Bleak Spring (10 page)

Junor went out of the room and the two detectives and Palady sat watching and smiling at each other. The room showed its colonial heritage. The metal ceiling pictured cream Aborigines hiding among cream English trees; the half-panelled walls were of cedar no longer available. Colonial prints hung on the
regency-
striped upper halves of the walls: ships at anchor in Sydney Cove, St. Philip's Church, the original still standing just up the street from this house. There were no prints of Kuwait or Abadan or Curaçao.

Junor came back, smiling apologetically. “I'm afraid I could not raise him. No answer.”

“Keep trying, Mr. Junor. I'll leave you my card. In the meantime we want Mr. Rockne's account frozen.”

“Oh, no trouble at all there. Frozen it is, as of now. But we'll need a piece of paper, a court order or something. Will there by any claimants?”

“I'm sure there will be. If not his family, then someone else. Five and a quarter million isn't usually left in limbo, is it?”

“There is no limbo in a bank,” said Palady, the smile still at work. A feline smile, Malone thought, and wondered if he had ever seen a Persian cat smile. Cheshire cats were said to smile, but Palady came from further east than there.

“We'll get a court order and I'll send someone here to look at the account. I take it that the five and a quarter million wasn't all in one deposit? And you'll be able to trace where the cheques came from?”

Neither Junor nor Palady looked at each other; but the current that passed between them was palpable. Palady said, “That may be something that Mr. Rockne wouldn't have wanted.”

“I'm afraid it's too late to ask him. In the meantime keep trying with the man who recommended him to you. It was a man?”

Junor's smile was the sort he would have given a referee who had just awarded a penalty against him, right in front of the goalposts. “Yes. Yes, it was a man. We don't deal very much with the ladies. They don't appear to have the money, not in this country.”

“They're working on it,” said Malone, whose wife was continually working on him.

Outside in the bright sunshine the two detectives exchanged glances that said they had both arrived at the same conclusion: Shahriver Credit International, for all the dignified façade behind which it hid, had darker secrets than most banks. Clements said, “I don't think I'd deposit pocket money with them.”

The
Harbour Bridge towered above them like a grey rainbow; Malone waited till a train had rumbled across it, taking its sound with it. “Do you think their client who recommended Rockne could be Bernie Bezrow?”

“I'd put money on it.”

“Take John Kagal off whatever he's on and put him on this. He's thorough and he's quick. Get him to check on that joint account withdrawal.”

Clements nodded. “Where do we go from here?”

“We go back and see Olive. We'll see what she has to say about no sound of a shot. And we'll see how she reacts when we tell her we've frozen that five and a quarter million.”

3

I

JASON OPENED
the front door. “Hello, Pa. We wondered if you'd come.”

“Sugar and I thought we'd better.”

Though George Rockne was a good six inches shorter than his son had been, the resemblance was clear: he had the same bony face, though it was more weatherbeaten and the lines were deeper, the same aggressive eyes, the same shaped head, though his was entirely bald. The woman beside him was as tall as he, blonde and buxom, full of life but not aggressive about it. Jason had a lot of time for his step-grandmother, Sugar Bundy, the Kings Cross stripper who, against all the odds, had married his commo grandfather and made the old man happy.

“Anyone else here?” George Rockne sounded wary.

“Just Grandma Carss.”

Rockne wrinkled his nose, though the wrinkling was barely discernible amidst all the other lines on his face. “Well, she's the least of our worries. Forget I said that, Jay.”

The boy grinned. “I know what you mean, Pa. Hello, Sugar.” He kissed her on her well-powdered cheek. “Was that you I saw on Saturday night on
That's Dancing
?”

She dug him in the ribs. “None of your cheek, kid. How are you?”

“Pretty down. So's Mum and Shelley.”

He led them out to the back room, the garden room as his mother called it. Olive and Shelley kissed George's cheek and did the same with Sugar; they were funeral kisses, when dislike and disagreement were buried for the day along with the corpse.

Mrs. Carss, unforgiving, offered neither kiss nor cheek, but did offer coffee.

“
Tea?” said Sugar, “I'm off coffee.”

Mrs. Carss nodded sourly, as if she would have to go all the way to Sri Lanka for the tea, and went out into the kitchen. Jason remained standing, leaning against the door jamb, but the other four sat down. There was silence for a long moment, that of strangers: they had nothing in common but a dead man. Jason, embarrassed by the silence, wondering why adults always had to be so bloody uptight with each other, looked out at the back garden and the pool, where a magpie strutted like a developer marking out his territory. In another month the bird would be dive-bombing them in the pool, coming out of the big camphor laurel where he and his mate had already built their nest. He thought of going out and grabbing the maggie, bringing it in here and letting it loose just to shake up his mother, his grandfather and Sugar. Shelley, sitting there like the doll she thought she was, was no bloody use.

At last George Rockne said, “Did Will tell you him and I've been talking to each other the last few months?”

“No.” Olive was in all black this morning, sweater, slacks and hairband. She frowned, as if she did not like the thought of Will and his father having been on good terms again. “Why?”

“Why?” The lines on George's face seemed to increase. “Olive, we were father and son! Fathers and sons, they sometimes become reconciled.”

“He didn't mention it to me. Did he make the first move?”

“No-o. I suppose I did that. I rang him up about some legal advice and it just sorta went on from there. Just three or four times, no more than that, but at least we weren't arguing any more.”

“It did George the world of good,” said Sugar. “He would come home looking real pleased, you know what I mean?”

“He didn't come to the house?” said Olive and looked real pleased when Sugar said no.

Jesus, Mum, Jason thought, relax for Chrissake. They've come offering an olive branch or whatever it is they offer and all you can goddamn do is spit in their face. He had never tried to fathom his father or mother, there really hadn't been any desperate need; but now, ever since Saturday night, he was understanding less and less of her. She was turning into someone he had never recognized before.

Mrs.
Carss came back with coffee and tea; Jason noticed she had got out the Spode cups and saucers, another of his mother's treasures. Who was she trying to impress, for Chrissake? Sugar, who, he guessed, would bustle, maybe even bump and grind, her way through life unimpressed by anyone but God? He'd heard she had found religion, which couldn't have impressed Pa, the old commo atheist.

Shelley, pretty but bloody stupid, a real pain, said, “Did you know we're going to be rich, Pa?”

“I don't think this is the time to talk about that,” said Olive.

“No, I didn't know that, Shelley.” George Rockne seemed to be taking care to balance his cup on its saucer, as if he recognized he and Sugar had been favoured with the Spode. Then he looked up at his grandson. “Did you know that, Jay?”

“Yeah, sure.” Jason saw the look of disapproval, almost anger, on his mother's face. His grandfather had sidestepped her, was going to pump him instead of her. Feeling some anger of his own, he thought, Why not? “Yeah, Dad's supposed to have five-and-a-bit million in some private bank.”

Sugar coughed into her tea, almost dropping the Spodeware. But George Rockne's face remained impassive, didn't take on a single extra furrow. “Your father told me about some money in a private account. I didn't know he had left it to the family.”

“He hasn't,” said Olive. “Not officially, I mean. We haven't seen any will. But how did you know about it?”

“It just came up in conversation.”

“Some conversation you must've had,” said Mrs. Carss, down-to-earth as usual. “Your tea all right, Sugar? I forgot to ask if you took sugar.”

Sugar gave her a big smile, peeled off her jacket; Jason wanted to laugh, seeing his step-grandmother peeling off her feathers or balloons or whatever she had worn in her stripper days. “No, I've never taken sugar, even though I come from Bundaberg. Up there in the sugarcane country, if you don't take sugar they run you outa town.”

“I often meant to ask,” said Mrs. Carss, “so your real name's not Bundy? Short for Bundaberg?”

“My real name's Rockne,” said Sugar. “Now.”

A
goal to you, thought Jason, a two-handed slam-dunk right into the basket.

George looked back at Olive. “Are you gunna claim the money?”

“Of course, if it's legitimately Will's. Otherwise, where would it go?”

“I wouldn't start spending it till you get it, Olive. It'll probably have to go before the courts and you can never trust them.”

“That's because you're a communist,” said Mrs. Carss.

George's wrinkles increased; he had decided to humour the old bat. She was actually six years younger than he, but he knew an old bat when he met one. “I'm retired, Ruby. Didn't you know communism is dead? It's in the papers every day.” His face was smiling, but his eyes were not. You couldn't laugh at the end of the world. “Take my word, Olive. Don't trust the courts. Wait till you've got your hands on the money before you spend it.”

When Jason had opened the front door to his grandfather he had experienced the sudden sad, mad hope that all the enmity and bitterness would be forgotten, though he had never been told or understood what had caused all the ill-feeling. He had just had the hope that as a family they would be
together,
as he had dreamed they might be. He had never confessed it to anyone, never could, never would, but he had always wanted the sort of extended family that he had read about in some books. He knew that family life on TV was all crap, but he had wished for something like it, to have a grandfather, even if he was a commo, who would tell him what life had been like when
he
had been a kid, who would tell him where his roots were. He had never known what his father and grandfather had fought about, though he guessed it was politics; there had been something more, though, something to do with ethics and example, something that had gone beyond politics: his mother and his grandmother had had something to do with it. He knew that his grandfather hated what he called “yuppy greed,” and he hated it himself; but surely that wasn't enough to have caused all the bitterness. If that was all it was, then half the families in the whole bloody country were in the same boat as the Rocknes.

For a few moments Jason had drifted off into a fog of resentment at the way things were going. He came back to hear his mother say, “George, do you have any interest in the money?”

The
front doorbell rang. Jason waited for his grandfather's answer, but the old man just smiled at Olive, then looked up at his grandson. “You gunna answer the door, Jay?”

II

Malone said, “G'day, Jay. Your mother home?”

“Sure, Mr. Malone. But we've got visitors, my grandfather and his wife.”

“Good.”

“Good?”

“You're too young to start questioning how a policeman thinks. May we come in?”

Jason led the two detectives through the house and out to the garden room. The two tall men and the even taller boy crowded the entrance. Olive, Mrs. Carss and Shelley looked up, startled; Shelley grabbed her mother's hand. Sugar gave the newcomers a wide smile; she had been smiling at men all her life, stripped in the crib. Only George Rockne showed no expression; he smelt
copper.
All his life there had been police who had hounded him, fascist bastards who had never acknowledged that he was fighting for them as well as for himself.

“We'd like another word, Olive,” said Malone. “It's George Rockne, isn't it? I'm Inspector Malone, this is Sergeant Clements. I don't think we've ever met.” There was no politics in Homicide, at least none that concerned outsiders.

“Pleased to meet you,” said George, who wasn't. He rose, jerking his chin at Sugar. “Time we were going, love. We'll be at the funeral, Olive.”

“If you could just spare a minute?” said Malone. “Is that all right, Olive? Then we'll talk to you.”

“You got a hide,” said Mrs. Carss, “coming here, taking over like it was the police station.”

“Would you rather go up to the station?” Malone asked Olive.

“No. No, it's okay. Make some more coffee, Mum.”

“That's all I'm good for! Bloody tea lady!” Mrs. Carss headed for the kitchen again.

“I'll give you a hand,” said Sugar.

“
Never mind! I can do it m'self!”

Olive smiled wanly at her mother's rudeness; then she, Shelley and Sugar went out into the garden. At the back door she paused. “Jason?”

“I was gunna stay, Mum.”

“I think it'd be better if you went with your mother, Jay,” said Malone.

The boy looked hurt, as if he had expected Malone to be on his side. He looked at his grandfather. “What do
you
say, Pa? If you want any back-up—”

“I'll be jake, son.” Malone's ears pricked: George Rockne sounded like Con Malone, old slang on his lips like old sun cancers. “Keep your mum and Sugar company.”