Bleak Spring

by Jon Cleary

  “No, Jill. Dad wasn’t like that—” But he wondered. He realized now how little he had known his father. “He knew he was dying, with that brain tumour, and he just wanted to show how he appreciated you working for him. Don’t knock him, Jill. He’s dead and can’t explain . . .”

  “Oh God!” She turned and reached for him, pulled him towards her, held him. It wasn’t sexual and he realized it. “I’m sorry, Jay. I didn’t mean to hurt you . . . Forgive me?” She put her hand under his chin, held his face away from her.

  “Sure—”

  She kissed him softly on the lips. “Go home, Jay. Call me tomorrow and let me know what your mother says about the will.”

  He left her reluctantly, not because he wanted to stay in bed with her, to have that bloody wonderful sex with her, but because he knew now, with utter certainty, that he was in love with her. He didn’t have to wait, as she had advised him, till he had known other girls. He knew.

  He drove home, switched off the Civic’s lights so that he wouldn’t disturb his mother and Shelley if they had gone to bed, and pulled up sharply as he saw Angela’s Ferrari blocking the driveway. He reversed out into the roadway and swung the Civic into the kerb. He got out of the car and instantly a man was standing beside him.

  “Oh, it’s you—Jason, isn’t it? I’m Constable Pilecki, from Randwick police.”

  He couldn’t believe how rigid he had gone with fright; tonight he was experiencing emotions he had never felt before. “You scared the hell outa me!”

  “Sorry, mate.” He was young and bulky, but a good six inches shorter than Jason. “We’re supposed to be keeping an eye on the family.”

  “You weren’t following me tonight, were you?”

  “Nah. We saw you go out, but our instructions are to stay with your mother. She’s been home all night.”

  “Why all this security stuff? Because of Mr. Jones?”

  “Him, and anybody else who might trouble your mother. She has a visitor now, but it’s a lady.”

  “Sure. That’s Mrs. Bodalle. She’s no trouble.” Just a pain in the arse.

  He walked up the side driveway, turned the corner of the house, hearing the rustle of birds in the big camphor laurel, and saw his mother and Angela against the glow of a table lamp in the garden room. They were in each other’s arms, mouths swallowing each other’s, in a clinch as tight as he had been with Jill before she had said, Undress me. Angela with her hands up under his mother’s skirt, just as he had put his hands up under Jill’s. He stood stock-still, suddenly feeling sick. He was holding his breath, not daring to move, not wanting to catch their eye and have them know he had seen them.

  Then his mother and Angela broke apart, holding each other at arm’s length, and both smiled, lovers’ smiles: it was the way he and Jill had looked at each other after their last kiss tonight at her front door. His mother put up her hand and stroked Angela’s cheek and whispered something. Then they turned slowly and went into the kitchen, arms round each other. He continued to stand without moving, still feeling sick and—disgusted? Wondering if he should just bolt down the driveway, run—but where? And why? Just because he had found out that his mother was a—a lesbian, for Chrissake!

  He gathered himself together, angry at his shock and cowardice. He was going to gain nothing by running away, better to go in now and face them and see what his mother would say when he told her what he had seen. He almost marched into the house, found his mother and Angela still in the kitchen, but with Angela now with her handbag over her shoulder, ready to say goodnight.

  “Oh Jason!” His mother looked surprised; or guilty. From now on he knew he would be looking at her with a stranger’s eyes. “You’re home early.”

  He looked at his watch, calm as you like; even Charlie Sheen couldn’t have acted better. “It’s eleven o’clock. What time did you expect me home?”

  It was Angela who saw the envelope in his hand. “Have you got something for your mother?”

  “How’d you know?” He was abruptly aggressive, rude.

  “Jay!”

  “It’s all right, darling, don’t jump on him . . . It’s a legal envelope, Jay, the sort we put wills in. You forget, I’ve seen hundreds of them.”

  “You’re pretty sharp.”

  “Jay, stop that! Is it a will? Where’d you get it?” His mother snatched it from him and he let her have it.

  “Jill gave it to me.”

  “You’ve been with her? You said you were going out with your friends.”

  “She’s a friend . . . She found that today in one of Dad’s legal books. He made it out a coupla weeks ago or something.”

  “Does she know what’s in it?” future.

  “No.” He was surprised at how easy it was to lie to her, how easy it was going to be in the

  “Do you know?”

  “No.”

  Olive took out the single sheet, read it, then read it again. He watched the expression on her face; she was stunned, unbelieving. Without a word she handed the will to Angela, who seemed to speed-read it, she was so quick.

  Then, unsure now how good his acting was, he said, “What’s it say?”

  “Did your father ever say anything to you about making a new will?” said Angela.

  What’s it got to do with you? he wanted to ask; but, of course, he knew. “No, never. What’s the will say?”

  At least Angela left it to his mother to reply this time: “It leaves everything to you and Shelley, nothing to me. Nothing at all.”

  “Everything? To me and Shelley? Why would Dad do something like that?” All at once he was barely holding on, his acting was falling apart.

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  So we’re even, he thought: I’ve lied to you and you’ve lied to me. But he was certain now that his father must have known that his mother and Angela were—lovers? Was that the word? “Is there anything else in the will?”

  “Yes.”

  “What?” Come on, for Chrissake don’t lie to me again, Mum!

  “Your father has left ten thousand dollars for his girlfriend. Your friend Jill.” The venom in her voice shocked and hurt and disappointed him; the image he had had all his life of his mother was all of a sudden falling apart. Even Angela seemed worried by it: she took his mother’s elbow and squeezed it, as if in warning.

  “Darling, don’t say anything you’ll regret in the morning.”

  “Jesus, what do you expect me to say!” Olive turned on her. “What sort of man was I married to?”

  Jason felt that at any moment he was going to crumble to the floor. He suddenly felt terribly alone, he wanted someone to lean on; but who was there? From now on there would be only Shelley, and she was too young to be any help. It came to him, even now, that Jill, for all her tenderness towards him, would be no help, either. He had to make this all on his own.

  “Mum, he’s dead.” His voice was unexpectedly steady; he saw Angela look at him. “You should have asked him that while he was alive.”

  Angela was still looking at him, hard: as if she were seeing him as an adult for the first time. “You’re being rough on your mother, Jay.”

  “You mean, like you would be in court?”

  He didn’t see his mother’s hand coming at him, just felt the stinging blow across his cheek. That did it: things he had not meant to say burst out of him like vomit: “Is that why Dad left you out of his will? Because you and Angela grope each other, because you’re a coupla fucking lesbians? You make me sick, Mum!”

  He had to push between them to get past them; he did it roughly, only just stopping himself from knocking them both off their feet. He went out of the house, slamming the door behind him. He ran down the driveway, almost falling in his haste; he hit the Ferrari with his fist as he stumbled past it. He came out into the street and stood there, his breath coming in great aching sobs, as if he had just run from Christ knew where. He looked up and down Coogee Bay Road, pained and puzzled, as if he had suddenly found himself in strange terr
itory and had no map, no sense of direction. Then he crossed to the Civic, fumbled at opening the door, got in and started up the engine. Only then did it hit him that he had nowhere to go.

  II

  Tuesday morning Malone felt no better, but he succeeded in concealing his mood. The report from Ellsworth at Maroubra said that Mrs. Rockne was still under surveillance and there had been no apparent interference by Mr. Jones or anyone else, unless she had been contacted by phone and had not reported it. The boy Jason had run out of the house at 11.15 P.M. last night, got into the family’s Honda Civic obviously distressed and had disappeared and not returned by 7.30 A.M., the time of the report.

  “Why didn’t they follow Jason?”

  Clements tried to soothe him. “Scobie, that wasn’t in the brief. They reported the kid went off, gave a description of the car and its number, but none of the cruising cars was able to pick it up. Not till twenty minutes ago, when Carl Ellsworth phoned in. Waverley police report the Civic’s parked outside a block of flats in Tamarama.”

  “Who lives in the block of flats?”

  “I looked up the running sheet, checked the addresses of everyone we’ve talked to. Jill Weigall lives there.”

  “Well, how about that? What else have we got?”

  The report from Penrith contained nothing new, except the preliminary autopsy on Dunne and Claudia. “Penrith has set up a van outside Kelpie’s house and, according to Jim Petrocelli, from West Region Homicide, they’ve been swamped by people who swear they saw the murderer coming out of Kelpie’s front gate. They all have different descriptions—he was six feet six, he was four feet six, he was fat, he was thin, he was Asian, he was a whitey, he was an Abo. The only thing they have in common is that they’ve all admitted they might have been drunk, celebrating the Panthers’ win. Jim says if he gets one piece of concrete evidence out of ’em, he’ll be lucky.”

  “The public, I love em. Always there when you need ’em. What’ve you got, John?”

  John Kagal had sat quietly, immaculate as always, the university tie looking as if it had just been dry-cleaned; or perhaps, Malone thought sourly, he had a dozen of them. “I have a glimmer of light.”

  “At the end of the well-known tunnel? Are we about to stumble into some sort of mode?” Then conscience struck him; Kagal didn’t deserve this. “Sorry. John. I’m still scraping shit off my liver—it’s stuck to me like chewy to my boot. I’ve had at least a dozen calls from the media experts, every one of them fluent in all the buzz phrases. Two of them actually asked me how level was the playing field. Go on, John, what’ve you got?”

  If Kagal had been put out by Malone’s sourness, he didn’t show it. He said smoothly, “I tracked down Hamill’s foreman at the Newtown shop, a guy named Reevers. He was quite open, said he had a record. Break and entry, possession of an illegal drug. The last time was eight years ago and he swears he’s been clean ever since. He also swears he had nothing to do with the stolen car racket at Hamill’s—he knew about it, but he had nothing to do with it, he just ran the legitimate front. He’s scared he’ll be dragged in by the Motor Squad, so he was prepared to be co-operative. Especially now Kelpie is dead and can’t stand over him—evidently they didn’t get on too well. He said yes, Kelpie was working on things for himself in the workshop. He knows a silencer when he sees one and he says Kelpie made three or four, including one for one of the guys out at Tempe, where the stolen cars were.”

  Malone looked at Clements. “So, whether he knew it or not, he made a silencer for whoever killed him and his missus. Did you get the name of the feller out at Tempe?”

  “Yes, I’ve seen him. His name’s Fancett and he has a record, too—Hamill’s was a real reunion house for cons. I got a warrant and searched his house out at Bexley. I found the silencer and an unlicensed Colt Forty-five. Ballistics has both the silencer and the gun now and he’s been taken into custody for questioning.”

  Kagal neither sounded nor looked pleased with himself; but the two senior detectives could feel that he was. He had been detailed to do something and he had done it efficiently and more quickly than Malone had expected. All Malone could say was, “Nice work, John,” and Kagal nodded, not in acknowledgement but in agreement.

  “You think Fancett had anything to do with either Kelpie’s or Rockne’s murder?”

  “Nothing. He’s sticking to his story that he kept the Forty-five for protection, though he couldn’t explain why he needed a silencer for protection. But I’m sure he had nothing to do with our two killings.”

  Andy Graham, one of the other detectives, put his head in the doorway. “Russ, Liverpool police are on the line for you. They’ve got some info.”

  Clements went out, was back in a couple of minutes. “Liverpool police have traced Jones’s brown Mercedes. It’s on a used car lot on the Hume Highway, he sold it yesterday afternoon.”

  “Did he trade it in on something else?”

  “He was too smart for that. If he’d bought a car from this crowd, he’d know we’d know what to look for. He’s gone somewhere else to get himself some wheels.”

  Malone stood up. “Righto, John, that’s your job—trace every second-hand car bought yesterday. With the recession, there won’t be that many. Russ and I are going out to Tamarama, see what enticed young Jason to spend the night with Miss Weigall, other than the obvious.”

  Tamarama was more an enclave than a suburb, a narrow strip of territory running back from a narrow beach. Jill Weigall lived in a modest block of four flats up the hill from the beach; the Honda Civic was no longer parked in front of the flats. Nor was Jill at home. Malone and Clements went back to their car and headed for the Rockne office at Coogee. Jill Weigall was there, but no Jason.

  The phone rang as the two detectives entered the front door. Jill answered it, spoke to a client for some minutes, one eye cocked warily at Malone and Clements. As soon as she put the phone down, it rang again and she answered it once more. When she had finished the call Malone said, “Do you have an answer-phone, Jill? Switch the calls to it for the next half-hour. Lock the front door, Russ. Righto, Jill, can we go into Mr. Rockne’s office? I think we’ll be more comfortable there.”

  She stood up, looking decidedly uncomfortable. “What’s the problem, Inspector? I’m not in trouble or anything, am I?”

  “What makes you think that? No, I don’t think so, Jill. Sit down.” He had taken the chair behind Rockne’s desk. The desk top was bare, as if someone had decided that every trace of Will Rockne had to be erased. Malone gestured at the desk. “Are you closing out the practice?”

  Jill nodded. “Mrs. Rockne called me this morning, she gave me two weeks’ notice.”

  The two men exchanged glances, then Malone said, “Because of Jason?”

  “I don’t understand—” But she did: it was plain on her face.

  “Jill, did Jay spend last night with you?”

  She hesitated, looking from one man to the other, then she nodded again; the lock of hair fell down over her forehead. “Yes.”

  “Are you two going out together? Has he become your boyfriend?”

  “Inspector, is that any of your business?” She showed a spark of anger, but still looked apprehensive.

  “No, I guess not. Except it seems to have happened pretty quickly. I really don’t care if you are having a romance with him—”

  “It’s not a romance—”

  “Is that why Mrs. Rockne gave you notice this morning?”

  “Probably. She was pretty abrupt. She wasn’t on the phone a minute, she didn’t mention Jason . . . I—I made a mistake last night. I—encouraged him, if you like. I felt sorry for him. But he’s serious—about me, I mean.”

  “And you’re not serious about him?”

  “God, no. He’s only seventeen. I made a mistake—I forgot what I was like at seventeen. He’s romantic—”

  “Like his father?”

  Her look told him that remark was cruel. “No, Will was anything but romantic. What you’r
e really asking me is, did I go to bed with Jason? Yes, I did. And I’m sorry now, dreadfully sorry. Especially for letting it happen the second time.”

  “The second time?”

  “He took me to a movie, then he took me home and—well, we went to bed. He left my flat about ten thirty, quarter to eleven, somewhere around then, and went home. He was back at a quarter to twelve—I was asleep and he woke me up. He said he’d been driving around, wondering where to go . . . He stayed the night, then I sent him home this morning. He didn’t want to go, but I made him. I presume that’s where he is now.”

  “Why did he come back the second time?” He hoped she would not give him a frank, obvious answer; she seemed free with her favours, but embarrassed to admit it. She might have been less embarrassed with someone younger than himself and Clements; perhaps he should have sent John Kagal.

  She hesitated again, then she said, “He had a terrible row with his mother—”

  “Over you?”

  She pushed back the lock of hair. “That was only part of it, I think. No—” She stopped. “No, really, I don’t think I should tell you what he told me—”

  “That’s your privilege, Jill. But Sergeant Clements and I are still trying to find out who killed Will Rockne. Sunday night there was another murder that we think was connected to this one—” He waved a hand around him, as if Rockne had been murdered here in his office. “There could be another. Mr. Jones is still roaming around and we think he could threaten the Rockne family. He already has, in fact. What did Jason tell you?”

  She took her time; then at last she shrugged. “All right, I suppose you’re going to hear it all sooner or later. Mr. Rockne left a new will—” She told them the contents of it, as much as she knew. “Jay said his mother couldn’t believe she had been left out of it, that she got nothing. Then when she read the bit about me getting the ten thousand dollars—”

  “When I counted out that cash last Sunday week,” said Clements, “did you have any idea it was for you?”