Bleak Spring (35 page)

It was a slow drive to wherever they were going; Jones at times seemed unsure of his directions. It was forty minutes before Jason turned the car into a street and Jones said, “That's it. Pull up there,” and Jason recognized territory that he dimly remembered from the one visit he had made here with his father. He had been ten years old and it had been the first time he had met his grandfather's new wife Sugar. Since then there had been outings to the movies and lunches in the city with the oldies, but he had never been back here again till now.

He pulled the car into the kerb, switched off the engine and, sick with dread, said, “Does my grandfather know about this?”

“
No,” said Jones, putting the gun back in his pocket and getting out of the car. “But I'm hoping he will co-operate. So far you two have been very sensible. I hope your grandfather will be the same.”

On the other side of the road and further down the street Jason saw three Asian youths watching them. He wanted to yell at them,
Get the police
! But something about them told him they would take no notice:
he
was the alien out here.

He and Claire walked ahead of Jones up the short path to the front door; Claire was unsteady on her feet and Jason took her arm. The metal butterflies on the security door looked dead, their wings still spread; the ceramic kookaburra had had its beak broken off by vandals, the white break still undiscoloured. The front door was opened almost at once, as if Sugar had been waiting behind some window-curtain for visitors.

“Jay, what are you doing out here? What's wrong?” Then she looked in puzzlement at Claire and Jones.

Jones said, “May we come in, Mrs. Rockne? You remember me?”

Sugar blinked; the puzzlement still veiled her face, but she said, “Oh yes. Mr.—Jones? Yes, yes, come in. George, we've got visitors!”

Jason's hand was still on Claire's elbow as they entered the house ahead of Jones; he could feel the nervousness in her and he hoped he was not communicating any of his own fear and sickness to her. Jesus, surely Pa was not involved in any of this, whatever it was!

The old man, in T-shirt, shorts and thongs, came in from the back of the house. He pulled up sharply in the living-room doorway when he saw who the visitors were. “For Chrissake, what's going on? Jay, what're you doing here? And who's this?”

“My friend Claire, Pa. Inspector Malone's daughter.”

George Rockne nodded at Claire, then looked at Jones. “What's the joke, Igor? What're you up to now?”

“Don't you think we should sit down?” said Sugar, ever the hostess. She was wearing a short housecoat, but her hair was done and she was wearing earrings; she would never be caught with her face
down.
“How about some tea? A cool drink, Jay? Dear?”

“No, love,” said George, skinny in the T-shirt and shorts but still determined-looking, a bantam who would take on any heavyweight, “not till Igor tells me what's going on.”

“I think it should be obvious, George,” said the Russian and took the gun from his pocket. “I've kidnapped these two young people. The girl was an accident—she shouldn't be here. The boy is the one I wanted. I want your help, willingly or unwillingly, I don't care which.” He jerked the gun, and Sugar twitched as if he had prodded her with it. George Rockne stood unmoved. “If you act sensibly, all of you, no one will be hurt. If the boy's mother acts sensibly, I shouldn't be here longer than tomorrow midday at the latest. I hope to be gone sooner.”

“Has this something to do with the money?”

“It has everything to do with the money, We no longer kidnap for political reasons, George. That's all in the past. May we have tea, Mrs. Rockne? Black, weak, with lemon. Russian style.” His smile was unexpectedly charming, took the edge off what had sounded like a rude order.

Sugar had recovered from the shock of seeing the gun; ten years in the clubs around Kings Cross had coated her with some armour-plating. She looked at Claire. “Would you like to help me, dear?”

“I'm afraid she stays in here,” said the Russian. “And Mrs. Rockne—don't attempt to call anyone. The police, for instance.”

“Don't tell me what to do in my own home!” She abruptly turned from being puzzled to being angry. “And put that bloody gun away! There's no need for that!”

“Better do what she says, Igor,” said George and looked with admiring eyes after his wife as she went out to the kitchen. Then he looked at his grandson, smiled encouragingly. “Siddown, Jay. You too, Claire. Don't be scared. I'm not gunna let Mr. Dostoyevsky hurt you.”

“Who?” said Jason.

“Oh, what's he told you to call him? Mr. Jones? Mr. Collins? No, his name's Dostoyevsky. Written any good books lately?”

“That joke was stale before I was ten years old,” said Dostoyevsky/Jones/Collins. “Let's be
friends,
George—at least for the next twelve hours or so.”

“Why me? Why come here? Christ Almighty, Igor, how do you expect me to be your friend when you kidnap my grandson?”

“For that very reason, George. You will help me, let me hide here, because more than anything else you will want to help Jason. And his young friend.” He smiled at Claire; his charm seemed genuine. “I am truly sorry, young lady, that you had to be involved.”

“It was stupid—” Claire, seated now, no longer dependent on unsteady legs, looked composed; but she held tightly to the hand of Jason, seated on the couch beside her. “My father will have all the police force out looking for me.”

“You are threatening me—” Dostoyevsky's smile faded, but he continued to look at her, the charm no longer working. Then he turned to Rockne. “I want to use your phone.”

“It's there.” George Rockne nodded to the phone on a small table in the hallway just by the living-room doorway. “You want us to go outside?”

“Not at all. I don't mind if the young people's education is broadened.” He moved to the phone, stood in the doorway so that he covered them all with the gun. He dialled a number and waited. Then: “Mrs. Rockne? This is Mr. Jones—no, don't hang up! I have your son here with me. And for good measure, his young friend, Claire Malone . . . Listen to me—you hear me, listen! . . .”

III

Malone was just leaving the office when the call came.

“Inspector Malone? This is Sergeant Kisbee, I'm in charge of the phone tap on the Rockne home. I—I've got some bad news.”

“Go ahead.” Bad news had become a joke; he actually smiled at the thought. “Keep me awake tonight.”

“I'm afraid it will, Inspector. There's just been a phone call from the Russian, Jones, to Mrs. Rockne. He's kidnapped her son and—”

“
And who else?” Malone filled in the pause.

Something like a deep-drawn breath came over the line: “Your daughter Claire.”

Malone sat down heavily. “Christ, no!”

“Something wrong?” Clements, jacket on, ready to go home, stood in the doorway.

Malone stared at him; the voice on the phone said, “Inspector, you okay? I'm sorry I had to spring it on you like that—”

“I'm okay.” But he wasn't, he was sick and weak. “Fill me in. What's he want, what's he threatening to do?”

“He's told Mrs. Rockne he wants the money—he didn't say what money, but she seemed to know—”

“We know about it, too. Go on.” He was having trouble keeping his voice under control; he was shocked that he actually wanted to scream. “Go on—”

“He wants the money transferred at once—
tonight,
he said—from the bank, I dunno which bank, he didn't mention the name—he wants the money transferred overseas. He said a Mr. Palady—I dunno how it's spelt—he knows what's to be done as soon as Mrs. Rockne gets in touch with him. He gave her Palady's home phone number—”

“What about my daughter and the Rockne boy?”

“He said they'd be okay if Mrs. Rockne did what she was told.”

“Did you get a trace on the call?”

“No, I'm sorry. We didn't catch on what was going on till too late . . . He said he'd call back in an hour to see if she'd contacted Palady. He said he'd be contacting Palady, too. Your daughter and the boy will be released tomorrow morning if the money goes off tonight. We can trace him when he calls back in an hour. I'm sorry, Inspector—I mean the news about your daughter—”

“Thanks. I'm going out to the Rockne home now—you can contact me there.” He hung up, looked at Clements. “The Russian has kidnapped Claire. And Jason,” he added.

Clements nodded. “I got that. Why Claire? Jesus!” He beat a fist against the door jamb as if
against
the kidnapper's head. “They're okay so far, the kids?”

“I dunno. I guess so. You coming with me?”

“Of course. Gimme a minute, I've gotta call Romy. We were going out to dinner.”

He went out to his desk and Malone stared at the phone on his own desk: should he call Lisa? But he knew at once that he shouldn't. You didn't use the phone to hit your wife with the biggest crisis of their married life; even Telecom wouldn't recommend that. He stood up again, his body as heavy as iron, his legs hollow, and waited, actually afraid to move, while Clements, beyond the glass wall, talked on the phone. He had been in physical danger more times than he cared to remember, but his body had never gone dead on him, it had always responded. But on those occasions, of course,
he
had been in danger, not his daughter.

When he saw Clements put down the phone he willed himself to walk, got himself moving. Clements said, “Romy will go out and keep Lisa company. I think she knows how to handle situations like this better than most. Come on, we'll go in a police car.”

“No, I'll drive my own car home—”

“Leave it where it is. You look like shit, mate. You wouldn't know a red light from a sunset—we don't want you driving through an intersection, not in peak hour. Leave it, I'll get one of the fellers to take it home for you.”

Once in the police car Malone had recovered; or his body had. He hardly spoke on the way out of Randwick; Clements did what little talking there was: “We'll let him have the money, right? Christ, it was never the Rocknes' money anyway. We'll get Claire and the boy back first, then we'll nail him. We'll get him eventually, my oath we will. The thing right now is, we've gotta stop Lisa from expecting the worse.”

“She's not like that.”

Clements looked sideways at him. “No, she's not. I didn't mean she was gunna go to pieces, you know that. But—” Whatever he was going to say, he decided against it and said no more till they drew up outside the Malone house.

Lisa
was in the front garden, hose in hand, when the two men came in the gate. One look told her something was wrong; she dropped the hose and it writhed like a berserk snake, water spraying wildly. “What's wrong? It's something to do with Claire, isn't it? It's six o'clock and she's not home—”

Clements turned off the hose. Malone didn't put his arms round Lisa; something told him that was for tragedy and the situation wasn't yet tragic. He took her by her elbows, held her: “Claire has been kidnapped. She and Jason Rockne—” He told her as economically and quietly as he could all that they knew: “We've got very little to go on at the moment, except that he doesn't know the Rockne line is tapped. When he calls again . . .”

He could feel the anguish in her body; but all she said was, “Why Claire? What has she got to do with all this?” She looked at Clements. “I've always been afraid of this. That some psycho would take it out on the kids because of something Scobie had done to him.”

“This man's no psycho,” Malone said. “And I've done nothing to him—not so far. I don't know why he's snatched Claire. We don't even know yet where she and Jason were taken. Russ and I are going down to the Rockne place now—”

“I'll come with you—”

“No, stay here with Tom and Maureen. Romy's on her way, she'll be here any minute. Get your mother and father over—” His mind was clearing, was working again; he even thought of the family jealousies: “You'd better call Mum and Dad, too. They'll want to be here.”

She didn't argue. She knew that what he was suggesting was right, but her instinct was to go with him because she knew that he, as well as Tom and Maureen, would need her presence. “All right. But call me every half-hour—”

“We may know nothing till morning—” He didn't tell her that once the call had been traced the State Protection Group would be called in and the Russian, wherever he was, would be surrounded and a siege might have to be set up. He hoped, almost hopelessly, that Claire and Jason would be released before it came to that. He did not want a dozen high-powered guns pointed in the direction of his daughter, even in her support.

Maureen
and Tom came to the front door. “What's happening? Dad . . . Hi, Uncle Russ! You coming for dinner?”

“Tell them,” Malone said to Lisa, released her and went to the front gate. “I'll see you later, you two. Look after Mum—”

Once in the car he said, “I'm ready to bust.”

Clements took the car quickly away from the kerb, but without burning rubber. He refrained from switching on the siren; it was as if he thought this crisis too personal to be broadcast. “Go ahead. I've never thought tears made a wimp of a man.”

“No, I'm all right. It's just—” He let anger push out fear. “I'll kill the bastard if he hurts Claire.”

“I'll help,” said Clements. “I mean that.”

There was still only the one police car on duty at the Rockne house, an unmarked white Commodore parked in front of the garage at the back of the house. The Honda Civic was parked at the top of the driveway and in front of it was the red Ferrari. Malone and Clements hurried up the driveway and the two young detectives, sitting in garden chairs, each with a beer in his hand, jumped to their feet as the two senior men came round the corner of the house.