Bleak Spring. Jon Cleary
Rockne was small and blonde, a girlish woman who, as Lisa had said, looked as if she were trying to catch up with her birthdays. She was in her late thirties, but in a poor light might have passed for eighteen. She always wore frilly clothes, giving the impression that she was on her way to or from a party. On the one occasion the Malones had gone to her home for dinner she had played old LPs of the Grateful Dead and Pink Floyd; which, though it dated her, made her more contemporary than Malone, who still listened to Benny Goodman. She was intelligent and even shrewd, Malone guessed, but she hid her light under the bushel of her husband’s opinions. Though not this evening: tonight she was showing some signs of independence, though Rockne himself seemed unaware of it.
‘It just bugs me,’ Rockne said, ‘that people with no education can make so much money. Some of us sweat our guts out studying . . . I’ve got a rock band as clients, they can’t say “G’day” without saying “y’know” before and after it, and they make five times the money I do – each of them. When you arrest crims, Scobie, don’t you resent those of them who make more money than you do?’
‘I don’t know why,’ said Malone, ‘but in Homicide we rarely get to bring in rich murderers, really rich. If money is involved, it’s usually the victims who have it.’
The four of them were sitting at a table, apart from the makeshift stalls in the school assembly hall. They were sipping cask wine from plastic cups and munching on potato crisps; Malone mused that if the Last Supper had been staged at Holy Spirit it would have been a pretty frugal affair. He was thirsty, but the cask wine was doing nothing for him. He had played tennis this afternoon, four hard sets of doubles, and he was tired and stiff, as he usually was on a Saturday night, and all he wanted to do was go home to bed. He looked up as Claire, his eldest, approached with the Rockne boy.
‘Dad,’ said Claire, ‘are you going to bid in the auction?’
Malone shut his eyes in pain and Lisa said, ‘Don’t spoil his night. Do you want us to bid for something?’
‘There’s a macramé portrait of Madonna – ’
Malone opened his eyes. ‘Are you into holy pictures now?’
‘Don’t be dumb, Dad. Madonna.’
‘Oh, the underwear salesgirl.’ He looked at Olive Rockne. ‘That’s the sort of taste they teach here at Holy Spirit. I’ll tell you what, Claire, if they put your English teacher, what’s-her-name, the one with red hair and the legs, if they put her up for auction, I’ll bid for her.’
Lisa hit him without looking at him, a wifely trick. ‘I’ll bid for the portrait, Claire.’
‘Are you going to bid for anything?’ Jason Rockne looked at his parents. He was taller than his father, at least six foot four, even though he was still only seventeen, bonily handsome and with flesh and muscle still to grow on his broad-shouldered frame. He had a sober air, as if he had already seen the years ahead and he was not impressed.
‘We’re looking at a painting,’ said his father. ‘Your mother doesn’t like it, but I think we’ll bid for it.’
‘That makes up my mind for me,’ said Olive and gave everyone a smile to show she was sweet-tempered about being put down by her husband.
Claire and Jason went back across the room; Malone leaned close to Lisa and said, ‘Why’s she holding his hand?’
‘She’s escorting him across the traffic. What’s the matter with you? She’s fifteen years old and she’s discovered boys. I was having my hand held when I was eight. She’s backward.’
Malone had no hard feelings towards any boy who wanted to hold hands with his daughter, though he was having difficulty in accepting that Claire was now old enough to want to do more than just hold hands. He did not, however, want relations with the Rocknes cemented because their son was going out with his daughter.
The macramé portrait of Madonna was bought by the jockey’s wife. ‘What is she going to do with it?’ said Olive. ‘Use it as a horse rug?’
‘Maybe she’s going to wrap her husband in it,’ said Malone and was annoyed when Rockne let out a hee-haw of a laugh.
The evening wound down quickly after the auction and Malone, eager to escape, grabbed Lisa’s hand and told the Rocknes they had to be going – ‘I’m on call, in case something turns up.’
‘You get many murders Saturday night?’ said Rockne.
‘More than other nights. Party night, grogging-on night – murders happen. Most of them unpremeditated.’
‘Let’s hope you have a quiet night,’ said Olive. ‘We’ll be in touch when we get back.’
‘Where are you going?’ said Lisa.
‘Oh, we’re having seven days up on the Reef. A second honeymoon, right, darling?’
‘Twenty years married next week,’ said Rockne. ‘That’s record-breaking, these days. She’s paying – I paid the first time.’ He winked at Malone, who did his best to look amused.
‘Have a good time,’ said Lisa, and Malone dragged her away before she committed them to a future meeting.
Mother Brendan, the principal, stood at the front door of the assembly hall, small but formidable, her place already booked in Heaven, where she expected to be treated with proper respect by those who ran admissions. ‘Enjoy yourselves, Mr and Mrs Malone?’
Straight-faced, Lisa said, ‘My husband in particular, Mother.’
‘I didn’t see you raising your hand for anything in the auction, Mr Malone.’
‘I have a sore shoulder.’
‘Both of them,’ said Lisa. ‘Have you seen Claire?’
‘She’s out there on the front steps with the Rockne boy. I’ve been keeping an eye on them.’
‘Thanks, Mother,’ said Malone. ‘If ever you’d like to work undercover for the Police Department, let me know.’
Mother Brendan looked at Lisa. ‘Is he a joker?’
‘All the time. Goodnight, Mother. I hope the school made lots of money this evening.’
‘No thanks to men with sore shoulders. I’ll pray for your recovery, Mr Malone.’
The Malones went out, collecting Claire from the front steps, where she stood holding hands (both hands, Malone noted) with Jason Rockne. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow, Jay. Call me about ten, okay?’
Jason, sober-faced, said goodnight to the Malones and turned back into the assembly hall.
‘He’s a bucket of fun, isn’t he?’ said Malone.
‘He’s nice,’ said Claire.
Malone took the car down the slope of the school’s driveway, came out opposite Randwick police station, where he had begun his first tour of duty twenty-four years ago, apprehensive and unsure of himself, still to learn that the scales of justice rarely tilted according to the laws of physics. He turned left and headed for home.
‘What’s happening tomorrow?’ Lisa said over her shoulder to Claire.
‘Jason wants me to meet him down on the beach.’
‘The water’s going to be too cold,’ said Malone. ‘I once went swimming the first week in September – ’
He stopped and Lisa said, ‘Yes?’
‘Nothing.’ You didn’t tell your fifteen-year-old daughter about having your balls frozen to the size of peas.
‘I’m not even thinking of going in the water. You don’t go to the beach just to swim.’
‘Do you like Jason?’ said Lisa.
‘Come on, Mum, don’t