A Different Turf. Jon Cleary
looked at Kagal with sudden interest. ‘Hullo, a cop who knows some history. Yeah, I guess the Sumerians might’ve had a go at it. Who knows, even Abel might’ve put the hard word on Cain before Cain slew him? Or shoved a jawbone up his ass.’ He giggled at the weak joke, but only Stefanopolous laughed, a forced laugh. ‘The point is, it’s fucking un-natural and nothing has had to happen to you to hate the fucking idea of it!’ He was abruptly angry.
Malone decided the discussion had gone far enough. ‘Whoever started it, the Sumerians or the Greeks or whoever, it’s with us, it’s a fact of life. Stay away from Oxford Street and the Cross—’
‘There are poofters up the road here in Newtown,’ said Stefanopolous. ‘And dykes, too. We gotta stay away from there?’
‘You just don’t go out looking to bash them up. Obviously the killer – or the killers—’
‘Killers?’ said Coulson; he had been about to bounce the ball again, but stopped. ‘There’s more than one of them?’
‘We think so. Three men and a woman. The woman shot Justin, but there have been three other kids shot, poofter-bashers. The killers in those instances were men, three different men. Any one of them, they call themselves a consortium, they could be looking for you to be next. Now they know who you are.’
‘Do we get police protection then?’
It was the cops’ turn to laugh. ‘You’ve got a hide. Write your local MP, tell him you’re an innocent victim. Maybe he’ll ask the Commissioner to do something about it, but I doubt it.’
Coulson turned slowly, right round, then he faced the two detectives again. The arrogance had gone, he looked uncertain, though not afraid. ‘If he comes after us, can we shoot him in self-defence?’
‘Do you have a gun?’
‘No.’ Meaning not yet.
‘Don’t get one. You could finish up like Justin. Or he might even go berserk and kill more than one of you. I mean it, Les – don’t start playing cowboys and Indians. Leave it to us to catch these people.’
‘You haven’t done much so far, have you? In the meantime, we’re just sitting ducks.’ He looked around him again.
‘You should’ve thought of that before you went out poofter-bashing.’
Malone looked around. In the park beyond the playground several people sat on park benches, reading newspapers, tossing crumbs to the pigeons, leaning back with their faces turned up to the sun: all innocent. Could he and Kagal go over and ask each one to identify himself or herself, ask them to empty their pockets or handbags? They could, but he could imagine the complaints within the half-hour to Police Head-quarters. There were always voters who cried out for more law and order, but baulked when asked for their own contribution. He turned back to the two youths.
‘Stick with your studies at university, Les. History will tell you amateurs should never take on professionals.’
‘You think these killers are professionals?’
‘Yes.’ He wasn’t sure what they were, but it was the best argument in the circumstances.
‘Even the woman?’
‘The female of the species …’ said Kagal, chiming in. ‘You must have read Kipling?’
It seemed that Coulson had not read Kipling, but he was not one to confess ignorance. ‘Yeah, well … Okay, no gun. But if the bastards kill me, I’ll come back to haunt you.’ He grinned, but the grin had trouble staying on his lips. Beside him Stefanopolous had blinked again, flinching a little. ‘One question, though. Are you guys on the gays’ side?’
‘Yes,’ said Malone before Kagal could answer. ‘We’re on the side of anyone who’s being bashed for no reason at all. Gays, women, kids. It’s what cops are for.’
He and Kagal left the two youths and walked back to their car. The mothers watched them like Indian scouts: this was not cop territory. In the car Malone said, ‘Did the Sumerians, whoever they are, practise homosexuality?’
‘I don’t know.’ Kagal smiled. ‘But neither did he.’
Malone looked at him approvingly. ‘You’ve got the makings of a good devious cop.’
‘My ambition. Where to now?’
‘Out to Woollahra. We’re going to interview the two gays who were bashed in the first killing.’
2
Woollahra lies between the self-conscious trendiness of Paddington and the sun-bleached brashness of Bondi and hints it would rather not know either. Its streets are tree-lined and its buildings vary from Victorian mansions to the occasional expensive but unattractive blocks of, not flats for God’s sake, but apartments. Consulates occupy some of the side streets, foreign flags fluttering from masts like travel banners; some masts are bare, consulates of empires and countries no longer whole. The main street, Queen Street, is a collection of antique shops, small galleries, one or two restaurants and everyday-living shops where even the delicatessen aspires to be chic. Whether it is the consulates, the Goethe Institute on the main cross-street, Ocean Street, or the sense of privacy in the side streets, there is a suggestion that the small suburb could be European, a section of Paris or Vienna. The inhabitants are overcome with delight if one makes the suggestion.
Walter Needle lived in a three-storied Victorian house in a side street. A wide garden fronted it, a garden as manicured as a display centre. Needle was an architect, a boutique practitioner who had won several awards for his designs for houses and small buildings. Malone had no idea what sort of houses he designed, but this pale-rose Victorian mini-mansion hinted he might go in for heavy opulence. Malone, having learned that Needle worked at home, had phoned ahead before leaving Homicide.
Needle himself was in his early sixties, heavy if not opulent, grey-haired and florid-faced; he looked as if he might have played rugby or lacrosse in his youth, some blood sport. On the other hand his partner, Will Stratton, was pale and bloodless, someone who might have played croquet or crocheted; his handsomeness was almost too delicate. Needle introduced him as ‘my partner’ and Malone was at first unsure whether he was his associate in business or marriage.
‘Come in, come in!’ Needle swept them into the house, led them through a wide hallway papered in red silk and into a large sitting room that looked out on a high-walled garden as equally manicured as the front plot. Huge ornamental pots held glowing flowers that appeared to have been ordered not to sprawl or festoon. At the far end of the garden three manicured small cypresses stood at attention; in one corner of the high walls a Japanese maple had been allowed to droop, but not obsequiously. Crumbs, thought Malone, I wonder if the wind is allowed to blow around here?
‘Will keeps everything just so,’ said Needle and Malone knew then what sort of partner Stratton was. ‘So you’re dragging up all that horrible business last February? God, we’d hoped it was all forgotten.’
Needle was too bulky and heavy, even a little old, to flutter, yet he gave that impression. He had motioned for Malone and Kagal to sit down, but he moved around the room like a restless bull. Stratton sat in a chair opposite the detectives, cool and poised. He was dressed in a black long-sleeved polo shirt, black slacks and showed six inches of yellow silk sock above black loafers as he crossed one leg over the other. He did not clash with the room, which had one black wall and two yellow walls and the huge window that looked out on to the garden. The colour scheme of the furniture, all of it elegant, almost too delicate to be sat on, certainly not to be lounged on (Malone was glad he had not brought Clements), was black and yellow.
Needle must have pressed a bell somewhere, because a Filipino houseboy appeared with a tray holding coffee and biscuits. Needle continued talking, ‘We’ve done our best to put it all behind us. They almost killed Will, you know, what they did to him. He was beautiful—’
‘Still am,’ said Stratton. ‘Inside.’
Malone