“He has been seen Sir, yes,” the sergeant answered, speaking slowly as he riffled through his notes. “Ah, I have his report here, Sir.”
The brief typed report was passed through the hands of several court officials as it made its way to the magistrate's bench. Sattherwaite leaned forwards and demanded his copy. The magistrate perused it rapidly.
“Does this man have counsel?” he asked, looking up.
“Yes, your Honour,” replied Sattherwaite. “I have been so instructed.”
“Ah, Mr Sattherwaite,” the magistrate acknowledged. “Do you have any submissions on this matter?”
“Yes, Sir, I do,” the lawyer stepped forwards grandly, straightening the lapels of his neat, grey suit in a habitual gesture. “It is my belief that the police are seeking a remand on this matter and will be opposing bail. I concur with the remand and submit that we will be entering a plea of ‘not guilty’ to all charges. However, on the matter of bail I would ask that the Court allows a submission from my client's psychiatrist, who is present in court. I believe her information on my client's medical history will explain several of the inconsistencies in the report you have just received.”
Sattherwaite then passed through the system of officials a hand-written document, longer than the prison doctor's, which he and Margaret Phillips had hurriedly prepared during a brief discussion in the courthouse foyer. The magistrate re-read both documents unhurriedly. He turned to the prosecuting sergeant.
“Would the police have any objections to a remand to Sunnyside?”
“No, Sir.”
“Very well. I think it could be the best thing under the circumstances.” He picked up his gavel. “Kester Joseph Simmons, you are remanded to appear again in two weeks' time, date to be confirmed by the registrar. Bail is declined. You will be remanded in custody to Sunnyside Hospital for a psychiatric report.” He slammed the gavel down.
Kit, still unaware of his surroundings, was led away.
“Oh, God, poor Kit,” Sarah exclaimed as they re-assembled outside the courtroom. “He looks so sick.”
“I want to know what they've done to him,” Keith muttered angrily.
“Probably nothing,” Margaret reassured him. “I suspected this might happen. Kit's view of the world is fairly fragile,” she explained. “It doesn't take much to have it crash around him. Look, you people go home, there's nothing more you can do here. I'm going to try and stay with Kit. At least I can be at Sunnyside when he's brought in. I'll keep you posted,” she promised as she left.
“Going to give me that exclusive comment now?” Nick Bennett inquired jauntily as he appeared from the courtroom.
Mike ran a hand despairingly through his long hair.
“Seriously? Okay, we're shocked and stunned. Oh, Nick it's bloody awful. What the hell do we do now?”
“Pass on a message for a start,” Rossiter's voice broke in from behind. Mike turned.
“Tell that other musician buddy of yours I want to speak to him,” Rossiter continued.
“Which other musician buddy? I have lots.”
“Don't get smart. Your piano player. I want a word with him.”
“So do we. He's missing.”
“What?” both Rossiter and Bennett exclaimed in unison.
“Avi Livingstone is missing,” Mike explained slowly. “None of us have seen him or heard from him since Thursday night, although Kit reckons he didn't leave him until yesterday morning. Said he was going home to change his clothes and hasn't been seen since.”
“Hell!” Nick Bennett exclaimed. He hurried off, writing copy in his head as he ran.
At the gymnasium Danny’s death was the main topic of conversation. In one corner a group of leotard-clad girls gossiped and cried while in another corner muscle-bound men took bets on who would win the national championship now Danny was out of the running. In the middle of the room a young man lifted weights and smiled to himself.
Cassandra Oakleigh had been thinking. The radio had announced Kester Simmons's arrest. He'd been sent to Sunnyside. That meant they thought he was crazy as well as guilty, even though the radio had broadcast an interview with some lawyer who'd insisted that Kester was pleading innocent, at least to the charge of murder. But Cassandra had no intention of letting them keep her Kester locked up. So she had been thinking.
After all, she knew something they didn't. She had watched him. Oh yeah, she knew who he was. She had seen him lots of times. She knew everyone who came to the little house. And where they went. She would have to be careful, though. It wasn't as if he would know who she was. He hadn't seen her. But he might want to know what she was doing so she would have to be very careful. Still, anything that helped Kester was a good thing so the danger didn't matter. It never occurred to her that this man had just killed and might be prepared to kill again.
Getting over to his house wasn’t the difficult part. It was on the other side of town but the Orbiter bus was running so she could use it to get there and back. She prepared well, changing into black jeans and a black sweat shirt, stopping to admire herself in the mirror and to think how much Kester would admire her in black, then tying up her hair and hiding its striking red colour under a black woollen beanie.
At the bus stop she hopped anxiously from one foot to another, waiting for the bus which seemed to take much longer than usual to arrive. The driver punched her concession ticket without looking at her and she slunk unnoticed onto a seat at the back of the near-empty bus. Only two other passengers came and went before she reached a stop that she knew was only three blocks from her objective. The bus driver didn’t acknowledge her as she alighted through the back door and walked purposefully away.
As she approached her destination she paused, suddenly doubting her ability to carry out her mission. What if she was caught? What would she say? How would she get away? Further down the road she spotted a small park with some children’s play equipment. Determinedly keeping a steady pace, she walked right on past her destination to the park and sank heavily onto a swing, breathing hard.
She knew she had come too far to fail. Kester depended on her. There were two cars in the driveway as she had walked past so she would have to be at her most alert. Cassandra was very experienced at breaking and entering and knew exactly how to walk silently through houses while the inhabitants either slept soundly in their beds or worked in the kitchen as she moved. Most houses weren’t as easy to break into as Kester’s but most houses had better things to take. Things she could sell, or wear, or eat. She pulled herself off the swing and retraced her steps back down the street.
In reality, the action was easier than she expected. She had to be very careful, but it was fairly easy to slip into the toilet and hide until the coast was clear. She could hear a child complaining then a woman’s voice answering, but they were in a room at the other end of the passage. She waited a moment longer then slipped quietly down the passage into the room she knew was his office. The filing cabinet in the corner was locked but the desk drawers weren't. She found the papers in the bottom drawer, in a large red folder. She didn't take them all, he might notice that. Just the important ones. The ones with Kester Simmons's name on them. And the big diagram.
Back outside, she thought again. Now she had the papers, what should she do with them. She couldn't take them to the police. They would want to know how she got them and she couldn't tell them that. Cassandra paused under a large tree and thought harder. Then she took off at a run. The answer was obvious.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The hospital corridors were already buzzing with the day's activities when Elizabeth arrived. She found her son sitting up in bed, attempting to grin through the livid bruised swelling that made up most of his face.
“I'm sorry I'm a bit late, dear,” Elizabeth began, stooping to kiss her son carefully on the cheek. “I slept in.”
“Hey, it's okay. You're entitled. I'm just waiting for the doctor. I believe they're going to let me out.”
“I thoug
ht they might. I brought you some clean clothes.” She placed an overnight bag on the end of his bed. Avi checked the contents then looked at his mother incredulously.
“How did you get these? Did you go back home?”
“No,” his mother shook her head, laughing lightly. “I'm not that stupid.” Her tone darkened. “All that time when you were shut in that hell hole yesterday and your father was sitting in his armchair demanding to be fed, I managed to sneak a few things into your car. Not much, some clothes, your passport, your glasses,” she grinned conspiratorially, “your keyboard.”
“My keyboard?” Avi was all admiration. “You got my keyboard? Mum, you're wonderful!”
“Well,” she shrugged. “I know you keep one over where you practise, but you saved hard for that one. It's got a nice tone.”
Avi laughed and gave his mother a one-handed hug. She knew him well.
“I don't disapprove,” she said, pulling away. “Of you and, ah, Kester,” She spoke hesitantly. “I don't understand, but I don't disapprove. It's your life. You've always been a sensible boy. If you've really thought about this and it's the right thing for you, then how could I disapprove. I want you to be happy. You have thought about it, haven't you?”
“Mum, Dad had it all wrong. I'm not gay. Kit is, we both know that, but I'm not. We really are just good friends. Sure, I've thought about it. Hey, I'll even admit we've tried, you know, getting it together. Kit wanted it. But it wasn't my thing and we decided we had been friends too long ever to make good lovers.” He gave her a lop-sided smile. “We've slept together twice, that's all.” He shrugged resignedly. “You never know though, it might have worked if I'd been that way inclined. After all we've known each other eighteen years and we haven't had a serious argument yet. That's got to count for something.”
His mother didn't smile back. Rubbing her hands together thoughtfully, she looked him in the eye.
“Avrahim,” she said quietly. “You're very like your father in some ways. You like to be in control of things. I think your Kester is like me, the submissive type. He won't argue.” She leant forwards and grasped Avi's good hand. “You've got a lot of control over that young man. Don't abuse it.”
“Never, Mum. Never.”
Two nurses rattled a trolley through the door.
“Isn't it awful about ‘Charlotte Jane’,” Avi heard one of them say.
“Yeah. Just before a tour, too. I had tickets.”
“I was listening to the radio before. Did you know they've arrested the drummer.”
Avi could contain himself no longer.
“Excuse me,” he called out. “What about ‘Charlotte Jane’?”
“The lead singer's been killed,” the first nurse supplied.
“Yeah, and the drummer's been arrested,” added the second. “It's all in the paper.”
She fished a ‘Press’ from the trolley's shelf and passed it to Avi. The headlines glared at him from the front page - the main story, by-lined Dominic Bennett, accompanied by a quarter-page coloured picture of Danny's body being carried out on a stretcher. Avi read the article in silence and turned to his mother.
“I've got to get out of here. Right now.” He called to the nurses, “How do I sign myself out of here?”
The first nurse walked calmly over to his bed.
“I believe you're going to be discharged as soon as the doctor has seen you.”
“I don't give a toss about the doctor,” Avi snapped. “I want to go now.”
“What's the problem?”
“This!” Avi pointed to the newspaper. “I've got to go.”
He hauled himself out of bed and began to draw the curtains around it so he could get dressed. His mother stepped outside, drew the nurse with her and explained rapidly. The nurse nodded her understanding and dashed off to find somebody more official.
Fifteen minutes later they were outside the hospital. Elizabeth surveyed her son, pale beneath the bruising and swaying slightly, and wondered if she should have insisted he stay. It would have been futile. Resigned, she unlocked the car, coaxed it into starting and pulled out of the grounds into the heavy Riccarton Avenue traffic.
“Where to?”
“Kit's.”
“How do we get there. I'm not used to this side of town. You navigate, I'll drive.”
“Oh, what a pretty little place,” Elizabeth exclaimed as they drew up outside the Avon Loop cottage. “It's so quaint.”
Avi leapt from the car, only to be stopped by a policeman. They exchanged a few words and Avi climbed back into the passenger's seat, muttering darkly.
“There's nobody here,” he explained. “It's sealed off. Let's try Mike's.”
“Just point the way.”
The journey from the Avon Loop to Riccarton traversed half of the city, down some of its busiest roads. Elizabeth was becoming a proficient city driver very quickly.
“This is a bit naughty, really,” she commented, deftly swinging the car across lanes.
“What?”
“Driving on a Saturday. Your father would never approve.”
“So who's asking him? Anyway, saving life overrides all rules.”
“Whose life? It's too late for Danny.”
“Kit's,” Avi answered flatly.
The Riccarton address was empty. Avi thumped his good hand hard onto his car bonnet in frustration, then winced as the action sent a wave of pain through his body.
“Take it easy,” his mother called from the driver's seat. “We'll find them. Joanna's, maybe?”
“Nah! Unlikely. Anyway, they'll all be at Chapel.” He sighed. “Bennett!” he exclaimed, climbing back into the car. “Nick Bennett. We'll try him. At least he might know what's going on. Press building, Cathedral Square.”
With a shrug of resignation, Elizabeth began the reverse journey.
“We should have foreseen this with your father,” she said as she drove. “You should have got out years ago.”
“And left you to face the consequences? I couldn't.”
“Oh, Avrahim,” she laughed sadly. “I only stayed for you. We should have talked.”
“Nick's not back yet,” the girl said, checking her watch. “He shouldn't be long.” She studied Avi's wounded face. “Tell you what, wait here. I'll bring you a coffee.”
Avi and Elizabeth sank into the proffered chairs, gratefully accepting the foam cups presented by the young reporter. They didn't have to wait long. Before the coffee was cool enough to drink a whirlwind of energy exploded into the newsroom. Nick stopped in his tracks at the sight of his school friend.
“Avrahim! Everybody's looking for you!”
“Yeah, I thought they might be. I'm looking for them. What the hell's going on?”
“Start by telling me where you've been,” Nick demanded, settling himself beside them and helping himself to Avi's coffee.
Avi rescued his coffee and explained, listening in turn to Nick's record of events.
“So,” Nick concluded, “I've just come steaming down here with this amazing scoop about the missing Avrahim and he's camped in my office. The others have headed back to Mike's place. They should be there soon.”
“They can wait. I'm more concerned with Kit. He didn't kill Danny Gordon. I know he didn't. Damn it, I was with him all night.”
“Then let's start with Rossiter.” Nick reached for a phone and dialled the police number from memory. “Inspector Rossiter,” he began as he was finally connected, “Nick Bennett.”
“I don't have any more information for you,” Rossiter snarled into the receiver.
“Maybe not,” Nick responded cheerfully, “but I have some for you.”
Brian Rossiter put down the receiver and scowled at the constable who stood quietly waiting.
“So what have you got there?” the inspector demanded.
“A report that came in on Thursday, Sir,” Rikki Merata replied. “It's relevant to the ‘Charlotte Jane’ thing.”
Rossiter scanned the pages.
/> “Why didn't I see this before?” he demanded.
“I don't know, Sir. I've just come back on duty. I didn't hear about Danny Gordon until this morning. I've been in Amberley cooking mussels with my cousin who has a racehorse,” he finished lamely.
Margaret Phillips met Avi in a corridor of Sunnyside Hospital, taking in his appearance without comment.
“Rossiter has cleared everything,” she began. “The murder charge has been dropped and they've agreed to bail on the possession one. Keith has sorted that. But I don't know if he can go home, Avi. He's just not responding. Even I can't get through.”
She led Avi into a small, pleasantly decorated room.
“He just sits and rocks. He doesn't even know we're here. I've tried everything, but...,” she shrugged.
“Let me try,” Avi smiled lopsidedly.
Avi pulled a chair directly in front of the one on which Kit was rocking compulsively. Carefully manoeuvring his broken hand, Avi put his arms around Kit till he held him tight and began to rock in synchronisation. Imperceptibly, he changed the rhythm of the rocking to a more gentle pace. He could feel Kit relaxing in his arms until, finally, the drummer came to his senses, recognised his friend, tightened his grip and buried his face in Avi's neck. Avi looked up and winked at the psychiatrist.
“We're going home,” he said quietly.
“I still don't know how you did that,” Margaret asked admiringly.
“Piece of cake,” Avi replied smugly, settling back on Mike's couch. “You just have to remember Kit isn't human, he's a walking drum kit, he does everything to a drum beat. I've even seen him tap out a cigarette in a swing rhythm.”
Keith laughed. Avi continued.
“So it was simple. All I did was reprogram the beat. The brain was bound to notice sooner or later.”
“If neither of you two killed Danny, who did?” Jo interjected over the laughter.
“I don't know, but I might have heard them,” said Avi. “About ten I heard footsteps. I thought it might be whoever had been bugging Kit, so I got up to check. All I got for my trouble was an obscene ear bashing from Danny who had obviously come back to fix the amp, although I reckon he was pretty drunk. About an hour later, Kit was asleep, I heard more footsteps. I assumed it was Danny leaving. I didn't need another shouting match, so I ignored it. If Danny didn't leave, it must have been whoever killed him. I wish I'd looked now.”
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