I was woken by a mumble of voices and the smell of bacon cooking. Bruno, looking fresh from a shower, his muscles highlighted by a clinging white t-shirt, was frying eggs. He looked across at me, flicking the habitually untidy lock of hair from his eyes, and I was suddenly hungry. Okay, for more than just breakfast but with the room full of police, breakfast was the only thing on the menu. Shame. With an embarrassed smile to the blue uniforms camped around the dining table, I unthreaded myself from the blanket and scuttled to the bedroom in search of clean clothes. I wanted a shower but I couldn’t work out how to do that without getting the bandages on my hands wet, so I settled for cleaning my teeth and trying to drag a brush through my hair. There were times when I was glad I hadn’t listened to Simon’s repeated demands to grow it long.
In clean clothes, including another of Maggie’s huge and bizarrely-coloured knitted jerseys that hung down almost to my knees, I followed the enticing smell of food back to the kitchen, accepting a plate from Bruno and squeezing into a space at the table between Harris and Gunna. In stark contrast to Bruno’s refreshed look, Harris and Gunna were bleary-eyed and still soot-covered from the woolshed fire. Behind me, daylight was beginning to seep around the edge of the curtains.
“Have you caught him yet?” I asked Harris.
“No, but we know where he is.” Harris rubbed the greying stubble of his unshaven chin. “Gunna, here, has already been out for a reconnoitre and says he’s holed up in the caravan, so we’re making plans to go and collect him. As you can see, I’ve mustered up a few extra bodies so he won’t get far if he tries to run.”
I nodded around a large piece of bacon that I had stuffed in my mouth, unable to cut it into smaller pieces as trying to eat gracefully was making my hands ache. While I chewed, Harris explained his plans to the three uniformed officers on the other side of the table, moving coffee cups and the salt shaker around the table to illustrate his speech. He let us finish our meal then looked at his watch, checked the daylight through the window and called us into action.
“Let’s get this bastard.”
Gunna took the lead, moving at speed over the paddock towards the lake. The rest of us fumbled along behind him, trying not to trip on the myriad of rabbit holes that littered the ground. As we approached his ancient caravan, Gunna stopped, raising an arm to warn us to do the same.
“This is where we split up,” he said. “Bruno, you and you,” he pointed to one of the constables, “fan out over to the right. You other two go left. Detective, you and I will sneak right up to the caravan door.”
“What about me?” I asked.
“Stay here.” Harris and Gunna said in unison. I followed them.
It should have been easy but Simon must have heard us approaching, so we were all still too far away when he burst out of the caravan door. At first he was running directly towards Bruno and the constable but as soon as they broke cover and ran towards him, he changed direction, bolting towards the lake. We all followed but Gunna stopped us when the ground underneath us changed from solid to swamp.
“He’s got nowhere to go now,” Gunna said. “He’s a city boy in city shoes, he’s not going to get very far. No use us all getting wet. Bruno and I know our way around these waters. You guys don’t and, with all due respect to your uniforms, I don’t want to have to rescue you guys too. We’ll sing out if we need help.”
Ahead of us I could see Simon floundering through the reeds, his impeccable Italian suit coat flapping behind him as he stumbled. Bruno and Gunna laughed as they waded after him, impervious to the wet in their gumboots and thick, woollen Swanndri jackets.
“You may as well give up and come back,” Harris yelled to the fleeing figure. “Don’t make things any worse than they are.”
I held my breath as Bruno and Gunna covered the ground fast, Gunna’s knowledge of the dry paths giving them a huge advantage over Simon who was thigh deep as he thrashed through the reeds. Suddenly Simon seemed to rise up as he found a patch of dry land. With a backwards glance at us, he ran forwards. In front of him I saw the reeds shake. Simon screamed.
He turned back, his face contorted in horror as a figure launched out of the reeds towards him. With his head low and his huge wings spread wide in anger, Herman the swan ran at Simon, honking his displeasure. Simon, terrified, tried to run but stumbled into the swamp, aided by Herman who flew onto his back, pushing him down into the water, his wings slapping as he drove his beak into Simon’s prostrate body.
From the safety of the lake’s edge we waited, our breaths held in anticipation, but Simon didn’t get up. Gunna motioned Bruno to stay then calmly approached the angry swan who responded to Gunna’s quiet voice and retreated to its nest. Gunna pulled Simon from the water and checked his pulse, then looked up at us and shook his head. Why didn’t I feel sad?
In fact, I felt no emotion at all as I watched Gunna and Bruno carry Simon’s body to dry land. I chose not to look at him, his usually neat hair plastered to his face, his suit sodden, not because it grieved me to see him, but because I realised that I didn’t care at all. If I felt anything, it was a sense of relief that, finally, that era of my life was over. There was nothing to tie me to Wellington now. I walked away, leaving him to the police. Bruno joined me, wrapping his arm tight around my shoulders as I left the past behind me.
Inside the comforting warmth of the house, Bruno drew me into his arms, his soft kiss becoming deeper and more passionate as I responded. Until I stopped and pushed him away.
“We can’t do this,” I sighed. “What about Amy?”
“Who? What?” Bruno shook his head in confusion.
“Amy. Your girlfriend. Remember her? The one who sends you texts asking where you are and when you’re coming home. That Amy.”
“Oh, no, no, Amy’s...” Bruno pulled his phone out of his pocket, hit an icon then rapidly typed some letters. “Here, I’ll show you.”
When he turned the screen towards me I saw a photo of six people, all dressed in white lab coats, posed outside the veterinary clinic. Bruno scrolled the screen and another photo filled it. A cheerful, round face smiled at the camera, laughing green eyes offset by a mass of unruly red curls.
“This is Amy,” Bruno smiled. “She’s married to a mechanic, has three children and does dog agility with the ugliest dog you’ve ever seen. She’s also the best vet nurse in the universe. Oh, and on Fridays she brings us cupcakes. Yes, she is always sending me grumpy texts, but that’s because I drive her nuts, never being where I am supposed to be. You’ll love Amy, we all do. Now, any other objections or can we try that kiss again?”
“Only one objection,” I answered, my heart dropping. “I have to go back to Wellington.”
“Why? Can’t you stay here? Do you really have to go back?” Before I could answer, he pulled me towards him and our kiss drowned out my objections.
This time we were interrupted by Gunna who burst through the door, rubbing his hands in glee, a wide smile accentuating the gaps in his teeth.
“Oops, sorry,” he said, shrugging an apology when he realised what he had interrupted. “Harris said to tell you he’s sending someone to get your statements, Andy, one for the woolshed fire and one about Simon.”
I laughed at Gunna’s obvious embarrassment, gave Bruno a quick peck on his cheek and moved to look out the window, Simon’s body was lying on the ground, two policemen standing beside it.
“What are they doing with him” I asked.
“Waiting for an ambulance to take him away.”
“What about Carlton?”
“Yeah, him too. They haven’t moved him yet. The firemen are still dampening the shed down. It’s still too hot. It’s gunna be a long day.”
Which it was. I gave my statements to the policewoman who had been part of the hunt for Simon, then let Bruno change the dressings on my hands for sterile dressings and clean bandages from his vet’s bag before he drove back to Mosgiel to attend to his work. An ambulance pulled into the drive and I watched out of t
he window while two medics zipped Simon into a black body bag, loaded him onto a gurney and took him away. Harris and his team came and went, using our kitchen as a temporary office, drinking our coffee and eating delicious scones that Gunna whipped up from Maggie’s hand-written recipe book.
I couldn’t settle. Bruno’s question, why did I have to go back to Wellington, rattled around in my brain, disturbing my concentration, unsettling my life. What did I have to go back to? A tiny apartment and a job I was sick of. What would I do if I didn’t go back? I couldn’t stay in this house that I had already started to think of as home. It wasn’t mine. Sadly, it wasn’t even Gunna’s, even though it should have been. I flopped despondently onto the couch and pulled Maggie’s file towards me.
“Gunna,” I got his attention and he sat down beside me. “I’m almost finished with Maggie’s stuff but I’ve got a problem. Technically, I should just sell everything but I think you need to go through this house first. There must be a few of Maggie’s things that you’d like to keep, so I’d like you to take anything you want and I will take them off the official chattels list. It’s not going to make much difference to the value; once the property is sold the wildlife trust is still going to inherit quite a substantial amount of money.”
“The wildlife trust?” Gunna’s head shot up. “What wildlife trust?”
“The one she left everything too,” I explained. I pulled a piece of paper out of the file and read out the name. “The Herman Swan Wildlife Trust. Didn’t you know that?”
“Herman Swan. Well, I’ll be buggered. Maggie, the old duck, she did it. She left it all to Herman Swan. I don’t believe it. It’s all mine. She left it to me after all.” Gunna leant back into the couch, shaking his head in disbelief. I looked at him, confused. “Herman Swan, get it?” Gunna said. “It was a joke.” He sat forwards, his voice serious. “It was Maggie’s idea. She founded a trust, named it after that big, old swan who just did for your ex. She donated the money from her book to it, then used the money to fight for local wildlife. But there are only two directors, Maggie and myself, so...”
“This house and everything in it now belongs to the trust, and you are the sole director of the trust, so you can keep the house and live in it and it doesn’t have to be sold,” I finished for him.
“Well, bugger that!” Gunna said.
We were still sitting, hunched together, sorting through papers when Jackson hobbled through the door, tail wagging furiously. I made space on the couch and helped him up, careful not to touch his injured leg, then went to hug Bruno while Gunna cuddled the dog who snuggled into Gunna’s lap. I pulled Bruno into the kitchen and explained about the trust and how Gunna was now the legal owner of the property.
“Which means I have no reason to stay here any longer.”
“Which means you have every reason to stay here and nothing to go back to Wellington for,” Bruno contradicted me.
“But I have no job here and nowhere to live,” I argued.
“Of course you do,” Gunna called from the couch. “The Herman Swan Wildlife Trust is a real thing. It gets real money. Maggie was the brains behind it. I can’t run it by myself. It’ll need a new director. Someone young, like you. Plus, this house is way too big for one old man. It’s huge. Plenty of room for us both. Anyway, Jackson needs you.”
I looked at three sets of eyes; Bruno’s sparkling with love, Gunna’s and Jackson’s doleful and pleading. I looked around the room, feeling again the comfortable sense of belonging that encompassed me whenever I was inside the house. I pulled my phone from my pocket and sent a text to my boss.
I quit.
I was too busy kissing Bruno to read her reply.
Other Books by J.L. O’Rourke
Power Ride
An Avi Livingstone Murder Mystery
Kester (Kit) Simmons, drummer with the rock band ‘Charlotte Jane’, was out of beat. He was stressed out, starving and he thought he was going crazy. Then, with less than two weeks to go before a national tour, Kit's precious drums and one of the band members are found slashed to pieces. The keyboard player, Avi Livingstone, is missing, Kit has no alibi and, to make matters worse, the police suspect him of dealing drugs.
Read an excerpt:
The weary-looking blond was not amused.
“Stop!” His shouted command cut through the sound pumping from the Marshall amplifiers, stopping his five fellow musicians in mid bar.
“Hold it!” The blond spun round to face the drummer.
“Kit, it's no bloody good, man. It's not bloody working. And it's not bloody good enough. What's with you, man? This is old hat! We've done it a million times, a dozen already today. You're always telling me you can do this number in your sleep; so sleep then, because today you sure as hell can't do it when you're awake!”
The man half-hidden behind the rack of shining black Tama drums moved both his sticks to his right hand, freeing his left to push a lock of long, sweat-dampened black hair back into place.
“I'm sorry,” he said softly. “It's just... I'm a bit... um... I'm just not very together.”
“We noticed.”
“Look, can we take a break? I don't feel so good.”
The blond shrugged and, as an answer, unstrapped his ageing Gibson guitar and propped it up onto a conveniently placed support stand.
“Why not? It certainly can't make this damned rehearsal go any worse.”
Kester Simmons pushed the unruly lock of hair back into place again then unthreaded his long, lean body from behind his drums.
“I really am sorry, Danny,” he sighed.
The blond replied with a savage glare.
“I don't want apologies, Kit, I want a drum beat. Damn it all, Kit, it just isn't good enough. We are hitting the road on tour in just over a week - ten days to be precise - and this rehearsal has been a complete bloody disaster!” Daniel Gordon was working himself into a mild frenzy.
Kester turned to walk away but Danny had wound himself up and continued his harangue.
“And another thing, Mr Simmons! If your ‘not feeling too good’ means what it usually does, you'd better get your act together and you had better do it damned fast. It's a long tour and we're not babysitting you through it this time. You had better be on deck all the bloody way!” His voice dropped to a malicious hiss. “Don't you forget for one minute, Kit, that we are running real close to not making this tour at all, and it's all your fault.”
“Hey, come on now!”
“That's below the belt!” The keyboard player and the rhythm guitarist leapt simultaneously to Kit's defence.
“That was below the belt and decidedly uncalled for,” the rhythm guitarist, Mike Kiesanowski, repeated himself. “We are slightly behind schedule because our bass player quit. That was not Kit's fault and we are getting mighty sick of you hassling him about it.”
“Huh!” Danny snorted in fury and stormed off towards the coffee-making facilities at the other end of the old converted carpenter's workshop the band used as a permanent rehearsal venue.
Without acknowledging Mike's spirited defence of him, Kit dropped his drumsticks into his gear bag and headed out the door into the garden which formed the surroundings for both the rehearsal room and Kit's own quaint little settler's cottage. Once outside he leaned his back against the wall, took a couple of deep breaths, ran both hands through his hair in a sign of despair then began a methodical but unsuccessful search of his pockets for a packet of cigarettes. Finding none, he muttered an unintelligible curse and slid down the wall into a sitting position. A few seconds later another figure flung itself down beside him and placed an arm around Kit's shoulders.
“You okay?”
Kit looked at the concerned expression behind the gold-rimmed glasses that framed the keyboard player's face and gave a wan smile.
“I'm not great, but I'll live.” His smile opened into the hopeful, innocent expression normally seen on spaniel pups. “Hey, you wouldn't have a spare cigarette by any chance?”
“Sorry, Kit, that's it. How come you're scavenging again anyway? Can't you afford your own?”
“Um... no,” Kit replied apologetically. “I'm broke.”
Avi sat back and his soulful brown eyes subjected Kit to a long, searching appraisal.
“Look, Kit,” he said eventually, “I know it's none of my business but was Danny's comment on the mark? I mean, you're broke already, and it's still early in the week, you say you're not feeling very well and, let's face it, your drumming's been half a beat off all morning.”
Avi let the comment hang in the air but Kit declined to answer, content to scuff the ground in front of him with the toe of his boot. Avi patted Kit gently on the shoulder.
“Come on, Kit, this is Avi. An honest answer, okay?”
Kit rounded on him, flicked Avi's hand away and snapped a reply.
“An honest answer? Oh yeah? And you're all going to believe me, just like that? I know what you all think. It doesn't matter what I say, you'll all believe whatever you damned well want to. And I suppose you'll be checking up on me with Gabriel behind my back.”
“Hey, come on, calm down.” Avi gently restrained Kit from getting up and leaving. “Calm down. I repeat, this is Avi you're talking to, not Danny, not Gabriel. I believe you. I always believe you. When have I ever not believed you? Come on, now, talk to me, what's wrong?”
“Sorry.” Kit slumped back against the wall. “Honest answer? I'm broke because my money's been cut back again and I can't manage, not that I ever could. Mum and Gabriel said I got behind on the power and phone bills, even though I was sure that I'd been keeping up, so they've taken power of attorney over my money again. Gabriel pays everything for me and gives me a pathetically small amount of pocket money, which leads me back to my original statement - I'm broke!”
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