Pride’s Harvest. Jon Cleary
didn’t hear any row going on in the office?’
‘No, I was too far away. I told you,’ he added petulantly. He was edgy again, pressing himself back against the wall. Somewhere in another cell a man’s voice, a little slurred, had begun to sing: Like a rhinestone cowboy . . .
Malone looked enquiringly at Mungle, who said, ‘Another cousin. He knows all the country-and-western ballads.’
Malone wanted to ask why the other cousin had to borrow his sad songs from another culture; but didn’t. Instead, he said, ‘Righto, that’ll do for now, Billy. When you’re released, don’t leave town. We’ll need you as a witness.’
‘Shit, where’m I gunna go? I’m stuck here, like everyone else.’ He banged the back of his head against the wall, then leaned towards Mungle, grabbing the front of the latter’s shirt. ‘Get me outa here, for Chrissake! I can’t stand being locked up no more!’
Mungle gently pulled the boy’s hand away, said quietly, ‘Billy, there’s nothing to be afraid of. Nobody’s gunna do anything to you.’
“What about him?’ Koowarra jerked his head at Malone.
‘Inspector Malone’s not charging you with anything. You’ll just be needed as a witness, that’s all.’
‘I’m still gunna be locked up!’
‘Only till Inspector Narvo gets back. He’ll probably authorize bail, maybe fifty bucks or something, then you’ll have to wait till the magistrate comes in, he’s due in town for the Cup. Just one more night in here, Billy, that’s all.’
‘You’re on their fucking side, ain’t you?’ The dark eyes blazed: not with hatred of his cousin, the cop, but out of sheer frustration and despair. Malone had seen it before, even amongst the city Kooris.
Wally Mungle sighed. ‘Don’t start that again, Billy. Can we go now, Inspector?’
Without waiting for Malone’s assent, he went out of the cell. Koowarra stared at the open door, looked for a moment as if he might make a break for it; then he looked at Malone, all the fury and frustration draining out of his face. All at once he looked as old as some of the elders Malone had seen down at the settlement by the river.
‘It’s fucking hopeless, ain’t it?’
Malone had heard the same complaint from nineteen-year-old whites on the streets of King’s Cross; but he had had no answer for them, either. ‘Make the best of it, Billy. I’ve got no authority here, otherwise I’d have you released on bail now. I’ll see you tomorrow. Just remember – when you do get out, don’t leave town.’
He went out, pulling the door gently closed behind him, not wanting to slam it on Billy Koowarra. Along the corridor the Koori rhinestone cowboy was still singing softly to himself.
Upstairs in the detectives’ room Clements, Baldock and Mungle were waiting for him. He took off his jacket and slumped down in the chair Baldock pushed towards him. Baldock then went round and sat behind his desk, the presiding officer. Malone wondered if Baldock had stage-managed the placing of the chairs, but he didn’t mind. He would observe protocol, be the visitor on Baldock’s turf. He wanted as many people as possible, few though there might be, to be on his side.
‘Well, what d’you think?’ said Baldock.
‘He’s in the clear, he’s too open. You agree, Wally?’
Mungle, standing with his back to the wall just as Koowarra had done in his cell, nodded. ‘Billy’s not a killer.’
‘Wally, did the Crime Scene fellers go right over Sagawa’s car for prints?’ Mungle nodded again. ‘It hadn’t just been washed, had it?’
‘No, but it was pretty clean. Sagawa kept his car like that. Billy used to wash it for him every coupla days. But there were no prints inside the car. On the steering wheel, on the dash – nothing. It had been wiped clean, the Fingerprint guy said.’
Malone looked at Baldock. ‘What does that suggest to you?’
‘That someone had driven the car in from somewhere else. Then wiped his and Sagawa’s prints off everything.’
‘Did they go over the car for bloodstains?’
‘Nothing,’ said Mungle. ‘They’ve got the car over at Cawndilla. I was talking to them yesterday – they’ve found nothing. I don’t think Sagawa was killed in his car or that the killer brought the body back to the farm in it.’
‘So it could’ve been brought back in the Merc that Billy saw. Assuming Sagawa was dead by then. What time did the GMO put as the time of death?’
‘He was guessing,’ said Baldock. ‘Doc Nothling said the time of death was probably somewhere between ten and twelve on Monday night. Sagawa had eaten, there was food still in the stomach.’
‘Well, whoever was in the Merc that Billy saw might not have had anything at all to do with Sagawa’s murder.’ He looked at Clements in mock despair. ‘Let’s go home, Russ.’
Clements munched on his lower lip. ‘Wally’s been telling me about that Merc. He says there are seven in the district. Let’s start running ’em down. Who owns them, Curly?’
‘Off the top of my head, I can name four of ’em. Chess Hardstaff, Narelle Potter, Trevor Waring, Ray Chakiros. Oh, and one of the local graziers,Bert Truman. He’s a Flash Jack, plays polo, wants his own plane next, I’m told. He’s a ladies’ man.’
‘What about Doc Nothling?’
‘He drives a Ford Fairlane. Or is it an LTD? Anyhow, it’s a Ford. Chess Hardstaff doesn’t want a son-in-law who tries to match him in everything.’
That was one good thing about a bush investigation: gossip flowed like an irrigation channel. Malone said, ‘Rustle up the names of the other owners. Check on where they all were last Monday night.’
‘You want me to check with Mrs Potter?’ Clements’s face was absolutely straight, virginal.
Malone kept his own face just as straight. ‘No, you’re coming with me.’
‘Where are you going?’ said Baldock, trying to hang on to a rein on his own turf. ‘You want me to come with you?’
‘I think it’d be better if you didn’t, Curly. We’re going out to see Mr Hardstaff.’
Baldock got the message: when this was all over, he’d still have to go on living here. ‘Sure. You can’t miss his place, Noongulli, it’s out past the Carmody place, about another five kilometres to the turn-off. You want me to ring and say you’re coming?’
‘I don’t think so. Surprise is the spice of a policeman’s life.’
‘Who said that? Gilbert and Sullivan?’
‘No, Russ did. He’s Homicide’s resident philosopher.’
The resident philosopher jerked a non-philosophical thumb.
2
Chester Hardstaff poured two stiff whiskies and soda, handed one to his guest and took a sip of his own. He usually had nothing to drink before lunch, but this morning he took his visitor’s habit as his excuse for breaking his own. Gus Dircks was a man who would accept a drink any time of day, but Hardstaff could not remember ever having seen him drunk.
‘It’s not good for the district, Gus.’
‘I know, I know. That’s why I came up a coupla days early, Chess. I wasn’t going to come up for the Cup till Saturday morning. But when I heard they were sending up two Homicide blokes from Sydney, I thought I better get up here and see what you thought of the murder.’
‘I