A Killing Karma (7 page)

Scott
‘Mackenzie’ Johnson and Randy Matthews, his much younger lover, had said little
during Casey's last visit. Both were relative newcomers to the commune: Scott
had moved in first, with his partner, Randy, whom he had met some time after,
moving in only six months previously. Their failure to voice any opinion about
the deaths struck Casey as odd. Such deliberate low profiles might indicate
that they were intent on concealing something.

But then, he
realized they had said little during his previous visits either, though in
Randy's case at least, he hadn't been there for most of them, having only taken
up with Scott Johnson some six months earlier. He was the newcomer in an
established set-up and was probably still feeling his way.

It was around
lunchtime, just before Rachel was due to return from her therapeutic shopping
trip, when Catt rang.

‘I've just
learned the results of the two post-mortems,’ he told Casey. ‘Hang on to your
hat.’

‘Go on. It's
not as if I haven't been expecting the worst.’

‘That's all
right, then. So you're not going to be disappointed. Much as we expected, both
Kris Callender and DaisyMay Smith were murdered. Callender died from a blow to
the head with the proverbial blunt instrument. So did Ms Smith, for that
matter, though Callender didn't endure the assault she sustained before death.
As in Callender's case, the blows caused a cerebral haemorrhage.’

Although the
cause of death was the same in each case, which in such an enclosed location would
usually indicate the same murderer, the two killings were completely different
in other ways. As ThomCatt had said, the killing of poor DaisyMay had been a
far more brutal one. There had been real savagery there. Was it really possible
that one or more of the so-called peace-loving members of the commune could be
guilty of such violence? But, he told himself, of course they could. They were
an argumentative lot. It was but a small step from arguing to physical violence
as the many knife murders in modern society made clear.

‘So, what's
DCI Boxham's thinking on the case?’ Casey asked.

‘He's being
very cagey,’ Catt reported. ‘My source was able to tell me little of his boss's
thoughts. As to the plan, I gather that is to continue their questioning of the
commune members until one of them loses their nerve and blurts out the truth.
Apparently, the questioning has been pretty relentless since the investigation
began.’

Casey hadn't
expected anything else. He wondered how they were all standing up to it. He thought
Moon would hold up pretty well. He just wished he could say the same about his
father. Star would find such relentless questioning difficult, particularly as
he would be deprived of the several regular daytime naps he was used to and —
given his general inability to complete a sentence — was unlikely to be able to
answer most of the questions anyway, which would only incline DCI Boxham to
increase the pace still further. Casey stifled a worried sigh. ‘Thanks for
letting me know, Tom.’

'I just wish I
had better news for you. Still, look on the bright side, hey? They haven't yet
charged anyone with murder.’

‘True.’

But as he
thanked Tom again and put the phone down, Casey reflected that that was surely
likely to be only a matter of time.

Meanwhile, he
would badger his memory and carry on with noting down all that he knew about
each of the commune members. Firstly, it was clear that the commune
smallholding was far from being a latter-day Sunnybrook Farm. The discovery of
Callender's treachery over the sale of their limited and ill-cared-for produce
had clearly caused a lot of bad feeling. The Redferns, because of Madonna's
teenage pregnancy, all had reason to wish Callender ill, as, presumably,
judging from her caustic comments, did Kali, his wife. And to judge from what
Jethro Redfern had said, none of the rest of the commune had reason to love the
man either, though again, their dislike — hatred, even — of Callender didn't
explain Daisy May's murder. Her death was something of a conundrum. But
Callender's death at least was easily explained. In fostering hatred amongst
the rest it seemed probable he had brought about his own death. From the little
Moon had let escape and from what he had observed, it had become evident that
the commune was a hotbed of hatreds and partisanships rather than the Utopia of
popular imagination.

Young Jethro,
for one, apart from holding the adults in low esteem, had been vociferous in
his contempt for the dead man. Had that been simply the cry of outspoken and
foolish youth? Or was he canny enough to speak of his dislike of Callender as a
form of double bluff? Did he believe that his very outspokenness would render
the police — and Casey himself — less likely to consider him a major suspect?
It was possible; he was young enough to try such a bluff, unaware that the
police had plenty of experience of such tactics.

So far, Casey
had reduced the motives to three possibilities: that Callender had been killed
by one or more of the commune because they had found out about his thieving from
them; that either Kali Callender or one or more of the Redferns had killed him
for impregnating young Madonna; or that he had cheated another, as yet unknown
drug dealer, and had been on the receiving end of the usual reprisal, though in
this latter case, Casey was surprised that he hadn't been shot or knifed rather
than bludgeoned to death.

Three of the
commune members, Foxy and Jethro Redfern and Dylan Harper, had shown themselves
to have hasty tempers. Kali Callender struck him as the devious sort who would
seize her opportunity quietly and efficiently and most likely get away with it.

As for Scott
‘Mackenzie’ Johnson and Randy Matthews, Moon had implied they were both too wet
to bludgeon someone to death. Though that didn't mean they wouldn't do it if
sufficiently provoked. Maybe Callender had continually taunted them about their
homosexuality. In spite of his ‘right on’ membership of a hippie commune,
Callender, as the nastiest sort of red-blooded heterosexual male, struck Casey
as the type to goad pitilessly. Had he goaded the pair once too often? Scott
Johnson had seemed very protective of his much younger lover: had he struck out
in his defence?

Casey sighed,
because while he could ponder all he wished he was still powerless to effect an
arrest or even to check much out except at a discreet distance. It frustrated
him unendurably, a frustration increased all the more by Moon and Star's
hopeless attempts to recall the movements of the rest during the critical hours
before DaisyMay's body was found.

Because of all
this, the case looked like proving a long haul. But, as Casey heard the front
door bang, heralding Rachel's return from her shopping trip, he knew he had to
put the case aside for now. With the long hours he worked he had always striven
to keep his promises to her. And this afternoon he had promised her a trip to
one of the local stately homes. He had also promised her a picnic if the
weather was fine and one look out of the window told him the day was set fair.

For now, he
abandoned his notes and set to putting the food together. It didn't take long;
it was a simple meal of chicken, salad and French bread. He had made the salad
earlier and he had cooked the chicken the previous night.

Maybe time
away from thinking about the commune murders would help him come to the truth.

Rachel must
have glanced into the living room on her way through to the kitchen because she
said, ‘Not been working on the deaths at the commune all morning?’

'Just jotting
things down while my mind was fresh,’ Casey defended himself. ‘Everything's
ready for our day out.’ He picked up the picnic basket from the kitchen counter
and held it aloft as proof.

‘Let me have that
bread,’ she said, as she peered around him to the worktop where Casey had left
the heel of the loaf. ‘I’m starved.’

‘Too busy
spending to have a bite to eat?’ he teased. To judge from the quantity of
carrier bags, he wasn't far wrong.

'A girl has to
replenish her wardrobe, Will. It's a feminine necessity.’ She took the piece of
bread on which Casey had quickly spread a generous helping of butter and took a
large bite. She said nothing more till the bread was but a memory. 'Mmm, I was
ready for that. Are we all set?’

‘All set.’

‘Good. I'll
just go to the bathroom and we'll be off. And,’ she reminded him in case he had
forgotten her earlier instructions, ‘this afternoon is ”us” time. No wandering
off to thoughts of murder.’

'I hear and I
will obey, oh mistress.’ Since he had already promised he was hers for the
afternoon, he would have no compunction about relegating his parents and their
problems to the back of his mind. Maybe it would even be the best place for
them. It might, as he had earlier thought, throw up some possibilities which
his conscious mind hadn't thought of.

He opened the
front door as Rachel descended the stairs and he slammed it firmly behind them
and on any further anxious thoughts about the commune. Soon enough, the worry
thereof.

On the
following Monday, Casey and Rachel's short break came to an end. It was as
Casey was getting ready for work that Catt rang him to report there had been a
vicious killing on their home patch, so now, along with their unofficial
investigation, they had the long hours of an official one to contend with.
Casey had no idea how they were to cope with both.

And as he
hurriedly dried after his shower and threw his clothes on, Casey suspected that
things were about to get a whole lot more difficult. His return to work would
naturally severely curtail whatever time he had to continue with the shadow
investigation of the two commune deaths. And ThomCatt had been carrying out his
part of the inquiries after duty hours, which would be few enough now with this
latest murder.

Casey found a
moment to regret the loss of leisure hours. Such precious time had enabled him
to think. But now the demands of work would impinge. Not that he'd been
thinking with razor sharpness anyway since Moon had broken the news of the
commune deaths, though that was more down to lack of solid information than
lack of effort. And given his limited ability to contact his mother, as well as
his lack of contacts in the Boston area, he was heavily dependent on his
streetwise and frequently maverick sergeant. But, to be fair, so far, ThomCatt
had done a sterling ferreting job; much better, certainly, than he had been in
a position to do.

That was the
frustration, of course. Casey desperately needed to be able to do something.
Anything. But as he drove to the latest murder scene through the narrow streets
of the medieval centre of town that was the bane of modern-day motorists, past
the timber framing and over-hanging first floor jetties that shaded out most of
the light, Casey warned himself against such unwise desires. Following their
natural instincts was what had landed his parents in their current unfortunate
predicament, never mind a number of preceding ones. Was he now, after so many
years of trying to avoid following in his parents' foolhardy and irresponsible
footsteps, to start to backtrack in his determinedly opposing path? Such a move
would be foolhardy indeed.

The King's
Langley murder victim had been found half an hour before Casey returned to
work. It looked set to become an unpleasant case. Not only did the victim have
the knife wound to his groin, but his penis had been cut off and stuffed in his
mouth as a last hurrah.

And when,
shortly after, Casey stood at the scene, biting wind and rain painfully
slapping his trousers against his chilled legs, he had to force himself to
treat any weakening emotion as dispassionately as the wind treated his legs.
But, as a man, the manner of this victim's death cut to his soul, not to
mention cutting his masculinity to shreds.

The victim,
who looked to be around his late thirties, had certainly died an unpleasant,
lonely death if the wounds to his body and the body's location were indicative.
Dr Merriman, the pathologist, when he had finally arrived from his home twenty
miles distant, told Casey in his thin, unemotional voice, that the knife had
severed the femoral artery, causing the victim to lose a large quantity of
blood.

‘Doesn't look
like he was killed here,’ he added as he knelt beside the half-naked victim.
‘And though you'll have to wait for the post-mortem to get confirmation, I
think I can safely say he bled to death.’

Casey nodded.
But, like Dr Merriman, he wouldn't jump to hasty conclusions. The victim had
probably bled to death, possibly in the alley where he had been found, though
both the thoughts of Dr Merriman and the shortage of blood would seem to
indicate this was not the case — but as the doctor had remarked, the
post-mortem would confirm whether or not the body had been moved after death.

Casey found
himself wishing the victim had been found in a more pleasant location. Surrounded
by the fly-blown litter of takeaway cartons and used condoms, the alley was
altogether too squalid and depressing a place for anyone to die. Even though he
often, morbidly, contemplated his own death, Casey had never considered a death
like this one.