Bleak Spring (36 page)

“Oh! Sorry, sir—” Tilleman, the burly one, looked at his hand, as if it had been caught holding a girl's breast instead of a beer glass. “We were just—”

“Forget it,” said Malone. “Hasn't Mrs. Rockne told you anything about a phone call she received? About forty-five minutes ago?”

“No, sir.” Tilleman was puzzled. “Her friend, Mrs. Bodalle, brought us these beers—” He looked at the glass again, not knowing what to do with it; Clements wouldn't have been surprised if he had tossed it over his shoulder into the gardenia bush behind him. “She didn't say anything—”

“Sergeant Clements will fill you in. Russ, get on to Sergeant Ellsworth, get him over here right away . . .”

Then he went to the screen door of the garden room, knocked and opened the door as Olive came out from the inner part of the house. She was white and strained and as soon as she saw Malone she
pulled
up and he thought she was going to collapse.

“Why didn't you call me, for Chrissake!” He was so angry that, if she had collapsed, he would have stood over her, not helped her to her feet. “Jesus, woman, my daughter's being held by that bastard!”

“How do you know?” Angela Bodalle appeared behind Olive, put her arm round her and supported her. “Did Mr. Jones phone you, too?”

“We've got her phone tapped—” He nodded at Olive, hating her; he had forgotten he was a policeman, he was a father and nothing else. Then Clements came in behind him, he felt the big man's restraining hand on his arm and he knew he had almost gone too far. Because he was so angry at Olive, he had missed the flash of concern on Angela's face. “Has he called back yet?”

Olive shook her head; her voice was faint, a little girl's voice: “Not yet, no. I'm sorry, I should've called you about Claire, but—”

Malone, mind and sight clearer now, saw Angela squeeze Olive's shoulder. But all he said was, “Have you been in touch with Palady yet, at the Shahriver Bank?”

Angela answered, her arm still round Olive's shoulders: “He's not home. We left a message with his wife to call as soon as he gets in. How long have you had Olive's phone tapped? You have a permit?”

Malone nodded. “You can check, if you wish.”

“You still haven't told us how long her phone has been tapped.”

“Why are you so concerned about that, Mrs. Bodalle? Civil liberties mean more to you than a couple of innocent kids being kidnapped?”

He had never expected Angela to flush; that reaction seemed totally foreign to her. But she did; and for a moment was lost for words. He waited, but she said nothing. Then he said, knowing he had won a point, “It's been tapped long enough for us to pick up a few other things besides the call from Mr. Jones. What's Palady's number?”

Olive waited for Angela to answer; she even turned and looked at the other woman. But Angela was still silent and it was Olive who gave Malone an eastern suburbs number. Malone said, “Russ, get someone over to Palady's place—if his number's unlisted—”

“
It is.” Angela had evidently decided she had to regain control, of herself if not of the situation. “I checked.”

She doesn't miss a trick, Malone thought: attention to every little detail. Except that she hated being caught on the hop. “Righto, Russ, get Tilleman to call Telecom, get the address. Then have someone pick up Palady, bring him here.” He looked at Olive, ignoring Angela. “We're taking over, Olive. This is going to be our command post till Claire and Jason are safe.” Angela went to say something and he looked at her: “I wasn't talking to you, Mrs. Bodalle. Okay, Olive?”

She nodded weakly. He felt that, if the circumstances were different, he could get her to confess to the murders; but, of course, it was the circumstances that had made her so defenceless. And he knew that the iron woman beside her would protect her.

“Right,” he said and wished he felt as strong as his voice suggested. “Now we sit and wait.”

IV

“Now we sit and wait,” said Dostoyevsky.

Jason and Claire were still sitting on the couch, still holding hands. He was less scared now than he had been on the drive out here; perhaps it was the presence of his grandfather and Sugar. He could see that they were both worried, but there was a certain down-to-earth matter-of-factness about them that was comforting.

“I want to go to the bathroom,” said Claire.

“Come with me, dear.” Sugar rose, took Claire's hand. She glared at Dostoyevsky when he, too, rose, gun in hand. “Give us some privacy, Mr. Whatever-your-name-is. We're not gunna try anything foolish. I don't want you hurting my hubby or Jason. Come on, Claire.”

They went out of the small living room and Dostoyevsky looked at George Rockne. “Is she a believer, George?”

“Sugar?” He shook his head. “Nah. And I never tried to convert her. Live and let live, that's always been the politics in this house.” Then he said, “You're not gunna get away with this, Igor.”

“
I think I shall.” Jason, watching him closely, wondered how truly relaxed the Russian was. But he appeared really at ease, as if he were used to this sort of situation. As if the question had been aired, Dostoyevsky said, “Twice before I got out by the skin of my teeth, as they say. Once in Iran, once in France. You don't know what I've been through, George, for the sake of communism. You've had a picnic in a country like this. You've achieved nothing, so perhaps that explains it. Do you have any politics, son?”

“Me?” Jason swallowed; he hadn't spoken for so long his throat had gone dry. “Not yet. But I don't think I'll ever be a communist. Sorry, Pa.”

George Rockne, sitting in a chair close by, leaned across and patted his grandson's knee. “It's all right, Jay. I give up trying to recruit any new believers.” He turned back to Dostoyevsky. “It's all over, Igor, finished. You've been in Australia long enough—you know you can't surf the same wave twice. I wish you'd get that into your thick Russian head. There's nothing more to believe in.”

There was a sadness to the old man's voice that touched Jason. In turn he put his own hand on his grandfather's knee and the old man looked at him gratefully. “There are other things to believe in, Pa.”

“Such as?” George Rockne's smile was not sarcastic, but almost whimsical.

“I dunno for sure. But there are,” Jason said doggedly.

Then Claire and Sugar came back and Sugar, practical as ever, said, “Well, do we sit and starve or do we eat? I've got enough spaghetti and home-made sauce out there for all of us. Come on, Claire, you can help me.”

“We'll all come,” said Dostoyevsky, getting to his feet again. “Just in case.”

“Please yourself,” said Sugar. “Just don't get under my feet in
my
kitchen. That's my Kremlin, as George calls it.”

As they moved out into the narrow hallway, George turned left and walked towards the front door. Dostoyevsky said nothing, but watched him with his gun raised. George peered out through the narrow glass window beside the front door, then came back down the hallway. “What sorta car did you come in?”

“
A blue Pulsar. That's it parked right in front of your gate.”

“Not any more it ain't. It's been pinched, Igor. The hoons around here do it all the time, especially the Asians if you're a whitey and own a car. They'll probably strip it to the bone if they find out you're a commo.” He laughed without merriment. “You're not gunna get away with this, Igor. The omens don't look good.”

“I don't believe in omens.”

“Come off it, mate. You Russians are more superstitious than the Irish.”

They went on into the kitchen. George, Dostoyevsky and Jason sat round the formica-topped table while Sugar and Claire prepared the evening meal. Jason couldn't believe the situation; it was weird, like a gentle sort of nightmare. If he lived through this, the guys at school were never going to believe his story. Only Claire, as scared as himself, seemed real. But even she was working as practically as Sugar, pushing the males aside as she set the table.

They were halfway through the spaghetti bolognese, much better than Jason's mother made, when Dostoyevsky looked at his watch. “Time for my call. Come, Jason.” The boy put down his fork and stood up, glancing at his grandfather. Dostoyevsky saw the look and said, “I've already told you, there's nothing to be afraid of if there's no foolishness. Go on eating, George. But if you or your good wife or the young lady try anything . . .” He raised the gun, which, till he had picked it up, had been lying in front of his plate like a dessert utensil.

“You wouldn't do that, Igor,” said George quietly.

“I would, George,” said the Russian just as quietly.

“Did you kill my son?”

“No, I didn't. I know who did, but I don't think now is the time to talk about it. You don't seem to get it into your thick Australian head, my life is on the line, too. Come with me, Jason. This won't take long. Warm up his spaghetti, Mrs. Rockne.”

Jason noticed that he dialled the Coogee number without hesitation, as if he had memorized it to perfection; but maybe that was how you were taught in the KGB, or whatever he belonged to. There
was
an immediate answer from the other end; his mother must have been sitting right beside the phone. “Mrs. Rockne, I promised to call back. Have you been in touch with Mr. Palady?” He frowned, his eyes darkening till Jason thought they had turned black; but maybe it was the dim light in the hallway. “Mrs. Rockne, don't fool with me! He was supposed to be at home waiting for your call . . . His car was in an accident? Mrs. Rockne—all right, all right. Don't get hysterical. All right, his car was in an accident—was he hurt? . . . No? . . . How do you know all this if you haven't been able to contact him? . . . When did his wife say he would be home? . . . All right, I'll phone in half an hour. And, Mrs. Rockne—I have your son right here beside me. I have a gun at his head—” He raised the gun and put the barrel against Jason's temple; Jason closed his eyes, said Oh Jesus! and waited to die. Then the gun was taken away. “Half an hour, Mrs. Rockne. The money has to be transferred tonight . . . No, you cannot speak to him. You can do that when you tell me you have contacted Mr. Palady. Half an hour, Mrs. Rockne.”

He put down the phone, motioned for Jason to go ahead of him back to the kitchen. He sat down at the table, put the gun back in front of his plate, picked up his fork and began to eat the spaghetti.

“Well?” said George Rockne.

“Another half-hour. Our banker's car was involved in an accident.”

“Another omen, Igor. Give up.”

Dostoyevsky shook his head. “That's why they failed in Moscow, George. They gave up.”

V

There had been controlled bedlam in and around the Rockne house for the past hour. There were four police cars out in the street; another four were on call at Randwick police station a kilometre up the road. There were four TV vans and half a dozen other media vehicles in the side street off Coogee Bay Road; they had been marshalled there by three motorcycle cops, who were also holding back the small crowd that had gathered. Drinkers from the hotel down on the promenade had come up the road, bringing their beers with them; this promised to be more entertaining than watching
Home and Away
or some other soap opera on television.

Chief
Superintendent Greg Random arrived to take charge; with him was a thickset man with close-cropped hair and a face that could have been used as a bulldozer. “This is Mr. Salkov, from the Soviet consulate. He's representing the embassy in Canberra.”

“Would you excuse us, Mr. Salkov?” said Malone and led Random aside. “What's going on? Why's he here?”

“Because of that five million. Fred Falkender—” Falkender was the Assistant Commissioner, Crime “—he read the running sheets and he decided that the Russians down in Canberra had to be told about the money. After all, it belongs to them—or anyway, Moscow—and not to Mr. Jones and his mates. They want it back.”

“Jesus, Greg! Don't you see how that complicates things? What sort of leverage have we got now to make Jones release Claire and the Rockne boy? He's demanding the five million. Are Mr. Salkov and
his
mates going to hand it over for us?”

“I don't know, Scobie. I think you'd better go home, be with Lisa and your other kids.”

Malone was torn; but: “No, I can't. I couldn't sit still there, I'd be back in ten minutes, probably with Lisa. I've talked to her since I got here, she and Maureen and Tom are okay. The grandparents are with them.” He looked around him, at the dozen or more police officers standing around with that stiff impatience of men and women who know they can do nothing till their quarry makes the next move. “I'm feeling bloody murderous, Greg. If that bastard harms Claire . . .”

“Quit thinking like that. How's Mrs. Rockne?”

“Fragile. It's going to be bloody cruel, but if I can get to her right after this is over—assuming we get the kids back safely—” He stopped, his mind going black at what he had just said. Then he went on. “If I can get to her, I think she'll tell us everything we want to know about the murders.”

“Do you like irony?”

“I don't know that I
like
it, but I put up with it. If I couldn't I might as well give up police work.”

“I wonder if Mrs. Rockne appreciates it? A murder suspect and the cop who's after her, both
waiting
for their kidnapped kids to come home safe and sound. How's her friend, Mrs. Bodalle?”

“In command of their side of the fence. But I think she's a bit like Olive, worried.”

“About the kids?”

“I hope so. I don't think she's entirely heartless . . . I haven't seen you for a couple of days and I didn't put it on the running sheets. Olive and Mrs. Bodalle are lesbians. They're lovers.”