Certainly, as Moon had reluctantly confided, the widow Callender had an unfortunate tendency to argue. This trait would presumably be exacerbated by having to live so closely with the others in the commune who all had drug habits of various extents and expense and who could also be as argumentative and selfish as she was herself. There was a definite possibility that Mrs Callender herself had decided to ‘off’ her husband, tiring of waiting for one of the others to lose their drug-addled heads sufficiently to do it for her.
As for the rest and their possible motives, Glen 'Foxy' Redfern, he of the belligerent manner and the fiery frizz of bright red hair, had shown himself as the most eager for the blame for the murders to be laid on an outsider. Whether he was hoping to conceal his own guilt by blaming an outsider was unclear, though the rest, probably just as eager for any blame to be apportioned elsewhere, had backed him up quickly enough. Then there was Foxy's wife, Lilith, and their son Jethro; strangely, it had been Jethro, Madonna's older brother, who had seemed most cut up about her early pregnancy. Not that Casey could hold that against the youngster, who would perhaps blame his parents for his sister's situation almost as much as he had blamed Callender himself.
That their parents had chosen to rear their children in an atmosphere of sleaze and moral bankruptcy didn't mean their teenage offspring would necessarily find such an atmosphere appealing. Witness Saffron in Absolutely Fabulous, who had certainly not approved of her maternal parent's lifestyle and who lived her life in as opposite a manner to it as she could.
Much like me with my parents, Casey thought as he recalled the necessity of keeping himself fed whilst in India, after his parents had abandoned him while they sought the wisdom of yet another guru. He'd been all of ten that first time. And although feeling frightened and alone, he'd managed, necessity being the mother of invention.
All three of the Redferns might well have felt antagonistic towards Callender for impregnating the teenage Madonna, as well might Madonna Redfern herself.
Certainly Madonna had looked miserable enough about the situation in which she currently found herself. And as for Jethro, perhaps for all that he seemed familiar with the Indian culture that had so absorbed the older generation in their youth and presumably still did, perhaps, like Casey himself, he had merely absorbed it in much the same way as one does language or anything else that surrounds one every day and it meant no more to him than that.
As for Dylan Harper, the other bereaved commune member, Casey considered the short-of-stature gipsy-dark man. Like a lot of smaller men, Dylan appeared to hold a lot of anger in his slim frame. An anger that seemed to Casey all too likely to explode if he felt he had reason to believe one of the other commune members had killed his partner. If he suspected he knew the guilty party, he might well take a violent, gipsy revenge — a murder waiting to happen. Casey hoped Moon and Star weren't on Harper's list of potential suspects. With this thought in mind, he had warned Moon to stay away from him as much as possible, certainly not to provoke him in any way.
Scott ‘Mackenzie’ Johnson and Randy Matthews, his much younger lover, had said little during Casey's last visit. Both were relative newcomers to the commune: Scott had moved in first, with his partner, Randy, whom he had met some time after, moving in only six months previously. Their failure to voice any opinion about the deaths struck Casey as odd. Such deliberate low profiles might indicate that they were intent on concealing something.
But then, he realized they had said little during his previous visits either, though in Randy's case at least, he hadn't been there for most of them, having only taken up with Scott Johnson some six months earlier. He was the newcomer in an established set-up and was probably still feeling his way.
It was around lunchtime, just before Rachel was due to return from her therapeutic shopping trip, when Catt rang.
‘I've just learned the results of the two post-mortems,’ he told Casey. ‘Hang on to your hat.’
‘Go on. It's not as if I haven't been expecting the worst.’
‘That's all right, then. So you're not going to be disappointed. Much as we expected, both Kris Callender and DaisyMay Smith were murdered. Callender died from a blow to the head with the proverbial blunt instrument. So did Ms Smith, for that matter, though Callender didn't endure the assault she sustained before death. As in Callender's case, the blows caused a cerebral haemorrhage.’
Although the cause of death was the same in each case, which in such an enclosed location would usually indicate the same murderer, the two killings were completely different in other ways. As ThomCatt had said, the killing of poor DaisyMay had been a far more brutal one. There had been real savagery there. Was it really possible that one or more of the so-called peace-loving members of the commune could be guilty of such violence? But, he told himself, of course they could. They were an argumentative lot. It was but a small step from arguing to physical violence as the many knife murders in modern society made clear.
‘So, what's DCI Boxham's thinking on the case?’ Casey asked.
‘He's being very cagey,’ Catt reported. ‘My source was able to tell me little of his boss's thoughts. As to the plan, I gather that is to continue their questioning of the commune members until one of them loses their nerve and blurts out the truth. Apparently, the questioning has been pretty relentless since the investigation began.’
Casey hadn't expected anything else. He wondered how they were all standing up to it. He thought Moon would hold up pretty well. He just wished he could say the same about his father. Star would find such relentless questioning difficult, particularly as he would be deprived of the several regular daytime naps he was used to and — given his general inability to complete a sentence — was unlikely to be able to answer most of the questions anyway, which would only incline DCI Boxham to increase the pace still further. Casey stifled a worried sigh. ‘Thanks for letting me know, Tom.’
'I just wish I had better news for you. Still, look on the bright side, hey? They haven't yet charged anyone with murder.’
‘True.’
But as he thanked Tom again and put the phone down, Casey reflected that that was surely likely to be only a matter of time.
Meanwhile, he would badger his memory and carry on with noting down all that he knew about each of the commune members. Firstly, it was clear that the commune smallholding was far from being a latter-day Sunnybrook Farm. The discovery of Callender's treachery over the sale of their limited and ill-cared-for produce had clearly caused a lot of bad feeling. The Redferns, because of Madonna's teenage pregnancy, all had reason to wish Callender ill, as, presumably, judging from her caustic comments, did Kali, his wife. And to judge from what Jethro Redfern had said, none of the rest of the commune had reason to love the man either, though again, their dislike — hatred, even — of Callender didn't explain Daisy May's murder. Her death was something of a conundrum. But Callender's death at least was easily explained. In fostering hatred amongst the rest it seemed probable he had brought about his own death. From the little Moon had let escape and from what he had observed, it had become evident that the commune was a hotbed of hatreds and partisanships rather than the Utopia of popular imagination.
Young Jethro, for one, apart from holding the adults in low esteem, had been vociferous in his contempt for the dead man. Had that been simply the cry of outspoken and foolish youth? Or was he canny enough to speak of his dislike of Callender as a form of double bluff? Did he believe that his very outspokenness would render the police — and Casey himself — less likely to consider him a major suspect? It was possible; he was young enough to try such a bluff, unaware that the police had plenty of experience of such tactics.
So far, Casey had reduced the motives to three possibilities: that Callender had been killed by one or more of the commune because they had found out about his thieving from them; that either Kali Callender or one or more of the Redferns had killed him for impregnating young Madonna; or that he had cheated another, as yet unknown drug
dealer, and had been on the receiving end of the usual reprisal, though in this latter case, Casey was surprised that he hadn't been shot or knifed rather than bludgeoned to death.
Three of the commune members, Foxy and Jethro Redfern and Dylan Harper, had shown themselves to have hasty tempers. Kali Callender struck him as the devious sort who would seize her opportunity quietly and efficiently and most likely get away with it.
As for Scott ‘Mackenzie’ Johnson and Randy Matthews, Moon had implied they were both too wet to bludgeon someone to death. Though that didn't mean they wouldn't do it if sufficiently provoked. Maybe Callender had continually taunted them about their homosexuality. In spite of his ‘right on’ membership of a hippie commune, Callender, as the nastiest sort of red-blooded heterosexual male, struck Casey as the type to goad pitilessly. Had he goaded the pair once too often? Scott Johnson had seemed very protective of his much younger lover: had he struck out in his defence?
Casey sighed, because while he could ponder all he wished he was still powerless to effect an arrest or even to check much out except at a discreet distance. It frustrated him unendurably, a frustration increased all the more by Moon and Star's hopeless attempts to recall the movements of the rest during the critical hours before DaisyMay's body was found.
Because of all this, the case looked like proving a long haul. But, as Casey heard the front door bang, heralding Rachel's return from her shopping trip, he knew he had to put the case aside for now. With the long hours he worked he had always striven to keep his promises to her. And this afternoon he had promised her a trip to one of the local stately homes. He had also promised her a picnic if the weather was fine and one look out of the window told him the day was set fair.
For now, he abandoned his notes and set to putting the food together. It didn't take long; it was a simple meal of chicken, salad and French bread. He had made the salad earlier and he had cooked the chicken the previous night.
Maybe time away from thinking about the commune murders would help him come to the truth.
Rachel must have glanced into the living room on her way through to the kitchen because she said, ‘Not been working on the deaths at the commune all morning?’
'Just jotting things down while my mind was fresh,’ Casey defended himself. ‘Everything's ready for our day out.’ He picked up the picnic basket from the kitchen counter and held it aloft as proof.
‘Let me have that bread,’ she said, as she peered around him to the worktop where Casey had left the heel of the loaf. ‘I’m starved.’
‘Too busy spending to have a bite to eat?’ he teased. To judge from the quantity of carrier bags, he wasn't far wrong.
'A girl has to replenish her wardrobe, Will. It's a feminine necessity.’ She took the piece of bread on which Casey had quickly spread a generous helping of butter and took a large bite. She said nothing more till the bread was but a memory. 'Mmm, I was ready for that. Are we all set?’
‘All set.’
‘Good. I'll just go to the bathroom and we'll be off. And,’ she reminded him in case he had forgotten her earlier instructions, ‘this afternoon is ”us” time. No wandering off to thoughts of murder.’
'I hear and I will obey, oh mistress.’ Since he had already promised he was hers for the afternoon, he would have no compunction about relegating his parents and their problems to the back of his mind. Maybe it would even be the best place for them. It might, as he had earlier thought, throw up some possibilities which his conscious mind hadn't thought of.
He opened the front door as Rachel descended the stairs and he slammed it firmly behind them and on any further anxious thoughts about the commune. Soon enough, the worry thereof.
Chapter Six
On the following Monday, Casey and Rachel's short break came to an end. It was as Casey was getting ready for work that Catt rang him to report there had been a vicious killing on their home patch, so now, along with their unofficial investigation, they had the long hours of an official one to contend with. Casey had no idea how they were to cope with both.
And as he hurriedly dried after his shower and threw his clothes on, Casey suspected that things were about to get a whole lot more difficult. His return to work would naturally severely curtail whatever time he had to continue with the shadow investigation of the two commune deaths. And ThomCatt had been carrying out his part of the inquiries after duty hours, which would be few enough now with this latest murder.
Casey found a moment to regret the loss of leisure hours. Such precious time had enabled him to think. But now the demands of work would impinge. Not that he'd been thinking with razor sharpness anyway since Moon had broken the news of the commune deaths, though that was more down to lack of solid information than lack of effort. And given his limited ability to contact his mother, as well as his lack of contacts in the Boston area, he was heavily dependent on his streetwise and frequently maverick sergeant. But, to be fair, so far, ThomCatt had done a sterling ferreting job; much better, certainly, than he had been in a position to do.
That was the frustration, of course. Casey desperately needed to be able to do something. Anything. But as he drove to the latest murder scene through the narrow streets of the medieval centre of town that was the bane of modern-day motorists, past the timber framing and over-hanging first floor jetties that shaded out most of the light, Casey warned himself against such unwise desires. Following their natural instincts was what had landed his parents in their current unfortunate predicament, never mind a number of preceding ones. Was he now, after so many years of trying to avoid following in his parents' foolhardy and irresponsible footsteps, to start to backtrack in his determinedly opposing path? Such a move would be foolhardy indeed.
The King's Langley murder victim had been found half an hour before Casey returned to work. It looked set to become an unpleasant case. Not only did the victim have the knife wound to his groin, but his penis had been cut off and stuffed in his mouth as a last hurrah.
And when, shortly after, Casey stood at the scene, biting wind and rain painfully slapping his trousers against his chilled legs, he had to force himself to treat any weakening emotion as dispassionately as the wind treated his legs. But, as a man, the manner of this victim's death cut to his soul, not to mention cutting his masculinity to shreds.
The victim, who looked to be around his late thirties, had certainly died an unpleasant, lonely death if the wounds to his body and the body's location were indicative. Dr Merriman, the pathologist, when he had finally arrived from his home twenty miles distant, told Casey in his thin, unemotional voice, that the knife had severed the femoral artery, causing the victim to lose a large quantity of blood.
‘Doesn't look like he was killed here,’ he added as he knelt beside the half-naked victim. ‘And though you'll have to wait for the post-mortem to get confirmation, I think I can safely say he bled to death.’
Casey nodded. But, like Dr Merriman, he wouldn't jump to hasty conclusions. The victim had probably bled to death, possibly in the alley where he had been found, though both the thoughts of Dr Merriman and the shortage of blood would seem to indicate this was not the case — but as the doctor had remarked, the post-mortem would confirm whether or not the body had been moved after death.
Casey found himself wishing the victim had been found in a more pleasant location. Surrounded by the fly-blown litter of takeaway cartons and used condoms, the alley was altogether too squalid and depressing a place for anyone to die. Even though he often, morbidly, contemplated his own death, Casey had never considered a death like this one.
'A gangland killing, you reckon, boss?’ Catt asked as he came up behind him.
Casey heard Merriman tutting to himself at this supposition, but he ignored him and turned to answer Catt. He noticed his sergeant's hair, his pride and joy, had been liberally plastered with hairspray this morning to keep it in place whatever the weather might do to dislodge the perfectly coiffed locks. It looked as stiff as a board and about as movable.<
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‘The viciousness certainly makes that a strong possibility, ThomCatt.' Casey had checked, but no identification had been found on the corpse. Either he hadn't carried anything or his killer had removed the victim's wallet in an attempt to delay identification. For now, at the start of the case, anything was possible.
For several more moments, Casey studied the body. The dead man was lying amongst the alley's detritus, curled into a foetal position. It was as if the body had accepted that death, and as many of the indignities it could contrive, would come for him on swift-winged heels and had tried to prepare for its arrival by protecting his remaining in situ private parts.
Casey took Catt's arm and drew him aside. They walked to the end of the alley, away from the busyness of the immediate scene and its milling forensic and photography teams. Away, too, from the shelter the alley provided. Catt pulled a face as the keening wind, stronger now away from the protection afforded by the alley's fencing, tried again and with a little more effect, to disturb his hairstyle. Even though Casey was anxious to have a word with Catt in private, he was too wary of the listening ears of the hovering cordoned-off neighbours and the even more acute ears of the stringers who fed stories to the national press to stray beyond the police cordon.
A Killing Karma Page 5
