by Jon Cleary
“How long will I be at—what is it? Police Centre?”
“I don’t know, Lynne.” She might be there for quite a while, depending on how much she was linked to August, how much she knew. He spoke to the girl in the doorway: “Take care of the kids. I’ll call you and let you know when Mrs. Masson will be back. Your name is—?”
“Ailsa.” She had a small voice that seemed to go with her small pretty face.
Then his mobile rang. He let go of Mrs. Masson’s arm, and went over to the gate. “Yes? Malone.”
“Sir—bad news. He’s gone!”
“What do you mean—gone?”
“Pissed off, sir. We went up to the flat where he was working—the woman, the owner, said he got a phone call, told her there was an emergency and she said he ran outa the flat—”
“How’d you miss him?” Malone could feel the anger and frustration boiling up in him.
“He must of gone out the back way, through another back yard. His van’s still down in the street—”
“Righto, start looking. Everybloodywhere. Call in the North Sydney police—Shit!” He hung up, stood a moment staring at the Happy Hours hall, everything just a blur. Then his gaze cleared and he saw the Asian girl, Ailsa, still standing in the doorway and he knew who had made the phone call to John August.
9
I
JOHN AUGUST, or John June, had vanished.
Malone had come to know from past experience that a task force was as unwieldy as a small army; or a small bureaucracy. By the time a plan of action had been determined, August was well ahead of it. When detectives went to his bank to put a stop on his account, he had already been there and withdrawn the full balance of four thousand three hundred dollars, including a deposit of five hundred dollars made a day before.
“He’s got enough to keep him solvent for a while, maybe to get him out of the country,” said Greg Random. “Has Immigration been alerted? Good. Check all interstate flights, see who paid cash for their ticket. Does he have a credit card?”
“We don’t know,” said Malone. “Not yet. We’re checking with American Express, Visa, all of them, asking them to block any charges. But I don’t think he’d be that dumb—he’s not going to let us trace him by where he uses his card, if he’s got one.”
“He has a mobile,” said Kagal. He had had a wash and brush-up, but his shirt was still streaked and his trousers would need to go to the cleaners; he still looked more elegantly suited than his two seniors. “We’ll check that, in case he calls Mrs. Masson. We’ve alerted Telstra and the other companies.”
“If he’s gone interstate by bus or train, we’ll have trouble picking him up,” said Malone. “Eventually he’s going to have to buy or steal a car. That’ll be a lead.”
“He’ll steal one,” said Random. “Four thousand bucks isn’t gunna buy him much and leave him spending money.”
They were in the task force’s Incident Room. A few officers worked at computers, but most of the force were out on the hunt for August. No press release had been issued as yet, but reporters were already making persistent enquiries as to why all the action. By this evening August would be news, his picture on all TV news and in tomorrow morning’s newspapers . . .
“Do you have a good photo of him?” asked Random.
“No,” Malone admitted. “Mrs. Masson couldn’t give us one. She said he had a thing about being photographed—maybe that was a hangover from his Pentridge days. We had to call RTA and use one from his driving licence application. They’re about as bad as passport photos. It’s a likeness, but only just. We’ve got some surveillance photos, but even they aren’t the best.”
“Where’s his partner?”
“She’s out in one of the interview rooms. John and I are going in to talk to her now.”
“Do you think she was on to what he’d done?”
“No.”
“Is it ever the other way round? A man doesn’t know what his partner’s been up to?”
“Are we talking shooting a guy or just sleeping with him?” asked Kagal. “There are no professional hitwomen, except in movies and TV.”
“We don’t know that August was a professional,” said Malone. “I think he took on his job to help out his partner. Now he’s left her holding the bag, seventy-five thousand dollars worth.”
“You said her day-care centre was in debt,” said Random. “Would that amount of cash have wiped out the debt?”
“And given her a bit over. He probably saw it as a good cause.”
“Okay, go in and talk to her. But don’t get soft-hearted. Her partner, no matter what other cause he had in mind, killed Hans Vanderberg.”
Malone and Kagal went in to question Lynne Masson. The Surry Hills station staff were busy with their own problems: a battered wife seeking protection, a teenage heroin addict who had fallen off the edge of the world, a teenage hooker brought in for rolling a drunk. The strike force, though necessary, was a distraction, a hindrance to the local station staff. It was an invasion of the territorial imperative, bureaucracy’s golden rule.
Lynne Masson was being minded by a young uniformed policewoman: the Surry Hills Day-Care Centre, thought Malone. He nodded to the policewoman to remain. “You’re—?”
“Constable Elsa Tennyson, sir. Surry Hills.” She was plain-faced and sturdy, a no-nonsense girl. But she appeared sympathetic to Mrs. Masson.
Malone and Kagal sat down opposite John August’s partner. “Lynne, if you cooperate, this shouldn’t take long. You can get back to the kids—”
“I’m not worried about them—they’re well looked after—” She had aged, as if all the muscles in her face had suddenly gone loose. The thick hair was a mess, fingers entwined in it as she held up her head. “Where’s John?”
“A good question,” said Kagal. “Maybe you can tell us. Do you have a hideaway, some place out of town where you go for a break?”
She took her hand away from her head, straighened up, uttered a dry harsh sound that might have passed for a laugh. “A hideaway? A break? We couldn’t even afford to go camping.”
“We know things are tough for you, Lynne,” said Malone. “The day-care centre’s debt—”
“How do you know that? Jesus!” She was indignant, genuinely so. Women’s debts, Malone had noted, were always more private than men’s. As if, more than men, they showed shame about debt.
He ignored her question: “The money in the suitcase would pay off the Happy Hours debt and leave you some over. Enough for a break,” he added, trying not to sound malicious.
“Did John ever discuss finding some way to help you out?” asked Kagal. Then, as if remembering his manners, he said, “Would you like some tea or coffee? Will you get her some?” He smiled at Constable Tennyson, who half-rose.
“Stay where you are,” snapped Mrs. Masson. “Let him get it for me.”
She stared at Kagal, who stared back at her. Don’t play the bad cop, thought Malone. Then Kagal smiled again, working his charm: “Later, Lynne. Now—did John ever discuss finding some way of helping you out?”
“Such as?” She was pulling herself together.
“Oh, robbing a bank. Kidnapping someone for ransom. Joking, of course.”
“You or him?” She was altogether now.
He smiled again, but the charm wasn’t working. “Did he ever mention a woman named Janis Eden? Or Joanna Everitt?”
She frowned. “Who are they?”
Malone took over, putting Janis Eden into the background. “Did he ever mention a man named Peter Kelzo?”
She frowned again, but this time not in puzzlement. “I remember the name. I think John did some work for him.”
“Did John belong to any political party? The Labor Party, for instance?”
“You’re joking again!” She was fine now; the muscles of her face had strengthened. “He always voted informally, he said. The donkey vote, as one of our Prime Ministers called it. That was all he knew, the Prime Minister, I mean. John s
aid the donkey vote was the middle-finger salute to the politicians. He wouldn’t have belonged to a political party if they’d paid him.”
“Someone paid him,” said Kagal. “Seventy-five thousand dollars.”
“What’s his relationship with Ailsa?” asked Malone.
“Ailsa?”
“The Sri Lankan girl, your assistant. She phoned him, told him what we’d found under the hall. A couple of our women detectives are out there now questioning her.”
“They’ll scare the hell out of her . . . There was no relationship! God, what you try to read into things—” For a moment it looked as if she was going to fall apart again; then she visibly took control once more. She turned to the young policewoman: “I’d like a cup of tea, Elsa, if you wouldn’t mind? Weak black with sugar.”
Malone nodded to Constable Tennyson, who stood up and went out of the room. “Lynne, we’re not suggesting that sort of relationship. But why did Ailsa rush to warn him?”
“How do you know she rushed? She might have called him just to tell him what you’d found—how would she know you thought it belonged to him? John was very helpful to her when she arrived from Sri Lanka. He’s sympathetic to people—he does Meals on Wheels—”
“He wasn’t symathetic to Hans Vanderberg,” said Kagal.
She shook her head stubbornly. “You’re wrong—he didn’t do anything like that—”
“Oh, come on! We have the gun—the money—”
But they couldn’t budge her. The young policewoman came back with the cup of tea and a biscuit. Lynne Masson thanked her, sipped the tea, ate the biscuit and stonewalled her way through the rest of the questioning.
At last Malone sat back. “Righto, Lynne, you can go now. We’ll give you transport back to the Happy Hours. Don’t try and leave Sydney—we may want to talk to you again.”
“You’re wrong, you know,” she said. “About John.”
“I don’t think so. If he gets in touch with you, tell him to come in. It’ll save us and him a lot of time and trouble.”
Constable Tennyson escorted her out and Malone looked at Kagal.
“We got bugger-all out of that. Get a tap on her phone, at home and at the day-care centre. August is going to try and get in touch with her sooner or later. They’re as close as I am to my wife. That’s going to be his downfall in the end.”
“I’ll never understand love.”
Kagal was bisexual, but lived with an ex-member of Homicide’s staff. Malone had wondered if the relationship would last, but it had gone on for two years now and seemed to be solidifying into permanency. Whether it would lead to marriage was anyone’s guess, but that was not the standard these days. It surprised Malone that Kagal would confess to not understanding anything.
“Do you and Kate talk about it?”
“No. Do you and your wife?”
He tried to remember, but couldn’t. “No. Maybe it’s not meant to be understood.”
Kagal stood up; smiled, not charmingly but wryly. “Maybe they should’ve given us a course in it at the police academy.” Then he looked down at his trousers. “These are Hugo Boss. They’re ruined. I’ll need a reimbursement chit.”
“I’ll sign it. Can you get Hugo Boss at K-Mart?”
II
John August had been surprised when, two months ago, George Gandolfo came to see him as he worked on a Kelzo job at the Olympic complex. It was a small job, putting new glass into windows that had been smashed, but August took anything that brought quick money, cash in hand, no taxes deducted.
“John August?”
“No.” August put down his tools; carefully, as if he felt they were to be re-possessed. He was abruptly tense, but he showed no sign of it. “John June. You know that.”
“I know that, John. But I also know who you were.” George Gandolfo was also tense; but then he was never relaxed. “A guy working on the site, from Allied Trades, he recognized you a coupla months back. He was in Pentridge with you.”
“He should of kept his trap shut.”
“He was just chatting, John, he’s not gunna broadcast it. But he said you did some chatting yourself in Pentridge. You told someone you’d intended to kill the guy when you were acquitted. That your plea of self-defence was all bullshit. That right, John?”
August was cautious. “It might of been. You big-note yourself in there—it helps clear your space.”
“You had quite a reputation in there, he said. Nobody ever tried to ride you.”
“What’s this leading up to, George? Did Peter Kelzo send you?”
“He dunno I’m here and I’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention it when you see him.”
It had been raining all week and great shawls of dark clouds still hung in the south. Pools, small lakes, of water were everywhere; in the stadium, when August had looked in at it this morning, the running track looked like an oval ring of dried blood. If it rained like this in September the IOC would go back to Lausanne wondering if it was punishment for sins of commission. August, though he was an Olympic supporter, had grinned at the thought. He knew that many of the corporate suits of Sydney looked on venality as a virtue.
“So why are you here, George?”
Gandolfo looked around, ears and eyes as alert as a frightened rabbit’s; it was obvious that he was not enjoying whatever had brought him here. There was no one within earshot. With the rain, most of the workers employed outdoors had gone home; just a few, like August, remained under cover. “During your, er, chatting in Pentridge, you talked about how much you knew about guns.”
“That guy who recognized me—”
“No names, John, no pack-drill.”
August laughed, more relaxed now; though Gandolfo would not have recognized the difference. “George, you’ve never done an ounce of pack-drill in your life . . . But this guy, he must of done a bloody lot of listening. Yeah, I know a bit about guns. I belonged to a gun club up at—” He named a country town in Victoria. “We used to go shooting in the duck season. The wildlife do-gooders, they’d come out and you’d wanna shoot them instead of the ducks.” He grinned. “I never did, but I was tempted. What’s this leading up to, George? You wanna know where to buy a gun? Or have you got one and you want my opinion on it? You gunna shoot someone? A voter or a do-gooder?”
“No, John.” Despite the humidity Gandolfo was wearing a suit, his jacket still on, tie and collar neat beneath his pointed chin. He looked like a door-to-door salesman, a fidgety one selling untried goods. “My client wants you to shoot someone.”
“Your client?” August laughed as if Gandolfo had told him a good joke. “What are you running, George? A hitman agency?”
“No bullshit, John. This is on the level. My client wants someone—eliminated.” He paused before the last word, as if it were foreign. He was certainly in foreign territory, the country of murder. “I’ve been told to offer you any price within reason.”
“How much?” At that point August had not been interested, merely intrigued.
“Fifteen—” Gandolfo saw August’s deadpan reaction, mistook it: “Twenty thousand. Five down and the rest on completion of the job.”
August studied him for a minute or more. Two hard-hatted workmen walked by; one of them looked at August and laughed: “He trying to sell you insurance, John?”
August waited till they had passed on, then he said, “You really are fair dinkum about this?”
Gandolfo nodded, fidgeted from one foot to the other.
“How much is in it for you?”
“You don’t have to worry about that. Are you interested?”
August took his time again; he had felt like murder once, but it was not habitual. Then he took up his tools and turned back to the window he had been repairing. “Not at that price, George. Go and tell your client I’m not some cheapjack kid who’d do it for drug money.”
“But you’re interested?”
August took his time again; then he nodded. “Who’s the target?”
&
nbsp; “I can’t tell you that till we come to a deal.”
“Okay, you go back and tell your client I’m interested. But I’ve got problems, debts that have gotta be cleared up. The price is seventy-five thousand dollars.”
Gandolfo took a step back as if he had been pushed. “Ah shit, John! This isn’t some fucking joke—it’s a business deal—”
“Seventy-five thousand, George.” Now that he had named the sum, worked out what it would do for him and Lynne, he was comfortable with the idea of murder. “Your client must have a big problem if he wants someone hit—tell him I’ve got a big problem, too. Seventy-five thousand, George, or I go to Peter Kelzo and tell him what your client’s got in mind. He’s the one you want bumped off, right?”
Gandolfo took another backward step, almost fell over. “Christ, no! Don’t even think that way!” He looked as if he wanted to run away into the thick curtain of rain sweeping towards them. “No, it’s—”
“Who?” said August when Gandolfo suddenly stopped.
“It’s—” Then he shook his head, gathered himself together like a man scooping up scattered coins; for a moment he had fallen apart with fear. He’s scared of Kelzo, August thought. “I’ll go and see my—my client. I’ll tell you the—the hit when I see you again. I’ll get you on your mobile. But I gotta tell you—I think you’re asking too much—”
“That’s my price, George. Tell your client—take it or leave it.”
“You’ll keep your mouth shut? You could get yourself killed, John.”
“I could, George. But who would your client get to do it?”
It was another week before Gandolfo came back to him. August hadn’t expected him. He knew the price he had quoted was high, probably too high, but it would get Lynne out of debt. He was, he guessed, what they called a mercenary; but in a good cause. Though he would never be able to tell Lynne that.
It was a fine sunny day and he was delivering Meals on Wheels. He came out of a block of flats in Wollstonecraft, having taken in chicken-and-leek pie with two veg and bread-and-butter pudding for dessert to an old duck who thought he was Jesus Christ Himself, to find Gandolfo standing beside his van, a green Ford Falcon parked behind it. Today the thin fidgety man was in grey slacks and a green polo shirt, as if the formal approach had been made and now they could get down to talking terms like old mates.
