A Different Turf. Jon Cleary
town. Bashings and murder were something in another country.
‘I’m not sure whether he remembers me, but we met at a couple of parties – that would’ve been before he came to live with Needle. He was beautiful, too beautiful. Women and guys fell over themselves to get to him.’
‘You too?’
Kagal smiled. ‘I’ve never fallen over myself to get to any man. Or woman.’
Malone could well believe it.
3
‘We’ve gotta strike while the irony’s hot,’ said the Premier.
Where did he dig up that one? Ladbroke wondered; some bugger’s trying to sophisticate him. He would have to tell the other minders to mind their own business.
‘Send out a press release today, we’re gunna protect the homosexual community by hooks and crooks.’ That was more like The Dutchman, who would have made a fearsome trio with Mrs Malaprop and Dr Spooner. ‘Nothing specific, you know, your usual airy-fairy stuff, something they can’t pin down. Make me sound like Churchill or Roosevelt.’
‘They’re a bit dated, Hans. I don’t think they ever had to deal with homosexuality.’
‘You got another think coming, Roger son. What I read, Eleanor Roosevelt was a lesbian. Maybe it’s just gossip. I hate gossip—’ The way he hated breathing. ‘Just gimme some nice airy-fairy rhetoric—’
Ladbroke, the Premier’s press secretary and principal minder, made a pretence of making a note. Hans Vanderberg was too wise to believe mat rhetoric was argument; but he never credited a voter as a man with any wisdom. Rhetoric they would get, airy-fairy stuff, Churchill let loose on the crime scene, law and order fought on the beaches, et cetera et cetera …
‘Hans, aren’t you a little premature? Daley Girvan hasn’t resigned yet. The poor bugger’s dying, don’t chop him up before he’s dead.’
‘You think I have no sympathy for him?’
Yes, thought Ladbroke; but kept the thought to himself.
‘I’d give him a State funeral, only the homos would wanna turn it into a Mardi Gras parade. But he resigns, we gotta have a by-election, right? We take Bligh, we get the homos on side, and we don’t have to worry about the bloody Independents arguing with us about which way they’ll vote in the Assembly. We can stuff it up the do-gooders and the Greenies and the wowsers in the Council, too.’ He worked his mouth as if he were chewing up those who tried to thwart him. ‘From today I’m the homosexuals’ – what do they call ’em?’
‘Partner.’
‘That’s it, the homosexuals’ partner.’ And a more unlikely partnership could not be imagined. Except maybe Lady Thatcher in bed with Arthur Scargill or Newt Gingrich hand-in-hand with Eddie Murphy.
The Premier and Roger Ladbroke had been partners, though never chums and certainly never lovers, for fifteen years, in and out of government The Dutchman was a bantamweight septuagenarian who dressed as if he had just passed through a jumble sale; he had his own image and he had killed off as many image-makers as he had political opponents. He had a face like an evil parrot, one that mothers tried to prevent their babes from seeing when he was on the campaign trail; but when he actually got to leer at the infants they, seeing in his face their own potential perfidy, actually gurgled in glee. Ladbroke was a plump forty-five, an expensive dresser though somehow never immaculate, with a face as bland as pink custard; he could tell lies, which was his job, yet at the same time convince the State press gallery that The Dutchman had only the voters’ welfare at heart, even though there was no evidence that Vanderberg had such an organ. They were a formidable pair.
‘I’ll talk to Leeds—’ said The Dutchman. Leeds was the Commissioner of Police, an honest cop suffering at the moment from the revelations about bent cops and their corruption. ‘Get him to ginger up the investigations of these killings, find out who’s doing them. We can kill two birds with a brick, get on side with the homos and polish up the image of the police.’
‘If they catch the killer and he turns out to be gay, how’s that going to get the gay vote? I’ve heard from Bill Zanuch—’ Zanuch was the Assistant Commissioner, Crime. ‘He says there are probably three or four killers, maybe more. Some guy has been phoning Inspector Malone, saying they are a consortium—’
‘Malone?’ said the Premier. ‘Is he on this?’
‘He is in charge of Homicide, South Region. It’s in his territory.’
‘Well, I suppose better him than some of those bent bastards.’
There had recently been a royal commission into police corruption and dozens of police and criminals, once they realized the commission had video evidence of their corruption, had been rolling over like sinners at a Eucharistic Congress. Evidence at times had been hilarious and honest cops, the majority of the Service, had had a hard time proving they were not part of the joke.
‘Is he gay?’ asked Vanderberg.
‘Who, Malone? I shouldn’t think so. He’s got a wife and three kids.’
‘Doesn’t prove anything. Did you know animals are homosexual? Cows, for instance?’
‘I’d heard that. But I don’t think there are any cows or heifers in this case.’
‘Don’t smarten your arse, son. I’m being serious here. We’re the homosexuals’ partner, as from this minute. Give ’em the works in your press release. In the field of human endeavour, never had so few had to rely on the many, et cetera et cetera …’
Ladbroke would sort out the rhetoric later. ‘Will you be flying a Spitfire up Oxford Street or just catching a bus?’
l
When Malone and Kagal got back to Strawberry Hills, Kate Arletti was waiting in Malone’s office with a young uniformed policeman. ‘This is Darren Beane. He is the gay liaison officer at Surry Hills.’
He was a slim young man with close-cropped dark hair, regular features and an air of balance and restraint. He was what he was, he accepted it, and, without being aggressive about it, you could take it or leave it. He had a pleasant smile and a firm handshake. ‘Inspector. It’ll be a pleasure to work with you. Hello, John.’
‘You two know each other?’ Malone looked at Kagal.
‘We were at university together,’ said Kagal with a smile that said, What else were you thinking?
He went out to his desk in the big room and Malone sat down behind his own desk, motioning to Kate and Beane to take a seat. ‘How’d you get on with the lesbians, Kate?’
The question had a blunt rudeness to it that Malone hadn’t intended; but he noticed that Beane didn’t flinch. Kate said, ‘Not much response, sir. One of them, a reporter on the lesbian paper, was bashed on Saturday night, but they didn’t bother to report it to us. It’ll be in Friday’s issue of the paper.’
‘Did they say why they didn’t report it?’
‘They were a bit snarly. They think the boys are getting all the publicity.’
‘That’s because of the killings,’ said Beane. ‘So far the killers don’t seem to be riding herd on lesbians, only gay men.’
‘Maybe that will change now there’s a woman with them,’ said Malone. ‘With the killers, I mean. Do you go into the baths and pubs where the gay men congregate?’
‘Yes, sir. You want me to show you around?’
‘No, thanks.’ Malone smiled in an effort to take the edge off his reply. ‘No offence. It’s just not my scene. I’m going to have to rely