Murder Song (23 page)

IV

At eight o'clock Malone called Holy Spirit convent and asked for Claire. She came to the phone bubbling with excitement. “We're just about to leave, Daddy. Are you all right?”

“I'm fine. I just called to wish you happy holiday. Don't break a leg.”

“You take care, too, Dad.” The bubbling subsided for a moment. “Don't get shot or anything.”

Against all the grain of his temperament he wanted to shout at her,
Don't talk like that!
But all he said, quietly, was, “I'll be all right, love. Just enjoy yourself.”

He hung up and turned to find Waldorf watching him from the bedroom door. “Your wife?”

“My daughter, the older one. She's going on her first skiing holiday. She'll be fourteen soon, time for me to buy a shotgun.”

“Kids are a worry. But we should be so lucky.” He went back into the bedroom, already halfway home (even though it wasn't home) to Germany.

By the time Malone got to Police Centre, having checked the guest list at the hotel and found no one suspicious had checked in in the last twenty-four hours, having seen off O'Brien and Waldorf to the NCSC and the Opera House respectively, like a single parent making sure his charges would not be late, Clements, Jack Chew and Hans Ludke had been through the television newsreel clips several times.

“
All the scenes of the crime clips and Terry Sugar's funeral,” said Clements. “The head with the most appearances, apart from a coupla TV reporters, is guess whose? Scobie Malone's. You notch up seven appearances all told on all the channels.”

“You mean I'm the chief suspect? I'm sorry I suggested all this.”

“There's nobody looks in the least suspicious,” said Chew. “I mean aside from that dumb-faced curiosity you see at funerals and crime scenes when the crowds gather. As if they're ashamed to be there, but can't help sticky-beaking.”

“Who were the TV reporters?” Malone asked.

“That smart-arse kid from Channel 15 and one from Channel 7. They're both too young to be Frank Blizzard.” Clements drank his coffee and munched on the doughnut that was his breakfast. It was his idea of a slimming diet. “No, Scobie, he's too smart. He's not gunna put in an appearance. He's read all those detective mysteries. He knows the danger of coming back to the scene of the crime.”

“What about Mardi Jack and Jim Knoble? When are they being buried?”

“Up till yesterday afternoon the coroner hadn't released the bodies. But he's been told to get his finger out. The Department is giving Jim an official funeral, it's down for Monday. So's Mardi's, tentatively. The bodies should be released today.”

“We'll go to both of them if the times don't clash. You fellers right for Jim's funeral?” Malone looked at Chew and Ludke.

“Yes,” said Ludke. “Are we supposed to be on the look-out for Blizzard?”

Malone nodded. “I still think he's getting too much of a kick out of these murders to stay too far away from them. And he's still got his eye on me.” He told them of the phone call to the hotel last night.

Clements wiped doughnut sugar from his mouth. “Think of the headlines if he shot you at Jim Knoble's funeral.”

“No, you think of them. I'd rather not.”

“Sorry, mate. I said that without thinking. I'm tired, the bloody brain's in neutral.” Then he sat
up
straight, opened his running sheet file. “I've got more on our little friend Joe Gotti. The Melbourne boys passed it on—they'd got it from the Federals. Gotti went up to Canberra twice in the past month. The first time he was met at the airport by Billy Lango, Tony Lango's son.”

“I thought his record was that he'd had nothing to do with the Mafia?”

“Neither he had. This was the first time he'd ever been seen with them.”

“Did they follow him?”

“The Feds weren't asked to put a tail on him. They had enough on their plate—there were three demos that day, the students, the Abos and the gays. Someone had got his dates mixed and given „em all a permit to demonstrate on the same day.”

“I'd have liked to be there,” said Ludke, who played first grade rugby union. “It would've been better than a punch-up against Warringah.”

“I wonder why we never have a Chinese demo?” said Chew. “If ever I turn up at a demo, all they want to do is throw their arms around me and tell me they're against all race discrimination.”

“You should try the National Front some time,” said Clements. “They'd throw their arms around your neck and break it.”

Malone sighed patiently. “Righto, you police thugs, do you mind if we get back to Mr. Gotti?”

All three thugs grinned and Clements went on, “All the Feds were asked to do was report when he arrived and left Canberra. He came and went on the same day. The same when he came back a week later.”

“Did the Langos pick him up that time?”

“No.” Clements paused, ran his tongue along his teeth; it could have been a pause for effect or he could have been cleaning his teeth of the last of the doughnut's sugar. “He caught a cab, went straight to Parliament House. He had an appointment with the member for East Gregory, Old Pavlova-Head himself, Arnold Debbs.”

Chew and Ludke now sat up straight; Malone, weary from lack of sleep but also weary from too many surprises over too many years, remained relaxed. “Did anyone ask Debbs why Gotti visited him?”

“
Not as far as I know. They had nothing on Gotti at that time.”

“Where's Debbs now?”

“I've checked that. He's up here in Sydney. I've made an appointment for you and me to see him at his electoral office in an hour.”

Ah, what would I do without you, Russ? Don't ever let anyone smarten you up, don't ever let Lisa run a steam iron over you. You're just right as you are, the perfect intelligent slob.
But Clements had made one mistake: in making sure Debbs would be where they could find him, Debbs had been warned and, being a politician, he would have all his answers ready in advance.

Then Chief Superintendent Danforth appeared in the doorway of Malone's office. “You didn't tell me you'd be having a conference this morning.”

“It's just routine, Harry. I'd have brought the results to you later.”
Why am I sucking up to him like this? Why don't I just tell him to get stuffed?
“I thought you were too busy to be bothered with detail.”

“I am, yes. Yes, I am.” Danforth tried to look busy, something he'd never achieved in forty-three years in the Department. He usually slumped into the first chair at hand, but decided he would look busier if he stayed on his feet. He magnanimously waved to Ludke, who had half-risen from his chair, to remain seated. “No, stay there, Hans, I've got things to do. I've been up and down ever since I got in, like—like—”

“Like a toilet seat in a dysentery plague?” said Clements straight-faced.

“Yeah.” Danforth grinned, not sure that he wasn't being laughed at. “Yeah, that's a good one. The media bastards have been on to me. They want to know, Scobie, why you were so handy to O'Brien the other night when Gotti took the shots at you.”

“What did you tell „em?”

“I said no comment.” He was good at that; it never required much intellectual effort. “But sooner or later they're gunna find out about the hit list and make a connection between all the murders.”

“Maybe we should tell „em?” said Ludke.

Malone shook his head. “Not yet. Let's wait a day or two, see if Blizzard gets in touch with the
papers
or one of the radio gurus. If he's after publicity, maybe he'll say something that'll give him away.”

Danforth considered this a moment, then nodded. “Okay. You got anything new on Gotti?”

Clements told him about the advice from the Victorian police. “He went up to Canberra to see Tony Lango and Arnold Debbs.”

“Debbs? The MP? You sure?”

“The Feds gave us their word on it,” said Clements. “After I got the advice from Melbourne, I rang the Feds in Canberra half an hour ago.”

Danforth ran the ham of his hand over his short-back-and-sides, scratching for a coherent thought. “That's gunna complicate things. What've you got in mind?”

“Russ and I are going to see Debbs this morning,” said Malone.

“Well, don't lean on him too hard. You know what these bloody politicians are like.” He looked at Chew and Ludke. “How are you two going?”

“I think it's moved out of our areas,” said Jack Chew; it was difficult to tell whether he was relieved or disappointed. “I don't think we're going to find out much more than we know now, I mean about Harry Gardner and Terry Sugar. That right, Hans?”

“I think the next act is going to be here on Scobie's turf,” said Ludke.

“Act?” said Danforth. “What d'you think this is, some sorta bloody musical comedy?”

“An opera,” said Malone. “It won't be over till the fat lady sings.”

“What fat lady?”

We'd better stop baiting him, Malone thought, or he's going to turn nasty. “It's just a saying, Harry. I've been listening to Sebastian Waldorf.”

When Danforth had gone, Clements said, “I thought the fat lady sang after American baseball games?”

“Maybe she does, I dunno. Let's go and see Arnold Debbs and see if he has anything to sing. Thanks for coming in, Jack, Hans. Russ'll let you know how we get on. We'll see you at Jim Knoble's funeral.”

Malone
and Clements went down to the garage. As they got into their usual unmarked car Malone said, “Did you tell Debbs why we wanted to see him?”

“I didn't speak to him, I spoke to his secretary. I said we were voters who wanted to make a donation to the Party, one that we didn't want to trust to the post.”

Ah, Russ, how could I have doubted you?

They drove out to Debbs' electoral office, less than two miles from the heart of the city. It was an area of light industry, rows of old one-storeyed terrace cottages, half a dozen towering Housing Commission blocks of flats, rundown stores, a seedy-looking pub and a scrubby park where four winos lay under a tree discussing the state of the nation as viewed from the bottom of the heap. Debbs' electoral office was in a single-fronted shop, one of six facing the park. On one side of it was a butcher's shop and on the other a fruiterer's, each of them advertising in rough lettering the bargains of the week. On the window of Debbs' store was: Arnold Debbs, Your Federal Member.

“Is he the bargain of the week?” said Clements as he and Malone got out of the car.

“Not in my book.”

There were half a dozen people sitting or standing in the front section of the shop when the two detectives entered. They were all battlers, some of them looking as if they had already lost the battle and surrendered. Malone looked at a young mother, thin and poorly dressed, a baby in her arms and a two-year-old clutching her knee; he turned away, unable to stand the misery and hopelessness in her pinched, already ageing face.

Those waiting looked up curiously at the newcomers and Malone saw the instant stiffening of four of them; this was an area where the natives recognized a policeman by his smell. The thin young man behind the reception table, his bony face sallow from overwork and too much time spent in party rooms, looked with the same suspicion as the constituents at the two policemen.

Clements introduced himself and Malone, mentioning nothing about the earlier phone call. “We'd like ten minutes of Mr. Debbs' time.”

“I'm afraid Mr. Debbs is busy. These people have been waiting, some of them more than an
hour.”

That's right, Malone thought, make the cops out to be gatecrashing bastards who don't care for the rights of others. He turned to the voters. “We're sorry to butt in, we're Labour like you—” He hadn't voted formally in ten years and he was pretty sure that Clements had the same outlook towards political parties. “Blame our visit on the Federal government. You know what the Liberals are like.”

One or two of the voters nodded, too-bloody-right-they-knew-what-the-bloody-Libs-were-like; but a couple of young men leaning against the wall just sneered. They knew what bloody cops were like.

The secretary stood up, tall and gangling. If he was aiming some day for pre-selection as a candidate, he had everything, in these days of charisma above talent, against him. “I'll see if Mr. Debbs is free.”

He was back in ten seconds, ushering a Greek woman out ahead of him. She glared at Malone and Clements and didn't move out of their way as the two detectives stepped round her and followed the secretary into the back room of the shop. He introduced them and went out, closing the door behind him.

The office was a small room papered with posters of Debbs and party promises. There was also a poster of Penelope, as if to remind the voters that the Debbs represented them also at State level. Malone wondered if the Debbs had had any children, whether they would have installed a son or daughter in the local town hall to look after local government. But ambition had made the Debbs too busy to have children.

Debbs didn't look surprised to have the police visiting him; in this electorate, with his mix of constituents, it wasn't unusual. He sat behind a table on which were half a dozen files, some letters waiting to be signed and a small metal stand of foreign flags grouped around the Australian flag, a salute to multiculturism. Malone further wondered if a new flag was added every time a constituent of a new nationality moved into the electorate. The secretary outside looked as if he would have the nose of an immigration officer.

“Inspector Malone—” Debbs rose and put out his hand; then he offered it to Clements. It was a
politician'
s hand, moving of its own accord. “It must be important, to bring you way out here.”