Pride’s Harvest. Jon Cleary

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ everything. They sent a Fingerprints cove over from District Headquarters. Their reports are on my desk back at the station, they came in just before I left.’

      ‘You said there was no sign of the cartridge.’

      ‘The Ballistics guy went through the office, all around here, right through the gin, he went through the lot with a fine-tooth comb. He found nothing.’

      ‘Who was he?’

      ‘Constable James. Jason James.’

      ‘There’s only one man better than him at his job and that’s his boss. Who, incidentally, is three-parts Abo.’

      Baldock didn’t react, except to say, ‘It’s a changing world, ain’t it?’

      Not out here, thought Malone.

      They walked away from the gin shed towards the office a couple of hundred yards away. It was a silver-bright morning with patches of high cloud dry-brushed against the blue; one felt one could rub the air through one’s fingers like a fine fabric. A moon buggy rumbled by with another load of cotton, raising a low, thin mist of dust. Life and work goes on, Malone thought: profits must be made, only losses of life are affordable. Crumbs, he further thought, I’m thinking like a Commo: I wonder what they would have done to me in this town fifty years ago?

      ‘You got any suspects?’

      They had reached the police vehicles and Baldock leaned against his car. ‘None. Or a dozen. Take your pick. It’ll be like trying to find a particular cotton boll in one of those modules.’

      ‘Any Jap-haters in the district?’

      Baldock hesitated, then nodded. ‘Yeah, but I think they’re a bit too obvious to go in for murder. There’s Ray Chakiros. He’s president of the local Veterans Legion.’

      The Veterans Legion all over the nation harboured a minority of ex-servicemen who were still consumed by a hatred of old enemies; they got more media space than they deserved and so were continually vocal. Moderation and a call to let bygones be bygones don’t make arresting headlines or good sound bites.

      ‘Chakiros?’

      ‘He’s Lebanese, but he was born here in Collamundra. His old man used to run the local café back in the days when we had only one. Now we’ve got coffee lounges, a McDonald’s, a Pizza Hut, a French restaurant, a Chinese one. Ray Chakiros owns the McDonald’s and one of the coffee lounges and he’s got the local Mercedes franchise. He’s got fingers in other pies, too – you know what the Wogs are like.’

      Baldock wasn’t embarrassed by his prejudices; he was one of many for whom they are as natural as dandruff.

      ‘What’s he like?’ said Malone, wondering about Chakiros’s prejudices.

      ‘He runs off at the mouth about Japs or any sorta Asians, but I don’t think he’d pull a gun on any of ’em. He’s all piss and wind. He served in World War Two in New Guinea, but they tell me he never saw a Jap till the war was over. I’ve interviewed him, but I think he’s in the clear.’

      ‘Anyone else?’

      Again Baldock took his time before answering. ‘There’s an Abo kid they had working here, but Sagawa sacked him last month. Wally Mungle knew him, they’re cousins. Then maybe there are half a dozen others, but we’ve got nothing on any of ’em.’

      ‘Where do we start then?’

      Baldock shrugged. ‘Start at the bottom and work up.’

      ‘Who’s at the bottom?’ But Malone could guess.

      ‘The Abo, of course.’ Baldock said it without malice or prejudice. It struck Malone that the local sergeant was not a racist and he was pleased and relieved. Baldock might have his prejudices about Wogs, but that had nothing to do with race. Malone did wonder if there were any European Jews, refugees, in Collamundra and how they were treated by Baldock and the locals. He hoped there would be none of those on the suspect list.

      ‘His name’s Billy Koowarra,’ said Baldock.

      ‘Where can I find him?’

      ‘At the lock-up. He was picked up last night as an IP.’ Intoxicated Person: the all-purpose round-up lariat.

      Malone saw Clements and Mungle come out of the office, where they had been questioning the office staff. He said delicately, a tone it had taken him a long time to acquire, ‘Curly – d’you mind if I ride back with Wally? You go with Russ.’

      Baldock squinted, not against the sun. ‘Are you gunna go behind my back?’

      ‘No, I promise you there’ll be none of that. But you’ve had some trouble with the blacks out here, haven’t you? I read about it in a quarterly report.’

      ‘That was six or eight months ago, when all the land rights song and dance was going on. All the towns with Abo settlements outside them had the same trouble. It’s been quiet lately, though.’

      ‘Well, I think Wally will talk more freely to me about his cousin Billy if you’re not listening to him. Am I right?’

      Baldock nodded reluctantly. ‘I guess so. He’s a good bloke, Wally. It hasn’t been easy for him, being a cop.’

      ‘It’s not that easy for us, is it?’

      Baldock grinned. ‘I must tell him that some day.’

      Then Clements and Mungle arrived. At the same time Koga, who had gone back into the gin shed, came out and walked towards the policemen. He was wide of them, looking as if he wanted to avoid them; his step faltered a moment, then he went on, not looking at them, towards the office. The four policemen looked after him.

      ‘How did he get on with Sagawa?’

      ‘We don’t know,’ said Baldock. ‘I asked Barry Liss about that, but he said he couldn’t tell. He said the two of them were like most Japs, or what he thought most Japs were like. Terribly polite towards each other. I gather Koga never opened his mouth unless Sagawa asked him to.’

      ‘Is he on your list?’

      ‘He will be, if you want him there.’

      ‘Put him on it.’ Then Malone turned to Clements. ‘Well, how’d you go?’

      ‘Bugger-all. Nobody understands why it happened. None of the drivers saw anything unusual in any of their loads, not when they brought the loads in from the fields.’

      Malone glanced at Baldock. ‘Did the Physical Evidence boys find any blood on any of the trucks or buggies?’

      ‘None.’

      ‘What time do they start work here?’

      ‘The pickers start at seven in the morning,’ said Mungle in his quiet voice; it was difficult to tell whether he was shy or stand-offish. ‘The gin starts up at seven thirty. If the feeder was stopped at eight fifteen or thereabouts, that means the body must of been in the first or СКАЧАТЬ