Dilemma. Jon Cleary
Downsizing had hit Newcastle; the Big Australian was now not-so-big. There was a new government in Canberra, advised by economic rationalists; Thatcherism had taken root in Australia like rabbits and cod and other imports. The Asian economic house of cards had collapsed and the Australian voters were only now beginning to realize the shine might wear off the immediate future. Violence had increased, especially in the streets. The shine, it seemed, had worn off everything.
‘Inspector Malone? This is Detective-Constable Mungle. Wally Mungle. Collamundra. Remember? Eight years ago, the Hardstaff case.’
‘Wally – what can I do for you?’ Had Amanda Hardstaff, the woman who had walked away from a bungled murder, finally decided to confess?
‘Last night, on that Channel 15 programme, Wanted for Questioning, they ran a piece about a guy named Ron Glaze, with his photo. Killed his wife four years ago. You still on that?’
‘Only remotely, Wally.’
‘I think he’s living here in Collamundra.’
Twenty-five years in the Service and a cop can still feel the adrenaline suddenly surge. ‘You’re sure?’
‘Pretty sure. I can’t be certain, but I think I’d take a bet on it. He’s bald now and put on weight, but I think he’s the same bloke. He came into town about two, maybe three years ago. He runs a nursery, lives with the woman whose husband owned it. She’s a widow.’
‘Glaze was supposed to be a keen gardener, but I dunno that he could run a nursery. Still … You keeping an eye on him?’
‘Without letting him know, yes. It’s not easy – our establishment out here isn’t what it used to be. There’s been cutbacks, you know what it’s like. I’m the only detective now. Sometimes I’m running around like a blue-arsed fly, other times …’
‘It’s a long way for me to send someone, Wally, just on the off-chance. Can you pick him up, put him through the grinder?’
‘This is a bush town, Inspector. Another thing, I’m still the Abo cop for some of ’em around here. I pick him up and I’m wrong, he’s not this Glaze bloke, I’m in the shithouse.’
‘Who’s in charge there now?’ He frowned, trying to remember names: ‘Inspector Narvo?’
‘No, he’s the area super now. Inspector Gombrich is boss now.’ There was a pause, like a high jumper measuring a jump; then: ‘He and me don’t always see eye to eye.’
Malone took his own pause; he knew, as well as anyone, the minefield in the Service. At last, measuring his own jump, he said, ‘Put me through to Inspector Gombrich.’
‘Yes, sir. Putting you through now.’ There was no mistaking the reluctance in Mungle’s voice.
I’m putting him in the shithouse, thought Malone; but it could not be helped. He remembered his arrival in Collamundra eight years ago, when he and Clements had been as welcome as nightsoil carters on a hot morning.
‘Inspector Gombrich.’ The voice was flat and harsh.
‘This is Inspector Malone, Scobie Malone. Homicide and Serial Offenders Unit, Sydney—’ Gombrich had the sort of voice that asked for identification, with papers.
‘I know who you are. Constable Mungle filled me in before he phoned you. I don’t agree with his suspicions—’
‘Inspector—’ Malone couldn’t remember when he had been so formal with someone of equal rank – ‘half our homicides begin with nothing more than suspicion. All I ask is that you question this man—’
‘Roger Gibson is a personal friend.’
‘Gibson – that’s his name?’ R. G. It was remarkable the number of times fugitives chose their original initials. As if afraid that a monogram, on a handkerchief or wallet, might give them away.
‘Yes. I’ve been here twelve months, we play golf together, his wife and my wife are friends—’
‘He’s married?’
‘All right—’ the exasperation was like static on the line – ‘his partner. They’re a happily married couple, even if they’re not married. I think Constable Mungle has made a mistake and we’ll just forget it—’
‘Inspector Gombrich—’ Malone could see the roadblocks building up; at the same time he could feel his temper rising – ‘this is our case – I can’t just forget it, not till I’m sure that Mr Gibson is not Ron Glaze. I’ll come out there—’ he heard himself say; normally he would have sent a couple of junior officers. ‘I’ll come out and talk to Mr Gibson – Have you spoken to him?’
‘Of course not!’ The voice was even harsher.
‘Then don’t,’ said Malone, a certain harshness in his own voice. ‘I want him there when I arrive. I’ll be coming with the authority of Chief Superintendent Random—’
‘Are you threatening me?’
‘No. I’m just sticking to police procedure. When can I catch a plane to Collamundra?’
There was a long silence, then Gombrich said, ‘There’s a plane leaves Kingsford Smith at twelve, Hazelton Airlines. It’s usually booked solid,’ he added and the harshness curdled with relish.
‘Someone’s going to be unlucky,’ said Malone. ‘But not me.’
He hung up and beckoned Russ Clements through the glass wall of his office. The big man came in, slumped down in his favourite position, the couch beneath the window. For a while he had been going to a gym and had lost some weight, but lately he had begun to spread again. He was not fat, there was still muscle and bone there, but he was generously overlaid. Malone sometimes wondered, though he would never have mentioned it, if Romy, a gourmet cook, had lapsed back into Teutonic recipes. Clements had the sort of stomach that welcomed dumplings.
‘You’ve got that shit-on-the-liver look again. Who is it this time?’
Malone filled him in. ‘I’m going out to Colla-mundra. How’s our slate today?’
‘Two cases, that’s all. I’ll give you time off for twenty-four hours.’ Clements was the Field Supervisor, the man who dealt out the assignments. ‘Collamundra, eh? Narelle Potter, remember? I wonder if she still runs the Mail Coach Hotel?’
‘You’re a married man now. I’m not going to look up one of your one-night stands. Get me on the plane, there’s one at noon.’
‘You think this could be that guy Glaze?’
‘I don’t know. But Wally Mungle has shoved his neck out and I’ve got to back him. I’ll be back tonight, with or without.’
There was a spare seat on the Hazelton Airlines plane and no one had to be offloaded for the Police Service. Malone sat next to a cotton farmer who had obviously fortified himself for the flight before boarding. He was short and big-bellied, with a mop of yellow hair and a yellow moustache. He was also drunkenly direct: ‘You on business?’
Malone nodded. ‘Just looking.’
‘What sort?’
Malone flitted down a list of businesses. Oil drilling, coal mining, brothel keeping … ‘Fast food.’
‘We’ve got a McDonald’s and a Pizza Hut, we don’t want any more. You’re not Kentucky Fried Chicken or Hungry Jack’s?’ He was built like a man who frequented all four.
Malone shook his head. ‘Shirley’s Sausage Rolls. A new concept.’
‘A new one, eh? That’s the way the world’s going, right? Fast food. Pretty soon we won’t sit down to eat. Sausage rolls, eh? Well, at least that’s Australian. Bloody pizzas. I ask you.’
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