Power Ride

by J. L. O'Rourke

  "I think Jo's right, Kelly,” Mike agreed. “I can't imagine Avi getting angry enough, even with Danny, to kill him.”

  “I can,” Kit said softly. “I've only ever seen him angry twice, but both times he beat the crap out of guys a lot bigger than himself.”

  “Do you think we should tell the police that he's missing?” Sarah suggested.

  “Tomorrow.” Mike wasn't prepared to believe the worst yet. “We'll give him until tomorrow.”

  “Kit,” Margaret Phillips changed the topic. “I have someone in the car I want you to meet. But only if you think you can handle it. Are you feeling okay?”

  “Yeah. Who?”

  “I'll go and get him. He can introduce himself.”

  As the psychiatrist made her way out the front door, Jo pulled Kelly roughly into the kitchen and hissed in his ear.

  “You're so keen on scenarios, try this one. How about Mike as the bad guy.”

  “Michael! Don't be ridiculous,” Kelly whispered back.

  “It's no more ridiculous than your suggestion that it was Avi,” Jo retorted. “And I might have evidence.”

  “What?”

  “Tuesday, after Mike had hit Danny in the face, Mike gave me a lift into town. When I left him he said something about hiring a hitman to cancel Danny's contract permanently. Then he told me not to tell anyone, not even to say that he'd given me a lift. And after all,” she finished righteously, “Mike was pretty quick to get us thinking Kit was guilty.”

  "Oh, come now! We are all thinking that. He was just the first to say it.”

  Jo's reply was halted by Dr Phillips who returned accompanied by a man who stepped forwards and shook Mike's hand.

  “Hi there,” he said in an accent with American overtones. “We meet again.”

  “You're Keith Barrett,” exclaimed Jo.

  “Yes and no,” replied the newcomer.

  “Look, at the risk of being rude, which I'm accused of frequently, who are you? You look familiar but I'm sure I've never met you before.”

  “That's quite all right, young lady,” the man replied “You haven't met me, at least not before today, but I can understand why I seem familiar. It's called family resemblance. My business card says Keith Barrett, but that's only half of it. Barrett's really my middle name. I haven't used my real surname for about twenty years. I'm Keith Simmons. I'm Kester's father.”

  Kit stared at him blankly.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The silence was tangible. Kit sat back in the couch and eyed his father evenly.

  “Then why the lies?”

  No-one spoke.

  “Why didn’t you say who you were from the beginning? Why go through all that crap about a furniture deal? Why pretend to be someone else?”

  Keith gave a snort of self-derision. He moved to sit beside his son.

  “Um...,” He bowed his head to the side and looked up with the same spaniel-like expression the others had come to expect from Kit. “I was nervous. It’s been a long time. I had no idea what you might think of me, whether you would even talk to me. The furniture deal's genuine, I assure you. My partner and I really do have a shop in Wellington. I wanted to tell you straight off who I was but I thought that you would either tell me to go to hell, or you would think that the deal was made out of charity and refuse it. I assure you it isn't.”

  “So instead of thinking it's charity, I think it's shonky,” Kit laughed. “Terrific!”

  “Shonky? Why did you think that?”

  “Some American guy I’ve never heard of asks me to make furniture that looks like antiques. I thought you were planning to sell replicas as real antiques and were getting me to make them because I was too broke and too crazy to complain.”

  “If your name's really Simmons,” broke in Jo, “how come your business cards say Barrett? Surely you didn't have them specially printed just to impress Kit?”

  “No,” Keith flashed her a wide smile. “I haven't used Simmons for twenty three years. Not since I left New Zealand.”

  “Why did you leave?” Kit asked directly. “Was I that much of a disappointment?”

  Keith reached forwards tentatively to touch his son.

  “Don't ever think that. On the contrary, I was inordinately proud of you. My only son. It was the situation that became intolerable. It had nothing to do with you.”

  “I'm not your only son. Remember Gabriel?”

  Keith took a deep breath before explaining.

  “Gabriel isn't mine. I met your mother at university. She was a first year, reading classics. I was in my final year of a maths degree, heading for a career as a teacher. We met through a flatmate of mine. Believe it or not, we never dated. Looking back, I'm not even sure if we ever really even liked each other.” He looked at Kit's puzzled expression.

  “It was a marriage of convenience,” he continued. “Catherine had an affair with a junior lecturer and found herself pregnant. He didn't want to know, hadn't bothered to tell her about the wife and kid he already had and wasn't about to throw away a promising career for a daffy fresher. So she was pregnant and desperate. And I guess I was desperate in my own way.” He turned to Margaret Phillips beseechingly and received a nod of approval in return.

  “I had been aware for some time that I was gay. But, please remember, this was over twenty years ago, things were different. I wanted to be a teacher. It's probably hard enough now to teach if you're gay, it was impossible then. I needed some respectability. Catherine offered it. We got married, It was a disaster from the start and after Gabriel was born it got progressively worse. We toughed it out because in those days you didn't get divorced very easily. At times we even tried to make it work. It was in one of those times that you were conceived, Kester. I thought you were fantastic from the moment you were born. You looked like me, even as a baby. You were all black hair and long legs. Not like Gabriel. He was so like his mother.”

  “He still is,” Kit supplied. “What made you leave?”

  “Bobby. You were about six months old and the marriage had become a battleground. Catherine screamed and yelled and threw things and I didn't speak at all. I spent most of my time out at the jazz club. That's where I met Bobby. I was playing saxophone in a five-piece and he joined us one night on trumpet. A month later I chucked in my job and we lit out. We've spent the last twenty three years playing jazz in New Orleans.”

  “Choice!” Jo's admiration was unfeigned.

  “We came back to New Zealand last year,” Keith finished. “I've been planning this meeting since then.”

  Brian Rossiter was searching for drugs. Or, more specifically, evidence that Simmons had been up to his old tricks - selling drugs. He was sure he would find it, even if he had to turn the whole house upside down. The young constable at the gate had been surprised to see him.

  “Working late, Sir,” he had inquired cheerfully.

  “No rest for the wicked,” Rossiter had replied.

  He had let himself into the cottage with a set of duplicate keys that had been supplied by an obliging locksmith earlier in the day. As he had switched on the lights he had shared John Matheson's earlier surprise at the place's pristine neatness. Barely a thing out of place. At least, there hadn't been when he had started searching.

  Now in the bedroom the contents of the drawers had been tipped out into a huge pile on the floor, the drawers themselves dumped unceremoniously in a heap in one corner. The meagre contents of the wardrobe had quickly heightened the pile after each had been subjected to a pocket by pocket search.

  Rossiter's attention had then moved to the lounge. His own love of fine china had forestalled a similarly irreverent hunt but he had been no less thorough. So far it had been a fruitless exercise. A likely looking pile of correspondence contained nothing but catalogues and order forms from mail order modelling supply shops. A cryptic note scrawled on the edge of an old envelope proved to be nothing more than a reference to Israeli army tank markings and the only available evidence of substance abus
e was a used tube of plastic glue. Rossiter was frustrated. He moved to the fireplace to light himself a cigarette. As he bent to discard the used match, he paused, his attention riveted on an article that lay on the hearth.

  “What the hell...?”

  He knelt, carefully picking up the mutilated photograph. A brief search located the photo's missing piece, still impaled on the mantelpiece by a modelling knife. Rossiter pondered. Was the photo cut and left as a warning to Simmons? Or was the boy inflicting some sort of self-mutilation-by-proxy? It was another piece to the ever-widening jigsaw.

  Rossiter straightened, drawing deeply on his cigarette. His eyes scanned the room. Somewhere he would find the answer. But where? It was all so neat. But there must be a clue somewhere. His gaze fell on the piece of paper that lay, out of place amongst the neatness, dropped casually on the kitchen bench. He rushed to pick it up, his face breaking into a wide smile as he read its contents.

  “Gotcha!” he exclaimed gleefully as he folded the fax into his pocket.

  From the safety of the Barbadoes Street cemetery, Cassandra Oakleigh watched the policeman come and go. She knew what was happening. Finding out had been easy. After her precious Kit had been led away earlier in the day, she had simply strolled across and joined in the groups of spectators who had clustered around, aimlessly watching the action. The man at the bread shop had been a mine of information. Mind you, he always was. She got a lot of her information on the band from the man at the bread shop. They told him and he told her. Simple.

  She wrapped her denim jacket tighter around her body. It was cold in the cemetery at night but she had become accustomed to it long ago. By now she knew exactly which way the wind blew and exactly which headstones offered protection from it without obscuring her view of the little house across the river. Cassandra watched the policeman leave. She could go over soon and have a look around herself. Maybe she could tidy up a bit. Make it nice for Kester when he got home again. He'd like that.

  Keith Barrett-Simmons reached gratefully for the coffee Sarah had provided.

  “Like I said, Kester,” he said in an effort to reaffirm his motivation. “I did my best.”

  “Yeah, sure.” Kit was not prepared to let his father off the hook that easily. “Leaving me with a mother who hated me and 'litting out', as you put it, was doing your best.”

  “Believe me, it didn't come easy. At first I tried to take you with me. I got a lawyer to fight for custody but, like I said, this was twenty three years ago. Courts just didn't give custody to fathers. It was considered the proper thing to do to leave the child with its mother, no matter what the circumstances. Even the best father in the world had little chance. There was no way the courts would give a baby to a gay saxophone player with a boyfriend in tow.”

  “I guess not,” Kit conceded grudgingly.

  “I had swags of legal advice, I'll show you the files one day. In the end they convinced me to let things lie. I believed them. I see now that it was a wrong decision, but I'm very good at taking steps for what seems all the right reasons, only to discover later that I've stuffed up markedly.”

  “Do I get that from you. Mum said I was just naturally stupid.”

  “I suspect you are far too like me. That may well be the cause of your mother's dislike. She despised me before I left and loathed me afterwards. I guess she took it out on you. And all I could do was throw money.”

  Kit knitted his brow.

  “To Mum?”

  “Yes, by court order. But I knew you'd see precious little of that, so I fed another lot to you, by way of my parents. Dad said he was going to save it for your education.”

  Kit laughed openly.

  “He did, in a strange sort of a way. My education went down the tubes in the fourth form. My education fund went to buy drum lessons and then my drums. I always wondered where Granddad got that sort of money, especially after buying me the van when he stopped driving.” He stopped suddenly as the memory of the day's events washed back. “Oh, God, my drums. They're slashed to pieces!”

  Keith sought to steer the conversation in another direction.

  “Don't worry. Better the drums than you. Drums can be fixed. Tell me more about yourself. Margaret tells me you have a very caring partner, a young lad from your band. Am I going to get an introduction?” He looked inquiringly in Kelly's direction.

  “Don't look at me,” Kelly laughed, rising and coming forwards to shake Keith's hand. “I'm Kelly and I'm straight.”

  In a rush of embarrassment, Kit effected overdue introductions and then added,

  “Avi's missing. He left my place this morning, before I was awake, and he hasn't been seen since. We were talking about it when you arrived.” He neglected to explain that their relationship was not as close as his father had suggested.

  “In fact,” Kelly added, “We were discussing the likelihood of Avrahim being either a second victim, or the perpetrator of the crime.”

  “Kelly!” Jo and Sarah exclaimed together.

  “For heaven's sake, Kelly!” Jo continued. “Haven't you got a grain of tact? Can't you see Kit is worried enough?”

  Rossiter studied the exterior of the Riccarton property. He checked through a pile of notes on his lap. The statement said Michael Vivian Stanislaus Kiesanowski. Rossiter squinted through the gloom of the street light at a discreet sign affixed to the front fence. ‘Key Engineering Consultancy. M.V.S. Kiesanowski M.E.’ Must be the right place. He studied the house again. Obviously the Kiesanowskis were not broke. It was a good area and theirs was an expensive-looking dwelling; permanent materials, cream summerhill stone under a tile roof, wrought iron gates across a slate-paved driveway.

  “I bet there's a pool and a barbeque out the back,” Rossiter thought wryly. He would have won the bet. There was.

  Stuffing the notes back into a cardboard folder, Rossiter unfolded himself from his car and locked it behind him. Adjusting his tie, he made his way to the front door and rang the bell. It was answered in short order by Mike who looked anything but pleased at the policeman's presence.

  “What do you want?” he demanded.

  “I want to talk to Simmons. May I come in?”

  Mike hesitated then grudgingly instructed him to follow. Rossiter trailed after Mike to where the others were seated. Kit stiffened at the policeman's arrival.

  “What the hell does he want?” The question was directed to Mike.

  “He wants to talk to you,” Mike supplied.

  “Well I don't want to talk to him.”

  “I have a couple more questions, Simmons,” Rossiter tried the calm approach. “It won't take long.”

  “I don't care. I'm not answering anything.”

  “We can talk here or we can talk at the station, take your pick.”

  “Go to hell! I don't have to talk to you at all. The lawyer said so. You can't make me. Go to hell!”

  “Maybe it would be better to answer his questions,” Keith suggested. “If you're not guilty, you've got nothing to worry about. Surely you want them to catch whoever killed Danny?”

  “I don't care who killed Danny!” Kit was shouting. “And I don't care if they never catch him. Good on him. Danny got what he deserved. I'm glad he's dead. And I'm not talking to you. Go to hell!”

  Rossiter shrugged.

  “This is not a good attitude, Simmons,” he persisted.

  “Forget it,” Mike ushered him towards the door. “He's right. Sattherwaite said we don't have to talk to you so if Kit says no, unless you’ve got a warrant for his arrest, you'll just have to leave. Good night, Inspector.”

  Rossiter went reluctantly.

  “You can take that attitude if you like, Simmons," he called back over his shoulder, “but I can wait. I'll be back.”

  “I just want to go home,” Kit sighed as the policeman departed.

  “I don't blame you,” Keith again tried to lighten the atmosphere. “You've kept the place very nicely.”

  “You've been there?”


  “Yes. I went there this morning, expecting to hold a business meeting about furniture, remember? I didn't get inside. I was turned away by the police at the gate. But I did think it looked just the way Mum had it.”

  “I've tried to keep it that way, yeah,” Kit admitted. “It's a lot of work, though, all that garden.”

  “You'll be glad to sell off the back then.”

  “No way! I'm not selling any of it.”

  Keith looked abashed at his son's determined answer.

  “Sorry, I must have it wrong. I stopped at a little bakery near your place. The little man behind the counter was raving on about some supermarket that was going up in the area. He conned me into signing a petition to protest against it. The article with the petition said all the properties needed for it had been sold and I thought the map covered the back of your place. So I figured you must be sub-dividing.”

  “No way!” Kit repeated. “They offered, several times. I told them where to stick it. If you'd looked carefully you would see my signature right at the top of the petition.”

  “Okay, okay,” Keith spread his hands in a placatory gesture. “I'm sorry I spoke. I'm glad you feel that way though. It's a lovely old house. I don't suppose that old tree house is still down the back?”

  “No, Granddad cut the tree down about nine years ago.” Kit looked shamefaced. “I tried to hang myself from it.”

  Cassandra Oakleigh ducked down behind the tree stump and waited. It had been harder than usual to get onto Kester's property. She couldn't just slide quietly down the drive as she normally did. It had instead meant taking a tortuous route over several back fences. Now she was in she hid for while, to make sure she hadn't been spotted as well as to catch her breath. She waited, eyes darting, body alert. When nothing challenged her presence she made a cautious move forwards. A twig snapped beneath her Doc Martin boot. Ahead of her a small figure darted out from between rows of vegetables. Cassandra jumped, a cry of alarm frozen on her lips. The cat glared at her balefully. She giggled with relief. Another few strides took her safely to the rear of the laundry where she deftly removed the louvres from the small window and hauled herself inside. She pulled a small penlight torch out of her pocket, shielding it with her hand to keep the light from showing out the front windows as she carefully edged her way through the darkened house. She could smell the policeman's distinctive tobacco.