by Jon Cleary
Malone made no comment. The phone rang: it was Clarrie Binyan, dry and matter-of-fact as usual. “Scobie, Penrith sent in the two bullets they took out of Dunne and his missus. Both bullets came out of the same gun that killed Rockne.”
“We’re sure a silencer was used, Clarrie. Any markings from it?”
“No, the bullets are clean of everything but the matching grooves and lands, same’s on the Rockne bullet. If a silencer was used, the baffles this time didn’t get in the way. Find the gun and the bloke who fired it and I promise you a conviction.”
“Gee, thanks.” Drily.
“Up yours.” Just as drily.
Malone hung up and looked at Clements. “It was the same gun. I’m willing to bet Kelpie himself made that silencer they found in the junk box at Hamill’s. But did he make two silencers? If not, where did the killer pick up the second one to fit the Ruger—if it is a Ruger?”
“You can still buy ’em over the counter in South Australia, but the guys who’ve been selling them under the counter here in New South have been very shy since the Strathfield massacre. That madman didn’t use a silencer, thank Christ—he might of killed even more people before anyone realized what was going on. The hullabaloo since, about guns, has had the gun shops being very cautious about who they sell to. I got that from Clarrie last week. He’s got his informers in the trade and they tell him everyone is playing it very quiet. But that’s not to say you can’t buy what you want if you’re prepared to pay for it. Things are nowhere near as bad as they are in the States, but we’re heading that way. You know what’s happened to Hamill’s?”
“The Motor Squad closed it down, at least temporarily, so, put John Kagal on to tracking down Hamill’s foreman. Find out who worked beside Kelpie in the workshop. Get John to lean on him, find out if he ever saw Kelpie doing any work for himself—all the equipment would be there for making something like a silencer or cutting down a gun. It’s a long shot, but Kelpie may have made a couple of silencers while he was at it. They’re always in demand.” He looked at his watch. “You want to come out to Waverley with me? Olive’s case has been put back, she doesn’t come before the magistrate till eleven.”
They drove out to Waverley, an inner eastern suburb that had hardly changed in the past half-century; perhaps the faces of the locals had changed, but the landscape of small solid houses had remained much the same. The courthouse, on a main road, was a nondescript modern building that did nothing for the majesty of the law; from the outside it could have been a sex clinic or an annexe of cells to the police station beside it. An overhang of trees took some of the bareness off it.
The two Homicide men were met by Ellsworth and Sally Franz and taken into a side room; both looked even glummer than Malone and Clements. Miss Franz was dressed in a black suit this morning, an appropriate colour. “I talked with the Director before I came out here this morning. This murder of Mr. Dunne rather puts the kybosh on things.”
“What does the Director think?”
“Without Dunne—and we were never sure he was going to say anything—what have we got? We know from that eyewitness, what’s-his-name, the actuary, that Mrs. Rockne was nowhere near her husband when he was shot. The conspiracy charge is all circumstantial now that Dunne has been eliminated. Angela Bodalle will wipe the floor with us in five minutes if we go into court as we stand now. The DPP suggests we drop the charges.”
“That leaves us with a lot of egg on our face,” said Ellsworth.
The two senior detectives, those whose faces would carry the omelette, looked at him and he got the message and had the grace to look embarrassed. Then Malone said, “Is Angela Bodalle here?”
“She’s with Mrs. Rockne in the holding cell.” Sally Franz looked at her watch. “We’ve got ten minutes to make up our minds.”
“We have no say in it, have we? The DPP’s already decided.”
She nodded. “I’m afraid so.”
“Righto, let’s get the case dismissed. Are you disappointed, Sally?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know. Yes and no. It would have been my first murder trial, the Director was going to let me assist whichever QC was appointed. But up against Mrs. Bodalle . . .”
“If the DPP had any sense of humour, he’d have appointed her as the Crown Prosecutor. She’s just won a prosecution case.”
Outside the court, after the magistrate, a man this time, had made some disparaging remarks about ill-prepared cases and discharged Olive, a small band of media vigilantes fell on Malone and Clements.
“Inspector—” She was a gangly girl from one of the radio stations who, Malone knew, had once ruined a drug bust by breaking a news embargo. She used her microphone like a gun, thrusting it forward menacingly. Her cynicism was like her make-up, too thick, and Malone had experienced her aggression several times before. “What happened? Were the police looking for an arrest, come what may?”
“We’re always looking for an arrest in a murder. Would you prefer we didn’t?” That cheap shot would get him a rebuke from someone higher up.
“There’s been a suggestion—”
“Who by? What suggestion?”
“Well, are we talking murder or suicide mode here?”
Malone kept a straight face. “We’re in doubt mode on that.”
“Thanks for nothing,” she said and, in huff mode, backed off.
“Oh, excuse me!” Clements managed to tread on two feet, putting down all his weight, as he pushed a way for himself and Malone through the small crush. He raised a hand and pushed a television cameraman’s camera back into his eye, “Damn, there I go again, using unnecessary force. Don’t forget to report that to Civil Liberties.”
Free of the reporters, the two detectives crossed to their car. But one of the reporters, a small blonde woman, followed them. “Hello, Scobie, Russ. In a bad mood this morning?”
“Hello, Grace. Are you going to make us feel even worse?”
She smiled and shook her head. She was in her thirties, her prettiness baked too hard by too much time on the beach; she could be hard in her reporting, too, but she was always fair. “I know how it is. I knew Kelpie Dunne.” Her sources were varied and dangerous. “Was he connected to the Rockne murder?”
“Off the record, yes.”
“Anything I can do to help? You won’t be quoted.”
Malone hesitated, looked at Clements, then back at Grace Ditcham. “There’s some money involved—” He told her about the money in the private bank account. “You’ll have to be careful how you handle the story on that, otherwise you’ll have Angela Bodalle on your neck.”
“I can handle Angela. We’ve known each other off and on for years. I did a couple of stories on her husband before he was killed. Leave the money story with me. I’ll handle it as if I stumbled on it all by my little self. Shahriver International? I love asking banks questions they don’t want to answer. Smile, Scobie. You look much better. You too, Russ.”
She went off and the two detectives looked at each other. “It’s worth a try,” said Malone. “It might stir up Mr. Jones.”
“I seem to remember you wanted things stirred up for Kelpie. It got him killed.”
As he went to get into the police Commodore Malone saw Angela Bodalle moving towards her red Ferrari parked along the street. He told Clements to wait for him, then headed for the lawyer. She straightened up from unlocking the door of her car and waited for him, her expression giving no hint what her reception of him would be.
“Has Olive gone?”
“Yes, Jason sneaked her away while those reporters were feeding on you and Sergeant Clements.”
“I didn’t expect you to be here. I thought you’d be in court for the sentencing on the Filbert case.”
“I’ve been there, it was all over in fifteen minutes. The judge gave Mr. Filbert life. The case was just too easy, Filbert folded up and it was all over before we got into second gear.” She patted the roof of the Ferrari, as if to emphasize the metaphor. “You must b
e upset, the way your case has folded up. But the other way round, with Olive just walking away free, as she should.”
“You must be pleased with yourself. A successful prosecution and a successful defence, all in the one week.”
“I didn’t have to defend Olive, Inspector. You never had a case against her.”
Despite his dislike of her, Malone found himself admiring her. He was married to a woman who had poise; Angela had it, too. This morning she also had the sweet smell of success about her, like an expensive perfume. She was wearing a beige suit and a cream silk blouse, a tan handbag hung from one shoulder and a heavy gold bracelet glittered like a prize as she lifted her arm. Not a hair on her shining dark brown head was out of place and her make-up, unlike the radio girl’s, was just perfect. She was too perfect, he decided, the ultimate successful woman. He just wondered why he didn’t feel at ease with her, why he felt he couldn’t trust her. He was not a male chauvinist, or at least he told himself he wasn’t; and Lisa and Claire saw to it that he should not be. And yet . . .
“Are you going to leave Olive alone now?” she asked.
“The case isn’t closed yet. And there’s still Mr. Jones.”
“Yes.” She considered that, looked troubled. “Are you now thinking he killed Will and then Mr. Dunne? A pity you didn’t follow that line before.”
“If all murders went in a straight line, our job would be a breeze. You know things don’t work like that. If they did, you barristers wouldn’t earn the money you do.”
“Is that what bothers you, Inspector—the money I earn?”
“Not at all. Like all cops, I think I’m underpaid, but I really don’t care what other people earn. So long as they make it honestly.”
“Thank you.” She smiled. “I make mine honestly. Some day you and I may work on the same side in court. Prosecuting Mr. Jones, maybe? I’ll look forward to that.”
“In the meantime, if you’re seeing Olive, tell her we’ll be giving her police protection until we bring in Mr. Jones for questioning.”
“She won’t like it. She’s had enough of the police.”
“I think you should advise her to accept the protection. Mr. Jones isn’t going to let go of that five million dollars without another try for it. If Olive wants a quiet, safe life from now on, she’ll have to give up any idea of keeping that money.”
“I’ve already told her that. But would you turn your back on that much money?”
“I’m a tight man with a dollar, so my wife and kids tell me. I wouldn’t know what to do with five million.”
She smiled. “You’d find a use for it. So will Olive, I suppose. But I’ll warn her about Mr. Jones.”
She got into her car and drove away, not showing off by burning rubber, the red Ferrari sliding smoothly into the traffic like a salmon into a shoal. Malone walked back to Clements and the Commodore.
“You looked like old mates. What’d she have to say?”
“You’re right, she was almost friendly. At least she didn’t sneer at me.” He filled Clements in on the brief conversation. “Maybe she’s going to be easier to deal with than Olive. Now let’s go and have another talk with Bernie Bezrow.”
It took them only ten minutes to drive from Waverley to Coogee. When they got out of the car and approached the gates of Tiflis Hall, the white bull terriers, pink eyes almost red with anticipation, were waiting for them, fangs exposed and growling in their throats. Clements spoke into the intercom and a moment later there was the piercing whistle from the hidden sound system. The dogs gave a disappointed snarl, like lions who had been told the Christians had just recanted, then turned and went helter-skelter up the garden path and disappeared round the back of the house.
“The neighbours must love that,” said Malone. “There’d be a lot of headaches in this street from that whistle.”
They made their way up through the garden terraces and were greeted at the front door by the Filipino maid, who still looked apprehensive, still not sure that they were not from Immigration. She ushered them into the same room where they had met Bezrow last Sunday week. He was seated in the same double-chair, as much a fashion-plate as when they had seen him last, but this time looking like a huge blue moon. He didn’t rise, but at least greeted them with a smile.
“Another visit? What can I contribute this time? From what I read in the papers, you have already arrested Mrs. Rockne for the murder of poor Will. It’s happening more and more, wives disposing of their spouses. I’m a widower, fortunately.”
“We’ve just had to let Mrs. Rockne go. Not enough evidence.”
“So that’s why you’re here again? Scraping the bottom of the barrel for any evidence at all? No, I don’t mean that, Inspector. Forgive me.”
“There was another murder last night—Kelpie Dunne. It’s rather complicated things.”
“Oh yes, I saw that in the papers, too.” He looked at his watch; the gold on his wrist would have cost Malone a month’s pay at least. “Is this going to be a long interview?”
“It could be. Depends on how long or short your answers are.”
Bezrow smiled. “I can be very terse when it’s necessary, Inspector. But I’m about to have lunch—I always eat early. Will you join me or would that be looked upon as consorting?”
“I think we could stretch a point.”
Bezrow rang for the maid, asked for two more places to be set, then led the two detectives through the house and out to a conservatory that looked down over the slope of red-tiled houses and flat-roofed flats to the sea. Out on the horizon alps of clouds were massed and, closer in, a long bulk-carrier crawled north like part of an almost stationary freight train. All that spoiled the view was a security grille that entirely covered the conservatory. Bezrow and his guests were seated at the luncheon table in a glass-lined cage. Bezrow noticed the detectives’ quizzical look at what surrounded them.
“Ridiculous, isn’t it? This was to be a hothouse where I could eat among flowers even in winter. Instead it is like eating in one of those new five-star jails. But it’s necessary these days, I’m afraid.”
The maid brought them smoked salmon and thin slices of toast and Bezrow poured three glasses of riesling. “I hope you’re not big eaters in the middle of the day?”
“No,” said Clements, avoiding Malone’s eye. “Not before one o’clock, anyway.”
Bezrow smiled, looked at Malone; he seemed entirely at ease, as if he had policemen to lunch every day in the week. “The sergeant obviously is a trencherman. So am I—or was. Here’s to success with your enquiries.” He raised his glass. “But what are the questions to which you want long answers?”
“Did you know Mr. Dunne?”
The fat face had a faint fold in it across the brows; then the frown faded. “Oh, last night’s victim! Yes, I knew him. Slightly.”
“How slightly?” The smoked salmon was good, the best: Lisa would have approved of it.
“He bet with me occasionally.”
“More than occasionally, according to his bets book. Twice a week at least for the past six months.”
“That often?” The surprise was well feigned. “He was a small punter, Inspector, a hundred here, a couple of hundred there. I don’t want to sound like one of our bankrupt entrepreneurs, all of whom seem to have defective memories, but I don’t keep track of all those who bet regularly with me. Not unless they are big punters, a thousand, five thousand, ten thousand at a time. My penciller keeps tabs on the others.”
“Charlie Lawson?” said Clements.
“You’re well informed, Sergeant. Yes, Charlie Lawson. He’d be the one who would have taken Mr. Dunne’s bets.”
“These would have been SP bets?”
“Are we men of the world?” Bezrow looked at them both above the rim of his glass.
Malone grinned, sipping his own wine: it, too, was the best. “We’re not from the Gaming Squad. Go ahead, Mr. Bezrow, what you tell us about your SP business stays here in this—” he looked around the
m “—glass house.”
Bezrow nodded; they were men after his own heart, pragmatic. “Starting price betting answers a need. Like prostitution or religion. Yes, I would say that all of Mr. Dunne’s bets with us were SP bets.”
“There was also a three thousand to five hundred bet on the Panthers in yesterday’s grand final,” said Clements.
Bezrow gave a mock grimace of pain. “Don’t mention yesterday. I feel as if I’ve been hit by the entire pack of Penrith forwards. Mr. Dunne’s bet, at those odds, wouldn’t have been at the starting price.”
“What sort of car do you drive?” Malone had finished the smoked salmon, wondered if that was all that would be served. Especially if the questions got too close to the bone.
“A Rolls. Why?”
“Where do you have it serviced? At the Rolls-Royce dealers?” He looked directly at their host, letting him know that the questioning now was turning sharp.
Bezrow took his time, chewing slowly on the last of his toast and smoked salmon. “No. It is serviced at a place called Hamill’s. They specialize in quality cars.”
“They also specialized in stolen cars. The Motor Squad has closed them down. Did Kelpie Dunne work on your Rolls?”
“I wouldn’t know.” The fat man’s gaze was as steady as Malone’s. “My chauffeur always takes the car there. I don’t drive, Inspector. Was that where Mr. Dunne worked? What a coincidence.”
“We find coincidence crops up every day in police work—we’d be surprised if it didn’t. Did he do anything else for you besides service your car?”
The maid came in, took away their plates and came back with a crystal salad bowl and a silver tray on which there were three small steaks. Malone wondered if Bezrow ate in such style every day or whether this was to impress a couple of working cops. Bezrow waited till the maid had gone, then said, “Would you like a claret with the steak or will you stay with the white?”
“Red always makes me sleepy in the middle of the day,” said Malone; and Clements looked disappointed.
“We can’t afford that, can we?” said Bezrow. “None of us . . . Did Mr. Dunne do anything else for me? This white is a chardonnay, from the Hunter. I have a half-interest in a small vineyard up there. What else did Mr. Dunne do?”
