“That's hardly fair,” remonstrated her husband. “They've always been very polite when they've been in here. Anyway, that horrible supermarket's going to do more damage to the neighbourhood than one young man with a loud set of drums.”
As he spoke he wafted his hand vaguely towards a news item, now yellowed by the sun, clipped from a paper and stuck onto the shop window above what appeared to be a petition of some kind. Keith Barrett's eyes were drawn automatically in its direction.
“It'll ruin all of us,” the bread shop man continued. “How can we continue our businesses with that thing to compete against?”
Barrett read the article on the proposed supermarket then signed the protest petition in good faith.
“I can sympathise,” he said as he paid for his purchases. “I've got a small business myself. Say,” he added as an afterthought, “you wouldn’t have a phone book I can have a look at, have you? I need to check a couple of addresses.”
Brian Rossiter slid into the chair opposite Kit who cowered, dejected and shaking, his cigarette packet empty.
“I'm still waiting for the truth, lad,” Rossiter stated quietly.
“I don't know anything,” Kit repeated the answer he had given a thousand times.
“Well, I do know some things and I'm pretty sure you're not telling me everything. Shall we start with what I know and see what you can add?”
Kit didn't reply. Rossiter continued.
“To start with, what you've been telling me doesn't add up to what your friends have been telling me. Or should I say you seem to have left out all the important bits.”
“What important bits?”
“The on-going fight you and Danny Gordon had been engaged in since Tuesday, for starters. I hear you threw a cup of hot coffee in his face.”
“He was being a prick.”
“And was he being a prick last night? Is that why you killed him?”
“I didn't kill him, I didn't!”
“But you fought with him. Your friends said so. He tried to fire you. Were you afraid of losing your job? Is that why you killed him?”
“I didn't kill him!” Kit was shouting.
“I think you're lying.” Rossiter went very quiet. “We found the murder weapon. In your back yard. Where you threw it. They tell me it's some kind of a chisel, a wood-working tool. It had your initials on the handle. And your fingerprints all over it.” Rossiter reached forwards, grabbed Kit's hands and turned them palms up. “What about those?” He indicated several small lacerations on Kit's fingertips. “Did you cut yourself playing the drums? Or struggling with Danny Gordon?”
Kit looked ingenuously at the tiny cuts he hadn't even noticed. He shook more.
Elizabeth Livingstone sat quietly at the neat little kitchen table, her hands folded in her lap, and waited patiently. She looked at the clock on the wall. The time dragged slowly but she had patience. He would leave soon. She could wait. The clock's hands plodded towards 2.30. Finally her husband entered the room, shrugging on his jacket as he walked. They didn't speak. He took his hat from a peg behind the door, placed the hat firmly on his head and strode out the door. As he walked down the driveway, he turned and contemptuously tossed a key into the garden.
Elizabeth watched him go, still without speaking, then, as he stalked off down the street, she rushed forwards to scrabble among the flowers. Snatching up the key she rushed to the little apricot door and desperately worked the key in the padlock. Seconds later she was on her knees beside her injured son.
“Come on!” She choked back a fresh wave of tears brought on by the sight of his swollen face and mangled hand. “Come on, we've got to get out of here.”
Gently she helped Avi to his feet, murmuring encouragements when he cried out in agony, half carried him to his car, eased him into the back seat, took her place behind the steering wheel and coaxed the vehicle into life. As she drove away she didn't look back.
The car was temperamental even with a driver who knew it well. Under Elizabeth's inexpert guidance it stalled and bunny-hopped its way through the city streets. By the time she pulled into the emergency entrance of the Christchurch Public Hospital her knuckles were white with tension. In the back seat Avi moaned softly. At the hospital she slung the car into an empty car-park and fled inside in search of help. Soon she returned followed by a strong young man in a white coat, who eased Avi out of the car and into a wheelchair, whipping him rapidly into the sterile realms of the casualty department. As the porter left them in the waiting room, Elizabeth stroked Avi's matted hair.
“It'll be all right now. You're safe now.”
Avi reached out his undamaged left hand to squeeze his mother's.
“So are you.”
“It's three 'clock.”
“Yeah, and all's well. Thanks, Mike.”
“That's not what I meant and you know it, Jo.”
Jo looked up from the cup of double-strength coffee she cradled in her hands.
“Sorry, Mike. Oh God! I feel so damned useless!”
Kelly reached across the art deco round table and patted her hand.
“Take it easy, Joanna. I think we are all feeling equally shocked and ineffectual. I suggest we compare our individual experiences and rally our collective strength. Would you like another coffee?”
Jo drained her cup hurriedly and held it out to the bass player who had risen from his chair.
“Yes, please. Another double.”
“Michael?”
“Thanks, Kelly. White with two.”
The remnants of ‘Charlotte Jane’ had discovered each other in the police station foyer and had wandered, still in a state of shock, to Jo’s favourite coffee house in Cashel Mall. Kelly returned to the table, deftly balancing three cups with the skill of a professional waiter.
“White with two, a double and a single,” he announced, delivering the cups with a graceful flourish and subsiding into his chair. “So, first, let us go, one at a time, through our respective discussions with the constabulary and see if we can piece together what is happening. Joanna, ladies first.”
“I had that policewoman first. She was quite nice. I just told her about us all arriving together this morning; she wanted to know when everyone arrived and in what order. I told her that Danny's car was there when we arrived. She wanted to know why none of us went out to see him earlier, so I had to tell her about the bad mood he had been in for the last few days. Then later that Rossiter chap came in and asked all about the arguments so I sort of had to tell him about Kit throwing the coffee in Danny's face.”
“Yeah,” broke in Mike. “He asked me about that, too. So I told him it wasn't just Kit who was pissed off with Danny. I admitted punching him out.”
“I admitted to the cowardly act of hiding behind the amplifiers,” put in Kelly. “You do realise that Kester is the prime suspect in the eyes of the police.”
“What makes you think that?”
“I overheard Inspector Rossiter talking in the corridor. Not to mention simple logic. If they considered him innocent, why is he not sitting here with us now?”
“What are we going to do?” Jo asked.
“I think the best thing we could do is seek professional advice. Do you mind if I pull some strings?”
Without waiting for an answer, Kelly thrust his hand into his jacket pocket and pulled out a tiny, black, slimline smart phone, and searched for a number.
“Butler, Finch and Sattherwaite,” a female voice answered.
“Yes, good afternoon. Kelly Reynolds for Mr Sattherwaite, please... Ah, Mr Sattherwaite, Kelly Reynolds speaking. Xavier's son.... Precisely.... I have a small problem...”
After a lengthy conversation in which Kelly said “absolutely” and “certainly” a large number of times, he pocketed the phone and smiled.
“That was an old friend of my father. They were at law school together. He is an excellent criminal lawyer and will meet us back at the police station in about fifteen minutes. He will, thereupon, atte
mpt to extricate Kester as it appears that the police have no right to hold him against his will unless they actually arrest him. Shall we go?”
“Where do you suppose Avi is?” Jo asked as they hurried back to the station.
“That, I think, could turn out to be the six million dollar question,” said Mike thoughtfully. “Even if he arrived back just after we'd left Kit's place, you'd think he would have shown up at the station by now.”
“Maybe he did,” suggested Kelly. “Perhaps we just didn't see him there. We were all in separate rooms. He may have been interviewed in another and allowed to leave.”
“Yeah, you're probably right,” agreed Mike. “I guess we'll meet up later.”
“Hopefully with Kit,” added Jo.
Mike stopped suddenly in mid step.
“Okay. I'm going to say it. I feel guilty as hell for thinking it, but I can't help it, and I bet you're both thinking the same thing.”
The others turned to face him expectantly.
“What if the police are right. What if Kit did kill Danny.” Mike surveyed their expressions. “I'm right, aren't I? You were both thinking the same thing.”
Jo and Kelly both nodded.
“Yeah. He has been acting pretty odd,”
“Even for Kit.”
“Yesterday, when we were talking about Danny's contract, he said he wanted him dead. It was the calmest I'd heard him talk for two days.”
“He does have a flashpoint temper.”
“We noticed.”
“What if he did kill Danny?”
“We don't tour?”
Keith Barrett crossed the path of the three band members as they left the coffee shop. They failed to notice each other. By the time the trio reached the police station entrance, Keith was already hovering in the foyer, unsure what to do next. He really didn't know what he could do. He knew he should help the young drummer but as he had little idea what was happening, he had even less idea what practical help he could be. Aimlessly, he watched the knot of people enter then stand around, nervously tapping their feet and shuffling. Within a matter of minutes they were joined by a middle-aged, professional-looking man wearing a three-piece dove grey suit and carrying a leather briefcase.
“Lawyer,” Keith thought. He was right.
Kelly Reynolds stepped forwards eagerly and acknowledged the newcomer, introducing his companions. The names Reynolds and Greenwood meant nothing to Keith, listening from the corner, but at the mention of Michael Kiesanowski, he began to take notice. That must be the man he had sent the fax to. He looked harder, then withdrew a dog-eared magazine cutting from his coat pocket. The photograph on the page confirmed it. ‘Charlotte Jane’. He listened with intent.
In his clear, Wellington accent, Kelly gave the lawyer a concise report of the day's happenings, adding the fact that Kester appeared to be the prime suspect and listing the altercations of the previous two days that had led them to this conclusion. The lawyer nodded sagely.
“Are you prepared to deal with the possibility that the police may be right? That your young friend may well have killed this Daniel Gordon?”
“Yes” Kelly nodded. “Yes. I guess if we are going to be truly honest, I think we all believe he possibly did.”
“If he did, he's going to be in even more need of a good lawyer,” put in Mike. “He has a fairly extensive psychiatric history, he may have a reasonable defence.”
“Psychiatric history?” questioned the lawyer. "Are you telling me that this boy is in some way challenged?”
“No, not in the way you’re thinking. He's quite bright. He's a chronic depressive. The full-nine-yards suicidal bit. And he has been very stressed the last few days.”
“Hmm,” the lawyer pondered. “Is he likely to be coping with being in there?” He indicated the inner sanctums of the station.
“I doubt it,” Mike answered seriously. “He can't even go shopping by himself. And he wasn't coping this morning, even before we got here.”
“Then we'd best get him out, hadn't we,” the lawyer smiled. “You should all be aware, for your own sakes in this matter, the police cannot hold you if you do not wish to stay.”
“I thought they could keep you for up to twenty four hours, then they had to charge you if they wanted to keep you in any longer,” Jo said.
“That, young lady, is a fallacy engendered by too much oversees television. Under New Zealand law the police have no powers to hold you at all. It is all voluntary. You are free to walk out whenever you like. Although I will guarantee that your young friend doesn't know that. However, if you will just remain here, I will go and make further inquiries.”
The lawyer made his way towards the desk sergeant, leaving the others in the foyer. Jo gave Kelly a grateful hug.
“Thanks, Kelly. I'll never call you a yuppie again.”
Kelly laughed. “Even yuppies have their uses.”
“I suppose Kit will qualify for legal aid,” Mike mused. “He certainly can't afford a lawyer.”
“This affects the whole band. Why don't we pay for it out of tour profits,” Jo suggested.
“If there is a tour,” Mike reminded her.
“Forget the costs. It can come out of the Reynolds family Christmas liquor budget. God knows, we can afford it,” Kelly wrote off their objections.
“I'll help.”
The trio turned to see who had spoken. Keith stepped forwards, holding out his hand.
“I'm Keith Barrett. If that is Kester Simmons you are talking about, I'll help.”
“You know Kit?” Jo scrutinised the man carefully. He looked familiar but she couldn't place him.
“We haven't met officially. Let's just say I know of him, of you all. If there is a need for funds for legal expenses, I'll help. Here,” he fished a business card out of his pocket and thrust it towards Mike. “Any time.” He spun on his heel and walked out.
“Who the hell is he?” Mike puzzled.
Jo shrugged. “Who knows. A fan?”
Mike shrugged back.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The lawyer, Sattherwaite, returned to the foyer after what seemed an interminable length of time but which had, in fact, been just over half an hour. Following him, looking shell-shocked, shambled Kit, head bowed. He brightened at the sight of his fellow band members and rushed forwards to be folded into Mike's concerned embrace.
“Are you okay?” Mike asked gently.
Kit looked around wildly.
“Where's Avi?”
“We don't know, mate. We haven't seen him. Let's get you home and worry about Avi later.”
“Yeah, take me home.”
“If by that you mean Oxford Terrace, Kester, you can't go there, I'm afraid,” Sattherwaite interjected.
“Why not?”
“It's a murder inquiry scene, lad. It will be roped off. I'm afraid none of you will get back in there until the police clear the place.”
“But...”
“No buts, I'm sorry, son. If there is anything you desperately need, tell me and I will try and clear it with Rossiter. But please don't be silly enough to try and enter the place by yourself, any of you. Is there somewhere else you can stay in the meantime?”
“Yeah,” Mike assured. “He can come home with me. In fact, let's all go to my place. It will be a logical place for Avi to find us and I think we should all stay together for a while.” He turned to the lawyer. “Thanks for your help, Mr Sattherwaite. We're very grateful. Here, I'll give you one of my business cards so you know where we are.”
Sattherwaite studied the proffered card.
“I'm at your disposal should you need me, Mr...” he stumbled over the pronunciation of the name written before him.
“Kees-an-off-ski,” Mike supplied, grinning.
“Mr Kiesanowski,” Sattherwaite finished, offering his hand. “Kelly has my number. Good afternoon.”
“If we're all going to your place, how are we going to get there? Your car’s still at Kit’s.” asked Jo as the lawy
er left.
“Oh,” said Mike, who hadn't thought of that. “Hang on." He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and dialled rapidly.
“Sarah Kiesanowski, please,” he began when the call was answered. “It's her husband and, yes, it is urgent.” A pause in which he rolled his eyes in mock frustration. “Sarah, Mike. Can you knock off early and collect us? We're at the police station.”
“What?” the others heard Sarah's exclamation.
Mike gave his wife a quick explanation of the day's events and she responded with an agreement to collect them, but an apology that she had a client and couldn't be there for at least another half an hour. Mike stole a look at Kit and made a hurried decision.
“We'll start walking. If we go straight through the gardens, we can meet you at the Deans Avenue round-about. Okay?”
“Sure. See you there.” She rang off.
“Come on, you lot,” he said as he pocketed his phone. "We're hiking. Will you be okay, Kit?”
“Yeah. If it gets me the hell out of here, I'll be fine.”
“Then let's move it.”
“Can we find a dairy, or something?” Kit asked as they left the station.
“Why? Hungry?” Mike inquired.
“Nah. Need a cigarette.” He hunted in his jeans pockets. “Nah, forget it. I haven't got any money, anyway.”
“Don't worry, Kit. If you can last until we get home, there's a dairy on the corner. I'll shout you a packet. I hardly think today would be a good day to knock off.”
The walk to rendezvous with Sarah took the group through the Botanical Gardens, traversing the same paths Kit and Avi had meandered lazily over only two days before. Only this time Kit was in no mood to appreciate the sights and scents afforded by the carefully tended plots, or the pleasurable expanses of Hagley Park. When they reached the other side of the park they found Sarah waiting for them, posed on the grass with her baby in her arms, like a figure from a Pre-Raphaelite painting. As they approached, she rose, a vision swathed in flowing lilac, and walked towards them. Running ahead of her were two miniature versions of herself, yelling “Daddy, Daddy” and flinging their arms wide. Mike picked his daughters up one at a time, swinging them around giddily. The elder of the two then headed hopefully towards Kit.
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