Bleak Spring. Jon Cleary
‘Shit,’ said Jason bitterly, ‘did you expect my dad to be into forgery or something?’
Clements gave the boy a look like a back-hander, but Malone got in before the big man could say anything: ‘No, we’re not thinking that, Jay. Relax. At the moment all we’re intent on is finding out who shot him.’
‘Sorry.’ The boy stood awkwardly in the inner doorway, shifting from one foot to the other. He looked suddenly afraid, as if he had just realized that doors were going to be opened that might best be left shut.
Jill Weigall stood up, took his arm. ‘Come on, Jay, let’s make some coffee. We need it, I think.’
The two of them went into the outer office and Malone sat down in Rockne’s leather chair and looked at Clements and Angela Bodalle. ‘The money could mean nothing, he could’ve been holding it for a client. What’s your opinion on that, Mrs Bodalle?’
‘Could be. Before I went to the Bar, when I was a solicitor, I’d hold money for clients. But never as much as that, not in actual cash. Solicitors hold money for clients all the time, but usually in trust accounts.’ She was sitting in one of the chairs across the desk from Malone, her legs crossed, showing a lovely curve of instep. She was wearing a pink wool dress that moulded her figure; a navy-blue cardigan with brass buttons was thrown over her shoulders. It was early in the day, but she looked as if she was already dressed for lunch. ‘Are you going to open the other box?’
‘You’re the witness. If it’s clients’ stuff, I won’t touch it.’
There were no clients’ papers: just Will Rockne’s passport, a bank statement, a chequebook and a small flat gun. ‘A Beretta Twenty-two. A lady’s special.’
‘I must remember that,’ said the lady opposite.
‘Very effective at close range,’ said Clements. ‘We had a woman do her husband in with one of those about six months ago.’
‘Is that supposed to mean something?’ She looked up at Clements, her gaze as sharp as a knife.
‘No,’ said Clements blandly. ‘Nothing at all.’
Malone sniffed the barrel of the gun. ‘I doubt if it’s ever been fired. We’ll ask Jill about it.’
Then he looked at the chequebook. It was for a joint account in the names of William A. Rockne and Olive B. Rockne, held in the Commonwealth Bank, Coogee. The last stub showed a balance of $9478.33, the last amount drawn $5000 in cash. Then he looked at the bank statement, which was in Rockne’s name only.
‘What would you think of a suburban solicitor, a oneman band, who has a bank account with five million, two hundred and twenty-one thousand dollars in it?’
‘I’d nominate him for Solicitor of the Year,’ said Clements and looked around the office. ‘This is okay, but it ain’t a rich practice, would you say?’
Malone was studying Angela Bodalle’s reaction; there had been none. ‘You aren’t surprised?’
‘Yes.’ But if she was, she was disguising it well.
‘What’s the bank?’ asked Clements.
‘A merchant bank, I’d say – I’ve never heard of it. The Shahriver Credit International.’ He hadn’t looked at Clements, but at Angela.
‘Are you asking me if I’ve heard of it? No.’
‘Where is it?’ said Clements. ‘Here in Sydney?’
‘Sydney, Hong Kong, Manila, Kuwait – Kuwait? They wouldn’t be doing much business there right now. Oh, and Beirut. Some nice-smelling places on that letterhead.’
‘Remember the days when all banks smelled like roses – or like the Mint?’ Clements moved around and sat down next to Angela in the other client’s chair. ‘Mrs Bodalle, why aren’t you surprised to learn that Will Rockne had that much money in a bank?’
‘It was an old ploy between Malone and Clements: switch the bowling without telling the umpire or the batsman. She looked first at Malone, as if expecting him to put Clements in his place, then she looked at the big man. ‘I told you I was surprised.’
Clements shook his head. ‘Mrs Bodalle, I think I’ve spent as much time in court as you have. You’ve learned how to read reactions. So have I. You weren’t surprised.’
‘Does it matter whether I was or not?’ She was not going to let a mere cop get the better of her in cross-examination. ‘Mrs Rockne will be the one who’ll be surprised.’
Jill Weigall came in with three cups of coffee on a tray. ‘It’s only instant. Mr Rockne never drank coffee – he’d become a bit of a fitness freak lately – ’
Mr Rockne appeared to have changed quite a bit lately. ‘How’s Jason?’
‘He’s okay. He’s a very intelligent boy, but I guess that doesn’t help much when a situation like this happens, right?’
Malone had seen the stupid and the wise equally devastated by grief; it didn’t require much intelligence to remark that. He looked at Angela Bodalle. ‘Would you leave us alone with Miss Weigall for a few moments?’
‘I think I should remain here – ’
‘Only if Miss Weigall insists?’ He looked at the girl.
She hesitated, then said, ‘I’ll be okay, Mrs Bodalle. If I need you, I’ll – ’
Angela stood up abruptly and went out of the room; she did it in such a way that Malone had a mental image of her swirling her barrister’s gown as she exited; she left behind a strong smell of her perfume, as if she had generated some sudden heat. Both Clements and Jill Weigall were impressed. The girl said, ‘Now I’ve upset her – ’
‘Don’t worry, Jill. Sit down. Did Mr Rockne hold trust accounts for clients, money held in escrow, stuff like that?’
‘Of course. All solicitors do.’
‘With what bank?’
‘The Commonwealth, the one here in Coogee.’
Not a bank with branches in Kuwait or Beirut. ‘What about Shahriver Credit International?’
She shook her head, the hair fell down, was pushed back up again; Malone began to wonder if the gesture was part of the fashion. ‘We never did any business with them – wait a minute!’ She had thick, unplucked eyebrows; they came down in a frown. ‘They called a coupla times. I put them through to Mr Rockne, but then he’d hang up and call them back on his private line. He had that put in about four or five months ago, the private line.’
‘Did you think that was strange?’
‘Well, yes, a bit. He used to be always so open with me. And then about six months ago, maybe a bit more, he just sort of, well, played things close to his chest. Just with one or two clients.’
‘You remember who they are?’
‘Inspector, I dunno I should be telling you all this . . .’ She glanced towards the still open door. ‘I mean, there’s client confidentiality – ’
‘That’s true. Do you have a law degree?’
‘No, why?’
He kept one eye on the doorway, wondering how much Angela Bodalle could hear in the outer office. ‘Well then, there’s no client confidentiality, is there? You were Mr Rockne’s secretary, not his law partner.’ He knew he was drawing a fine line, but the law, after all, was a mass, or mess, of fine lines. He had suffered more than once from judges who had had their own reading of the law. ‘We’re not here to probe clients’ secrets, pry into their affairs. We’re just trying to find out if there is something in this office that might lead us to whoever killed Mr Rockne.’
All at once she broke down, leaned forward