A Different Turf. Jon Cleary
said Malone, cutting into his barramundi.
‘Dad’s anti-gay,’ said Maureen.
‘So am I,’ said Tom.
‘How do you feel about them, Kate?’ asked Claire.
Kate shrugged. ‘I’m neither for them nor ag’in ’em. But I don’t like the idea of them taking the law into their own hands, which is what seems to be happening in these cases.’
Has she been reading the running sheets? Malone wondered. Or talking them over with John Kagal? He wanted to get off the subject. He looked imploringly along the table at Lisa, but for once she didn’t read his expression. Instead she seemed to want to enlarge the subject:
‘Is there much bashing of lesbians?’ she said.
‘A little, so I understand,’ said Kate. ‘But dykes, it seems, are not so conspicuous. Or maybe the bashers don’t recognize them so easily. Maybe the gangs just like to harass their own gender, their own form of sexual harassment, I guess you’d call it. I don’t know, really.’
Elisabeth delicately turned over her John Dory, lifted a forkful to her mourn. ‘However did we get on to this subject?’
‘The world isn’t full of nice subjects,’ said her husband. ‘When else do I get the opportunity to talk to Scobie about his work? I’m interested in other people’s jobs. I was always willing to talk about my work.’
‘Rubber heels?’ said Lisa.
‘Do you know any gay guys, Kate?’ said Maureen.
Malone glanced at Kate; but she seemed to be avoiding his gaze. ‘One or two.’
‘I know a couple,’ said Maureen. ‘Guys I met at a disco. Nice guys, treated you with respect, no fooling around.’
‘Urk,’ said Tom.
‘Grow up,’ said his sister.
Claire glanced at her father. ‘You’re quiet, Dad.’
‘I just don’t like working seven days a week, that’s why.’
Jan Pretorius took the hint: ‘Sorry, Scobie. I should have thought of that.’
‘Indeed,’ said Elisabeth round a mouthful of fish.
‘Will you like working amongst the gays, Kate?’ Maureen persisted.
‘We’ll handle it, I’m sure,’ said Kate and once again appeared to avoid Malone’s eye.
He had the sudden feeling that the days, maybe the weeks ahead, were going to bind themselves tightly round him, that he could find himself floating on a stream that would run down to the place Lisa had once pointed out to him on an ancient map, the Sea of Doubt. It wouldn’t be the first time, but always in the past the company had been straight, if criminal.
The Japanese had stood up and photographed the Koreans; the latter in turn stood up and photographed the Japanese. Then both groups turned their cameras on the natives, there were blinding flashes and the natives turned their smiles on the tourist dollar.
1
The first phone call came at nine-thirty on Monday morning.
‘Inspector Malone? I understand you are investigating the shooting in Oxford Street on Saturday night.’
‘Who’s this?’
‘Let’s say I’m the Twelfth Man. You played cricket, didn’t you, once upon a time? There is always a twelfth man, isn’t there, just in case?’
‘Are you offering some information?’
‘In a way, I suppose I am. But we’re also offering help—’
‘Mr – what’s your name?’
‘Don’t hang up, Inspector.’ The man’s voice was soft and educated, almost precise yet not prissy; a man with respect for the weight and value of words. ‘Why waste your time? The police have enough to do. We are contributing a public service—’
‘We?’
‘Oh, I thought you knew. We’re a, shall we say, a consortium. Pest exterminators …’
Malone was signalling frantically to Clements in the outer office, but the big man was busy at a computer. Then Andy Graham, the unit’s St Bernard, Airedale or any lolloping dog, came lolloping in: ‘You want something, boss?’
‘Get me—’ Then the phone went dead in his ear. ‘Hello? You there? Bugger!’ He replaced the receiver. ‘Get Russ for me, Andy. What are you on?’
‘The Chiano job out at Maroubra. I’ll get Russ.’ He galloped away, hitting a swivel chair and sending it swivelling; his small world was chipped and scarred by his progress through it. But he was a good detective, his enthusiasm was not bumbling; he would never let go of a case, his mind was a file of clues in unsolved cases. Malone, looking after him as he bumped into a desk, wondered how he would go if transferred to the Oxford Street murder.
Clements, looking happier than he had for the past few months, relaxed almost to the point of carelessness, came in and flopped down on the small couch beneath the window in Malone’s office.
‘Romy and the baby are great. I was in there before I came to work—’
Malone humoured him with a few remarks about mother and child. Then he said, ‘I just had a call from some feller about Saturday night’s murder.’
‘We had three murders Saturday night—’
‘So we did.’ He had looked at the synopsis on his desk, checked it against the computer. ‘Sorry. The one up in Oxford Street, the kid from the gang that bashed up – Did you know it was Bob Anders they bashed? John’s mate.’
‘I’ve read the running sheet.’ Relaxed though he was, the big man’s voice had an edge to it, as if to say, You think I’m not keeping up with the job?
‘Sure.’ What was the matter with him? It was as if he, the boss, had come on the job only half an hour ago. ‘Okay, well, tins feller rang, said he belonged to a consortium – yes, that was the word he used.’ Clements had a big expressive face and when his eyebrows went up they showed large surprise. ‘A consortium. He claimed they were the Twelfth Man – he knew I’d played cricket—’
‘He must of looked you up. Who else remembers? No offence, mate. Nobody remembers yesterday’s sportsmen … This – consortium – they offered to help?’
‘He said they were contributing a public service.’
‘Vigilantes? Christ, that’s just what we need! Why don’t these public-spirited bastards piss off? We get enough criticism without vigilantes claiming we can’t do the job without them—’
‘He hasn’t claimed that yet … Have they done the autopsy on the kid?’
‘Not yet, I checked. Forensic said Ballistics would have the bullet by lunchtime. You want to know if it’s from the same gun as the three other poofter murders?’
He tried not to sound pious: ‘Russ, no poofters were murdered. And since we’re now on the cases, maybe we’d better start calling the homosexuals something else.’
‘Okay, gays. But what’s on your mind?’ They had worked together so long they read each other like husband-and-wife.
‘I think I should stay at my desk.’ As Co-ordinator, in theory that was what he was supposed to do. The nineteen detectives on staff, including Clements, were the field workers. But theory was always one of the first casualties of government service; it had the same fragility as charity and other high-minded ideas. ‘Who have