Dark Summer (40 page)

Will Rockne was capable of it; he was expressing it now: “Look at that Joe Gulley, will you! The horses he rides have got more brains than he has, yet he makes two or three hundred thousand a year—and that's counting only what he declares! He'd make as much again betting on the nags he rides.”

“Aren't jockeys forbidden to bet?” Malone sounded pious, even in his own ears.

“Are you kidding?”

Rockne had a wet sort of voice, as if the roof of his mouth leaked; whatever he said sounded as if it came out through a mouthful of bubbles. He was as tall as Malone, but much bonier, with a long face that somehow stopped short of being good-looking, even though none of his features was misplaced or unshapely. His casual clothes were always the sort with the designer logo prominently displayed; Malone was sometimes tempted to ask him if he was sponsored, but Rockne had little sense of humour. He was the sort of man who physically made no lasting impression, the face in the crowd that was always just a blur. As if to compensate he waved opinions like flags, was as dogmatic as St. Paul, though, being a lawyer, he always left room for hedging. Right now he was being dogmatic:

“If you knew what I know about the racing game . . .”

“Tell them, darling.” His wife was sweetly, too sweetly, encouraging.

Olive Rockne was small and blonde, a girlish woman who, as Lisa had said, looked as if she were trying to catch up with her birthdays. She was in her late thirties, but in a poor light might have passed for eighteen. She always wore frilly clothes, giving the impression that she was on her way to or from a party. On the one occasion the Malones had gone to her home for dinner she had played old LPs of the Grateful Dead and Pink Floyd; which, though it dated her, made her more contemporary than Malone, who still listened to Benny Goodman. She was intelligent and even shrewd, Malone guessed, but
she
hid her light under the bushel of her husband's opinions. Though not this evening: tonight she was showing some signs of independence, though Rockne himself seemed unaware of it.

“It just bugs me,” Rockne said, “that people with no education can make so much money. Some of us sweat our guts out studying . . . I've got a rock band as clients, they can't say 'G'day' without saying 'y'know' before and after it, and they make five times the money I do—
each
of them. When you arrest crims, Scobie, don't you resent those of them who make more money than you do?”

“I don't know why,” said Malone, “but in Homicide we rarely get to bring in rich murderers, really rich. If money is involved, it's usually the victims who have it.”

The four of them were sitting at a table, apart from the makeshift stalls in the school assembly hall. They were sipping cask wine from plastic cups and munching on potato crisps; Malone mused that if the Last Supper had been staged at Holy Spirit it would have been a pretty frugal affair. He was thirsty, but the cask wine was doing nothing for him. He had played tennis this afternoon, four hard sets of doubles, and he was tired and stiff, as he usually was on a Saturday night, and all he wanted to do was go home to bed. He looked up as Claire, his eldest, approached with the Rockne boy.

“Dad,” said Claire, “are you going to bid in the auction?”

Malone shut his eyes in pain and Lisa said, “Don't spoil his night. Do you want us to bid for something?”

“There's a macramé portrait of Madonna—”

Malone opened his eyes. “Are you into holy pictures now?”

“Don't be dumb. Dad.
Madonna.”

“Oh, the underwear salesgirl.” He looked at Olive Rockne. “That's the sort of taste they teach here at Holy Spirit. I'll tell you what, Claire, if they put your English teacher, what's-her-name, the one with red hair and the legs, if they put her up for auction, I'll bid for her.”

Lisa hit him without looking at him, a wifely trick. “I'll bid for the portrait, Claire.”

“Are you going to bid for anything?” Jason Rockne looked at his parents. He was taller than his father, at least six foot four, even though he was still only seventeen, bonily handsome and with flesh and
muscle
still to grow on his broad-shouldered frame. He had a sober air, as if he had already seen the years ahead and he was not impressed.

“We're looking at a painting,” said his father. “Your mother doesn't like it, but I think we'll bid for it.”

“That makes up my mind for me,” said Olive and gave everyone a smile to show she was sweet- tempered about being put down by her husband.

Claire and Jason went back across the room; Malone leaned close to Lisa and said, “Why's she holding his hand?”

“She's escorting him across the traffic. What's the matter with you? She's fifteen years old and she's discovered boys. I was having my hand held when I was eight. She's backward.”

Malone had no hard feelings towards any boy who wanted to hold hands with his daughter, though he was having difficulty in accepting that Claire was now old enough to want to do more than just hold hands. He did not, however, want relations with the Rocknes cemented because their son was going out with his daughter.

The macramé portrait of Madonna was bought by the jockey's wife. “What is she going to do with it?” said Olive. “Use it as a horse rug?”

“Maybe she's going to wrap her husband in it,” said Malone and was annoyed when Rockne let out a hee-haw of a laugh.

The evening wound down quickly after the auction and Malone, eager to escape, grabbed Lisa's hand and told the Rocknes they had to be going—“I'm on call, in case something turns up.”

“You get many murders Saturday night?” said Rockne.

“More than other nights. Party night, grogging-on night—murders happen. Most of them unpremeditated.”

“Let's hope you have a quiet night,” said Olive. “We'll be in touch when we get back.”

“Where are you going?” said Lisa.

“Oh, we're having seven days up on the Reef. A second honeymoon, right, darling?”

“
Twenty years married next week,” said Rockne. “That's record-breaking, these days. She's paying—I paid the first time.” He winked at Malone, who did his best to look amused.

“Have a good time,” said Lisa, and Malone dragged her away before she committed them to a future meeting.

Mother Brendan, the principal, stood at the front door of the assembly hall, small but formidable, her place already booked in Heaven, where she expected to be treated with proper respect by those who ran admissions. “Enjoy yourself, Mr. and Mrs. Malone?”

Straight-faced, Lisa said, “My husband in particular, Mother.”

“I didn't see you raising your hand for anything in the auction, Mr. Malone.”

“I have a sore shoulder.”

“Both of them,” said Lisa. “Have you seen Claire?”

“She's out there on the front steps with the Rockne boy. I've been keeping an eye on them.”

“Thanks, Mother,” said Malone. “If ever you'd like to work undercover for the Police Department, let me know.”

Mother Brendan looked at Lisa. “Is he a joker?”

“All the time. Goodnight, Mother. I hope the school made lots of money this evening.”

“No thanks to men with sore shoulders. I'll pray for your recovery, Mr. Malone.”

The Malones went out, collecting Claire from the front steps, where she stood holding hands
(both
hands, Malone noted) with Jason Rockne. “I'll see you tomorrow, Jay. Call me about ten, okay?”

Jason, sober-faced, said goodnight to the Malones and turned back into the assembly hall.

“He's a bucket of fun, isn't he?” said Malone.

“He's
nice,”
said Claire.

Malone took the car down the slope of the school's driveway, came out opposite Randwick police station, where he had begun his first tour of duty twenty-four years ago, apprehensive and unsure of himself, still to learn that the scales of justice rarely tilted according to the laws of physics. He turned left and headed for home.

“
What's happening tomorrow?” Lisa said over her shoulder to Claire.

“Jason wants me to meet him down on the beach.”

“The water's going to be too cold,” said Malone. “I once went swimming the first week in September—”

He stopped and Lisa said, “Yes?”

“Nothing.” You didn't tell your fifteen-year-old daughter about having your balls frozen to the size of peas.

“I'm not even
thinking
of going in the water. You don't go to the beach just to
swim.”

“Do you like Jason?” said Lisa.

“Come on, Mum, don't get that tone of voice. I'm not
serious
about him. He's nice . . .”

“You said that. But?”

“I dunno. He's
nice, but
. . . He's always holding something back, you don't know what. Like Dad.”

“I'm an open book.”

“You are to me.” Lisa patted his shoulder. “But you're not to everyone. I know what Claire means. Jason's not weird, is he?”

“Oh Mum, no! Nothing like that. He's just—well, I think it would take
ages
to know him.”

“Does he like his parents?” Malone kept his eyes on the road, threw the question casually over his shoulder.

“Funny—” Claire had been leaning forward against her seat-belt, but now she sat back. She was twisting her blonde hair into a curl, a habit of hers when she was studying or thinking hard. “He won't talk about them, either of them.”

“Well, take your time with him,” said Lisa.

“Would you rather I didn't see him? You don't like his parents, do you?”

“Not particularly,” said Malone, getting in first. “But how did you guess?”

“You had your policeman's look.” He glanced in the driving mirror and in the lights of a
passing
car saw her turn her young, beautiful face into a stiff mask. Crumbs, he thought, is that how my kids sometimes see me? A policeman's face, whatever that was? But he wasn't game to ask her.

They reached home, the Federation house in north Randwick with its gables and turn-of-the-century solidness. By the time he had put the Commodore away, Claire was in the bathroom on her way to bed and Lisa was in the kitchen preparing tea and toast. Tom and Maureen, the other children, were staying the night with Lisa's parents at Vaucluse.

Malone sipped his tea. “Where did they get that wine we had tonight? Was it left over from the marriage at Cana?”

“You didn't have to drink it.” Lisa spread some of her homemade marmalade on toast.

There was nothing else except watered-down orange juice. “No wonder the Vatican is so rich. Who picks up Tom and Maureen tomorrow? You or me?”

“You. I'm baking cakes all day, for the freezer. It's Tom's birthday next Saturday or had you forgotten?”

“No.” But he had. He stood up, stretched his arms high. “Look, I can raise my hand!”

“A miracle. What a pity an auctioneer isn't here to see it.” She raised her face and he leaned down and kissed her “Why can't all wives love their husbands like I love mine?”

“Meaning who?”

“Meaning Olive. But who could love Will anyway?”

An hour later they were sound asleep in the queen-sized bed, their limbs entwined like those of loving octopi, when the phone rang. Malone switched on the bedside lamp. His first thought was that it was Jan or Elisabeth Pretorious calling to say that something had happened to Maureen or Tom. He could forget birthdays but he could never forget how protective he was of his children.

“Inspector Malone? Scobie, it's Phil Truach—I'm the duty bunny tonight. There's a homicide out at Maroubra, in the parking lot of the surf club. We've just had a phone call from the locals at Maroubra.”

“Who else is on call?”

“
You and Russ. There've been three other homicides today and tonight, everyone else is out on those. I can round up Andy Graham, but he's not on call this weekend—”

“Never mind, I'll take it. Leave Russ alone.”

He rolled reluctantly out of bed, looked over his shoulder at Lisa, now wide awake. She said, “Why can't people keep their murders between Monday and Friday?”

He leaned across and kissed her. “I'll be back as soon as I can. Keep this space vacant.”

******

Enjoy
these Jon Cleary's novels, as both Ebooks and Audiobooks!

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Scobie Malone Series

Dragons at the Party

Now and Then, Amen

Babylon South

Murder Song

Pride's Harvest

Dark Summer

Bleak Spring

Autumn Maze

Winter Chill

Five-Ring Circus

Dilemma

The Bear Pit

Yesterday's Shadow

The Easy Sin

Standalone Novels

The City of Fading Light

Spearfield's Daughter

The Faraway Drums