by Jon Cleary
“It worked—for me, anyway. Darling, the police are going to come back at us. You are going to have to think, and talk, absolutely cold-bloodedly, about last Saturday week. Totally convince yourself and them that you don’t know what happened that night. You understand me?”
She had not told Olive that it was she who had had to shoot Will, that Kelpie Dunne, having been driven by her to the car park in the rented Toyota, had refused to go ahead with the hit because there were too many cars in the park and he didn’t know how many of them had people in them. There had been a short, fierce argument, then she had got out of the Toyota, gone across to the Volvo and shot Will as he had turned and looked at her in shock in the moment before he died. Olive, some distance away, her back turned, had seen nothing.
“Ye-es, I understand.” Olive said nothing for a while as Angela took the Ferrari up past Randwick cemetery where Will lay buried in the silent village of graves. She didn’t look towards the cemetery, but kept her gaze on the road ahead. She still felt fragile, more so beside the composed Angela. She would never describe herself as such to anyone, but she felt like a figurine that had been smashed and then put back together again with glue that had dried too quickly. At last she said, “Jason hasn’t spoken to me since Monday night. He spent the night with that slut Jill, then came home this morning and went straight to school. I hope he showered first,” she said primly.
“Was he home when I picked you up?”
“No. Shelley is—Mum went up to pick her up at school. But Jason . . . What can I do with him?”
“He’ll come round. The kids of today are more broad-minded than our generation was. Or is. Does your mother know? I mean, about us?”
Olive shook her head; her hair bounced. “That’s not going to be easy, either. Oh God, why isn’t the world more understanding?”
If she were to tell Angela the truth, she had not yet really come to terms with her own lesbianism. She had had crushes on other girls when she was young, but nothing physical had come of them. Sex with Will and the other men, before him, with whom she had gone to bed had been enjoyable, but something had always been missing; she had been, she’d told herself, no more than the means to a man’s end. She had said that once to Will, after they had made love, but he hadn’t seen the joke. Angela had taught her fulfilment and over the past few months she had been happier, physically and emotionally, than she had ever been in her life before. And yet . . .
“If Will had been more understanding,” said Angela, “we shouldn’t have had to kill him.”
Olive looked sideways at her, said warily, “That sounds bloody cold-blooded.”
Angela recognized her mistake; she took her hand off the wheel and pressed Olive’s knee. “That was the lawyer in me talking, darling. I love you. That’s all you have to remember.”
When she pulled the Ferrari into the car park outside the surf club at Maroubra, the police car followed it and parked facing it, twenty metres away. Angela looked at it and said, “They probably don’t remember, but that’s exactly where your Volvo was parked. Have you got it back yet?”
“What?”
“The Volvo—have you got it back yet?”
“No, not yet. The police released it and my brother-in-law took it somewhere to have the blood cleaned out of it. They’ll have to put new carpet in the front.” She shuddered, looking at the police car, seeing it turn into the silver Volvo, seeing the bright sunlight fade into the light and shadows of night. She closed her eyes, made a tiny whimpering sound, then opened her eyes; the police car faced her and another Commodore had pulled in beside it. “Who’s that? Oh damn!”
Sergeant Ellsworth, the sun bright on his red head, got out of the second car and came towards them. He squatted down beside the low-slung Ferrari and said, “What are you doing out here, ladies?”
“Mrs. Rockne,” said Angela levelly; she had anticipated such a question, “is trying to set the scene in her mind again of what happened here last Saturday week. She’s trying to recall something, anything, she might have seen that would help you trace the man who killed her husband.”
Out of habit Ellsworth had approached the Ferrari on the driver’s side; he had to speak across the lawyer to the client. “And have you recalled anything, Mrs. Rockne?”
“No.” Olive was trembling inside; the glue was coming apart. But outwardly she appeared calm; the composure of her lover beside her helped. She thought, incongruously at the moment, that she had never felt any calming presence from Will, not over the past couple of years. She had never thought of herself as timid, but she had always welcomed anyone prepared to make decisions for her; Will had been a natural at that, though in the end he had become too overbearing. Then Angela, strong but calm and loving, had come along. “No, it’s all a jumble in my mind. Have you come up with anything?”
“We were depending on you, Mrs. Rockne.”
“What does that mean?” said Angela.
“I thought it was obvious, Mrs. Bodalle. Mrs. Rockne was the closest witness. We were hoping that her memory might’ve cleared, that she might’ve identified Kelpie Dunne.”
“You think he killed Mr. Rockne?”
“It’s not for us to judge. What do you think?”
“Well, we’ll never know, shall we? It’s a pity you hadn’t given him better protection.”
“That’s why we’ve increased our protection of Mrs. Rockne. We’re going to increase it even more. We don’t think your children, Mrs. Rockne, should be unprotected.” He straightened up, leaning down for the last word: “Don’t make our job any harder than it is.”
He walked away and Angela said, “They know.”
“Know what?”
“That we did it.”
“They don’t know we did it. They think Mr. Dunne did it. But who killed him?”
“I did,” said Angela.
And instantly was furious with herself. Her boastfulness was part of her flamboyance, there had always been the urge to be noticed. There was, however, a difference between being noticed for her successful defence of criminals and her own defence. She had murdered Lester to gain her freedom, she had murdered Will to possess Olive and she had murdered Kelpie Dunne because he had threatened to betray her. She must not be trapped into boasting of any of those crimes.
“No,” she said, “I mustn’t joke. I don’t know, darling, who killed him. I’m beginning to think it might have been our Mr. Jones.”
“I hope so.” But Olive really wasn’t thinking about Mr. Jones: “Darling, no more jokes, okay? Killing Will—that was enough.”
Angela pressed her lover’s hand. “No more jokes. All we have to do is keep our nerve.”
II
Jason, guiltily, held Claire’s hand. “It’s just, hon, that, you know, I’ve been—well, I dunno, elsewhere. In my head, I mean. Today, in class, Brother Aidan twice asked me if I’d like to leave and go home. Not sarcastic—I mean, he was understanding. But I wasn’t there, in the classroom, you know what I mean?”
He was glad that Claire was not dumb enough to ask exactly where he had been. In his mind he had been everywhere: with Jill; watching his mother and Angela again; even with his father when Dad had been alive. But he couldn’t tell Claire any of that. She was his friend (which was all she was, he realized now) and he wanted her to remain so. When Jill had sent him home on Tuesday morning he had known she was telling him, without saying it, not to knock on her door again. Not in any cruel, callous way; she was telling him, again without saying it, that he had no right to hang his problems about her neck. And he had suddenly become adult enough to recognize it.
The coffee lounge’s sound system was playing “Calling Elvis”: Dire Straits were reviving memories for near-oldies like Brick. Brick himself lounged behind the counter, not really hearing the music of the present but that of the past, of the King Himself.
“What are the guys like now?” said Claire.
“They don’t look at me like I’m a freak any more. It’s weird, you know. Your father
is murdered and some guys, they look at you like you had something to do with it. I don’t mean that’s what they really think, but that’s the way they act. One thing, I’m really learning about people.”
“Are you learning anything about yourself?”
She’s smart, he thought: the best sort of friend to have. Dumb friends were no use, you finished up helping them. “A lot. But I dunno whether it’s gunna do me any good. You want another Coke?”
“No, thanks. I’ve gotta go. I’ve got so much study—I’m like you, I think my mind’s elsewhere.” She put her hand on his. “You’ll be okay, Jay. Really. I wish I could kiss you.”
He lifted her hand, kissed her knuckles, a real Continental, Marcello Mastroianni from Coogee; he saw Brick, one eye on them, raise an eyebrow, then nod approvingly. Impulsively he said, “You wanna go to a movie Saturday night?”
“Sure. How about City Slickers? I’d like to see that. You seen it?”
“No,” he lied gallantly.
Once outside Brick’s they held hands a moment while they said goodbye. Then Claire turned and walked away, pausing in her stride to glance back over her shoulder at him. He was smiling after her when someone beside him said, “Come with me, Jason. Don’t act foolish, just do as you are told and you won’t get hurt.”
He turned and saw Mr. Jones, one hand in a pocket of his jacket as if he were holding a gun. Then Claire came running back: “Jay, I forgot! Saturday night—”
There was no one on the pavement near them; no one had followed them out of Brick’s. Two old women stood at a bus stop on the opposite side of the road, complaining to each other that buses, nothing, ever ran on time these days. Traffic went by, but the cars and trucks might just as well have had no drivers or passengers. A long-haired youth zoomed by on a skateboard lost in his own imagination. Jason, later would not believe that one could be so alone in a busy suburban street.
“This way, both of you,” said Mr. Jones. “No fuss, please. No foolishness.”
“What?” said Claire, then saw the stranger’s hand come halfway out of his pocket; a policeman’s daughter, she recognized the butt of a gun when she saw it. She was suddenly terrified. “Jay?”
“Let her go! She’s got nothing to do with this!”
“Shut up! I said, no foolishness. Just walk quietly, both of you. There, to that car there, the blue Pulsar.”
The car was parked just round a corner in a side street. Jason and Claire, each carrying their schoolbags, walked with the tall man to the car, stood like obedient pupils while he opened the doors; he could have been a teacher who had picked up a couple of wayward students on their way home. “In the back, miss. You drive, Jason.”
“I—I don’t drive—”
“I told you, boy, no foolishness. I’ve seen you drive your mother’s car—I’ve followed you. Monday night when you drove over to Tamarama. Get in!”
Jason glanced up and down the narrow street, for one moment wanting to dash somewhere for help, to yell so loudly that someone would come out of the shut-faced houses to see what was wrong. But his legs were too weak to run, his mouth too dry to shout. Obediently he got into the front seat of the car, shifted across behind the wheel and waited for Jones to follow him. Instead the tall man got into the back seat beside Claire. “I’ll ride here with your friend. What’s your name, miss?”
“Claire.” In the driver’s mirror Jason could see how scared she was; but she wasn’t about to become hysterical. “Claire Malone.”
“Fasten your seat-belt, Claire. You too, Jason. We don’t want the police pulling us up, otherwise there might be some gunfire and who knows who’d get hurt? Claire Malone? You wouldn’t be some relation of Inspector Malone, would you?”
Oh shit, thought Jason, this is where he’s going to do his block!
“Yes. He’s my father.”
Jones’s smile was no more than a thin grimace. “I hope you’re not going to threaten me with him?” Claire said nothing; and Jones tapped Jason on the shoulder. “Let’s go, boy. Turn right at the bottom of the street and I’ll give you more directions as we go along.” He sat back, took out the gun and held it in his lap. “Any foolishness and you will be shot. Take my word for it.”
It was a slow drive to wherever they were going; Jones at times seemed unsure of his directions. It was forty minutes before Jason turned the car into a street and Jones said, “That’s it. Pull up there,” and Jason recognized territory that he dimly remembered from the one visit he had made here with his father. He had been ten years old and it had been the first time he had met his grandfather’s new wife Sugar. Since then there had been outings to the movies and lunches in the city with the oldies, but he had never been back here again till now.
He pulled the car into the kerb, switched off the engine and, sick with dread, said, “Does my grandfather know about this?”
“No,” said Jones, putting the gun back in his pocket and getting out of the car. “But I’m hoping he will co-operate. So far you two have been very sensible. I hope your grandfather will be the same.”
On the other side of the road and further down the street Jason saw three Asian youths watching them. He wanted to yell at them, Get the police! But something about them told him they would take no notice: he was the alien out here.
He and Claire walked ahead of Jones up the short path to the front door; Claire was unsteady on her feet and Jason took her arm. The metal butterflies on the security door looked dead, their wings still spread; the ceramic kookaburra had had its beak broken off by vandals, the white break still undiscoloured. The front door was opened almost at once, as if Sugar had been waiting behind some window-curtain for visitors.
“Jay, what are you doing out here? What’s wrong?” Then she looked in puzzlement at Claire and Jones.
Jones said, “May we come in, Mrs. Rockne? You remember me?”
Sugar blinked; the puzzlement still veiled her face, but she said, “Oh yes. Mr.—Jones? Yes, yes, come in. George, we’ve got visitors!”
Jason’s hand was still on Claire’s elbow as they entered the house ahead of Jones; he could feel the nervousness in her and he hoped he was not communicating any of his own fear and sickness to her. Jesus, surely Pa was not involved in any of this, whatever it was!
The old man, in T-shirt, shorts and thongs, came in from the back of the house. He pulled up sharply in the living-room doorway when he saw who the visitors were. “For Chrissake, what’s going on? Jay, what’re you doing here? And who’s this?”
“My friend Claire, Pa. Inspector Malone’s daughter.”
George Rockne nodded at Claire, then looked at Jones. “What’s the joke, Igor? What’re you up to now?”
“Don’t you think we should sit down?” said Sugar, ever the hostess. She was wearing a short housecoat, but her hair was done and she was wearing earrings; she would never be caught with her face down. “How about some tea? A cool drink, Jay? Dear?”
“No, love,” said George, skinny in the T-shirt and shorts but still determined-looking, a bantam who would take on any heavyweight, “not till Igor tells me what’s going on.”
“I think it should be obvious, George,” said the Russian and took the gun from his pocket. “I’ve kidnapped these two young people. The girl was an accident—she shouldn’t be here. The boy is the one I wanted. I want your help, willingly or unwillingly, I don’t care which.” He jerked the gun, and Sugar twitched as if he had prodded her with it. George Rockne stood unmoved. “If you act sensibly, all of you, no one will be hurt. If the boy’s mother acts sensibly, I shouldn’t be here longer than tomorrow midday at the latest. I hope to be gone sooner.”
“Has this something to do with the money?”
“It has everything to do with the money, We no longer kidnap for political reasons, George. That’s all in the past. May we have tea, Mrs. Rockne? Black, weak, with lemon. Russian style.” His smile was unexpectedly charming, took the edge off what had sounded like a rude order.
Sugar
had recovered from the shock of seeing the gun; ten years in the clubs around Kings Cross had coated her with some armour-plating. She looked at Claire. “Would you like to help me, dear?”
“I’m afraid she stays in here,” said the Russian. “And Mrs. Rockne—don’t attempt to call anyone. The police, for instance.”
“Don’t tell me what to do in my own home!” She abruptly turned from being puzzled to being angry. “And put that bloody gun away! There’s no need for that!”
“Better do what she says, Igor,” said George and looked with admiring eyes after his wife as she went out to the kitchen. Then he looked at his grandson, smiled encouragingly. “Siddown, Jay. You too, Claire. Don’t be scared. I’m not gunna let Mr. Dostoyevsky hurt you.”
“Who?” said Jason.
“Oh, what’s he told you to call him? Mr. Jones? Mr. Collins? No, his name’s Dostoyevsky. Written any good books lately?”
“That joke was stale before I was ten years old,” said Dostoyevsky/Jones/Collins. “Let’s be friends, George—at least for the next twelve hours or so.”
“Why me? Why come here? Christ Almighty, Igor, how do you expect me to be your friend when you kidnap my grandson?”
“For that very reason, George. You will help me, let me hide here, because more than anything else you will want to help Jason. And his young friend.” He smiled at Claire; his charm seemed genuine. “I am truly sorry, young lady, that you had to be involved.”
“It was stupid—” Claire, seated now, no longer dependent on unsteady legs, looked composed; but she held tightly to the hand of Jason, seated on the couch beside her. “My father will have all the police force out looking for me.”
“You are threatening me—” Dostoyevsky’s smile faded, but he continued to look at her, the charm no longer working. Then he turned to Rockne. “I want to use your phone.”
“It’s there.” George Rockne nodded to the phone on a small table in the hallway just by the living-room doorway. “You want us to go outside?”
“Not at all. I don’t mind if the young people’s education is broadened.” He moved to the phone, stood in the doorway so that he covered them all with the gun. He dialled a number and waited. Then: “Mrs. Rockne? This is Mr. Jones—no, don’t hang up! I have your son here with me. And for good measure, his young friend, Claire Malone . . . Listen to me—you hear me, listen! . . .”
