The Bear Pit (11 page)

St. Louis shook his head. “Nobody.”

Malone put down his coffee cup. “We'd like a list of all your members, new ones as well as old.”

“They're confidential—” said Kelzo. One could almost see him putting up shutters, running the barricades into place, thumbing through the Freedom of Information Act. He was abruptly non-cooperative.

“No, they're not, Mr. Kelzo. Explain to him, Joe, what we can do with a search warrant.”

“You have no right—” said Gandolfo, racing to his place at the barricades.

“Mr. Gandolfo,” said Malone patiently, “you don't seem to have much idea what powers the
police
have.”

“Of course, of course.” Kelzo beat a retreat as quickly as he had put up the shutters. He offered the plate of Iced Vo-Vos: “Another biscuit? We'll fax the list to you this afternoon—”

“No,” said Malone. “We want it
now
.”

Again there was the stretched moment; then Kelzo said, “Of course, of course. George will have to go to the bank to get it—”

“The
bank
? You keep your membership list in a
bank
?”

“You gotta be careful—”

“Why?” said Clements. “Because of the branch-stacking?”

“Well—” But Kelzo wasn't going to divulge too many secrets. The in-fighting in the Party was the Party's business. “You just gotta, that's all. George will be back in ten minutes—”

“No,” said Malone, rising. “We'll go with you, George. Just in case you're waylaid.”

“Waylaid?” said Gandolfo.

“He means done over,” said Joe St. Louis and grinned at the two detectives. “It happens, don't it?”

“All the time, Joe,” said Malone.
You'd know, Joe
. “It happened last night.”

Suddenly all the fidget went out of Gandolfo. “You mean someone might shoot
us
?”

“You never know, George,” said Malone, piling it on. “Let's go. Which bank?”

3

I

“I REMEMBER
once, you said trying to get information out of the Chinese was like banging your head against the Great Wall of China. Mr. Kelzo and his mates could be Chinese.”

“Russ, the Great Wall of China is going to run for bloody miles in this case. Get ready for a bruised forehead.”

They had collected the membership list from a safety deposit box at the local bank, had got one of the bank staff to copy it—“We'll have to charge you, sir.”

“I'm asking you as a police officer—”

“It's not me, sir. The bank charges for everything these days—you must of read all the complaints.” The young bank clerk had lowered his voice. “It's a dollar a page.”

“Six pages. Send the bill to Police Headquarters, the Commissioner will send you a cheque. Then you'll charge a fee on the cheque, right?”

“It's the system, sir.”

“Send the bill to us,” said Gandolfo, fidgeting.

They had driven him back to the branch headquarters, dropping him there, and now were on their way back to Strawberry Hills under a sky in which huge clouds stumbled, growing darker as they clashed and merged. The air-conditioning in the car was working only intermittently and Clements had opened his own and the passenger's window. One could taste the thick bitter air.

“Did you notice what was in that deposit box?” said Clements.

“Money, four stacks of it. It could've been a thousand bucks or ten thousand—the top notes were all hundred-dollars. Is that what they call petty cash? Or was it welfare for the branch-stacking? There
was
also something wrapped in a hand-towel that George didn't want us to see. A gun?”

“Could of been. I left it to you to ask him what it was.”

“I passed. We might need another excuse to come back to them.”

“Would Kelzo employ a hitman?”

“I dunno. He employs Joe St. Louis. A hitman is only one step up from a stand-over man.”

In the Homicide office Gail Lee was waiting for them. They came in sweating; she looked cool and unrumpled, as if she had spent the whole morning in the air-conditioned office. But she hadn't: “I've been to Mr. June's bank. He has three thousand eight hundred dollars and twenty-four cents in his account. No big deposit in the last six months. The Happy Hours Day-Care Centre also has its account there. The manager wouldn't tell me anything about it, but he let slip we weren't the first to enquire about it. I got on to a friend in Children's Services—”

Malone nodded appreciatively. Friends were better than clues.

“—Happy Hours isn't so happy. It looks as if it may have to close—it's up to its eyes in debt. It never recovered after the Federal government cut back on child-care subsidy—”

“How much in debt? Did your friend know?”

“She got back to me. Sixty thousand.”

“Thank your friend. Send her a police tie.”

“Just what she needs.”

He grinned at her; his mood had suddenly improved. He looked at Clements. “Would someone pay sixty thousand to have the Premier knocked off?”

“They'd want more than that, unless they did it for political idealism.”

“Is there such a thing in this state? No, if August or June, whatever we call him, did the deed he asked for money. The only idealism would be that he might've done it to get his partner and the Happy Hours out of a hole. Has the task force got a tail on him?”

“Yes,” said Gail. “But he knows it. Two of the guys watching him called in to Police Centre. Said he came across to them and said, ‘Don't you know a watched pot never boils? I'll let you know when
and
where I'm going, if I'm going, so's you can't lose me.'”

“He's too smart,” said Malone, all at once feeling more certain about August. “Why isn't he blowing Christ out of us for harassing him? Upsetting his partner? He's not angry enough for an innocent man. What's the report from Ballistics?”

Gail looked at the sheet in her hand; she always seemed to have everything to hand. “One bullet, a .308. The gun could have been a Winchester or a Tikka—there are half a dozen with the same rifling characteristics. There was no shell casing at the scene of the crime.”

“Righto, try all the gun shops—see if anything like that has been bought in the past month. Unless he belonged to a gun club?”

“I'll check that, too,” said Gail Lee.

“How did the search of his flat go?”

“Andy Graham and Sheryl did that. No gun, nothing, not even a penknife.”

Malone went on into his own office and rang Channel 15.

“Channel 15. Darlene-Charlene speaking.”

Nobody had surnames any more. He wouldn't look forward to the day when Wombat Rose answered the phone. “Maureen Malone.”

“Who shall I say is calling?”

“Homicide.”

“Putting you through.” As if Homicide called every day.

Maureen came on the line. “That you, Dad? Sorry I had to blow past you like that this morning—”

“Get over here.
Now
.”

“I can't, Dad. We've got a meeting on in half an hour—”

“
Now
. Or I'll send two uniformed cops to bring you in and I'll let Channels 7, 9 and 10 know,
and
the ABC, if they've got a spare camera, and they can run it tonight and your bosses won't like that—”

“I can get our own guys to film it—”

“
Now
! Don't fartarse with me, Mo, I'm serious—”

He hung up, surprised at the sudden anger that had welled up in him. He went out to Clements' desk. “Maureen is on her way over here. I want you in my office when she comes in. I don't want her to get the idea that this is a father-daughter discussion.”

“What am I supposed to play? Uncle Russ?”

“No, you're the Supervisor, backing up the Boss. With capital letters.”

Clements looked up at him, sat back in his chair: playing Uncle Russ. “Simmer down, mate.”

Malone took a deep breath, tried to relax. “I know. I don't want her to have anything to do with the case. But how can I tell her to get lost? All she's doing is her job. But—”

“Yeah. But. It was bound to happen sooner or later, coming up against her. The media are like taxes, a pain in the arse—but they're always with us. You're just unlucky your daughter has joined the enemy. Just keep saying your prayers that some day you don't finish up in court with your other daughter defending some crim you've picked up.”

“Why do I ask you to tell me my fortune?”

When Maureen arrived Malone and Clements were waiting for her in Malone's office. She had never been to Homicide before and those on the staff who had never met her studied her as if she were a candidate from the Most Wanted gallery. She was power-dressed, evidently ready for the camera. Beige suit, black shirt with the collar spread out, hair styled, discreet ear-rings: and wearing ambition. Malone, looking at her through the window of his office, saw it full-on for the first time.

She came in, flushed and angry, ready to jump hurdles or knock ‘em over. She'll never be a loser, Malone thought, even when she's lost.

“My producer is bloody wound up about this—”

“Sit down, Mo.” Malone was calm; his own anger had gone. “Sergeant Clements and I want to ask you a few questions—”

“
Sergeant Clements
?” She turned a fierce eye on Clements. “Are you in on this, Uncle Russ? This is abuse of freedom of the press—”

“
Bullshit,” said Clements. Maureen's head went back as if she had never heard the word before, certainly not from him. “Shut up, Mo, and listen to your father.”

“Inspector Malone,” said her father.

All at once the anger drained out of her; she flopped back in her chair and laughed. “You two should be on TV—I'll let my producer know. Okay, Inspector Malone, waddia wanna know? Is that how crims talk?”

Malone shook his head. “Stay behind the camera, Mo. You're a bloody awful actress. Now let's cut out the play-acting and get down to business. What were you doing at Sussex Street this morning? What was that fight with Clizbe all about?”

“He didn't tell you?”

“I wouldn't have wasted my time sending for you if he had. Come on, quit stalling.”

She looked sideways at Clements, suddenly looking like her mother; Lisa had a trick of looking out of the corners of her eyes, a sceptic's glance. Clements said, “It's serious, Mo.”

“Okay.” But she took her time. She fiddled with one of the ear-rings, then took it off and rolled it in her fingers like a gambler with a coin. Malone had seen the trick before and recognized it now for what it was, a time-waster. At last she said, “Jerry Balmoral is going for pre-selection in Mr. Vanderberg's electorate. Against the wishes of Mrs. Vanderberg.”

“She's got no clout in the Party. She doesn't hold any position.”

“She doesn't need to. Everyone in the Boolagong electorate knows her. She's Mother Teresa, Princess Di and Golda Meir all rolled into one.”

“All dead,” said Malone. “So's their influence.”

“Not hers. If she says no Mr. Balmoral, there'll be no Mr. Balmoral.”

“Why the shouting match with Clizbe?”

“I said we'd announce Balmoral's go for pre-selection on tonight's news. And I asked who would be financing his campaign, if Mrs. Vanderberg opposed it. He went ape in a big way.”

“Why wouldn't he? When did union organizations ever tell you that their business was the
media'
s business? You've still got a lot to learn.”

Clements picked up the ball: “Mo, you're getting into dangerous territory. Someone paid to have the Premier bumped off. They're not gunna have any second thoughts about an interfering TV researcher and reporter. The price on you would be about a dollar ninety-five.”

She gave him the sceptic's look again. “Russ—” proving she was grown-up now—“you don't really think Clizbe or Balmoral is going to come gunning for me.”

“Not them, no. But there's someone wants to change the whole set-up of the Labor Party. The Vanderberg reign is over. They're going back to the in-fighting of the eighties. Your dad and I saw that, as young cops, and it was dirty.”

“Was anyone shot in those days?” Fifteen, twenty years ago was ancient history, which the young no longer studied.

“No, but there were bashings. Serious ones. We don't want that to happen to you. Do we, Dad?”

Dad asked, “Have you got anything on the Harding electorate? Mr. Kelzo and company?”

“What's all this information worth?”

“You've got the wrong end of the stick, Miss Malone,” said Inspector Malone. “The Police Service doesn't go in for chequebook journalism.”

“I'm not waving a cheque book. But I'm doing your job for you—”

His stare might have burnt holes in a stranger; it certainly scorched her. Clements shifted uncomfortably on the couch, the vinyl gasping like flatulence. Out in the big main room there was a sudden silence, as if the half a dozen detectives there had heard Maureen and were waiting for Malone to explode.

Maureen must have heard the silence; or her father's stare told her the Malone tongue had got away from her. She retreated: “Sorry—”

Malone still said nothing, but outside there was movement and the soft clacking of keys. Clements, pouring a little burning oil on family waters, said, “Mo, we're striking no bargains on this. If
you
withhold information, I'll take the matter out of your dad's hands and I'll put you in for twenty-four hours—” He was bluffing, the law wouldn't allow him to do that.

Somehow she wasn't surprised. “You would, too, wouldn't you?”