Dark Summer (14 page)

“I thought you might suggest that.”

But White and Schultz were not at Darling Harbour on Number 9 wharf. “They went over to
Glebe
Island,” a tally clerk told the two detectives. He was a bearded sparrow of a man who spoke at machine-gun speed; he had a calculator in his hand which he kept clicking, as if counting off his wordage. “I dunno which wharf, I could find out. No problem, glad to help, all I gotta do is—”

They thanked him and drove away while he was still in mid-sentence. “He seem nervous to you?” said Clements.

“I couldn't make up my mind whether he was scared of us or of Snow White and The Dwarf. But I'll bet he's already on the blower, telling 'em we're on our way.”

Glebe Island was five minutes' drive away; not strictly an island but a tiny isthmus. The western side of it was a bulk wheat terminal, towering grey silos looking like a bank of huge up-ended sewer pipes; a yellow mist hung in the still air as grain poured down chutes into the holds of a ship. The eastern side of the isthmus was a container terminal, a vast yard only intermittently cluttered with the stacked metal boxes; these terminals were always a fair chart of the economy and right now the chart held little cheer. Across the water was the century-old refinery of CSR, Colonial Sugar Refinery, founded and named in the days when nobody objected to the word “colonial;” the smell of molasses thickened the already thick air and alcoholics, driving by, thought they were passing Rum Heaven. As Malone and Clements drove on to the long wharf the body of a man was being fished out of the water.

There was no sign of White or Schultz, but as the two detectives got out of the car they saw Roley Bremner standing alone in the shade of a big crane. He was staring at the small group of men, six or seven of them, laying down the sodden corpse and pulling a small tarpaulin over it. The hard balls of his face had turned pulpy; his freckles had darkened against his paleness, looked like saltpetre marks. Malone had to speak to him twice before he became aware of the two policemen.

“Eh? Jesus, it didn't take you long to get here! Who called you? You always this prompt when someone's been done in?”

“We're not here for
him—”
Malone nodded at the heap under the tarpaulin. “What d'you mean—someone's been done in?”

“It's bloody obvious, isn't it? I dunno what happened—” His voice was hoarse and soft, as if he
were
trying not to be overheard. It was a shock to Malone to realize that the tough, squat man was scared. “That's Jimmy Maddux, he was the union man on this site, one of my sidekicks. Actually, he was the organizer for me in the elections coming up. He called me up about an hour ago, said could I get over here in a hurry, he had something he wanted to show me, said he didn't wanna spill it over the phone. I couldn't get over here till five minutes ago. Just in time to hear someone yell they could see him floating in the water between the wharf and that ship there, the
Southern Pacific.
He's dead,” he said, as if they might think Maddux was just sheltering from the sun beneath the tarpaulin.

Clements walked over to the group of men, showed his badge, then knelt down and lifted the corner of the tarpaulin. He touched the dead man's head, which rolled like that of a day-old infant, then he pulled the tarpaulin back over the corpse and stood up. “I think you better move him back into the shade, but leave him there until the doc and some of our Crime Scene fellers arrive. Anyone called the local police yet?”

“Not yet,” said one of the men. “Christ, we only just drug him outa the water.”

Clements went back to the car, made two phone calls, one to the local station, the other to Police Centre; then he came back to Malone and Bremner still standing in the shade of the big crane. He looked directly at Malone and said flatly, “His neck's been broken.”

Malone said nothing, but Bremner sucked in his breath. “How the hell did that happen? Blokes get killed on the wharves, but it's usually something falls on them or they get run over . . .” His voice trailed off.

Malone said, “Roley, we came over here to have another word with Snow White and The Dwarf—”

Bremner looked up at him, frowning. “Nah, nah.” He shook his head. He was wearing a blue terry-towelling hat whose limp brim did nothing to keep the sun off his face. “They wouldn't be that obvious, no way.”

“You don't believe that, Roley. They're the sort who'd pick the obvious and then bluff it out.”

Bremner hesitated, then shrugged. “Yeah, yeah, I guess so. But Christ, why do that to poor
Jimmy?
They might of had a go at me, I wouldn't of been surprised that happened, but Jimmy—? I better go and tell his missus. He's got a wife and four kids, all of 'em youngsters. He was only, I dunno, thirty- five, six, no more. I was grooming him to take over from me eventually, y'know?”

“Roley, before you go, can we have ten minutes? Is there anywhere around here we can get a cuppa?”

“There's the amenities room. But I think I oughta get out to see Molly Maddux—” “Roley, you're not looking forward to that. I've been through it, I
know.
Let's have a cuppa first.”

Clements said, “I'll have a look around out here, see if I can locate Snow White and his mate.”

Malone and Bremner walked across to the low building where the workers' amenities were housed. The big canteen room was almost full, but the two men found a table apart from the crowd and sat down. The talk in the room had been subdued when Malone and Bremner walked in, but as soon as Malone was identified as a cop a silence fell, as if everyone in the room had suddenly become deaf and dumb. Heads turned, eyes stared: when staring at a cop, Malone had noted, few people ever tried to be discreet. He was a public object.

“It's the meal break,” said Bremner. “That's why there was practically no one out on the wharves when this must of happened.”

“Roley, this is off the record. D'you think White and The Dwarf could have done this to Jimmy Maddux? Why? What's the prize if they win the election from you?”

Bremner sipped his tea. “I been trying to puzzle that one out. It don't matter as much as it used to, running the waterfront. Back in them days, the days of your dad and my early days, there was political power on the wharves. The Commos, they had clout then and they ran the Seamen's Union and they could tie up the whole country, right around, if they wanted to. But that's not on these days. There's something called micro-reform, whatever the hell that is. Blokes like me, no education, just experience, we got no clout in union affairs these days. Snow White and The Dwarf, they're even dumber than me when it comes to what's needed to get on in the unions today. I had a twenty-two-year-old kid down from
Unions
Hall the other day, he kept talking about learning curves and level playing fields and more interface with the bosses, his head was about ten feet above his bloody shoulders. In the end I threw him out. Snow White and The Dwarf, they'd of probably broke his neck.” Then he shook his head. “Sorry. I shouldn't of said that.”

“Righto, let's say those two are not looking for political power. What about smuggling?”

Bremner raised a ginger eyebrow. The crowd was no longer paying attention to them; the room was now a buzz of talk, though there was no laughter or argument. These men were rough and tough, but death still touched them. A thousand deaths in Baghdad or Bangladesh was just news, but a mate's death was a tragedy.

“My dad told me what it was like in the old days,” said Malone. “There was drug smuggling, not as much as today maybe, but it went on. Gold. Emeralds and diamonds, before we discovered our own diamonds. I'm not accusing you of anything, Roley, but how much drug smuggling comes in by ship these days?”

“You'd have to ask the Customs blokes that, or the Federal cops. Most of it's been coming in by air, they run mules, I think they call 'em, outa Singapore and Bangkok. But I heard some talk they been switching to ships lately, that way they bring in bigger shipments. You think Jimmy got on to something there?”

“Where's that ship—the
Southern Pacific?—
come from?”

“I dunno. Hey, Chicka, where's the
Southern Pacific
from?”

One of the men at the next table turned around. “Auckland. Before that, Suva, I think.”

Bremner turned back to Malone. “There you are. You better check with Customs, see if Jimmy called them, too.”

There is nothing a cop likes more than to be told how to do his job. “Yeah, that might be an idea. Would Jimmy Maddux have a locker here?”

“Sure. Why?”

“Roley, he had his neck broken. Now it could've been an accident, but just in case it wasn't . . .
I'
d like to look through his locker, see if there's something there that might explain why he called you to get over here urgently. You'd like this cleared up, wouldn't you?”

Bremner looked down at his empty cup. “I dunno, tell you the truth. This's kicked me in the gut. If they was going for me, I wouldn't mind—I wouldn't like it, sure, but I'd be able to handle it. I been through it before.”

“Murder?”

“A coupla times, about twenty, twenty-five years ago. But now . . . I dunno.” He looked up. “I got a coupla years to retirement. I was gunna fight Snow White in the election, just for—well, decency's sake.” He was one of the old school, Malone recognized, just like Con Malone: any mention of the virtues was an embarrassment. “But if it's gunna come to this—I'm a married man, with kids . . .”

Malone said, “Roley, I don't know if White and Schultz had anything to do with this. Maybe it
was
an accident . . .” He shrugged. “But Normie Grime's death wasn't an accident. So Sergeant Clements and I will be coming down to the waterfront again. And maybe again and again.” He stood up. “Let's go and have a look at Jimmy Maddux's locker.”

The meal break was finishing as Malone and Bremner walked out of the big room; men who had stood up to leave their tables paused as the two men went by. They resent me, Malone thought: for the moment none of them sees Maddux's death as murder, so why am I here? The wharves were union territory; outsiders were not welcome, especially outsiders who thought they had authority. He wondered how many of these men would vote for Snow White on election day; how many, for decency's sake, would vote for Roley Bremner. He suddenly felt political, a dangerous state of mind for a policeman.

As they came out of the main room they met Clements, face streaked with sweat, his jacket over his arm, a small plastic bag in his hand. “The locals have arrived, I let them take over. The Crime Scene fellers are on their way.” He held up the plastic bag. “I got these off the body. A notebook, pretty pulpy from the water. Car-keys, a house-key, two small keys—”

“One of them looks like his locker key,” said Bremner.

“Any sign of our friends?” Men were filing past them, so Malone named no names.

“
Nobody's seen them.” Clements was equally circumspect.

But when the three of them walked into the locker room, White and Schultz were there, The Dwarf sitting on a bench and White standing in front of an open locker. There was no one else in the room, but Malone had the feeling it was crowded; then he realized it was Bremner who was giving him that feeling. The shorter man had edged closer to Malone as if for protection, almost pushing the detective up against the lockers. It was a shock for Malone to realize just how terribly scared the tough little man was.

“We just heard the bad news about Jimmy Maddux.” White ignored the two detectives, spoke directly to Bremner as if the latter was alone. “How'd it happen?”

“He had his neck broken,” said Malone and looked at The Dwarf for a reaction. There was none: being slow-witted sometimes makes one a good actor.

“Tough titty,” said White. “Did they call you guys in, for an accident?”

“No, we were looking for you. We went to Number 9 wharf, but they said you'd come over here. You just get here?”

“My car broke down. The heat stuffed up the fuel pipe, a vapour lock. I get elected next month, I think I'll see we get undercover parking for the workers. Come on, Gary, time we clocked on.”

“What ship are you working on?” said Malone.

“The
Southern Pacific,
right?” White looked at Schultz, who nodded and stood up, adding to Malone's impression that the room was crowded. Beside him, he felt Bremner tense. White went on, “You wanna talk to us, you better come out there. I can't afford to bludge on my mates, let 'em do all the work. Not while I'm running for office, eh, Roley?”

“We'll see you in a few minutes,” said Malone and had to lean back hard against the lockers as Bremner stepped back to allow White and Schultz to go past him.

Malone looked at Clements, who said, “This is when I enjoy being a mug copper.”

“You gunna pinch 'em?” Bremner looked suddenly hopeful.

“We'll do our best,” said Clements and avoided Malone's warning eye. The big man thought
positively,
sometimes too much so; he never manufactured evidence, but only because Malone had never given him a licence. He knew, too, that manufactured evidence, so often in court, showed its trademark. “We'll vote for you.”

“Let's look at Jimmy's locker,” said Malone, before promises got out of hand.

It was the old intrusion into a stranger's life. Malone had been doing it for more years than he cared to count, but he felt the same distaste as he had felt the very first time. But Jimmy Maddux's locker held no secret: no fetish, no lie, no confession. It contained only the expected paraphernalia of a working man: a spare set of overalls, a couple of T-shirts, a pair of heavy work-boots, two copies of
Modern Motor,
a towel, soap, two packets of cigarettes. “And this,” said Clements, holding up a diver's face mask.