by Jon Cleary
“Me, too.”
III
Picking up a scent is a primitive instinct; the reaction to it is also primitive. Malone knew that Clements, and even Kagal, sensed his excitement, even though he was outwardly his usual laconic self. The scent of Angela Bodalle’s evil, criminality, call it what you like, had come on accidental currents, but chance, he had read somewhere, was the nickname of Providence.
“We’ll work backwards,” he said. “I may be way off the mark, but let’s assume Angela did in Kelpie and his wife. So how did she get out to Penrith? She wouldn’t have used her Ferrari, too conspicuous. So she borrowed a car or rented one. John, get on to all the car rental businesses in Sydney, starting on the North Shore, get someone to help you if you need him. Find out if she rented a car last Sunday.”
“Do I let the car people know I’m looking for a particular client, or do I ask to see all their rentals for the weekend?”
“That might take too long. No, ask if they rented to a Mrs. Bodalle—she’d have to show her driving licence and I doubt if she’d have a fake one. If word gets back to her that we’re looking into her, what’ve we got to lose? I don’t think she’s a panicker, but a little worry might do her some harm. If we’re lucky.”
“Do we drop a hint to Olive Rockne that we’re investigating her girlfriend?” said Clements.
“It might be an idea. I’ll call in there on my way home tonight, pretend I’m checking on their protection, her and the kids.”
“What happens to the kids if and when we bring in Olive and Angela?”
“Don’t ask me. I don’t think about it.”
“What about a phone tap? Olive and Angela might be dykes, but women love the phone.”
“How does Romy put up with you?”
“I never pass opinions like that in front of her.”
“Righto, apply for a phone tap permit. As soon as you can get it.”
Later, when he was preparing to leave the office, Grace Ditcham rang. “Can I buy you a drink, Scobie? I have something you might like to hear. The Inter-Continental, in half an hour. Don’t keep me waiting, in case they think I’m a hooker looking for trade.”
“I’ll slip you fifty as soon as we meet. That should get as both thrown out.”
“Fifty? When did you last see a hooker’s price list?”
When he arrived at the Inter-Continental the driveway was busy. He turned the family Commodore, which badly needed a wash and had the back seat full of the children’s junk, over to a parking attendant, who looked as if he didn’t want to soil his uniform by getting into such a heap; Malone wouldn’t have been surprised if he had pushed the car down the ramp to the hotel garage. He went into the hotel and Grace Ditcham was waiting for him in the lounge under the towering atrium. They ordered drinks, a vodka and tonic for her and a beer for him, and he waited for her to tell him what she wanted him to hear.
“You’ll owe me, Scobie, okay?” He nodded. “Angela Bodalle, who used to be Angela Arcourt. Her father was a GP and her mother was a psychiatrist. She was an only child. Both parents are dead now.”
The Cortile lounge, as it was called, was filling up, mostly with American and Japanese tourists or businessmen. The hotel had been constructed round the old nineteenth-century State Treasury building, the preserved part fitting in well with the new, and this meeting place had a certain charm to it. Malone had been here only once or twice before, always on business, though the atmosphere was not one that suggested talk of homicide. Although certain Treasurers had died here, politically, and their ghosts still walked.
“Her parents died just after she married Lester Bodalle.”
Malone sipped his beer. “Grace, you could’ve told me all this over the phone.”
She ignored that. “Now comes the interesting bit. When Angela was eighteen, the year she left school and before she could enter university, her mother got another psychiatrist to admit Angela to a private clinic out at Castle Hill.”
“How long was she there?”
“Ten months.”
He put down his glass, leaned forward. “Where’d you get all this?”
“You guys aren’t the only ones with informers. I dug up a nurse who worked at the clinic. Angela was one of her patients. No violent behaviour, except for one occasion—she attacked this particular nurse. There’s a book that’s a sort of psychiatric bible—” She had taken a notebook from her handbag and now she referred to it. “Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders. There are three major disorders that, according to the nurse, could have applied to Angela. Histrionic, Narcissistic—that’s a helluva word to say—and Antisocial. Though not so much of the last, not in her case. The nurse told me that Angela got on well with the other patients, joined in their discussions, though she tended to be a bit intellectually superior, despite being so young. But she was bossy, she liked to run things. The nurse chipped her about it one day and that was when Angela got violent.”
“She went berserk or what?”
“No, that was the most frightening thing, the nurse said. She was cold and calculating—but the nurse is convinced that Angela intended killing her. She had to be rescued by one of the staff and another patient.”
Malone sat silent a moment while around them the chatter seemed as light and inconsequential as the tinkling of glasses on the tables. “Any other incidents?”
“None violent. When Angela quietened down she apologized to everyone, though the nurse felt she didn’t mean a word of it. But from then on she was on her best behaviour, except once she flew into a rage with one of the other patients, though it didn’t get physical. Finally, after ten months, she was discharged. There’s no record of any further psychiatric treatment, voluntary or otherwise.”
“Do you have any notes on those disorders you mentioned?”
“I have notes on everything, Scobie. Including you.”
“I thought you might. Don’t let Fred see them. Incidentally, there’s a Japanese over there who’s looking at your legs—he’s the only Jap I’ve ever seen who’s round-eyed.”
Grace looked across at the elderly Japanese businessman, gave him a smile and pulled her short skirt down over her pretty knees. “Anything to improve foreign relations . . . The disorders. The Histrionic Personality can be dramatic and likes to draw attention to itself. That describes Angela in court, if you’ve ever seen her.”
“That describes half the barristers in town.”
“Agreed. But there’s more—there’s a craving for excitement, their behaviour in relationships tends to be intense, they become possessive—”
Malone shook his head. “I’ve watched her with Olive Rockne—she’s always in control of herself.”
“And of Olive, too, I’ll bet. Come clean, Inspector—we’re friends and I’m buying the drinks. Is Angela a suspect?”
He hesitated, glad of the chatter around them. None of the drinkers looked as if they had a care in the world; but of course they all did. One or two of them may have committed murder; or at least thought of it. “Yes,” he said. “I’ll give you first break on the story, if and when . . . But till then, nothing, okay? Not a line, not a word.”
She put out her hand. “A bargain . . . There, that proves to the old Japanese gent and that suspicious waitress over there that I’m not a hooker. Hookers never shake hands, not on a price. So how much do you have on Angela?”
“Nothing much so far, nothing we could take into court. She wouldn’t need to hire defence counsel—she could demolish us on her own. But with what you’ve just told me—” He finished his beer; he was a slow drinker. “We can start building a profile. Do me a favour—don’t go near her. I want the pressure on her to come from us.”
“Right. What about that other matter, the Shahriver Bank? Incidentally, I looked up Shahriver—I thought it might’ve been a place name. It’s not. He was one of six spirits in Persian mythology, he had another name but I can’t remember it, but he made the sun and heavens move and he ruled over
metals. Not a bad name for a bank. Has a bit more kick to it than Westpac or ANZ.”
“I’ll give you more on the bank when the other story breaks. You’ll have enough to write your own ticket at the Herald.”
“The last ones to write their own ticket at the Herald were the advisers when the first takeover took place. Millions of dollars to advise someone how to go broke. No wonder the Abos want their land back.” Her newspaper was in the hands of receivers, a 160-year-old institution driven on to the rocks by a young man, a scion of the family that had owned the newspaper all those years, who couldn’t have steered his way through a supermarket aisle. Malone felt a certain comfort in belonging to a public service. Corrupt police, certainly, had tried to take it over, but it was in no danger of going bankrupt.
Malone took a ten-dollar note out of his wallet and pressed it into her hand. “There, now they know you’re a hooker.”
“At that price, I’ll be working here all night, the johns will think it’s sale time. I could love you, Scobie, if it weren’t for Fred.”
They walked out together, the elderly Japanese staring after them with unabashed Oriental inscrutability.
IV
It was midday Thursday when John Kagal came in with the results of his research: one the outcome of his assigned task, the other of something he had attempted on his own initiative. His smug look of satisfaction took the edge off Malone’s satisfaction at what Kagal told him.
“Mrs. Bodalle rented a car last Sunday afternoon from a small outfit called Luna Rentals, they’re in Neutral Bay. She took the car back on Monday morning, first thing. It was a grey Toyota, there must be hundreds, maybe thousands like it around Sydney. She rented it once before, last Saturday week, the same car. I asked the manager how she’d arrived at his place and he said she’d come both times by taxi. So she was keeping the red Ferrari under wraps.”
“Good work, John. We’ll have to talk to Mrs. Bodalle, but not just yet. You’ve got something else?”
Kagal had flipped open his notebook to another page. “I did this off my own bat. Was it okay?”
“Let’s hear it first.”
“I went out to Liverpool, to the Hume Highway, and checked with the guy who bought Mr. Jones’s Merc. Or Mr. Collins, as he called himself out there. He said our friend, as far as he could remember, walked off the car lot, said he didn’t need a lift. The cheque for the Merc was made out in the name of B. Collins. Twenty thousand dollars for a nineteen eighty-three 280CE. The guy said Jones, or Collins, didn’t even quibble, just took the money and walked.”
“You’re dying to tell me something.”
Kagal smiled. “Of course I am. I drove up and down the highway. I figured that if Jones walked, then he wasn’t going to walk far—the bus service along there is few and far between. All along that stretch there are used car lots. Sure enough—”
Sure enough, you hit the target, bull’s-eye; but Malone had enough grace to keep his mouth shut.
“Sure enough—bull’s eye! Five minutes’ walk down the road and he bought a blue nineteen eighty-eight Nissan Pulsar. Wrote out a bank cheque for thirteen thousand dollars.”
“Which bank? The Shahriver?”
“No, the Commonwealth.”
“You get the registration number of his new car?”
“Naturally.” Kagal’s look was as condescending as a professor’s towards a first-year student. “But I checked with Motor Registry—he hasn’t notified them yet that he’s the new owner. I’d say he doesn’t want the wheels for too long. He’s planning to skip as soon as he’s done whatever he has to do.”
“Why didn’t he rent a car? That’s a devil’s advocate’s question.” Malone sounded defensive and was irritated at himself.
“I guess he figured that would be easier to trace than if he bought one. I had no trouble finding Mrs. Bodalle.” Again the self-satisfied look. But Malone had to accept it: Kagal had done a good, quick job, more than he’d been asked for.
“Righto, put out an ASM on the Pulsar. As for Mrs. Bodalle, we’re already working on her.”
“I was hoping—”
“What? That you could work on her? She’s too old and experienced for you, John. You can work on the young ones, Russ and I don’t have the stamina any more.”
Kagal went away, on an assured road to an assured destination: the Commissionership. And I’ll help put him there, thought Malone: despite his dislike of the younger man, his reports on Kagal would always be fair. Sometimes he wished he could be a mean, self-centred sonofabitch.
11
I
ANGELA BODALLE knew at four thirty that afternoon that they were closing in on her. The manager of Luna Rentals rang her in her chambers after she had just ushered out two Turkish businessmen who wanted her to defend them against charges of extortion. Sure, the man who was accusing them was a Greek and they hated him, but what fool would think he could get money out of a Greek? Angela had kept a straight face, assured the Turks and their solicitor, a Lebanese, that she would consider their case and had ushered them out. She never enjoyed cases in which there was any ethnic conflict. Prejudice unbalanced too many juries; even some judges. Her own only prejudice was of gender.
“Mrs. Bodalle, don’t be offended when I ask you this. But did you get into any bother with the police when you had one of our cars out last Sunday? I mean, like speeding or something? In an accident?”
“Mr. Foote, there wasn’t a scratch on the car I rented, not when I returned it.”
“Don’t get me wrong, Mrs. Bodalle. I’m not saying there was. It’s just that the police have been here asking if you rented a car Sunday night. And the previous Saturday. I had to tell ’em yes—”
She hung up in his ear, suddenly cold: not with fear, but with something she could not immediately define. Anger, hatred? Yes, that was it, hatred: of that man Malone. He had thrown his net and somehow, unbelievably, he had caught her in it. One of her few weaknesses, though she rarely admitted it to herself and certainly not now, was that she would admit to no weakness. That was contradictory, but years ago they had told her in the clinic that people like herself would always suffer from contradictions that she would not recognize. Abruptly she forgot Malone, slamming the door of her mind on him, and was angry at herself. Now wasn’t the time to start wondering where she had gone wrong: the past was past and now she had to protect her future. Hers and Olive’s.
She rang Olive, felt a certain reassurance in her lover’s voice, even though she knew that she herself was the protector. “Darling, we have to talk. Are those damned police still parked outside your place?”
“Would you believe they are camped in the garage? My mother is even feeding them!”
“Darling, I think you’d better tell the police you don’t want any more protection—tell them it’s upsetting the children.”
“Can I do that? Tell them to get lost?”
“Of course. You’re not under police surveillance—you’re under police protection. You’ll have to talk to some senior officer—”
“Malone? No, Angela, I can’t talk to him.”
Angela smiled to herself; Olive, if she could have seen the smile, wouldn’t have liked it. “Darling, swallow your feelings about the man. He’s a shit, but they all are. No, get in touch with him, now, and tell him you want the protection lifted. You’ll take responsibility for your own safety and that of Jason and Shelley.”
There was a short silence at the other end of the line. “I don’t know . . . The police are getting on my nerves, but . . . what if Mr. Jones comes back?”
“Darling, what’s the bigger risk? The police in your back yard or some mysterious Mr. Jones who probably has already been scared off by the police?”
“What risk are you talking about? Are you expecting me to break down or something in front of the police? Sometimes, Angela, you treat me as if I were a child—”
“Olive—” She was losing her grip, not attending to detail. “Is there anyone there in the
house with you? Your mother? The children?”
“No.” Olive’s voice was sharp. “Do you think I’d be talking like this if there were? God, sometimes you’re as bad as Will. I’m not dumb, Angela. Unless . . .”
“Unless what?”
“Would they have my phone tapped?”
This time there was silence at her own end of the line. She was losing her grip: God, how could she have overlooked such a detail? “I’ll pick you up in half an hour. Tell the police you’re going out with me, they can follow us if they like. That’s all.” She hung up as abruptly as she had in the ear of the car rental manager. Too much had already been said on the line.
When she arrived outside the Rockne house she didn’t get out of the Ferrari but just tooted the horn. Olive came out, crossed the pavement and got into the car. A moment later a white unmarked Commodore reversed down the driveway and swung in behind the Ferrari as Angela pulled it away from the kerb.
Olive reached across and put her hand on Angela’s thigh. “I’m sorry I was so snappy on the phone. God, I want to touch you—”
“Not now, darling. We’re supposed to be lawyer and client. Your hair looks better that way. I don’t like you with that severe look.”
“It doesn’t make me look butch, does it?” She looked relieved when Angela smiled and shook her head. She was wearing her hair loose today; she looked more feminine, almost as frilly as she once used to look. “I did it this way for you. Where are we going?”
“Out to Maroubra.”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake! Why?”
“What happened last Saturday week is still on your mind, right?”
“Of course it is! Isn’t it on yours?”
“No.” Which was the truth. Years ago the doctors had remarked upon her ability to shut her mind at will. She had no regrets, no feelings at all at what had been done. “If ever something traumatic happened to me, my mother would make me go back and face it.”
“She was a psychiatrist? She sounds more like a sadist.”
