Murder Song. Jon Cleary

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СКАЧАТЬ to open. Then he jerked the bolt up out of its socket, he dragged the gates open, swung them back and stumbled back to the front door of the car. As the other car, its lights now on, pulled out from the kerb and came at gathering speed down the street.

      He turned to face it, his back against the closed front door of the Commodore; he spread his arms wide, trying to protect his family, as if he meant to gather the hail of bullets into himself. The approaching car swung towards the Commodore and for one horrible moment he thought it was going to crash into them, killing them all in a mad suicidal attack. Its headlights blazed at him, blinding him; then it swung abruptly away. It went past, spraying up a wave of water from the flooded gutter, and sped down the street. Malone staggered on rubbery legs to the back of the Commodore, tried to identify the make of car and its registration plate, but it was gone into the dark swirling night before he could get even a hint of identification. The driver had been too smart: he had known the blaze of headlights would blind Malone.

      Still weak, Malone went back up the driveway, opened the garage door and came back to the Commodore. He got in, suddenly glad of the support of the seat beneath him.

      ‘What’s the matter, Daddy?’ said Claire.

      Malone noticed that Lisa, in the back seat, was sitting forward but saying nothing. ‘It was just a drunken driver – I thought he was going to smash into us.’

      ‘They shouldn’t drink and drive.’ Maureen had all the slogans at her tongue-tip.

      Malone drove the car into the garage. Lisa got out, gave the front door key to Claire. ‘Get ready for bed. See Tom cleans his teeth and has a wet before he gets into bed.’

      Maureen said, ‘What are you and Dad going to do? Wash the car?’

      ‘Inside!’

      Claire took the key, looked thoughtfully at her mother and father but said nothing. She’ll make a good cop, Malone thought, she’s miles ahead of me in perception. And prayed that she would never want to follow in his footsteps.

      When the children had gone inside Lisa put her hand on his arm. ‘That was no drunken driver. I’ve never seen you like that before.’

      He sat back on the wet fender of the car; all the rest of him was wet through, a damp arse wouldn’t make much difference. All at once it came to him that he had been scared to death, not at the thought of his own death but that he would be murdered in front of his family. He could never leave them a legacy like that.

      He knew this was one time when Lisa had to be told the truth: ‘I think I’m on a hit list.’

      ‘Oh God!’

      She leaned against him and he put his arm round her, holding her tightly. It seemed to him that he could feel the heavy beat of her heart through their winter clothing and it was beating as much for him as for her.

      2

      ‘You have to take the rough with the smooth,’ said O’Brien. ‘I never promised there would be no risk.’

      ‘Don’t give me any of that,’ said Arnold Debbs. ‘You’ve got me with my career on the line. If this blows up, I’m finished. I promise you, so will you be, too!’

      Five years ago, even six months ago, O’Brien would have shrugged off such a threat. From the time he had moved out of the world of pop music into the bigger, rougher world where money and power and influence were concomitant he had more than held his own. In England there had been very few, if any, politicians who could be bought; the system didn’t work that way in Britain. But venal councillors and planning authorities could be found wherever development was growing; the skull-and-crossbones had flown from mastheads before the Union Jack was thought of and the Brits never forgot their heritage. When he had come home to Australia it was almost as if the politicians, hands held out, their convict heritage unashamedly displayed, had met him at the airport. It was, of course, nowhere near as bad. as that; but cynicism narrows one’s view. He had been introduced to his first crooked politician, Arnold Debbs, within two days of his return. A week later he had met his second crooked politician, Arnold’s wife, Penelope.

      He had always known there was the chance of making enemies of them: bribes never bought friendship, that came free, if you were lucky. He had never been afraid of them because he had never been afraid of failure: he was a gambler, ready to go off somewhere else and start all over again. But that had been before he had met and fallen in love with Anita Norval. Now all he wanted was respectability and no one, least of all the Debbs, would or could offer him that.

      ‘You did us once, Brian, with that mining lease –’

      ‘Arnold, that was business. You got the profit you were promised –’

      ‘We didn’t get the profit we could have made!’ Debbs’ temper was notorious; it had always been held against him in Caucus. Political parties do not like hotheads; they can’t be controlled. Debbs had once had ambitions to be the leader of the party, to be Prime Minister when it returned to power in Canberra; but he had a head for figures and eventually he had realized he would never have the numbers to reach the top. Three times he had run for leader and three times he had finished bottom of the poll; it was then he had decided to be a Party of One, to look out for himself and use the front bench for all he could make from it. ‘You’re a robber, Brian, a fucking crook who should be locked up! Now you’ve got me and my wife linked to this investigation –’

      ‘I told you, Arnold, you and Penelope will be kept out of it. Your names are on nothing –’

      ‘The shares are in a company name, but they can be traced to us! These bloody young reporters these days – they’re muck-rakers! The Eye has already had a piece – no names but plenty of hints. How many others have you got strung up with my wife and me?’

      ‘You know how many there are, Arnold –’

      ‘You bet your fucking life I do!’ Debbs’ language, too, was notorious. The Sydney Morning Herald had once published a short verbatim statement from him that had contained as many dashes as words. The Anglican and Roman Catholic archbishops, the Festival of Light and half a dozen women’s organizations had written letters to the Editor in protest; even Prime Minister Norval had had an attack of mealy-mouth and deplored the lowering of standards. ‘I introduced them to you – they could fucking turn on me!’

      ‘Relax, Arnold,’ O’Brien said, then tensed as he saw the unfamiliar car coming up the long driveway between the paddocks towards the house. ‘Who’s this?’

      Arnold Debbs turned. ‘I don’t know. Let’s hope to Christ it’s not some shitty reporter.’

      It wasn’t. The unmarked police car pulled in besides Debbs’ blue Volvo and Malone got out. ‘Jesus!’ said O’Brien softly.

      ‘Who is it?’ said Debbs equally softly.

      ‘Police.’

      Malone wondered why the familiar figure stiffened as he approached. He had never met Arnold Debbs, but no one could mistake him. Tall and heavily built, he had a pompadour of egg-white hair that made him look as if he had just been crowned with a large pavlova. Beneath it his lamp-bronzed face suggested not so much health as a bad case of brown jaundice. His wide smile was no more than a display case for his expensive dental-work; there was no humour or friendliness in it. Malone shook hands with an enemy who had already declared himself and he wondered why Debbs’ grip was so tense.

      ‘I’m СКАЧАТЬ