by Jon Cleary
“The police haven’t pointed a finger at anyone. Not to me.”
Occasional confession to the public, though it did nothing for the soul, was good for a reaction.
“The police out here are a quiet lot.” Carmody puffed on his pipe again. “But you’ve probably noticed that already?”
“You mean they don’t like to make waves?”
Carmody laughed, a young man’s sound. “The last time we had a wave out here was about fifty million years ago. But yes, you’re right. Maybe you should go out and see Chess Hardstaff. He rules the waves around here.”
“Chess Hardstaff? Not the Hardstaff?”
Carmody nodded. “The King-maker himself. He owns Noongulli, it backs on to our property out there—” He nodded to the west, now lost in the darkness. “The Hardstaffs were the first ones to settle here—after the Abos, of course. He runs the Rural Party, here in New South Wales and nationally. They call him The King to his face and he just nods and accepts it.”
“I’m surprised he’s not Sir Chess,” said Malone.
“His old man was a knight, same name, and Chess wanted to go one better. He didn’t want to be Sir Chester Hardstaff, Mark Two. He wanted a peerage, Lord Collamundra. He should’ve gone to Queensland when the Nats were in up there, they’d have given him one. But he’d have had to call himself Lord Surfers’ Paradise.”
Carmody said all this without rancour; it was an old newspaperman speaking. He had left his life as a youthful shearer and drover, gone to Spain, fought in the civil war there on the Republican side, begun covering it as a stringer for a British provincial paper, moved on to being European correspondent for an American wire service, covered World War Two and several smaller wars since and finally retired twenty years ago when his wife died and he had come home to take over Sundown from his mother, who was in her last year. It had been a much smaller property then, but he had added to it, put his own and his dead wife’s money into it, and now it was one of the showplaces of the district, producing some of the best merinos in the State. He was a successful grazier, running 12,000 head of sheep and 500 stud beef cattle, having achieved the dream of every old-time drover (though not that of his father Paddy, who would have remained a drover all his life if Sean’s mother had not been the strong one in the family). He was all that, yet he was still, deep in his heart, one of the old-time newspapermen, the sort who brushed aside the quick beat-up, who would dig and dig, like ink-stained archaeologists, to the foundations of a story. Malone, recognizing him for what he was, decided he would take his time with Sean Carmody.
“Did you know Kenji Sagawa?”
“Not really. I’ve never been interested in cotton. My dad would never have anything to do with grain—wheat, barley, sorghum, stuff like that. He was strictly for the woollies. I’m much the same. They approached me, asked me if I wanted to go in with them on raising cotton and I said no. They never came back.”
“Who?”
“Sagawa and his bosses from Japan. Chess Hardstaff introduced them.”
“Is he involved with the cotton growing?”
“Not as far as I know. As I said, he just rules, that’s all.”
“Did you know him, Trev?”
Waring took his time, taking a few more puffs on his pipe before tapping it out into an ashtray. He was like an actor with a prop; he didn’t appear to be at all a natural pipe-smoker. If he thought it gave him an air of gravity, he was wrong; there was a certain restlessness about him, like a man who wasn’t sure where the back of his seat was. Trevor Waring would never be laid back.
“He was unlike what I’d expected of a Japanese, I’d been told they liked to keep to themselves. He didn’t. He joined Rotary and the golf club and he’d even had someone put his name up for the polo club, though he didn’t know one end of a horse from another and it only meets half a dozen times a year.”
“So he was popular?”
“Well, no, not exactly. For instance he was rather keen on the ladies, but they fought shy of him. You know what women are like about Asians.”
“Some women,” said Carmody, defending the tolerant.
“Er, yes. Some women. He came to see me last week at my office. He said he’d got three anonymous letters.”
“From women?”
“I don’t know about that. I didn’t see them. They told him Japs weren’t wanted around here. I told him I couldn’t do anything, the best thing was to go to the police.”
“Did he?”
“I don’t know. You’d better ask Inspector Narvo about that. He and Ken Sagawa were rather friendly at the start, I think it was Hugh Narvo who put him up for the golf club.”
“Friendly at the start? Did something happen between them?”
“I don’t know.” Waring shrugged, did some awkward business with his pipe. “They just didn’t seem as—well, as close as they had been. Not over the last few weeks.”
“There’s a second Japanese out at the farm, isn’t there? What’s he like?”
“Tom Koga? He’s young, rather unsure of himself, I’d say. I should think this, the murder, I mean, would make him even more jumpy.”
Sean Carmody sat listening to this, his pipe gone out. Now he said, “This isn’t a simple murder. Am I right?”
“Most murders aren’t,” said Malone. “Even domestics, which make up more than half the murders committed, they’re never as simple as they look. Sometimes you have to peel off the layers to find out why the murder happened—you hate doing it. You realize you’re going to make a lot of people unhappy, the family usually, who are unhappy enough to begin with.”
Then Ida Waring came out on to the veranda. “Time to take the kids home to bed, Trevor.”
She was in her early forties, two or three years older than Lisa. Her mother, Cathleen, had been half-Irish, half-Jewish, a featured player on the MGM lot in Hollywood in the 1930s. She had gone to Berlin looking for her Jewish mother, who had disappeared, and there, in the last month of peace in 1939, she had met Sean. Cathleen had been successful in her search and the two women had escaped to England, where she married Sean, who had managed to get out of Germany in October of that year. Sean had become a war correspondent and Cathleen had gone back to New York, where, instead of returning to Hollywood, she had gone on the stage and become a minor Broadway star. Ida had been born in 1947 and she had been twenty-three, already married and divorced, when Cathleen died of cancer. Unhappy in New York, she had been glad to accompany Sean back to his homeland. She had her mother’s beauty, most of her fire and all of her father’s love of the land. It was difficult to guess what sort of love she had for her husband. All Malone felt was that it did not have the passion and depth that he and Lisa had for each other. But then married love, like politics, came in so many colours.
“We’ll take all the kids in the Land-Rover. Lisa can ride back with Scobie. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” She gave Malone a half-mocking smile.
He smiled in return, liking her, but wondering if he would come to know her properly in the short time he would be here. He was all at once glad of the Carmody clan: they might prove to be the only friendly oasis in the Collamundra shire.
While Lisa was helping to put all the children into the Warings’ Land-Rover, Malone waited by the Commodore for her. Sean Carmody came across to him, moving with the slow deliberation of a man who now told time by the seasons and no longer by deadlines or the clock.
“Take things slowly, Scobie.”
“Don’t make waves, you mean?”
“No, I don’t mean that at all. Certain things around here need to be changed and Mr. Sagawa’s murder may be the catalyst.”
“If things have needed to be changed, Sean, why haven’t you tried it before?”
“Do you know anything about opera or musical comedy?”
It was a question that came out of nowhere; but Malone was used to them. He had faced too many high-priced barristers in court not to know how to be poker-faced. “No, I think I’m what
they call a Philistine, even my pop-mad kids do. I like old swing bands, Benny Goodman, Artie Shaw, all before my time.”
“Mozart was before my time.” Carmody smiled.
“The only thing that saves me, according to Lisa, is that my favourite singers are Peggy Lee and Cleo Laine. Lisa’s an opera fan, but she likes them, too.”
“Benny Goodman and Artie Shaw used to be favourites of mine when I went overseas before the war. My war, that is. There have been a dozen wars since then, but it’s still the one I remember . . .” He stopped for a moment; then shook his head, as if he did not want to remember after all. “In Vienna and Berlin I started going to the opera—I heard Gigli and Schmidt and Flagstadt.” He paused again, nodded. “Just names now—and echoes. Anyhow, there’s an operetta called Die Fledermaus, by Johann Strauss, the younger. It’s lightweight, but its theme song is „Happy is He who Forgets what Cannot Be Changed.’ You want me to sing it?”
“No, I get the message.”
“No, Scobie, you get only half the message. It was my theme song for quite a while after I came home. But lately . . . If I can help, come out again. Any time.”
Driving back to the Warings’ house Lisa said, “I’m glad you’re here. I missed you.”
He leaned across and kissed her, almost hitting a tree stump as he took his eyes off the winding track. “I’ve missed you, too. I didn’t realize how big a queen-sized bed is till you’re in it alone.”
“Just as well we didn’t get a king-sized one. You haven’t invited anyone home to fill up the space, have you?”
“Just three girls from the Rape Advisory Squad. How are the kids making out? You’d better keep an eye on Tom. He could hurt himself falling off horses.”
“Don’t be so protective. They’re all right. Claire’s fallen in love with Tas.”
“She’s only fourteen, for God’s sake! Tell her to get that out of her head!”
“You tell her. You’ll be more diplomatic and sympathetic than I would. Relax, darling. She’s going to fall in and out of love ten times a year from now till she’s twenty-one. I know I did.”
“I never did ask you. How old were you when you lost your virginity?”
“It’s none of your business. And don’t you ever ask Claire a question like that. That’s my business.” They were out on the tarmac of the main road now, running smoothly; she leaned back against the door of the car and looked at him. “How’s the investigation going?”
“We haven’t really started yet, but it’s already beginning to look murky.” He noticed in the driving mirror that another car was behind them, but he gave it only a cursory look. A semitrailer hurtled towards them, front ablaze with rows of small lights, so that it looked like the entrance to a travelling strip show. It went by with a roar, the wind of its passing rocking the Commodore. “Bastard!”
“How long do you think you’ll be out here?”
“Your guess is as good as mine. A coupla days, maybe more. Depends on what Russ and I dig up.”
“What’s Russ doing this evening?”
“I don’t know. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s investigating Narelle.”
“Who’s Narelle?”
“She owns the pub where we’re staying. A very attractive widow.”
“Does she have a queen-sized bed?”
“I wouldn’t be surprised. I’ll ask her.”
“Never mind. I’ll ask Russ.”
“Mind your own business. This where we turn in?”
They drove up another long track, this one straight and lined on either side by what looked, in the darkness, like poplars. He pulled up in front of another large one-storeyed house, but this one more modern than the main Sundown homestead. The lights were on in the house and the Land-Rover had been taken round to a garage at the back. Off to one side the wire netting surrounding a tennis court looked like a huge wall of spider’s web. Malone wound down the car window and listened to the silence.
“It’s so peaceful,” said Lisa.
He said nothing, thinking of Sagawa lying dead in the silence.
But Lisa could shut out the world from herself and him. “Every time I’m away from you for even a night, I realize how much I love you. It’s not so bad when I’m home in our own bed, I can feel you there beside me even when you’re not. I’ve even had an orgasm in my sleep.”
“Sorry I wasn’t there.”
“But in a strange bed, it’s so empty . . .” The Commodore had bucket seats; detectives were not encouraged to embrace each other, even those of the opposite sex. But the Malones managed to reach for each other and their kiss was as passionate as if they were back in Randwick in their own bed. At last she drew away from him, taking his hands off her. “That’s enough. I don’t want to have to call up one of your girls from the Rape Advisory Squad. Will you be out tomorrow night?”
“I’ll try. I’d like some time with the kids. Keep an eye on Claire and Tas.”
“You want to leave your Smith and Wesson with me?”
He loved her for her sense of humour; it kept him anchored. They kissed again, then she got out of the car and he drove off down between the poplars. He went through the main gate, closing it after him, and turned on to the main road leading towards town. He had the feeling of leaving a harbour: town was where the wild waves broke. Or would, if he and Clements stirred them up.
He had gone perhaps a mile before he realized there was another car behind him, not attempting to overtake him but keeping a steady distance between them. He frowned, wondering where it had come from, certain that it had not come out of another gate along the road. He slowed down, but the car behind also slowed; the distance between them remained constant. Then he speeded up again, but this time the following car dropped back, though it continued to trail him.
He was not afraid, just curious. He went into town, slowed as he came to the main street. He looked in the driving mirror, saw the other car slow, then make a quick turn into a side street. He caught a glimpse of it, a light-coloured big car, a Mercedes or the largest Ford, before it disappeared.
He parked the Commodore, locked it and set the alarm and went into the Mail Coach Hotel. The bars were still open and full, but he wasn’t looking for company; he just wanted to go to bed and dream of Lisa and the kids. But first to lie awake and wonder why anyone should drive all the way out of town and sit in their car and wait for him to return to town, as if they wanted to account for every minute of his movements. That was the sort of surveillance that, usually, only police or private investigators went in for.
2
I
“YOU MUST’VE got in pretty late last night,” he said to Clements over a country breakfast of sausages and eggs and bacon, toast, honey and coffee. “Did you learn anything?”
“A few things. Nothing to do with the case, though.”
Malone refrained from asking if what he had learned had come from Mrs. Potter. “Well, we’ll get down to work this morning. We’ll go out to the gin. Get what background you can out of the workers, those in the fields as well as the gin.” He looked up as the waitress came to offer them more coffee. “We’ll be in for lunch, say one o’clock. Can you keep us this table?”
“I’m afraid it’s taken for lunch.” She was a stout cheerful woman who liked her job; she gave better service than many of the more highly trained waiters and waitresses Malone had met in Sydney. “Gus Dircks is in town. He’s the Police Minister, but then you’d know that, wouldn’t you?”
“We’d heard a rumour.”
She laughed, her bosom shaking like a water-bed in an earth tremor. “Yeah, you would of. Anyhow, when he’s in town he comes in here every day for lunch. He sorta holds court here by the window, if you know what I mean. You gotta vote for him.”
“Why’s that?”
“Well, there’s no one else, is there? Not even the sheep would vote for Labour, around here. You’re not Labour, are you?”
“He’s a Commo,” said Clements.
Th
e waitress looked doubtful. “Well, I wouldn’t broadcast that around here. You oughta get someone to tell you what they done to the Commos in this town back in the nineteen-thirties.”
She looked at them, suddenly dark and secretive. “But don’t say I suggested it.”
Later, driving out to the South Cloud cotton farm in the Commodore, Malone said, “I’m beginning to think this district has got more secrets than it’s got sheep droppings.”
“You mean about the Commos? Narelle was hinting at a few things last night. Not about the Commos, she never mentioned them, but just gossip. I gather there was quite a lot of it when her hubby was killed.”
“It was a shooting accident, wasn’t it?”
“Yeah. She hinted people said other things about how it happened, but it’s all died down now. Then she suddenly shut up. I’d picked the wrong time to pump her. We—well, never mind.”
Malone could guess what would have been the wrong time; Clements had probably been intent on pumping of another kind. Sensible, experienced women don’t let their hair down, not figuratively, the first time they go to bed with a stranger; and Narelle Potter was a sensible, experienced woman if ever Malone had seen one. “Don’t get yourself too involved. This is your commanding officer speaking.”
Clements grinned. “You sound just like my mother.”
They bumped over the cattle grid at the entrance gates to the cotton farm and Clements pulled up. Four cotton-picking machines were moving slowly down the rows, plucking the cotton locks from the bolls and dumping them into a large basket attached to each machine. As soon as a basket was filled, the picker moved along to a second machine—“That’s a module maker,” said Clements—where the cotton was compressed. When sufficient baskets of cotton had been deposited in the module maker, a module was completed.
“I read up on it last night while I was waiting for dinner,” said Clements; and Malone knew that, with his usual thoroughness, he would have absorbed all the information available to him. “Those modules are approximately thirty-six feet by eight by eight—there’s about eleven tonnes of seed cotton in each one. If one of „em fell on you, you’d be schnitzel.”
