by Jon Cleary
“We’re doubling the surveillance out there. She’s not going to like it, but she’ll have to put up with it.”
“What did he have to say to Mrs. Masson?”
There had been the regular morning conference of the task force, then Malone had come back to Homicide. Other murders, like traffic accidents, were still occurring; he was not investigating them, but he had to confer with Clements on how they were handled. The phone intercept on August had happened ten minutes ago.
“It was a love call, I guess you’d call it. Said he loved her and was sorry for what had happened, that he had hoped the money would wipe out their debts. We’ve got the Rockdale police down to where he made the call, but so far they haven’t reported in. I doubt that he’s hung around. He’d guessed the line was tapped. After he’d said goodbye to Mrs. Masson, he said cheerio to the blokes on the line. He’s a cheeky bastard.”
“I don’t think his cheekiness is going to last. He really loves that woman of his, Greg. His life’s over and he knows it. But what was he doing in Rockdale?”
“I don’t know, Scobie. I don’t think he would’ve been out there to do Mrs. Vanderberg, but he might have another contract to do—what’s his name?”
Malone had to think: politics these days was full of vague shapes, vague names. The back benches were stocked with anonymity: “Rix. Barry or Harry Rix. He used to be The Dutchman’s branch secretary. He was the one Joe St. Louis was supposed to do over, but Joe got the wrong feller.”
“Well, Mr. Rix might be August’s next target.”
“He won’t be if our main suspect, Janis Eden, was the one who paid August.”
“Anyhow, we’ve sent extra men out there, they’re going to comb the neighbourhood. We might have some luck.”
“You don’t sound hopeful.”
“It’s the Welsh in me. You want me to quote you a Welsh poet? I stuffed my life with odds and ends—”
“Take your ear away, Greg. I’m hanging up—”
“Hold it! I want you to go out and talk to Mrs. Masson, see if you can get anything further out of her. Use your Irish bullshit.”
“We call it blarney.”
“Same thing. Good luck.”
Malone took Gail Lee with him out to Longueville. He had become comfortable working with her; there was an ease between them that slipped round rank, though she never abused the relationship. It had taken the Police Service almost a century to acknowledge that women had their place in law enforcement. One day there would be a woman Police Commissioner and in graves all around the country there would be bones trying to break out of coffins as they had once broken in doors.
“We treat her gently, Gail. This woman has had the bottom fall out of her world. I don’t want to be around when we have to pick up the pieces of her when she totally falls apart.”
“That’s when she may tell us where we can find Mr. August.”
“Is that feminine pragmatism?”
“No, it’s feminine logic. A woman will often sacrifice a man to save him for herself.”
He looked sideways at her as she drove, fast but competently as usual. “Now I understand why I’ve never understand a woman’s logic.”
She glanced at him, smiled. “Leave Mrs. Masson to me, okay? You’re not an unsympathetic man, but I think we need a woman’s touch here.”
“I’m glad you think I’m not unsympathetic. I must tell my wife and daughters.”
The opportunity presented itself much sooner than he expected; at least to tell it to one daughter. But what he would tell her would not be sympathetic at all.
When they drew up outside the Happy Hours Day-Care Centre there were four other vehicles parked at the kerb. A marked police car, two cars with press stickers on their windscreens, a Channel 15 van with a transmitter dish on its roof: enough excitement to have drawn a small crowd of onlookers. Even in well-bred Longueville curiosity was sometimes let out of the house.
Malone cursed as he got out of the car, pushed his way through the crowd into the yard. The first thing he noticed was that there were no children: Wombat Rose, Dakota, Alabama, Fred were all gone. And with them, he guessed, were gone the Happy Hours.
The second thing he noticed was Maureen interviewing Mrs. Masson. He turned to the young uniformed officer who approached him. “What the hell’s going on?”
“Who are you, sir?” He was one of the local cops, not from the strike force.
“Inspector Malone, Homicide. Where are the surveillance fellers, supposed to be keeping an eye on Mrs. Masson?”
“They’re further up the street, sir.” He introduced himself as Constable Raine. He was tall and big, with bushy black eyebrows a broken nose and a very thick neck which suggested he was either a rugby forward or was heading for a goitrous old age. “They called us to come down when the media guys turned up. They didn’t want to be identified.”
The two of them had moved away from the crowd and now were joined by Gail Lee. The television crew and Maureen didn’t appear to have noticed the new arrivals. One of the newspaper reporters recognized Malone and moved towards him, but Malone shook his head, mouthing Later.
Gail said, “She’s giving Mrs. Masson a hard time.”
“I’ll give her a hard time when I get her home.” He saw the bushy eyebrows go up and he said to the young officer, “She’s my daughter.”
“I was gunna break it up, sir—”
Gail, one eye on her boss, said, “Where are all the kids?”
“The parents took them out of the centre,” said Raine. “It’s gunna be closed down.”
Malone, holding in his irritation, was watching Maureen talking to Mrs. Masson. He couldn’t hear what was being said, but it was evident that Mrs. Masson was not enjoying the interview. Then it came to an abrupt stop: she snapped something at Maureen, turned away and in a stumbling run went up into the hall. The cameraman and the soundman went to follow her, but Maureen stepped in front of them and shook her head. Then she saw her father and froze.
Malone said nothing, just strode past her and up into the hall. Gail Lee followed him, but she turned in the doorway and looked straight at Maureen and the television crew. “I would advise you to leave now.”
“That’s up to us,” said the cameraman. “Not you.”
Gail looked at Maureen. “I think you’d better talk some sense into your colleague. You’re in enough trouble as it is.” She nodded back into the hall.
“Who with?” The cameraman was young, overweight, belligerent; three beers and he would take on the world.
Gail ignored him, continued to look at Maureen. The latter hesitated, then turned away. “Let’s go. I’m finished.”
“Why, for Crissake? Fucking police stand-over—”
Then Constable Raine stepped forward. “Maybe you’d like to come up to the station and lay a complaint? You can give the camera to your mate here—” He nodded at the soundman, a youth who looked as if he wished he were deaf. “He can take our picture as we go out the gate. The press guys can follow us and write a story about you and me and your abuse of a woman detective. Okay?”
“You’re a fucking smartarse—”
“It takes one to know one. Come on, Jack, just piss off before I have to run you in—”
The soundman was tugging at his cable, like a dog-owner trying to get his charge away from a pole. “Come on, Barney, let’s get outa here—”
The cameraman backed away, still muttering and glowering, and Constable Raine grinned up at Gail Lee on the doorstep. “They think they own the world. Good luck with Mrs. Masson. She’s a real nice lady. It’s a pity—” He gestured vaguely, said nothing more and turned away.
Gail went into the hall where Malone was sitting opposite Lynne Masson amidst an empty carnival of tiny desks, toys and bright paintings on the walls where the children’s images of themselves and their world hung like innocence itself. But an empty mask leered evilly at the two detectives, like a death-mask of an ancient Wombat Rose.
&
nbsp; “What upset you?” Malone was asking.
“That bloody girl—” Lynne Masson was a shattered woman; she seemed hardly aware of the two detectives. “Jesus, you wonder where they come from! Have they no—no sympathy for people?”
“I’ll ask her,” said Malone quietly. “She’s my daughter.”
Mrs. Masson blinked and looked at him as if he had sworn at her. “What? Your daughter?” He nodded. “Good God, is that how you brought her up? Jesus, I try to teach these kids here—” She swept an arm around her at the absent children, gone probably forever from her. Then she blinked again, as if realizing for the first time that the children were no longer there. “I try to teach them to respect people—”
“My wife and I thought we’d done that,” said Malone. “I guess we never anticipated foot-in-the-door journalism. What did she say that upset you so much?”
“She wanted to know was the money you found under here—” She tapped the floor with a nervous foot, as if it were mined. “Whether it was to pay off my debts, the day-care’s debts. They’d found that out—” Then she seemed to freeze herself together, stared at him: “Did you tell her about my debts?”
“No, believe me I didn’t.”
“Then how—?”
“Lynne, you’ve been drawn into a mess . . .” He looked at Gail, though he didn’t know why; unless it was for support he suddenly needed. Then he turned back to Mrs. Masson: “Channel 15 were working on a story about internal fighting in the Labor Party—that was before Premier Vanderberg’s assassination.” She frowned when he used the word, but said nothing. “When John killed the Premier—”
She shook her head, but it was difficult to tell whether it was in denial or stupefaction.
“It’s a whole new ballgame, Lynne. You’re in it—Detective Lee and I are in it—Channel 15, the whole media . . . They’re not going to leave you alone till we find John.”
“Lynne,” said Gail, leaning forward on her chair, as solicitous as an aid worker, “where can we find him?”
“I don’t know! God, I want to find him as much as you do—I still can’t believe he—he shot—” The words choked her like smoke from a fire she could not believe was now just ashes.
“He did it, Lynne,” said Gail gently. “If he calls you again, tell him to turn himself in. He can’t run forever. Does he have any other relatives or friends besides you? You mentioned his mother down in Victoria?”
“They’re not—they don’t speak, haven’t for years, he said. They never got on—she’s a religious crank, he said—” She looked around the hall again, as if only just realizing she still had another problem: “I worked so hard for all this. I really enjoyed the kids—so did John—I told them it was going to be great to grow up—”
“They’ll survive,” said Malone. “Especially Wombat Rose.”
She nodded, but looked unconvinced.
“Do you have a recent photo of John?” Gail asked.
Again she blinked; her thoughts were like marbles in a barrel. “Photo? John hated having his photo taken—he used to say it was bad luck—he’d say it as a joke, but he would always turn away when someone produced a camera—” She concentrated, looked at them both: “I suppose—?”
Malone nodded. “He didn’t want his past to catch up with him, Lynne.”
“I saw that awful one of him on TV last night—the prison one—I couldn’t believe it was the same man—”
“Even the Pope would look bad in a police photograph.”
She tried for a smile, but it was too much effort. Then she said, “If he calls again—you’re tapping my phone—”
“I’m afraid so, Lynne—we have a warrant.” Malone stood up. “John knows it. He may not phone again, but if he does, tell him to give himself up. It will be easier for you, tell him.”
“You think so? Seeing him go to jail for—how long? Fifteen, twenty years?” She shook her head so vigorously her hair fell down over her face; she pushed it back. “No, I think I’d rather he just disappeared.”
Malone understood her thinking; but he couldn’t agree with her. “Don’t obstruct us, Lynne. We don’t want to put you in jail.”
Gail Lee said nothing, just patted Mrs. Masson’s shoulder as she stood up. She looked around the cluttered room, picked up a Banana in Pajamas doll and put it on one of the low tables, where it instantly fell over. “What happens to all this?”
“The bank takes the lot. What happens to the money in the suitcase?”
“The court confiscates it and it goes into general revenue.”
“So it gets lost? Can I claim it? It would save Happy Hours.”
“I think you’d have a hard time proving it was yours,” said Malone. “I agree with you, it could save all this, you could bring the kids back—”
“No.” She shook her head again, facing facts. “The parents would never bring their kids back. Not after—”
Malone and Gail walked to the door. There Malone turned back, saw the bent-over figure that looked for a moment like nothing more than a large child. Then she raised her head and said, “What are you going to say to your daughter?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “Unfortunately, she’s long past day care.”
II
John August had no intention of stalking Gert Vanderberg; he had no idea where she lived nor did he care. He had been in Rockdale by sheer accient. After he had spoken to Ailsa, Lynne’s assistant, yesterday he had debated where he could run to. He was dressed only in a shirt and overalls and he was carrying his metal tool-box; he was not exactly dressed for catching a bus or plane to some distant destination. He had not panicked; that was not in his nature. He knew his picture, the old police photograph of twelve years ago or whatever they dug up, would not be displayed till the first of the evening’s television news at five o’clock. He went into the McDonalds at North Sydney and over a cheeseburger and french fries he pondered where to go from here. He took his work diary out of his toolbox. There was a job for next Tuesday, putting in some new bookshelves; the job was originally for tomorrow, but the woman, Mrs. Milo, had cancelled, saying she and her husband would not be back from Noosa till next Monday. The address was in Neutral Bay, twenty minutes walk from here. He finished his cheeseburger, put the carton and the greasy napkin in the waste-bin, neat as always, offered his table to a woman with three children, winked at the kids and left.
The Milo residence was a two-storied house on a narrow block; he had come looking for it last week when he had been in the neighbourhood. No one saw him enter the house. There was a side entrance and he went down it and round to the back of the house. He checked to see if there was an alarm system, found none and five minutes later had opened the back door and was inside the house.
He spent the night there, turning on no lights, feeding on biscuits and tinned fruit and black coffee; there was nothing in the big refrigerator. He was careful to leave no fingerprints, once looking ruefully at the finger with the missing joint that had given him away at the Sewing Bee. He slept fitfully, Lynne moving in and out of his restless mind, then he got up early and went into the bathroom. He found a pair of scissors and cut off most of his dark hair, then with Mr. Milo’s electric razor he trimmed it down to a short stubble. Before he shaved he looked at his face; it was nondescript, a face in the crowd. He had not shaved for two days and there was a dark shadow on his long upper lip; he decided to grow a moustache. Still standing in front of the bathroom mirror he put on his gold-rimmed glasses. The disguise was minimal, but he would pass. There are advantages to being average.
He had breakfast of honey on dry cereal and black coffee. Then he went into the main bedroom to rummage through the closets. The Milos evidently spent a lot of money on clothes; expensive labels swung round on hangers like calling cards. Mr. Milo, it seemed, was about the same height as August, but beefier; the jacket and trousers he chose were a size too large, but he was being chased by police, not tailors. He smiled at the thought of taking the jacket and trouser
s back to the Sewing Bee for alteration, but the smile was just the faint echo of a hollow laugh. He was past humour, at least for the moment.
He left the house the way he had entered it. He was wearing a tan sun-hat with a green-and-brown ribbon, one of Mr. Milo’s Ruffini & Brooks’ oxford blue shirts, a brown custom-tailored sports jacket and a pair of Daks cavalry twill trousers, the extra width drawn in by an expensive leather belt with Mr. Milo’s initials on the buckle. He had never been so well dressed in his life. The effect was spoiled only by the tool-box he carried.
He debated whether he should head north or south. For some reason most fugitives, if they did not flee the country, headed north, as if Queensland were a habitat where a leopard could change his spots without anyone’s noticing. True, not so many years ago, southerners had thought of the Gold Coast as a habitat where white-shoed leopards sold swampy spots to any sucker who came north, but now it seemed that every second retiree was heading north. The region had become respectable to a point where even Baywatch had been invited to settle.
August decided to head south. He walked to Milsons Point railway station, caught a train to Town Hall and changed to one for Sutherland; there he would steal a car and drive maybe even as far south as Victoria or even Tasmania, the island State so often left off maps, even those drawn by mainlanders. It might be an ideal state in which to get lost.
Just before the train reached Rockdale he saw the two transport police officers coming through from the carriage in front. The train drew into the station, he got up and stepped out as the doors opened. He didn’t hurry, took his time, a well-dressed handyman on his way to work; he even paused to give a hand to an old lady having difficulty stepping on to the platform. In the carriage the two officers had paused by a youth in T-shirt and jeans, baseball cap on back to front, who had his feet up on the seat opposite him. He was in trouble.
Still haunted by what he had done to, and for, Lynne, August had gone into a public phone-box and called her. He had guessed that the police would have a tap on her phone; but he had to speak to her. When he hung up he felt worse.