by K T Bowes
By the time the lunch bell sounded and the boys filed out into the fresh air, Logan reached the outskirts of Gordonton. At the end of the driveway to the rental house, a dark saloon car turned right across him and Logan almost T-boned it in his haste. He spun Gwynne Jeffs’ truck onto the rutted driveway and put his foot down on the gas pedal. The sleek saloon slid out onto the main road and Logan ignored it.
He continued his journey, fuelled by an adrenaline rush. Too late, he wondered who the visitors might have been. The truck slid in the dirt and he forced himself to concentrate. Gwynne not only lent him transport, he also agreed to babysit Logan’s Year 12 classical studies group if he failed to return.
Logan bumped down the familiar driveway, pulling up in front of the Gordonton house at speed. The front door stood open and the place felt deserted, a cool breeze fanning the leaves of a potted umbrella plant in the hallway. The timber groaned as Logan ran up the front steps. “Boris!” he shouted. “Get out here and face me.”
He skidded to a sudden halt in the hallway. Boris lay on the floor, a pool of blood spreading along the rimu floorboards from a gash behind his head. His left arm splayed at an unnatural angle and his cheekbone swelled on the right side of his face. Logan’s heartbeat shook him from the inside as horror coursed through his veins. He froze at the sight, his brain moving through myriad possibilities. “Boris,” he breathed. “What the hell did you get yourself messed up in?” Logan stood in the doorway and hesitated, anticipating his DNA and fingerprints turning up as evidence. “Sod it!” he exclaimed and dropped to his knees beside his stricken friend, understanding he was probably too late.
Here’s an excerpt from the start of the next book.
Du Rose Legacy
Chapter 1
Logan felt for a pulse on his friend’s blood soaked neck and found nothing. His grip slipped in the red slick and he forced his index and middle fingers into the space beneath the left side of Boris’ broken jaw. Closing his eyes, he waited. The weak, irregular beats forced a sigh of relief from his pursed lips. “Let’s hope you’re lucky, mate,” Logan breathed. He reached for the phone in his pocket and dialled triple one for emergency, explaining his location to the efficient operator. “Yeah, it’s bad,” he said, casting an experienced eye over Boris’ twisted body. “Multiple breaks and blood loss.”
While the dispatcher chattered in his ear, Logan felt around Boris’ limbs, finding a broken arm and perhaps dislocated knee. He snatched a cloth from a sideboard and balled it up, slipping it beneath Boris’ head and wincing at the groaned response. “He’s moaning, but not conscious,” Logan relayed. The bloodied phone clattered to the floor as he leaned over the injured man’s mouth. Guttural breathing rewarded him. “Come on, man. Help is on its way. They won’t be long. What the hell did you get involved in?”
“Don’t move him,” the ambulance operator stated when Logan picked up the phone again. “Stay with him, monitor his vital signs and talk to him.”
Logan hung up before the man could tell him to stay on the line and dialled Bodie’s number. The young police officer let out a string of swearwords. “What the hell are you doing? I told you to leave this alone. You know what will happen now, don’t you? Geez!” Logan heard the rage in his voice. Then Bodie’s voice changed. “Did you get blood on you?” Logan looked down at his soaked fingers, the dripping phone and his bloodied shirt. He didn’t reply. Bodie snorted. “Then you’re an idiot and you get whatever you deserve. I spoke to Detective Sergeant Odering and he left half an hour ago to speak to Boris. If you’d stayed at work, you’d have an alibi!”
Logan ground his teeth at the hint of victory in his stepson’s tone. “Way to go, Du Rose,” he mouthed at his own stupidity. Boris stirred and he dropped to his knees, rocking the man’s shoulder. “Boris, wake up, mate. Who did this? Did you know them?”
Bodie snorted. “Too late Du Rose. You put yourself in the frame and you can stay there for all I care. I’ll take care of my mum and your kid.” The call ended and Logan felt a flicker of fear. Sirens split the gentle, rural atmosphere and he checked Boris’ weak pulse again. The sound of tyres on gravel heralded more than one vehicle.
The ambulance men arrived, kneeling next to Boris and firing questions at Logan. He answered with stiffness, knowing whatever he said would incriminate him.
“No, I found him like this about ten minutes ago.”
“No, he groaned but didn’t regain consciousness.”
“No, I don’t know what happened.”
“Yes, the faint pulse was there when I arrived. No, I didn’t resuscitate him. His breathing stayed slow and shallow. Yes, it sounded like that.” Logan regurgitated the information he gave the operator, keeping his story straight.
The second vehicle disgorged two cops who entered hot on the heels of the medics. “Just procedure,” the older cop said, halting Logan with his outstretched palm. He peered over the head of the ambulance crew.
His younger colleague jumped to the obvious conclusion and took a firm grip of Logan’s shirtsleeve. “Come on, sir, up you get!” he told him, hauling on the material until the seam split. Logan gritted his teeth and tried to put his hands down to stabilise himself, the cop’s tug on his shirt overbalancing him. The light from the doorway highlighted the man’s ginger hair like a halo.
“Wait!” he snapped. “My legs have gone to sleep.” The cop’s blue irises became glassy and Logan saw the moment when the man decided his guilt. He staggered as he rose, taking a moment to give his blood time to refill his legs. Bending to rub at his numb calves, he sensed the atmosphere change.
“Hands behind your back,” the young cop demanded, slipping handcuffs from his belt.
“Sod off!” Logan bit. “Is it a crime to call for assistance when you find a mate collapsed now?”
The young cop drew his baton and Logan ground his teeth. “Hands behind your back,” the man asserted and Logan raised an eyebrow.
“You really wanna do this?”
Racism oozed from the ginger-haired cop and Logan’s heart sank into his stomach as a familiar disappointment returned. More than just anticipation laced the cop’s freckled face. His eyes blazed with excitement and his nostrils pulled upwards in a sneer. “Come on, dude,” he hissed at Logan. “You lot are all the same.”
Logan’s gaze slid to the older man, seeing him distracted in conversation with the paramedics. He looked back at the ginger cop, assessing him and shaking his head. “I won’t give you the satisfaction, mate,” he said, loud enough for the other man to hear. “I’m sorry you don’t like my kind.”
The older man glanced across and his face fell. His lips parted in a gape of realisation as though it wasn’t the first time. He stepped in Boris’ blood as he hurried towards them. “What’s going on?” he snapped, his eyes wide. Logan turned around and presented his hands behind his back.
“Your colleague thinks I need handcuffs,” he said, forcing his voice into a reasonable tone. “He’d like to use all his new toys.” A mirrored dresser opposite showed the young cop babbling like a fool with no sound emerging from his lips. He folded his nightstick at speed and shoved it back onto his belt.
“This dude lurched at me,” he managed, avoiding the older man’s eye. “He’s dangerous.”
“My legs went to sleep.” Logan turned around but kept his hands behind his back. “How’s Boris?”
“Not good, son.” The older man glanced backwards and looked at Logan in sympathy. “You called us?”
“Yeah.” Logan sighed and when the older man turned aside to speak into his radio, slid his gaze back to the young cop. Little over twenty, he looked inexperienced and still thrilled with his own sense of power. The latent racism handed down by his white parents lay just beneath his veneer of professionalism. Logan shook his head, hoping the police service recognised it before it got out of hand. The cop’s skin, pale and freckled, flushed with excitement and his carrot orange hair stood out from his head like th
e fluff of a soft toy. Logan recalled a hundred boys just like him, the butt of schoolyard jokes and bullying. It seemed a slender line sometimes between victim and aggressor. History proved often how oppressed became oppressor in a crooked twist of circumstance.
The paramedics pulled Boris’ distorted limbs into some semblance of normality and he groaned again. The older cop turned around to observe them sliding a splint under his leg. An image of Hana’s trusting face floated past Logan’s inner vision and he put a hand up to rub his eyes. She would freak out and accept Bodie’s consolation. At his sudden movement, the young man twitched and Logan experienced a spark of temper. “How much longer do I need to put up with this joker?” he snapped.
Aged around fifty, the older cop raised an eyebrow. “Exactly what I keep asking,” he muttered under his breath. Tugging on Logan’s sleeve, he moved them aside as the paramedics shuffled Boris onto a stretcher. He let go and drew a notebook and pen from his pocket. Flipping open the book, he jabbed a finger at the young man. “Now you’ve drawn your nightstick, you need to record it in your pocket book.” He kept the timbre of his voice slow as though speaking to someone with limited understanding of English. Logan kept his face straight and stared at a dent in the skirting board. The ginger fluff rustled as the kid reached for his book.
The older man turned to Logan with a casual smile. “I’m sure you understand, sir, as the first person on the scene we’ll need to ask you some questions. I’ll do that now, but we will revisit this at a later date. Do you understand?”
“Yeah, sure.” Logan exhaled and moved his head to get a better view of Boris. The unconscious man made tiny grunts as the paramedics collected their gear and the stretcher wheels squeaked on the wooden floor. “Excuse me,” Logan said, reaching out a hand towards the nearest paramedic. The young cop went into another paroxysm of excitement, redrawing his baton again.
“Bloody hell!” The older policeman exclaimed. He looked away, rolling his eyes at the younger cop and shaking his head.
“Hey, how is Boris?” Logan asked, his tone urgent. “Will he be okay?”
The man barely broke his stride. “Too soon to say, mate.”
Logan bit his lip, seeing his disastrous day progressing down the gurgler faster than anticipated. He reran the morning’s conversations, unable to count the threats he made against Boris’ wellbeing. He groaned and put his head back, closing his eyes against inevitability.
Both cops rustled the pages of their notebooks, one logging his baton frenzies and the other waiting for Logan’s attention. Logan turned towards the friendlier of the two and made a valiant effort to stay on track. The questions began, going in the direction he expected. “I told the despatcher his name, age and all that.” Logan cringed as the ambulance siren screeched into the sunlit garden and birds scattered into the sky. The cop made him repeat it all so he could scratch it into his book with a capitalised script. “When did you last see Boris Lomax?”
“Earlier this morning.”
“Where?”
“At work.”
“Where is that?”
On it went until Logan grew bored. He answered with feigned interest until the man asked if he knew how the injuries to Boris occurred. His eyes narrowed at a memory. “As I pulled into the driveway, I almost hit another vehicle coming out. Dark coloured saloon with tinted windows.” He closed his eyes. “I saw two faces in the front but I couldn’t see in the back seats.”
“Registration number? Identities?”
Logan shook his head. “Too fast.” He eyed the younger cop sideways. “Boris got into debt to Ted Larne. When I saw him this morning he showed signs of injury. He limped and looked uncomfortable as though he might have broken ribs.”
“Who’s Ted Larne?” The young cop knitted his orange brows and sneered at Logan. “Are you trying to pass this off on someone else?”
The older man slapped his colleague on the back. “No, son. You’ll meet Mr Larne’s thugs one day. Then you’ll need your night stick.” He held out his hand to Logan, palm upwards. “Phone please, Mr Du Rose.”
“What?” Logan looked from one to the other. Realisation dawned and his shoulders slumped. “You’re kidding? I’m here, so I must be your suspect? Sterling work guys as always.” Logan pursed his lips and remembered his ill-timed call to Bodie. Hana’s image turned the thought of karma into a regret. He drew the stained device from his jacket pocket and dropped it into the bag the young cop held open in front of him. “I’m wasting my time here,” he said. “I want to talk to Detective Sergeant Odering and I’m saying nothing until he gets here.”
The cop wrote that down and shut his notebook with a snap. He nodded towards the ginger cop. “Call it in. Get Odering here.” He pulled Logan’s arm and led him towards the door. “Until then, you can sit in the car, Mr Du Rose.”
The slender detective arrived fast. Logan fought frustration as he tapped his boot heel on the gravel with poorly disguised impatience. Ginger cop stood over him, his fingers itching to pull his baton free of its clip. The other man cordoned the house off with police tape.
“Victim’s reached the hospital,” ginger-cop gushed with excitement as he listened to chatter on the radio. His colleague approached wielding a roll of marker tape. “Shall I take the suspect in now?”
Logan let out a snort and shook his head, experiencing another wave of exhaustion. He sat in the back of the police car, his bum on the seat and his feet on the gravel drive. “How is he?” he asked, ignoring the bouncing idiot at his side.
“Too early to tell, sir,” the older man replied with respect. “Detective Sergeant Odering is here now.”
“Typical Māori lazy arses,” the young cop hissed beneath his breath. “You think you’re owed because that’s how you’re raised.”
“Hey, enough of that crap!” the older man rebuked him. His blue eyes narrowed into slits. “I’m not having this. You go on report the minute we get back to the station.” He curled his top lip back in a snarl. “You can make a complaint, if you want.” He directed his last comment to Logan and he shrugged in response.
“What’s the point?” He massaged his scarred knuckles and worked hard to control his temper, watching Odering descend from the car. He wrinkled his nose as the detective spoke to a colleague directing operations with a practiced air. They whispered with their heads bowed together as though in prayer. Then Odering nodded and turned towards Logan. His shiny shoes crunched across the gravel and Logan watched his progress, noting the heaviness in his step.
When Logan tried to stand to greet him, the older cop pushed him back to a sitting position. The Detective Sergeant stood with his hands on his slender hips and looked at Logan. “What a bloody mess, Mr Du Rose.”
He nodded. “Yep.” Gritting his teeth, he stared at a point in the distance, watching a white cloud scud overhead. The detective’s superiority galled him and he cursed his diminished circumstances.
Odering bent to his haunches, one neatly pressed trouser leg resting in the gravel. “I know you didn’t do this, Logan,” he whispered. “It’s not your style. But you must go to the station and ride this thing out through due process. I suggest you comply with everything asked of you for the time being.”
Logan saw the detective’s infuriating upward lift of mouth and eyebrow. “You’re enjoying this,” he hissed. His grey eyes flashed in the sunlight, speaking threat and revenge. Odering grinned. “Mr Du Rose can go to the station now, please. Do the usual checks and hold him until I get there.” He stood. Through the corner of his eye, he spotted the ginger cop drawing his handcuffs. Logan endured a poignant moment of hesitation aimed at unsettling him further. “There won’t be any need for that thank you. I don’t think Mr Du Rose has any intention of running.” He looked hard at Logan. “He has more reason than most for needing to sort this out.”
At the police station, Logan donned a white, hooded jumpsuit with integral booties and watched them take his clothing as evidence.
The charge sergeant took his gold St Christopher and dropped it into a plastic bag along with his watch and wedding ring. Logan’s brows knitted at the sight of his bare finger, accustomed to the mark of marriage even after such a short interlude. “Sorry, Hana,” he whispered to himself, waiting for fingerprints and photographs.
Each facet of the procedure reinforced his status as an animal at a cattle market, a criminal without relevance. After sitting for an indeterminate amount of time in a bare cell in the bowels of Hamilton central police station, the cop on duty allowed Logan a single phone call. He couldn’t bring himself to alarm Hana and without his phone, other helpful numbers escaped him.
“What?” Pete screeched amidst the throng of sweaty males. “I can’t hear ya.” He turned aside and lost his place in the tuck shop queue. “What?” A swarm of boys filled his place, surging forward like water as Pete wedged a pudgy finger into his ear to drown out their chatter. “Logan?” he yelled and then the colour drained from his face. “Oh, bollocks!”
You can grab the next in the series, Du Rose Legacy HERE
To my lovely reader
Please rate Logan before you go, even if it’s just the star value your Kindle asks for.
Hana gave him five stars.
REVIEW HERE
A few words in a review is awesome, but
Logan would still be happy with stars.
Thank you in anticipation.
K T Bowes
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
K T Bowes lives in New Zealand between the Hakarimata Ranges and the Waikato River, not far from Hana’s house. She is married with four children who are off around the world doing wonderful things of their own. A stroppy ginger cat lives with her and there is usually a crazy horse or two living in her paddock behind her house.
