“You too?”
“Must be a common complaint.” Mike pointed up the road to where Kelly's mountain bike was just coming into view around the winding Loop.
Jo had joined Kelly across the road by the time Mike had hauled his guitar case from the back seat and locked his car. Kelly chained his bike to the fence and the three musicians made their way up the driveway to the back of the house.
“I thought Avi was staying here last night,” said Jo.
“He was,” Mike agreed.
“His car's not here.”
Mike shrugged. “He's probably gone out for cigarettes.”
“Probably,” Jo agreed. “It's awfully quiet. House or workshop?”
“House,” Mike voted. “If Avi isn't here and Danny is, I suggest we find Kit and stand between them.”
“I gather you are also predicting another stormy day, Michael,” Kelly drawled.
“Anyone who doesn't wins the ‘Optimist-of-the-week’ award.” Mike opened the back door to let them in. “You're right, Jo, it is awfully quiet.”
The house appeared to be empty. Dirty dishes in the sink suggested there had been some life, but any other traces of it were absent. Mike and Kelly placed their guitars carefully on the floor and looked around. Mike put his head around the door of the spare bedroom then backed out, shrugging a negative reply to Jo's unspoken question. He moved to the main bedroom, peeked around the door then beckoned to the others. Kit was asleep, limbs and hair sprawled in all directions, his breakfast cold and uneaten, abandoned on the dresser. Mike leant against the door post, arms folded, head cocked to one side.
“Idyllic, isn't it?”
“If I had something on my bed that was all legs and hair like that, I'd spray it with fly killer,” Jo laughed. “Come on, Kit,” she shook him none-too-gently. “Wakey, wakey!”
Kit stirred and murmured but didn't wake.
“Kit!” Jo shook him harder. “Come on, man! Wake up! Danny is out in the workshop. If he finds you still asleep he'll have your guts for a guitar string!”
Kit struggled to open his eyes. With difficulty he hauled himself up onto his elbow and blinked with a distinct lack of comprehension. Mike recognised the symptoms.
“Oh hell!” he muttered. “He's still stoned. Great!”
“What?” Jo sounded incredulous. “From last night? Surely not?”
“Yeah.” Mike stooped to look hard into Kit's eyes. “Yeah, trust me. He's still out of it.”
“No, no,” Kit protested feebly. “I'm okay. I'll be fine, honest. Just give me some time.”
“Coffee?” suggested Jo.
“Oh, yes, please.” Kit's gratitude was unfeigned. He looked around, focussing more clearly. “Where's Avi?”
“We figured you'd tell us,” said Mike. “His car isn't here.”
“Oh.” Kit's vague answer indicating that he hadn't really grasped Mike's statement.
“Hell and damnation!” Mike swore in frustration. “Kelly, you can forget that optimist award, it just went right out the window. If we even make it to lunch time we'll be doing damn well! Kit!” He shook the drummer vigorously enough to elicit a whimper of protest. “Come on, let's get you sorted out. Jo, please, make coffee for all of us. Black, very strong. Kelly, if you can give me a hand here we'll throw Kit under a shower.”
The two men grabbed an arm each and hoisted Kit to his feet.
“I'm okay, really,” he protested but he still leant heavily on their shoulders as they led him through to the bathroom.
It was a more-together Kit who appeared from the bathroom ten minutes later, wrapped decorously in a white towel. He grinned sheepishly at Jo and blushed.
“You look better clean-shaven,” Jo reached over and tweaked the edge of the towel. “The colour suits you.”
“Yeah, sure.” Kit didn't sound as bright as he looked.
“Hey,” she called after his retreating back, “Kit! Let me guess, the underwear's black too, huh?”
Kit spun round, clutching his towel deliberately in place.
“You want to come and find out?”
“Is that a threat or a promise?”
“Um,” Kit laughed nervously. “A pretty scary thought, actually.”
“Get some clothes on then, or I might lose control.”
“Yeah, sure.”
Kit ambled into his room, reappearing seconds later in his traditional black and dragging a comb through long hanks of wet hair. Jo thrust a cup of coffee towards him.
“Here! Say, Kit, where is Avi?”
Kit shrugged, spilling hot coffee over his hand as he did so, swore, put the cup down hurriedly and wiped the hot liquid off onto his jeans.
“I don't know,” he answered, checking his hand for damage. “I really don't know.”
“Think carefully.” Mike tried employing tactics he had watched Sarah use on the children. “He stayed the night, yes?”
“Yeah.”
“So he must have gone out this morning.”
“Yeah.” Kit was concentrating hard.
“He must have made breakfast. There are dirty plates in the sink, obviously his, and yours is still by the bed. Think. Can you remember Avi bringing you breakfast?”
Kit closed his eyes, running scenes through his memory.
“Home,” he said at last. “He was going home. And something about money, I can't remember.”
“Maybe he was going to the bank?” Jo suggested.
“Maybe.”
Mike checked his watch. “Well, he'd better be back soon. It's after ten o'clock. Danny won't appreciate it if we get a late start. You did know he was out there already, Kit?”
“No.”
“Well, he did intend to fix the amplifier,” Kelly reminded them. “No doubt that is what he is doing.”
“Oh well,” sighed Jo. “I suppose I could show my loving and forgiving nature and offer the man a cup of coffee, couldn't I?”
“You could, if you had one,” agreed Kelly.
Jo treated him to a disdainful glare, pulled another cup from the cupboard and reached for the coffee. Mike put his cup down and pulled two sheets of paper from his pocket.
“Before I forget,” he said to Kit. “This arrived on my office fax last night. The cover sheet is addressed to Mike Kiesanowski, spelt with two 'e's and a 'v' instead of a 'w', and says ‘please on-pass this to Kester Simmons. Must reach him soonest. Please advise if unable to comply.’ Then follows an enigmatic text that reads like a James Bond script. Listen to this.” Mike cleared his throat and quoted from the second of the two pages. “Must conclude deal soonest. Flying in Friday. Guarantee cash transaction if merchandise satisfactory. Commission assured. K.B.” Mike handed the papers to Kit. “More Secret Squirrel stuff, eh?”
Kit took the papers and read the message again, his face slowly registering a broad smile. He folded the papers and placed them on the breakfast bar with a shake of his head.
“Yeah, thanks for taking the message. I really appreciate it.”
Mike looked at him with suspicion but said nothing.
“On guard, boys,” said Jo cheerfully. “I'm off to slay the dragon.”
The men heard Jo's light-hearted giggle as she sauntered jauntily down the yard to the workshop. Then the laugh quickly choked off into a piercing scream. The three men moved as one, downing coffee cups and racing to the workshop. Kelly reached the scene first. By the time Mike and Kit arrived, Kelly was holding Jo tightly, the two of them standing in a pool of blood. Kit took one look and stumbled weakly back against the door.
“Oh my God,” he gasped.
In front of him his precious Tama drum kit was a mess. The snare, still locked on its individual stand, was lying on the floor, its skins slashed and its maple shell split open. The row of toms were still mounted on their metal rack but showed various amounts of damage, from the little eight inch which was dangling, skins slashed and mounting twisted, to the sixteen inch which had suffered a single gash. It was impossible to see the dam
age to the bass drum as it was partially covered by the slumped body of Danny Gordon.
CHAPTER TEN
Detective Inspector Brian Rossiter added his car to the increasing line-up of traffic parked on the picturesque riverbank. An all-encompassing glance took in the surrounding scene. He smiled with satisfaction. Only half an hour had elapsed since the Christchurch Central Police Station had taken the call and already the two attending 'I' cars had the property sealed off. His mouth twisted into a wry grin as he surveyed the inquisitive neighbours gathering in hushed clumps, speculating on the reason for the hastily erected fence of plastic string that now barred entry to the Simmons property. Rossiter waved away a dishevelled young man in jeans and a tweed sports jacket, his fair head enveloped in the folds of an ancient university scarf, who had rushed forwards from one of the watching groups.
“Not now, Mr Bennett,” Rossiter snapped. “I can hardly tell you anything I don't know myself. Bloody press!” he muttered under his breath as he stepped over the cordon. “Watch that one,” he said to the constable on duty at the end of the driveway, indicating the fair young man. “That's Bennett from ‘The Press’. Don't tell him anything.”
“Yes, Sir,” the constable acknowledged. “The body's not in the house, Sir. It's in a shed at the back,” he added helpfully.
“Thank you, Constable.” The Detective Inspector let his breath out slowly in a resigned sigh and turned to the young journalist. “Got all that, Bennett?”
Nick Bennett returned a gracious smile and an obsequious bow. The detective scowled and turned on his heel, muttering under his breath as he walked away. Rossiter continued to the rear of the house where he found a small knot of people accompanied by a policewoman. A girl stood, crying, comforted by the policewoman and by a young man with short, spiky hair. Another young man, long haired this time, sat huddled and rocking against the side of the house, comforted in his turn by the last of the group, a man in his late twenties, long haired and moustached.
“Which one of you found the body?” Rossiter asked.
“I did,” the girl replied shakily.
“Where is it?”
“In there, Sir.” The policewoman pointed to the workshop.
“Wait here, you lot. Don't touch anything.”
Rossiter walked determinedly into the workshop, careful not to disturb the scene by his movements. Detective Senior Sergeant John Matheson, the Officer In Charge (Site), was already there, studiously searching the floor around the smashed drum kit. Rossiter looked at the body which still lay at the front of the bass drum.
“Who was he?” he asked.
“Daniel McKay Gordon.” Matheson stood up, brushing dust from his portly frame. “They're a rock band. Apparently he sang and played guitar.”
“Any idea how he died?” Rossiter removed an expensive pair of German-framed spectacles from his nose with one hand and with the other extracted from his pocket a huge handkerchief with which he set about furiously polishing the spectacle lenses; an automatic habit when he was thinking.
“Looks like a stabbing. There's a sizeable gash in his chest.”
“Weapon?”
“Haven't found one yet.”
“Who are those guys out there?” He replaced his glasses.
“The rest of the band. The girl, Joanna Greenwood, found the body when she went to invite him in for a cup of coffee. The bloke in the plaid shirt, Michael Something-or-other-sounded-foreign, reported it. The tall, skinny one in black is Kester Simmons. He owns this place, and the damaged drums.”
“Simmons! Of course!” Rossiter struck his head with his hand in a gesture of recognition. “I thought he looked familiar. Okay, you carry on here. I'll get this lot down to the station and get some statements. And don't worry,” he called back over his shoulder, “I'll handle Bennett.”
Rossiter walked briskly back to the small group still huddled by the back door of the house.
“Right, Constable,” he addressed the policewoman. “Let's get these people down to the station.”
“What for?” Mike broke in.
“We need your statements, Sir,” Rossiter addressed him politely.
“Why can't we do that here? Why do we have to go to the station?”
“The whole place is now a crime scene. We can't risk contaminating it,” Rossiter explained. “And it's much easier down at the station. If you would be so kind.”
He gently but firmly ushered the group into motion. Mike put out a hand to pull Kit to his feet.
“No!” Kit resisted. “No! I don't want to go!”
Rossiter stepped forwards, knelt down and placed a firm hand on Kit's shoulder.
“Mr Simmons. We need to know what happened. It will be a lot easier on everyone if you do this voluntarily”
"Come on, Kit,” Mike urged. “We're all going. It'll be okay.”
“But what about Avi? He'll be back soon. He won't know where we've gone.”
“Back” Rossiter’s ears pricked up. “You mean there was someone else here?”
“Yeah,” Kit replied. “Avi.”
“Avi who?” Rossiter asked. “When was he here? Why did he leave?”
“Avi Livingstone,” Mike took over the explanation. “Kit hasn’t been well. Avi stayed here with him last night but he wasn’t here when we arrived. I gather he’s gone to his own home and is coming back shortly. We were supposed to be rehearsing so he won’t be long.”
“Rehearsing. So he’s part of the band then?”
“Yeah, sorry. He plays keyboard. Danny would never admit it but Avi’s really the band leader.”
Rossiter filed that piece of information away to add to his questions later and smiled reassuringly. “Don't worry, the constable at the gate will tell him where you are. Come on. The sooner we do it, the shorter time it will take.”
“But my drums,” Kit protested weakly.
“Forget them for now. You can't do anything about them at the moment. Come on!”
Mike hauled Kit to his feet and led him away. Jo and Kelly followed, shepherded by Brian Rossiter in the direction of one of the ‘Central I’ cars. As the group was driven away, Rossiter was again approached by Dominic Bennett.
“Mr Bennett!” Rossiter forestalled the journalist's question. “At this stage all I can tell you is that a body has been discovered in a shed at the rear of this property. The name of the deceased cannot be revealed until the next of kin have been notified.”
“The car that just drove away contained all of ‘Charlotte Jane’ except for Danny Gordon and Avi Livingstone,” Bennett pressed. “Is the body either of them?”
Rossiter shook his head. “No comment!”
He brushed away Bennett's attentions and hurried back to the workshop where he found Matheson again on hands and knees searching carefully among the sound equipment. Matheson started at Rossiter's approach, the involuntary movement eliciting an amused snigger from the senior officer.
“Sorry to startle you, John,” he apologised with a smile. “I know I said I was going but I want your opinion before I go.”
“Sure!” Matheson got to his feet. “How can I help?”
“Our old friend, Simmons. How did he appear to you?”
“That's the guy who owns this place?” Matheson shrugged. “Pretty upset, actually. Mind you, that's fairly understandable.” He paused, thinking. “No, I have to admit, it did strike me that all his panic was about his drums. I don't think he'd even noticed that his mate was dead. You seem to know the guy. Should I?”
“No, probably not. He hasn't been in trouble for a few years now. He'd go back before your time here. He's a regular outpatient at Sunnyside Hospital and a drug addict from way back. We caught him a few times selling his medication to buy heroin. He was let off lightly the first couple of times but the third time the magistrate wasn't so understanding. I gather prison life kicked him where it hurt.”
“Had a hard time, did he?”
“So I heard, but it straightened him out a bit. He
hasn't gone off the rails since.”
“Are you considering him a likely suspect for this little lot, then?”
“It's a strong possibility. It's his house. They're his drums. And he did seem extremely reluctant to go down to the station. Put it this way, I'll be questioning him personally. Any luck on a weapon yet?”
“No. I've got a team coming in to search the grounds.”
“You might try the river as well.”
“I intend to if the grounds come up blank.”
“Okay, carry on. I'll see you later.”
Rossiter sauntered back to his car, noticing with relief that Nick Bennett was safely employed questioning the neighbours who were still hovering outside. With movements kept deliberately slow, Rossiter unlocked his car, climbed in then made a show of looking busy while he studied the various bystanders. They seemed a typical cross-section of Avon Loop residents, the elderly who had been in the area all their lives and the greenie-hippy-liberal types who had flocked to the area in recent years. Rossiter sighed. Somehow, based on his past experiences, he didn't expect much useful information to be forthcoming from either group. He expected it would be even more difficult to extract anything voluntarily from any of the third group of watchers, however he took a long look at the group of young Goths who were watching from the safety of the cemetery on the other side of the river and made a mental note to try them anyway. As he drove away he realised that one of the group, a trashy young girl with flaming red hair, was studying him with equal intensity.
Keeping his movements as slow and gentle as possible, Avi dragged himself into a corner of the tiny room. Very carefully he managed to ease his body around until he was leaning against the rough wooden side of the old coal container. By the time he had achieved his goal he felt nauseous and faint. For a few minutes he sat desperately trying to control both his ragged breathing and his mounting panic.
He couldn't see; a combination of the windowless room, a blackened eye now completely swollen and closed and the lack of his glasses, lost with his father’s first blow. Avi hated the dark and he hated the coal shed. His father had used this punishment on him many times when he was a child and it had never failed to terrify him. Frankly, being shut anywhere in the dark terrified him and the young Avrahim would do anything to avoid it. However, that had been years ago and Avi Livingstone, BA BMus, had outgrown all those childish fears, hadn’t he?. He had spent many, many hours helping Kit conquer his fears and he considered himself something of an expert in stripping them down to the basics and looking at them logically. So why was he scared stiff here in the dark?
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