing on what we are trying to investigate.’
‘I think it has.’ McGill looked up at the roof of the hall, and then his gaze swept down towards Gunn. ‘I also have been studying the texts in the windows, Mr Gunn, and one, in particular, I have taken to heart. It is in a window quite close to you, and it reads: “Weigh thy words in a balance lest thou fall before him that lieth in wait.”’
A roar of laughter broke the tension in the hall and even Harrison smiled, while Rolandson guffawed outright. Harrison thumped with his gavel and achieved a modicum of quiet.
McGill said, ‘As for your Latin tag, Mr Gunn, I have never believed that latinity confers virtue on stupidity, and therefore I do not believe that one should never speak ill of the dead. I believe in the truth, and the truth is that the death toll in the Hukahoronui disaster was much higher than need be. The reason lies in the actions, reactions and inactions of many men who were confronted with an unprecedented situation beyond their understanding. Mr Quentin was one such man. I know that he died in the disaster, and I know that he died heroically. Nevertheless, the truth must be told so that other men, in the future, when faced with a similar situation will know the right things to do.’
‘Mr Chairman!’ Gunn was waving his arm, but Rickman had beaten him to it. He was on his feet, finger upraised. ‘This is monstrous! Must a witness make speeches and lecture us to tell us our duty? Must …’
Harrison’s gavel cracked down sharply, cutting off Rickman in mid-spate. ‘Mr Rickman, may I again remind you that this is not a court of law and that procedure is at my sole discretion. Dr McGill has just restated the nature and intention of this Commission of Inquiry in words more well chosen and acute than I myself used yesterday during the opening proceedings. I have noted in counsel a regrettable tendency to adversary tactics, a practice against which I warned you. I will have no more of it.’
There was a dead silence.
Dan Edwards was busily scribbling. ‘Boy, oh boy, oh boy! Good copy at last.’ He tore off a sheet and handed it to a youth behind him. ‘Get that back to the office as fast as you can.’
Harrison laid down his gavel. ‘Dr McGill: you say that the mine management had a meeting with the Hukahoronui Town Council on the afternoon of Friday, the fifth of July.’
‘No, sir. I said that was the arrangement at the meeting in the morning. In the event it proved to be impossible.’
‘Why?’
‘Three of the councillors were absent from town that day and it was impossible to find a quorum. The meeting was held next morning – the Saturday morning.’
‘A delay of half a day.’
‘Yes, sir.’ McGill hesitated. ‘Mr Ballard and I debated whether or not to approach the two councillors who remained in town and we decided against it. Our view was that such an important matter should be communicated to the council as a whole; we did not want to tell a complicated story twice.’
‘So you met on the Saturday?’
‘Yes, sir. There was one other person present at my request.’
‘Oh, who was that?’
‘Mr Turi Buck. I have to tell you that I was not present during the entire meeting. I left half way through.’
Harrison bent forward and said to Reed, ‘Is Mr Buck present?’
‘Yes, Mr Chairman.’ Reed turned in his seat. ‘Will you step forward, Mr Buck?’
Turi Buck came forward and stood before the rostrum. ‘Were you present during the entire meeting under discussion, Mr Buck?’ Harrison asked.
‘Yes, sir; I was.’ Turi’s voice was strong.
‘Then you will replace Dr McGill in the witness chair.’
McGill stepped down and went back to his place, winking at Ballard as he passed.

EIGHT (#ulink_fcc6a44e-5bc8-5b63-931c-0ccd51488b89)
Harrison said, ‘Mr Buck, would you be related to that illustrious member of your race, Sir Peter Buck?’
A ghost of a smile hovered on Turi’s seamed face. ‘No, sir.’
‘I see.’ Harrison drew his note-pad towards him. ‘Can you tell us who was present at this meeting?’
‘There was Ia … Mr Ballard and Mr Cameron from the mine. Dr McGill was there. And there was Mr Houghton, the mayor, and Mr Peterson – that’s to say John Peterson – and Eric Peterson, Mr Warrick and Mrs Samson.’
‘The last five were members of the council?’
‘Yes, sir.’
Harrison consulted a list. ‘Wasn’t Mr Quentin present?’
‘Oh yes; he was there. I forgot about him.’
‘Well, Mr Buck, perhaps you can tell us what went on at the meeting.’
Turi frowned. ‘It started off by Dr McGill telling of what he’d found. From what I’ve been hearing while I’ve been here I’d say it was just what he’d said at the meeting at the mine on the Friday. He told them there was a danger of avalanche and he told them why.’
‘What was the general reaction?’
‘They didn’t believe him.’
Lyall put up his hand. ‘Mr Chairman.’
‘Yes, Mr Lyall?’
‘It is incumbent on me to point out that of the ten people present at that meeting only four are able to be here at this inquiry. I ought to add that of the five council members only Mr Eric Peterson is able to be here.’
Harrison stared at him. ‘Now that you have given me that information – of which, I might add, I was well aware – what am I supposed to do with it?’
‘With respect, sir, one might think that Mr Eric Peterson is best qualified to give the reaction of the council.’
‘Does Mr Peterson wish to be a witness?’
‘He does.’
‘Then he will have his chance later. At present we are hearing the evidence of Mr Buck.’
‘Again with respect, Mr Chairman; may I point out that of the original mine management only Mr Ballard is here. Mr Dobbs and Mr Quentin are dead, and Mr Cameron is in hospital. It is well known in Hukahoronui that Mr Ballard and Mr Buck are friends of many years standing, and there has been evidence given here of the friendship between Mr Ballard and Dr McGill. It may be thought that the evidence given here is, shall we say, too one-sided.’
Harrison leaned back in his chair. ‘It is evident, Mr Lyall, that you are doing at least one of two things. You are impugning the integrity of this Commission, or you are questioning the honesty of Mr Buck. Possibly you are doing both. Do I understand you correctly?’
‘I do not question the integrity of the Commission, sir.’
Turi’s face was stricken as he half rose from his chair. Ian Ballard wriggled in his seat. He dug his elbow into Rickman’s ribs, and said, ‘The bastard! the utter bastard! Intervene and get on with that line of questioning I gave you.’
Rickman shook his head. ‘It would be most unwise. It wouldn’t be in the interests of the company.’ He twisted his head and looked at Lyall. ‘See how he’s stirring things up.’
‘But, God damn it, he’s making us into some sort of conspiracy.’
Rickman stared at him unwinkingly. ‘But not involving the company,’ he snapped.
Turi Buck lifted his hands helplessly. They were trembling as he said to Harrison, ‘May I be excused from the witness chair, sir?’
‘No, you may not, Mr Buck.’ Harrison turned his head. ‘Yes, Mr Ballard?’
Ballard lowered his hand. ‘I would like to question Mr Buck.’
Harrison frowned. ‘I thought you had representation, Mr Ballard. I gave warning at the beginning of this hearing that I would not allow it to be turned into a free-for-all.’
Ballard said, ‘As of thirty seconds ago Mr Rickman ceased to represent me personally. He will, of course, continue to represent the company.’
A wave of noise washed across the hall. Amid the uproar Rickman said, ‘You bloody young fool! What the devil do you think you’re doing?’
‘You’re fired,’ said Ballard briefly.
Harrison wielded his gavel lustily and at last achieved relative quietness. ‘If there is any more uproar I will have the public gallery cleared,’ he announced. ‘These proceedings will be conducted in an orderly manner.’ He waited until there was utter silence, broken only by the creaking of the old wooden floor, before he addressed Ballard. ‘Are you asking for an adjournment so that you may obtain a new legal adviser?’
‘No, sir. For today, at least, I am content to represent myself. I do not wish to waste the time of the Commission.’
Harrison allowed himself a wintry smile. ‘Very laudable. I wish the legal fraternity would follow your example. And you wish to interrogate Mr Buck?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘I object,’ said Rickman. ‘Apart from the personal insult to me in being dismissed so cavalierly and in public, I consider this to be most irregular.’
Harrison sighed. ‘Mr Rickman, you have been told many times that the procedure of this Commission is a matter for my discretion. Even in a law court it has not been unknown for a person to represent himself, choosing not to enlist the aid – or otherwise – of a lawyer. Therefore I will allow it.’ He held up his hand. ‘And I will entertain no argument about it. Proceed, Mr Ballard.’
Ballard smiled at Turi. ‘I will not comment on any remarks that have been made here, but will go on from your last relevant statement. Mr Buck, you said that the councillors did not believe Dr McGill when he informed them of avalanche hazard. What were their reasons for disbelief?’
‘They said there had never been avalanches in the valley.’
‘Did they? Mr Chairman, is it possible to have a map of the valley on view?’
‘Provision has been made. Mr Reed, will you see to it.’
Presently a large-scale map was set up on an easel behind the witness chair. Harrison said, ‘Since this map is evidence of a sort we must be sure that it is the best evidence. Mr Reed, call your technical witness, please.’
‘Call Mr Wheeler.’
Wheeler was new to Ballard, who regarded him with interest. He returned his gaze to the map, and his eyes narrowed suddenly. Reed said, ‘What is your full name?’
‘Harold Herbert Wheeler.’
Harrison said, ‘There is no need for you to take the witness chair, Mr Wheeler. Your evidence is technical and will not take long. What is your occupation?’
‘I am a cartographer employed by the Lands and Survey Department of the New Zealand Government.’
‘And you have prepared this map especially for this Inquiry?’
‘That is correct, sir.’
‘What does the map represent?’
‘It depicts the Hukahoronui Valley, including the township of Hukahoronui. The scale is one in two thousand, five hundred; that is twenty-five inches to the mile approximately.’
‘Does it represent the valley before or after the disaster?’
‘Before, sir. It is drawn according to the latest information available to the Topographical Office.’
‘Thank you, Mr Wheeler. That will be all.’
Ballard said, ‘Could Mr Wheeler hold himself available for possible further questions?’
Harrison wrinkled his brow. ‘I suppose so, Mr Ballard. You will stay available, Mr Wheeler.’
Ballard studied the map. ‘Mr Buck, I would like you, if you will, to point out on this map your own house.’ Turi stood up and indicated a point on the map with his finger. ‘And the Peterson store.’ Turi’s hand came up around in an arc and stopped. ‘Now my house.’ Again Turi pointed. ‘And the mine portal.’
‘I fail to see the point of this,’ said Rickman.
‘The point is to prove that Mr Buck can read a map as well as the next man,’ said Ballard pleasantly. ‘Mr Buck, at the meeting with the council was a map produced?’
‘Yes, but not as big as this one.’
‘And were you asked to point out various places on that map?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Now I want you to think very carefully. I don’t want you to say anything here, because of my questioning, that was not said at the meeting with the council. Do you understand?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why did you attend the meeting?’
‘Because Dr McGill asked me to go.’
‘Do you know why he asked you to go?’
‘He said I knew more about the history of Hukahoronui than anyone else he’d met.’
‘You say the reaction of the council was that there had, hitherto, never been avalanches in the valley. Was that the reaction of all the councillors?’
‘It was – at first.’
‘So their views changed, then. Let us find out why. Mr Buck, you are of the Maori race. Do you understand the language?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Can you give us a translation – a free translation, if you like – of the name, Hukahoronui?’
‘Yes, sir; it means “The Great Snow Slide”.’
There was a subdued murmur from behind Ballard. ‘Would you point out your own house again, Mr Buck. There is a great rock between your house and the mountainside, is there not? What is the name of that rock?’
‘Kamakamaru.’
‘Kamakamaru,’ repeated Ballard. ‘Can you translate that into English?’
‘It means “The Rock of Shelter”.’
Again came that quickly suppressed sound in the hall. ‘When was your house built, Mr Buck?’
‘It was built by my father about 1880, but there was a house there before built by my grandfather.’
‘Let us get one thing straight. Your family did not live in Hukahoronui before the incursion of the white settlers into New Zealand?’
‘Before the Pakeha! No, sir, my family came from North Island.’ Turi smiled. ‘It was said that we came to South Island to escape the Pakeha.’
‘Did your family name the valley and the rock?’
‘No, they were already named. There were some of my people living close by. Not in the valley, but close by.’
‘Did your father replace your grandfather’s house because, let us say, it had been damaged by an avalanche?’
‘No, sir. He replaced it because the house was in bad condition and because the family was growing larger.’
Ballard was silent for a moment as he consulted a paper. At last he raised his head and asked quietly, ‘Mr Buck, do you, of your own knowledge, know of any avalanches in the valley of Hukahoronui?’
‘Yes, there was an avalanche in 1912 when I was a boy. A family called Bailey had built a house quite close to ours but not protected by Kamakamaru. My father warned the Baileys but they took no notice of him. There was an avalanche in the winter of 1912 and the Bailey house was swept away. The whole family died – all seven of them.’ He looked at Ballard and said definitely, ‘I was there – I helped dig out the bodies.’
‘So the rock – Kamakamaru – acted as a splitting wedge. Is that it?’
‘The snow flowed around Kamakamaru, and our house was safe.’
‘But the Bailey house was destroyed. Any more avalanches?’
‘There was one in 1918.’ Turi hesitated. ‘I was not there; I had joined the army. I had a letter from my father saying there had been an avalanche.’
‘Again on the western slope?’
‘Yes. There were no lives lost nor damage to property, but the snow blocked the flow of the river and there was flooding. The farmers lost a lot of stock by drowning.’
‘A six-year gap. Any more?’
‘There was the avalanche of 1943.’
‘Did you see that avalanche actually fall?’
‘No – but I remember it broke a lot of trees on the west slope. I used to collect firewood there afterwards.’
‘Yes,’ said Ballard. ‘There was a lot of good firewood around there for two or three years. Were there any fatalities in the avalanche of 1943?’
Turi’s eyes opened wide. ‘Why, yes, Ian. Your father was killed.’
The hall had been quiet as Ballard led Turi through his evidence but now there was a gust of pent-up emotion let loose in a wave of sound. Harrison let it die away before he rapped gently with his gavel.
Ballard said, ‘Could you point out on the map the place where my father was killed?’
Turi stretched out his hand. ‘There,’ he said. ‘Just where the mine office is now.’
‘How do you know it was there?’
‘Because you showed me three days after it happened. You had seen it happen.’
‘And how old was I then, Mr Buck?’
Turi considered. ‘Maybe four years.’
‘Mr Buck, you have given us a lot of information. Was the same information given to the councillors at the meeting?’
‘Yes, it was.’
‘Thank you, Mr Buck.’
Ballard leaned back and glanced sideways at Lyall who already had his hand up. ‘I would like to ask Mr Buck one or two questions.’
Harrison nodded. ‘Very well.’
‘Was the avalanche of 1943 a very large one?’
Turi thought about it, then nodded his head vigorously. “Very large – bigger than the one in 1912.’
Lyall looked pleased. ‘I see. Could you say, perhaps by indicating on the map, just how far down the slope it came?’
‘Just to the bottom. Mr Ballard’s father was killed here. It didn’t go much farther than that’
‘It didn’t go as far as the Peterson Supermarket?’
‘It didn’t go anywhere near the Peterson store.’
‘Remarkable. Now tell me, Mr Buck: if the Peterson Supermarket was not destroyed by a very big avalanche in 1943, why then was it destroyed this year?’
Turi looked blank, then said, ‘The trees, of course.’
Ballard let out a long sigh and let Lyall dig his own pit. Lyall said, ‘The trees! Oh, you mean that timbered area marked on the west slope?’
Turi turned to look at the map. He examined it for a moment, then said, ‘But this is all wrong.’
Ballard put up his hand. ‘Mr Chairman – on a point of evidence. I would like to have Mr Wheeler recalled briefly. It would seem that his map is not the best evidence.’
Harrison looked startled, then raised his eyebrows. ‘Mr Lyall?’
Lyall frowned, but said, ‘No objection.’
Wheeler was brought back and Ballard said, ‘Look at the map, Mr Wheeler. Do you see that forested area on the western slope of the valley?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘I can bring five hundred witnesses to swear that that area was not forested before the avalanche struck. What do you say to that?’
Wheeler did not know what to say to it. He twitched nervously for a while, then said, ‘The information I put into that map comes from the latest sources available.’
‘But not late enough, it would seem. In respect of a vital piece of evidence – the lack of timber on the western slope – this map is untrue. Is that correct?’
Wheeler shrugged. ‘If you say so. I have never been to Hukahoronui myself.’
‘It is not for me to say,’ said Ballard. ‘But let us ask Mr Buck. When were the trees cut?’
‘They started cutting when the mine opened. The timber went into the mine and for building houses.’
‘That was four years ago?’
‘Yes. The cutting went on for two years. By that time the slope was just about stripped.’
Rolandson stirred, and said, ‘Mr Ballard, are we to understand that you regard the cutting of that timber as a contributory factor which led to the avalanche?’
Ballard hesitated. ‘I am not an expert on avalanches, sir. I would prefer you to direct that question to Dr McGill.’
‘I will,’ growled Rolandson, and conferred for a few moments with Harrison. They both looked at Wheeler who shuffled his feet nervously. ‘You have not been to Hukahoronui and yet you present this map as evidence,’ said Harrison unbelievingly. ‘That is what you said, isn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ said Wheeler unhappily.
He was even more unhappy when Harrison had finished with him and sent him off. When Lyall was asked if he had further questions he warily said that he had none. Ballard raised his hand. ‘I would like to ask Mr Buck one more question.’
‘Very well.’
‘Mr Buck, what was the immediate reaction of the councillors towards your revelations about the incidence of avalanches in Hukahoronui?’
Turi Buck froze. In a low voice he said, ‘I would rather not say.’
‘Mr Buck – I must ask you the question.’
Turi shook his head. ‘I will not say.’
‘You must answer the question, Mr Buck,’ said Harrison, but Turi shook his head dumbly.
Harrison looked at Ballard blankly for a moment and Ballard shrugged. The hall was very quiet when someone said, ‘I can answer that question.’
Harrison’s head jerked. ‘Dr McGill, this is most unseemly.’
McGill stepped forward. ‘Mr Chairman, there are only four people who can answer the question. Mr Buck refuses for reasons I can understand. Mr Eric Peterson will not answer, again for reasons I can understand. In all propriety Mr Ballard cannot, because he is interrogating Mr Buck – he cannot be questioner and witness simultaneously. I am the only one left who was present at the meeting.’
Harrison sighed. ‘Very well, you will answer the question. What was it, Mr Ballard?’
‘What was the immediate reaction of the councillors to Mr Buck’s evidence?’
McGill unzipped his satchel and drew forth a flat notebook. ‘As is my habit, I took notes immediately after the meeting. I can read here exactly what was said.’ He selected a page and stared at Eric Peterson where he sat next to Lyall. ‘Mr Eric Peterson’s exact words were, “Turi Buck is an ignorant old black man. He knows nothing – he never has and he never will”.’
There was pandemonium in the Press gallery.
The hall errupted in a babble of noise and Harrison hammered in vain on the rostrum but the crash of his gavel was lost in the uproar. When, at last, he could make himself heard, he said in anger, ‘This hearing is adjourned until further notice and until those present can control themselves.’

NINE (#ulink_342adf39-96d9-56cd-a5b6-d4499d3f16f5)
‘Turi Buck is an ignorant old black man. He knows nothing – he never has and he never will.’
The words hung heavily in an embarrassed silence in the residents’ lounge of the Hotel D’Archiac which did duty as a council chamber. At last Matthew Houghton coughed nervously, and said, ‘There’s no call for that sort of talk, Eric’
Ballard was angry. ‘I should bloody well think not.’
John Peterson, who was standing, put his hand on his brother’s shoulder. ‘Eric, if you can’t talk sense you’d better keep your big mouth shut. You’re starting to behave like Charlie.’ He looked at Turi. ‘My apologies.’
‘Maybe you’d better let Eric make his own apologies,’ said Ballard tightly.
Eric went red in the face but said nothing. John Peterson ignored Ballard and addressed himself to McGill. ‘So you’ve come up with past avalanches, and now you say there’s going to be another.’
‘I have not said that.’
‘Then what are you saying?’ demanded Houghton.
McGill spread his hands. ‘Who cares if a few thousand tons of snow falls off a mountain? It’s happening all the time in the Southern Alps. But if someone is standing underneath at the time then it’s downright dangerous.
That’s the position you’re in. You have a potential hazard here.’
‘Not an actual hazard?’ queried John Peterson.
‘I can tell you more after another series of tests. But I’ll tell you this – the hazard isn’t getting any less.’
Peterson said, ‘It seems pretty flimsy to me. From the line you’re shooting it seems to me that you want us to spend a lot of money because of something that may never happen.’
‘There’s something I don’t understand,’ said Houghton. ‘If there have been avalanches in the past, why weren’t the houses knocked down? My house was the second one built in the valley; my grandfather built it in 1850, two years after the Otago Settlement.’
Ballard said, ‘Let’s have a look at the map.’ He pushed the map across the table to Houghton. ‘Matt, I want you to cast your mind back, say, twenty years – before all the houses were built when the mine started. I want you to mark all the houses you can remember.’ He handed Houghton a pen.
‘Well, there’s my house there, and Turi Buck’s house – but we know why that’s still there. And there’s the Cunningham house, and the Pearman house …’
‘… and the Jackson place and the old Fisher house,’ said Mrs Samson.
Slowly Houghton marked them all and then leaned back. Ballard said, ‘Don’t forget the church and the school – and Peterson’s store.’
Houghton scratched more crosses on the map, and Ballard said, ‘Just look at it. All those buildings are well scattered and if you look at the terrain you’ll see that every one of them is protected against falls from the western slope to a greater or lesser degree.’ He picked up the pen. ‘But we do know there was another building – the Bailey house.’ He marked its position on the map. ‘That’s gone now.’
Mrs Samson said, ‘What are you getting at?’
‘When the settlers first came here, back in the middle of last century, they didn’t bother overmuch about keeping records, so we don’t know a lot about houses destroyed. We only know about the Bailey house because of Turi. My bet is that the houses Matt has just marked are the survivors.’
Phil Warrick said, ‘That makes sense. If a man had a house knocked down he wouldn’t rebuild in the same place. Not if he had any brains.’
‘Or if he survived,’ said McGill. ‘The Baileys didn’t.’ He put his hand flat on the map. ‘Those houses survived because the builders were lucky or knew what they were about. But now you’ve got a whole township here – not just a few scattered houses. That’s where the hazard comes in.’
‘So what are you asking us to do?’ asked John Peterson.
‘I want you to accept the fact that avalanche hazard exists – that’s the first step and all follows from that. So you’ll have to take the necessary precautions, first in the short term and, later, in the long term. You must notify the appropriate authority outside the valley that a hazard exists. Then you must be ready for it if it comes. You must have rescue gear stored in safe places where it can be got at in case of disaster. And you’ll have to have men trained to use that equipment. And you’ll have to have contingency planning in case it becomes necessary to evacuate the town. I can help in advising on a lot of that.’
Eric Peterson said, ‘My brother is right. It seems to me that you’re asking us to spend a lot of money guarding against something which might never happen. If we have to train men we have to pay them; if we have to have equipment we have to pay for it. Where do we get the money?’
Quentin laughed bitterly. ‘You haven’t heard anything yet. Wait until you hear about the long-term precautions.’ His finger stabbed out. ‘If this man has his way the mine will shut down.’
‘What the hell!’ John Peterson stared at Ballard. ‘What foolish talk is this?’
‘Ask McGill how much it will cost to protect the mine,’ said Quentin. ‘At the last meeting we had they were talking in millions of dollars – and we all know the company won’t stand for that.’
‘Not to protect the mine,’ snapped Ballard. ‘To protect the town. In a case like this you’ll get a government grant.’
Eric Peterson laughed shortly. ‘Everyone knows that government grants don’t cover everything – not by a long chalk. We learned that when we were extending the school. And you are talking in millions of dollars, not in thousands.’ He looked up at his brother. ‘Guess how much the town rates will be next year if this damn silly caper carries on.’
Ballard said, ‘How much is your life worth, Eric?’
‘That’s a hell of a question! But I’ll give you a short answer. My life is worth that of one of my brothers – that much and no more.’
‘There’s no call for that,’ said Houghton quickly.
‘Well, he brought it up,’ said Eric. ‘In any case, according to him, I’m safe.’ He tapped the map. ‘My place is one of the survivors.’
‘Not any more,’ said Ballard. ‘Not since the trees were cut down on the west slope. Did you do that, Eric?’
‘What the hell has that got to do with anything?’
‘The only reason the store survived in 1943 was because of the trees. Now they’re gone there’s nothing between you and the snow. You made a bad bargain there.’
Eric stood up. ‘Too right I made a bad bargain, or rather, my old man did. You know damned well that when your mother sold him the property she cheated him of the mineral rights. Oh, she was bloody clever, wasn’t she? She even kept hold of that bit of land at the bottom where the mine is now – just enough land to put up the crushing mill to work the ore she gets out of our land.’
Ballard rubbed his eyes. ‘That’s not the way it was, Eric. It was my father who separated the mineral rights from the property. He did it in his will. Your father didn’t buy the land for five years after that. 1948, wasn’t it?’
‘The hell with it!’ said Eric. ‘She still gets the gold.’
‘No, she doesn’t,’ said Ballard. ‘She doesn’t hold the mineral rights.’
‘Pull the other one,’ scoffed Eric. ‘You’re all Ballards.’
Matt Houghton drummed his fingers on the table. ‘We seem to have left the subject.’ He glanced nervously at Eric.
‘Yes,’ said McGill. ‘I don’t know what this is all about but I don’t think it has anything to do with snow on a hillside. But those missing trees do; there’s nothing left to bind the snow.’
Eric shrugged and sat down again. ‘It’s a lousy piece of land, anyway. Too bloody steep for cattle, and I couldn’t even get in the hay crop this year.’
McGill’s head jerked up. ‘What hay crop?’ he said sharply.
‘What do you care?’
‘You’d better tell me. What happened to your hay crop?’
John Peterson rolled his eyes towards the ceiling. ‘For God’s sake, Eric! Indulge his curiosity. Then perhaps we can get this meeting over. I’ve got things to do.’
Eric shrugged. ‘First it was the rain – the crop was sodden, so we couldn’t take it in. I thought we’d have a dry spell, but we didn’t – it rained right in to the winter, so I gave it up. It was rotting in the fields, anyway.’
‘And you just left it,’ said McGill. ‘And it’s still there uncut. Is that it?’
‘That’s right,’ said Eric, and added touchily, ‘But what’s it got to do with you I’m damned if I know.’
McGill speared him with a long stare. ‘So you cut down the trees, which is bad enough. Then you leave uncut grass, which is worse. Long, wet grass on a hillside is just about the slipperiest stuff there is. The chances of an avalanche have just gone up considerably.’
Warrick said, ‘It was slippery, I know. I tried to get up there during the rain myself. After the third try I gave up.’
‘What am I? Some kind of public enemy?’ demanded Eric. ‘Who the hell is this joker to come with his accusations?’
‘I’m not accusing anyone of anything except maybe short-sightedness,’ said McGill. ‘The first sign of potentially dangerous terrain is a mountain with snow on it; and you have one right on your doorstep but none of you seems to have seen it.’
‘Dr McGill is right,’ said Ballard.
Eric Peterson lunged to his feet. ‘Anyone called Ballard is the last person to accuse me of anything at all,’ he said with a jagged edge to his voice. ‘Anyone with a yellow …’
‘That’s enough,’ cut in Mrs Samson sharply. ‘What’s past is gone.’
‘What’s this about?’ asked Warrick, looking from Ballard to Eric Peterson. He wore a baffled look, as of a man who feels he is missing the obvious.
Matt Houghton looked bleak. ‘It’s old history and nothing to do with the subject here.’
McGill stood up. ‘Gentlemen, you have my report. It’s there on the table before you written up in technical language, and I’ve explained what it means in words of one syllable. I can do nothing more. I shall leave you to your deliberations.’
‘Where are you going?’ asked Houghton.
‘To do some work.’
‘Where can we get hold of you if we need further information?’
‘At Mr Ballard’s house,’ said McGill. ‘Or up on the west slope – it needs further investigation. But don’t send anyone up there to find me. In fact, no one should be allowed on that slope from now on. It’s damned dangerous.’
He left the meeting.

TEN (#ulink_f4b32e72-46ae-52c9-9f24-9943b110a2a2)
Ian Ballard swam another length of the pool and then climbed out. He walked to the canvas chair where he had left his towel and began to rub himself down. It was good to relax after spending all day at the Inquiry. He poured himself a beer and checked his watch before slipping it on to his wrist.
Mike McGill came sauntering across the lawn and held out an envelope. ‘Business as usual. Old Harrison must have got over his tantrum. This will be your notification to attend; I’ve had mine.’
Ballard opened the envelope. McGill was right; the letter was from Reed, the Secretary to the Commission. He dropped it on the grass next to his chair, and said, ‘So we go on. What comes next in the evidence?’
‘The first avalanche, I suppose.’ McGill grinned and spread a newspaper before Ballard. ‘Eric has got his name in print.’
Ballard looked at the black headline bannered across the front page:

‘IGNORANT BLACK MAN’ JIBE
He shook his head. ‘He’s not going to like that.’
McGill chuckled. ‘Think he’ll come after me with a gun?’
‘Eric won’t – but Charlie might,’ said Ballard soberly. ‘He’s crazy enough to do it.’
McGill laughed and sat down on the grass. ‘Got yourself a lawyer yet?’
‘No.’
‘You’d better start looking.’
‘I’ve discovered I have an unsuspected talent,’ said Ballard. ‘I can defend myself very well.’
‘You did all right with Turi, and you got Lyall to walk out on a limb before you sawed it off. Not bad going for a novice.’
‘Mr Ballard?’ Ballard looked up and saw the young man from the hotel office. ‘A telegram just came. I thought it might be important so I brought it right out.’
‘Thanks.’ Ballard ripped open the envelope. ‘It’s a cablegram from England.’ He scanned it rapidly and frowned. ‘Now why should …?’
‘Trouble?’
‘Not really.’ Ballard handed the cable to McGill. ‘Why should a man suddenly fly half way across the world to see me?’
‘Who is Stenning?’
‘A friend of my grandfather.’ Ballard looked at the pool abstractedly.
McGill began calculating. ‘He says he’s leaving on the night flight. It doesn’t really matter whether he comes east or west, it’s still about forty hours to Auckland. Then he’ll have to catch an internal flight down to here. Say two full days – that means Saturday afternoon.’
‘The Commission won’t sit on Saturday. I’ll meet Stenning at the airport.’
‘You’d better have a message awaiting him at Auckland so you can arrange to meet him here.’
Ballard nodded. ‘Old Ben said something about Stenning the last time I saw him. He said that if anything were to happen to him or the company then I should get in touch with Stenning. Then he said to forget it because Stenning would get in touch with me fast enough. It seems as though he really meant it.’
‘Who is Stenning, apart from being your grandfather’s friend?’
‘He’s a lawyer.’
‘Then he’s arriving just in time,’ said McGill. ‘Just the man you need.’
Ballard shook his head. ‘He’s not the right sort of lawyer. He specializes in taxes.’
‘Oh, one of those boys.’ McGill chuckled. ‘He’s probably come to confess all – that he slipped up on sorting out the death duties bit, and instead of three million from the old man you’re just going to get three thousand.’
Ballard grinned. ‘I’m not going to get three cents. Ben warned me about that. He said that he’d educated me and I’d have to stand on my own two feet as he’d done at my age. I told you that all his money is tied up in some trust or other.’ He stretched. ‘I’m beginning to feel chilly. Let’s go inside.’
‘It’s warmer in the bar,’ agreed McGill.

THE HEARING Third Day (#ulink_7b610ac6-612f-5c92-8a38-3d0617f14177)

ELEVEN (#ulink_f8b37ba7-33aa-534d-a528-c29feb371ccd)
The Press gallery was jammed as Harrison led Eric Peterson through his evidence. Dan Edwards had shamelessly bought space for himself by bringing in two cub reporters and then sending them away when the proceedings began. But it was to no avail; protests from other reporters soon led to the seats being occupied, and Edwards was compelled to scrawl his shorthand in as cramped conditions as anyone else.
Harrison made a note on his pad, and raised his eyes. ‘So we arrive at the point when Dr McGill left, having delivered his bad news. What happened then, Mr Peterson?’
Eric Peterson shrugged. ‘Well, the meeting went on for a long time. In all honesty I have to say that some of us were not convinced of the gravity of the situation. You must remember that this whole thing had been jumped on us suddenly – had taken us by surprise, if you like. After all, if someone steps up to you and says, “The end of the world is at hand!” you’re going to need a lot of proof before you believe him.’
‘I appreciate your position,’ said Harrison. ‘Can you give some specific examples of the views of members of the council?’
‘Well, my brother argued that, even if McGill was anywhere near right, we didn’t want to start a panic. I agreed with that and so did Matt Houghton, the mayor. Phil Warrick didn’t seem to have any views at all. He just blew along with the wind and agreed with everybody. Mrs Samson wanted to go all out with preparations for evacuation right there and then.’
‘What position did the mine management take?’
‘Mr Ballard agreed with Mrs Samson. Mr Quentin said he didn’t think there was any danger – he said it was all a lot of hot air. Mr Cameron tended to go along with Mr Ballard.’ Peterson clasped his hands before him. ‘You must realize that any decision concerning the town had to be made by the council. It wasn’t up to the mine management to tell the town what to do. Dr McGill had told us there was no immediate hazard from the west slope, and to some of us there seemed to be no reason for going off half-cocked on a project that might cost the town a lot of money and wasted time.’
‘And lose votes if nothing happened,’ remarked Edwards cynically.
‘Well, as I said, there was a lot of talk and we went round in circles for some time. Eventually Matt Houghton came up with an idea. He said that maybe there was something in what McGill had said, but he’d like a second opinion. He said he’d telephone Christchurch and get some advice.’
‘To whom was he going to speak?’
‘That was the rub. He didn’t know and neither did anyone else. Mr Cameron suggested he talk to someone in the Forestry Department – he said they’d probably know about avalanche conditions. Someone else, I forget who, suggested the Department of Civil Defence. It was decided he’d try both. Mrs Samson said the police should be notified and that was agreed to.’
‘Did the mine management make any concrete suggestions?’
‘We had the offer of transport – trucks and suchlike. Also bulldozers.’
‘Who made that offer?’
Peterson glanced sideways at Ballard. He hesitated, then said, ‘I don’t remember. It may have been Mr Cameron.’
Ballard smiled thinly.
‘And what happened then?’
‘The meeting broke up and it was decided we’d meet at eleven the next morning, even though it was Sunday.’
‘I see.’ Harrison looked around. ‘Has anyone any further questions to ask Mr Peterson?’
Smithers raised his hand. ‘I represent the Ministry of Civil Defence. Was a telephone call in fact made to the Civil Defence authorities?’
‘Not to my knowledge.’
‘Why not?’
‘I talked with Matt Houghton after the meeting. He was a bit wavery about things. He said he’d do what he always did before making a decision. He said he’d sleep on it.’
‘And the police – were they notified?’
‘That was a bit difficult. Arthur Pye was away; he was up at the head of the valley investigating a case of sheep worrying.’
‘Who is Arthur Pye?’
‘Our policeman. Hukahoronui is only a small place – we just had the one policeman.’
‘Do you mean to tell me that when you discussed notifying the police it was your intention to tell Constable Pye?’ said Smithers incredulously.
‘Well, he’d know what to do about telling his superiors,’ said Peterson defensively.
‘So nobody outside Hukahoronui knew of the situation?’
‘I suppose that is correct.’
‘And in Hukahoronui the knowledge was confined to a handful of people.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Smithers consulted his note-pad. ‘You say that when it was decided to get a second opinion on Dr McGill’s diagnosis of the situation nobody knew whom to consult.’ He lifted his head and looked at Peterson with an air of disbelief. ‘Did no one on the council read the directives which were sent out by my Ministry?’
‘We get a lot of stuff from the Government.’ Peterson shrugged. ‘I didn’t read it all myself.’
‘Apparently no one on the council read it.’ Smithers took a deep breath. ‘Mr Peterson, you were a councillor and a responsible official. Would you not agree that preparations for a crisis in your community were conspicuous by their absence? I am not speaking of avalanches only – we do live in an earthquake prone country, a major reason for the existence of the Ministry of Civil Defence.’
‘May I object?’ said Lyall quickly.
Harrison looked up from his notes. ‘What is your objection?’
‘I would like to point out that the township of Hukahoronui was relatively new and the population was largely composed of recent immigrants to the valley. In such a situation the degree of community spirit would naturally be less than in a longer established community.’
‘Mr Lyall, is that your objection? You seem to be answering for the witness.’
‘It is not my objection, Mr Chairman. My objection is that it is improper for Mr Smithers to ask such a loaded question of Mr Peterson. He is usurping the function of this Commission, which is to decide whether the state of affairs implicit in his question was actually the case.’
‘A thin point, but valid nevertheless,’ conceded Harrison. ‘But it would have come better with the accompanying speech of extenuation. Mr Smithers, your last question was out of order. Have you any further questions?’
‘None that I would care to ask this witness,’ said Smithers curtly.
‘Then you may step down, Mr Peterson, on the understanding that you may be recalled.’
Peterson left the witness chair with an air of relief, and Harrison bent forward to have a word with Reed. He then sat back in his chair, and said, ‘Mr Cameron, the engineer of the Hukahoronui Mining Company, has been hospitalized for many months due to the injuries he received in the disaster. However, he has notified the Commission that he feels well enough to give evidence at this time and he is now present. Will you come forward, Mr Cameron?’
There was a low murmur as Cameron limped across the hall leaning heavily on the arm of a male nurse. He had lost a lot of weight and was now almost emaciated; his cheeks were sunken and his hair, pepper and salt at the time of the avalanche, was now quite white. He looked an old man.
He sat in the witness chair and the male nurse drew up another chair behind him. Reed said, ‘What is your full name?’
‘Joseph McNeil Cameron.’
‘And your occupation, Mr Cameron?’
‘I was a mining engineer,’ said Cameron flatly. ‘Specifically for the Hukahoronui Mining Company at the material times under investigation by this Commission.’ His voice was strong if slow.
‘Mr Cameron,’ said Harrison, ‘if at any time you feel unable to continue, please do not hesitate to say so.’
‘Thank you, Mr Chairman.’
‘I understand that you have evidence to give about the events of the evening of the day you had the meeting with the council. That would be the Saturday evening, would it not?’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Cameron. ‘There was a dinner-dance at the Hotel D’Archiac that night. I had invited Mr Ballard and Dr McGill to be my guests. My daughter, Stacey, was also present – she was on vacation from the States at that time and was due to go back the following week. There was a certain amount of table-hopping during the dinner and it was then I learned that the mayor had not made the telephone calls. That, combined with a new and most disturbing report from Dr McGill, worried all of us very much.’
‘Could you go into that in more detail?’ said Harrison.
‘Why, yes. We were just starting dinner …’
McGill inspected the menu. ‘Colonial goose,’ he said. ‘That sounds good.’
Ballard chuckled. ‘Don’t expect poultry.’
‘I was going to order that,’ said Stacey Cameron. She was a tall, dark girl with typical American svelte good looks. McGill had measured her with a knowledgeable eye and classed her as a long-stemmed American beauty, Californian variety. She said, ‘What is it if it isn’t a bird?’
‘A Texas nightingale isn’t a bird, either, honey,’ said Cameron. ‘It’s a donkey. This is a similar New Zealand joke.’
Stacey was horrified. ‘You mean it’s horse meat?’
‘No,’ said Ballard. ‘It’s hogget and stuffing.’
‘Now you’ve lost me,’ complained McGill. ‘What’s hogget?’
‘Midway between lamb and mutton. There are millions of sheep in New Zealand and just about as many ways of cooking the animal. Colonial goose is a colonial joke, but it’s not bad.’
‘A trap for the unwary tourist,’ commented McGill. ‘Talking of that, when are you going back to the States, Stacey?’
‘Just ten days left,’ she said with a sigh.
‘I’ve been trying to talk her into staying,’ said Cameron.
‘Why don’t you?’ Ballard asked her.
‘I’d like to,’ she said regretfully. ‘If only to look after this crazy man.’ She leaned over and patted her father’s hand. ‘But I have a boss back in San Francisco who’s depending on me – I wouldn’t want to let him down.’
Cameron said, ‘No one is indispensable. How long would it take you to cut free?’
She thought about it. ‘Maybe six months.’
‘Then what about it?’
‘I’ll consider it,’ she said. ‘Really I will.’
Over dinner Cameron yarned about some of the practical difficulties they had run into when getting the mine going. ‘The trouble was mainly with the people. The folks around here weren’t very enthusiastic at first. They’d got pretty set in their ways and didn’t like change. All except old man Peterson, of course, who saw the possibilities.’
‘That reminds me,’ said McGill. ‘What’s with the Petersons? And how many of them are there, for God’s sake?’
‘Three brothers,’ said Ballard. ‘John, Eric and Charlie. The old man died last year.’
Cameron said, ‘John has the brains, Eric has the drive, and Charlie has the muscle and precious little else. If Charlie-boy had twice the brains he has now he’d be a half-wit. The Petersons own the Supermarket and the filling station, they have a half share in this hotel, run a couple of farms – things like that. Charlie wants to develop Huka as a ski resort but he’s finding it tough sledding; his brothers don’t think the time is ripe for it. Old Peterson saw the possibilities and his boys are carrying on where he left off.’
‘You forgot Liz,’ said Stacey. ‘She’s over there – fourth table along.’
Ballard turned his head. He had not seen Liz Peterson since his return to the valley and his image was still of a freckled, gawky girl with pigtails and skinned knees. What he saw was something quite different and he drew in his breath.
Liz Peterson was a rarity – a really beautiful girl whose loveliness did not depend on the adventitious aid of cosmetics. Her beauty lay deeper than the surface of her skin – in the bone structure of her skull, in the sheen of good health and youth, in the smooth and controlled movements of her body. She was beautiful in the way a healthy young animal is beautiful and she had the unconscious arrogance that can be seen in a thoroughbred racehorse or a fine hunting dog.
‘By God!’ he said. ‘She’s grown up.’
Cameron chuckled. ‘It tends to happen.’
‘Why haven’t I seen her around?’
‘She’s been visiting in North Island; just got back this week,’ said Cameron. ‘She had dinner with us on Monday. Stacey was quite impressed, and it really takes something to impress my girl.’
‘I like Liz,’ said Stacey. ‘She has a mind of her own.’
Ballard looked studiously at his plate. ‘Any of the Petersons married yet?’
‘John is – and Eric’s engaged.’
‘Charlie?’
‘No – he hasn’t had to – not yet; but it’s been a close call once or twice from what I hear. As for Liz, she should have been married long ago but Charlie has a way of scaring the young men. He looks after his sister like a hen with one chick.’
McGill said, ‘The Petersons don’t like you, Ian. What was all that about this morning?’
‘An old quarrel,’ said Ballard shortly. He glanced at Cameron. ‘Know about it, Joe?’
‘I’ve heard,’ said Cameron. ‘Something about the Ballards cheating the Petersons out of the mine.’
‘That’s the way the Petersons tell it,’ agreed Ballard. ‘Not John – he’s too sensible; but Eric tends to drive it into the ground a bit. What happened was that my father had a row with my grandfather and emigrated to New Zealand. Although he’d left the family, he was still enough of a Ballard to be interested in gold when he found it on his land. He knew there wasn’t enough sign to start a serious operation, the price of gold being what it was, but when he made his will before he joined the army he left the land to my mother, but the mineral rights he left to my grandfather.’
‘In spite of the fact that they’d quarrelled?’ asked McGill.
‘He was a Ballard. What would my mother do with mineral rights? Anyway, after he died my mother had to sell the land – she couldn’t farm it herself. She sold most of it – that’s the west slope – to old Peterson, who neglected to check if he had the mineral rights. I don’t know if he cared about that one way or the other, but when my grandfather bought the rest of the land from my mother – the bit at the bottom of the slope – and started to exploit the mineral rights under Peterson land then all hell broke loose. Accusations of bad faith were tossed around like confetti. The Petersons have always been convinced it was a deep-laid plot on the part of the Ballards. Actually, of course, it was nothing of the kind, but because my name is Ballard I’m stuck with it.’
‘When you put it that way it doesn’t sound too bad,’ said Cameron. ‘All the same, I’m not surprised that the Petersons are riled.’
‘I don’t see why they should be,’ said Ballard. ‘The only people making a profit out of the mine are the Petersons; the mine brought prosperity to this valley and the Petersons are creaming it off. The Ballards certainly aren’t making a profit. You’ve seen the operating figures, Joe, and you know the company is just breaking even.’ He shook his head. ‘I don’t know what’s going to happen if we have to put in extensive avalanche protection. I’ve been trying to get hold of Crowell all day but he’s not available.’
‘Who is he?’ asked McGill.
‘Chairman of the company. He lives in Auckland.’
‘I’ve been thinking of avalanche protection,’ said McGill meditatively. ‘I’ve got some figures for you, Joe. When you design the avalanche gallery over the mine portal allow for an impact pressure of ten tons a square foot.’
Cameron flinched. ‘That much?’ he asked incredulously.
‘I’ve been talking to people who witnessed the 1943 slide. From all accounts it was an airborne powder avalanche, and so was the 1912 slide, according to Turi Buck. The next may not be any different.’
‘Airborne powder! What’s that?’
‘This is no time for a lecture on avalanche dynamics. All you need to know is that it’s fast and it packs a hell of a wallop.’
Ballard said, ‘The 1943 avalanche turned a hundred acres of big trees into firewood.’
Cameron put down his fork. ‘Now I know why you’re worried about the town.’
‘I wish to hell the council was as worried as I am,’ said McGill bleakly.
Cameron looked up. ‘Here comes Matt Houghton. If you tell him what you’ve just told me maybe he’ll become as scared as I am.’ As Houghton came up, his bald head gleaming, Cameron pulled out a chair. ‘Sit down, Matt. What did the Civil Defence people have to say?’
Houghton sat down heavily. ‘I haven’t had time to talk to them yet. We’ll be posting signs on the slope; Bobby Fawcett’s scouts are making them and they’ll be putting them up tomorrow. Got any stakes we can use, Joe?’
‘Sure,’ said Cameron, but his voice was abstracted. He was looking at McGill.
Ballard leaned forward. ‘What do you mean, Matt – you didn’t have time? I thought it was agreed …’
Houghton flapped his hands. ‘It’s Saturday, Ian,’ he said plaintively, and shrugged. ‘And tomorrow is Sunday. We probably won’t be able to get through to them until Monday.’
Ballard looked baffled. ‘Matt, do you really think that Civil Defence Headquarters closes down at weekends? All you have to do is to lift the bloody telephone.’
‘Take it easy, Ian. I have enough trouble with the Petersons. Charlie takes the line that no one can prevent him from walking – or skiing – on his own land.’
‘For Christ’s sake! Is he out of his mind?’
Houghton sighed. ‘You know Charlie. It’s that old feud getting in the way.’
‘What the hell did I have to do with buying and selling mineral rights? I was only a kid at the time.’
‘It’s not that; it’s the other thing. Charlie was Alec’s twin, you know.’
‘But that was nearly twenty-five years ago.’
‘Long memories, Ian; long memories.’ Houghton rubbed his jaw. ‘That stuff you told us about your training – you know, Johannesburg and Harvard. Eric was inclined to disbelieve you.’
‘So he thinks I’m a liar as well as a coward,’ said Ballard sourly. ‘What does he think it takes to be in charge of a company like this?’
‘He did mention a rich grandfather,’ said Houghton wryly.
He dropped his eyes under Ballard’s steady stare. Ballard said, ‘I’m expecting a call from old Crowell. You can talk to him if you like. He’ll tell you my qualifications.’ His voice was chilly.
‘Take it easy – I believe you. You’ve made a success of your life, and that’s all that matters.’
‘No, it isn’t, Matt. What matters is that bloody snow on the slope above this town, and I don’t want any ancient history getting in the way. I’m going to make sure the right thing is done, and if the Petersons get in my way I won’t go around them – I’ll go through them. I’ll smash them.’
Houghton gave him a startled look. ‘My God, but you’ve changed!’
‘Turi Buck said it first – I’ve grown up,’ said Ballard tiredly.
There was an embarrassed silence at the table. McGill, who had been quietly watchful, said, ‘I don’t know what that was all about, Mr Houghton, but I can tell you this. The situation is now more serious than that I outlined at our meeting this morning. I’ve taken more samples from the slope and the stability is deteriorating. I’ve also been talking to people about previous avalanches, with the result that I’ve just notified Mr Cameron to prepare for something hitting the mine very hard indeed. I have to tell you that also applies to the town.’
Houghton was affronted. ‘Why the hell didn’t you talk like that this morning instead of pussyfooting around with scientific quibbles? This morning you said the hazard was potential.’
McGill was exasperated. ‘I sometimes wonder if we talk the same language,’ he snapped. ‘The hazard still is potential and it will be until something happens and then it’ll be actual hazard and too goddam late to do anything about it. What do you want me to do? Go up on the slope and trigger it just to prove to you that it can happen?’
Ballard said, ‘Go back to your council and tell them to stop playing politics. And tell the Petersons from me that no one votes for dead men.’ His voice was like iron. ‘You can also tell them that if they don’t do something constructive by midday tomorrow I’ll go over their heads – I’ll call a public meeting and put it to the people direct.’
‘And telephone Civil Defence as soon as you can,’ added McGill.
Houghton took a deep breath and stood up. His face was red and shiny with sweat. ‘I’ll do the best I can,’ he said, and walked away.
Ballard stared after him. ‘I wonder if this is a good time to get drunk?’

TWELVE (#ulink_07a1c260-febc-53b8-8b6c-d91375730489)
‘Did Mr Ballard drink heavily that night?’ asked Lyall.
Cameron’s lips compressed and then he relaxed. ‘Not more than most,’ he said easily. ‘It was a party, you must remember. For instance, he didn’t drink as much as me.’ As an apparent afterthought he added, ‘Or as much as your clients there.’
Lyall said sharply, ‘I must protest. The witness cannot be allowed to make gratuitous innuendoes of that nature.’
Harrison was trying unsuccessfully to hide a smile. ‘It appears to me that Mr Cameron was merely trying to put Mr Ballard’s drinking in the scale of things. Is that not so, Mr Cameron?’
‘It was a party in a small town,’ said Cameron. ‘Sure, there was drinking. Some of the boys from the mine got pretty smashed. Some of the town folk, too. I was a bit rosy myself towards the end. But Mr Ballard was nowhere near drunk. I don’t think he’s really a drinking man. But he had a few.’
‘I think that answers Mr Lyall’s question. Go on, Mr Cameron.’
‘Well, at about eleven-thirty that night Mr Ballard again tackled the mayor about whether he’d telephoned anybody – Civil Defence or whatever – and Houghton said he hadn’t. He said he didn’t see that a few hours would make any difference and he wasn’t going to make a fool of himself in the middle of the night by ringing up some caretaker and asking him damn silly questions.’
Harrison looked across at Ballard. ‘Mr Cameron, it would be improper to ask you why Mr Ballard, at this point, did not make the call himself. Mr Ballard is here to answer for himself, as I am sure he will. But, if there was this urgency, why did you not make the call?’
Cameron looked embarrassed. ‘We’d been told, quite bluntly, to keep our noses out of town business. And up to that time we thought the call had been made. When we found it hadn’t we thought the likelihood of getting anyone at Civil Defence who could tell us what we wanted to know was slight. Another thing was that Mr Ballard still hoped to co-operate with the council, and if he made the call they’d think he’d gone over their heads on what they would consider to be town business. Relations between mine and town might be permanently damaged.’
‘What did Dr McGill think of this?’
‘He wasn’t around at the time; he’d gone out to check the weather. But afterwards he said that Mr Ballard was a damned fool.’ Cameron scratched his cheek. ‘He said I was a damned fool, too.’
‘It seems that Dr McGill is the only person to come out of this with any credit,’ observed Harrison. ‘There appears to have been a lot of buck-passing for reasons which pale into insignificance when one considers the magnitude of the disaster.’
‘I agree,’ said Cameron frankly. ‘But Dr McGill was the only person who had any conception of the magnitude of the trouble which faced us. When he told me to prepare for an impact pressure of ten tons a square foot I thought he was coming it a bit strong. I accepted his reasoning but at the back of my mind I didn’t really believe it. I think that Mr Ballard was in the same case, and he and I are technical men.’
‘And because the members of the council were not technical men do you think that excuses their dilatory conduct?’
‘No,’ said Cameron heavily. ‘We were all guilty to a greater or lesser degree. It does not excuse our conduct, but it goes a long way towards explaining it.’
Harrison was silent for a long time, then he said gently, ‘I’ll accept that, Mr Cameron. What happened next?’
‘Mr Ballard and I stayed at our table talking and doing a little drinking. If Mr Ballard did any drinking that night it was then that he did it. He hadn’t had more than two drinks up to then.’
Cameron talked with Ballard for some time, maybe twenty minutes, and then they were joined by Stacey Cameron. Ballard cocked an ear towards the dance floor; it was late enough for the jigging rock rhythms to have been replaced by the night-club shuffle. ‘Dance?’ he suggested.
Stacey grimaced. ‘Thanks all the same, but no thanks. I’ve been danced off my feet tonight.’ She sat down and flexed her toes, then looked up at him. ‘Liz Peterson wants to know if you think she has smallpox.’
He blinked. ‘What!’
‘She seems to think that you’re ignoring her. She could be right, at that.’
Ballard smiled slightly. ‘I’d forgotten she existed until tonight.’
‘Well, you know she exists now. Why don’t you ask her for a dance? She’s sitting this one out.’
Ballard’s jaw dropped, and then he smiled. ‘Well, for God’s sake, why not?’ He drained his glass and felt the lump of whisky hit bottom with a thud. ‘I’ll give it a whirl.’ He left, heading for the dance floor.
‘Are you crazy?’ demanded Cameron. ‘Don’t you know that Ballard and the Petersons get on like the Hatfields and McCoys? What are you trying to do – start a war?’
‘They’ve got to start talking to each other reasonably sometime,’ said Stacey. ‘Huka isn’t big enough for them to ignore each other forever.’
Cameron looked unconvinced. ‘I hope you know what you’re doing.’
‘Dad, what’s all this about an avalanche?’
‘What avalanche?’
‘Don’t talk to me as though I were a half-wit,’ said Stacey. ‘The avalanche you were discussing over dinner.’
‘Oh, that one!’ said Cameron with an ill-assumed air of surprise. ‘Nothing to it. Just some precautions McGill wants us to take.’
‘Precautions,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘That’s not what I understood by the way Ian was reaming out Houghton.’ She looked past her father. ‘Here’s Mike now. How’s the weather, Mike?’
‘Heavy snow setting in.’ McGill checked his watch. ‘Nearly midnight. How long do these shindigs go on?’
‘The dancing will stop dead on midnight,’ said Cameron. ‘Very religious guys, these New Zealanders. No dancing on Sunday.’
McGill nodded. ‘I won’t be sorry to get to bed.’ He stretched. ‘What did the Civil Defence crowd have to say?’
‘Houghton didn’t call.’
‘He didn’t!’ McGill grabbed Cameron by the arm. ‘What have you done about it? Did Ian try?’ Cameron shook his head. ‘Then he’s a goddamned fool – and so are you. Where’s the telephone?’
‘There’s one in the lobby,’ said Cameron. ‘Look, Mike, there’ll be no one there at this time of night qualified to tell you anything.’
‘Tell me – hell!’ said McGill. ‘I’m going to tell them. I’m going to raise the alarm.’
He walked away rapidly with Cameron on his heels. As they skirted the dance floor there was a shout and a sudden disturbance. McGill jerked his head sideways and saw Charlie Peterson with his hand on Ballard’s shoulder. ‘Just what we need,’ he said disgustedly. ‘Come on, Joe,’ and crossed the floor to where the two men bristled at each other.
Ballard had been dancing with Liz Peterson when he felt the heavy thud of Charlie’s meaty hand on his shoulder and felt himself spun round. Charlie’s face was sweaty and his eyes were red-rimmed. Alcohol fumes came from him as he whispered hoarsely, ‘Stay away from my sister, Ballard.’
Liz’s face flamed. ‘Charlie, I told you …’
‘Shut up!’ His hand bore heavily on Ballard’s shoulder. ‘If I catch you with her again I’ll break your back.’
‘Take your hand off me,’ said Ballard.
Some of the ferocity left Charlie and he grinned genially. ‘Take it off yourself – if you can.’ His thumb ground viciously into the muscle at the top of Ballard’s arm.
‘Stop this nonsense,’ said Liz. ‘You get crazier every day.’
Charlie ignored his sister and increased the pressure on Ballard. ‘What about it? You won’t get into trouble with your momma – she’s not here.’
Ballard seemed to droop. His arms hung down in front of him, crossed at the wrists, and suddenly he brought them up sharply, hitting Charlie’s arm at the elbow with considerable force and thus breaking free.
Charlie lunged forward but Cameron grabbed one arm and twisted it behind Charlie’s back. It was done with expertise and it was evident that Cameron was no stranger to a rough house.
‘Break it up,’ said McGill. ‘This is a dance floor, not a boxing ring.’
Charlie pressed forward again but McGill put his hand flat on Charlie’s chest and pushed. ‘All right,’ said Charlie. ‘I’ll see you outside when you don’t have your friends to help you.’
‘Christ, you sound like a schoolboy,’ said McGill.
‘Let the bastard speak for himself,’ said Charlie.
In the distance a voice was raised. ‘Is Mr Ballard around? He’s wanted on the telephone.’
McGill jerked his head at Ballard. ‘Take your call.’
Ballard shrugged his shoulders into his rumpled jacket and nodded briefly. He walked past Charlie without so much as looking at him. Charlie twisted in Cameron’s grip and yelled, ‘You’ve not changed, you bastard. You still run scared.’
‘What’s going on here?’ someone demanded.
McGill turned to find Eric Peterson at his elbow. He took his hand off Charlie’s chest, and said, ‘Your kid brother has gone off his rocker.’
Eric looked at Liz. ‘What happened?’
‘The same thing that happens every time I get too close to a man,’ she said wearily. ‘But worse than usual this time.’
Eric said to Charlie coldly, ‘I’ve told you about this before.’
Charlie jerked his arm free of Cameron. ‘But it was Ballard!’ he pleaded. ‘It was Ballard.’
Eric frowned. ‘Oh!’ But then he said, ‘I don’t care who it was. You don’t make these scenes again.’ He paused. ‘Not in public.’
McGill caught Cameron’s eye and they both moved off in the direction of the lobby and found Ballard at the reception desk. The desk clerk was pointing. ‘There’s the phone.’
‘Who’d be ringing you?’ asked McGill.
‘Crowell, if I’m lucky.’
‘After you with the phone – I want to ring Christchurch.’ McGill turned to the desk clerk. ‘Have you a Christchurch telephone book?’
Ballard picked up the telephone as McGill flipped through the pages. ‘Ballard here.’
A testy voice said, ‘I have half a dozen message slips here asking me to ring you. I’ve just got in so it had better be important.’
‘It is,’ said Ballard grimly. ‘We’re in a bad situation here. We have reason to suppose that the mine – and the town – is in danger of destruction by avalanche.’
There was a blank silence broken only by a surge of music from the dance floor. Crowell said, ‘What!’
‘An avalanche,’ said Ballard. ‘We’re going to be in dead trouble.’
‘Are you serious?’
Ballard put his finger to his other ear to block out the noise of the music. ‘Of course I’m serious. I don’t joke about things like this. I want you to get on to the Ministry of Civil Defence to let them know about it. We may need help fast.’
‘But I don’t understand,’ said Crowell faintly.
‘You don’t have to understand,’ snapped Ballard. ‘Just tell them that the township of Hukahoronui is in danger of being blotted out.’
McGill’s finger marked a line in the telephone book. He looked up as someone ran past and saw Charlie Peterson heading for Ballard at a dead run. He dropped the book and jumped after him.
Charlie grabbed Ballard by the shoulder, and Ballard shouted, ‘What the hell …?’
‘I’m going to break you in half,’ said Charlie.
Lost in the uproar was a soft rumble of distant thunder. Ballard punched at Charlie, hampered by the telephone he held. From the wildly waving earpiece came the quacking sound of Crowell in Auckland. McGill laid hands on Charlie and hauled him away bodily.
Ballard, breathing heavily, put the telephone to his ear. Crowell said, ‘… going on there? Are you there, Ballard? What’s …?’
The line went dead.
McGill spun Charlie around and laid him cold with a right cross to the jaw just as all the lights went out.

THIRTEEN (#ulink_a9adfd3c-be7f-5949-8855-0627771d361e)
‘After the lights went out things got pretty confused,’ said Cameron. He half turned in his chair and spoke to the nurse in a low voice. The nurse got up and poured him a glass of water, and when Cameron took it, his hand was shaking.
Harrison watched him carefully. ‘You’ve been giving evidence for quite a long time, Mr Cameron, and I think you should stand down for the moment. Since we are taking evidence chronologically the next witness should naturally be Mr Crowell. Thank you, Mr Cameron.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ Cameron got to his feet painfully, assisted by the male nurse, and hobbled slowly across the hall.
Reed said, ‘Will Mr Crowell come forward?’
A short, stout man got to his feet and walked up to the rostrum with some reluctance. As he sat down he turned his head sideways to look at Rickman, who nodded reassuringly. Reed said, ‘What is your full name?’
Crowell licked his lips nervously, and coughed, ‘Henry James Crowell.’
‘And your occupation, Mr Crowell?’
‘I’m the chairman of several companies, including the Hukahoronui Mining Company.’
Harrison said, ‘Do you own shares in that company?’
‘I have a minority holding, yes.’
‘Mr Ballard was the managing director of that company, was he not?’
‘Yes.’
‘What were his responsibilities?’
Crowell frowned. ‘I don’t understand the question.’
‘Come, Mr Crowell. Surely Mr Ballard had duties which were defined.’
‘Of course, sir. He had the normal duties of a managing director – to see to the total interests of the company under the guidance of the board of directors.’
‘Which was headed by yourself.’
‘That is correct.’
‘You have been listening to evidence relating to a telephone call which you made to Mr Ballard. Did you, in fact, make that call?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘I had been away from home and arrived back late on the Saturday night. My secretary had left a list of messages from Mr Ballard to the effect that I should contact him. From the number and tenor of these messages I judged the matter to be urgent, so I telephoned him immediately.’
‘And what did he say?’
‘He said something about an avalanche. I didn’t quite understand – he was very indistinct.’
‘Didn’t you ask him to explain further?’
‘Yes.’ Crowell’s hands twitched. ‘There was a lot of noise going on at his end – music and so forth. He wasn’t very coherent.’
Harrison regarded him thoughtfully, and then moved his eyes sideways. ‘Yes, Mr Smithers?’
‘Can the witness state whether or not Mr Ballard asked him to contact the Ministry of Civil Defence to warn them of impending danger at Hukahoronui?’
Harrison’s eyes returned to Crowell who wriggled in his seat. ‘He did say something along those lines, but there was a lot of noise on the line. A lot of shouting and screaming.’ He paused. ‘Then I was cut off.’
‘What did you do then?’ asked Harrison.
‘I talked it over with my wife.’
A ripple of amusement passed over the hall. Harrison knocked sharply with his gavel. ‘Did you contact the Ministry of Civil Defence?’
Crowell hesitated. ‘No, sir.’
‘Why not?’
‘I thought it was some sort of practical joke. With that music and uproar on the line … well, I thought …’ His voice tailed away.
‘You thought Mr Ballard was joking?’ queried Harrison.
Both Lyall and Rickman had their hands up. Harrison picked Rickman and nodded. ‘Did you think Mr Ballard was drunk?’ asked Rickman. Lyall grinned and hauled down his hand.
‘I did.’
‘When you said that Mr Ballard was incoherent that was what you meant, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ said Crowell. He smiled gratefully at Rickman.
‘You must not lead the witness,’ said Harrison mildly.
‘I’m sorry, Mr Chairman.’ Rickman smiled encouragingly at Crowell. ‘Who appointed Mr Ballard as managing director?’
‘The instruction came from London – from a majority shareholder.’
‘You had nothing to do with his appointment, then. Could we say that Mr Ballard was foisted upon you?’
‘As a minority shareholder I didn’t have much say in the matter.’
‘If you had had a say in the matter whom would you have picked as managing director?’
‘Mr Dobbs, who was mine manager.’
‘And who is now dead.’
Crowell bowed his head and said nothing.
‘That is all,’ said Rickman.
‘What did you think of Mr Ballard when you first met him?’ asked Harrison.
Crowell shrugged. ‘I thought he was a personable enough young man – perhaps a little too young for the job.’
‘Did you suspect him of any proclivities towards drunkenness or practical joking?’
‘They did not present themselves – then.’
‘But they did eventually? When?’
‘On that evening, Mr Chairman.’
Harrison sighed, exasperated at Crowell’s woolly-mindedness. ‘But we have heard evidence that Mr Ballard was neither drunk nor playing a practical joke. Why should you not believe what he said on that occasion?’
Crowell shook his head unhappily and looked towards Rickman, whose head was down as he busily scanned a sheet of paper. ‘I don’t know – it was just that it sounded that way.’
‘It has been suggested that Mr Ballard was “foisted” upon you.’ Harrison uttered the word as though it had a nasty taste. ‘Upon his appointment, did you make any complaint of any kind – to anyone?’
‘No.’
Harrison shook his head slowly as he regarded this most unsatisfactory witness. ‘Very well. I have no further questions He looked down from the rostrum. ‘Yes, Mr Ballard?’
‘I would like to ask some questions.’
‘I see that you still have no legal representation. Do you think that wise? You must have heard the saying that the man who argues his own case has a fool for a lawyer.’
Ballard smiled. ‘That may hold good in a law court, but, Mr Chairman, you have repeatedly said that this is not a court of law. I think I am quite capable of asking my own questions.’
Harrison nodded. ‘Very well, Mr Ballard.’
Ballard looked at Crowell. ‘Mr Crowell, two weeks after the disaster the board suspended me from my duties. Why?’
Rickman’s hand shot up. ‘Objection! What happened two weeks after the incident does not come within the scope of this inquiry.’
‘Mr Rickman has a point,’ said Harrison. ‘I cannot really see that this is helpful.’
Ballard stood up. ‘May I argue the point?’
‘Certainly.’
Ballard picked up a note-pad. ‘I took notes of your remarks when this inquiry began. You ruled that evidence given here may not be used in a future civil action. It seems to me that this inquiry may be the only public hearing possible.’
He turned a page. ‘On the second day Dr McGill said that the death-roll in the disaster was higher than need be. You overruled an objection to that on the grounds that this is not a court of law and the procedure is at your sole discretion.’
He looked up. ‘Mr Chairman, this inquiry is being widely reported in the Press, not only in New Zealand but also in the United Kingdom. Regardless of your findings, the public is going to blame someone for those unnecessary deaths. Now, certain imputations have been made about my character, my drinking habits and a supposed propensity for practical joking which, in my own interests, I cannot allow to pass unchallenged. I ask to be allowed to question Mr Crowell about these matters, and the fact that I was suspended from my duties a fortnight after the disaster certainly seems to me to be a legitimate reason for inquiry.’
Harrison conferred briefly with his two assessors, then said, ‘It is not the wish of this Commission that a man’s reputation be put lightly at stake. You may sit down, Mr Ballard, and continue your questioning of Mr Crowell.’
Rickman said warningly, ‘There may be grounds for appeal here, Mr Chairman.’
‘There may, indeed,’ agreed Harrison tranquilly. ‘You will find the procedure set out in the Commissions of Inquiry Act. Continue, Mr Ballard.’
Ballard sat down. ‘Why was I suspended from my duties, Mr Crowell?’
‘It was a unanimous decision of the board.’
‘That is not exactly answering my question, but we’ll let it pass for the moment. You said in evidence that you had nothing to do with my appointment, that you would rather have chosen another man, and that the instructions came from London. Do you usually take your instructions from London, Mr Crowell?’
‘Of course not.’
‘Then where do you take your instructions from?’
‘Why, from …’ Crowell stopped short. ‘I do not take instructions, as you put it, I am chairman of the company.’
‘I see. Do you regard yourself as a sort of dictator?’
‘That is an insulting question.’
‘Maybe you might think so. All the same, I’d like you to answer it.’
‘Of course I’m not a dictator.’
‘You can’t have it both ways,’ said Ballard. ‘Either you take instructions or you do not. Which is it, Mr Crowell?’
‘As chairman I assist the board in making decisions. All decisions are made jointly.’
‘A most democratic process,’ commented Ballard. ‘But the decision to appoint me as managing director was not made jointly by the board, was it, Mr Crowell?’
‘The decision need not be unanimous,’ said Crowell. ‘As you have pointed out, this is a democratic process where the majority rules.’
‘But not so democratic as to be a one man, one vote system. Is it not a fact that he who controls most votes controls the company?’
‘That is the usual system.’
‘And you said in evidence that the instruction to appoint me came from a majority shareholder in London. Is that shareholder a member of the board?’
Crowell twitched nervously. In a low voice he said, ‘No, he is not.’
‘Then is it not a fact that your board of directors has no real power and is thus a democratic sham? Is it not a fact that the power to control the company lies elsewhere? In the City of London?’
‘That is a misreading of the situation,’ said Crowell sullenly.
‘Let us turn from my appointment to my suspension,’ said Ballard. ‘Did the instruction to suspend me also come from London?’
‘It may have done.’
‘Surely you know. You are the chairman of the board.’
‘But not concerned with the day to day running of the company.’
‘No,’ agreed Ballard. ‘That was the function of the managing director. You said so yourself in your evidence. Surely you are not suggesting that I suspended myself?’
Dan Edwards could not contain himself. There was a loud snigger from the Press gallery and Harrison looked up, frowning.
‘You are being ridiculous,’ said Crowell.
Ballard said drily, ‘Any ridiculousness inherent in this situation certainly does not emanate from me. There remains one alternative. Are you suggesting that the suspension of the managing director was a minor bit of day to day business that was beneath your notice as chairman?’
‘Of course not.’
‘Then you will know where the idea of my suspension originated, won’t you?’
‘Now I come to think of it, the instruction for your suspension did come from London.’
‘I see. But that again is not an exact answer to the question. Is it not a fact that you communicated with London because the board is a puppet dancing to strings held in the City of London? Is it not a fact that a suggestion was made – by you – that the company was in danger of being in bad odour because of evidence to be given at this inquiry? And is it not a fact that you intimated that I, as a Johnny-come-lately, was an ideal person to shuffle the responsibility on to, and that it was then that the instruction was given – from London – that I be suspended?’
‘Objection!’ cried Rickman. ‘Mr Ballard cannot lead the witness in this way.’
‘I tend to agree,’ said Harrison. ‘Such a compendium cannot be permitted, Mr Ballard.’
‘I withdraw the question.’ Ballard knew, from the rustle in the Press gallery, that he had made his point where it mattered. ‘I shall return to the telephone conversation between Mr Crowell and myself. When you were cut off, what did you do? Oh yes; you talked it over with your wife, didn’t you? What was the substance of that conversation?’
‘I don’t remember.’ Crowell added irritably, ‘It was late at night and we were both very tired.’
‘When you were cut off, did you attempt to replace the call?’
‘No.’
‘No? Why not?’
‘You heard my evidence. I thought you were drunk.’
‘How long did you think I’d been drunk, Mr Crowell?’ asked Ballard softly.
Crowell looked startled and uncomprehending. ‘I don’t understand the question.’
‘It’s quite a simple question. Please answer it.’
‘I didn’t give it a thought.’
Ballard picked up a sheet of paper. ‘You said in evidence that your secretary had left a number of messages from me. You also said that you judged, from the number and tenor of those messages, that the matter was urgent. Did you think I’d been drunk all day? The first call I had was at eleven-thirty that morning.’
‘I told you. I didn’t give it a thought.’
‘Evidently not. So you did not try to call me back?’
‘No.’
‘And you did not try to communicate with the Ministry of Civil Defence?’
‘No.’
‘As a matter of interest, Mr Crowell, what did you do? After you had discussed it with your wife, I mean.’
‘I went to bed.’
‘You went to bed,’ repeated Ballard slowly. ‘Thank you, Mr Crowell. That will be all.’ He waited until Crowell was rising from the chair and was in a half crouch. ‘Oh, there is just one further thing. Did you come forward voluntarily to give evidence here, or were you subpoena’d?’
‘I object,’ said Rickman. ‘That has nothing to do with anything.’
‘I agree, Mr Rickman,’ said Harrison smoothly. ‘This Commission need not be instructed that Mr Crowell was subpoena’d – it already knows.’ He ignored the indescribable sound that came from Rickman, and continued blandly, ‘And now I think we shall adjourn for lunch.’

FOURTEEN (#ulink_b213cc41-7821-5015-a993-1c7451a4f4f7)
Over lunch in the restaurant near the Provincial Buildings, McGill said, ‘You’re doing all right, Ian. You got in some good stuff this morning.’
Ballard poured a glass of water. ‘I didn’t think Harrison would let me get away with it.’
‘Get away with it! God, he compounded with you. He ticked you off when he had to, but he didn’t stop you. I thought I’d split a gusset when he brought out the bit that Crowell had been subpoena’d. He agreed with Rickman and harpooned him in the same breath.’ McGill paused. ‘I don’t think Harrison likes Crowell.’
‘I don’t like him much myself.’
‘You’re not doing yourself much good with your family. That histrionic speech about the company dancing to strings pulled in the City of London won’t go down well with your uncles back home. Where did you learn to pull a trick like that?’
Ballard grinned. ‘Watching the Perry Mason Show.’ He shrugged. ‘It won’t make much difference. I’ve already decided to leave the Ballard Group.’
‘After a speech like that you’ll have to. I can’t see any Ballard company hiring you now. What will you do?’
‘Haven’t made up my mind yet. Something will turn up.’ He frowned. ‘I keep wondering what Stenning wants.’
‘Do you know him at all?’
‘Not well. The old man relied on him a lot, and I know why. He’s a tough old bird, about as ruthless as old Ben was himself. Ben told him what he wanted to do, and Stenning figured out a legal way of doing it. He’s as sharp as a tack.’
‘You say he’s old – how old?’
Ballard reflected. ‘He’ll be pushing seventy now, I suppose. He was much younger than Ben. One of the bright young men that Ben surrounded himself with in the early years.’
‘An old guy of seventy flying half way across the world,’ mused McGill. ‘Could be important, Ian.’
‘I can’t see how.’
McGill looked up. ‘Here comes someone else who is not doing herself much good with her family.’ He stood up. ‘Hi, Liz.’
Liz Peterson put her hand on Ballard’s shoulder. ‘Don’t get up, Ian. Hi, Mike.’
McGill drew up a chair for her and then sat down. He put out his hand and rubbed Liz’s dog behind the ears. ‘Hi, Victor; how’s the boy?’ The Alsatian lolled his tongue and his tail wagged vigorously.
‘I didn’t see you at the hearing this morning,’ said Ballard.
‘I was there. Wouldn’t miss it for anything. It’s just that I wasn’t sitting with the boys. I don’t like Lyall – he gives me the cold grues. Where’s Joe?’
‘Gone back to the hospital. Giving evidence this morning took it out of him.’
Liz tapped on the table. ‘My charming brother, Charlie, manufactures the bullets and Lyall fires them.’ She burlesqued Lyall’s accent. ‘“Did Mr Ballard drink heavily that night?” I damn near cheered when Joe fired that right back. It wounded Charlie to the heart.’
‘You’re not doing yourself much good with them,’ warned Ballard.
‘To hell with both of them,’ she said pleasantly. ‘I only stuck around because of Johnnie, and now he’s dead I’ll be leaving Huka. Maybe I’ll be leaving New Zealand.’
‘A fine pair you are,’ said McGill. ‘Don’t either of you believe in family ties at all?’
‘Not with that pair,’ said Liz. ‘I nearly gave Charlie a heart attack just now. I said that if anyone implied that Ian was drunk just once more I’d offer my services as your witness. I said that I can tell well enough when the man I’m dancing with is drunk, and that Ian wasn’t but that Charlie certainly was.’ She laughed. ‘I’ve never seen a man go red and white at the same time.’
‘I’d be careful, Liz,’ said Ballard soberly. ‘Charlie can be violent.’
‘Don’t I know it! I once had to crown him with a bottle. But I can handle him.’
McGill smiled satirically. ‘So unlike the home life of our own dear Queen,’ he observed.
Ballard said, ‘Thanks for the support, Liz. Ever since the avalanche I’ve been depressed, but now the depression is lifting. I’ve made a couple of decisions and now the way ahead seems a lot clearer. You’ve had a lot to do with it.’
‘I bring more than support, sir – I bring information. Rickman and Lyall are cooking up something together. I was driving past the company office just now when they both came out together, laughing fit to bust.’
‘Watch it, Ian,’ warned McGill. ‘It’ll be a pincer movement.’
‘Thanks, Liz,’ said Ballard.
She looked at her watch. ‘I think I’ll sit with the boys this afternoon. I might learn something more. See you at the hearing.’ She stood up. ‘Come on, Victor.’
As she walked away McGill said, ‘The prettiest spy I ever did see.’ He finished his coffee and looked around for the waitress. ‘We’d better be going, too. By the way, what are these couple of decisions you’ve made?’
‘You’ve heard one – I’m leaving the Ballard Group.’
‘And the other?’
‘I’m getting married,’ said Ballard placidly.
McGill paused, his wallet half way from his breast pocket. ‘Well, congratulations. Who’s the lucky girl?’
Ballard dabbed at his mouth with a napkin. ‘Liz Peterson – if she’ll have me.’
‘You must be insane,’ said McGill. ‘Who’d want Charlie as a brother-in-law?’

FIFTEEN (#ulink_04715783-d2a2-5bdf-a365-93b248918a4d)
MacAllister was an electrical engineer, stolid and given to precise answers. When Harrison asked him when the power lines were cut, he answered, ‘Two minutes and seven seconds to midnight.’
‘How do you know?’ asked Professor Rolandson.
‘There is a recording device on the circuit breakers. When they kicked out the time was recorded.’
Harrison said, ‘What did you do?’
‘Established where the break was.’
From Rolandson: ‘How?’
‘I put a current on the line and measured the resistivity. That gave a rough idea of the distance to the break. I put it as a little short of Hukahoronui.’
‘And then?’
‘I rang my opposite number in Post Office Telephones and asked if he had the same trouble. He had, and he confirmed my findings. I then sent out an inspection crew.’
‘With what result?’
‘They rang me nearly two hours later to say that they had found the trouble. They said it was due to a fall of snow. A Post Office crew was also there and my men had used their portable telephone.’
‘They just said it was due to a fall of snow?’
‘Yes, sir. It didn’t seem reasonable to me that a fall of snow could cut the cables so I asked for further information. The entrance to the valley of Hukahoronui is by a cleft or gap, and my men said the gap was filled with snow to a height farther than they could see in the darkness. I know the place, sir, and I asked if the river which runs out of the valley was still flowing. My man said there was a little flow but not very much. I assumed there would be flooding on the other side of the snowfall so I immediately notified the police.’
‘Very quick-witted of you,’ remarked Harrison. ‘But why the police?’
‘Standard instructions, sir,’ said MacAllister stolidly.
‘Did you take further steps?’
‘Yes, sir. I went to the scene of the break in the cable. It was snowing quite heavily as I set out and conditions became worse as I proceeded. When I arrived at the break it was snowing very heavily – something like a blizzard. On my truck I had a spotlight but there was too much back reflection from the falling snow to show how high the blockage in the Gap was. I also investigated the flow of the river and found it to be minimal. I judged the situation serious enough to telephone the police again.’
‘And what was the reaction from the police?’
‘They noted the facts as I gave them, sir.’
‘Nothing more?’
‘They told me nothing more.’
‘You say you could not tell the height of the blockage. Obviously you could not tell the depth – how far back it extended into the Gap?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Did you take steps to find out?’
‘Not at that time. It was snowing heavily and it was dark. To investigate in those conditions would have been most dangerous. I would not climb up there myself, nor would I send anyone else. I judged it better to wait until daylight when we could see what we were doing.’
Harrison looked at Smithers. ‘It appears from the evidence of Mr MacAllister that this was the first occasion that anyone outside Hukahoronui had any inkling of trouble.’ He switched his gaze to Crowell who was sitting next to Rickman and amended his statement. ‘Or anyone who did something constructive about it, that is. Have you any questions, Mr Smithers?’
‘No, Mr Chairman. But I think the witness ought to be congratulated on the sensible steps he took – especially his quickness in passing on news of a potentially hazardous situation.’
‘I concur.’ Harrison turned to MacAllister. ‘To what time does your evidence take us?’
‘I made the second call to the police at three-thirty on the Sunday morning.’
‘Thank you. You may step down, Mr MacAllister, with the knowledge that you have done your duty well.’
MacAllister left the witness chair, and Harrison said, ‘I think it is time to get back to what happened in Hukahoronui after the lights were extinguished. We have just heard of a fall of snow which blocked the Hukahoronui Gap. I would like to hear Dr McGill’s professional views on that.’
McGill rose, walked to the witness chair, and set his briefcase on the floor. Harrison said, ‘You were present in the lobby of the Hotel D’Archiac when the lights went out?’
‘Yes, sir. As Mr Cameron said, there was a lot of confusion at that time. Mr Ballard was trying to talk to Mr Crowell and had difficulty in doing so because of the actions of Mr Charles Peterson. I went to his aid and it was about then that the lights went out. Mr Ballard said that the telephone had also gone dead.’
‘Did you hear the snow falling into the Gap?’
‘No. There was too much noise in the hotel.’
‘So what happened?’
‘The management of the hotel got busy and provided light. There were candles and kerosene lanterns ready for use. I was told that a breakdown of electricity supply was not uncommon, and there had been a similar occurrence only the previous month. Everybody took it as a matter of course. I asked about the dead telephone but no one seemed worried about that, either. The dance was over, anyway, so everybody went home.’
‘Including you?’
‘Yes. I went home with Mr Ballard and went to bed.’
McGill was woken from a sound sleep by Ballard. He awoke to darkness and automatically flicked at the switch of the bed-side lamp, but nothing happened. It was then he remembered about the power failure. Ballard was a deeper shadow in the darkness. McGill said, ‘What time is it?’
‘Five-thirty. Cameron just rang up with a funny story. It seems that one of his men, Jack Stevens, left early this morning to go to Christchurch to see his mother. He says he can’t get out of the valley.’
‘Why not?’
‘He says the Gap is closed off with snow. He says he can’t get through.’
‘What sort of car does he have?’
‘A Volkswagen.’
‘Well, it’s not surprising, is it? Look at what happened to those two Americans the other day. Is it still snowing?’
‘Very heavily.’
‘Well, there you are. It’s probably been snowing all night. I couldn’t guarantee to get through myself with a Land-Rover.’
‘According to Cameron, Jack says it’s not like that. He’s talking of a wall of snow so high he can’t see the top. I told Cameron to bring him here.’
McGill grunted. ‘Light that candle on the dressing-table, will you?’
Ten minutes later he was saying, ‘You’re sure, now. This is not just a deep drift across the road?’
‘I’ve told you it’s not,’ said Stevens. ‘It’s a bloody great wall of snow.’
‘I think I’d better go and look at it,’ said McGill.
Ballard said, ‘I’ll come with you.’ He looked at the telephone and then at Cameron. ‘If there’s no power how did you manage to ring me?’
Stevens said, ‘The exchange has a bank of batteries and an emergency diesel generator to top them up. We’re all right for local calls.’
McGill nodded. ‘Whatever happened at the Gap must have taken out the electricity cables and the telephone lines both.’ He picked up a heavy anorak. ‘Let’s get going.’
‘I’ll come, too,’ said Cameron.
‘No,’ said McGill. ‘I’ve just been handed an idea. Do you have diesel generators at the mine?’
‘Sure.’
‘Then you see that they’re in working order. I have a notion that we’re going to need power before long.’
‘That means me,’ said Stevens. ‘I’m the mine electrician.’ He winked at Cameron. ‘Do I get double time for Sunday work?’
Ballard left to put on ski pants and an anorak and then he joined McGill in the garage. He got behind the wheel of the Land-Rover and pushed the self-starter; it whined but the engine did not fire. ‘She’s cold,’ he said as he pushed again. He tried several times but still the engine did not take. ‘Confound the bloody thing.’
‘Take it easy,’ said McGill. ‘You’ve flooded her. Wait a couple of minutes.’ He pulled the anorak about him and then put on gloves. ‘What’s between you and Charlie Peterson? Last night he acted like a bull moose in rutting season.’
‘It’s an old story,’ said Ballard. ‘Not worth repeating.’
‘I think I’d better know. Look, Ian: the Petersons are forty per cent of the town council and that fool of a mayor, Houghton, will do whatever John Peterson tells him to do.’
‘John’s all right,’ said Ballard.
‘Maybe. But Eric is steamed up about the mine and he hates your guts. As for Charlie – I don’t know. There seems to be something else sticking in his craw. What did you do? Take away his girl or something like that?’
‘Of course not.’
‘If an old quarrel is getting in the way of co-operation with the council I’d better know about it. Charlie did enough damage last night.’
‘It goes back a long way.’
‘So tell,’ said McGill. ‘The snow in the Gap won’t go away if what Stevens says is true. We have the time.’
‘I never knew my father,’ said Ballard. ‘I was born in the January of 1939 in England, and I was brought here as a babe in arms. Something else also happened in ‘39.’
‘The war?’
‘That’s it. My father had split with old Ben and he decided to leave England and farm here. He bought the land and then the war came and he joined the army. He was in the Western Desert with the New Zealand Division and I didn’t see him to recognize until he came back in 1943 when I was four years old. My mother wanted him to stay – a lot of the men who came back in ‘43 refused to return to active service – and there was a bit of a quarrel between him and my mother. In the end it was academic because he was killed in the avalanche here. I saw it happen – and that’s all I got to know of my father.’
‘Not a lot.’
‘No. It hit my mother hard and she turned a bit peculiar. Not that she went round the bend or anything like that. Just peculiar.’
‘Neurotic?’
‘I suppose you could call it that.’
‘What form did it take?’
Ballard stared past the whirling snowflakes eddying in the wind beyond the open garage doors. ‘I think you could say she became over-protective as far as I was concerned.’
‘Was that what Charlie meant when he said she wouldn’t let you out in the snow for fear you’d catch cold?’
‘Something like that.’
‘He made another crack about you wouldn’t go on a slope steeper than a billiard table.’
Ballard sighed. ‘That was it. It was made worse because my mother was the schoolteacher here. She tried to run the farm herself but she couldn’t, so she sold off most of the land to old Peterson, just keeping the bit the house was on. To earn a living she took the job of schoolmistress. She was qualified for it. But there I was – in the middle. Over-protected and regarded as a teacher’s pet into the bargain.’
‘“Don’t go near the water until you learn how to swim,”’ quoted McGill.
‘You don’t know how true that was, Mike.’ There was an edge of bitterness in Ballard’s voice. ‘Like all kids everywhere we had our swimming hole over by the bluff behind the Petersons’ store. All the kids could swim well except me – all I could do was dog-paddle in the shallows and if my mother had known about that she’d have given me hell.’
He took out a packet of cigarettes and offered one to McGill who produced a lighter. Inhaling smoke, he said, ‘I was twelve when it happened. It was in the spring and Alec Peterson and I were down by the river. Alec was the fourth of the Peterson brothers. There was a lot of melt water coming down from the mountains – the river was full and flowing fast and the water was bloody cold, but you know what kids are. I dipped in and out of the shallows – more out than in – but Alec went farther out. He was tough for a ten-year-old, and a strong swimmer.’
‘Don’t tell me,’ said McGill. ‘He got into trouble.’
‘I think he got cramp,’ said Ballard. ‘Anyway, he let out a yell as he was swept out into the main stream. I knew I wouldn’t have a hope in hell of getting him out, but I knew that river. It swirled around the bluff and on the other side there was an eddy where anything floating usually came ashore. It was common knowledge among the kids that it was a good place to collect firewood. So I belted across the bluff, past the Peterson store as fast as I could run.’
He drew on the cigarette in a long inhalation. ‘I was right. Alec came inshore and I was able to wade in and grab him. But on his way around the bluff he’d bashed his head on a rock. His skull was cracked and his brains were leaking out and he was stone dead.’
McGill blew out his breath. ‘Nasty! But I don’t see how you could be blamed for anything.’
‘Don’t you? Well, I’ll tell you. Two other people heard Alec when he yelled but they were too far away to do anything. And they saw me running like hell. Afterwards they said they’d seen me running away and leaving Alec. The two witnesses were Alec’s brothers – Charlie and Eric.’
McGill whistled. ‘Now I’m beginning to see.’
‘They made my life a misery for the next four years. I went through hell, Mike. It wasn’t just the Petersons – they set all the other kids against me. Those were the loneliest years I’ve ever spent. I think I’d have gone nuts if it hadn’t been for Turi’s son Tawhaki.’
‘It must have been tough.’
Ballard nodded. ‘Anyway, when I was sixteen years old Ben appeared in the valley as though he’d dropped from the sky. That was when the preliminary exploration was made for the mine. He listened to the local gossip, took one look at me and another at my mother, and then they had a flaming row. He beat her down, of course; very few people could withstand Ben. The upshot of it was that I went back to England with him.’
‘And your mother?’
‘She stayed on for a few years – until the mine started – then she went back to England, too.’
‘And latched on to you again?’
‘More or less – but I’d learned the score by then. I’d cut the apron strings.’ Ballard flicked his cigarette butt out into the snow.
There was a brief silence before McGill said, ‘I still don’t get it. Grown men don’t behave like Charlie’s behaving because of something that happened when they were kids.’
‘You don’t know Charlie,’ said Ballard. ‘John’s all right and, apart from what he believes about the mine, so is Eric. But for one thing, Charlie and Alec were very close – Alec was Charlie’s twin. And for another, while you can’t call Charlie retarded, he’s never really grown up – he’s never matured. Only last night you said he sounded like a schoolboy.’
‘Yeah.’ McGill stroked the side of his cheek. He had not shaved and it made a scratching sound. ‘Anyway, I’m glad you told me. It makes things a lot clearer.’
‘But there’s nothing much any of us can do about it.’ Ballard prodded at the starter again and the engine caught with a steady throb. ‘Let’s go up to the Gap.’
He drove into town, and as they were passing the Supermarket, McGill pointed to a car just pulling out. ‘Looks as though he’s leaving, too.’
‘That’s John Peterson.’ Ballard accelerated to get ahead and then waved Peterson down.
As Peterson drew alongside McGill wound down the side window. ‘Going far, Mr Peterson?’
John said, ‘I’ve an early business appointment in Christchurch tomorrow, so I thought I’d leave early and get in a couple of rounds of golf there today.’ He laughed as he waved at the snow. ‘Not much chance of golf here, is there?’
‘You may be disappointed,’ said McGill. ‘Our information is that the Gap is blocked.’
‘Blocked? Impossible!’
‘We’re just going to have a look. Maybe you’d like to tag along behind.’
‘All right. But I think you’ll find yourself mistaken.’
McGill closed the window. ‘As the White Queen said – I can think of six impossible things before breakfast. Carry on, Ian.’
They drove up the road that rose towards the Gap and which paralleled the river. As the headlights’ beam swept across the ravine which the river had cut McGill said, ‘Jack Stevens could be right. Have you ever seen the river as full as that?’
‘I’ll tell you when we come to the next bend.’ At the next corner Ballard stopped the car. The beam from the headlights played in calm waters which swirled in smooth eddies. ‘I’ve never seen it so high. The ravine is more than thirty feet deep here.’
‘Let’s get on.’ McGill turned in his seat. ‘Peterson is still with us.’
Ballard drove as far as he could until he was stopped by a cliff which suddenly appeared from out the darkness – a cliff which had no right to be there. ‘My God!’ he said. ‘Just look at it!’
McGill opened the door of the car and got out. He walked towards the wall of snow and was silhouetted in the headlights. He prodded at the snow and then looked upwards, shaking his head. With a wave of his hand he gestured for Ballard to join him.
Ballard got out of the car just as John Peterson drew alongside. Together they walked to where McGill was standing and beating his gloved hands together. Peterson looked at the piled snow. ‘What caused it?’
McGill said blandly, ‘What you are seeing, Mr Peterson, is the end result of an avalanche. Not a big one, but not a small one, either. Nobody will be leaving Hukahoronui for quite some time – at least, not in a car.’
Peterson stared upwards, holding his hand above his head to stop snow driving into his eyes. ‘There’s a lot of snow there.’
‘Avalanches tend to have a lot of snow in them,’ said McGill drily. ‘If the slope above the town gives way there’ll be a hell of a lot more snow than you see here.’
Ballard walked over to one side and looked at the river. ‘There’ll be floods in the valley if the water keeps backing up.’
‘I don’t think so,’ said McGill. ‘The water is deep here and there’ll be considerable pressure at the bottom. It will soon drill a hole through this lot – I’d say before the day is over. That will leave a snow bridge over the river, but it won’t help any to clear the road.’
He went back to the snow wall and took out a handful of snow and examined it. ‘Not too dry but dry enough.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Peterson.
‘Nothing. Just being technical.’ He thrust his hand under Peterson’s nose, palm upwards. With the forefinger of his left hand he stirred the snow around. ‘Soft, harmless stuff, isn’t it? Just like lamb’s wool.’ His fingers closed on the snow, making a fist. ‘There was a man in my line of business called Zdarsky,’ he said conversationally. ‘He was a pioneer working before the First World War. Zdarsky said, “Snow is not a wolf in sheep’s clothing – it is a tiger in lamb’s clothing.”’
He opened his fist. ‘Look at that, Mr Peterson. What is it?’
In the palm of his gloved hand lay a lump of hard ice.
‘So that was the first avalanche,’ said Harrison.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And it meant that no vehicles could leave or enter the valley?’
‘That is correct.’
‘So what happened next?’
McGill said, ‘It had been my intention to persuade the town council that the best course of action was to evacuate the population of the valley until the danger had receded. This was now impossible.’
‘You say impossible. Surely the obstacle could be climbed.’
‘It could be climbed by the fit and active, of course; but what of the elderly, the handicapped and the children? But at least one member of the town council was now convinced that avalanches were something to be reckoned with in Hukahoronui. He was now ready to go back to town and throw his full weight into implementing any action I recommended. Mr John Peterson had been the first mayor and his words and actions would count for a lot. We went back to the town to get some action going.’
Harrison nodded and made a note. ‘What was the name of the man you quoted to Mr Peterson? How do you spell it?’
‘Z-D-A-R-S-K-Y, Matthias Zdarsky. He was an Austrian and an early pioneer in snow studies.’ McGill hesitated. ‘I have an anecdote which may have some bearing on what I quoted to Mr Peterson.’
‘Proceed,’ said Harrison. ‘As long at it does not take us too far from our purpose here.’
‘I don’t think it does. A couple of years ago I was in Western Canada as a technical adviser on avalanche protection. There was a cartographic draughtsman who had been given the job of drawing a map of the area showing all the sites of avalanche hazard. It was a long job but he had nearly finished when, one day when he got back from lunch he found that some joker had written in medieval lettering on each avalanche site the words “Here be Tygers”, just as on an old map.’
He smiled slightly. ‘The draughtsman didn’t think much of it as a joke, but the boss of his department took the map, had it framed, and hung it on the wall of his office as a reminder to everyone about avalanche hazard. You see, everyone in the game knows about Matthias Zdarsky and what happened to him.’
‘An interesting anecdote,’ said Harrison. ‘And perfectly relevant. At the risk of wasting more time I would like to know what did happen to Zdarsky.’
‘He was in the Austrian army during the First World War. At that time both sides – Austrians and Italians – were using avalanches as weapons in the Dolomites and the Tyrol. It’s said that eighty thousand men died in avalanches during the war. In 1916 Zdarsky was going to the rescue of twenty-five Austrian soldiers who had been caught in an avalanche when he himself was caught in one. He was lucky enough to be rescued alive but that’s about all you can say. He had eighty broken bones and dislocations, and it was eleven years before he could ski again.’
The hall was hushed. Presently Harrison said, ‘Thank you, Dr McGill.’ He looked up at the clock. ‘I think we will now adjourn for the weekend. This hearing will recommence at ten in the morning on Monday.’ He tapped lightly with the gavel ‘The hearing is now adjourned.’

SIXTEEN (#ulink_af67cf90-fc5b-514d-810e-a22bb0c72a95)
Next morning Ballard went to the hospital to visit Cameron. He tried to do this as often as possible to keep the old man company and cheer him up. It was a fact that Cameron now was an old man; his experience in the avalanche had almost killed both spirit and body. McGill said, ‘I’ll go to see him tomorrow. I have things to do at Deep Freeze Headquarters.’
‘I’ll be out that way this afternoon,’ said Ballard. ‘I’m picking up Stenning at Harewood. Want a lift back?’
‘Thanks,’ said McGill. ‘Ask for me in the office.’
Ballard found Cameron out of bed but in a wheelchair with a blanket tucked around him in spite of the fact that it was a hot day. He was talking to Liz Peterson when Ballard walked into the room. ‘Hi!’ said Liz. ‘I’ve just been telling Joe how Mike tried to freeze our blood when he gave evidence yesterday.’
‘Yes, I think he made Harrison shiver a bit.’ Privately he thought it tactless to describe the sufferings of an avalanche victim such as Zdarsky to one who had himself been caught in an avalanche, and he wondered how much Liz had said. ‘How are you feeling, Joe?’
‘A bit better this morning. I could have stayed yesterday afternoon in spite of my damn fool doctor.’
‘You do as he says,’ Ballard advised. ‘What do you think, Liz?’
‘I think Joe should do as he likes. Doctor doesn’t always know best.’
Cameron laughed. ‘Oh, it’s good to have a pretty girl here – especially when she’s on my side. But you really shouldn’t be here, Liz.’ He nodded towards the window. ‘You should be out there, enjoying the sunshine. On a tennis court, maybe.’
‘I’ve got plenty of time for tennis, Joe,’ she said. ‘The rest of my life. Are they looking after you well here?’
‘Okay, I guess – but it’s just like any other hospital. The food is terrible – they have too many dieticians and too few cooks.’
‘We’ll have something sent in,’ said Ballard. ‘Won’t we Liz?’
She smiled. ‘I’m not bad at home cooking.’
They stayed until Cameron sent them off, saying that young people must have something better to do than to sit around in hospitals. Outside, in the sunshine, Ballard said, ‘Doing anything in particular, Liz?’
‘Not really.’
‘What about having lunch with me?’
She hesitated fractionally, but said, ‘I’d like that.’
‘We’ll go in my car. I’ll bring you back on my way to the airport this afternoon. I’m meeting someone.’
‘It’ll cost you lunch for two. I’ll have to bring Victor. I can’t leave him in my car.’
‘Sure.’
She laughed. ‘Love me – love my dog.’
As Ballard started the engine of his car, he said, ‘Did you mean what you said yesterday – about leaving New Zealand?’
‘I’ve been thinking about it.’
‘Where would you go?’
‘England, I suppose – at first anyway. Then perhaps America. You’ve travelled around a bit, haven’t you? I’ve always wanted to travel – to see things.’
He drove out of the hospital grounds. ‘Yes, I’ve been places, but they’ve always been working trips. I’ll tell you one thing – I certainly never expected to come back to New Zealand.’
‘Then why did you?’
Ballard sighed. ‘My grandfather wanted me to. He was a forceful old bird.’
‘He was! I didn’t know he was dead.’
‘He died a few days ago.’
‘Oh, Ian! I am sorry.’
‘So am I, in a way. We didn’t always see eye to eye, but I’ll miss him. Now that he’s gone I won’t be staying with the Ballard group. In fact, I’ve just about made that impossible.’
‘It’s like Mike says – neither of us get on with our relatives.’ Liz laughed. ‘I had a row with Charlie last night. Someone saw us in the restaurant yesterday and split to Charlie.’
‘Don’t get into trouble because of me, Liz.’
‘I’m tired of Charlie’s tantrums. I’m a grown woman and I’ll meet whoever I like. I told him so last night.’ She rubbed the side of her face reflectively.
Ballard glanced sideways and caught the action. ‘He hit you?’
‘Not for the first time, but it’s going to be the last.’ She saw the expression on Ballard’s face. ‘Not to worry, Ian. I can defend myself. I’m reckoned to be a pretty aggressive tennis player and those smash services develop the muscles.’
‘So you hit him back. I doubt if that would make much of an impression on Charlie.’
She grinned impishly. ‘I happened to be holding a plateful of spaghetti at the time.’ When Ballard burst out laughing she added, ‘Eric socked him, too. We’re quite a happy family, we Petersons.’
He turned the car into the hotel car park. As they walked into the foyer he said, ‘The grub’s not bad here; they serve quite a good lunch. But what about a drink first?’
‘Something long and cold,’ she agreed.
‘We’ll have it by the pool,’ he said. ‘This way.’ Suddenly he stiffened and halted in his stride.
‘What’s the matter?’
‘The forces are rallying. It’s Cousin Francis. Now where the devil did he spring from?’
A youngish man in a business suit stepped in front of them. ‘Morning, Ian,’ he said, abruptly and unsmilingly.
‘Good morning, Frank,’ said Ballard. ‘Miss Peterson, this is my cousin, Frank Ballard.’
Frank Ballard gave her a curt nod. ‘I want to talk to you, Ian.’
‘Sure. We’re just going to have drinks by the pool. Join us.’
Frank shook his head. ‘In private.’
‘All right. After lunch, then.’
‘No, I haven’t the time. I’m catching a plane back to Sydney almost immediately. It’ll have to be now.’
‘Don’t mind me,’ said Liz. ‘I’ll wait for you by the pool. Come on, Victor.’ She walked away without waiting for an answer.
Frank said, ‘What about your room?’
‘All right.’ Ballard led the way. They walked in silence until they reached the room. As he closed the door Ballard said, ‘What brings you from Australia, Frank?’
Frank swung around. ‘You bloody well know what brings me. Why the hell did you put old Crowell through the hoops the way you did yesterday? He was on the phone to me, crying on my shoulder long distance.’
Ian smiled. ‘Just trying to elicit a bit of truth.’
There was no answering smile from Frank. ‘Now look here, Ian. You’re getting the company into a right mess. A fine bloody managing director you are.’
‘Aren’t you forgetting that Crowell suspended me from duty? Or is what you’ve just said an offer of the job back?’
‘You flaming idiot! The suspension was only until the Inquiry was over. If you’d have used your brains and kept quiet everything would have been all right, and you’d be back in the saddle next week. As it is, I’m not so sure. You’ve been throwing so much mud at the company that I’m not sure you’re fit for the position.’
Ian sat on the bed. ‘If I’d kept quiet I’d be a dead duck, and you know it. Between the company and the Petersons I wouldn’t stand a chance. Did you really think I’d stand still and let you make a patsy out of me?’
‘This is a Ballard company,’ said Frank furiously. ‘We take care of our own. Have you no family feeling?’
‘You’d take care of me like a fox takes care of a rabbit,’ snapped Ian.
‘If that’s what you think, I’m sorry.’ Frank’s finger shot out. ‘When the inquiry starts again on Monday you’d better keep quiet. No more appeals to the grandstand like those you’ve been making. If you promise to do that then maybe there’ll still be a job for you in the Group. I doubt if I’ll be able to swing the managing directorship of Hukahoronui – my old man’s hopping mad – but I still think I can guarantee some kind of job.’
‘Thanks,’ said Ian ironically. ‘But I’m underwhelmed by your generosity. You know what I think of the Group – I’ve never made a secret of it.’
‘For Christ’s sake!’ burst out Frank. ‘You know how big we are. We just have to pass the word around and you’ll never get a job in mining again. Look, you don’t even have to do anything – just stop asking damn fool questions in public.’
Ian stood up. ‘Don’t push me, Frank,’ he warned.
‘I haven’t even started yet. For God’s sake, be reasonable, Ian. Do you know how much the share price of the company has dropped since yesterday? All this adverse publicity is having an effect even in London. We’re dropping money fast.’
‘I bleed for you.’
‘You know we’re going to float a new issue of Hukahoronui shares. What chance do you think we’ll have if you continue to hold up the chairman of the board as a bloody fool?’
‘The foolishness of Crowell is none of my doing – he’s a self-made idiot. That’s why you have him there – because he’ll jump when he’s told. You ought to be getting rid of Crowell, not me.’
‘You’re impossible,’ said Frank disgustedly. ‘We’re not getting rid of you.’
‘No,’ agreed Ian. ‘I’m leaving under my own power, and in my own way. I don’t take easily to blackmail, Frank, and the way you’re going you’re likely to cook your own goose.’
Frank looked up and said sharply, ‘What do you mean?’
‘Have you considered the composition of the Commission of Inquiry? There’s Harrison, the chairman, and his two assessors, both experts in their fields. Rolandson knows about snow, and French is from the Department of Mines. He hasn’t said much yet.’
‘So?’
‘So any more pressure from you and I’ll start asking questions about conditions in that mine, and by the time I’m through French will write a report that’ll curl your hair – a report that the shareholders won’t like at all. Then you’ll see something really happen to the share price.’
‘You’re being really hard-nosed about this, aren’t you? Why, Ian?’
‘Do you have to ask after what you’ve been doing? I don’t like being manipulated, Frank. I don’t like being pushed around. I’m no Crowell. And another thing: the day before I was fired – and let’s give it the right name, Frank; none of this bull about suspension – I saw the result of the latest assay. Rich pickings, Frank, my boy; very rich pickings. But can you tell me why those results haven’t been given to the shareholders?’
‘That’s none of your bloody business.’
‘It might be if I buy some shares. Not that I will, of course. That mine is going to make someone a fortune, but the way you’ll set it up I don’t think the ordinary shareholders will see much of it.’
‘Nobody will make anything if you get on your hind legs and start asking damn fool questions about avalanche defences,’ said Frank sourly. ‘Good God, do you know how much it will cost us if this bloody Commission goes the wrong way?’
Ian stared at him. ‘What do you mean – the wrong way? Were you thinking of not putting in avalanche defences?’
‘Hell, there’s only an avalanche every thirty years or so. By the time the next one comes the mine will be worked out.’
Ian took a deep breath. ‘You damned fool! That was when the trees were still on the west slope. Now they’re gone there’s likely to be a fall in any period of heavy snow.’
‘All right.’ Frank flapped his hand impatiently. ‘We’ll re-afforest the slope. That’ll cost less than the snow rakes your friend McGill wants to have.’
‘Frank, do you know how long it takes for a tree to grow? I thought you lot were bad enough but now I know the depth of your greed.’ Ballard’s voice was hard. ‘And I suggest we bring this conversation to a sudden halt.’ He crossed to the door and threw it open.
Frank hesitated. ‘Think again, Ian.’
Ian jerked his head. ‘Out!’
Frank walked forward. ‘You’ll regret it.’
‘How’s Uncle Steve?’
‘He’s not going to like the answer I take back to Sydney.’
‘He should have come himself and not sent a half-wit to do his dirty work. He’s too intelligent to think threats would have any effect – he’d have tried a bribe, if I know him. Tell him from me that that wouldn’t have worked, either. Maybe you’ll be able to keep a whole skin that way.’
Frank paused outside the door, and turned. ‘You’re finished, Ian. I hope you know that.’
Ian closed the door in his face.
As he drove Liz back to the hospital to pick up her car he said, ‘Sorry about the gloomy lunch, Liz. I have a few things on my mind.’
‘It was a bit glum,’ she agreed. ‘What’s the matter? Trouble with the family? You were all right until you saw your cousin.’
He did not answer immediately but pulled the car off the road and parked by the kerb. He turned to face her, and said, ‘We both seem to have trouble that way. When were you thinking of going to England, Liz?’
‘I haven’t thought that far ahead.’
‘I’ll be going as soon as the inquiry is over. Why don’t you come with me?’
‘My God!’ she said. ‘Charlie would have kittens. Is this by way of being a proposal, Ian?’ She smiled. ‘Or do I come as your mistress?’
‘That’s up to you. You can take it either way.’
Liz laughed. ‘Shakespeare didn’t write this script. I know we’re like the Montagues and Capulets, but Romeo never made an offer like that.’ She put her hand on his. ‘I like you, Ian, but I’m not sure I love you.’
‘That’s the problem,’ he said. ‘We haven’t known each other long enough. Just two or three days at Huka, rudely interrupted by a disaster, and a week here. Love doesn’t flourish under those conditions, especially when overlooked by brother Charlie.’
‘Don’t you believe in love at first sight?’
‘I do,’ said Ballard. ‘Evidently you don’t. It happened to me at the dance on the night everything started. Look, Liz: when I get on that plane I won’t be coming back to New Zealand. I’d hate it like hell if I never saw you again. Maybe you don’t love me, but it would be nice if you gave it a fighting chance.’
‘Propinquity!’ she said. ‘A lovely word. Do you think it works?’
‘What have you got to lose?’
She looked pensively through the windscreen, staring at nothing. Presently she said, ‘If I do go to England with you – and I’m not saying right now that I will – but if I do there’ll be no strings. I’m my own woman, Ian; a very private person. That’s something Charlie can never understand. So if I come it will be my choice, and if after a while I leave you, it will be my choice again. Do you understand?’
He nodded. ‘I understand.’
‘And let me tell you something else, just to clear up something which may have been on your mind. Eric is against the Ballards on principle – it’s not just you. But with Charlie it definitely is you. Now, I was only two when Alec died; I never knew him – not to remember. And you were twelve then, and now you’re thirty-five. A person at twelve and a person at thirty-five are two different people, not to be confused with each other as Charlie does. I don’t know the rights and wrongs of Alec’s death – and I don’t care. I’ll be going to England with a man, not a boy.’
‘Thanks,’ said Ballard. ‘Thanks, Liz.’
‘Not that I’ve said I’m going with you yet,’ she warned. ‘I’ll have to think about it. As to the question you asked – what have I got to lose?’ She patted his knee. ‘The answer, my dear Ian, is my virginity!’

SEVENTEEN (#ulink_730ed71a-59cd-5a9f-b37c-2c30a7788b56)
Ballard dropped Liz at the hospital and went on to Deep Freeze Headquarters. He did not find McGill at the office but finally ran him down at the Officers’ Club where he was talking shop. Ballard said, ‘I thought I’d pick you up first. Old Stenning will have travelled a long way and he’ll be tired, so I thought I wouldn’t keep him waiting around.’
‘Sure,’ said McGill. ‘I’ll come right along. When is he due in?’
‘In fifteen minutes, if the plane’s on time.’
They drove to Harewood Airport, two minutes away, and stood chatting on the concourse while they waited. McGill said, ‘I’ve never met a millionaire’s lawyer. Will you recognize Stenning when you see him?’
Ballard nodded. ‘He’s a tall, thin chap with white hair. Looks a bit like Bertrand Russell.’
The aircraft was on time and, as the passengers streamed through the terminal, Ballard said, ‘There he is,’ and McGill saw a tall, old man with the face of an ascetic. Ballard stepped forward. ‘Good afternoon, Mr Stenning.’ They shook hands. ‘This is Mike McGill, a friend. He’s come to carry the suitcases. I don’t think they’ll be long in coming.’
Stenning smiled. ‘Are you the Dr McGill who has been giving evidence at the Inquiry?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘If you’re carrying suitcases you’ve come down in the world.’
‘The luggage is coming now,’ said Ballard. Stenning pointed out his cases, and Ballard said, ‘Let’s get this stuff out to the car, Mike.’ As they left the terminal he said to Stenning, ‘I’ve booked you a room at the hotel where I’m staying. It’s quite comfortable.’
‘Just point me towards a bed,’ said Stenning. ‘I find it difficult to sleep on aircraft. How is the Inquiry going?’
‘I’ve kept the newspapers for you. It’s getting good coverage in Christchurch.’
Stenning grunted. ‘Good! I’ve been in aircraft for two days so I’ve fallen behind with the news. I’m looking forward to discussing the disaster with you, Dr McGill.’
‘Any time I’m not in court, Mr Stenning.’
At the hotel McGill tactfully made himself scarce while Ballard showed Stenning his room. Stenning said, ‘I’m not as resilient as I used to be, Ian. I’m going to bed. Your grandfather would have said a thing or two about that, were he here. At my age he was an assiduous globe-trotter.’ He shook his head. ‘I’m sorry he’s gone.’
‘Yes,’ said Ballard. ‘So am I.’
Stenning regarded him curiously. ‘Are you?’ he asked in a sceptical tone. ‘If you’d have said the other thing I wouldn’t have been surprised – or shocked. Your grandfather was a hard man to get on with. In my opinion he didn’t treat you very well.’
Ballard shrugged. ‘I’ll miss him all the same.’
‘So will I, Ian. So will I. Now, if you’ll excuse a tired old man …’
‘Have you eaten? I can get something sent in.’
‘No – I just want my bed.’
Ballard indicated a cupboard. ‘I laid in some drinks. There’s whisky, gin and brandy – with the trimmings.’
‘A kindly thought. A whisky before bed will go down very well. I’ll see you tomorrow, Ian.’
Ballard left him and found McGill having a beer by the pool. McGill raised an eyebrow. ‘Well?’
‘Nothing,’ said Ballard. ‘He didn’t say a damned thing.’
McGill frowned. ‘I’ll tell you something,’ he said. ‘He sure as hell didn’t fly thirteen thousand miles to discuss a disaster with Mike McGill.’
Stenning was absent from breakfast next morning. McGill buttered a slice of toast. ‘He doesn’t seem to be in much of a hurry. Just like a lawyer; they work to a different sort of time from the rest of us.’
‘I had a visit from one of my relatives yesterday,’ said Ballard. ‘My cousin Frank.’ He told McGill what had happened.
McGill whistled. ‘You Ballards play rough. Can he do what he threatened to do? Have you blackballed in the industry?’
‘I doubt it. He might like to think he can. He could certainly make life bloody difficult.’
‘How come Frank was in Sydney? Very convenient, wasn’t it?’
‘The Ballard Group has interests in many countries, including Australia. It’s not unusual to find a member of the family popping up almost anywhere. I think my Uncle Steve, Frank’s father, is also in Sydney. That’s what Frank implied.’
McGill helped himself to marmalade. ‘Goddamn convenient, all the same. Crowell knew they were in Australia because he blew the whistle on you. Frank came running fast enough.’
They talked desultorily until McGill had finished his coffee. ‘I’m going to the hospital to see Joe. If Stenning has anything important to say he won’t want me around.’ He went away leaving Ballard to finish his breakfast alone.
Ballard read the Sunday papers by the pool, concentrating first on the account of the Inquiry. That did not take long, and he went on to the rest of the news which did not take long, either. He felt restless and thought of going to see Liz, but he did not want to leave the hotel without having seen Stenning. He went to his room and put on swimming trunks and worked out his frustration in several lengths of the pool.
It was eleven-thirty before Stenning appeared, carrying several newspaper clippings. ‘Good morning, Ian,’ he said briskly.
‘Did you sleep well?’
‘Like a babe. Only to be expected, of course. I had breakfast in my room. Where’s Dr McGill?’
‘He’s gone to see Joe Cameron, the mine engineer. He’s still in hospital.’
The clippings fluttered in Stenning’s hand. ‘So I gathered.’ He looked around. ‘We could do worse than have a chat here. Very nice place.’
Ballard unfolded another garden chair. ‘The town is all right, too. Christchurch prides itself on being more English than England.’
Stenning sat down. ‘I’m looking forward to seeing it.’ He regarded the clippings, then folded them and put them into his pocket. ‘You’re having quite a time at this Inquiry. I don’t think your family is going to like the things you’ve been saying.’
‘I know they don’t like it,’ said Ballard. ‘I had a visit from Frank yesterday. He wants me to shut up.’
‘What did you do?’ asked Stenning interestedly.
‘I showed him the door.’
Stenning did not comment but he looked pleased in an indefinable way which Ballard could not place. ‘You know, I was more than your grandfather’s lawyer. I was also his friend.’
‘I know he placed a lot of trust in you.’
‘Trust,’ said Stenning, and smiled. ‘Trust – that’s what I want to talk about. What do you know about the way your grandfather organized his affairs – I mean his financial affairs?’
‘Practically nothing,’ said Ballard. ‘I knew that he put all, or most, of his money into some kind of trust a few years ago. He made it quite clear that I was not going to inherit, so I didn’t take much interest. It was nothing to do with me.’
Stenning nodded. ‘Yes, it was a little over seven years ago. Do you know anything about estate duties in the United Kingdom?’
‘Death duties? Nothing much.’
‘Then I shall enlighten you. A man may give his money away – to his family usually – to a charitable foundation, as Ben did. However, if he dies within seven years of the transaction having taken place then his gift is assessed for estate duty just as if he hadn’t made it at all. If he dies after seven years have elapsed then the gift escapes the tax.’
‘I had heard about that,’ Ballard smiled. ‘I didn’t worry too much about it, myself. I don’t have much to leave, and I’ve no one to leave it to.’
Stenning shook his head. ‘Every man must make provision for the unknown future,’ he said in a lawyerly way. ‘Ben died after the seven-year period.’
‘Therefore the foundation doesn’t have to pay the tax.’
‘Precisely. But it was a near-run thing. For one thing, the government changed the law and Ben squeezed in just under the deadline. For another he died just two weeks after the seven years were up. In fact, he nearly didn’t make it at all. Do you remember him coming to see you just before you came to New Zealand?’
‘Yes. It was when he offered me the job in Hukahoronui.’
‘The effort nearly killed him,’ said Stenning. ‘The next day he took to his bed and never left it again.’
‘He sent me his stick,’ said Ballard. ‘I had a bad leg at the time. He said he wouldn’t need the stick again.’
‘He didn’t.’ Stenning looked at the sky contemplatively. ‘It was very important to Ben that he should see you at that time. The breaking of your leg was a minor disaster – you couldn’t go to see him, so the mountain had to go to Mahomet. It was so important to him that he put at risk a very large sum of money – and more beside.’
Ballard frowned. ‘I don’t see how it could have been important. All he did was to twist my arm into taking the job at Hukahoronui – and look how that’s turned out.’ His voice was bitter.
‘An avalanche wasn’t part of Ben’s plans – but it came in useful.’ Stenning laughed as he saw the bafflement on Ballard’s face. ‘You think I’m talking in riddles? Never mind; all will be made clear. Let us look at the charitable foundation. Ben gave it all his personal fortune except what he needed to live on until his death, which wasn’t much. Ben was not a man to flaunt prestige symbols; he had no Rolls Royce, for example. His needs were few and his life austere. But the foundation got a lot of money.’
‘I could see how it might.’
‘It does good work. The money or, rather, the interest on the money, supports several laboratories working mostly in the fields of mining safety and health. Very good and necessary work, indeed.’
‘My God!’ said Ballard in astonishment. ‘Do the trustees know how the Ballard Group works? Every safety regulation is normally bent, or broken if they think they can get away with it. That’s like giving with one hand and taking with the other.’
Stenning nodded. ‘That perturbed Ben, but there was nothing he could do about it at the time for reasons you shall see. Now let us take a look at the trustees. There are five.’ He ticked them off on his fingers. ‘There’s your uncle Edward, your cousin Frank, Lord Brockhurst, Sir William Bendell and myself. I am the Chairman of the Board of Trustees of the Ballard Foundation.’
‘I’m surprised that two of the family are trustees. From what Ben said the last time I saw him he had no great regard for them.’
‘Ben made them trustees for tactical reasons. You’ll see what I mean when I come to the nub. You’re right, of course, in your assessment of Ben’s attitude to the family. He had four sons, one of whom died here in New Zealand, and the other three turned out in a way he couldn’t stomach. He had no great regard for any of his grandchildren, either, except one.’ Stenning jabbed forward a thin forefinger. ‘You.’
‘He had funny ways of showing it,’ said Ballard wryly.
‘He’d seen how his sons had turned out and he knew that whatever else he was good at he was not a good father. So he saw to your education and left you strictly alone. He watched you, of course, and he liked what he saw. Now consider – what could Ben do a few years ago when he contemplated what was likely to happen to his personal fortune? He wouldn’t give it to his family whom he didn’t like, would he?’
‘Not on the face of it.’
‘No,’ said Stenning. ‘Anyway, as Ben saw it they already had enough. In all honesty, could he give it to you? How old were you then?’
‘Seven years ago? Twenty-eight.’
Stenning leaned back. ‘I rather think that when Ben and I first talked about setting this thing up you were twenty-six. Just a fledgling, Ian. Ben couldn’t see himself putting so much money and power – and money is power – into the hands of one so young. Besides, he wasn’t too sure of you. He thought you were immature for your years. He also thought your mother had something to do with that.’
‘I know. He was scathing about her at our last meeting.’
‘So he set up the Ballard Foundation. And he had to do two things: he had to make sure that he retained essential control – and he had to live for seven years. He did both. And he watched you like a hawk because he wanted to see how you turned out.’
Ballard grimaced. ‘Did I come up to expectations?’
‘He never found out,’ said Stenning. ‘He died before the Hukahoronui experiment was completed.’
Ballard stared at him. ‘Experiment! What experiment?’
‘You were being tested,’ said Stenning. ‘And this is how it went. You were now thirty-five; you were more than competent at any job you’d been given, and you knew how to handle men. But Ben had a feeling that you have a soft centre and he discovered a way to find out if this was indeed so.’ He paused. ‘I gather that you and the Peterson family have never got on too well together.’
‘An understatement,’ said Ballard.
Stenning’s face was firm. ‘Ben told me that the Petersons had walked all over you when you were a boy. He sent you to Hukahoronui to see if the same thing would happen.’
‘Well, I’ll be damned!’ Ballard was suddenly angry. ‘I knew he had a power complex, but who the hell did he think he was? God? And what the devil was it all for?’
‘You can’t be as naive as that,’ said Stenning. ‘Look at the composition of the Board of Trustees.’
‘All right; I’m looking. Two Ballards, yourself and two others. What about it?’
‘This about it. Old Brockhurst, Billy Bendell and I are all old friends of Ben. We had to have two of the family on the board so they wouldn’t smell a rat. If they had suspected what Ben was up to they’d have found a way to shove their oar in and wreck Ben’s plan. Any half-way criminal lawyer could have found a way of torpedoing the Foundation before Ben died. But for seven years the three of us have been playing the Ballards on a length of line so the boat wouldn’t be rocked. We’ve been playing along with the two Ballards on the board, only forcing our hand in things which didn’t matter too much to them. They think it’s going to continue in this way – but it’s not.’
‘I don’t see what this has got to do with me.’
Stenning said evenly, ‘Ben wanted you on the Board of Trustees.’
Ballard gaped at him. ‘So?’
‘So it’s arranged like this. The board is self-perpetuating. If a member retires there is a vote to elect his replacement and – this is important – the retiring member has a vote. Brockhurst is nearly eighty and has only held on to please Ben. When he retires you’ll have his vote, you’ll have Billy Bendell’s vote, and you’ll have my vote – and that’s a majority and there’s nothing the Ballards can do about it.’
Ballard was silent for a long time. Presently he said, ‘This is all very well, but I’m not an administrator, at least, not of the trustee kind. I suppose there’d be an honorarium, but I have a living to earn. You’re offering me a job for a retired business man. I don’t want to run a charitable fund, no matter how big.’

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