Bleak Spring. Jon Cleary
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what. Like Dad.’
‘I’m an open book.’
‘You are to me.’ Lisa patted his shoulder. ‘But you’re not to everyone. I know what Claire means. Jason’s not weird, is he?’
‘Oh Mum, no! Nothing like that. He’s just – well, I think it would take ages to know him.’
‘Does he like his parents?’ Malone kept his eyes on the road, threw the question casually over his shoulder.
‘Funny – ’ Claire had been leaning forward against her seat-belt, but now she sat back. She was twisting her blonde hair into a curl, a habit of hers when she was studying or thinking hard. ‘He won’t talk about them, either of them.’
‘Well, take your time with him,’ said Lisa.
‘Would you rather I didn’t see him? You don’t like his parents, do you?’
‘Not particularly,’ said Malone, getting in first. ‘But how did you guess?’
‘You had your policeman’s look.’ He glanced in the driving mirror and in the lights of a passing car saw her turn her young, beautiful face into a stiff mask. Crumbs, he thought, is that how my kids sometimes see me? A policeman’s face, whatever that was? But he wasn’t game to ask her.
They reached home, the Federation house in north Randwick with its gables and turn-of-the-century solidness. By the time he had put the Commodore away, Claire was in the bathroom on her way to bed and Lisa was in the kitchen preparing tea and toast. Tom and Maureen, the other children, were staying the night with Lisa’s parents at Vaucluse.
Malone sipped his tea. ‘Where did they get that wine we had tonight? Was it left over from the marriage at Cana?’
‘You didn’t have to drink it.’ Lisa spread some of her home-made marmalade on toast.
‘There was nothing else except watered-down orange juice. No wonder the Vatican is so rich. Who picks up Tom and Maureen tomorrow? You or me?’
‘You. I’m baking cakes all day, for the freezer. It’s Tom’s birthday next Saturday or had you forgotten?’
‘No.’ But he had. He stood up, stretched his arms high. ‘Look, I can raise my hand!’
‘A miracle. What a pity an auctioneer isn’t here to see it.’ She raised her face and he leaned down and kissed her. ‘Why can’t all wives love their husbands like I love mine?’
‘Meaning who?’
‘Meaning Olive. But who could love Will anyway?’
An hour later they were sound asleep in the queen-sized bed, their limbs entwined like those of loving octopi, when the phone rang. Malone switched on the bedside lamp. His first thought was that it was Jan or Elisabeth Pretorious calling to say that something had happened to Maureen or Tom. He could forget birthdays but he could never forget how protective he was of his children.
‘Inspector Malone? Scobie, it’s Phil Truach – I’m the duty bunny tonight. There’s a homicide out at Maroubra, in the parking lot of the surf club. We’ve just had a phone call from the locals at Maroubra.’
‘Who else is on call?’
‘You and Russ. There’ve been three other homicides today and tonight, everyone else is out on those. I can round up Andy Graham, but he’s not on call this weekend – ’
‘Never mind, I’ll take it. Leave Russ alone.’
He rolled reluctantly out of bed, looked over his shoulder at Lisa, now wide awake. She said, ‘Why can’t people keep their murders between Monday and Friday?’
He leaned across and kissed her. ‘I’ll be back as soon as I can. Keep this space vacant.’
2
As soon as he saw the silver Volvo Malone knew it was the Rocknes’, even though he could not remember seeing it more than two or three times before. The Celt in him never let him deny intuition; it was never admissible in court, but he knew from experience that it had started, many a trail to justice. He got out of his Commodore and walked across the well-lit car park. A wind was blowing from the south-west, but it had been a long dry winter and the wind held no promise of rain. Even the salt air smelt dry.
‘It’s a couple named Rockne.’ The detective in charge from Maroubra was Carl Ellsworth, a good-looking redhead who smiled without showing his teeth, as if he found no humour in what people did to each other.
‘Both of them, or just the wife?’
Ellsworth looked at him curiously. ‘Why the wife? It’s the husband who’s dead, shot in the face. A real mess.’
Why had he expected Olive Rockne to be the victim? And why did he feel no shock that something terrible had happened to the Rocknes out here on this windswept car park four or five miles from their home? ‘Where’s Mrs Rockne? I’d better explain. I know them, we saw them tonight at our kids’ school.’
‘She’s over in the caretaker’s office at the surf club. She’s pretty shocked.’
‘You questioned her yet?’
‘Not yet, other than the basics. What happened, that sorta thing. I thought we’d give her time to get her nerves together.’
The Physical Evidence team had arrived and the crime scene had been cordoned off by blue and white tapes. There were still forty or fifty cars parked in the big lot despite the late hour, the overflow from the car park of the big social club across the road, where the usual Saturday night dance and entertainment had finished half an hour ago. People stood about in groups, the night’s revelry oozing out of them like air out of a pinpricked balloon. From the darkness beyond the surf club there came the dull boom of the waves, a barrage that threw up no frightening glare.
As Malone and Ellsworth walked across towards the surf club, the younger man said, ‘We haven’t dug up a witness yet. If anyone saw what happened, they haven’t come forward.’
Malone paused and looked around. ‘I used to come here when I was younger, to surf. At night, too. They used to hold dances at the surf club in those days. You’d take a girl outside, along the beach or out here in one of the cars . . . Don’t the kids today go in for nooky in the back seat or out in the sandhills?’
Ellsworth’s grin showed no teeth. ‘Not tonight, evidently. I think the girls object to getting sand in it.’
The surf club’s pavilion stretched across the eastern end of the car park, separating it from the beach. It was built in the newly popular Australian style, with curved corrugated-iron roofs over its two wings and a similar roof, like an arch, over the breezeway that separated the two wings. Atop one of the wings was a look-out tower, glass-enclosed, a major improvement on the wooden ladder stuck in the sands of Malone’s youth.
The caretaker’s small office smelt of salt air and wet sand, even though its door faced away from the sea. Its corners were cluttered with cleaning equipment; a wet-suit hung like a black suicide from a hook on one wall; the other walls were papered with posters on how to save lives in every situation from drowning to snakebite. There was none on what to do in the case of a gunshot wound.
Olive Rockne sat stiffly on a stiff-backed chair, spine straight, knees together, hands tightly clasped; if she was in shock, she was decorously so, not like some Malone had seen. ‘You all right, Olive?’
She looked at him as if she did not recognize him; then she blinked, wet her lips and nodded. “I can’t believe it’s happened . . . Are you here as a friend or a detective?’
‘Both, I guess.’ It was a question he had never been asked before. ‘You feel up to telling me what happened?’
‘I’ve already told him.’ She nodded at Ellsworth, who stood against a wall, the wet-suit hanging in a macabre fashion behind him.
‘I know, Olive. But