The Easy Sin

by Jon Cleary

  “They go back and talk to the family? To Dad?” They went back, but no one was there. One of the sons is in St. George's Hospital in intensive care, he was bowled over by some woman driver—Don't say it!”

  “Never crossed my mind. Go on.”

  “They could of left to go up to the hospital. Or back to where they live, in Hurstville. South Coast would like us to pay them a visit. It may be nothing, but just in case. I thought I'd go out there with Andy or John.”

  He looked at his desk. He had over the past few days begun a desultory cleaning-out of his drawers, a reluctant leave-taking, though he would not have described it that way to anyone, except perhaps Clements. There were notes, some even yellowed round the edges: a reminder, Check the Hardstaffs, from a case of ten or twelve years ago. There was a calculator that he couldn't remember ever using. A photo, found right at the bottom of a drawer, of Lisa with a baby, Tom, in her arms. Detritus and memory mixed together. What, he guessed, you gathered as you went downhill from the middle of your life.

  He stood up. “No, I'll come with you. I need a breath of fresh air.”

  She looked at him curiously, but made no comment. She wasn't theatrical-minded, but John Kagal had remarked that the second act of the boss' career was coming to an end. So far she hadn't bothered to look towards the end of the first act of her own professional life. For women in the Police Service second and third acts were still just hopes.

  “We'll go in my car,” he said. “You drive. Carefully.”

  “When you were young, didn't you ever put your foot to the floor?”

  “Only in fear. Never on the pedal. Drive carefully.”

  She did, but only because of the traffic. It was thick and slow; heavy semi-trailers rode like elephants through it.

  “Shall I put the blue light on, start the siren?” she asked.

  “What'd be the point? What are we going to use—the footpath? Relax. Drive carefully.”

  Hurstville lies about fifteen kilometres south of the harbour city. Once a suburb it is now called a city; the rest of Sydney still calls it a suburb. It covers a ridge that slopes away down to Botany Bay and, to the south, the Georges River. Originally the whole area was covered by thick forest; indeed, the main thoroughfare is still called Forest Road. The original settlers, other than the Aborigines, were timber-getters and charcoal-burners. The timber men could drive their axes into ironbark, blackbutt, blue and red gums and other eucalypts that made a great canopy over the ridge. The main settler was an army officer, John Townson, who was given a major land grant; in the early days of the colony of New South Wales land grants were given away as freely as luncheon vouchers in later times. As the world turned, speculators and developers moved in, the forests and their workers disappeared, and proper civilization, with its rules and regulations and back-of-the-hand bribes, had arrived.

  The Briskin house was a blue-brick from the 1920s, a Californian bungalow, as it used to be called. As with most things Californian, that was a loose term. Very few of the voters in the 1920s knew what came out of California other than Mary Pickford and Charlie Chaplin. The street was lined with large tallow-wood trees that did their best to hide the ugly hodge-podge of houses on either side of the street. There were weatherboard cottages from before World War I; Californian bungalows; Italianate mansions on fifty-foot blocks looking vainly for an estate; and an in-your-face cubist house that looked ready to take off for another location, maybe Silicon Valley. The tree in front of the Briskin house was a solitary crepe myrtle in full bloom. It was trimmed, neatly, the branches clustered together pointing upwards, the blooms like rosy fists.

  The house had a driveway leading up to a fibro garage at the rear. The lawn and the garden at the front of the house were neat; they could not have been otherwise with Shirlee living in the house. A polished copper sign beside the front door was also from the 1920s: Emoh Ruo: the supposed Maori, Malone remembered, for Our Home. Darlene and her brothers joked about it, but Shirlee never let it be removed. She had forgotten that it was Clyde who had brought it home, lifting it after he had burgled a house.

  The grey Toyota was in the driveway, the bonnet up, when the unmarked police car drew up outside. Corey, cleaning the spark plugs, came out from under the bonnet to look at the big man and the woman getting out of the unmarked car. He smelled police at once: he didn't need the blue word on the side of their car.

  “I'm Detective-Inspector Malone and this is Detective-Constable Dallen. You are—?”

  “Corey Briskin.” He was suddenly all caution, wiping grease from his hands as if it were some giveaway. Like blood. His mother was inside the house, tidying up an always-tidy house. Errol Magee, strapped to a chair, gagged now, was in the middle bedroom on the side of the house away from Mrs. Charlton's. “Something wrong? Me brother's not—?”

  “The brother who was hurt in an accident? No, we're not here because of him. We're just following up enquiries about Constable Haywood. We understand you were contacted about him last night. His murder.”

  Even Sheryl Dallen thought the approach had a sledgehammer in it. But she left it to the boss, he was the opening bowler. In the meantime she studied Corey, who looked more than a little nervous. Young guys, these days, never seemed to trust cops . . .

  “The murder?” Corey batted that one on the back foot. “Yeah. We told the sergeant, the one who come to see us, we told him we hadn't seen him. The dead guy.”

  Then Shirlee, who could see through brick walls, who would have been aware at once of the two detectives even if they had been no more than silent ghosts, came out the front door, down the steps and across the lawn to where Malone and Sheryl stood by the grey Toyota.

  “Mum,” said Corey, jumping the gun, “these are two detectives—”

  “From Homicide,” said Malone, still with the heavy approach.

  “They're asking about the young cop who was murdered—” Corey was sending semaphore, Morse code, anything to stop Mum putting her foot in it.

  “Dreadful.” Shirlee shook her head, looked mournful, as if she had lost a close relative. For Crissakes, Mum, don’t wipe your eyes with your pinny! “It's getting worse every week. Crime, I mean. Murder, things like that. I don't mean it's the police's fault—”

  “Thanks,” said Malone and only a 747 going overhead silenced his sigh. He waited till the plane had gone, then said, “We'd like a word with your husband, Mrs. Briskin. Is he home or at work?”

  Shirlee looked after the disappearing plane. “Bloody planes! They oughta move the airport.”

  “Mrs. Briskin. Your husband—we'd like a word with him.”

  “Clyde?” Corey had to admire his mother; they didn't come any better as an actress. “I'd like a word with him, too. He walked out on me, on us—when was it, Corey?”

  “Four years ago,” said Corey, falling into step. “Don't mention him, Inspector. He ain't too popular around here.”

  “What made him walk out?” asked Sheryl. “You don't mind us asking?”

  “A woman,” said Shirlee, and made it sound like a witch or Madame Dracula. “It wasn't the first time. He was always a skirt-chaser. I dunno who she was, he just said he'd met someone else, packed his bags and he was gone. I haven't seen hide or hair of him ever since.”

  Don’t pile it on, Mum. Corey stepped in before they fell into soap opera: “Why'd you wanna see Dad?”

  “They thought he might've known Constable Haywood,” said Malone. “Your dad had been in trouble a coupla times.”

  “He was never in trouble down the South Coast,” said Shirlee, who knew Clyde's record like an oft-sung anthem. “He wouldn't of know-en the officer.”

  “You haven't heard from him since—since he walked out?” said Sheryl.

  “Not a word.”

  Then Mrs. Charlton, from next door, appeared at the side fence. She was an angular-faced woman with thin shoulders and big breasts, so that she looked like a pinnace under full sail, especially since her blouse was white. She sailed into o
ther people's business, regardless of wreckage. “Something wrong, Shirl? Pheeny's all right, I hope? I heard about it on the news. You haven't lost him, I hope?” She was already donning black for the funeral.

  “No, he's okay, Daph.” In Shirlee's best mind-your-own-business voice.

  “They interviewed that lawyer, he's gunna start a first-class or second-class action, something like that. Alan Jones is on your side. For Pheeny and them little kids in the accident. You from the lawyers?” she asked Malone.

  “No,” said Malone, “we're from the Hurstville council. We were looking for Mr. Briskin, but Mrs. Briskin says he's no longer here.”

  “No, he's been gone—I dunno. How long, Shirl? Don't matter, he's gone and good riddance, wasn't that what you said? I told you I wasn't surprised when he took off, remember?”

  “I remember, Daph.”

  “What did you want him for? The council? He was always very good with the trees, I'll say that for him. That crepe myrtle, he planted that, didn't he, Shirl?”

  “It's council business,” said Malone. “Now would you mind leaving us alone with Mrs. Briskin?”

  Mrs. Charlton was evidently accustomed to rebuffs; she just sniffed, turned and was gone: sailing. Malone grinned at Shirlee.

  “Have I ruined neighbourly relations?”

  “You kidding?” Shirlee gave him a neighbourly smile: that is, one with reservations. “She'll be back soon's you're gone.”

  “Why'd you say you were from the council?” asked Corey.

  “If I'd said we were from the police, you think she'd have left us?”

  “Good thinking,” said Corey and nodded appreciatively.

  “So you didn't see Constable Haywood, not after his first visit,” said Sheryl.

  “No, I come up here yesterday afternoon. My mum was already up here.”

  “How'd you come? By car?”

  “No, by train. We've only got the one car, this—” He patted the Toyota. “Mum had come up in it.”

  Then Malone's phone rang. “Excuse me,” he said and moved away out to the footpath, stood beside the bunched fists of the crepe myrtle.

  It was Clements ringing from the office. “Our girl Miss Doolan is back at her apartment. Constable Decker is down there, she just called.”

  “How's Kylie? Knocked around?”

  “Decker didn't say so.”

  “Righto, I'll go straight there. We've got nowhere out here with this family, the Briskins. I think they're clean. They haven't seen our man, the father, in four years. It was a wasted trip.”

  “You win some, you lose some.”

  “That how it is with stocks and shares?”

  “Don't rub it in,” said Clements and hung up.

  Malone went back to the three by the grey Toyota. He had noticed that, though it wasn't new, maybe five or six years old, it was polished and—neat. “Righto, Mrs. Briskin. Maybe the detectives down south will want another word with you, but I'll tell ‘em what you told us. That you didn't see Constable Haywood yesterday.”

  “Give ‘em our condolences,” said Shirlee. “Good cops oughtn't be lost like that.”

  Neither Malone nor Sheryl Dallen saw Corey roll his eyes.

  II

  “His—Nibs—” Shirlee was making an upside-down cake, a family favourite. She pushed a can of pineapple rings towards Corey. “Open that . . . We've gotta get rid of him.”

  “Mum—” Corey ran an electric can-opener round the rim. “I'm in enough shit—okay, okay, I'll wash me mouth out. But I'm in it up to here—” He ran his finger across his throat. “I've done in two people, I didn't mean to, it just happened. I'm not lining up for something deliberate, not on him—”

  “I didn't mean that. She opened a packet of shredded coconut; she had her own recipes, always had had. She looked at all the cookery shows on TV, but went her own way, adding bits and pieces. “He's no good to us dead. But we'll have to move him from here. Them cops might come back again. Then there's that old stickybeak next door . . . No, we gotta move him.”

  “Where?” He had the practical sense of the hopeless.

  “I dunno. For the moment,” she added; she would think of somewhere. “We gotta talk to Chantelle.”

  “Mum, bloody Chantelle's left all the dirty work for us. We're in the shit, not her.” She didn't tell him to wash his mouth out; she continued mixing the cake. “If it hadn't been for her, we wouldn't of got into this.”

  “We done it for the money, not to please her.”

  “Yeah. If we let Errol go, what's she gunna do? Get another job in IT, make a mint? While Darlene and me've been losing money, taking time off?”

  “We'll talk to her.”

  “Yeah,” he said flatly and pushed the open can of pineapple rings towards her. “What we gunna have on it? Cream or ice-cream?”

  “Whatever you like.”

  “I'll ask our mate what he likes. He doesn't think much of your cooking.”

  “He's lucky we're feeding him.”

  Corey stood up, pulled on a blue hood, went out of the kitchen and down the hallway to the third bedroom. “How you feeling, sport?”

  Errol Magee was strapped to a rocking-chair, one of Darlene's scarves wrapped round his mouth and tied at the back of his neck, gagging him. Corey took off the gag and Magee said, “You bastard. I fucking near swallowed my tongue.”

  “That would have solved our problem,” Corey said to himself.

  “What?”

  “Sorry, sport. But we couldn't trust you to keep your mouth shut, you might of started yelling your head off and then I'd of had to clock you. Tonight for tea we're having upside-down cake, pineapple. You want cream or ice-cream on it?”

  “Why? You going to send me out for it?”

  Corey grinned inside the hood, shook his head. “You're on your own, sport. You're not shit- scared any more, are you?”

  “No, I'm just pissed off. You getting anywhere with the ransom?”

  “Not so far.”

  “What were you going to do with it? I mean your share?”

  “I dunno.” He sat down on Darlene's bed. “I used to be a dreamer, when I was a kid. I got outa the habit, I guess. Probably bought a bike, a BMW or a Honda, gone travelling. You ever seen the rest of Australia?”

  “Only from the air.”

  Corey stopped dreaming before it had begun, got serious. “Things are getting complicated, sport. They've kidnapped your girlfriend Kylie.”

  “They've what?” Magee tried to sit up straight, just set the chair rocking.

  Corey leaned forward and steadied the chair. “Or she's done a bunk. It was on the news this morning. Alan Jones and John Laws are making stars of you, you're right up there with Tom and Nicole. You're the only news on talk-back radio.”

  Magee was frowning, deeply troubled. “Something's happened to Kylie. She wouldn't just disappear, not of her own accord.” He looked across at Corey. “You're having me on.”

  “Mate, have I lied to you yet? But you lied to us. Where's that forty million you've salted away?”

  “That's bullshit. Propaganda. You dunno what banks and receivers are like. They're always talking about missing funds, loot that's been salted away somewhere. It's easy, it covers up their own mistakes. I'm telling you, there are more liars and rumour-mongers in business than there ever are in sport or the entertainment game. I didn't know it till I started to move up the ladder, it was a real eye-opener. Forty million!” He coughed a sneer, almost believing what he was saying. “You think I'd still be hanging around for the receivers to move in? I'd be outa sight, overseas, with a new name.”

  “You sound disappointed you're not.”

  “Wouldn't you be?”

  “Sport, you think that's where your girlfriend is? She's found out where the money is and she's over there trying her luck. She bright enough for that?”

  The thought horrified Magee for a moment; then he knew it was an impossibility. Kylie couldn't add up a grocery account. If American Express did
n't send her a bill every month she would think the world was a giveaway.

  “No, no way. She wouldn't have a clue—” He had said too much.

  “She wouldn't have a clue where you've put the money? Sport, you've just told me you do have forty million—”

  “No, no! For Crissakes, will you stop harping on it? I meant she hasn't a clue about business—she thinks American Express runs the world. If she's missing, someone's grabbed her—”

  “Who, for instance?”

  Magee took his time. “I'm guessing and you're not going to believe me—”

  “Try me.”

  “The yakuza.”

  “Who?”

  “The yakuza. Japanese gangsters, like the Mafia.”

  The blue hood fluttered as if a wind had blown through it; Corey was laughing. “Errol, I think you're going off your head—”

  “You blame me? Cooped up like this, tied up like a fucking chicken? No, I'm telling you the truth. Or guessing at it. The yakuza own the Kunishima Bank. I only found out a week ago.”

  Corey leaned back on his elbows on the bed. It was a neat room; Shirlee came in every morning after Darlene had left for work and made it neat. Darlene had never been the sort for posters on the walls, not even as a teenager; Mum would have removed the posters of pop stars and suggested she get neatly framed photos of INXS and Whitney Houston. Foulmouths like Eminem and other unwashed wouldn't have been allowed in the house, tacked to the wall or framed. A Hans Heysen print of gum trees in central Australia, a region as remote from Darlene's imagination as the Siberian tundra, hung on one wall. It had been chosen by Shirlee and it hung perfectly straight, the sidebars of its frame absolutely parallel to the junctions of the walls.

  “You've got a problem, sport.”

  Magee nodded. “Yeah—with you and them. I think I might be safer with you.”

  “Don't build your hopes . . . What about your wife? She's turned up, did you know?”

  “Yeah.” Magee said nothing more.

  “Did your girlfriend know about her?”