Bleak Spring (31 page)

“He and his missus seem experts at getting crims off the hook.”

“He wasn't crooked, nothing like that. He was just like she is, he never missed a detail in a case. He wasn't as—flamboyant, is that the word?—as she is, but you always knew when he was in court, the law students would turn up to watch him. He just had one problem—he liked the grog. Everyone knew about it. He'd never miss a day in court, but I'm told his juniors would sometimes sit two or three feet upwind
from
him, just so's they wouldn't get drunk on the fumes from him.”

“How'd he die?”

“An accident, somewhere up in the Blue Mountains. I never paid much attention to it, it happened just after I joined Homicide. Why the interest in him?” Clements finished his ice cream, chewing on the last of the cone with all the enjoyment of a child.

“Not him, especially. Her. Who would know all about her, other than Olive Rockne?”

“Grace Ditcham,” said Clements without hesitation. “She knows more about the court regulars than the Sheriff's office.”

“How's the petty cash? Let's take her to lunch—we'll put her down as a gig on the vouchers. Before we do that, though, we've got to arrange protection for our girl Jill. Pretty soon we're going to have more minders out than President Bush. Greg Random's going to start complaining about the overtime.”

“Our little bit to fight the recession.”

Protection was arranged for Jill Weigall through the Randwick station, where the sergeant in charge complained, not about the overtime, but the stretching of manpower. “Scobie, we're gunna have to share this around. I can't spare my guys to baby-sit.”

“Dick, she's very pretty.”

“That's different, then. I'll do it m'self. Do I get bed and board?”

Grace Ditcham was available for lunch and Malone and Clements took her to Harpoon Harry's, a seafood restaurant attached to an hotel and just down the road from Homicide. It was not a meeting place for matrons, there were no gloves and flower-bedecked hats here; most of the clients were men and the few women with them looked the sort who could hold their own in a man's world. The food was good, if slightly overpriced according to Malone's antique scale of prices, and the helpings were ample enough to satisfy Clements. Grace Ditcham tucked into her John Dory with all the appetite of a woman who did not have to watch her weight.

“I brought everything I could find on the Bodalles.” She tapped her fork on the manila folder beside her plate. “She never figured in any stories about her husband, not till Lester was killed. Seems she
was
the 'little woman'. . . Aren't we all?”

“Not you, Grace,” said Clements.

“Only because I go a round or two for a pound or two every Friday night with my husband. Not what your dirty minds think. We go to gym and whoever lasts longest on the equipment, the weights and the rest of it, pays the week's bills. It's called equal opportunity, though Fred calls it extortion, something his mum didn't tell him about when he was growing up . . . Come to think of it, somehow I can't see Angela ever having been the 'little woman.'”

“Was Lester the domineering type when it came to women?”

“I'd say so, though I don't know what he was like with her. But he was a great one for patting your bum and being condescending about your intellect. Very lovable.” She bit into a piece of John Dory as if biting into a piece of Lester Bodalle.

“What about the accident that killed him?”

She put down her knife and fork, opened the folder. “I can't give you these tear-sheets, I got them out of the paper's morgue. The stories say he was killed when his car ran off the road on a back road in the Blue Mountains. It was pretty horrific—the car caught fire and he was incinerated.”

“Was he drunk?” said Malone.

“The stories don't say. The fire charred him beyond recognition. But Angela gave evidence and said yes, he was under the influence. They'd had an argument and he rushed out of the house and jumped into his car and took off. They had a holiday home up outside Blackheath.”

“What was the argument about? Did she say in court?”

“About his drinking, funnily enough.”

“What happened then? I mean, after his death?”

“Well, first, she was left well provided for. That's what most women think of first if some prominent man kicks the bucket—what did he leave the widow? It's the battle of the sexes, who gets the spoils.”

Malone looked at Clements. “Why is it that men are supposed to be the cynical sex?”

“
Search me. I put women on a pedestal and they keep stepping down off of it into my face, usually in high heels.”

“Okay, you two, stow your romantic ideas about us—I'm not impressed . . . Angela came out of her shell almost immediately, I gather. I'd only see her off and on, but here are some pix of her in the Sunday social pages. The Freeloaders Parade, we call it.”

Malone looked at the faded clippings. Angela Bodalle was rarely smiling in any of the photos, but her companions flashed the usual display of teeth as if they were posing for some dental competition. The social pages of the Sunday papers were an orthodontist's study chart. “No men?”

Grace Ditcham took back the clippings. “You know, I don't think I'd noticed that before. No, not a guy in sight.” She looked at the two men shrewdly. “Are you telling me she's gay?”

“We're not telling you,” said Malone, “we're asking you.”

“So that's why you asked me to lunch. And I thought you were after my body.”

“Not if Fred pumps iron.”

“Frankly, I don't know if Angela is a lesbo. If she is, she's never shown it towards me or any of the girls I know in newspapers.” She smiled; she had lively blue eyes, but the squint-lines round them made her sometimes look worried. Or maybe, Malone thought, as a crime reporter she had had to squeeze shut her eyes against too many ghastly sights. “How come you guys found out she was gay?”

“Accidentally. It's not a crime, so we're not holding it against her—”

“That's big of you.”

“—we were just wondering if she was like it when she was married to Lester.” He picked up the folder again, skimmed through the story on the accident that had killed Lester Bodalle. “Blackheath police covered the accident. Righto, we'll get in touch with them.”

Grace Ditcham sipped her wine. “Scobie, this isn't idle stuff. What are you on to? Do you suspect Angela is trying to cover up something on the Rockne murder? Has she got something going with the widow?”

“Maybe.” Malone tried to sound non-committal.

“
Has the widow been left well provided for?”

“Not really.” Malone glanced at Clements. They waited while the waiter, middle-aged and brusque, no frills on him, cleared away their plates. He took Clements's order for dessert, the only one, and went away without a word. The waiters here never flattered to deceive one into leaving a large tip. “How are you going on the tip we gave you on the money in the Shahriver Bank?”

Grace Ditcham knew how to read between the lines; she was not only a reporter, she had a sub-editor's mind. “So the widow has an interest in that, has she? The bank gave me the bum's rush. In the nicest possible way, of course. Their managing director is so oily, OPEC should keep an eye on him. I've got nothing specific I can turn into a story, not at the moment, but they know I'm getting ready to write one. I let them know—in the nicest possible way, of course—that they were under investigation about the transfer of illegal money out of the country. I think they'll play it safe—for a while, anyway. They'll keep all their money here, no matter what instructions they get from their clients, and try to look respectable. I dropped a hint that our London office was looking into their other branches. Mr. Palady, the managing director, looked as if he'd like to cut my throat.”

“Not him,” said Malone. “He'd get others to do that. When we clear up this Rockne case, we'll give you the lowdown on what's there in the Shahriver Bank. You might even have enough to make a book out of it.”

“I'll follow up the bank story. But Angela's the one who's got me intrigued. I think I might delve a little more into the private life of a female silk.”

“That's what we were hoping you'd say. Two male chauvinists like us would be too obvious.”

II

Once back at Homicide Malone called Blackheath police. A voice that sounded young enough to be a Boy Scout's said, “I'm sorry, Inspector, there's no one stationed here now who's been here longer than five, maybe six years. How long ago was the accident?”

“Twelve years ago. June, nineteen seventy-nine.”

“
I could try, but I don't think there'd be anything still here in the records.”

Malone looked at the notes he had taken from the clippings. “A Sergeant Reiffel gave evidence at the inquest. Where's he now?”

“Oh, the sarge retired three years ago, just after I came here. He lives up at Colony Bay, on the Central Coast. Hold on a minute, I think we've got a number for him. Here we are, no problem. It's . . .”

Malone put down the phone, looked across his desk at Clements. “Am I on a wild-goose chase?” “Every year in police work there's a wild-goose season.”

“A philosopher as well as a punter? Is that Romy's influence?”

“She tells me all German philosophers are pessimists. That doesn't fit a punter's philosophy. Let's be optimistic and assume the goose isn't just flying overhead and shitting on us.”

Malone shook his head. “Romy's turning you into someone, pretty soon, I won't recognize . . .” He dialled an 043 number on the Central Coast and got an answer at once, as if the man at the other end of the line had been waiting anxiously for a call. “Mr. Reiffel?
Sergeant
Reiffel?”

The voice was an almost ridiculous contrast to that which had been on the line from Blackheath; it was as rough and deep as a coalmine cave-in. “Yeah, who's this . . . Malone,
Scobie
Malone? Sure, I've heard of you . . . No, I'm not busy.” There was something that sounded like a choked laugh. “Sure, tomorrow morning'll be fine. You know how to get here?”

Malone hung up, said to Clements, “I'll go in my own car. You run the office tomorrow. I'll try and be back by lunchtime.”

“Wasn't there a song once called 'Wild Geese?' Didn't Frankie Laine used to sing it?”

“No, it was Tiny Tim. It was called 'Wild Canaries.'”

It was just chaff tossed between them; they were trying to tell each other, and themselves, that things were not as discouraging as they seemed. It was ever thus: the first grunt ever uttered by man had to be positive. The first curse only came later, when the wild goose shat on him. One had to be in positive mode, Malone thought, as the radio girl could have told him.

He went home, enjoyed dinner and Lisa and the children. When Claire, the last of the children
to
go to bed, came to kiss him goodnight, he said, “Have you heard from Jason?”

“He went back to school today. I saw him at Brick's this afternoon.”

“How was he?”

“I dunno—
quiet.
He's never loud, like some of the other boys. But today . . .”

“Did he say anything about how things were at home?”

She drew away from him. “Dad, are you training me to be an informer or something?”

“Sorry, love. I'd never do that to you.”

“Feel sorry for Jay, Dad. He told me it was awful at school today. Nobody said anything to him, not directly, but he said it was just whispers all around him all day.”

Wait for the whispers when word gets out that his mother is a lesbian.

“That was all he said?”

“Yes. Why, was there something else?”

“No, nothing. Goodnight, love.”

Later he and Lisa watched
In the Heat of the Night
and he wondered what it would be like to be the chief of police in a small town, where the pressures might be even greater because they were more concentrated. Tomorrow he would ask ex-Sergeant Reiffel that question.

In bed, their limbs locked in their usual pretzel of love, Lisa said, “So what's on your mind now?”

“That obvious again?”

“You told Claire the other night—the night of the murder, God!” She was silent a moment, then she went on. “You told her you're an open book. You are. Sometimes.”

He told her what he knew of the Olive Rockne-Angela Bodalle relationship. She said nothing, taking her legs out of his and lying on her back looking at the ceiling. The bedside lamps were still on and he could see the frown on her night-creamed face. “You don't seem surprised.”

“Oh, I'm surprised all right. I don't know why, but I am. I'm not very familiar with lesbians. When I was at boarding school there were one or two girls we suspected. But gay women weren't coming
out
of the closet, not back then. How do you feel about them, Olive and Angela Bodalle?”

“I've thought about them and I don't really care a damn about what they are to each other. If they're genuinely in love, that's their business. But besides being lesbians, I think they are also murderers.”

She rolled over, raised herself on one elbow. “They killed Will
together
?”

“I don't know whether they did it together or whether they both paid Kelpie Dunne to kill him. But I think Angela might've killed Kelpie.”

She lay back on her pillow. “God, what other couples have pillow-talk like this?”

“Righto,” he said huffily and put out his bedside lamp. “Forget it.”

“Come on, don't get shirty with me. Save that for the office. Why would Angela have killed this man—Kelpie?”