Pride's Harvest (2 page)

Clements had not been impressed by the young constable's attitude. “Do you think we're gunna be welcome?”

“They sent for us. But we're outsiders, don't forget that. Be diplomatic.”

“Look who's talking.”

They turned into a wide side street after the car in front. The police station was a cream-painted stone building that had been erected in 1884; the date was chipped out of the stone above the entrance; this, too, had been built by men who took time and pride. It was a good example of the solid public buildings of the period: nothing aesthetic about it, squatting as firmly on its foundations as Queen Victoria had on hers. Behind it had been added a two-storeyed brick building, painted cream so that it would not clash too much with its parent. There was a side driveway leading to a big yard and a row of garages and a workshop at the rear. A peppercorn tree stood on the width of thin lawn that separated the police station from the courthouse, another Victorian building on the other side from the driveway. It was a typical country town set-up, the law and justice keeping each other company. It wasn't always that way in the city, thought Malone.

Clements waved his thanks to the young constable, who drove on; the Commodore swung into the side driveway and went through to the rear yard. Clements parked the car by a side fence and he and Malone got out and walked back down the driveway, aware of the sudden appearance of half a dozen heads from the doorways of the garages, like rabbits that had smelled ferret on the wind. Not frightened bunnies, but hostile ones.

“
You feel something sticking in your back?” said Clements. “Like, say, half a dozen ice picks?”

They went in through the front door, asked the constable at the desk for Inspector Narvo and were taken along a short hallway to a large corner office that looked out on to both the street and the courthouse next door. There was a fireplace, topped by a marble mantelpiece, above which was a framed colour photograph of the Queen; its glass, unlike that on most portraits in public offices where the Queen was still hung, was not fly-specked but looked as if it were washed every day. The grate and ornamental metal surrounds of the fireplace had been newly blackened. On the wall opposite the fireplace was a manning chart, as neatly ruled and lettered as an eye chart; there were no erasures, as if a new manning list was put up each day. Between the two windows that looked out on to the street was a desk and a man seated behind it, both as neat as everything else in the room. Malone, sweaty and rumpled from the long drive, felt as if he were about to be called up for inspection.

“I'm Hugh Narvo.” The man behind the desk stood up, his immaculate uniform seeming to creak with the movement. Malone had only ever met one cop as neat as this man and that was Police Commissioner Leeds. Narvo was as tall as Malone, rawboned in build and face, with dark brown eyes under thick brows, dark hair slicked down like a 1920s movie star and a mouth that looked as if it might have trouble sustaining a smile. Malone judged he could be the sort of officer-in-charge who would never be popular with his men nor attempt to be. “What plane did you get in on? I'd have had someone out there to meet you.”

Narvo was studying the men as carefully as they were studying him. Cops in the New South Wales Police Department, like crims, do not take each other at face value; it is a legacy of the old days, still there in pockets, when corruption started at the top and filtered down like sewage. Narvo looked at these two strangers, whom he had sent for only on the insistence of his detective-sergeant. He saw two tall men, Clements much bulkier than Malone. The latter, whom he knew by repute, was the one who engaged him. He was not given to thinking of men as handsome or plain or ugly: he looked for the character in their faces. Malone, he decided, had plenty of that: tough, shrewd but sympathetic. He wished, in a way, that they had sent him a bastard, someone he could turn his back on. Malone had a reputation for
integrity,
for not caring about repercussions, and that, Narvo decided, was going to make things difficult.

“We drove,” said Malone. “Russ likes driving.”

“Do I?” Clements grinned.

But Narvo didn't seem to see any humour in the small joke. “You must be expecting to stay here a while. It's a long way to drive just for a day or two.”

“You expect it to be cleared up as soon as that?”

“We hope so. You probably know how it can be in a town like this—we don't like a homicide hanging over our heads. Especially with so many visitors in town.”

“What's on?”

Narvo looked mildly surprised. “I thought you'd have known—but then, why should you? It's the Collamundra Cup weekend, the big event of the year.”

“Russ is the racing expert. Did you know about it?”

Clements shook his big head. He looked even more sweaty and rumpled than Malone; but that was almost his natural state. “I'd forgotten about it. I never bet on bush races.”

“Don't let the locals hear you call it a bush race.” Narvo for an instant looked as if he might smile. “They think the Collamundra Cup is a cousin to the Melbourne Cup and the Kentucky Derby.” Then he said abruptly, “I'll get Sergeant Baldock in here, he's in charge of my detectives.”

He spoke into his phone and almost immediately, as if he had been waiting outside for the call, Sergeant Baldock appeared. He was a burly man in his mid-thirties, already bald, hard-faced, ready to meet the world square-on. Yet he seemed friendly enough and put out a hand that looked as, if closed into a fist, it could have felled a bullock.

“Jeff will look after you,” said Narvo; and Malone, his ear, as always, sensitive to a new environment, thought that Narvo spoke with relief. “I have to go over to Cawndilla first thing in the morning to see the District Super. I'll tell him you're here. Will you want to see him?”

No cop in his right mind ever wanted to see a District Superintendent, especially one who might resent strangers on his turf. “I don't think so.” Out of the corner of his eye he saw Baldock grin and
nod
appreciatively. “Just give him my respects and tell him we won't kick up too much dust.”

“He'll be glad to hear that. We all will, won't we, Jeff?” Baldock seemed to hesitate before he nodded; but Narvo was already looking back at Malone. “We've booked you into the Mail Coach Hotel. We were lucky to get you a room. You don't mind sharing?”

“So long as we don't have to share the bed. Does it have a bathroom or do we have to queue up down the end of the hall?”

He knew there were still some country hotel owners who thought they were spoiling their guests if they gave them too many amenities. If the explorers Burke and Wills, starving to death on their last ill-fated expedition, had chanced to stop at one of those hotels they would not have been fed, not if they had collapsed into the dining-room after eight p.m.

The Collamundra cops looked as if local pride had been hurt. Baldock said, “It has a bathroom. Narelle Potter, the owner, likes to stay on side with us. It can get a bit rowdy down there sometimes. You know what country pubs can be like, especially when everyone comes in from out of town.”

“I'd like a shower before I go out to see my family.” Malone enjoyed the look of surprise on both men's faces, especially Narvo's. “My wife and kids are staying out at Sundown, the Carmody property—or rather, they're staying with Mrs. Waring, Carmody's daughter. My wife and her are old friends, they worked together down in Sydney.”

He wondered why he was telling them so much about a relationship that was no concern of theirs. But he had noticed how both Narvo's and Baldock's faces had closed up, as if they were abruptly suspicious of him.

“Well,” said Baldock, “you'll get all the dirt on the district out there. Old Sean Carmody's not one of your back-fence gossips, but he can never forget he was a journo, a big-time foreign correspondent.”

“He's probably got the Sagawa murder already solved,” said Narvo. “Enjoy your stay, Scobie. Russ.” But he said it without conviction, as if he knew there would be no enjoyment for any of them.

Malone and Clements went out with Baldock and up to the detectives' room on the first floor of the rear building. It was an office in which there had been an attempt at neatness, probably under
Narvo'
s orders, but it had failed; this was a room which would have more visitors than Narvo's, many of them obstreperous or even still murderous, and neatness had bent under the onslaughts. There was one other detective in the room, a short, slight dark man in a suit that looked a size too large for him.

Baldock introduced him. “Wally Mungle. He was the first one out to the crime scene. A pretty gory sight, he tells me.”

“Gruesome.”

Now that they were standing opposite each other, Malone saw that Mungle was an Aborigine, not a full-blood but with the strain showing clearly in him. He had a beautiful smile that made him look younger than he was, but his eyes were as sad as those of a battered old man.

He held out a file. “Maybe you'd like to see the running sheet.”

“We don't run to computers here in the detectives' room,” said Baldock. “We're the poor cousins in this set-up. Both computers are downstairs with the uniformed guys and the civilian help.”

Again Malone had a feeling of something in the atmosphere, like an invisible shifting current. He took the file from Mungle and flipped through it: so far it was as meagre as the report on a stolen bicycle:

Kenji Sagawa, born Kobe, Japan, June 18, 1946. Came to Collamundra August 1989 as general manager South Cloud Cotton Limited. Family: wife and two children, resident in Osaka, Japan.

Body discovered approximately 8.15 a.m. Tuesday April 12, by Barry Liss, worker in South Cloud cotton gin. First thought was accidental death due to body being trapped in cotton module travelling into the module feeder. Later inspection by Dr. M. Nothling, government medical officer, established that death was due to gunshot wound. (Medical report attached.)

“That's all?”

“The bullet has been extracted,” Mungle said. “Ballistics had a man sent up from Sydney last night. He left again this morning. The bullet was a Twenty-two.”

“What about the cartridge?”

“
No sign of it.”

Malone frowned at that; then glanced at the file again. “This is pretty skimpy.”

Mungle said almost shyly, “It's my first homicide, Inspector. I've only been in plainclothes a month.”

Malone decided it wasn't his place to teach Mungle how to be a detective. He nodded, said he would see Mungle again, and he and Clements went downstairs and out to their car. Baldock followed them.

“Wally will do better. He's the first Abo cop we've had in this town. He's done bloody well to make detective.”

Malone decided on the blunt approach; he was tired and wanted the picture laid out for him. “Tell me, Jeff, do you coves resent Russ and me being called in?”

“It was me who called for you. And call me Curly.” He took off his hat and ran his hand over his bald head. “I get uptight when people call me Baldy Baldock. My mates call me Curly. Does that answer your question?”

Malone grinned and relaxed; he was surprised that he had begun to feel uptight himself. Several uniformed men, in their shirt-sleeves, two of them with chamois washcloths in their hands, had come to the doors of the garages again and stood in front of the cars and patrol wagons they had been cleaning. There was a stiffness about all of them that made them look like figures in an old photograph. Through a high barred back window of the two-storeyed rear building there came the sound of a slurred voice singing a country-and-western song.

“One of the Abos in the cells,” said Baldock. “Today's dole day. They start drinking the plonk as soon as the pubs and the liquor shop open and we've usually got to lock up two or three of „em by mid-afternoon. We let „em sober up, then send „em home.”

“How do they feel about Constable Mungle?”

“He's an in-between, poor bugger. But it's a start. Come on, I'll take you down and introduce you to Narelle Potter. She's a good sort, you'll like her. She's a widow, lost her husband about five years
ago
in a shooting accident. Let's go in your car. You may need me to make sure you get a parking place.”

“How do you do that out here in the bush?” said Clements, the city expert.

“Same as you guys down in Sydney, I guess. I give some poor bugger a ticket, tell him to move his vehicle, then I take his place. What do you call it down in the city?”

“Emergency privilege. Makes us very popular.”

But miraculously, just like in every movie Malone had seen, there was a vacant space at the kerb in front of the Mail Coach Hotel. Clements squeezed the Commodore in between two dust-caked utility trucks. Some drinkers on the pavement, spilling out from the pub, looked at them curiously as the three policemen got out of their car.

“It's the most popular pub in town,” said Baldock. “Especially with the races and the Cup ball coming up this weekend. There may be a brawl or two late in the evening, but just ignore it. We do, unless Narelle calls us in.”

The hotel stood on a corner, a two-storeyed structure that fronted about a hundred and twenty feet to both the main street and the side street. It was the sort of building that heritage devotees, even strict teetotallers, would fight to preserve. The upper balconies had balustrades of yellow iron lace; the windows had green wooden shutters; the building itself, including the roof, was painted a light brown. It was one of the most imposing structures in town, a temple to drinking. The congregation inside sounded less than religious, filled with piss rather than piety.

Baldock led Malone and Clements in through a side-door, past a sign that said “Guests' Entrance,” a class distinction of earlier times. They were in a narrow hallway next to the main bar, whence came a bedlam of male voices, the Foster's Choir. In the hallway the preservation equalled that on the outside: dark polished panelling halfway up the cream walls, a polished cedar balustrade on a flight of red-carpeted stairs leading to the upper floor. Mrs. Potter, it seemed, was a proud housekeeper.