Bleak Spring (26 page)

Clements followed Malone into the latter's office. “You were a bit rough on them, weren't you?”

“Was I?” Malone was arranging papers on his desk, seemed uninterested in Clements's opinion.

“Okay, if that's the way you want it. I'll come back when you've washed the shit off your liver.” Clements, who had been about to sit down, straightened up and turned towards the door.

“Sit down!” Malone sat himself down behind his desk, stared at Clements for a half-minute. Then: “Wouldn't you have SOL if you'd had a case fold up on you like this Rockne one?”

“I just have.” Clements settled himself in his chair. “Have you forgotten I've been on this one
with
you from the beginning? Come
on,
Scobie. This isn't the first time we've had everything bounce back on us. Okay, we picked the wrong suspect, there's another element in it that we hadn't counted on. But the case isn't dead yet.”

“It might be better if it was. Have you seen the
Herald
and the
Tele-Mirror?
Both of them have run stories that we picked up Olive and charged her. We're going to look bloody fools if we have to let her go.”

“If we got upset every time the newspapers and their know-it-all legal columnists got stuck into us, we might as well go outa business. Forget 'em, mate. This case is a long way from over.”

Malone was silent again; then he nodded. “Righto, cheer me up. What have you got?”

Clements grinned. “Practically bugger-all. I went out to Penrith. Their Crime Scene team were there—they came up with nothing. There were no footprints—there was a concrete path under the kitchen window, where the killer stood to shoot them. They could pick up nothing distinguishable. No fingerprints on the windowsill—he must of worn gloves. No one next door heard anything or saw anything—there was a party on, but I gather everyone was well away with the grog and they wouldn't have heard the Gulf war if it had happened in Kelpie's back yard. All we came up with was this.” He tossed a small, cheap notebook on Malone's desk. “It's the record of his bets over the past six months. Last week he bet five hundred dollars at six to one on the Panthers. His bookie has the initials B. B.”

Malone looked at the notebook, then put it down in front of him. “Why do I get the impression that I'm standing still watching a merry-go-round go past me with all the same people on it?”

“I can't see Bernie Bezrow on a merry-go-round, but I get your picture. There's one guy still missing—Mr. Jones.”

“Still nothing on him?”

Clements shook his head. “I've got out an ASM on his Mercedes, but so far it hasn't been sighted. I've also asked the Queensland cops to keep an eye out for it, just in case he really has gone up to the Gold Coast. But I don't see him turning his back on that five million as easy as all that.”

“His mates in Moscow, or wherever they are, they wouldn't let him do that. I wonder if Will
Rockne
knew what he was getting into—or what he was putting his family into—when he stole all that cash?”

“If he knew he had the brain tumour and he was going to die anyway, it was never going to be his problem anyway, was it? I never knew the guy, but I don't think I'd of liked him.”

Malone made no comment. The phone rang: it was Clarrie Binyan, dry and matter-of-fact as usual. “Scobie, Penrith sent in the two bullets they took out of Dunne and his missus. Both bullets came out of the same gun that killed Rockne.”

“We're sure a silencer was used, Clarrie. Any markings from it?”

“No, the bullets are clean of everything but the matching grooves and lands, same's on the Rockne bullet. If a silencer was used, the baffles this time didn't get in the way. Find the gun and the bloke who fired it and I promise you a conviction.”

“Gee, thanks.” Drily.

“Up yours.” Just as drily.

Malone hung up and looked at Clements. “It was the same gun. I'm willing to bet Kelpie himself made that silencer they found in the junk box at Hamill's. But did he make two silencers? If not, where did the killer pick up the second one to fit the Ruger—if it is a Ruger?”

“You can still buy 'em over the counter in South Australia, but the guys who've been selling them under the counter here in New South have been very shy since the Strathfield massacre. That madman didn't use a silencer, thank Christ—he might of killed even more people before anyone realized what was going on. The hullabaloo since, about guns, has had the gun shops being very cautious about who they sell to. I got that from Clarrie last week. He's got his informers in the trade and they tell him everyone is playing it very quiet. But that's not to say you can't buy what you want if you're prepared to pay for it. Things are nowhere near as bad as they are in the States, but we're heading that way. You know what's happened to Hamill's?”

“The Motor Squad closed it down, at least temporarily, so, put John Kagal on to tracking down Hamill's foreman. Find out who worked beside Kelpie in the workshop. Get John to lean on him, find
out
if he ever saw Kelpie doing any work for himself—all the equipment would be there for making something like a silencer or cutting down a gun. It's a long shot, but Kelpie may have made a couple of silencers while he was at it. They're always in demand.” He looked at his watch. “You want to come out to Waverley with me? Olive's case has been put back, she doesn't come before the magistrate till eleven.”

They drove out to Waverley, an inner eastern suburb that had hardly changed in the past half-century; perhaps the faces of the locals had changed, but the landscape of small solid houses had remained much the same. The courthouse, on a main road, was a nondescript modern building that did nothing for the majesty of the law; from the outside it could have been a sex clinic or an annexe of cells to the police station beside it. An overhang of trees took some of the bareness off it.

The two Homicide men were met by Ellsworth and Sally Franz and taken into a side room; both looked even glummer than Malone and Clements. Miss Franz was dressed in a black suit this morning, an appropriate colour. “I talked with the Director before I came out here this morning. This murder of Mr. Dunne rather puts the kybosh on things.”

“What does the Director think?”

“Without Dunne—and we were never sure he was going to say anything—what have we got? We know from that eyewitness, what's-his-name, the actuary, that Mrs. Rockne was nowhere near her husband when he was shot. The conspiracy charge is all circumstantial now that Dunne has been eliminated. Angela Bodalle will wipe the floor with us in five minutes if we go into court as we stand now. The DPP suggests we drop the charges.”

“That leaves us with a lot of egg on our face,” said Ellsworth.

The two senior detectives, those whose faces would carry the omelette, looked at him and he got the message and had the grace to look embarrassed. Then Malone said, “Is Angela Bodalle here?”

“She's with Mrs. Rockne in the holding cell.” Sally Franz looked at her watch. “We've got ten minutes to make up our minds.”

“We have no say in it, have we? The DPP's already decided.”

She nodded. “I'm afraid so.”

“
Righto, let's get the case dismissed. Are you disappointed, Sally?”

She shrugged. “I don't know. Yes and no. It would have been my first murder trial, the Director was going to let me assist whichever QC was appointed. But up against Mrs. Bodalle . . .”

“If the DPP had any sense of humour, he'd have appointed her as the Crown Prosecutor. She's just won a prosecution case.”

Outside the court, after the magistrate, a man this time, had made some disparaging remarks about ill-prepared cases and discharged Olive, a small band of media vigilantes fell on Malone and Clements.

“Inspector—” She was a gangly girl from one of the radio stations who, Malone knew, had once ruined a drug bust by breaking a news embargo. She used her microphone like a gun, thrusting it forward menacingly. Her cynicism was like her make-up, too thick, and Malone had experienced her aggression several times before. “What happened? Were the police looking for an arrest, come what may?”

“We're always looking for an arrest in a murder. Would you prefer we didn't?” That cheap shot would get him a rebuke from someone higher up.

“There's been a suggestion—”

“Who by? What suggestion?”

“Well, are we talking murder or suicide mode here?”

Malone kept a straight face. “We're in doubt mode on that.”

“Thanks for nothing,” she said and, in huff mode, backed off.

“Oh, excuse me!” Clements managed to tread on two feet, putting down all his weight, as he pushed a way for himself and Malone through the small crush. He raised a hand and pushed a television cameraman's camera back into his eye, “Damn, there I go again, using unnecessary force. Don't forget to report that to Civil Liberties.”

Free of the reporters, the two detectives crossed to their car. But one of the reporters, a small blonde woman, followed them. “Hello, Scobie, Russ. In a bad mood this morning?”

“Hello, Grace. Are you going to make us feel even worse?”

She
smiled and shook her head. She was in her thirties, her prettiness baked too hard by too much time on the beach; she could be hard in her reporting, too, but she was always fair. “I know how it is. I knew Kelpie Dunne.” Her sources were varied and dangerous. “Was he connected to the Rockne murder?”

“Off the record, yes.”

“Anything I can do to help? You won't be quoted.”

Malone hesitated, looked at Clements, then back at Grace Ditcham. “There's some money involved—” He told her about the money in the private bank account. “You'll have to be careful how you handle the story on that, otherwise you'll have Angela Bodalle on your neck.”

“I can handle Angela. We've known each other off and on for years. I did a couple of stories on her husband before he was killed. Leave the money story with me. I'll handle it as if I stumbled on it all by my little self. Shahriver International? I love asking banks questions they don't want to answer. Smile, Scobie. You look much better. You too, Russ.”

She went off and the two detectives looked at each other. “It's worth a try,” said Malone. “It might stir up Mr. Jones.”

“I seem to remember you wanted things stirred up for Kelpie. It got him killed.”

As he went to get into the police Commodore Malone saw Angela Bodalle moving towards her red Ferrari parked along the street. He told Clements to wait for him, then headed for the lawyer. She straightened up from unlocking the door of her car and waited for him, her expression giving no hint what her reception of him would be.

“Has Olive gone?”

“Yes, Jason sneaked her away while those reporters were feeding on you and Sergeant Clements.”

“I didn't expect you to be here. I thought you'd be in court for the sentencing on the Filbert case.”

“I've been there, it was all over in fifteen minutes. The judge gave Mr. Filbert life. The case was
just
too easy, Filbert folded up and it was all over before we got into second gear.” She patted the roof of the Ferrari, as if to emphasize the metaphor. “You must be upset, the way your case has folded up. But the other way round, with Olive just walking away free, as she should.”

“You must be pleased with yourself. A successful prosecution and a successful defence, all in the one week.”

“I didn't have to defend Olive, Inspector. You never had a case against her.”

Despite his dislike of her, Malone found himself admiring her. He was married to a woman who had poise; Angela had it, too. This morning she also had the sweet smell of success about her, like an expensive perfume. She was wearing a beige suit and a cream silk blouse, a tan handbag hung from one shoulder and a heavy gold bracelet glittered like a prize as she lifted her arm. Not a hair on her shining dark brown head was out of place and her make-up, unlike the radio girl's, was just perfect. She was too perfect, he decided, the ultimate successful woman. He just wondered why he didn't feel at ease with her, why he felt he couldn't trust her. He was not a male chauvinist, or at least he told himself he wasn't; and Lisa and Claire saw to it that he should not be. And yet . . .

“Are you going to leave Olive alone now?” she asked.

“The case isn't closed yet. And there's still Mr. Jones.”

“Yes.” She considered that, looked troubled. “Are you now thinking he killed Will and then Mr. Dunne? A pity you didn't follow that line before.”

“If all murders went in a straight line, our job would be a breeze. You know things don't work like that. If they did, you barristers wouldn't earn the money you do.”

“Is that what bothers you, Inspector—the money I earn?”

“Not at all. Like all cops, I think I'm underpaid, but I really don't care what other people earn. So long as they make it honestly.”

“Thank you.” She smiled. “I make mine honestly. Some day you and I may work on the same side in court. Prosecuting Mr. Jones, maybe? I'll look forward to that.”

“In the meantime, if you're seeing Olive, tell her we'll be giving her police protection until we
bring
in Mr. Jones for questioning.”

“She won't like it. She's had enough of the police.”

“I think you should advise her to accept the protection. Mr. Jones isn't going to let go of that five million dollars without another try for it. If Olive wants a quiet, safe life from now on, she'll have to give up any idea of keeping that money.”

“I've already told her that. But would you turn your back on that much money?”

“I'm a tight man with a dollar, so my wife and kids tell me. I wouldn't know what to do with five million.”