The Bear Pit

by Jon Cleary

  “Strike force will be set up, unlimited personnel. Call in all the men you want,” he told Hassett.

  “What about us?” asked the Assistant Commissioner, Commander Administration, and all his colleagues nodded.

  “We’re united on this,” said Zanuch. “A team. This is political—or it’s going to be. I presume you’ve all got your political contacts?”

  All the Assistant Commissioners looked at each other before they all nodded. None of them had achieved his rank by virgin birth. The net of political contacts in the room could have strangled a purer democracy than that of the State in which they served. They were honest men but they knew from long experience that honesty was a workable policy, not necessarily the best.

  “Work those contacts. If you come up with anything, pass it on to Charlie. What shall we call the task force? We have to give it a name for the media—they love labels. They don’t know how to handle anything that’s anonymous.”

  “How about Gold Medal?” The Assistant Commissioner, VIP Security Services, was a humourist, sour as a lemon. With VIPs, a breed that never diminished, it was difficult to be good-humoured.

  “That will only rile the Opposition,” said the Assistant Commissioner, Internal Affairs. “They could be our bosses in two months.”

  “Let’s be brutal,” said the Commissioner. “We’ll call it Nemesis.”

  “The TV reporters will ask us what that means.”

  “Tell ‘em it means their channel bosses,” said Charlie Hassett and everyone laughed.

  The meeting rolled on and at last Random and Malone were released. They said nothing to each other as they went down in the lift, but as they walked out into the glare of the January day Random said sombrely and unexpectedly, “We’ll miss The Dutchman.”

  Malone looked across the street to Hyde Park, where old men played chess and draughts on tables beneath trees. Kibitzers stood behind them, offering advice, like retired minders. Hans Vanderberg had gone before retirement had consigned him to a bench somewhere, playing old games in his mind, surrounded by ghosts he had defeated with every move.

  “Where will you set up the Incident Room?”

  “At Police Centre. I’ll move in there, you report to me direct. Where are you going to start?”

  “I don’t know, depends what they have for me when I get back to the office.” He sighed. “Wouldn’t it be nice to be on holiday right now? Walking the streets of Helsinki.”

  “Why Helsinki?”

  “Can you think of anywhere that’s further away and still has decent hotels?”

  Malone went back to Strawberry Hills, to Homicide’s offices. The area had been named after the English estate of Horace Walpole, near-silent member of parliament but compulsive correspondent; he wrote mailbags of letters and Malone sometimes wondered how he would have reacted to the cornucopia of the internet. The offices were spacious and always neat and clean, a tribute to Clements, an untidy man with a contradictory passion for housekeeping, except on his own desk.

  Phil Truach, looking in need of another one of his forty cigarettes a day, was waiting with good news: “Fingerprints have traced that hand-print on the window-sill. A guy named August, John August. He did three years for armed robbery down in Pentridge and he’d been acquitted before. He’s got enough form.”

  “Anything on him recently?”

  “The Victorians say they haven’t heard of him for nine years. They say on his form he wasn’t a hitman, but you never know.”

  “Is his name on the Sewing Bee’s list of customers?”

  Russ Clements had come into Malone’s office, taken his usual place on the couch beneath the window. Though the couch was only four years old, he had dented his imprint on it at one end. He gestured at the typewritten list in his hand. “There’s no August. The name here is John June.”

  Malone shook his head at the folly of criminals. “Full of imagination. What’s the address?”

  “None. Just a phone number.”

  He gave it and Malone punched it. He listened for a moment, said, “Sorry, wrong number,” and hung up. “Happy Hours Child-Care Centre.”

  “What?” said the other two.

  Malone repeated it. “Possible hitman running a day-care centre? It’s a switch.” He reached for the phone book, found what he wanted. “The Happy Hours Child-Care Centre, Longueville. I think I’ll take one of the girls with me. That’ll look better than two big boof-headed cops turning up to frighten the ankle-biters. What else have you got, Russ?”

  “Another list.” Clements held it up. “All the political bods we should look at. You want boof-headed cops on that?”

  “We’d be the only ones they’d understand.” He stood up, sighed. He was sighing a lot these days, as if it were a medical condition. “I’m not looking forward to the next coupla weeks.”

  “It’s all in a good cause.”

  “Did you ever think you’d say that about The Dutchman?”

  “No,” said Clements. “But the old bugger stood by us when we needed him. I think we owe him.”

  Malone collected Gail Lee and drove out to Longueville. Gail, half-Chinese, was slim and good-looking, a shade of coolness short of beautiful and as competent as any man on Malone’s staff of nineteen detectives. She drove a little too fast for Malone’s comfort, but he would have been a poor passenger with the driver of a hearse.

  Longueville is a small suburb on the northern shore of the Lane Cove river, one of the two main rivers that flow into Sydney Harbour. It is now a pleasant area of solid houses in their own grounds, though some of the more modern ones are as conspicuous as circus tents in a cemetery. The suburb is a quiet retreat that has no major highway running through it. Once, long ago, it was thickly wooded with cedar and mahogany and populated, according to gossip of the times, by murderers and other assorted criminals. Today, if there are any criminals in the area, they are hidden behind accountants, the new forest for retreat

  The Happy Hours Child-Care Centre looked as if it might once have been a scouts’ or a church hall. It stood in a large yard shaded by two big jacarandas and a crepe myrtle. There were sandpits and playground equipment and a dozen or more small children in the yard. There were shouts of laughter coming from the hall, kids in a happy hour.

  While Gail went looking for someone in charge Malone moved into the yard and stood looking at the children there. He was not naturally a child-lover, but the behaviour of the very small always fascinated him. Sometimes, but only occasionally, he saw in them what he would have to face when they grew up. He believed that the bad seed could show in sprouts.

  Half a dozen sat in a tight circle under one of the jacarandas, bound by giggles as by a daisy chain. Malone smiled at them and they smiled back.

  “You like it here?”

  They all nodded, heads under their blue sun-hats going up and down like a circle of semaphores.

  Malone looked at the large name-tabs pinned to their yellow smocks. There were Justin and Jared and Jaidene and Alabama and Dakota and Wombat Rose—“Wombat Rose? That’s a nice name.”

  She was four or five, a cherub with a wicked glint already in her big blue eyes. “Me mother wanted to call me Tiger Lily, but that was taken, she said.”

  “No, I like Wombat Rose better.” Then he saw the small boy sitting by himself under the other jacaranda and he crossed to him. “Why are you sitting on your own over here?”

  “They won’t talk to me.”

  “Why?”

  “’Cos me name’s Fred.”

  Before Malone could laugh Gail Lee came out of the hall with a woman. “This is Mrs. Masson, the owner.”

  She was in her forties and feeling the heat and the children, two pressures that rarely have a woman looking her best. She was good-figured and had thick brown hair and large brown eyes, but today, one guessed, was not one of her good days.

  “Police?” She frowned, making another subtraction from her looks. “What do you want? Here?” She gestured at the innocence a
round them. “Has someone been trying to get at the children?”

  “Nothing like that, Mrs. Masson. We’re actually looking for a Mr. June. We’d like a word or two with him.”

  “John? My partner?”

  “He’s a partner in the Centre?”

  “No, no, he’s my partner in that other—” She gestured. “We live together. De facto, if you like, but I hate the term.”

  “Me, too. Where could we find him?”

  “What’s it about? Go and play, kids.” The children had gathered round the three adults, eyes and ears wide. “Go and play ball with Fred.”

  Fat chance. Fred got up and went into the hall, taking his isolation with him.

  “We’d just like to ask him some questions—”

  “Are you a policeman?” asked Alabama or Dakota.

  “Kids—” Mrs. Masson was losing patience with the children or the police officers or both—“inside!”

  “Is she a lady cop?” asked Wombat Rose.

  “Inside!”

  Malone and Gail Lee hid their smiles as the children, taking their time, made their way into the hall. Suddenly the yard was bare, threatening; the playground equipment looked like torture machinery. Mrs. Masson said, “You’re not local police, are you?”

  “No.” Malone added almost reluctantly: “We’re from Homicide.”

  “Homicide?” She frowned again. “You’re investigating a murder or something?” Malone nodded. “And you want to talk to John about it? Why?”

  “We’re not accusing him of anything, Mrs. Masson.” This route was well-worn: telling the innocent party things they didn’t know. “We think he can throw some light on a case we’re working on. How long have you known John?”

  “I dunno—five, six years. We’ve been together ever since I opened this—” she swept an arm around her; it looked as if she wanted to sweep it away—“four years ago. It’s a struggle since the government took money out of child care—”

  “John doesn’t work here?”

  “No, he has his own one-man business—he’s a carpenter and general handyman. I can get him on his mobile—”

  “No, we don’t want you to do that—”

  She frowned yet again; then her eyes opened wide. “It’s serious, isn’t it? What’s he done, for God’s sake? Jesus—” She turned; a young Asian girl stood in the doorway of the hall. “Not now, Ailsa—not now!”

  “Mr. June is on the phone—”

  “I’ll take it,” said Gail Lee and moved quickly to the doorway, pushed the girl into the hall and disappeared.

  Mrs. Masson was silent for a long moment. A cicada started up, the first Malone had heard this summer; it was like a drill against the ear. Then Mrs. Masson seemed to gulp, as if she were drowning in disappointment. “What’s he done? Are you going to tell me?”

  “How much do you know about him? How much has he told you about himself before he met you?”

  She walked slowly, almost blindly, across to a backless bench under one of the trees, the seat where Fred had sat in his exclusion. She sat down and Malone sat beside her, straddling the bench. Inside the hall a game had been started, the children laughing like a mocking chorus while the cicada had been joined by what sounded like a hundred others.

  “He came from Melbourne, he said he’d been married before but it broke up after a couple of years. He has a mother down there, but I’ve never met her.”

  “Has he been a good—partner? A good husband?”

  “I’ve been married before. John is twice as good as the legal husband I had. I love him—does that answer your question? Now tell me what he’s done.”

  She looked at him pleadingly, but he turned away as Gail came out of the hall. “Mr. June is on his way. He’ll be five minutes—he’s coming from Lane Cove.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “I said there was some trouble with one of the children.” She looked at Mrs. Masson’s angry frown. “I’m sorry—”

  The frown now seemed to be permanent, like a scar. “For Christ’s sake, tell me what he’s done. You come here, upsetting everyone and everything—”

  “We haven’t done that, Mrs. Masson,” said Malone quietly. “We’ve upset you and I’m sorry about that. But no one else. Just let’s wait till Mr. June gets here.”

  They sat, while the laughter and screams came out of the hall and a magpie carolled in the jacaranda above them and a couple of mynahs chattered at it to get lost. The cicadas suddenly shut up and the other sounds seemed to increase. Then abruptly Mrs. Masson stood up, looked at her watch, said, “It’s time for their morning snack,” and walked, almost ran, into the hall.

  “It’s never easy, is it?” said Gail.

  “What?”

  “Telling them what they don’t know. Don’t want to know.”

  “Never.”

  Then two minutes later the van drew up in the street outside. A man got out and came hurrying into the yard. Malone and Gail crossed from the bench to stand in his way as he headed for the hall doorway. “Mr. June?”

  He pulled up sharply. “Yes. Are you the child’s parents? What’s happened?”

  “No, Mr. June, we’re not.” Malone produced his badge. “Can we have a word? Over here under the trees.”

  June hesitated, then followed them. There was nothing threatening about him, though Malone had not been sure what to expect. He was medium height, running a little to fat, with a round pleasant face and thinning black hair that needed a cut. He was dressed in overalls that, with inserts showing, had been let out at the seams; a pair of gold-rimmed glasses hung on a string round his neck. His left hand had the top joint of the middle finger missing.

  “What’s the charge?”

  “None so far. We just thought you could help us with our enquiries.”

  “Shit, that old one!”

  “You’ve heard it before, Mr. August?”

  For a moment there was no expression at all, as if he were alone without thought. Then abruptly his face clouded, he rolled his lips over his teeth. “I gave that name away nine years ago—”

  “Why?”

  “I wanted to make a new start. I’ve done that—”

  Then Mrs. Masson came out again into the yard; hurrying, as if running away from the children. She rushed straight at August, grabbed his left hand, stood holding it as if he were another of her charges. “What’s it about, John? What do they want?”

  “They just want to ask me some questions. I—I saw something the other day—I didn’t tell you about it—”

  “What?”

  He was a practised liar; he had been living a lie for nine years. “A couple fighting—they just want me to tell them what I saw—”

  “Someone’s dead? They said they were from Homicide—” One could almost see her mind racing, she was defending—what? She looked at Malone. “Is someone dead?”

  “Yes. We’ll just take Mr.—Mr. June back to our office. He’ll be back here within an hour.”

  “Why can’t you ask him the questions here?” She was still clinging to his hand. She’s a mother, Malone thought, but where are her own kids?

  Then the children came spraying out of the hall, a yellow-smocked torrent. Justin, Jared, Jaidene, Alabama, Dakota, Wombat Rose: even Fred joined the circle round the adults. Twenty or thirty other children milled around. They all stared at the adults, innocent as cherubs but ears as wide as devils’. Wombat Rose looked up at Malone and winked at him with both eyes.

  “Come on, Mr. June. We’ll have you back here in an hour.”

  “I’ll come with you, John—”

  He took his hand from hers, put it against her cheek. “It’ll be all right, sweetheart. Don’t worry, I’ll be back, it’s okay.”

  It was difficult to tell if he was trying to tell her something. Was there some secret between them? But she just looked at him blankly, shook her head as if to deny that everything was okay.

  Malone, Gail Lee and August/June went out of the yard, trailed b
y a dozen kids as far as the gate. Mrs. Masson still stood under the jacaranda tree; the tiny splurge of yellow smocks leaked away from her, leaving her high and dry and alone.

  August looked back and waved with the hand that was his mark.

  “I’ll follow you,” he said, moving towards his van.

  “No, lock it, John. We’ll get you back here.”

  “That’s a promise?” For a moment something like a smile hovered around his small mouth.

  “No, John. Depends what you have to tell us.”

  Gail drove the unmarked police car and Malone sat in the back with August. They had been travelling for ten minutes before August broke his silence. “Now we’re away from Lynne, tell me why you’ve picked me up.”

  “We’re questioning a list of clients from the Sewing Bee. Your name was on the list.”

  He laughed. “The fat and the thin, a list of all those needing alterations? Come on—” Then he sobered, looked quizzically at Malone. “This hasn’t got something to do with what happened to the Premier last night?”

  “What makes you think it has?”

  He shook his head. “You don’t catch me like that. Yeah, I was at that place, the alterations centre, what’s it called? The Sewing Bee. I remember standing at the window, having a look at the place across George Street, Olympic Tower. What I’ve read, what was on radio this morning, Hans Vanderberg was standing at the front of the hotel when he was shot, right? He was shot from the Sewing Bee, that what you’re saying? So what am I supposed to know?”

  He wasn’t belligerent, just curious. Malone had met other hitmen and they had all had a characteristic coldness, sometimes blatant, other times subdued. It was a job, with most of them part-time: you killed the target, collected your pay, went home. One or two of them had been show-offs, mug lairs, but they did not last long; sooner or later someone hit them. August, if he was the hitman in the Vanderberg case, was out of character.