Dark Summer. Jon Cleary

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      As so often in the past, Malone was grateful for his offsider’s eye for detail. ‘What else did you notice?’

      ‘Those containers where they came out from. They were all marked with red triangles – that means it’s dangerous cargo. I remember from the days when I was with Pillage. There are three classes, marked by numbers. Class One would be explosives, ammo, whisky –’

      ‘Whisky?’

      ‘Sure. It’s been known to blow up. Maybe I’m over-suspicious, just because they’re crims. But why would they be marking containers with yellow chalk, which was what they were doing, when the containers have already been unloaded?’

      ‘Maybe they were marking them for the delivery trucks?’

      ‘Unless they’ve changed the system, the tally clerks do that. Neither of those guys is a tally clerk. In the old days when I worked on Pillage, before containers were used, stuff used to disappear off the wharves like a magical act. Whisky was always a target because it was easy to get rid of once it was outside. A shonky pub owner would buy a case half-price and both him and the bloke who’d swiped it would be happy. Think of the profit, you pinch a container full of it. If the containers are full of explosives or ammo cargo, that’s a heist I’d rather not think about.’

      ‘If Scungy knew they were pinching that sort of stuff, he’d never have told me. He hated giving me any information, even about the drug racket – I had to lean on him. He wasn’t a natural-born nark.’

      ‘So what d’you think? They found out he was working for you and got rid of him?’

      ‘Maybe. Probably. I’m just puzzled why they chose to do it with a needle in his bum. That doesn’t look their style. They’d do him with a gun or an iron bar, they’re the sort who like the look of blood.’

      ‘If either of them did it, why use the same MO on the Kissen woman? You think he, Snow White or The Dwarf, got kinky and thinks he’s discovered a new way of bumping off people? I seem to remember they kill each other off with curare in the Amazon jungle, but it’d be new to Sydney.’

      They drove up through the city and over to Palmer Street. Only when they got there did Malone realize that Sally Kissen had lived within half a dozen blocks of Scungy Grime. Clement parked in a lane off the busy street, which carried a steady stream of fast-moving traffic towards the Cahill Expressway and the Harbour Bridge. Palmer Street had been named after the shipping merchant who had built up the surrounding area. Long after his death the street had become famous for its brothels and sly-grog shops, two sources of income the merchant had overlooked. The pace of the city and progress had now put paid to those businesses: the prostitutes now worked William Street, just up the road, but they saluted the flag of history by renting rooms in houses like Sally Kissen’s.

      The Crime Scene tapes had been removed from the front of the house, but a uniformed policeman stood in the meagre shade of the front verandah. ‘Anyone inside?’ Malone asked.

      ‘Two girls,’ said the policeman. ‘They claim they’re just boarders, but I’ve seen ’em up the road, on the game.’

      Malone and Clements went through the narrow hallway and into the living room. Sally Kissen would have won no prizes from House and Garden as a decorator; the room seemed to have been furnished from stalls at the Annual Kitsch Fair. There was a purple-and-red-striped lounge suite; a brass-topped coffee table and two brass sidetables; a 1920s drinks cabinet that opened out to show a mirrored back and, Malone guessed, probably played a musical fanfare; and a Persian rug that looked as if it might have come from a Teheran rubbish dump. There were two paintings on the walls of female nudes, painted, it seemed, by a misogynistic artist. The final touch, which Malone couldn’t bring himself to believe, was three bright orange plaster ducks flying up one wall to the high blue yonder of the peeling ceiling. Sally Kissen had had either wacky taste or a wacky sense of humour.

      The two girls sitting in the living room, drinking coffee and munching cookies, went with the room. One had hair so red her head looked as if it were on fire; the other had bleached hers bone-white. They were in black tights and green shirts, open down to the waist and with the sleeves rolled down. They wore no make-up and they looked plain and pale. One had to look twice to see that both of them actually had good features, but the game and their habit had blurred the edges. The rolled-down sleeves told Malone they were probably junkies.

      ‘Those bickies Iced Vo-Vos?’ he said.

      ‘Yeah.’ The redhead nodded, her spiky hair shivering; it was like watching a flame quivering in a breeze. ‘They was Sally’s favourites. Waddia wanna know? We know nothing – we told the other guys that. You just come back to do the heavy on us.’

      ‘Where were you the night before last?’ Malone sat down in one of the purple and red chairs. He noticed that at least the room was clean; Sally Kissen had been a good housekeeper.

      ‘Out,’ said the blonde. Her hair was long, brushed back and hanging down her back. She had a better voice than the other girl, not as harsh and with the vowels more rounded. ‘We were at a party, we didn’t get home till six yesterday morning.’

      ‘You’ve got witnesses who’ll back you up?’

      The girls looked at each other; then the blonde said, ‘No, I don’t suppose so. They were boys down from the country.’

      ‘Clients?’ said Clements. The blonde nodded and he went on, ‘Was the party at some hotel?’

      ‘Yes.’ The blonde was the intelligent one and the redhead seemed content to let her do the talking. ‘Look, we had nothing to do with this. It’s upsetting enough to know Sally is dead. We don’t even know why she died.’

      Malone told her.

      ‘You mean she was murdered?’ The redhead sat with her mouth open, a biscuit crumb on her bottom lip.

      ‘We’re not saying you had anything to do with it – we’re just trying to clear it up. What are your names?’

      The redhead blinked, licked the crumb from her lip. ‘I’m Tuesday Streep.’

      ‘Ava Redgrave,’ said the blonde.

      ‘You ever been in movies? You look familiar.’

      ‘Just art films.’ The blonde smiled, a mistake, since she had a lower front tooth missing. But she had a sense of humour and Malone wondered what she thought of Sally Kissen’s taste. ‘I don’t think they’d be your cup of tea.’

      ‘No. I like Bugs Bunny.’

      Clements went upstairs to look at the actual scene of the crime and Malone stayed with the girls, accepting an Iced Vo-Vo when Tuesday passed him the plate, but declining a cup of coffee. ‘Did Mrs Kissen have any regular male visitors?’

      ‘We dunno, honest.’ Tuesday, satisfied that Malone was not going to book them, was prepared to be more forthcoming. ‘She never really liked to admit to us she was on the game. She was funny, in a way.’

      ‘She was a snob, believe it or not,’ said Ava. ‘She said she’d never worked the streets, like we do.’

      ‘Where do you come from?’

      ‘From the country.’ He should have picked up the СКАЧАТЬ