Murder Song. Jon Cleary

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      Malone watched the two men walk across to the Volvo, heads close together, voices low: they seemed to be arguing. But O’Brien, as if aware they were being watched, patted Debbs on the shoulder, waited till the older man had got into his car, then stood back and waved as the Volvo was driven away. Then he came back to Malone.

      ‘Bloody owners – they’re a pain!’

      ‘You’re one, aren’t you? A whole string of horses, Sergeant Clements tells me. You’ve done well, Horrie.’

      ‘Brian.’

      ‘No, it’s Horrie who’s done well. I’m not so sure how Brian Boru is doing.’

      Malone looked out over the stud farm with its lush green paddocks, the white railing fences and the double row of stables of red brick. Mares and foals grazed amidst the grass; a stallion high-stepped along the length of a fence, as arrogant as any disco stud. Further up the red gravel driveway, the main house, a low colonial building with wide verandahs, looked as it must have looked when it was first built a hundred and fifty years ago. This district of Camden, about sixty kilometres south-west of Sydney, had been the birthplace of Australia’s sheep industry; now it had become almost a dormitory suburb of the city. But some pockets were still zoned for rural use and Cossack Lodge stud was one of the show places. Yet Malone could not remember ever having seen O’Brien featured in any newspaper or television story about the stud.

      He remarked on that now. ‘How come? Most racehorse owners risk getting kicked in the head to be photographed with their horses.’

      O’Brien smiled. He was dressed in checked cap, a dark blue turtleneck sweater, pale moleskin trousers and stockman’s boots: every inch the country gentleman except for the cynical eyes and a certain nervous energy that, had he been a grazier, would have knotted the wool of his sheep. He could never be totally relaxed, he would never adapt to the rhythm of rural seasons.

      ‘An Irish philosopher – there have been one or two – once said, Man who keep low profile rarely get egg on face. Have you come up here to try and smear some egg on me?’

      They began to walk up towards the house. Two girl strappers passed them, smiled at O’Brien and went on to the stables. A man came out of a small office at the end of the stables and raised his hand to O’Brien.

      ‘Later, Bruce. He’s my foreman,’ O’Brien explained to Malone. ‘Why are you here, Scobie? Is it about Mardi Jack?’

      ‘Partly. You remembered her name?’

      ‘Yes. You want to sit out here in the sun? We’re out of the wind.’ It was a clear sunlit day, with the wind on the other side of the house. Yesterday’s rain had gone and the countryside looked as if it had been swept with a new broom. The rows of poplars that lined the driveway were just beginning to be tinged with green; they bowed before the wind like armless dancers. ‘I’ll get us some coffee.’

      He went into the house and Malone sat down. O’Brien came back, they exchanged some chat about the stud until the foreman’s wife brought them coffee and cake, then O’Brien leaned forward, his cup and saucer held in front of him almost like a weapon.

      ‘I’d better tell you about Mardi Jack. Yes, I did know her. I used to meet her at that flat.’

      ‘I’d half-guessed that. Why did you try that stupid lie? We’d have found out eventually.’

      ‘I’m trying to protect someone.’

      ‘That the woman you mentioned, the one you spent the weekend with? Did she know Mardi Jack?’

      ‘She knew nothing about her.’

      ‘Knew? You mean you’ve told her about Mardi since we came to see you? How did she take it?’

      ‘How do you mean?’

      ‘Was she jealous? Was she shocked when you told her Mardi had been murdered?’

      ‘No, I don’t think she was jealous. Or maybe she was – I guess we’re all jealous of someone at one time or another. Shocked? Yes. She’s not the sort of lady who’s accustomed to murder.’

      ‘She’s married?’

      ‘Yes.’

      Malone finished his coffee, held out his cup for a refill. He bit into a slice of the housekeeper’s carrot cake; the semi-country air was making him hungry. Or maybe he was just nervous: he had hardly slept last night.

      ‘I don’t think we’re interested in her for the moment. There’s something else that’s worrying us. I think you and I are on a hit list, Brian.’

      O’Brien’s big hand tightened on his cup; for a moment Malone thought he was going to crush it. ‘Hit list? You and me?’

      ‘Are you surprised or were you expecting something like that?’

      O’Brien put down his cup on the small table between them, stared at it a moment, then lifted his head. He took off his cap and kneaded it between his hands. ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if I were on someone’s list. I can’t understand why you and me together.’

      Malone told him about the random murders. ‘We think you were the target in the latest one, not Mardi. Whoever he is, he’s going for fellers who were in our class at the police academy back in 1965.’

      O’Brien frowned, was silent for a moment. Then: ‘Has he tried for you yet?’

      ‘Not yet. But –’ Malone told him about the car tailing him last night.

      ‘That must’ve scared the hell out of your wife and kids.’

      ‘Out of my wife, yes. I’m keeping it from the kids. What did you mean when you said you wouldn’t be surprised if you were on someone’s list?’

      Again there was a silence, but for the occasional moan of the wind round the corners of the house. At last O’Brien said, ‘This thing I’m in with my bank and my companies. Some people think I doublecrossed them.’

      ‘Have you?’

      ‘What’s it to you, Scobie? You’re not on the Fraud Squad.’

      ‘If someone bumps you off, I don’t want to be following two trails all over Sydney. I’d rather just have one suspect, even if I don’t know who he is.’

      O’Brien smiled without any humour. ‘You’re pretty bloody brutal, aren’t you?’

      ‘Brian, I’m not going to fart-arse about on this. It looks like an innocent bystander, Mardi Jack, was killed instead of you. He’s sure to come back and try for you again. He’s already killed two others, he may go for me and Christ knows how many others. That’s enough on my plate. I don’t want to be chasing some greedy bastards who think you’ve cheated them out of a million or two. Or some husband who’s found out you’re sleeping with his lady wife.’ That last was a dart tossed casually.

      It landed on the board if not on the bull’s-eye. ‘Keep her out of this! She’s the only decent thing that’s happened to me in twenty fucking years!’

      Malone СКАЧАТЬ