by Jon Cleary
“Not you, George. You’re my friend—or almost. A lapsed believer, but once you were on our side. No, it would probably be Mrs. Rockne—no, not your wife,” as George suddenly looked as if, regardless of the threat of the gun, he would hurl himself along the table. “The boy’s mother. Of everyone in this house, she is the most expendable.”
“Is she the one who killed my son?” George’s skinny arms, beneath the short sleeves of the T-shirt, were like tensioned hawsers; cords stood out on his thin neck. “Is she?”
“No names, George, not yet.” The Russian looked at Malone. There was a tiredness about him that Malone had missed when first coming into the kitchen; it gave Malone hope. Tired men, unless they are psychotic, are easier to deal with. “Well, Inspector, do we discuss the deal? I’ll be your witness and you lay no charges against me and give me free passage out of Australia.”
“To Bangkok? To pick up the money and take it somewhere else?” Malone had no interest in what happened to the money, other than its use as a bargaining point. He was working for time, for the shaping in his mind of all the ramifications of a deal. The Rockne and Dunne murders were important, but he had come into this house to rescue his daughter and the Rockne boy and that was the paramount point: “Let my daughter and Jason go now and then I’ll talk.”
“No.”
“You have the rest of us as hostages. How many do you want?”
“I want you all in here till you agree to the deal.”
Malone hesitated, then spread his hands. “I can’t agree to it, Igor.”
“For Chrissakes!” George thumped the table with his fist. “Jesus, man, what’s the problem? Is it the fucking money? Is it because you won’t make deals with crims? Christ, you coppers do it all the time—”
“Shut up, George. No, it’s not the money and it’s not because we don’t make deals. But I can’t make the decision on this. My boss is outside—he’s running the show. I could say okay to whatever Igor’s got in mind and my boss could veto it—”
“He wouldn’t do it! Jesus, the kids are still in here—”
Malone looked at Dostoyevsky. “Can I go and talk to him?”
The Russian bit his thick lips, then nodded. “There’s always someone higher up, isn’t there? No, you can’t go out. Bring him in here. He gave me a phone number when I talked to him before.” He took a piece of paper from his shirt pocket and pushed it across the table. “Tell him to come in as you did, no gun.”
Malone rose and went out of the kitchen when George told him where the phone was. Dostoyevsky also rose and stood in the kitchen doorway watching Malone as he dialled and waited.
“This is Inspector Malone. Is Chief Super—oh, it’s you, Greg . . . No, everything’s okay so far. But we have a problem. I think you’d better come in here . . . Mr. Dostoyevsky insists, no gun . . . Yes, my daughter and the boy are okay.” Standing in the hallway he could just see into the living room; he caught a glimpse of Olive leaning forward intently. He put his hand over the mouthpiece and looked down the hallway at the Russian. “I want him to bring someone else in here.”
“Who?”
“Mrs. Bodalle.” He couldn’t see Dostoyevsky’s face against the light from the kitchen, but there was a certain stillness to the tall man’s silhouette that told him all he wanted to know. “I think she might be part of the deal.”
“No!” Olive suddenly appeared in the living-room doorway.
Malone ignored her. “Well, Igor?”
“Yes. Bring her in.”
Malone took his hand from the mouthpiece. “Greg, bring Mrs. Bodalle with you.”
Random didn’t query why: “We’re on our way, Scobie.”
Malone put down the phone. “Why don’t you want Angela here, Olive?”
She shook her head helplessly; he had the feeling that right now she could give him no answers to anything he asked her, even though she had surrendered. She had given up; or almost: “Forget it, Scobie. Only—”
“Only what?” He was gentle with her.
She half turned her head, but didn’t look over her shoulder at Jason and Claire and Sugar in the living room behind her; Malone saw Jason leaning forward, straining to hear what was being said. “Nothing,” said Olive and went back and sat down beside her son and took his hand.
“Is everything going to be all right, Dad?” Claire sat primly on the edge of her chair, knees together, hands in lap, as she might sit waiting for an interview with Mother Brendan.
“Everything’s gonna be all right.” He grinned at her. It was an old joke between them, the quoting of the cliché from every second movie one saw on television. Then he looked along the hallway at Dostoyevsky. “Chief Superintendent Random is coming. Will I open the front door?”
“Do that, Inspector. But remember, no tricks.”
Malone was suddenly tetchy: “For Chrissakes, stop harping on that! I want this to go as smoothly as you do!”
He went along the hallway, opened the front door and pushed open the security door as Random and Angela Bodalle came up the front path. He stood aside for them to go in past him; Angela gave him a hard look. He looked out at the lighted street, saw the SPG men still in place, guns at the ready. He raised a hand, gave the thumbs-up sign and closed the door. He would make any deal, give away the whole country if it meant no shots were fired at this house while his daughter was in it.
Random and Angela had stood waiting for him. As he stepped past Angela he caught a strong whiff of expensive perfume; she might not be sweating, but her body heat had risen. He led them into the kitchen, introduced them to Dostoyevsky and George Rockne.
“Are you carrying a gun, Superintendent?” said the Russian.
“No.” Random flipped open his coat. “Do you want to frisk me?”
“No, I think we can take it that we are men of honour.”
Random looked sceptical, but said nothing, just glanced at Malone, who said, “Mr. Dostoyevsky has a proposition, Chief.”
“Before we get to that,” said Angela, still arrogant, or making a good pretence of it, “why am I here?”
“That was my suggestion,” said Malone. “I think when Mr. Dostoyevsky tells us his side of the deal, you’ll understand. Have I guessed right, Igor?”
“You have, Inspector. Chief Superintendent—” The Russian, it seemed, was meticulous about rank. “The deal I want is this. I am not to be charged with bringing the young people here—”
“Kidnapping would be the charge,” said Random coldly and flatly. “Don’t start by watering it down, Mr. Dostoyevsky.”
The Russian gave a small acknowledging bow of his head. “Kidnapping. In return for not charging me, I’ll swear that I was a witness to the murder of Will Rockne and I’ll identify who did it.”
He flicked a quick glance at Angela, but said nothing. She gazed steadily back at him, as if whatever he had hinted or would have to say meant nothing to her. She’s as good as I’ve ever come up against, Malone thought. She made any so-called Iron Lady look like plastic.
“What else are you demanding?” said Random.
“Not demanding. Asking. You’re not really interested in me and the money I want back—that’s something between me and the impostors in Moscow.”
Random glanced at Malone, but said nothing about Salkov, the representative of the impostors in Moscow. It struck Malone all at once that five and a quarter million dollars could sometimes have no value at all.
“Go on,” said Random. “What else are you—asking?”
“Free passage to a destination I’ll name. I’ll give you a sworn statement—”
“That won’t be enough, I’m afraid. You’ll have to stay here in this country until the murder trial comes to court. Isn’t that right, Mrs. Bodalle?”
“Thank you for asking me.” She had adopted the defence of being wryly detached. She was totally composed, as if giving advice to a client. Except, Malone thought, that she was her own client and she knew it now. “A good defence counsel would
challenge the statement, would demand the right to cross-examine the witness. Juries like to see witnesses, not be shown pieces of paper in lieu of.”
Random was silent a moment. He raised an eyebrow at Malone, who nodded pleadingly. Then: “All right, Mr. Dostoyevsky. If you are prepared to stay in this country till the trial comes up, we’ll give you protection and then free passage to wherever you want to go.”
“What about the money?”
This time Random didn’t look at Malone. “We’ll draw up a release of the money, whatever the bank demands, signed by Mrs. Rockne and her son. I think it will also need to be signed by the daughter.”
“Are you a man of honour, Chief Superintendent?”
“Up to a point,” said Random honestly.
Dostoyevsky smiled, glanced at George Rockne. “One can’t ask for much more than that, can one, George? Not in a capitalist society.”
“Don’t push your luck, Igor.”
The Russian nodded, then abruptly sat down heavily, as if he had lost all strength in his legs. “I’ll take your word, sir.” He looked up at Angela, standing with her back to the kitchen stove. “Mrs. Bodalle killed your son, George. I saw it from no more than twenty metres away.”
The two detectives and George Rockne looked at Angela. Her expression had not changed, except that she glanced rather pityingly at Dostoyevsky. “He’s insane,” she said coolly.
“No.” George was more than merely cool; there was a chill to him. “I’ve spent the last two hours listening to him. He may be crazy about what he expects to happen in Russia, but he’s a long way from being insane. Did you kill my son?”
“Easy, George.” Malone moved towards the older man’s end of the table, but he kept his eyes on both Dostoyevsky and Angela. He noticed that Random had moved to stand with his back to the draining board under the windows, where the supper cutlery, knives among it, lay like a small heap of shining steel guts. “Could you get us a writing pad?”
“No,” said Dostoyevsky. “Don’t write anything down yet. I’ll give it all to you on tape, when Mrs. Bodalle isn’t present. All I’ll say in front of her is that I saw her kill Will Rockne.”
Random said, “You know the drill, Mrs. Bodalle. Anything you may say, et cetera, et cetera . . .”
“You’re wasting your time and the taxpayers’ money,” she said.
Random shrugged. “You lawyers would know all about that.”
George Rockne had not taken his eyes off Angela from the moment Dostoyevsky had named her as the killer. At first he seemed more puzzled than angry, but now his face had settled into a mask, cracked by the lines in his leathery skin.
“Why?” he said quietly. “Why, for Chrissake?”
She stared at him as if he were a stranger who had no right to ask such a question. Then she turned her back on him and took a step towards the doorway. Random stepped quickly in front of her.
“Stay here, Mrs. Bodalle . . . Scobie, do you want to bring Olive in here now? But not her son—keep him inside.”
Malone went into the living room, brushing by Angela again; the smell of her perfume had thickened, was almost overpowering, like a woman in the heat of love-making. He stood at the living-room door and said, “Olive, would you come out to the kitchen? No, not you, Jay,” as the boy rose. “Just your mother.”
“I have to sign the release of the money—”
“Later, Jay. Come on, Olive.”
She stood up reluctantly, stiffly, like a much older woman, arthritic with dread. Malone ushered her out to the kitchen. She paused as she came into the room, looked at Angela but made no attempt to move towards her. Instead she looked back at Malone, as if he had suddenly become a friend. In that instant he saw that she was terrified, that she had come to the end of a road that she had not bothered to explore beforehand.
“We are arresting Mrs. Bodalle for the murder of your husband,” said Random. “We are also arresting you, Mrs. Rockne, with conspiracy to the same murder. If you have anything to say—”
“Keep your mouth shut!” Angela’s threat was unmistakable; Malone felt Olive back into him. “I’ll handle these fools!”
12
I
STATEMENT BY Igor Sergeyvich Dostoyevsky, taken at Maroubra Police Station. Present: Det-Inspector S. Malone, Det-Sergeant R. Clements, Det-Sergeant C. Ellsworth.
“I followed Will Rockne and his wife in their car out to the car park at Maroubra Surf Club on the Saturday night in question . . .”
Inspector Malone: “Why were you following them?”
Dostoyevsky: “Late on the Friday I had found out by accident that Rockne had transferred the money I had given him, the five and a quarter million dollars, from a trust account into his own name. I wanted to know why. I tried to contact him all day on the Saturday, but he seemed to be avoiding me—he would never come to the phone, his wife or his daughter would say he was out. I saw him and his wife go out on the Saturday night, up to the school further up Coogee Bay Road. I was going to wait for him outside the school, but it is right opposite the Randwick Police Station and I didn’t know how he was going to react when I met him. So I drove back and waited outside their house. They came back at, I think, around ten fifteen or so, but after pulling up, he drove on. I followed them out to Maroubra.
“They pulled into the car park outside the surf club. There were a lot of other cars parked there. I stopped my car in the street, got out and walked towards them—I went towards them from the rear, walking between the other cars. Then I saw Mrs. Rockne get out of the car, they sounded as if they were arguing, and she walked away from the car, their Volvo, and just stood. Rockne didn’t follow her, he stayed in the car with the driver’s door open.”
Malone: “Were the lights on? The car’s headlights?”
Dostoyevsky: “No, he had turned them off. I walked towards him, but stopped again. I was beside a van, I can’t remember what sort except it had lots of graffiti on it, when I heard voices arguing in a car on the other side of the van. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, they kept their voices low. Then I saw a woman come out from the other side of the van and go towards the Rockne car.”
Malone: “Do you know now who the woman was?”
Dostoyevsky: “Yes, it was Mrs. Bodalle, Angela Bodalle. She went up to the car and Rockne turned towards her, went to get out. I couldn’t see whether he was surprised or not. Mrs. Bodalle had a gun, it had a long barrel. She fired the one shot and from the muffled sound I knew the long barrel was really a silencer.”
Malone: “What did she do then?”
Dostoyevsky: “She came back to the car on the other side of the van, the other side from where I stood. I saw her face and I know now who she was.”
Malone: “She didn’t approach or call out to Mrs. Rockne?”
Dostoyevsky: “No. As far as I could tell, Mrs. Rockne had her back turned to the shooting—I don’t know, perhaps she didn’t want to see it. The car on the other side of the van then drove away—as it did so, I saw Mrs. Bodalle in the driver’s seat and a man was sitting beside her. As soon as it had gone, Mrs. Rockne came back to their car, the Volvo. Then she screamed.”
Malone: “What then?”
Dostoyevsky: “I thought it best that I leave. I went back to my car, out in the street, and drove away.”
Malone: “The man who was with the woman—did you recognize him?”
Dostoyevsky: “No. I’d never seen him before nor since.”
Malone: “Would that be him?” (Photo of Garry Dunne shown).
Dostoyevsky: “It could be. I wouldn’t swear to it.”
Malone: “What sort of car were they in?”
Dostoyevsky: “I’m not sure. It looked like a small Japanese car, but I couldn’t be sure. It was grey, I think.”
Malone: “But you have no doubt that the person you saw shoot Mr. Rockne was Angela Bodalle?”
Dostoyevsky: “None at all. It was Angela Bodalle.” Statement by Olive Mary Rockne:
“Is
this going to be made public? Are my children going to read it? . . . Oh God! (Breaks down. Tape disconnected for three minutes) . . . I’m sorry . . . Well, I can’t say when it was actually agreed we had to kill Will—my husband. Yes, I did agree, I admit to that. It was because—well, mainly, I suppose, because my husband wouldn’t give me a divorce. I used to love him, our marriage was reasonably happy up till, I dunno, I suppose about three years ago. We managed to conceal it from the children that we weren’t getting on—at least, I think we did. We still slept together, but sex isn’t love, is it?
“Will was always putting me down. I don’t mean he ever laid a hand on me, he never did that, but he could hurt me in other ways. Then I met Angela—do I have to say her full name? Angela Bodalle. I was fascinated by her at first—she was everything I wasn’t. Or so I thought. Then I fell in love with her, really and truly in love. More in love, I think, than I’d ever been with Will. It’s a shock, or it was to me, when you find out you are as much a lesbian as a heterosexual. Maybe it isn’t to some women, but it was to me. But I didn’t fight it, not when I fell in love with Angela. I hate her now, now I’ve found out so many things about her. But I did love her. You men probably won’t understand that. I wish you had a woman in here, a woman police officer . . . No, it doesn’t matter now. You all seem sympathetic enough. A bloody sight more sympathetic than Will was! . . . Maybe you’ll all learn something from women about this . . . Where was I? Oh yes, Angela. No, I didn’t know she was the one who actually shot my husband. Not till, well, after you’d arrested me . . .
“We had paid Mr. Dunne to do it and Angela drove him out to Maroubra that night. But he wouldn’t do it, he said there were too many cars in the car park, there might be people in them. There were, weren’t there? That man, the actuary you told me about who saw me that night, him and his girlfriend . . . Anyway, we had paid Mr. Dunne, I gave him five thousand dollars and Angela gave him five thousand. When he refused to do it, we asked for our money back. But you don’t ask a hitman for your money back, did you know that? It’s a non-refundable down payment, like schools ask you for now when you register your child. Why am I laughing? (Breaks down. Tape disconnected for four minutes) . . . Afterwards, he phoned me and tried to blackmail me—he wanted more money, even though he hadn’t done the actual killing. That’s a hard word to say when you’re talking about your husband—killing . . . No, I’m okay, Scobie. I’ll be all right, don’t turn it off . . . Mr. Dunne said he had lost his job through us . . .
