He hurt. Every movement brought fresh waves of pain, from the dull, drum-beat throbbing that encircled his head in a vicious band to the sharp, searing knives of agony that tore from his smashed right hand through his arm and into his central nervous system, bringing with them their attendant waves of nausea and fainting.
He wondered what the time was. He had no idea how long he had been there. How long had he been unconscious? Surely the others would miss him soon. Rehearsals must have started by now. He had a watch but it was on his left arm and, in order to see it in the dark, he would have to push the tiny button on the side with his right hand. Moving his right hand was out of the question. A moment's thought then Avi gingerly cradled his right hand with his left, lifting the injured limb onto his lap. The effort was immense and brought him out in another bout of cold sweat. After a few minute's rest, he tried again, moving his left hand to his right and laboriously working the tiny buttons on the watch. The effort paid off and through the gloom he could just make out the little digital message – 11.17. A fresh wave of nausea forced him back to rest against the rough-hewn wood of the coal box. He tried to focus his gaze through the blackness but he could see nothing. A deep gulp swallowed his rising fear.
“Cool it, Avi. Just keep calm.”
He knew talking to himself didn't amount to much practical help, but any sort of noise was mentally reassuring. He forced himself to pull back into focus memories that he had spent years trying to erase. To be shut in the coalhouse was the ultimate punishment, his father's favourite method of discipline. His father was a cruel man, stern, old fashioned and unbending. The conservative tunnel vision through which he viewed the world had no room to fit understanding of the dreamy, musical thoughts that drove his wife and only child. Avi was supposed to grow up to fulfil his father's idea of a real man. He conceded his father must have been bitterly disappointed.
“So! What's the solution?”
From his university studies Avi could appreciate that the concept of putting a naughty child into a quiet space to consider their actions had some merit, it was just a pity that his father had inadvertently chosen the one place that would trigger Avi's one and only phobia. Mind you, Avi shuddered as an involuntary movement of his hand caused another searing wave of pain, the theory didn't usually involve half killing them first!
Avi lay back, cradling his injured hand. Yeah, he could see his father's point of view, even if he could not condone, and would never forgive, the vicious attack he had just been through. His parents' world revolved heavily around correct social behaviour. There was a right way to live, which involved keeping both house and person neat, tidy and well-groomed, and he could see how his own scruffy appearance and alternate outlook must have given his father cause for many sleepless nights. However, if he had inherited anything from his father, it was his single-minded determination. It was his life and he'd live it how he chose. He let out a deep sigh.
“Livingstone,” he said aloud, “I think it's time to leave home.” He pulled himself into a more upright position. “Let's set some priorities here. Number one, how do I get out of here? That should be simple. If I can get it out of my pocket, I’ll phone them.” With his left hand he reached around to his hip pocket. At first he was puzzled by the lack of the solid outline of the phone through the denim, then with a feeling of utter hopelessness he remembered leaving it in his jacket – back at Kit’s. “Oh fuck!” he swore as panic started to take over. “Calm down. Think. Okay, logic says that they will have noticed that I am not at rehearsal and, by now, Danny will be throwing hissy fits in all directions. So surely somebody, even among that lot, will have had the common sense to ring Mum and see where I am. Then she will have to let me out. Anyway, she's bound to let me out at lunch time. Then I suppose they will expect me to apologise. Oh well, it's only words, sort of like singing country and western music - you only have to sing all the right words in the right key, but you don't have to feel the sentiment. As long as I can get to a doctor. Oh hell, Danny's going to kill me.”
With another pained sigh, Avi slumped back again. From the house he could hear sounds of movement but they seemed too quiet. On a Friday the house would normally have been filled with joyful sounds. It was a day his mother usually enjoyed, as if preparing for the Sabbath was her own personal celebration. She should have been singing. Avi loved to hear his mother sing. She had a strong, pure voice and an innate sense of feeling and Avi had always believed it was from her that he had inherited his musical abilities. Certainly it was his mother who had fostered them. But today there was no singing, just the muffled sounds of shuffling feet and tentative household duties.
“Oh, please, Mum, let me out!”
“Air New Zealand announces the departure of flight NZ279 to Invercargill. Passengers please board at Gate Nine.”
In a jumble of movement the horde around the tall man migrated in an unco-ordinated but determined manner towards the designated gate, leaving the man standing alone in the centre of the richly-carpeted passenger lounge. He stooped to pick up the battered suitcase at his feet, braced his shoulders and stepped forwards resolutely, then just as quickly changed his mind and subsided into one of the nearby seats. Setting down the suitcase, he fumbled in the deep pockets of his tweed overcoat, pulling out a wad of papers which he unfolded and studied. The dog-eared state of the papers showed that he had been through this movement many, many times before. The topmost piece of paper was an article cut from a glossy magazine. The tall man stretched open the double sheet and scanned its contents. The article was an in-depth, no-holds-barred, behind-the-scenes feature on the rock band, ‘Charlotte Jane’. It had been written by one Dominic Bennett who, according to its accompanying blurb, had succeeded in getting the one interview no other journalist had managed to get purely because he was an old friend of the keyboard player, Avi Livingstone, and the drummer, Kester Simmons.
It was that name, Kester Simmons, in bold, black type that had attracted the attention of the tall man. Surely not! He had stolen the magazine from the library collection. Over the last six months he must have re-read it thousands of times. One day he hoped to thank Dominic Bennett in person. The article was extremely candid. The tall man scanned again the parts that detailed Simmons's long fight against depression, his suicide attempts, his drug addiction and his term in prison.
Parts of the article had been highlighted with an iridescent green pen. The tall man hunted for one of them. Ah! there it was, the name of Simmons's psychiatrist - Dr Margaret Phillips. He turned his attention to the other pieces of paper. Letters, some were copies of his own correspondence and others replies to those letters, the replies topped with Dr Phillips's neat, business-like letterhead. The doctor's answers were equally candid, expanding on Nick Bennett's brief treatise with sordid details that shocked and horrified the tall man, no matter how many times he read them. It was these details that had determined the tall man on his present course of action. He checked another paper, this time a copy of a facsimile message addressed to Michael Kiesanowski. He assumed it had been delivered.
The tall man checked his watch and again braced his shoulders in readiness. No more delays! Time to go. Thrusting the papers back into his pocket, he rose to his feet, snatched up his suitcase and made his way purposefully towards the nearest taxi rank. Thrusting his suitcase before him, he climbed into the nearest vehicle and gave Kit's Avon Loop address to the driver. However, just as soon as he had settled back into the seat, he changed his mind and altered his destination to that of an inner-city hotel. Instead of arriving in a taxi, he would settle in first, have a quiet lunch then walk the short distance to the Loop. It would appear somewhat less formal and he was expecting his arrival to be fraught with quite enough tensions, especially when he confronted Kester Simmons for the first time.
The knot of inquisitive neighbours outside the Avon Loop cottage was depleting. Now that the young owner and his friends had been taken away by police car, there was nothing to watch and the determined
constable standing guard at the gate was giving out no information at all. Besides, it was lunch time. Even Nick Bennett had disappeared, scurrying back to his office with the makings of tomorrow morning's front page.
In the workshop John Matheson was still carrying out a fastidious search of the site, using a ball-point pen both in its normal function, taking copious notes, and as a tool for probing, lifting and examining the myriad pieces of seeming junk that littered the room's edges. He talked to himself as he worked, oblivious to the amused sniggers this engendered from the forensic team who had joined him and were by now carrying out their own even more minute search. Matheson paused in his own scrutiny to observe his fellow workers and quickly decided they knew what they were doing and could be left to get on with it while he moved on to more fruitful tasks, or at least while he went into the house to bludge a cup of coffee. He stepped outside, pausing on the doorstep to inhale large lungfuls of fresh air.
The weather was changing, he could feel it. The hot, dry Canterbury nor'wester had a sharper feel to it. Matheson scanned the sky, watching the movement of the rapidly scudding clouds. Yes, the change was coming; by dinner time the nor'wester would give way to a cold southerly. It would probably rain tomorrow. Oh well, that wasn't so bad, maybe he wouldn't have to get up early to take the children to tennis. With a resigned shrug of his shoulders, Matheson headed into the house in search of a drink.
The inside of the cottage took him by surprise. From the look of Simmons he had expected threadbare carpets, dirty, second-hand furniture, empty beer cans and walls full of heavy metal posters. Victoriana? Matheson ran his hand over the back of an exquisitely carved antique dining chair and whistled softly. Polished too. Recently. His eyes went to the mantelpiece. Not a speck of dust. Hmmm!
Trailing his fingers over the counter top, Matheson wandered back into the kitchen. He opened a cupboard, looking for a glass but finding instead a line of small brown bottles, mostly empty. He pulled out the two at the front, unscrewed the lids and tipped the contents out onto the bench. After a minute's thought, he replaced the small white tablets, picked up the bottles and headed back out to the forensic team.
“What do you make of these?” he asked the team’s leader who shrugged. “Can we get them analysed?”
“Sure. Leave them with me.”
“Soonest?”
“Isn't everything?”
Matheson forgot about his drink.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Brian Rossiter locked his arms behind his head in a stretch and rocked backwards in his chair. He watched Kit with interest. The young man was scared. Rossiter recognised the signs. Signs, too, of something else. The signs of fear were obvious. Kit shook noticeably, avoided eye contact and had already bitten two fingernails down to the quick. But Rossiter also noticed the signs of a drug user, the continuous body twitching, the dilated pupils. They were having trouble communicating.
“Tell me again, Simmons,” Rossiter returned his chair to an upright position. “What happened?”
“I... ah...,” Kit ran his hands raggedly through his hair, “I don't know. I've told you. I don't know!”
“Yes. So you have claimed repeatedly. However,” Rossiter leaned forwards and rested his arms on the well-worn desk that separated them, “I think we're missing something here. I mean, see my point of view, you live alone, in a tiny little cottage in a nice, quiet neighbourhood where the nights are disturbed only by the gentle quacking of the ducks on the river and you tell me you didn't hear a man being brutally bludgeoned to death in your own backyard. It's a bit far-fetched really, isn't it?”
Kit shrugged.
“I think you must have heard some noise. Something. Anything. So why don't we start again and go over everything from the beginning.”
Kit shrugged again and reached shakily for the half-empty packet of cigarettes which lay on the table in front of him. Rossiter watched carefully as Kit awkwardly fumbled the simple task of extracting a cigarette from the packet and lighting it.
“So when did you last see Daniel Gordon?”
The answer was a long time coming. Kit drew heavily on the cigarette then screwed up his face in thought. Rossiter smiled grimly. He noticed the drummer's body rock with concentration as he tried to get a handle on the question, let alone the answer. This boy was stoned, without a doubt.
“Um...,” said Kit finally, “it must have been yesterday afternoon. Yeah, I'm sure it was. Yesterday afternoon.”
“What time?”
“Oh, I don't know. Hang on...” Kit thought desperately. “We had a rehearsal. We stopped for lunch then we started again, then Mike's amplifier blew up and we had to stop. Yeah, yeah, Danny left then.”
“When did he come back?”
“He didn't.”
“Of course he did.”
“Not that I knew.”
“You must know.” Rossiter became insistent. “Did you speak to him? Hear him walk up the drive? See his car parked outside. Come on! Surely you couldn't have missed that?”
Kit shook his head dejectedly.
“I'm sorry. I've told you. I didn't see anything. Look, I don't remember much about the rest of the day. I wasn't feeling well. Please, I still don't feel well, can I go home?”
“Sure. As soon as you've told me the truth.”
Avi quoted song lyrics softly to himself in the darkness. It didn't ease the physical pain but it stopped him thinking. Again he went through the laborious exercise of looking at his watch. 12.23. He sobbed aloud.
Elizabeth Livingstone had stopped crying. She had run out of tears. She had cried too many of them for too long. She thought of her son. She remembered the quiet, learned young boy and thought of the sensitive, educated, musical young man he had become. She was proud of him but pride hadn't been enough. Nothing was ever enough for Jacob. Nothing she had ever given him had been good enough. In spite of her best efforts, and the praise of her friends, to him the house was never tidy enough, the food never properly cooked, his trousers never properly pressed, her son never worthy. And only one child. She couldn't even present him with a real family.
Elizabeth Livingstone surveyed her reflection in the bedroom mirror, gently fingering the bruising on her temple. She smiled perversely. He must have been very angry. He didn't even take the time to make sure the bruises were put where they wouldn't show in public. Then quietly, while her husband snoozed in his armchair in the front room, she packed a few belongings into a small bag. Without fuss she carried the bag down the passage and out the back door. From the pocket of her apron she extracted the keys to her son's car. In a flashback of memory, she watched them sail from her son's hand as he reeled under the first blow. She unlocked the boot and placed her bag inside. Then, just as quietly and methodically, piece at a time, she added a bag of clothes for her son, some documents, Avi's electronic keyboard and the housekeeping money. Elizabeth turned the key on the boot, locking her cache safely inside, breathed deeply, returned to her kitchen and served her husband his lunch.
The tall man paused as he rounded the bend to re-adjust his tie and his mindset.
“It's just another deal,” he told himself. “It's just another deal.”
Confident again, he walked on, only to stop in his tracks at the sight of several policemen, one standing ominously on guard at the front of the neat, white gate, the others shoulder to shoulder, heads down, scouring the riverbank in search formation. The tall man pulled a notebook out of his coat pocket and rechecked the address before approaching the constable on guard.
“What's going on?” he inquired.
“Nothing that need concern you, Sir,” the constable answered formally before unbending enough to add, “there's been a homicide.”
“What?”
“A young man was found dead, Sir.”
“Who?”
“I'm sorry, I'm not at liberty to answer that. I believe it will all be in the paper tomorrow morning.”
“The young man who lives here, Kester Simmons.
It's not him, is it? He's not dead?”
The constable caught the edge in the tall man's voice. “No, I believe he's at the station, making a statement. Do you have a connection with him?”
The tall man floundered then withdrew a business card from his pocket.
“Barrett, Keith Barrett. I've flown from Wellington especially to see him. A business proposal.”
“Sorry, mate. You won't even be able to catch him here later. This place will be roped off for days yet, he won't be able to come back here.”
“Damn!” The tall man turned and walked away.
He retraced his steps around the Avon Loop, his head bowed in thought. As he approached the small group of shops he checked his watch. Lunch time. He realised he was hungry, or was that just because of the delicious smells wafting from the little bread shop on the corner. He turned inside. The little man behind the counter began to say something then stopped, words half formed.
“Sorry,” he stammered, “I nearly mistook you for someone else. Can I help you?”
Keith Barrett surveyed the arrayed goods and made his choice. The little man continued to chat.
“Nasty business this. Very nasty business.”
“What? Bakeries?”
“No. This murder. Haven't you heard about the murder?”
“Yes. Just now.”
“Dreadful. ‘Charlotte Jane’, too. Who would have thought. I know them all, you know. Lovely kids. Shop here regularly, they do.”
“It won't do the neighbourhood any good,” butted in a woman from behind him. She appeared out from the back of the shop, wiping her hands on a tea towel. “Something like this, it doesn't do the neighbourhood any good at all. It's a nice, quiet neighbourhood we've got around here. I always thought those musicians were a bad influence. I've always said that young man would come to no good. No parents, you know. Father ran off, mother doesn't care. I've always said no good would come of that young man.”
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