Bleak Spring

by Jon Cleary

  Malone laid the plastic envelope containing the silencer on the table in front of Dunne. “Seen that before, Kelpie?”

  “What is it?” Dunne gazed at it blankly, like a New Guinea highlander presented with a piece of space equipment.

  “It’s a silencer, Kelpie, a home-made hush puppy. You put it on a gun and it silences the sound of the shot.”

  “What’ll they think of next!”

  Malone had to grin. “The next bit’s not so funny. They found it in your toolbox at Hamill’s.”

  Malone and Dunne were the only two sitting down; Dunne had commandeered the third chair to support his plastered leg. His sharp-featured face seemed to contract for a moment, everything becoming more pointed. Then he grinned at Malone, looked at Clements and Kagal leaning against the walls, then back to Malone.

  “I ain’t falling for that. If you found that in my toolbox, you mongrels planted it there.”

  Malone’s bluff hadn’t worked; but he wasn’t going to admit that the silencer had been found in another box, a junk box. He looked at Clements. “Did you find any gun out at Mr. Dunne’s house?”

  Clements had been carrying a black plastic garbage bag. He took out a revolver and four boxes of ammunition. “This Smith and Wesson Thirty-eight and these three boxes of ammo to fit it. And there’s these Twenty-twos, a box of fifty with six bullets missing.”

  “Nothing else?” Like a Ruger .22 with a ten-shot magazine? Clements shook his head and Malone turned back to Dunne. “Why the gun, Kelpie? You’ve heard all the public outcry over the past couple of weeks against the use of guns. Or are you part of the gun lobby?”

  “I was gunna hand it in,” said Dunne, piety as ugly as a sneer on his thin face, “but I clean forgot.”

  “You have a licence for it?”

  “It was a present from the wife. I guess she forgot the licence, you know what women are like.”

  “What sort of woman is your wife, she gives you a gun for your birthday or whatever?”

  “It was our wedding anniversary.”

  “They’re not married,” said Clements. “She’s his de facto, a nice lady. Too good for him and not the sort to give guns as presents. She’s outside with one of the Penrith policewomen.”

  “Leave her outa this!” Dunne’s plastered leg fell off the chair and he winced with pain and swore again.

  “For the time being, we’ll do that,” said Malone and pushed forward the box of .22 ammunition. “What’s this ammo for, Kelpie?”

  “Ah, that’s old stuff. I used it in an old Twenty-two rifle. I used to go rabbit-shooting. The wife cooks it French style, lappin-de-something.”

  “Kelpie, that’s not old stuff, the box is brand-new. Come on, what did you use it for? Have you ever owned a Ruger hand-gun?”

  “No.” Not a flicker of an eyelid.

  “Where’s your Twenty-two rifle now?”

  “I traded it in on the Smith and Wesson.”

  “I thought you said your wife gave that one to you as a present? I think you’re getting a bit flummoxed, Kelpie. Where were you last Saturday night between eleven o’clock and twelve?”

  “Last Sat’day night?” The face screwed up in an effort to remember; he could have been asked where he was on the night of 12 February, 1968. Then his face opened up: the acting was twice life-sized: “I was home! We didn’t go out last Sat’day. We stayed home and watched TV.”

  “What did you watch?”

  “Oh, I dunno, they all look alike these days, don’t they? Some fillum—no. No, it was that thing on Channel Two, the one about the British jacks, The Bill. Yeah, that was it.”

  “That programme finishes just before nine thirty. We all watch it.”

  “You learn anything from it?”

  “Only that we’re all much nicer fellers than they are. No one ever smiles, not their detectives . . . So where were you between eleven and midnight?”

  “I went to bed.”

  “Righto, stay there, Kelpie. We’ll get you some coffee and biscuits. We won’t be long, I just want a word with your wife.”

  “Leave her outa this, I told you!” Had he had two good legs, Dunne would have leapt out of his chair at Malone; he was actually snarling like a savage dog. “I’ll fucking have you, Malone!”

  “What with, Kelpie? The Smith and Wesson or the Twenty-two? Sit back!” He stood over the smaller man, his own anger apparent but controlled. “If you’ve got nothing to worry about, then neither has she.”

  Dunne matched Malone’s stare; then he slowly sat back, lifted his leg on to the chair in front of him. “You got nothing on me, you know that. But go easy on her, she’s a decent sort.”

  “Where’d you meet her?”

  “She’s the sister of one of the guys I was in Bathurst with. She’s decent, okay? Straight.”

  Malone left the interview room and had Claudia Dunne brought into his office. With her was the policewoman from Penrith, a small blonde in her mid-twenties named Dickson. “Take a seat, Mrs. Dunne. You too, Constable—I want you here while I talk to Mrs. Dunne.”

  Claudia Dunne was tall and thin, with a tumble of thick dark hair, the sort of hairdo that always puzzled Malone as to how its undone look was achieved. Her features were too pointed to be beautiful or even pretty, but somehow she had managed to create the impression that she was good-looking. She was in a flower-patterned dress and had a red cardigan thrown over her narrow shoulders. She was frightened, but worse, she was disillusioned to the point of looking ill.

  “He’s in trouble again, isn’t he? It was bound to happen. But I hoped—I kept telling myself that all he needed was someone like me to straighten him out. Jack, that’s my brother, he was in jail with Garry, he was always telling me Garry would never change . . . What’s he done?”

  “That’s what we’re trying to find out, Mrs. Dunne—”

  That was a mistake; she was sharp-witted enough to say, “Then why’s he here? Why all those police searching our house, turning everything over—”

  Malone looked at the policewoman. “Did they make a mess of the house?”

  “No, sir. Everything was put back exactly as we found it. I can understand Mrs. Dunne’s feelings, no woman likes her house invaded, but we did our best to leave it exactly as we found it. I think when she goes home she’ll find that’s true.”

  She was brisk and efficient in a quiet way and she seemed to have established some sort of rapport with Claudia Dunne; she looked at the taller woman and after a moment the latter nodded. “Yeah, they did put things back. Still, it was an invasion, like she says . . . What did they find?”

  “They didn’t tell you? Garry didn’t tell you? They found the gun you gave him as a present.”

  “I gave him a gun? Did he say that?” Then abruptly she looked away, as if from now on she intended to ignore them and Malone’s preposterous suggestions.

  “What did you watch on television last Saturday night?”

  “What?” She looked back at him as if he had asked an obscene question.

  “I said, what did you watch on TV last Saturday night?”

  She frowned. “I don’t know. I—oh yes. We watched That’s Dancing. I like it, but Garry thinks it’s a comedy show, he says it’s funnier than Home Videos.”

  “That goes from seven thirty till eight thirty. What then?”

  Shrewdness suddenly veiled her face. “I—we watched a movie.”

  “What movie?”

  “Is this supposed to trick us or something? I’ve seen the way they do it in the Columbo movies.”

  “What movie did you watch, Mrs. Dunne?”

  “I—I can’t remember the title. It was one of those tele-movies, the ones with people you’ve never heard of in them.”

  “Your husband watched it with you?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “What time did it finish?”

  “I dunno. About ten thirty, I suppose, they always do.”

  “What did you do then?”

  “We
nt to bed. Why are you asking these questions? What is Garry supposed to have done?”

  “You’re sure your husband was home, that he didn’t go out and not come back till after midnight?”

  “No,” she said, but she had never learned to lie with a straight face. She looked in pain, her large brown eyes suddenly glistened as if she were about to weep.

  Malone felt sorry for her; he had seen her kind before. With a relative or friend in jail, they had somehow come to know the hardened criminals like Dunne and, for reasons that Malone could never comprehend, had fallen in love with them. Perhaps, with their own lives deadeningly dull, they had fallen in love with the excitement of knowing a criminal rather than with the man himself; then, to compound their naïveté, they had come to believe they could reform their men. Malone had the common policeman’s cynicism, that the villains who saw no difference between right and wrong, who believed the world was theirs to take, were beyond reform.

  “That’ll be all for now, Mrs. Dunne.”

  “Are you gunna let Garry go now?”

  “Not just yet. You can wait if you like, but he could be here the rest of the day.”

  “I’ll wait,” she said, setting her jaw. “You never stop persecuting them, do you?”

  “How’s that?”

  “He’s lost his job, you know. You police closed down Hamill’s, where he worked.”

  “The Motor Squad did that, Hamill’s were dealing in stolen cars. Didn’t Garry tell you that?”

  She opened her mouth, but whatever she was going to say did not come out. She looked away again, ignoring him. He raised his eyebrows at Constable Dickson, who nodded sympathetically at him.

  “How will Penrith go in the grand final?” he said.

  “We’ll win.” She smiled at him, as if grateful for the banal question. She had seemed to grow uncomfortable as he had persisted with his questioning of Claudia Dunne and he wondered if this was her first experience of a murder investigation.

  He left them and went back to the interview room, where Dunne, over coffee and biscuits, was abusing Clements and Kagal with a wide selection of obscenities. He twisted his head sharply as Malone came in behind him.

  “So what have you done to her, shithead?”

  “She’s okay, Kelpie. She’s waiting patiently till you tell us the truth and then maybe you can go home with her.” Clements stood up and Malone sat down in the vacated chair. “Why did Mrs. Rockne make two phone calls to you at your home? One yesterday week and one yesterday morning?”

  Dunne was put on the back foot by the question; the plaster-encased leg seemed to stiffen even more. “What? What fucking shit are you trying to pull?”

  Malone said patiently, “Kelpie, let’s cut out the abuse, it’s getting boring. Didn’t Sergeant Clements ask you that question?”

  “No, he fucking didn’t.”

  Malone looked at Clements, who said, “John and I have been at him for his bank, where he keeps his money. All we’ve got from him is a lot of what used to be called obscene and offensive language, back in the good old days.”

  “You’ll get a fucking lot more, you keep on with this shit!”

  “You’re staying here till you answer our questions, Kelpie, so cut it out and let’s get down to business!” Malone leaned forward across the table. “Now, why did Mrs. Rockne make those two calls to you?”

  “I dunno what the fuck you’re talking about.”

  “Did she call your wife? You want me to go out and ask her if the calls were to her?”

  Dunne sat back in his chair, adjusted his leg, looked at his two crutches leaning against the wall, then looked back at Malone. “Leave the wife outa this. Waddia wanna know?”

  “Mrs. Rockne—why did she call you?”

  “Business. She wanted me to do some work on her car.”

  “What sort of car does she have?”

  “A Honda Civic, you know that, I’ll bet. I said no, I didn’t work on that sorta junk.”

  “She rang you a second time, after you’d insulted her like that? Come on, Kelpie, what else did she want? Was it to arrange to pass on some money to you, say five thousand dollars?”

  “Why would she wanna do that?”

  “Who do you bank with, Kelpie?”

  “I told your mates here, that’s none of your business.” He looked at Clements and Kagal, gave them an ugly grin. “There, how’s that, no fucking obscene language, okay?”

  Malone stood up. “Well, it looks as if I’ve got to go back and trouble your wife again—”

  “Siddown!” Dunne leaned forward, breathing heavily; he drummed his hand on the plaster cast. “Okay, it’s the Westpac Bank, their head office. The wife dunno about that account, so it’s between you and me, okay? It’s where I keep my gambling money. She don’t like me gambling, but I can’t kick the habit, I been a gambler all me life.”

  “Righto, I’m warning you, we’re going to have a look at your account.”

  “You got a warrant to do that?”

  “We keep a stock of them, just for occasions like this. Come on, Kelpie, you know the drill.”

  “Whatever happened to fucking civil rights?”

  “You haven’t been civil since you got out of kindergarten,” said Clements. “Do we let him go, Inspector?”

  “Have Constable Dickson take him and Mrs. Dunne back home. Don’t try doing a moonlight flit, Kelpie—we’ll be keeping a twenty-four surveillance on you. You can take it for granted we’ll be bringing you in again. Thanks for your time.”

  Dunne got awkwardly to his feet, grabbed the crutches as Kagal handed them to him. He had quietened down, there were no more waves. “You still haven’t told me what this is all about.”

  “Oh, I thought you’d guessed,” said Malone. “The murder of Will Rockne.”

  Dunne shook his head; his composure was all at once rock-solid. “Then I’m safe, ain’t I? Why would I wanna waste a guy I hardly knew?”

  “For five thousand dollars and anything extra you could screw out of his widow,” said Clements.

  “Was that the reason for the phone call yesterday morning?” Kagal, up till now, had said nothing.

  Dunne, steady on his crutches now, looked at him, then at Malone. “So it’s his wife who had him bumped off?”

  Malone didn’t even glance at Kagal, though he was furious at how the younger man had played a card too soon. He was equally angry with Clements: the latter should have known better than to bring Olive into it at this stage.

  Dunne grinned at him. “You guys really dream ’em up, don’t you? Fucking theories.”

  He shook his head as if at their stupidity, then he went out of the interview room, not hurrying, as sure of himself as if he had no criminal record and had been on the other side of the world last Saturday night when Will Rockne had been murdered.

  Malone looked at Clements and Kagal. “Well, you stuffed that up.”

  “Sorry,” said Clements. “The bastard just got under my skin. But he did it, I’d have an all-up bet on that.”

  “I’ll go along with that. But it’s Olive who has to tell us why. Yes, John?”

  Kagal looked chastened, even hesitant; all his quiet cockiness had been punctured. “There was something I didn’t mention. Maybe I should have, instead of mentioning the phone call to Mrs. Rockne.”

  “What was it?” Malone kept his tone cool.

  “The next-door neighbour said they heard his car go out about ten o’clock. It came back some time after they’d gone to bed at eleven thirty. The wife, a Mrs. Rostoff, got up to have a look—I’d say she’s the sort of neighbour who wouldn’t miss anything that goes on in the street. She said the car came in with its lights off, something Dunne usually doesn’t do. She complained once that the car lights woke them up and Kelpie evidently told her to get stuffed, though she didn’t use those words, and he used to put the lights on high-beam just to annoy her. But last Saturday night he came in with the lights off. She saw him get out of the car, he was on his
own, Mrs. Dunne wasn’t with him.”

  “I wonder if Mrs. Dunne knew where he’d been? But she’s never going to tell us.”

  IV

  Kagal got the warrant and came back from Westpac’s head office with a copy of Dunne’s bank statement. Nine and a half thousand dollars had been deposited in cash in Dunne’s account last Friday, the day before the murder.

  “I’ll bet that’s Mrs. Rockne’s five thousand, less five hundred he kept in his pocket.” Kagal had regained his cool cockiness, but Malone could sense the underlying eagerness to rush on, to bring the case to a conclusion. There was a coldness about him that Malone had never remarked before and he wondered if Kagal ever looked past the killer to the victim; or to all those on the periphery of a murder, the other, still alive victims. “But where did the other five thousand come from?”

  “Unless Olive, like her husband, also has a little secret account?” said Clements.

  “How much is in Kelpie’s account altogether?”

  “Ten thousand four hundred. Judging by the withdrawals and the few deposits, he hasn’t been too lucky lately with his gambling.”

  “No wonder he called up Olive again—he was leaning on her for more money. Would he know about the five million?”

  “The point is,” said Clements, “did she know about it and she’s been bullshitting us that she knew nothing?”

  “Well,” said Malone, “the first thing is to keep Kelpie in place. Tell Penrith we want him kept under strict surveillance, not to let him out of their sight. Second, get on to Immigration and tell them to keep a check on him at all airports. He won’t get far if that’s all the cash he has, but Olive may come good with some more if he’s leaning on her. Then let Sergeant Ellsworth out at Maroubra know what’s happening.” He reached for his jacket and hat. “You do that, John. Russ and I are going out to see Mrs. Rockne.”