Pride's Harvest (18 page)

“Looking up background. I met the librarian, Gus Dircks's daughter-in-law.”

“Was
she
co-operative?”

Malone was aware that Sean Carmody was watching him and Waring, sitting very still in his chair. Even Clements seemed to sense that Waring's question was not an idle one.

“Up to a point. More than her father-in-law has been. But that's off the record. Police are not supposed to make political comments, especially about their own Minister. Is he a friend of yours, Trev?”

“No.” Waring took a long sip of his drink.

Carmody
relaxed, slowly swallowed a mouthful of his own whisky. “Any comment would be water off a duck's back with Gus. He's got a hide like ironbark. Did Mrs. Dircks know the old feller in the library?”

“No. But I think she'd like to find him. So would I. He tore some pages out of the
Chronicle
that I wanted to check.”

“Who would want to tear anything out of the
Chronicle?
It's duller than
Pravda.”
Carmody smiled. “Sorry. I'm airing my experience. It's a tiresome habit in old men.”

Waring was holding his glass steady with both hands. “Pages on what? What did he tear out?”

“The old Hardstaff murder.”

Waring's bland face took on character with his puzzlement. “Why on earth were you looking up that?”

“Curiosity,” said Malone, finished his beer and stood up as Lisa, displaying that impeccable timing that wives sometimes achieve to their husbands' satisfaction, came to the door. “You want us for dinner?”

The day's tension eased out of Malone during dinner. His family around him gave him not only pleasure but a sense of security; the innocence of his children, and of the Waring brood, was a reminder that the world had not yet surrendered entirely to intrigue and skulduggery and murder. But he himself was not so innocent (or rather, naive) as to believe that their innocence was not vulnerable to those assaults. Still, he took comfort in it, no matter how impermanent it might prove to be.

Lisa, of course, was the bedrock of his security. After dinner he took her outside for a walk in the garden. The nights were cooling now and the day's breeze, which had dropped at sunset, had cleared the air of the last of the dust. A full moon, low and golden, threw shadows from the trees and bushes; but out beyond the garden, the paddocks were greenish-gold, like a wash of verdigris on a vast copper table; the tree shadows there were a tiny distraction, like black pigmentation marks. Somewhere down towards the distant front gates a boobook owl called, its mournful morepork cry emphasizing the immense silence.

“It's so restful,” said Lisa, arm in his.

“
That's what you said on the phone, the day before Sagawa was murdered.”

She did not miss a step, but looked at him sideways. She could read his moods, controlled though they were, as if she saw them under a Police Ballistics macroscope; she had learned to handle them without getting too excited or depressed by them. Except, of course, when he was in danger; then she was ready to declare war. “It's not going well?”

“Bloody terrible. Don't let's talk about it.”

“Whatever you say. Hold me.”

They stopped and he took her in his arms. She was wearing his favourite perfume, Arpège; it cost an arm and a leg, by his tight standards, but he bought it for her every Christmas, no matter what other gift he gave her. He kissed her, their hunger for each other in every nerve-end.

“Have you ever made love in someone else's front garden?” she said.

“No, and I'm not going to start now. I'd be impotent for the rest of my life if the kids came out and caught me on top of you.”

They resumed their walk, she within the circle of his arm. He said as casually as he could, “Are Ida and Trevor happy?”

Again she looked at him without turning her head. “Why do you ask?”

“I don't know. I just get a feeling . . .”

“You're a better cop than I thought. No, they're not too happy, Ida told me. They try to keep it from her father and the children, but I think Sean's on to it. They're sleeping in the same room while we're here, but in separate beds.”

“Whose fault is it? His or hers?”

“Both. Or neither. Ida doesn't know, she's candid about that. Trevor has had a couple of affairs, I gather. Not here in Collamundra, but down in Sydney or somewhere.”

“Who with? Local women?”

“Ida thinks that Mrs. Potter could be one of them. I gather she's a good time girl. She's what Ida called a girl who's perpetually
moist.
”

“
She got her hooks into Russ last night.”

“Not Russ!”

He was sorry he had told her; he backtracked: “I think he held her off. Russ is no fool.”

“You're all fools when it comes to an easy piece of it.”

“I hope you don't talk like that in front of the kids. You think I'd be a fool and take on Narelle if she offered me a piece of it?”

“You'd certainly be impotent for the rest of your life if you did. I was down at the stockyard today, watching how they turn bulls into bullocks.”

He winced, pressed her shoulder and kissed her. Then he said, “Has Ida ever mentioned that Trevor owns part of the cotton farm and gin?”

“No. Do you want me to ask her?”

“No! You stay out of it!”

She stopped walking. “All right, don't get excited. But if he owns something of the cotton farm, does that mean he has something to do with the murder?”

“I hope not—” The net was widening, even if it was full of holes. “I don't know at this stage. All I've got so far are bits and pieces that don't add up to anything.”

“Oh God! I hope for Ida's sake and the children's that he didn't have anything to do with it. Why would he?” She sounded demanding, like another lawyer for the defence; but Malone knew she was really only defending the Warings. “Don't press it, darling—”

“You don't mean it—asking me to do something like that.”

She stared at him in the moonlight, saw the pain in his face; then she leaned her head against his chest. “I know. But you know how I feel about families, about children . . .”

“Don't you think I feel the same?” He wrapped his arms round her and held her to him. Somewhere in the night the boobook owl repeated its mournful cry.

They went back inside. At the door he turned and looked back over his shoulder. The moon had climbed higher, was less golden, was turning hard and bright. It seemed to him that the night had
suddenly
got colder.

When he left he kissed Claire, Maureen and Tom a little more tenderly than usual. Then he looked at the Waring children, a girl Claire's age and twin boys a year younger; and hoped that, somehow, he could protect them. But he knew in his heart that their protection was not up to him.

He kissed Ida on the cheek, then shook hands with Waring.

“Will you be in town tomorrow morning, Trev? I'd like to see you.” He avoided looking at Lisa. “Just a few questions about Sagawa.”

There was a deep frown between Waring's eyes; his face was taking on character the more he appeared concerned. “How about eleven o'clock? We're going to the races tomorrow, but I can meet you at my office.”

“Sure, eleven will be fine.” Malone tried to make the date sound as casual as possible.

“They've asked us to the races with them,” said Clements. “Are we gunna take the afternoon off?”

“Yeah!” yelled Maureen and Tom. “We want Uncle Russ to come with us! He's gunna teach us to bet!”

“Just what you need to know,” said their father. “Righto, if nothing crops up we'll be there.”

Sean Carmody walked over to the Commodore with them. “Is it just curiosity that's got you interested in the Hardstaff murder or do you really want to know what went on?”

“Do you know what went on, Sean?”

Carmody's gaze was direct. “No, I don't. But I'm like you, I'm curious. I'm an old journo, remember? I guess old cops feel the same. You are always curious. Even when I'm dead, I'll be wondering what they've said in my obituary.”

“Can you remember what the
Chronicle
said about the Hardstaff murder?”

“No.”

“We can have someone look it up down in Sydney,” said Clements from the other side of the car. “There should be a copy on file at the State Library.”

“
What did Mrs. Dircks say about the chap you saw in her library this evening?” said Carmody.

“Nothing, except that he was a stranger to her. He looked to me like an old-time swaggie, except that he was a bit better dressed. He could be a worker with the carnival that's out at the showground. I'll check on him tomorrow morning.”

IV

As they turned out of the Waring gates on to the main road, pausing a moment to let a semi-trailer go thundering by, Clements said, “What's worrying you about Trevor Waring?”

“Was it that obvious?”

“I think old Sean caught it, too. Have you dug up something about him?”

“Nothing, except that he has a share in South Cloud and he didn't bother to mention it.”

Clements nodded, saying nothing further. A car passed them, travelling at high speed towards town, and he cursed it. They had gone about three or four kilometres when, with a glance in the driving mirror, he said, “We're being tailed.”

Malone looked back. “I wonder if it's the same cove who tailed me last night? Slow down, see if he passes us.”

Clements dropped the speed; but the other car did the same. Clements speeded up again; so did the other car. Then all at once it came right up on the Commodore, tail-gating it; its lights were on high-beam and Clements had to flip up the driving mirror to block the blinding glare. He touched the brakes and as the brake lights came on, the other car also had to brake, skidding on the road-shoulder as it swung to the side on the gravel. At once Clements put his foot down hard on the Commodore's accelerator and almost immediately they were fifty yards ahead of the car that was chasing them.

Up ahead Malone saw another brightly-lit semi-trailer approaching, coming round a bend a kilometre or so away, moving against the darkness like an illuminated advertising sign. They passed a notice: “Single Lane Bridge;” and he said, “Make the bridge before that semi-trailer!”

“Jesus, you wanna get us killed?” But Clements pushed his foot hard on to the floor.

“
Swing in behind the semi as soon as you pass and pull up!”

They hit the slight ramp of the bridge and the car was airborne; it landed halfway across the bridge and they went over the wooden planks with a rattling sound like machine-gun-fire. Then they were swamped by lights and the scream of the big truck's siren-like horn. Malone felt everything inside him curl into a tight knot; he opened his mouth to yell in protest as he died. Then they were off the bridge, the truck went past them like a huge blazing wind and for a moment he thought it was going to jack-knife on to them. Then it was past and Clements had skidded the Commodore to a head-jerking stop.

Malone tumbled out, trying to get his stomach unravelled, drew his gun and went running back across the bridge. The semi-trailer was disappearing into the night, its horn still bellowing the driver's anger, and the car that had been following the Commodore was pulled over to the side of the road, its engine still running. Malone reached the car, put his gun in against the driver's cheek and said, “Turn off the engine!”

The driver did as he was told as Clements, gun drawn, came up on the other side of the car. “Out! All of you—
out
!”

There were four of them, all youths, none of them looking much more than twenty, if that. They were all overweight, the driver already with a beer belly, dressed in jeans and either sweaters or leather jackets; they looked to be town boys, not farm boys, too close every night to the pubs. They got out of the car and stood silent and sullen while Malone frisked them. Malone could smell the fear on the driver, who had almost fainted when the gun had been pressed against his fat red cheek. All four had been drinking and the smell of beer was strong, but Malone recognized the other smell.

“Righto, what's this all about?”

“What's what about?” That was the youth, slightly older-looking than the others, who had been sitting beside the driver. He was shorter than the other three, black-haired and swarthy, intelligence, or shrewdness, marked in his olive-skinned face. “We were just out for a drive.”

“Do you all drive?” said Clements. “Let's see your licences.”

The four of them produced wallets, took out their licences. Clements took them and went
round
to study them in the car's headlights. Then he jerked his head at Malone. “Come and have a look at this, Scobie.”

Malone said, “Don't any of you think of running off into the scrub. You'll get a bullet in your leg if you do.”

“Shit!” said the black-haired youth. “Is that what you Sydney cops do, shoot guys who just go joy-riding?”

“All the time,” said Malone.

He went to the front of the car, took the licence Clements showed him. He looked at the photo, then stepped aside from the beam of the lights. “You're Philip Chakiros?”

“Yes,” said the black-haired youth; his manner changed: “What have we done wrong, Scobie? Come on—”

“Inspector Malone.” Then for the first time he saw the three-pointed star on the front of the car. “Does your old man let you take his Merc, out on joy-rides? Does he know you let your half-drunk mates drive it?”

Philip Chakiros was suddenly sullen again; then he shook his head. “He doesn't know I've borrowed it.”

You're a liar, thought Malone. “Did you borrow it last night, come out here and follow me back to town?”