Читать книгу A Different Turf - Jon Cleary, Jon Cleary - Страница 6

Clements picked up the snail from the carpet; it must have dropped off the single pot plant in Malone’s office. He took a sheet of paper from Malone’s desk, wrapped the snail in it, crushed it and tossed it into the wastebasket.

‘Why did you do that?’ said Kate Arletti. ‘It’s a living thing, just like you.’

‘It took its chances. The bugger’s been following me around all day.’

John Kagal laughed, but Kate just shook her head. The three of them were in Malone’s office, ready for the morning briefing; all the other detectives were out, either on investigations or in court Malone said, ‘You’re not in court this morning?’

Kagal shook his head. ‘It’s been stood over. The accused tried to hang himself last night in his cell.’

‘Righto, let’s get on with this. I don’t know that I should stay on this case—’

‘Why not?’ said Kate.

Malone was aware that both Kagal and Clements were watching him. He was not going to admit that his prejudices, no matter how much he tried to stifle them, were confusing him. ‘I think you and John can handle it on your own—’

‘No,’ said Kagal. ‘With all due respect, boss, I think you should stay on it.’

It was a challenge: Malone recognized it. ‘Why?’

‘Without you, Kate and I are just going to be also-rans over at Surry Hills. We’ll get the shitty jobs. You know what it’s like, we’re on their turf—’

‘I agree,’ said Clements, smiling widely; he had become boringly cheerful. ‘As Jerry Seinfeld says—’

‘Righto, Russ. Since you’ve become a father you’re turning into a stand-up comic. I thought you were picking up Romy and Mandy.’

‘Amanda. Ten-thirty. ’ He looked like a man who had got advance notice that he had won the lottery.

Kate went out of the office and came back with a small parcel. ‘For the baby, from all of us.’

Clements beamed, but still looked embarrassed; he had a long way to go before seeing himself as a father. ‘Gee, thanks from the three of us. I’ll be in this afternoon,’ he told Malone.

‘Don’t bother. You’ll be bloody useless. Get to know Amanda.’

Kagal hummed a few bars of a song. ‘Oh, Amanda …’

‘Jesus, nightclub singers, too!’ Malone could hear himself; why was he so testy? ‘Okay, I’ll stay on the case. But you’ll have to go over to Surry Hills on your own this morning, Kate. John and I are going out to Erskineville again, see if we can talk to those kids out on bail.’ Then he looked at his phone and its new attachment. ‘I wonder if we’ll get another call?’

‘What am I supposed to do over at Surry Hills?’ asked Kate.

‘Their gay liaison man is due back from leave today. Talk to him, men go and talk to me lesbians. See if they’ve had any hassling. They seem to suffer much less bashing than the male gays do.’

‘Maybe they don’t,’ said Kate. ‘Maybe they just report it less. Women are always less complaining than men.’

‘You’re joking,’ said the men.

As they drove out to Erskineville Malone said to Kagal, ‘There’s a playground we’ll try first. If they’re not there, I’ve looked up their home addresses on the computer.’

‘Why did you want to go off this case?’

It was man to man again, no rank. He hedged: ‘I thought you and Kate could handle it on your own. There’s no need for three of us.’

Kagal did not reply at once, seeming to concentrate on his driving. It was a beautiful late spring day, summer’s heat come as an early visitor. The sky had a glitter to it, like a distant ocean through which the red fin of a Qantas jet scythed like a bloodied shark. They passed a jacaranda, a purple burst of smoke in the tiny front garden of a scabbed and peeling house. The air, coming in through the open window of the car, miraculously was fresh and clean, as if pollution had been turned off for the day. It was the sort of day that Malone dreamed of for his retirement.

‘There is, you know,’ Kagal said at last. ‘Have you read this morning’s papers?’

‘Just the front page.’ He usually read the morning papers over his salad sandwich lunch. Or, on the days when he went against Lisa’s instructions, over his meat pie lunch.

‘Daley Girvan is resigning.’ Girvan was an Independent who held the seat of Bligh, the electorate in which most of the homosexual community lived. ‘He has leukaemia. I’ve heard he has about three months to live.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that. I only met him once, but he seemed a nice bloke.’

‘Even though he’s gay?’

‘Even though. What are you getting at John?’

‘The Dutchman says he will make a run for the seat – he never wastes any time. Labor will put up a gay candidate -mere are two or three in the party – it must put some of the old blue-collar unions guys on the verge of a stroke …’ He broke off while he speeded up and took the car through an amber light, just beating the red. ‘Anyhow, Vanderberg is going to beat the drum about helping the gays. There’ll be no more gay-bashings, not if The Dutchman has to come out on to the streets and stop it. So he says.’

‘How do you know all this?’

‘One of his minders is gay, though Vanderberg doesn’t know it. That’s between you and me, okay?’

‘You’re everywhere, aren’t you?’ But Malone said it without rancour.

Kagal smiled. ‘You’d rather we all lived in our own little pink precinct? That’s what some of the activists want. I don’t think that will get them anywhere. It would be reverse ostracism.’

‘Then you’re not in favour of the activists?’

‘If they had their way, they’d bar half-and-halfs like me.’

‘What about the activists who want to out all gays?’

Kagal shook his head. ‘Like you said, everyone’s sexual preferences are his own business.’

‘You think it might be a consortium of activists who are killing these kids?’

‘They’re activists of some sort. This the place?’

They had drawn up outside the playground. The mothers were there with their small children; their faces turned like tiny satellite dishes as the two detectives walked through the playground and across to the far corner. There was no gang this morning, just Les the leader and Foxy.

‘Where are the rest of your mates?’ Malone asked.

‘At school.’ Les went on bouncing the basketball that he and Foxy had been tossing at each other.

Malone introduced Kagal, then said, ‘This is Les Coulson, he’s been charged with bashing Bob Anders.’ Kagal showed no expression, just nodded. ‘And this is – what’s your name, son?’

‘Steve Stefanopolous,’ said Foxy. ‘I ain’t been charged, if that’s what you’re getting at.’

‘Steve’s father owns the house our mate Justin lived in,’ said Coulson. He had stopped bouncing the ball, but held it as if he might hurl it at them. There was an arrogance to him that he must have acquired at an early age: it was case-hardened, a metal skin.

‘You’re Greek? Born here?’

‘Yeah.’

‘You work or still at school?’

‘I work for my dad. He give me a coupla days off, to, you know, get over the shock. Justin being knocked off, I mean. You guys got the killer, that why you’re back here?’

‘Not yet,’ said Malone. Coulson sneered. ‘The reason we’re back here, the killer was around this way yesterday morning—’

He stopped, got the effect he wanted. The two youths looked at each other, their aggression abruptly forgotten for the moment. Then Coulson said, ‘Here? In this playground?’

‘I dunno, maybe he was. But he knew I’d been to see you yesterday morning, so he must’ve been somewhere around here, watching us.’

Coulson laughed. ‘Christ, that’s a joke! A killer tailing the cops and they dunno anything about it!’

Malone held his temper, but felt Kagal stiffen beside him. ‘He might’ve been around before we got here. Tailing you. You’re the ones he’s after, not us.’

The laughing stopped; Coulson bounced the ball, once. Stefanopolous blinked as if something had just flicked him across his sharp-featured face. On the other side of the playground a child screamed and there was a rush of mothers towards a see-saw where a child had fallen off.

‘Did you notice any stranger around here yesterday?’ Kagal spoke for the first time. Malone could feel the tension in him, as palpable as if he had his hand on the younger man’s arm.

‘There might of been.’ Coulson was less arrogant now; there was tension in him, too. ‘People come and go all the time through here. It’s a short-cut to the other side of the park. We’d of noticed him, though, if he was a poof.’

‘Really? How does a poof look? Like this?’ Kagal was baiting him; he put a hand on his hip in an exaggerated stance. Malone let him coast: Bob Anders’ friend had a score to settle here.

‘Some of ’em, yeah. But you can smell ’em, if you know who you’re looking for.’

‘And you go looking for them every Saturday night?’ Kagal took his hand off his hip; Malone relaxed. For a moment he had feared that the situation was going to get out of hand.

‘Friday nights, too. It’s open season all week round.’ Occasionally Coulson showed flashes of another personality, one who had had some education.

‘Are you still at school or do you work?’ asked Malone.

‘He’s just finished his first year at uni,’ said Stefanopolous with some pride; but Coulson didn’t look pleased at the disclosure.

‘What are you taking?’ said Kagal.

Coulson was off-handed, as if he preferred the subject had not been raised. ‘Arts. History.’

‘What happened to you?’ said Malone. ‘Turned you into a poofter-basher? Did something happen to you as a kid?’

He wondered if Justin Langtry had ever mentioned to the gang what his stepfather had done to him. He felt Kagal look at him, but he didn’t return the glance. He felt certain Kagal would raise the question with him later.

‘Jesus!’ Coulson half-turned away in disgust. ‘Why does anyone have to be molested to hate gays? It’s just fucking natural, isn’t it? I mean if you’re natural. Normal?’

‘Homosexuality has been around a long time,’ said Kagal quietly.

‘Sure it has. The Greeks invented it, didn’t you, Steve? Socrates and his boys, stuffing it up their bums and telling them to be philosophical about it.’

Stefanopolous did not look happy at belonging to a nation that supposedly had bred homosexuality. ‘Ah shit, I dunno about that—’

‘I think it was long before the Greeks,’ said Kagal, still quietly. ‘The Sumerians practised it Didn’t they, Inspector?’

Malone hadn’t a clue who the Sumerians were. ‘All the time.’

Coulson 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 had now had time to study the younger man. He was slim to the point of being almost girlish; and yes, he might have been beautiful once. His face now was a pale mask; if one looked closely, one could see the faint scars. He had not smiled either at meeting the detectives or since they had come into this room; his face, it seemed, was set in the one grave expression. His dark blue eyes and his sleek dark hair accentuated his paleness.

‘The doctors had to re-build his face,’ said Needle, still moving around the room. ‘I could have killed – well, I shouldn’t say that to you, should I?’ He had a wide smile. ‘But why come back now?’

Malone explained about the three murders since last February’s. ‘It’s a consortium, they call themselves. We suspect they are gay—’

‘What makes you say that?’ said Stratton.

‘Righto, maybe they’re not. But for the time being we’re focussing on the gay community – they may have talked to someone, let slip who they are and why they’re committing these murders.’

‘It’s pretty obvious why they’re committing them, isn’t it?’

This pretty boy is going to be difficult. ‘Yes, it is, Mr Stratton.’

‘If we had heard anything of these – these murderers, don’t you think we’d have been in touch with the police?’ Stratton had not taken coffee or biscuits, just sat without moving, one leg still crossed over the other.

‘Perhaps,’ said Kagal. ‘But perhaps you felt that justice had already been done. I mean, for what happened to you. Were you bashed too, Mr Needle?’

Needle sat down at last, a buffalo in a Regency chair. ‘A little, nothing like Will was. I managed to hold them off for a few moments – I used to play rugby when I was young, thirty, forty years ago. It was like being in a ruck – you know, fists and boots. Then the – the killer appeared, fired his gun and it was like the referee blowing his whistle to stop the mayhem. Everything stopped for a moment, then the – the killer took off. One of the bashers made a grab at him and that was when he lost his wig. And—’ He stopped. ‘God, I’d forgotten all about them. Where’s my cream linen jacket, Will?’

‘In your closet—’ Stratton looked at Kagal and suddenly smiled; or rather his face seemed to crack. ‘It took Walter a long time to come out of it’

‘All right, all right,’ said Needle. ‘Look for it, will you? There should be some glasses in one of the pockets.’

Stratton rose leisurely, taking his time, and went out of the room. Needle looked after him. ‘He hasn’t been the same since – since the bashing. He’s developed a real hatred of the world.’

‘It’s understandable,’ said Malone. ‘Certain sections of it, anyway. You have your offices upstairs?’

‘No, I have a suite of offices in town – that’s where my staff work. But since what happened to Will, I’ve worked at home – to be with him. He is all I have,’ he said and all at once looked old and sad.

Malone and Kagal remained silent Malone glanced at the younger man, but Kagal’s face showed nothing. Was he feeling pity for Needle, was he seeing himself like this years down the track? But, of course, Malone reminded himself, Kagal’s loved one could be a woman.

Stratton came back into the room; he moved with the grace of a dancer and Malone wondered if that was what he had been. He handed a pair of horn-rimmed glasses to Needle, sank gracefully into his chair again and crossed his legs. There was an indifference to him, an attitude that he was outside the discussion, that he had built up a screen between himself and what had happened to him last February.

Needle passed the glasses to Malone. ‘You see? I think they’re fakes, stage glasses. That’s clear glass, not prescription lenses.’

Malone squinted through the glasses. ‘Did the police see these? Forensic?’

Needle shook his head, looked embarrassed. ‘No. I picked them up, I don’t know why, it was just a reflex action. Then I turned round and saw what had happened to Will—’ He looked sympathetically at his partner. ‘I must have put the glasses in my pocket without thinking – I forgot all about mem. It must have been about a week later, when I sent my jacket off to be dry-cleaned, that I found them. By then I was so worried about Will – they had operated on him and said there would have to be more … I should have passed them on to the police, but frankly, by then I didn’t care whether they caught the man with the gun. I still don’t care.’ He didn’t say it belligerently, but there was no doubt he was adamant.

‘You put the glasses back in the pocket of the jacket when it came back from the dry-cleaners? Why?’

Needle shook his head again. ‘I honestly don’t know. I haven’t worn the jacket since, I’ve even thought of giving it to the St Vincent de Paul. I guess I just, subconsciously, want to wipe that out We both do,’ he said and looked at Stratton, who showed no reaction.

‘You saw the man who fired the shot?’ said Kagal.

‘Of course. Not clearly, everything was so mixed up, a brawl. When six or eight hoodlums are bashing you, you don’t exactly have your wits about you. But yes, I caught a glimpse of him. He wasn’t big, medium-sized, I’d say. I couldn’t tell you whether he was blond or dark, but he wore a dark wig – that was the one the police found. I do remember he was very spry – he took off like a rabbit after one of the gang tried to grab him.’

‘Can you remember if he said anything when he first appeared? If he yelled at the gang to back off?’

‘I don’t think so. It was almost as if he was there to kill, not to save us.’ He looked at Stratton, but the latter was still impassive. ‘One minute there was just the bashers and us – the next, there he was. He came in from one side, held up his gun and fired it I didn’t hear the sound of it – I heard later he had probably used a silencer. One of the kids who was kicking Will just suddenly went down – the police told me he’d been shot in the head, but I didn’t bother to look. I was concerned for Will—’

‘What happened then?’

‘Well, like I said, he just took off. I think one of the thugs tried to chase him, but gave up. The gang turned their backs on me and Will – I think they’d been shocked stupid by what had happened to one of their mates. Then other people started coming towards us – I remember yelling for someone to call an ambulance—’ He stopped, his voice trembling.

‘That’s enough,’ said Stratton. He rose unhurriedly and went to him and put his arm round him. ‘That’s enough for you, too, Inspector. We want to forget it ever happened.’

Malone rose. ‘I can understand that, Mr Stratton. But the fact remains there are killers still loose—’

Both men looked at him. ‘Killers?’

‘I told you they call themselves a consortium.’ It occurred to him that they really hadn’t been listening to him when he had explained about the other murders. ‘Saturday night’s killer was a woman. Or a transvestite, maybe even a transsexual, we don’t know. But we’ve had a couple of calls, they say they’re a consortium—’

‘Well, well.’ Stratton for the first time seemed to relax; the mask cracked again. ‘We have our own secret little army. You can’t expect us to be unhappy about that, can you?’

‘You don’t expect me to answer that, Mr Stratton … I’ll take these glasses, Mr Needle. It’s too late for Forensic to do anything about them, but they are evidence. Thank you for your co-operation this morning.’

‘Don’t flatter us, Inspector,’ said Needle. ‘We haven’t cooperated, all we have been is polite. The bashings will go on, I suppose? And mere will be further killings? It’s rough justice, but that’s better than none at all, isn’t it?’

‘Police are not supposed to engage in polemics,’ said Kagal. ‘That’s left to lawyers.’

Stratton escorted them to the front door. As they stepped out on to the portico Malone said, ‘I admire your garden.’

‘So just-so, you mean? My life used to be the same,’ said Stratton and shut the door in their faces.

Malone looked at Kagal. ‘I meant it as a compliment.’

Kagal said nothing till they were outside the front gate, standing beneath a canopy of plane trees. The street was deserted, as quiet as the back street in a pleasant country 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?’