The sight of the bedroom made her gasp. Kester would be horrified. She knelt reverently on the floor by the pile of clothing. She would make it right. After all, she knew where everything went. She knew as well as Kester. It may take her several hours, especially in the dark, but she would make it right. Cassandra reached forwards, picked up a t-shirt from the top of the pile and held it close to her face. His scent filled her nostrils. She breathed it in, her eyes closing, her lips parting in sensuous pleasure. Humming one of the band’s more romantic tunes to herself, she set to work.
Elizabeth Livingstone tucked herself up in the middle of the large motel bed and revelled in the luxury. A whole bed, all to herself. It was a long time since she had last indulged in that privilege. She sipped daintily at her cup of tea and smiled. The nurses had been so kind and the lady from the women's refuge had been so willing to help. She had tried to insist that Elizabeth go with her for the night but there had been no need for that. Elizabeth was capable of handling things herself, her own way. It was time she took control. Anyway, the motel was so nice.
She thought of her son, alone in a much starker bed in Christchurch hospital. She had offered to stay but he had declined her offer. He was quite right, of course. He wasn't a baby any more and there was little point in her sitting uncomfortably at his bedside. They would both get a good night's sleep this way.
She thought of her husband. By now he would have realised that neither of them were coming home. He would be furious. And hungry. It was now well into the Sabbath. He wouldn't have cooked for himself earlier in the evening, expecting her to return. He couldn't do it now. She felt no guilt.
In a fit of perverse rule-breaking, Elizabeth turned on the television. It was thirty years since she had seen television on a Friday night. The movie was boring. Gently she drifted off to sleep. When the late news covered the story of the day's murder, she didn't see it.
Brian Rossiter had polished his glasses so hard one of the lenses had fallen out. This did not improve his temper. He glared at the paper John Matheson was holding out to him.
“This had better contain something I can use,” he muttered darkly.
“Oh, I think it might,” the detective sergeant gave him a benign smile. “It's the autopsy report on Daniel Gordon.”
“Already? That was quick.”
“Well, it wasn't all that complicated. Death inflicted by a stab wound from a sharp instrument which, as we already know, was a narrow-bladed chisel. There were five lesser wounds as well as the one which obviously caused the death, so we can surmise the attacker made several attempts before the blade sank deep enough to hit anything vital. Gordon appears to have been very well developed muscularly, so that isn't too surprising. There are the usual signs of a struggle - cuts to his forehead and lip."
“Those could have come from the earlier punch-ups between Gordon and Kiesanowski and Simmons,” Rossiter pointed out.
“True,” Matheson admitted. “The report does note that some of the minor injuries were more than twenty four hours old.”
“So far there's nothing we didn't already know.”
“I told you it was fairly straightforward. The only interesting thing were his muscles.”
“I didn't realise you were that way inclined,” Rossiter grinned.
“Do you want to hear this or not? Daniel Gordon was extremely well developed. The sort of muscles you only get from spending a lot of time in a gym. Consequently, I wasn't all that surprised to find the blood analysis showing large traces of anabolic steroids. On top of that he was showing a couple of other classic signs of steroid abuse, some kidney damage and, just to offset the macho muscles, shrunken testes.”
“Steroids, eh? Now that is interesting. Let me run something by you. We have a murdered man, chock full of steroids, found in the house of a known junkie with a record for dealing. Said junkie was high as a kite when we brought him in. We find L.S.D. tablets in the junkie's kitchen and I find this on the kitchen bench.” Rossiter removed the folded fax from his pocket and passed it across the desk to his associate.
Matheson read the fax without comment.
“Add to that,” Rossiter continued, “the fact that it is our junkie's fingerprints all over the murder weapon and that he seems mighty unwilling to talk to us. Am I wrong in suspecting a connection?”
“I would certainly lean in that direction,” Matheson agreed.
“So I take it you will have no objections to accompanying me tomorrow morning. I intend to have a further chat with Kester Joseph Simmons, whether he wants to co-operate or not!”
Sarah woke up with a start. Mike stirred beside her.
“Are you okay?”
“Oh Mike, I didn't mean to wake you. I had a vision.”
Mike sat up. He had grown used to his wife’s psychic abilities and knew not to question them.
“What? What did you see?”
“Little cells. Rows of little cells. First I was in a dark one. Pitch black. Then I was moved, like I was on some kind of conveyor belt, through lots of bright ones. And there was such pain. I can still feel that. In my right hand. Dreadful pain.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Sarah surveyed the sleeping forms of the three extra band members strewn at odd angles across her lounge. Margaret Phillips had left just after eleven o'clock the previous night, accompanied by Kit's newly rediscovered father, whom she had promised to deliver back to his inner-city hotel.
Kit had stayed. He had nowhere else to go. Jo and Kelly had opted to stay as well, sacrificing their own more comfortable sleeping arrangements in favour of the general need to stay together. Solidarity in numbers. Jo had pulled two armchairs together to form a temporary bed and Kelly had purloined the couch. Kit, too long in the leg for either option, was curled up on a foam camping squab in the middle of the floor.
Mike was attempting to make coffee in the kitchen, as quietly as possible. That was the one disadvantage of open-plan house designs. Still, it didn't happen very often. He held up a mug and pointed at it with his spare hand to indicate that coffee was made and Sarah tip-toed out to join him.
“Sleeping like babies,” she whispered.
“I hope our baby stays asleep a little while longer,” Mike whispered back. He glanced at the clock on the electric range. “I hope she sleeps until at least half past six. What the...?”
He put his mug down hurriedly as the second thump crashed against the front door. Down the hall a child cried out. Mike flung open the door to find himself confronted by Brian Rossiter, John Matheson and two uniformed constables. A white car with its distinctive blue stripe ticked in the driveway.
“For God's sake!” Mike expostulated angrily. “It's six o'clock in the bloody morning. What do you want?”
“I want to speak to Kester Simmons.” Rossiter hoped his tone would allow no arguments.
“He told you last night that he didn't want to talk to you. What makes you think he's going to want to now?”
“Then the least he can do is tell me that himself.”
“I'll see.”
Mike turned, intending to call Kit. Rossiter used the movement to put his foot over the doorstep.
“Hold it right there!” Mike ordered, swinging back to face the policeman and placing a restraining hand on Rossiter's chest. “I haven't invited you in and I don't intend to. Not unless Kit is willing to talk.”
“No!” Kit's lanky form loomed into the passage behind Mike. “I told you yesterday, go to hell!”
“Come now,” Rossiter reasoned. “Can't we talk this over calmly. I just have a couple of questions. If Simmons will supply the answers we will leave you in peace. Can we come in? I'm sure you don't want all this broadcast to the neighbours.”
“I don't give a toss about the neighbours,” Kit muttered belligerently. Mike grinned.
“Okay, have it your own way,” Rossiter shrugged. “We'll stand out here. Tell me about drugs.”
“I don't do drugs any more. You know that.”
/> “I know that, do I? Wrong, Simmons. What I know is that your friend Gordon was using them and we found two tablets of L.S.D. in your kitchen. So let's try again. Tell me about drugs.”
“Go to hell!”
Kit turned away but hadn't made more than two paces when the uniformed constables pushed their way past Mike. They grabbed an arm each and slammed Kit up against the passage wall. Rossiter stepped forwards and calmly slapped on a set of plastic handcuffs.
“I came here to talk, Simmons, but if you want to be difficult, I'll play your silly game. You're under arrest.”
“What for?” Mike interjected.
“Possession of L.S.D. for a start. And the murder of Daniel Gordon. Get him out of here.”
Kit fought back wildly as the two constables tried to lead him to the car but ultimately he could not withstand their combined pressure and he was bundled into the back seat. Mike heard him screaming for help as they drove away.
Kit's mind was beginning to play tricks on him. The ordeal of processing had been every bit as harrowing as it had been the last time. Familiarity, in Kit's case, had not bred contempt so much as heightened terror - each step leading him more certainly towards his greatest nightmare.
The two constables had dragged him forcibly into the Central Police Station through the back entrance, the one reserved for criminals, and had hauled and pushed him through the various requirements of search, fingerprinting and identity photograph. The search had revealed only a handkerchief, an empty cigarette packet and a bottle of pills. They let him keep the handkerchief.
Now he sat, flanked by the two constables, in a bleak interview room, biting his fingernails. He kept quiet. His initial screams for help had dwindled into tears of frustration but now even crying was beyond him. He pulled his legs up till his heels rested on the seat of his chair, wrapped his arms around his knees and began to rock.
The constables looked up as Rossiter strode into the room, slammed a file of papers onto the desk that comprised the main furnishing of all the identical interview rooms and threw his bulky frame onto a lurid orange plastic chair.
“Okay, Simmons. Drugs.”
Kit continued to rock.
“Sit up straight!” Rossiter ordered. “Put your feet down!”
Kit rocked.
One of the constables moved forwards.
“You heard the Inspector. Put your feet down.”
The constable slapped Kit's knee to dislodge his feet from the chair but the drummer's pose remained rigid. His rocking increased. Rossiter frowned.
“Simmons, can you hear me?”
There was no reply.
“Shit!” Rossiter cursed.
“Do you think he needs a doctor?” the constable asked. “He doesn't look too good. Perhaps he's on something.”
“Of course he is,” spat back Rossiter. “What do you think I'm charging him with? Yeah, I guess you're right,” his tone mellowed, “we'd better let a doctor have a look at him. Stick him in a cell and see who's on duty.”
Rossiter rose, walked around the desk, grabbed a hank of Kit's hair and pulled his head backwards.
“You'd better not be pulling some kind of party trick, Simmons,” he hissed.
As Rossiter let go, Kit's head dropped forwards like a rag doll. He started rocking again.
Kiesanowskis’ breakfast table had become a council of war. Even as the police pulled out of Mike's driveway, Kelly had been dialling Sattherwaite on his cell phone. Sarah had been almost as prompt. After calming her two eldest children, placating and changing a wet, fractious baby then handing baby and bottle to an equally stressed husband, she had used the phone in the kitchen to call Kit's psychiatrist, Margaret Phillips who, in turn, had promised to call Kit's father, Keith Barrett.
Within thirty minutes a council of war had been convened. Kelly, like Mike still unshaven, reported that Sattherwaite would attend Kester at the police station within the hour. Margaret and Keith were still discarding coats and demanding details. Sarah was making frantic arrangements with her neighbour to baby-sit her children while Mike packed baby accoutrements into one of his wife's many voluminous carry bags. Jo made coffee. Mike explained as he packed.
“What do we do now?” Jo asked as he finished.
“Is there anything useful we can do?” Keith added.
“Practically, probably not,” said Kelly, always logical. “Sattherwaite will do anything necessary.”
“Well I can't just sit here doing nothing!” Jo attacked him. “I think we should go down to the station.”
“What good would that do?” Kelly rejoined. “We won't be allowed in.”
“I might be,” Margaret interjected. “I am his doctor, after all.”
“I think Jo's right,” Keith added. “I can't sit here calmly drinking coffee knowing my son is stuck in some gaol cell. Even if they don't let us in, at least I'll feel like I'm doing something. Hell, at least we might get to know what's going on.”
“What about the kids?” Mike turned to his wife.
“No problem,” she replied serenely. “Give me two minutes. I'll just pop them over next door. Come on girls!” she directed a call up the passage. “While I'm away,” she returned her attention to her husband, “why don't you two men have a shave?”
Alone in a tiny cell, Kit curled himself up and resumed rocking. It was going to happen again and he didn't know why. He didn't know what he'd done but it must have been bad. They had promised him, after last time, that if he behaved himself he wouldn't have to go back, to go through it all over again. He had tried, honestly.
He tried to think what he might have done but he couldn't recall anything except vivid, terrifying images of last time. The prison cells were the same. The arrest had been the same, the search, the fingerprints, the photos, people shouting orders at him. The rest would be the same too. Nothing would stop it. Even Avi couldn't stop it last time.
And Avi wasn't even there now. He had already gone. He had always known Avi would go one day. He was much too clever to stay with anyone as stupid and useless as Kit. He'd always known he'd do something stupid enough to make Avi leave. Stupid enough or bad enough. It must have been something bad. Really bad.
Now he was back in here. In the little cells. They'd come soon and take him away. He'd be put into a van and taken to the other place, the one out in the country, the one with the bigger cells. The one with the other men. He rocked faster.
Breathing hard, his heart beat racing, Kit relived again the terrors of his previous prison sentence. Awake now, his brain replayed the horrific scenes it usually only recalled on the worst nights when the medication failed to work.
He remembered the huge rough men, the obscene gestures, the jeering threats of promised action. He recalled the cold, stainless steel washrooms, the group of huge men approaching. The guard, pushing him forwards and turning away, laughing at his fear, later ignoring his screams, later still taking his turn. As he rocked, he began to shake. The memories of the brutal gang rapes that had dominated his prison life flooded over him and Kit collapsed sideways onto the concrete slab bed, sobbing inconsolably.
The doctor watched silently. The young prisoner had been hunched and rocking when he had entered the small cell. Conversation had proved impossible. At first he had thought the young man was simply ignoring him but had rapidly decided that the prisoner was totally unaware of his presence. A touch to the man's shoulder had sent him into paroxysms of shaking. The doctor made some hurried notes on the clipboard he was carrying and knocked at the door to be released.
“Hi there!” The band and entourage swung as one at the cheery call.
“Nick! Hi!” Mike stepped forwards to grasp the newcomer's hand. “Nick Bennett from ‘The Press’,” he explained to the others.
Keith Barrett studied the scruffily-dressed reporter. So this was Nick Bennett. He had a lot to thank him for. Now was not the time.
“I thought I'd find you guys around here somewhere today,” Bennett said happily.
“Care to make my day with a few exclusive statements, Mike.”
“Get stuffed, Nick!” Mike replied with a smile that removed the menace. “I don't suppose you know what's happening do you?”
“Probably no more than you do. I know they've arrested Kit and are charging him with possession of L.S.D.. He's due to appear in court in about half an hour. That's where I was heading. Rossiter isn't confirming it officially, but I hear he's going to charge him with Danny Gordon's murder as well.”
“On what evidence?” Mike was outraged.
“Again, I didn't tell you this. Rossiter's not touting this around, but I hear they found the murder weapon with Kit's fingerprints all over it.”
“But Kit wouldn't kill anyone,” Sarah expostulated.
“Wouldn't he?” Nick asked, grinning wolfishly. “Look, I've probably known him longer than any of you. I went to school with him and Avi. We hung out together. The Beckenham Musketeers. I hate to tell you this but I think he's perfectly capable of killing someone. He's as nutty as a fruit cake. And if he was high on L.S.D., who knows? Anyway, I'm heading down to the courthouse. Coming?”
Kit's case was the fifth one called for the morning session. The group sat through an assortment of petty offences, tension rising. Nick grinned encouragement from the press bench. Then the court official called “Kester Joseph Simmons”. Jo gasped.
Keith rose from his seat in concerned protest as Kit was half-led, half-carried into the dock. Margaret Phillips put out a restraining hand. Keith sat.
Kit, unable to stand unattended, slumped onto the hard bench as soon as the police constable released his grasp. The magistrate's peremptory order to stand up was not so much unheeded as unheard. The prosecuting sergeant began a halting explanation.
“Has this man been seen by a doctor?” the magistrate broke in. “Is he fit to plead?”
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