by Jon Cleary
He chewed on his toast, taking his time. He had never imagined that she would actually check on him with Nick Katzka, the current affairs executive producer at Channel 15; she had always been the most unsuspicious of wives. He had met her in London five years ago, where he had been working for one of the independent television news organizations; she had come from Adelaide to London on a working holiday and had joined the news organization as a temporary secretary. She knew little about him, even after five years; he had told her he was an orphan, came originally from Perth and had no relatives. He had invented other details as the need had arisen and she had accepted what he had told her without question. She had told him on their wedding night that she was interested only in their present and their future, almost as if afraid that there might be something buried in his past that could ruin their happiness.
Malone, O’Brien and the others had always been there in the back shadows of his mind; the hatred of them had been a rottenness that he had managed to hide from her. Sometimes, in moments alone, he would weep for his dead Uncle Jeff, the only person, up till he had met Julie, he had ever loved. The two of them, the young man and the older one, had talked often of his ambition to be a policeman; of more than just that, to rise in the force to a position of authority. Jeff had been a simple-minded man of old-fashioned honesty; he had never respected anyone as he had the tough, wiry timber-cutter. Jeff was the only one who had understood the instability that occasionally showed in him:
“Frank,” he had said more than once, “look out for that temper of yours, it’s gunna get you in terrible trouble one of these days.”
“Not with you, Uncle.”
“No, mebbe not with me. But you’ve got a streak of something in you, I dunno what it is, that you gotta watch. Especially when you become a cop. You’re gunna get into situations as a cop when you’re likely to do your block and you’re gunna have to watch yourself.”
“You think I’m a little crazy?” He had said it jokingly, but he had known even then there were times when he didn’t understand his own actions. Only a week before he had killed a neighbour’s dog that had attacked him, had taken it out into the bush and buried it, then, later, helped the neighbour search for his missing pet.
When he met Julie he had just started to experience loneliness, something he had never felt before; perhaps it had had something to do with being cooped up in London, a city that engulfed him. She, though attractive and quietly pleasant, never seemed to go beyond one date with any particular man. She had told him later that the main reason, at first, that she had gone out with him on a second and third date was that, unlike all the other men, he had not tried to get her into bed on the first night. There was an old-fashioned streak in her that, to his surprise, appealed to him; the old church-going days with Uncle Jeff and Aunt Elsie still had a superficial influence on him. They didn’t fall in love at once, but gradually they came to depend on each other; it was, perhaps, love with pity, though neither of them thought in those terms. Each recognized the loneliness of the other and, with the conceit of love, thought they could do something about it. There had been rocks along the way, some that had almost wrecked the marriage. Once he had hit her, almost knocking her unconscious; he had been ashamed that he had not been instantly contrite. Instead he had looked at her coldly and walked away; only hours later had it hit him how shamefully he had acted. She had forgiven him, but from then on she had retreated from their occasional quarrels before they became too serious.
There had been other examples of cold-bloodedness, of which she had known nothing. Once, covering the civil war in Beirut, he had picked up a rifle dropped by a dead militiaman and shot a civilian running across the street a hundred yards away. He had not known whether the civilian was one of those shooting at those at this end of the street; it had been enough that the man, whoever or whatever he was, had been on the other side of the dividing line. When the reporter covering the scene with him had remonstrated with him, he had dropped the rifle, picked up his camera and just walked away into the ruin of a neighbouring building. The reporter had left the next day for Tel Aviv and Malloy had never worked with him again.
He reached for a second piece of toast, though he had not yet finished the first slice. “I didn’t want to tell you this. I want to write.”
“Write what?” She sipped her celery juice. She had tossed and turned most of last night; this morning, pale and drawn, she didn’t look a health fanatic.
“Detective novels. I’ve always dreamed of some day being able to turn out something like Raymond Chandler. Or Elmore Leonard, though I don’t think I’d have his ear for dialogue.”
“You want to be a writer?”
He managed to grin, though it was almost hidden in his beard.
“Don’t say it as if I want to be a rapist or a bank robber.”
“Have you written anything?” She still sounded doubtful. “I’ve never seen you making notes or whatever it is writers do.”
“I’ve got bits and pieces at the office.” He was creating fiction while they sat here at the table and he knew he was not doing a good job. How did husbands who were experienced liars fool their wives? Yet he did not want to fool her, only to protect her.
“Why didn’t you tell me? All that stuff about making a documentary . . . You know I like detective mysteries as much as you do.”
The shelves in the second bedroom, which they had converted into a study, were full of crime books, fiction and non-fiction, hardback and paperback. The list of writers ran from Poe and Wilkie Collins and Conan Doyle through to Hammett and Chandler and Ross Macdonald and on to Higgins and Ross Thomas and Leonard and Freeling; detectives’ names stood out on the books’ spines: Holmes, Maigret, Trent. Those and crime movies were something the Malloys shared as enjoyment, though he had had to introduce her to them.
“What’s your book going to be about?”
“About a private eye tracking down a vengeance killer.”
“What’s the private eye’s name?”
He was tempted to say Frank Blizzard. “I haven’t decided yet. I want a name that’s different, like Sam Spade or Nero Wolfe. I’m just calling him Joe Smith for the moment.”
“That’d be different, a private eye named Smith.” She got up, began to clear the table. She looked suddenly healthy again, a flush of enthusiasm in her face; she was relieved that she could wash her suspicions down the kitchen sink. She believes me, he thought; but knew it would be mostly because it had hurt her to doubt him. She loved him more than he deserved, though he would never be able to tell her that. And he hoped she would never find out. “Can I read some of what you’ve written?”
“When I’ve finished the first draft.”
“When will that be?”
“Another week or two.” By which time the last two green bottles would be dead marines and only God knew what would have happened to him.
Last night’s close encounter with Malone had scared him. He had made a mistake in trying to pick off two targets at the same time. All the other murders had been safe ventures, even the daytime killing of Harry Gardner, the construction worker and ex-cop.
He had brought Julie home, worried that she should have such a sick headache; she had never been prone to headaches. But worry about her had not stopped him from going back to the Opera House; it was like the sickness of the compulsive gambler. Seeing Malone at the theatre, watching Waldorf up on the stage, had been too much of a magnet: the cold madness had taken hold of him again. He had put Julie to bed, gone down to the lock-up garage on the ground floor; each flat in the block had its own individual garage. He had taken the flat wooden case out of the locked steel box that was bolted to the concrete floor; he had told Julie it was for his camera equipment and there were indeed some lenses in there. Then he had gone out into the street and got into their car, a beige Mazda 626; their four-wheel-drive Nissan was always kept in the garage and taken out only at the weekend. It had taken him only ten minutes to drive from Wollst
onecraft back over the Harbour Bridge and up to Macquarie Street, where he had parked in a No Parking zone after putting a Press sign inside the windscreen. Carrying the gun-case he had gone down to the Opera House, circled the forecourt by staying close to the fall of the steep bluff and climbed the wide steps to the entrance to the Botanical Gardens. This was an entrance that he knew was rarely used, even during the day; but he had come here several times with a Channel 15 reporter to record an interview with some overseas visitors. The iron railing gate was locked, but he was prepared for it. He had brought with him a locksmith’s small tool-kit; an abiding interest in crime detection breeds some useful, if criminal, knowledge. He had used his skill on several news assignments, much to the admiration of the reporters he had worked with.
He unlocked the gate, but left it closed, just in case a guard came round on patrol. A couple of hundred yards away up to his left was Government House, the residence of the State Governor; a similar distance away to his right and below him was a construction site for the new harbour tunnel. A security patrol might come down this far, but he had to take that risk.
He went back and sat down on top of the steps, close to the base of the railing fence that ran along the top of the bluff, He took out the Tikka and assembled it, handling it almost affectionately; he had loved guns all his life. Then he affixed the „scope, an 8 x 56 Schmidt-Bender; it was not an infra-red night „scope, but it was good enough at night so long as the target was illuminated or standing against a light. Though he had made a mistake in shooting Mardi Jack when she had been outlined against the light. He had been as annoyed at himself at his incompetence as he had been upset at her unnecessary death.
At one point a young couple started to come up the steps, but he had coughed, they had looked up and seen him and at once turned round and gone back down the few steps they had climbed. When Malone and Waldorf had at last come across the forecourt he had followed them through the telescopic sight, tempted to pick them both off while they were out in the open. But there were cars still coming out from the main entrance to the Opera House, their headlights sweeping across the open space like giant yellow scythes. He waited till his two victims had reached the car parked with a dozen or more others along the low harbour wall. Then he lifted the rifle and peered through the „scope; both men were clearly visible less than a hundred yards from him. He aimed at the back of Waldorf’s head as the singer came round to the near side of the car and looked across the roof of the car at Malone. He felt the tremor run through him that had shaken him on the other occasions; then the usual cold calm had abruptly replaced it. He squeezed the trigger, saw Waldorf stumble, slammed back the bolt again and again, getting off two more shots, knew he had missed Malone and decided it was time to run. For the first time he forgot to pick up the empty cartridge cases.
He picked up the gun-case and raced up the path and into the Gardens. Over on his left he could see lights in the staff quarters of Government House; he hoped no security guard came out of there and tried to stop him; he did not want to kill another innocent victim. He kept running, not looking back to see if Malone was following him. He came to a gate that led out and down to Macquarie Street. He fumbled for his locksmith’s kit, took out a pick and unlocked the gate. He was breathing heavily, sweating despite the cold night, trembling again. He looked back now, could see no sign of Malone in the deep shadows of the trees. He paused, took three deep breaths and tried to steady himself. Then he removed the „scope, hastily took the Tikka apart, put both into the gun-case and stepped out into Macquarie Street, drawing the gate to behind him.
Driving home he felt none of the elation he had felt after the other murders; instead, he felt almost as drained as he had when he had learned he had killed an innocent woman instead of Horrie O’Brien. That had been a dreadful shock; he was a killer, but he could suffer for the innocent who died. He had almost decided then that enough was enough. Then the next day O’Brien’s photo had appeared in the newspapers on his way into a NCSC hearing and Malloy had known that he could never rest until he had completed the task he had set himself.
It was O’Brien who, unwittingly, had been responsible for the hit list. Those shadowy betrayers of years ago, the cadets who had thrown Malloy out of the police academy, had taken shape again; he had even heard the echo of their laughter as they had turned the fire hose on him and forced him out into the street where he had almost been run down by a car. He had remembered, so clearly that the memory was like being scratched with jagged glass, being called before the Superintendent at lunchtime the next day, of being interrogated and then, an hour later, being told he was dismissed as a cadet. All that had been almost buried till six months ago when he had suddenly recognized who Brian Boru O’Brien was.
He had read about the high-flying entrepreneur, but he had never had to film him; O’Brien, it seemed, never gave interviews. Then one day at the races at Randwick, when he and a reporter had been sent out to film an interview with a leading jockey coming back after his umpteenth suspension, the reporter had pointed out O’Brien in the saddling paddock. It had taken him a moment or two to recognize him; then the bony, laughing face of years ago had burst out of the shadows of almost-dead memory. He saw O’Brien throw back his head and laugh and, as if in a nightmare, heard the sound down the years as O’Brien turned the fire hose on him. The effect on Malloy had been such that the reporter had looked at him with concern.
“What’s the matter, mate? You going to faint or something?”
“No. No, I’m okay. I should wear a hat. The sun’s getting to my bald spot.”
“You ought to put some of your beard on your head, you’ve got enough to spare. Okay, there’s our hoop, let’s go and talk to him. He’s been outed so many times they have to introduce him to the horses again each time he comes back.” And they had gone across to the jockey, but not before Malloy had taken another hard look at O’Brien again. It was the same man, all right, who had led the laughter against him all those years ago.
And then, on the way home, the other five men, whose names at least he had never forgotten, came slipping back into his mind, like guerrillas who expected no ambush. He had brooded about them all weekend, managing to hide his preoccupation from Julie; and on the Monday he had begun tracking down his enemies, as they had once again become. It had been easy to find Harry Gardner; he had simply phoned all the H. Gardners in the Sydney phone directory; the eleventh he had called had been his Harry Gardner. As soon as Gardner had said yes, he had once been in the police force, starting as a cadet at the academy in 1965, Malloy had hung up. If Harry Gardner had moved to another State and stayed there, or had not come back to his home town, he might still be alive. Malloy doubted that his urge for revenge would have made him travel to the ends of the earth, or even of Australia, to kill a man he hated.
He had killed the men in no special order. O’Brien’s success had added something more scalding than salt to that wound of long ago; in a different field, O’Brien had achieved what he, Malloy, had dreamed of being, one of those at the top. True, O’Brien now looked like being toppled by the NCSC, but that did not matter: he had achieved what he had set out to do and it would be no satisfaction for Malloy if some government quango destroyed O’Brien. Malone was a different case; he was still on his way up. But Malloy had learned that the Detective-Inspector was certain of steady promotion, that he was so highly regarded in the Department that some day he might even be Police Commissioner. The job that Malloy, all those years ago, in the visions of youth, had dreamed of.
When he had reached home last night Julie was asleep. Or pretending to be: this morning he was not so sure. He had undressed in the dark and got into bed beside her. He had kissed her tenderly on her dark hair, and she had just stirred, then turned over away from him. He had lain on his back for a while, running the murder through his mind as he might run a tape through an editing machine. He still felt drained and he wondered why. Was he running out of anger and hatred? He had drifted off int
o sleep before he could find an answer, but when he had woken this morning he had known the task had to be completed.
Now, he got up and stood beside Julie, drying up the dishes while she washed. They had a dishwasher, but Julie used it only during the week, when they were both working; at weekends, she washed up after every meal.
“When you’ve finished the book, would you like me to type it up for you?” She worked as a secretary for a furniture designer and manufacturer; their flat was full of comfortable, traditional furniture, but her employer was an avant-garde designer and she spent her working day amongst chrome and glass and abstract sculpture. “I can put it through the word-processor.”
“We’ll see.” All he had to do was find three hundred pages of manuscript.
He looked out the kitchen window at the grass tennis court next door; the neighbour, a prominent lawyer, was playing tennis with two daughters and a son. He and his wife had six children, all living at home in the big two-storeyed house, and Malloy knew that Julie sometimes longed for that sort of home life. She had been brought up in a large house in Adelaide, had had six brothers and sisters, and she had never really become accustomed to living in a two-bedroom flat with only him to care for. He did not dislike Wollstonecraft, a tree-clothed inner suburb, but he often yearned for life in a country town again, to go out with a gun hunting rabbits or duck. But then, he told himself, what Police Commissioner would live in a small country village like Minnamook?
“Are you on stand-by today?” Julie asked.
“I don’t know till I call in. If I’m not, how’d you like a day in the country? We’ll take a picnic lunch.”