Bleak Spring

by Jon Cleary

  III

  Malone was just leaving the office when the call came.

  “Inspector Malone? This is Sergeant Kisbee, I’m in charge of the phone tap on the Rockne home. I—I’ve got some bad news.”

  “Go ahead.” Bad news had become a joke; he actually smiled at the thought. “Keep me awake tonight.”

  “I’m afraid it will, Inspector. There’s just been a phone call from the Russian, Jones, to Mrs. Rockne. He’s kidnapped her son and—”

  “And who else?” Malone filled in the pause.

  Something like a deep-drawn breath came over the line: “Your daughter Claire.”

  Malone sat down heavily. “Christ, no!”

  “Something wrong?” Clements, jacket on, ready to go home, stood in the doorway.

  Malone stared at him; the voice on the phone said, “Inspector, you okay? I’m sorry I had to spring it on you like that—”

  “I’m okay.” But he wasn’t, he was sick and weak. “Fill me in. What’s he want, what’s he threatening to do?”

  “He’s told Mrs. Rockne he wants the money—he didn’t say what money, but she seemed to know—”

  “We know about it, too. Go on.” He was having trouble keeping his voice under control; he was shocked that he actually wanted to scream. “Go on—”

  “He wants the money transferred at once—tonight, he said—from the bank, I dunno which bank, he didn’t mention the name—he wants the money transferred overseas. He said a Mr. Palady—I dunno how it’s spelt—he knows what’s to be done as soon as Mrs. Rockne gets in touch with him. He gave her Palady’s home phone number—”

  “What about my daughter and the Rockne boy?”

  “He said they’d be okay if Mrs. Rockne did what she was told.”

  “Did you get a trace on the call?”

  “No, I’m sorry. We didn’t catch on what was going on till too late . . . He said he’d call back in an hour to see if she’d contacted Palady. He said he’d be contacting Palady, too. Your daughter and the boy will be released tomorrow morning if the money goes off tonight. We can trace him when he calls back in an hour. I’m sorry, Inspector—I mean the news about your daughter—”

  “Thanks. I’m going out to the Rockne home now—you can contact me there.” He hung up, looked at Clements. “The Russian has kidnapped Claire. And Jason,” he added.

  Clements nodded. “I got that. Why Claire? Jesus!” He beat a fist against the door jamb as if against the kidnapper’s head. “They’re okay so far, the kids?”

  “I dunno. I guess so. You coming with me?”

  “Of course. Gimme a minute, I’ve gotta call Romy. We were going out to dinner.”

  He went out to his desk and Malone stared at the phone on his own desk: should he call Lisa? But he knew at once that he shouldn’t. You didn’t use the phone to hit your wife with the biggest crisis of their married life; even Telecom wouldn’t recommend that. He stood up again, his body as heavy as iron, his legs hollow, and waited, actually afraid to move, while Clements, beyond the glass wall, talked on the phone. He had been in physical danger more times than he cared to remember, but his body had never gone dead on him, it had always responded. But on those occasions, of course, he had been in danger, not his daughter.

  When he saw Clements put down the phone he willed himself to walk, got himself moving. Clements said, “Romy will go out and keep Lisa company. I think she knows how to handle situations like this better than most. Come on, we’ll go in a police car.”

  “No, I’ll drive my own car home—”

  “Leave it where it is. You look like shit, mate. You wouldn’t know a red light from a sunset—we don’t want you driving through an intersection, not in peak hour. Leave it, I’ll get one of the fellers to take it home for you.”

  Once in the police car Malone had recovered; or his body had. He hardly spoke on the way out of Randwick; Clements did what little talking there was: “We’ll let him have the money, right? Christ, it was never the Rocknes’ money anyway. We’ll get Claire and the boy back first, then we’ll nail him. We’ll get him eventually, my oath we will. The thing right now is, we’ve gotta stop Lisa from expecting the worse.”

  “She’s not like that.”

  Clements looked sideways at him. “No, she’s not. I didn’t mean she was gunna go to pieces, you know that. But—” Whatever he was going to say, he decided against it and said no more till they drew up outside the Malone house.

  Lisa was in the front garden, hose in hand, when the two men came in the gate. One look told her something was wrong; she dropped the hose and it writhed like a berserk snake, water spraying wildly. “What’s wrong? It’s something to do with Claire, isn’t it? It’s six o’clock and she’s not home—”

  Clements turned off the hose. Malone didn’t put his arms round Lisa; something told him that was for tragedy and the situation wasn’t yet tragic. He took her by her elbows, held her: “Claire has been kidnapped. She and Jason Rockne—” He told her as economically and quietly as he could all that they knew: “We’ve got very little to go on at the moment, except that he doesn’t know the Rockne line is tapped. When he calls again . . .”

  He could feel the anguish in her body; but all she said was, “Why Claire? What has she got to do with all this?” She looked at Clements. “I’ve always been afraid of this. That some psycho would take it out on the kids because of something Scobie had done to him.”

  “This man’s no psycho,” Malone said. “And I’ve done nothing to him—not so far. I don’t know why he’s snatched Claire. We don’t even know yet where she and Jason were taken. Russ and I are going down to the Rockne place now—”

  “I’ll come with you—”

  “No, stay here with Tom and Maureen. Romy’s on her way, she’ll be here any minute. Get your mother and father over—” His mind was clearing, was working again; he even thought of the family jealousies: “You’d better call Mum and Dad, too. They’ll want to be here.”

  She didn’t argue. She knew that what he was suggesting was right, but her instinct was to go with him because she knew that he, as well as Tom and Maureen, would need her presence. “All right. But call me every half-hour—”

  “We may know nothing till morning—” He didn’t tell her that once the call had been traced the State Protection Group would be called in and the Russian, wherever he was, would be surrounded and a siege might have to be set up. He hoped, almost hopelessly, that Claire and Jason would be released before it came to that. He did not want a dozen high-powered guns pointed in the direction of his daughter, even in her support.

  Maureen and Tom came to the front door. “What’s happening? Dad . . . Hi, Uncle Russ! You coming for dinner?”

  “Tell them,” Malone said to Lisa, released her and went to the front gate. “I’ll see you later, you two. Look after Mum—”

  Once in the car he said, “I’m ready to bust.”

  Clements took the car quickly away from the kerb, but without burning rubber. He refrained from switching on the siren; it was as if he thought this crisis too personal to be broadcast. “Go ahead. I’ve never thought tears made a wimp of a man.”

  “No, I’m all right. It’s just—” He let anger push out fear. “I’ll kill the bastard if he hurts Claire.”

  “I’ll help,” said Clements. “I mean that.”

  There was still only the one police car on duty at the Rockne house, an unmarked white Commodore parked in front of the garage at the back of the house. The Honda Civic was parked at the top of the driveway and in front of it was the red Ferrari. Malone and Clements hurried up the driveway and the two young detectives, sitting in garden chairs, each with a beer in his hand, jumped to their feet as the two senior men came round the corner of the house.

  “Oh! Sorry, sir—” Tilleman, the burly one, looked at his hand, as if it had been caught holding a girl’s breast instead of a beer glass. “We were just—”

  “Forget it,” said Malone. “Hasn’t Mrs. Rockne tol
d you anything about a phone call she received? About forty-five minutes ago?”

  “No, sir.” Tilleman was puzzled. “Her friend, Mrs. Bodalle, brought us these beers—” He looked at the glass again, not knowing what to do with it; Clements wouldn’t have been surprised if he had tossed it over his shoulder into the gardenia bush behind him. “She didn’t say anything—”

  “Sergeant Clements will fill you in. Russ, get on to Sergeant Ellsworth, get him over here right away . . .”

  Then he went to the screen door of the garden room, knocked and opened the door as Olive came out from the inner part of the house. She was white and strained and as soon as she saw Malone she pulled up and he thought she was going to collapse.

  “Why didn’t you call me, for Chrissake!” He was so angry that, if she had collapsed, he would have stood over her, not helped her to her feet. “Jesus, woman, my daughter’s being held by that bastard!”

  “How do you know?” Angela Bodalle appeared behind Olive, put her arm round her and supported her. “Did Mr. Jones phone you, too?”

  “We’ve got her phone tapped—” He nodded at Olive, hating her; he had forgotten he was a policeman, he was a father and nothing else. Then Clements came in behind him, he felt the big man’s restraining hand on his arm and he knew he had almost gone too far. Because he was so angry at Olive, he had missed the flash of concern on Angela’s face. “Has he called back yet?”

  Olive shook her head; her voice was faint, a little girl’s voice: “Not yet, no. I’m sorry, I should’ve called you about Claire, but—”

  Malone, mind and sight clearer now, saw Angela squeeze Olive’s shoulder. But all he said was, “Have you been in touch with Palady yet, at the Shahriver Bank?”

  Angela answered, her arm still round Olive’s shoulders: “He’s not home. We left a message with his wife to call as soon as he gets in. How long have you had Olive’s phone tapped? You have a permit?”

  Malone nodded. “You can check, if you wish.”

  “You still haven’t told us how long her phone has been tapped.”

  “Why are you so concerned about that, Mrs. Bodalle? Civil liberties mean more to you than a couple of innocent kids being kidnapped?”

  He had never expected Angela to flush; that reaction seemed totally foreign to her. But she did; and for a moment was lost for words. He waited, but she said nothing. Then he said, knowing he had won a point, “It’s been tapped long enough for us to pick up a few other things besides the call from Mr. Jones. What’s Palady’s number?”

  Olive waited for Angela to answer; she even turned and looked at the other woman. But Angela was still silent and it was Olive who gave Malone an eastern suburbs number. Malone said, “Russ, get someone over to Palady’s place—if his number’s unlisted—”

  “It is.” Angela had evidently decided she had to regain control, of herself if not of the situation. “I checked.”

  She doesn’t miss a trick, Malone thought: attention to every little detail. Except that she hated being caught on the hop. “Righto, Russ, get Tilleman to call Telecom, get the address. Then have someone pick up Palady, bring him here.” He looked at Olive, ignoring Angela. “We’re taking over, Olive. This is going to be our command post till Claire and Jason are safe.” Angela went to say something and he looked at her: “I wasn’t talking to you, Mrs. Bodalle. Okay, Olive?”

  She nodded weakly. He felt that, if the circumstances were different, he could get her to confess to the murders; but, of course, it was the circumstances that had made her so defenceless. And he knew that the iron woman beside her would protect her.

  “Right,” he said and wished he felt as strong as his voice suggested. “Now we sit and wait.”

  IV

  “Now we sit and wait,” said Dostoyevsky.

  Jason and Claire were still sitting on the couch, still holding hands. He was less scared now than he had been on the drive out here; perhaps it was the presence of his grandfather and Sugar. He could see that they were both worried, but there was a certain down-to-earth matter-of-factness about them that was comforting.

  “I want to go to the bathroom,” said Claire.

  “Come with me, dear.” Sugar rose, took Claire’s hand. She glared at Dostoyevsky when he, too, rose, gun in hand. “Give us some privacy, Mr. Whatever-your-name-is. We’re not gunna try anything foolish. I don’t want you hurting my hubby or Jason. Come on, Claire.”

  They went out of the small living room and Dostoyevsky looked at George Rockne. “Is she a believer, George?”

  “Sugar?” He shook his head. “Nah. And I never tried to convert her. Live and let live, that’s always been the politics in this house.” Then he said, “You’re not gunna get away with this, Igor.”

  “I think I shall.” Jason, watching him closely, wondered how truly relaxed the Russian was. But he appeared really at ease, as if he were used to this sort of situation. As if the question had been aired, Dostoyevsky said, “Twice before I got out by the skin of my teeth, as they say. Once in Iran, once in France. You don’t know what I’ve been through, George, for the sake of communism. You’ve had a picnic in a country like this. You’ve achieved nothing, so perhaps that explains it. Do you have any politics, son?”

  “Me?” Jason swallowed; he hadn’t spoken for so long his throat had gone dry. “Not yet. But I don’t think I’ll ever be a communist. Sorry, Pa.”

  George Rockne, sitting in a chair close by, leaned across and patted his grandson’s knee. “It’s all right, Jay. I give up trying to recruit any new believers.” He turned back to Dostoyevsky. “It’s all over, Igor, finished. You’ve been in Australia long enough—you know you can’t surf the same wave twice. I wish you’d get that into your thick Russian head. There’s nothing more to believe in.”

  There was a sadness to the old man’s voice that touched Jason. In turn he put his own hand on his grandfather’s knee and the old man looked at him gratefully. “There are other things to believe in, Pa.”

  “Such as?” George Rockne’s smile was not sarcastic, but almost whimsical.

  “I dunno for sure. But there are,” Jason said doggedly.

  Then Claire and Sugar came back and Sugar, practical as ever, said, “Well, do we sit and starve or do we eat? I’ve got enough spaghetti and home-made sauce out there for all of us. Come on, Claire, you can help me.”

  “We’ll all come,” said Dostoyevsky, getting to his feet again. “Just in case.”

  “Please yourself,” said Sugar. “Just don’t get under my feet in my kitchen. That’s my Kremlin, as George calls it.”

  As they moved out into the narrow hallway, George turned left and walked towards the front door. Dostoyevsky said nothing, but watched him with his gun raised. George peered out through the narrow glass window beside the front door, then came back down the hallway. “What sorta car did you come in?”

  “A blue Pulsar. That’s it parked right in front of your gate.”

  “Not any more it ain’t. It’s been pinched, Igor. The hoons around here do it all the time, especially the Asians if you’re a whitey and own a car. They’ll probably strip it to the bone if they find out you’re a commo.” He laughed without merriment. “You’re not gunna get away with this, Igor. The omens don’t look good.”

  “I don’t believe in omens.”

  “Come off it, mate. You Russians are more superstitious than the Irish.”

  They went on into the kitchen. George, Dostoyevsky and Jason sat round the formica-topped table while Sugar and Claire prepared the evening meal. Jason couldn’t believe the situation; it was weird, like a gentle sort of nightmare. If he lived through this, the guys at school were never going to believe his story. Only Claire, as scared as himself, seemed real. But even she was working as practically as Sugar, pushing the males aside as she set the table.

  They were halfway through the spaghetti bolognese, much better than Jason’s mother made, when Dostoyevsky looked at his watch. “Time for my call. Come, Jason.” The boy put do
wn his fork and stood up, glancing at his grandfather. Dostoyevsky saw the look and said, “I’ve already told you, there’s nothing to be afraid of if there’s no foolishness. Go on eating, George. But if you or your good wife or the young lady try anything . . .” He raised the gun, which, till he had picked it up, had been lying in front of his plate like a dessert utensil.

  “You wouldn’t do that, Igor,” said George quietly.

  “I would, George,” said the Russian just as quietly.

  “Did you kill my son?”

  “No, I didn’t. I know who did, but I don’t think now is the time to talk about it. You don’t seem to get it into your thick Australian head, my life is on the line, too. Come with me, Jason. This won’t take long. Warm up his spaghetti, Mrs. Rockne.”

  Jason noticed that he dialled the Coogee number without hesitation, as if he had memorized it to perfection; but maybe that was how you were taught in the KGB, or whatever he belonged to. There was an immediate answer from the other end; his mother must have been sitting right beside the phone. “Mrs. Rockne, I promised to call back. Have you been in touch with Mr. Palady?” He frowned, his eyes darkening till Jason thought they had turned black; but maybe it was the dim light in the hallway. “Mrs. Rockne, don’t fool with me! He was supposed to be at home waiting for your call . . . His car was in an accident? Mrs. Rockne—all right, all right. Don’t get hysterical. All right, his car was in an accident—was he hurt? . . . No? . . . How do you know all this if you haven’t been able to contact him? . . . When did his wife say he would be home? . . . All right, I’ll phone in half an hour. And, Mrs. Rockne—I have your son right here beside me. I have a gun at his head—” He raised the gun and put the barrel against Jason’s temple; Jason closed his eyes, said Oh Jesus! and waited to die. Then the gun was taken away. “Half an hour, Mrs. Rockne. The money has to be transferred tonight . . . No, you cannot speak to him. You can do that when you tell me you have contacted Mr. Palady. Half an hour, Mrs. Rockne.”