Bleak Spring. Jon Cleary
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‘The world is becoming too violent. But why have you come to see me?’
‘We understand you were a client of his.’
‘No, no. Not a client . . . I see you are taking notes, Sergeant. Is this going to be held in evidence against me?’ He smiled again. ‘Only kidding. But I shouldn’t be, should I? This is serious.’
Malone nodded, unsure of how he felt towards the bookmaker, whether he liked or disliked him. ‘I’m afraid it is. If you weren’t a client, what were you, Mr Bezrow? We understand Mr Rockne had some sort of dealings with you.’
Bezrow folded small, well-shaped hands across the slope of his belly. ‘Dealings? I am – was his landlord. And he would occasionally come to me for advice, that was all. But no dealings.’
‘Advice on horses?’ said Clements.
‘No, no. I don’t think he had the slightest interest in racing. No, I met him some years ago, he ran for alderman on the local council. We had a terrible lot in the town hall in those days – you may remember it, the newspapers had a field day. The council’s motto was an honest day’s work for an honest week’s pay. They used to boast none of them was afraid of work – they’d go to sleep beside it every Monday to Friday. I organized the campaign to throw them out. Surprises you, eh? A bookmaker involved in local politics? Why not? Politics is just another question of the odds, everything’s a gamble, isn’t it?’
‘Sergeant Clements doesn’t think so.’
Bezrow winked at Clements. ‘I didn’t mention it before, Sergeant, but I’ve heard of you. You are, or should I say were, on every bookmaker’s poison-ivy list. We were always thankful you never betted hugely like some of those who shall be nameless.’
The room in which they sat was a combination drawing room and library. Two walls were stacked to the high ceiling with books, many of them leather-bound. Bezrow spoke in a slightly literary way, as if whatever time he spent in this room had its influence on him. It was not a room for betting sheets, form guides and computers.
‘Back to Mr Rockne?’ Malone suggested.
‘Oh yes. As I say, he ran for alderman. He didn’t make it, but I was impressed by him.’
‘In what way?’
‘For one thing, he had a very analytical mind.’
Argumentative would have been Malone’s judgement, not analytical. ‘So why did he keep coming to you for advice?’
Bezrow ran a hand over his head. He had dark wavy hair that lay flat on his flat-topped head; there were streaks of grey along his temples. His hand rested a moment on top of his head, like a child’s nervous gesture, then he took it back to rejoin its mate on his lap. ‘Advice on local politics. Solicitors come up against local politics all the time. Is this conversation going to go on for long? Perhaps you’d like some coffee?’
Clements, who would have stopped for coffee in the middle of a hanging, nodded; but Malone said, ‘No, thanks. Are you telling us you are some sort of political boss?’
‘No, no!’ Bezrow held up a modest hand. ‘I’m interested in politics, not just at the local level, but all levels. People know that. Look at the books on those shelves, most of them political history or biographies, the good and the bad.’
Clements, denied coffee, got up and scanned the shelves. ‘He’s right,’ he told Malone. ‘There’s a lot here on Russia, Mr Bezrow. You’re not a communist, are you?’ The thought of a communist bookmaker amused him and he sat down laughing. ‘That’d be one for the books.’
Bezrow also laughed, a gurgling sound coming from within his huge frame. ‘I’m of Georgian descent. My greatgrandfather came out here from Tbilisi in Georgia in eighteen-fifty-four – Tbilisi has sometimes been called Tiflis, hence the name of this house. Our name then was Bezroff, he was a count – though the joke used to be that anyone who owned three sheep in Georgia had a title of some sort. Could you imagine if I called myself Count Bezrow in the betting ring? The eastern suburbs ladies would be flocking back to the races. It was my greatgrandfather who built the house. His son, my grandfather, became a horse breeder, thoroughbreds and remounts – he supplied a lot of the horses for the Australian Light Horse in World War One and for years he supplied horses to the Indian Army. My father took the interest in horses one step further – he became a trainer. He trained two Melbourne Cup winners. The next step – downwards, I suppose some might call it – was for me to have been a jockey. But you see – ’ The hands spread like upturned starfish on the beach of his stomach and thighs. ‘Bookies are not numskulls, Sergeant. Some of us know there is another world outside the racing game.’
For a moment the affability had disappeared; there was sharp venom in the light voice. Clements showed no sign of resentment at being ticked off; but Malone, who had been reading his partner’s signs for a decade or more, recognized what lay behind the blank stare on the big man’s face. He took up the action again himself: ‘Did he ever come to you for financial advice?’
Bezrow quickly regained his good humour. ‘What makes you think bookmakers are financial experts? That’s a myth, Inspector. There are as many bankrupt bookies as there are in any other business, especially in these times.’
Malone grinned. ‘I don’t think you’d find too many punters who’d believe that.’ Then he bowled a bumper, straight at the wavy-haired head. ‘Did he ever ask you about a bank called Shahriver Credit International?’
The dark eyes clouded for just a moment. ‘Shahriver? No.’
‘We guess it’s a merchant bank. Neither Sergeant Clements nor I have ever heard of it, but then we keep our money under the mattress. Banks don’t have a very good reputation these days. Shahriver has branches in places like Kuwait and Beirut.’
‘An Arab bank?’
‘We don’t know. We’ll check on it tomorrow. But we thought Mr Rockne might’ve mentioned it to you, especially since you say he came to you for financial advice – ’
‘I didn’t say that, Inspector. You said it.’ The smile was not quite a smirk.
‘So I did. Well, anyway, he had a sizeable deposit with Shahriver. We don’t think he would have put it there without advice from someone.’
‘How much?’
Malone’s smile was also almost a smirk. ‘Mr Bezrow, do you tell the other bookies how much you have in your bag?’
Bezrow’s smile widened. ‘Of course not. Sorry. I’m just surprised Mr Rockne would have bothered with such an obscure bank.’
‘I’m surprised you’re surprised,’ said Malone and bowled another bumper, two in an over, the allowable limit in cricket these days; but this wasn’t cricket: ‘You didn’t show any surprise when we told you Mr Rockne had been murdered.’
Bezrow said nothing. He shifted slightly in the wide chair, a small couch, on which he sat; the springs beneath the green velvet upholstery sighed metallically. The hands were very still on his thighs; the fat of his face seemed to have turned to stone, or anyway hard putty. Then he said very quietly, ‘Nobody’s death surprises me, Inspector. I’m a fatalist.’
‘Is that the Russian in you?’
‘It could be, except that no Georgian would ever call himself a Russian. Not these days, nor in my greatgrandfather’s day.’
‘Stalin was a Georgian, wasn’t he?’ said Clements, not highly educated but a barrel of inconsequential data.
Bezrow ignored that and Malone said, ‘Did Will Rockne ever mention to you that he’d received a death threat?’
‘Never. Why should he? We were not confidential friends, Inspector.’
‘Did you ever have any falling-out with him?’
Bezrow’s gaze was steady. ‘No. If you are