Bleak Spring (23 page)

“How's that?”

“He's lost his job, you know. You police closed down Hamill's, where he worked.”

“The Motor Squad did that, Hamill's were dealing in stolen cars. Didn't Garry tell you that?”

She opened her mouth, but whatever she was going to say did not come out. She looked away again, ignoring him. He raised his eyebrows at Constable Dickson, who nodded sympathetically at him.

“How will Penrith go in the grand final?” he said.

“We'll win.” She smiled at him, as if grateful for the banal question. She had seemed to grow uncomfortable as he had persisted with his questioning of Claudia Dunne and he wondered if this was her first experience of a murder investigation.

He left them and went back to the interview room, where Dunne, over coffee and biscuits, was abusing Clements and Kagal with a wide selection of obscenities. He twisted his head sharply as Malone came in behind him.

“So what have you done to her, shithead?”

“She's okay, Kelpie. She's waiting patiently till you tell us the truth and then maybe you can go home with her.” Clements stood up and Malone sat down in the vacated chair. “Why did Mrs. Rockne make two phone calls to you at your home? One yesterday week and one yesterday morning?”

Dunne was put on the back foot by the question; the plaster-encased leg seemed to stiffen even more. “What? What fucking shit are you trying to pull?”

Malone said patiently, “Kelpie, let's cut out the abuse, it's getting boring. Didn't Sergeant Clements ask you that question?”

“No, he fucking didn't.”

Malone looked at Clements, who said, “John and I have been at him for his bank, where he keeps his money. All we've got from him is a lot of what used to be called obscene and offensive language, back in the good old days.”

“
You'll get a fucking lot more, you keep on with this shit!”

“You're staying here till you answer our questions, Kelpie, so cut it out and let's get down to business!” Malone leaned forward across the table. “Now, why did Mrs. Rockne make those two calls to you?”

“I dunno what the fuck you're talking about.”

“Did she call your wife? You want me to go out and ask her if the calls were to her?”

Dunne sat back in his chair, adjusted his leg, looked at his two crutches leaning against the wall, then looked back at Malone. “Leave the wife outa this. Waddia wanna know?”

“Mrs. Rockne—why did she call you?”

“Business. She wanted me to do some work on her car.”

“What sort of car does she have?”

“A Honda Civic, you know that, I'll bet. I said no, I didn't work on that sorta junk.”

“She rang you a second time, after you'd insulted her like that? Come on, Kelpie, what else did she want? Was it to arrange to pass on some money to you, say five thousand dollars?”

“Why would she wanna do that?”

“Who do you bank with, Kelpie?”

“I told your mates here, that's none of your business.” He looked at Clements and Kagal, gave them an ugly grin. “There, how's that, no fucking obscene language, okay?”

Malone stood up. “Well, it looks as if I've got to go back and trouble your wife again—”

“Siddown!” Dunne leaned forward, breathing heavily; he drummed his hand on the plaster cast. “Okay, it's the Westpac Bank, their head office. The wife dunno about that account, so it's between you and me, okay? It's where I keep my gambling money. She don't like me gambling, but I can't kick the habit, I been a gambler all me life.”

“Righto, I'm warning you, we're going to have a look at your account.”

“You got a warrant to do that?”

“We keep a stock of them, just for occasions like this. Come on, Kelpie, you know the drill.”

“
Whatever happened to fucking civil rights?”

“You haven't been civil since you got out of kindergarten,” said Clements. “Do we let him go, Inspector?”

“Have Constable Dickson take him and Mrs. Dunne back home. Don't try doing a moonlight flit, Kelpie—we'll be keeping a twenty-four surveillance on you. You can take it for granted we'll be bringing you in again. Thanks for your time.”

Dunne got awkwardly to his feet, grabbed the crutches as Kagal handed them to him. He had quietened down, there were no more waves. “You still haven't told me what this is all about.”

“Oh, I thought you'd guessed,” said Malone. “The murder of Will Rockne.”

Dunne shook his head; his composure was all at once rock-solid. “Then I'm safe, ain't I? Why would I wanna waste a guy I hardly knew?”

“For five thousand dollars and anything extra you could screw out of his widow,” said Clements.

“Was that the reason for the phone call yesterday morning?” Kagal, up till now, had said nothing.

Dunne, steady on his crutches now, looked at him, then at Malone. “So it's his wife who had him bumped off?”

Malone didn't even glance at Kagal, though he was furious at how the younger man had played a card too soon. He was equally angry with Clements: the latter should have known better than to bring Olive into it at this stage.

Dunne grinned at him. “You guys really dream 'em up, don't you? Fucking theories.”

He shook his head as if at their stupidity, then he went out of the interview room, not hurrying, as sure of himself as if he had no criminal record and had been on the other side of the world last Saturday night when Will Rockne had been murdered.

Malone looked at Clements and Kagal. “Well, you stuffed that up.”

“Sorry,” said Clements. “The bastard just got under my skin. But he did it, I'd have an all-up
bet
on that.”

“I'll go along with that. But it's Olive who has to tell us why. Yes, John?”

Kagal looked chastened, even hesitant; all his quiet cockiness had been punctured. “There was something I didn't mention. Maybe I should have, instead of mentioning the phone call to Mrs. Rockne.”

“What was it?” Malone kept his tone cool.

“The next-door neighbour said they heard his car go out about ten o'clock. It came back some time after they'd gone to bed at eleven thirty. The wife, a Mrs. Rostoff, got up to have a look—I'd say she's the sort of neighbour who wouldn't miss anything that goes on in the street. She said the car came in with its lights off, something Dunne usually doesn't do. She complained once that the car lights woke them up and Kelpie evidently told her to get stuffed, though she didn't use those words, and he used to put the lights on high-beam just to annoy her. But last Saturday night he came in with the lights off. She saw him get out of the car, he was on his own, Mrs. Dunne wasn't with him.”

“I wonder if Mrs. Dunne knew where he'd been? But she's never going to tell us.”

IV

Kagal got the warrant and came back from Westpac's head office with a copy of Dunne's bank statement. Nine and a half thousand dollars had been deposited in cash in Dunne's account last Friday, the day before the murder.

“I'll bet that's Mrs. Rockne's five thousand, less five hundred he kept in his pocket.” Kagal had regained his cool cockiness, but Malone could sense the underlying eagerness to rush on, to bring the case to a conclusion. There was a coldness about him that Malone had never remarked before and he wondered if Kagal ever looked past the killer to the victim; or to all those on the periphery of a murder, the other, still alive victims. “But where did the other five thousand come from?”

“Unless Olive, like her husband, also has a little secret account?” said Clements.

“How much is in Kelpie's account altogether?”

“Ten thousand four hundred. Judging by the withdrawals and the few deposits, he hasn't been
too
lucky lately with his gambling.”

“No wonder he called up Olive again—he was leaning on her for more money. Would he know about the five million?”

“The point is,” said Clements, “did
she
know about it and she's been bullshitting us that she knew nothing?”

“Well,” said Malone, “the first thing is to keep Kelpie in place. Tell Penrith we want him kept under strict surveillance, not to let him out of their sight. Second, get on to Immigration and tell them to keep a check on him at all airports. He won't get far if that's all the cash he has, but Olive may come good with some more if he's leaning on her. Then let Sergeant Ellsworth out at Maroubra know what's happening.” He reached for his jacket and hat. “You do that, John. Russ and I are going out to see Mrs. Rockne.”

“Let's have lunch first,” said Clements, always hungry.

“I dunno that I can eat anything.” He was not looking forward to the visit to the Rockne home, not if it should be full of mourners after the funeral.

“Well, try.” Clements, big and rough-edged, had a surprising gentleness about him at times, as some big men do. “Better now than later. It may be a long day if we're gunna bring her in.”

“She'll just be back from the funeral.”

“So we're gunna look heartless bastards. But that's the picture of us anyway, isn't it? Ask the Abos and the greenies and the gays. Who's ever had a good word for us?”

7

I

THEY HAD
trouble finding a place to park the unmarked police car; finally, Clements left it in a No Parking zone, standard police practice. Mourners, some of the older women in black, were making their way up the front path of the Rockne home; Malone and Clements went up the side driveway. When they turned the rear corner of the house they came upon a crowd of at least fifty or sixty people standing in tight little groups in the garden. It surprised Malone that the Rocknes should have so many relatives and friends, though he didn't know why he thought that. He had been surprised at funerals before, he should have been prepared for the unexpected here at the Rocknes'.

Jason, dressed in a dark blue suit with a blue shirt and a cerise and blue tie, his school uniform, the same now as Malone had worn twenty-five and thirty years ago, saw the two detectives and came towards them. “Hello, Jay. Maybe I should've worn my old school tie.”

“You went to Marcellin, Mr. Malone?”

“I thought you knew.” The school had produced a deputy prime minister, two or three distinguished judges, several eminent doctors, an international rugby player, a couple of jockeys, an obscure writer and several cops besides himself. Schools, though, rarely boasted that cops were mentionable alumni. “The funeral go okay?”

The boy nodded. He was sober-faced but relaxed; if grief was tearing at him, it did not show. “I guess so. How are they supposed to go?”

Malone accepted the rebuke, if it was meant to be one. He was wishing that he and Clements had delayed their visit, but they were here now, they had been recognized as outsiders and identified as police; he swallowed his discomfort and said, “Where's your mother?”

“
She's inside. I'll go and get her. I told her you'd rung about some guy you'd picked up—”

“Is the house like this—full of friends and relatives?”

“Yeah, this is the spill-over. I'll get Mum—”

Malone suddenly changed his mind. “No, it doesn't matter—we'll come back later—”

Then Olive came out of the back door, pulling up sharply when she saw the two detectives. She was dressed all in black, even to a small black pillbox hat and a black veil, though the veil was drawn up over the hat. She looked funereally formal, too much so, as if she had dressed for a part in a play and everyone else had turned up in rehearsal clothes. She stared at the two men, then she came, stiff-legged, towards them.

“Surely you're not—what d'you call it, pursuing enquiries?—on an occasion like this?” Even her voice and phrasing were formal.

“I'm afraid so, Olive.”

She flicked a glance at Jason. “Go inside and take care of Shelley. She's very upset.”

“Mum, I'd rather stay. Mr. Malone says they've picked up this guy—”

“Do as you're told!”

The boy reddened, looked rebellious, then spun round and went quickly into the house. As he did so Angela Bodalle, in a navy-blue suit, came out, looked back at Jason as he pushed past her, then saw Olive with Malone and Clements and came towards them.

“Something wrong?”

“Can you believe it?” Olive was white with anger; or some emotion. “They've come here—
today
! God, haven't they any sense of decency?”

Angela Bodalle's gaze was direct. “Have you, Inspector?”

“I think so, Mrs. Bodalle. Maybe we could have chosen another time, but our main concern is finding the murderer, not burying the victim.” It was an awkward, crude retort and he knew it. But the two women irritated him beyond measure and the fact that he responded to the irritation also annoyed him.

“
And have you found the murderer?”

Malone and the two women had kept their voices low; but the small crowd in the garden beyond them were as still as statues, necks stiff as they strained their ears to catch what was being said. Malone lowered his voice even further: “We have some information that's helping us.”

“Who from?”

Malone smiled. “In due course, as you lawyers say. I think it might be easier all round if Mrs. Rockne came with us over to Maroubra station.”

“What if I should refuse?” said Olive.

“Why should you, Olive? You're just as keen as we are, aren't you, to find out who killed Will?”

“Go with them, Olive,” said Angela Bodalle. “I'll come, too.”

“I'll have to thank people for coming.” Olive moved off, threading her way through the crowd which leaned towards her as if waiting for her to whisper in their eager ears what had transpired with the two strangers—police, aren't they? Her back was straight and she walked almost with bounce, as if she had come from some mourners' aerobics class.