Murder Song. Jon Cleary

sat back on the wet fender of the car; all the rest of him was wet through, a damp arse wouldn’t make much difference. All at once it came to him that he had been scared to death, not at the thought of his own death but that he would be murdered in front of his family. He could never leave them a legacy like that.

      He knew this was one time when Lisa had to be told the truth: ‘I think I’m on a hit list.’

      ‘Oh God!’

      She leaned against him and he put his arm round her, holding her tightly. It seemed to him that he could feel the heavy beat of her heart through their winter clothing and it was beating as much for him as for her.

      2

      ‘You have to take the rough with the smooth,’ said O’Brien. ‘I never promised there would be no risk.’

      ‘Don’t give me any of that,’ said Arnold Debbs. ‘You’ve got me with my career on the line. If this blows up, I’m finished. I promise you, so will you be, too!’

      Five years ago, even six months ago, O’Brien would have shrugged off such a threat. From the time he had moved out of the world of pop music into the bigger, rougher world where money and power and influence were concomitant he had more than held his own. In England there had been very few, if any, politicians who could be bought; the system didn’t work that way in Britain. But venal councillors and planning authorities could be found wherever development was growing; the skull-and-crossbones had flown from mastheads before the Union Jack was thought of and the Brits never forgot their heritage. When he had come home to Australia it was almost as if the politicians, hands held out, their convict heritage unashamedly displayed, had met him at the airport. It was, of course, nowhere near as bad. as that; but cynicism narrows one’s view. He had been introduced to his first crooked politician, Arnold Debbs, within two days of his return. A week later he had met his second crooked politician, Arnold’s wife, Penelope.

      He had always known there was the chance of making enemies of them: bribes never bought friendship, that came free, if you were lucky. He had never been afraid of them because he had never been afraid of failure: he was a gambler, ready to go off somewhere else and start all over again. But that had been before he had met and fallen in love with Anita Norval. Now all he wanted was respectability and no one, least of all the Debbs, would or could offer him that.

      ‘You did us once, Brian, with that mining lease –’

      ‘Arnold, that was business. You got the profit you were promised –’

      ‘We didn’t get the profit we could have made!’ Debbs’ temper was notorious; it had always been held against him in Caucus. Political parties do not like hotheads; they can’t be controlled. Debbs had once had ambitions to be the leader of the party, to be Prime Minister when it returned to power in Canberra; but he had a head for figures and eventually he had realized he would never have the numbers to reach the top. Three times he had run for leader and three times he had finished bottom of the poll; it was then he had decided to be a Party of One, to look out for himself and use the front bench for all he could make from it. ‘You’re a robber, Brian, a fucking crook who should be locked up! Now you’ve got me and my wife linked to this investigation –’

      ‘I told you, Arnold, you and Penelope will be kept out of it. Your names are on nothing –’

      ‘The shares are in a company name, but they can be traced to us! These bloody young reporters these days – they’re muck-rakers! The Eye has already had a piece – no names but plenty of hints. How many others have you got strung up with my wife and me?’

      ‘You know how many there are, Arnold –’

      ‘You bet your fucking life I do!’ Debbs’ language, too, was notorious. The Sydney Morning Herald had once published a short verbatim statement from him that had contained as many dashes as words. The Anglican and Roman Catholic archbishops, the Festival of Light and half a dozen women’s organizations had written letters to the Editor in protest; even Prime Minister Norval had had an attack of mealy-mouth and deplored the lowering of standards. ‘I introduced them to you – they could fucking turn on me!’

      ‘Relax, Arnold,’ O’Brien said, then tensed as he saw the unfamiliar car coming up the long driveway between the paddocks towards the house. ‘Who’s this?’

      Arnold Debbs turned. ‘I don’t know. Let’s hope to Christ it’s not some shitty reporter.’

      It wasn’t. The unmarked police car pulled in besides Debbs’ blue Volvo and Malone got out. ‘Jesus!’ said O’Brien softly.

      ‘Who is it?’ said Debbs equally softly.

      ‘Police.’

      Malone wondered why the familiar figure stiffened as he approached. He had never met Arnold Debbs, but no one could mistake him. Tall and heavily built, he had a pompadour of egg-white hair that made him look as if he had just been crowned with a large pavlova. Beneath it his lamp-bronzed face suggested not so much health as a bad case of brown jaundice. His wide smile was no more than a display case for his expensive dental-work; there was no humour or friendliness in it. Malone shook hands with an enemy who had already declared himself and he wondered why Debbs’ grip was so tense.

      ‘I’m sorry to interrupt, Mr O’Brien –’

      ‘It’s okay, Mr Debbs is just leaving. He came up to see one of his horses – we’ve got it on agistment here. I’ll see you to your car, Arnold.’

      Malone watched the two men walk across to the Volvo, heads close together, voices low: they seemed to be arguing. But O’Brien, as if aware they were being watched, patted Debbs on the shoulder, waited till the older man had got into his car, then stood back and waved as the Volvo was driven away. Then he came back to Malone.

      ‘Bloody owners – they’re a pain!’

      ‘You’re one, aren’t you? A whole string of horses, Sergeant Clements tells me. You’ve done well, Horrie.’

      ‘Brian.’

      ‘No, it’s Horrie who’s done well. I’m not so sure how Brian Boru is doing.’

      Malone looked out over the stud farm with its lush green paddocks, the white railing fences and the double row of stables of red brick. Mares and foals grazed amidst the grass; a stallion high-stepped along the length of a fence, as arrogant as any disco stud. Further up the red gravel driveway, the main house, a low colonial building with wide verandahs, looked as it must have looked when it was first built a hundred and fifty years ago. This district of Camden, about sixty kilometres south-west of Sydney, had been the birthplace of Australia’s sheep industry; now it had become almost a dormitory suburb of the city. But some pockets were still zoned for rural use and Cossack Lodge stud was one of the show places. Yet Malone could not remember ever having seen O’Brien featured in any newspaper or television story about the stud.

      He remarked on that now. ‘How come? Most racehorse owners risk getting kicked in the head to be photographed with their horses.’

      O’Brien smiled. He was dressed in checked cap, a dark blue turtleneck sweater, pale moleskin trousers and stockman’s boots: every inch the country gentleman except for the cynical eyes and a certain nervous energy that, had he been a grazier, would have knotted the wool of his sheep. He could never be totally relaxed, he would never adapt to the rhythm of rural seasons.

      ‘An Irish philosopher – there have been one or two – once said, Man who keep low profile rarely get egg on face. Have you come up here to try and smear some egg on me?’

      They began to walk up towards the house. Two girl strappers passed them, smiled at O’Brien and went on to the stables. A man came out of a small office at the end of the stables and raised his hand to O’Brien.

      ‘Later, Bruce. He’s my foreman,’ O’Brien explained to Malone. ‘Why are you here, Scobie? Is it about Mardi Jack?’

      ‘Partly. You remembered her name?’

      ‘Yes.