Bleak Spring. Jon Cleary

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      ‘Five and a bit.’ Jason was doing his best to look laid-back, but inside he could feel himself beginning to bubble. Five-and-a-bit million dollars, for Chrissake! He knew now how Charlie Sheen had felt in Wall Street. He had seen the video of that movie only six months ago, for the first time, and he had been disgusted at the greed in it; he had also been disgusted at the way his father had nodded approvingly all through the goddamn film. But now . . . Five-and-a-bit million, all in his father’s name! ‘Plus the ten thousand. Chicken feed.’

      ‘Don’t be so laid-back, Jay,’ said Angela; he could have hit her. ‘It’s a lot, a lot of money.’

      ‘You still haven’t told me what’s to be afraid of?’ said Olive.

      ‘Darling, it complicates things. It adds more mystery to why Will was killed.’

      ‘Of course it does,’ said Olive peevishly. ‘But if it’s in Will’s name, who does it belong to now?’

      ‘Us,’ said Jason and frowned, trying to imagine what all that money was actually worth.

      ‘I don’t think you should lay claim to it,’ said Angela. ‘Not yet.’

      ‘Why not?’ Olive, unlike her son, was not laid-back, never had been. She had always been nervy, her emotions always on springs. Now she was holding tightly on to herself, but the effort was plain, bones and muscles showing through her thinness. ‘Why not?’

      ‘Let’s wait till we see if someone else, a client or somebody, claims it. At this stage I don’t think you should run the risk of looking greedy.’

      ‘Oh, for Chrissake!’ Jason stood up, all of him falling into place.

      Olive looked at him as if she meant to reprove him; then she changed her mind and looked back at Angela. ‘Yes, for Chrissake! What are you getting at, Angie? God, greedy? Is that how you think it’s going to look?’

      Jason sat watching the two women. He had never understood their relationship; it was different from those his mother had with other women. He could not tell you what the difference was, except that Angela always seemed to be the one in charge. Of course, Mum was weak: Dad had had her under his thumb ever since he could remember. Lately, though, since Angela had come along, she had started to stand up to Dad. Not in any up-you-Jack sort of way; just a sort of taking the mickey out of him. He had begun to admire Mum, even if the influence had come from the wrong direction.

      Angela said, ‘Jay, would you leave your mother and me alone for a moment?’

      ‘Do I have to?’ He looked at his mother.

      ‘Just for a few minutes, Jason.’ He knew she would give in to Angela.

      He climbed out of the chair, trying to be adult. ‘Okay. But if any big decisions are gunna be made, Mum, I wanna be in on them, okay?’

      ‘Yes, Jason.’

      He wasn’t sure, but his mother seemed to look at him with a new eye, as if she had just realized he was the new man of the house. But then she turned away to look at Angela and he felt his grasp on her slipping. Maturity was being thrust on him, though he did not recognize it; it felt uncomfortable, whatever it was, like a school guernsey that belonged to an older, more talented guy. He had been impatient to grow up, which is natural, since the real world is made up of bloody adults. But now he was not so sure.

      ‘Don’t let the money go,’ he said, which is what Charlie Sheen would have said.

      3

      Sunday evening Sergeant Ellsworth rang from Maroubra. ‘Scobie? We’ve come up with someone who was in the car park last night. He says there was no shot, none that could be heard.’

      ‘Where was he last night when we were looking for him?’

      ‘He did a bunk as soon as he heard Mrs Rockne scream. He was out there in the car park with some piece who wasn’t his wife.’

      ‘And he didn’t bother to find out why Mrs Rockne screamed?’

      ‘No.’

      ‘Nice feller. So what’s he told you?’

      ‘He says he was about thirty or forty yards from the Rockne Volvo. He saw it come into the car park, but didn’t take any notice of who was in it. He saw Mrs Rockne walk towards the surf pavilion, stand waiting for, he doesn’t know, maybe a minute, maybe less, then she walked back to the Volvo and the next thing he heard her scream.’

      ‘He didn’t see Will Rockne get out of the car?’

      ‘He swears not.’

      ‘Did he hear the shot?’

      ‘He swears blind there was no shot. He says he’d wound down his car window to throw out his cigarette.’

      ‘If there was no shot, then it looks as if there was a silencer on the gun. That makes it a professional job. Were the Volvo’s lights on? She says her husband had left them on and went back to turn them off.’

      ‘This guy says no, that Rockne didn’t get out of the car.’

      ‘He sounds pretty sharp-eyed.’

      ‘He’s a tax agent,’ said Ellsworth, adding another scout to the lynx-eyed of the world.

      ‘Righto, put his statement on the running sheet, I’ll read it tomorrow when it comes through on the computer. Have Physical Evidence come up with anything?’

      ‘Nothing exciting so far. There’s a lot of fine sand on the car park, but there are dozens, more, shoe-prints. There are some fingerprints on the car, but those could be anybody’s. They’re checking. I think we should question Mrs Rockne again, Scobie.’

      ‘I’m going to do that, Carl.’ Any inspector loves being told by a sergeant what he should do. ‘She’s not going to run away, not with two kids to anchor her.’

      ‘I dunno, you never know with women. Have you got something to follow up?’

      Malone told him about the money Rockne had mysteriously accumulated. ‘I’ll have someone check that first thing tomorrow morning. Then there’s Bernie Bezrow, Russ Clements and I are keeping an eye on him. He was closer to Rockne than he’s prepared to admit.’

      ‘I know Bezrow, he doesn’t have a record, though in the racing game he knows some characters you wouldn’t take home to meet your mother. I don’t think he’s the sort of guy who sends out stand-over men to break punters’ kneecaps. Or shoot ’em in the face.’

      Malone hung up and went back into the living room where Lisa and Claire were watching the latest in a series on SBS devoted to women in the world: it was a programme that would have had Ellsworth hit the Off button at once. Maureen was in her room, earphones on, listening to a rock programme, and Tom was in bed reading, halfway between sleep and the world of Roald Dahl. Malone sat down in his favourite chair across from his wife and daughter; they were leaning against each other, feet up, on the couch. Two women on the screen, no external bruises showing but with bruises behind СКАЧАТЬ