Murder Song (9 page)

He turned to face it, his back against the closed front door of the Commodore; he spread his arms wide, trying to protect his family, as if he meant to gather the hail of bullets into himself. The approaching car swung towards the Commodore and for one horrible moment he thought it was going to crash into them, killing them all in a mad suicidal attack. Its headlights blazed at him, blinding him; then it swung abruptly away. It went past, spraying up a wave of water from the flooded gutter, and sped down the street. Malone staggered on rubbery legs to the back of the Commodore, tried to identify the make of car and its registration plate, but it was gone into the dark swirling night before he could get even a hint of identification. The driver had been too smart: he had known the blaze of headlights would blind Malone.

Still weak, Malone went back up the driveway, opened the garage door and came back to the Commodore. He got in, suddenly glad of the support of the seat beneath him.

“What's the matter, Daddy?” said Claire.

Malone noticed that Lisa, in the back seat, was sitting forward but saying nothing. “It was just a drunken driver—I thought he was going to smash into us.”

“They shouldn't drink and drive.” Maureen had all the slogans at her tongue-tip.

Malone drove the car into the garage. Lisa got out, gave the front door key to Claire. “Get ready
for
bed. See Tom cleans his teeth and has a wet before he gets into bed.”

Maureen said, “What are you and Dad going to do? Wash the car?”

“Inside!”

Claire took the key, looked thoughtfully at her mother and father but said nothing. She'll make a good cop, Malone thought, she's miles ahead of me in perception. And prayed that she would never want to follow in his footsteps.

When the children had gone inside Lisa put her hand on his arm. “That was no drunken driver. I've never seen you like that before.”

He sat back on the wet fender of the car; all the rest of him was wet through, a damp arse wouldn't make much difference. All at once it came to him that he had been scared to death, not at the thought of his own death but that he would be murdered in front of his family. He could never leave them a legacy like that.

He knew this was one time when Lisa had to be told the truth: “I think I'm on a hit list.”

“Oh God!”

She leaned against him and he put his arm round her, holding her tightly. It seemed to him that he could feel the heavy beat of her heart through their winter clothing and it was beating as much for him as for her.

II

“You have to take the rough with the smooth,” said O'Brien. “I never promised there would be no risk.”

“Don't give me any of that,” said Arnold Debbs. “You've got me with my career on the line. If this blows up, I'm finished. I promise you, so will you be, too!”

Five years ago, even six months ago, O'Brien would have shrugged off such a threat. From the time he had moved out of the world of pop music into the bigger, rougher world where money and power and influence were concomitant he had more than held his own. In England there had been very few, if
any,
politicans who could be bought; the system didn't work that way in Britain. But venal councillors and planning authorities could be found wherever development was growing; the skull-and-crossbones had flown from mastheads before the Union Jack was thought of and the Brits never forgot their heritage. When he had come home to Australia it was almost as if the politicians, hands held out, their convict heritage unashamedly displayed, had met him at the airport. It was, of course, nowhere near as bad as that; but cynicism narrows one's view. He had been introduced to his first crooked politician, Arnold Debbs, within two days of his return. A week later he had met his second crooked politician, Arnold's wife, Penelope.

He had always known there was the chance of making enemies of them: bribes never bought friendship, that came free, if you were lucky. He had never been afraid of them because he had never been afraid of failure: he was a gambler, ready to go off somewhere else and start all over again. But that had been before he had met and fallen in love with Anita Norval. Now all he wanted was respectability and no one, least of all the Debbs, would or could offer him that.

“You did us once, Brian, with that mining lease—”

“Arnold, that was business. You got the profit you were promised—”

“We didn't get the profit we could have made!” Debbs' temper was notorious; it had always been held against him in Caucus. Political parties do not like hotheads; they can't be controlled. Debbs had once had ambitions to be the leader of the party, to be Prime Minister when it returned to power in Canberra; but he had a head for figures and eventually he had realized he would never have the numbers to reach the top. Three times he had run for leader and three times he had finished bottom of the poll; it was then he had decided to be a Party of One, to look out for himself and use the front bench for all he could make from it. “You're a robber, Brian, a fucking crook who should be locked up! Now you've got me and my wife linked to this investigation—”

“I told you, Arnold, you and Penelope will be kept out of it. Your names are on nothing—”

“The shares are in a company name, but they can be traced to us! These bloody young reporters these days—they're muck-rakers!
The Eye
has already had a piece—no names but plenty of hints. How many
others
have you got strung up with my wife and me?”

“You know how many there are, Arnold—”

“You bet your fucking life I do!” Debbs' language, too, was notorious. The
Sydney Morning Herald
had once published a short verbatim statement from him that had contained as many dashes as words. The Anglican and Roman Catholic archbishops, the Festival of Light and half a dozen women's organizations had written letters to the Editor in protest; even Prime Minister Norval had had an attack of mealy-mouth and deplored the lowering of standards. “I introduced them to you—they could fucking turn on me!”

“Relax, Arnold,” O'Brien said, then tensed as he saw the unfamiliar car coming up the long driveway between the paddocks towards the house. “Who's this?”

Arnold Debbs turned. “I don't know. Let's hope to Christ it's not some shitty reporter.”

It wasn't. The unmarked police car pulled in besides Debbs' blue Volvo and Malone got out. “Jesus!” said O'Brien softly.

“Who is it?” said Debbs equally softly.

“Police.”

Malone wondered why the familiar figure stiffened as he approached. He had never met Arnold Debbs, but no one could mistake him. Tall and heavily built, he had a pompadour of egg-white hair that made him look as if he had just been crowned with a large pavlova. Beneath it his lamp-bronzed face suggested not so much health as a bad case of brown jaundice. His wide smile was no more than a display case for his expensive dental-work; there was no humour or friendliness in it. Malone shook hands with an enemy who had already declared himself and he wondered why Debbs' grip was so tense.

“I'm sorry to interrupt, Mr. O'Brien—”

“It's okay, Mr. Debbs is just leaving. He came up to see one of his horses—we've got it on agistment here. I'll see you to your car, Arnold.”

Malone watched the two men walk across to the Volvo, heads close together, voices low: they seemed to be arguing. But O'Brien, as if aware they were being watched, patted Debbs on the shoulder,
waited
till the older man had got into his car, then stood back and waved as the Volvo was driven away. Then he came back to Malone.

“Bloody owners—they're a pain!”

“You're one, aren't you? A whole string of horses, Sergeant Clements tells me. You've done well, Horrie.”

“Brian.”

“No, it's Horrie who's done well. I'm not so sure how Brian Boru is doing.”

Malone looked out over the stud farm with its lush green paddocks, the white railing fences and the double row of stables of red brick. Mares and foals grazed amidst the grass; a stallion high-stepped along the length of a fence, as arrogant as any disco stud. Further up the red gravel driveway, the main house, a low colonial building with wide verandahs, looked as it must have looked when it was first built a hundred and fifty years ago. This district of Camden, about sixty kilometres south-west of Sydney, had been the birthplace of Australia's sheep industry; now it had become almost a dormitory suburb of the city. But some pockets were still zoned for rural use and Cossack Lodge stud was one of the show places. Yet Malone could not remember ever having seen O'Brien featured in any newspaper or television story about the stud.

He remarked on that now. “How come? Most racehorse owners risk getting kicked in the head to be photographed with their horses.”

O'Brien smiled. He was dressed in checked cap, a dark blue turtleneck sweater, pale moleskin trousers and stockman's boots: every inch the country gentleman except for the cynical eyes and a certain nervous energy that, had he been a grazier, would have knotted the wool of his sheep. He could never be totally relaxed, he would never adapt to the rhythm of rural seasons.

“An Irish philosopher—there have been one or two—once said, Man who keep low profile rarely get egg on face. Have you come up here to try and smear some egg on me?”

They began to walk up towards the house. Two girl strappers passed them, smiled at O'Brien and went on to the stables. A man came out of a small office at the end of the stables and raised his hand
to
O'Brien.

“Later, Bruce. He's my foreman,” O'Brien explained to Malone. “Why are you here, Scobie? Is it about Mardi Jack?”

“Partly. You remembered her name?”

“Yes. You want to sit out here in the sun? We're out of the wind.” It was a clear sunlit day, with the wind on the other side of the house. Yesterday's rain had gone and the countryside looked as if it had been swept with a new broom. The rows of poplars that lined the driveway were just beginning to be tinged with green; they bowed before the wind like armless dancers. “I'll get us some coffee.”

He went into the house and Malone sat down. O'Brien came back, they exchanged some chat about the stud until the foreman's wife brought them coffee and cake, then O'Brien leaned forward, his cup and saucer held in front of him almost like a weapon.

“I'd better tell you about Mardi Jack. Yes, I did know her. I used to meet her at that flat.”

“I'd half-guessed that. Why did you try that stupid lie? We'd have found out eventually.”

“I'm trying to protect someone.”

“That the woman you mentioned, the one you spent the weekend with? Did she know Mardi Jack?”

“She knew nothing about her.”

“Knew?
You mean you've told her about Mardi since we came to see you? How did she take it?”

“How do you mean?”

“Was she jealous? Was she shocked when you told her Mardi had been murdered?”

“No, I don't think she was jealous. Or maybe she was—I guess we're all jealous of someone at one time or another. Shocked? Yes. She's not the sort of lady who's accustomed to murder.”

“She's married?”

“Yes.”

Malone finished his coffee, held out his cup for a refill. He bit into a slice of the housekeeper's carrot cake; the semi-country air was making him hungry. Or maybe he was just nervous: he had hardly
slept
last night.

“I don't think we're interested in her for the moment. There's something else that's worrying us. I think you and I are on a hit list, Brian.”

O'Brien's big hand tightened on his cup; for a moment Malone thought he was going to crush it. “Hit list? You and me?”

“Are you surprised or were you expecting something like that?”

O'Brien put down his cup on the small table between them, stared at it a moment, then lifted his head. He took off his cap and kneaded it between his hands. “I wouldn't be surprised if I were on someone's list. I can't understand why you and me together.”

Malone told him about the random murders. “We think you were the target in the latest one, not Mardi. Whoever he is, he's going for fellers who were in our class at the police academy back in 1965.”

O'Brien frowned, was silent for a moment. Then: “Has he tried for you yet?”

“Not yet. But—” Malone told him about the car tailing him last night.

“That must've scared the hell out of your wife and kids.”

“Out of my wife, yes. I'm keeping it from the kids. What did you mean when you said you wouldn't be surprised if you were on someone's list?”

Again there was a silence, but for the occasional moan of the wind round the corners of the house. At last O'Brien said, “This thing I'm in with my bank and my companies. Some people think I doublecrossed them.”

“Have you?”

“What's it to you, Scobie? You're not on the Fraud Squad.”

“If someone bumps you off, I don't want to be following two trails all over Sydney. I'd rather just have one suspect, even if I don't know who he is.”

O'Brien smiled without any humour. “You're pretty bloody brutal, aren't you?”

“Brian, I'm not going to fart-arse about on this. It looks like an innocent bystander, Mardi Jack,
was
killed instead of you. He's sure to come back and try for you again. He's already killed two others, he may go for me and Christ knows how many others. That's enough on my plate. I don't want to be chasing some greedy bastards who think you've cheated them out of a million or two. Or some husband who's found out you're sleeping with his lady wife.” That last was a dart tossed casually.

It landed on the board if not on the bull's-eye. “Keep her out of this! She's the only decent thing that's happened to me in twenty fucking years!”