Bleak Spring (39 page)

He went back to the two women who had got out of the police car. Olive was holding on to the door, her legs still weak; but Angela was all arrogance, defiance in every line of her body. Malone ignored her, spoke directly to Olive: “The Russian wants to see you and me. Are you game?”

She nodded. Angela put out a hand, either to restrain her or to comfort her: it didn't matter, because Olive just stepped away from her, saying nothing, and followed Malone across the road and down towards the Rockne house.

They passed the SPG men crouched behind fences and between parked cars; Malone saw Clements give him the thumbs-up sign, heard him say, “Take care, mate.” He pushed back the Rockne front gate, took Olive's arm as they walked up the short path between the marigolds which, colourless in the street-lights, looked like white fists. He could feel the tension in her, her arm was like a vibrating iron rod.

“Let me do the talking, Olive. We give him the money like we agreed, okay?”

“Yes.” It came out of a dry throat.

The beakless, mirthless kookaburra stared with stony eyes at them; the butterflies were dead specimens against the security door. As they stepped up from the path, the front door was opened by Jason. He pushed open the security door and Olive fell up the last step and into his arms. Malone waited while they embraced, then he heard a voice back in the hallway say, “Come in, please. Shut the door behind them, Jason.”

There was no light on in the hallway; when the front door was shut behind them, Malone at first could see nothing. Then he made out the shape of a tall man against the light coming from the back
of
the house. Jason was still supporting his mother, his arm round her waist; Malone moved past them and down towards the kidnapper. “I'm Inspector Malone. Where is my daughter?”

“Here, Daddy!” Claire came round the Russian, flung herself at Malone. He wrapped his arms round her, felt the tears start in his eyes; love and relief choked him. Then he saw the gun in the Russian's hand and he straightened up, holding Claire tightly against him.

“This way, Inspector. You too, Mrs. Rockne.”

He led the way into the kitchen, where George Rockne and Sugar stood, she clutching his thin arm. The blinds were down at the windows over the sink; Dostoyevsky gestured at them. “I don't want your snipers trying to pick me off while we talk, Inspector. I know you have the house surrounded.”

“That's why he decided to talk to you,” said George. “Listen to him. You too, Olive.”

“Put your hands against the refrigerator, Inspector.”

Malone released Claire, leaned against the refrigerator; right in front of his face were reminder notes in a neat hand:
Defrost Monday: Call Electrician.
The refrigerator's motor started up and Malone started. “Keep your hands where they are,” said Dostoyevsky and proceeded to frisk him. Then he stepped back. “Very sensible. Inspector. No tricks, no hidden gun. Turn round and we'll talk.”

“What have you got to say?” Malone face to face at last with the kidnapper, with the ex-KGB man, felt now that he could handle him. He was angry and frustrated when he had to deal with shadows.

“Not in front of the young people. Take them into the living room, Mrs. Rockne.
Both
Mrs. Rocknes,” Dostoyevsky said as Sugar remained by George's side. “Don't attempt anything foolish, ladies. Or you, Jason.” He lifted the gun, pointed it negligently at Malone and George Rockne. “You understand what I'm saying?”

“You hurt my hubby,” said Sugar, “and I promise you, you won't leave this house alive. You understand what I'm saying?”

“Better listen to her, Igor,” said George; then he patted his wife's arm. “Go on, love, take Olive and the youngsters inside. Inspector Malone and I'll be okay.”

The two women and Jason and Claire went out of the kitchen, Claire looking back at her father
as
she went. “Be careful, Daddy. Give him everything he wants.”

When the three men were alone, Dostoyevsky motioned for them all to sit down at the table, which was now clear of the evening meal. “Has Mrs. Rockne agreed to transfer the money?”

“Yes,” said Malone. “She has seen Mr. Palady, from the Shahriver Bank. My boss, Chief Superintendent Random, said you wanted to make a deal?”

“I have been listening to my friend here—” He nodded at George, who sat at the end of the table picking at a loose thread in his T-shirt. “I am going to have difficulty in getting out of this country. Unless—”

“Unless what?”

“You bring no charges against me for taking your daughter and Jason, and I'll be a sworn witness to who killed Will Rockne.”

Malone held on to the sudden surge of excitement. “You saw the actual murder?”

“Yes.”

“Who did it?”

The Russian shook his head. “No, not till you make the deal.”

“And if we won't agree to the deal?”

“Then I'll shoot someone, then kill myself.” He tapped the gun on the table.

The thread snapped as George's hand jerked. “Igor, kill yourself if you want to, but why kill someone else? Who? Me? Inspector Malone?”

“Not you, George. You're my friend—or almost. A lapsed believer, but once you were on our side. No, it would probably be Mrs. Rockne—no, not your wife,” as George suddenly looked as if, regardless of the threat of the gun, he would hurl himself along the table. “The boy's mother. Of everyone in this house, she is the most expendable.”

“Is she the one who killed my son?” George's skinny arms, beneath the short sleeves of the T-shirt, were like tensioned hawsers; cords stood out on his thin neck. “Is she?”

“No names, George, not yet.” The Russian looked at Malone. There was a tiredness about him
that
Malone had missed when first coming into the kitchen; it gave Malone hope. Tired men, unless they are psychotic, are easier to deal with. “Well, Inspector, do we discuss the deal? I'll be your witness and you lay no charges against me and give me free passage out of Australia.”

“To Bangkok? To pick up the money and take it somewhere else?” Malone had no interest in what happened to the money, other than its use as a bargaining point. He was working for time, for the shaping in his mind of all the ramifications of a deal. The Rockne and Dunne murders were important, but he had come into this house to rescue his daughter and the Rockne boy and that was the paramount point: “Let my daughter and Jason go now and then I'll talk.”

“No.”

“You have the rest of us as hostages. How many do you want?”

“I want you all in here till you agree to the deal.”

Malone hesitated, then spread his hands. “I can't agree to it, Igor.”

“For Chrissakes!” George thumped the table with his fist. “Jesus, man, what's the problem? Is it the fucking money? Is it because you won't make deals with crims? Christ, you coppers do it all the time—”

“Shut up, George. No, it's not the money and it's not because we don't make deals. But I can't make the decision on this. My boss is outside—he's running the show. I could say okay to whatever Igor's got in mind and my boss could veto it—”

“He wouldn't do it! Jesus, the kids are still in here—”

Malone looked at Dostoyevsky. “Can I go and talk to him?”

The Russian bit his thick lips, then nodded. “There's always someone higher up, isn't there? No, you can't go out. Bring him in here. He gave me a phone number when I talked to him before.” He took a piece of paper from his shirt pocket and pushed it across the table. “Tell him to come in as you did, no gun.”

Malone rose and went out of the kitchen when George told him where the phone was. Dostoyevsky also rose and stood in the kitchen doorway watching Malone as he dialled and waited.

“This is Inspector Malone. Is Chief Super—oh, it's you, Greg . . . No, everything's okay so far.
But
we have a problem. I think you'd better come in here . . . Mr. Dostoyevsky insists, no gun . . . Yes, my daughter and the boy are okay.” Standing in the hallway he could just see into the living room; he caught a glimpse of Olive leaning forward intently. He put his hand over the mouthpiece and looked down the hallway at the Russian. “I want him to bring someone else in here.”

“Who?”

“Mrs. Bodalle.” He couldn't see Dostoyevsky's face against the light from the kitchen, but there was a certain stillness to the tall man's silhouette that told him all he wanted to know. “I think she might be part of the deal.”

“No!” Olive suddenly appeared in the living-room doorway.

Malone ignored her. “Well, Igor?”

“Yes. Bring her in.”

Malone took his hand from the mouthpiece. “Greg, bring Mrs. Bodalle with you.”

Random didn't query why: “We're on our way, Scobie.”

Malone put down the phone. “Why don't you want Angela here, Olive?”

She shook her head helplessly; he had the feeling that right now she could give him no answers to anything he asked her, even though she had surrendered. She had given up; or almost: “Forget it, Scobie. Only—”

“Only what?” He was gentle with her.

She half turned her head, but didn't look over her shoulder at Jason and Claire and Sugar in the living room behind her; Malone saw Jason leaning forward, straining to hear what was being said. “Nothing,” said Olive and went back and sat down beside her son and took his hand.

“Is everything going to be all right, Dad?” Claire sat primly on the edge of her chair, knees together, hands in lap, as she might sit waiting for an interview with Mother Brendan.

“Everything's gonna be all right.” He grinned at her. It was an old joke between them, the quoting of the cliché from every second movie one saw on television. Then he looked along the hallway at Dostoyevsky. “Chief Superintendent Random is coming. Will I open the front door?”

“
Do that, Inspector. But remember, no tricks.”

Malone was suddenly tetchy: “For Chrissakes, stop harping on that! I want this to go as smoothly as you do!”

He went along the hallway, opened the front door and pushed open the security door as Random and Angela Bodalle came up the front path. He stood aside for them to go in past him; Angela gave him a hard look. He looked out at the lighted street, saw the SPG men still in place, guns at the ready. He raised a hand, gave the thumbs-up sign and closed the door. He would make any deal, give away the whole country if it meant no shots were fired at this house while his daughter was in it.

Random and Angela had stood waiting for him. As he stepped past Angela he caught a strong whiff of expensive perfume; she might not be sweating, but her body heat had risen. He led them into the kitchen, introduced them to Dostoyevsky and George Rockne.

“Are you carrying a gun, Superintendent?” said the Russian.

“No.” Random flipped open his coat. “Do you want to frisk me?”

“No, I think we can take it that we are men of honour.”

Random looked sceptical, but said nothing, just glanced at Malone, who said, “Mr. Dostoyevsky has a proposition, Chief.”

“Before we get to that,” said Angela, still arrogant, or making a good pretence of it, “why am I here?”

“That was my suggestion,” said Malone. “I think when Mr. Dostoyevsky tells us his side of the deal, you'll understand. Have I guessed right, Igor?”

“You have, Inspector. Chief Superintendent—” The Russian, it seemed, was meticulous about rank. “The deal I want is this. I am not to be charged with bringing the young people here—”

“Kidnapping would be the charge,” said Random coldly and flatly. “Don't start by watering it down, Mr. Dostoyevsky.”

The Russian gave a small acknowledging bow of his head. “Kidnapping. In return for not charging me, I'll swear that I was a witness to the murder of Will Rockne and I'll identify who did it.”

He
flicked a quick glance at Angela, but said nothing. She gazed steadily back at him, as if whatever he had hinted or would have to say meant nothing to her. She's as good as I've ever come up against, Malone thought. She made any so-called Iron Lady look like plastic.

“What else are you demanding?” said Random.

“Not
demanding.
Asking. You're not really interested in me and the money I want back—that's something between me and the impostors in Moscow.”

Random glanced at Malone, but said nothing about Salkov, the representative of the impostors in Moscow. It struck Malone all at once that five and a quarter million dollars could sometimes have no value at all.

“Go on,” said Random. “What else are you—asking?”

“Free passage to a destination I'll name. I'll give you a sworn statement—”

“That won't be enough, I'm afraid. You'll have to stay here in this country until the murder trial comes to court. Isn't that right, Mrs. Bodalle?”

“Thank you for asking me.” She had adopted the defence of being wryly detached. She was totally composed, as if giving advice to a client. Except, Malone thought, that she was her own client and she knew it now. “A good defence counsel would challenge the statement, would demand the right to cross-examine the witness. Juries like to
see
witnesses, not be shown pieces of paper in lieu of.”

Random was silent a moment. He raised an eyebrow at Malone, who nodded pleadingly. Then: “All right, Mr. Dostoyevsky. If you are prepared to stay in this country till the trial comes up, we'll give you protection and then free passage to wherever you want to go.”

“What about the money?”

This time Random didn't look at Malone. “We'll draw up a release of the money, whatever the bank demands, signed by Mrs. Rockne and her son. I think it will also need to be signed by the daughter.”