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‘Righto, you win.’
She stared at him; he had the feeling their ages were reversed. ‘Dad, it’s not about winning. You’ve just forgotten what it was like to be young. You’re humping as much baggage as Gran and Grandpa Malone, you’re thinking old. It’s a different world, Dad. I can take care of myself.’
Then she was gone, leaving him feeling old. She had spoken without heat, without cheek: almost with regret that he could not understand her. He looked across the room at the photo of his three children on the bookshelves. It had been taken only nine months ago, in February; but the girl who had just gone out was a stranger to the laughing teenager in the photo. Baggage: she had used the word he had used to describe himself to John Kagal yesterday morning.
‘What’s up?’ Lisa came into the room, settled on to the couch beside him. ‘You and Maureen having words again?’
‘Am I old?’
‘Sometimes. Don’t worry about her. She talks to me, I know what’s going through her mind. She’s not going to go wrong.’
‘What if some bloke does her wrong?’
‘She’d tell me. I don’t think you have to worry. Neither of our girls is going to be done wrong, as you call it.’
‘Are they on the Pill?’
She had a trick of looking at him out of the corner of her eyes. ‘What will you do if I say yes? Their bodies are their own. We discussed it, both of them came to me – give them credit for that. I didn’t ask them if they were sleeping with anyone, but I know they’re not sleeping around.’
‘I should bloody hope not! What about safe sex? Did you talk about that with them?’
‘Don’t get crotchety with me.’ She was as equable as if she were discussing homework with Tom. ‘Relax, darling. At least both our girls are straight.’
It was his turn to look sideways. ‘Meaning?’
‘Meaning I’ve noticed how edgy you’ve been since you moved on to this latest case. I don’t think you could handle it if one of the girls came and told us she was a lesbian.’
‘I might handle it better than you think.’ But he knew he didn’t sound convincing.
She kissed him, that condescending kiss that turns a wife into a mother; then she switched on the TV remote control. ‘Time for Sydney Beat.’
Claire came in, flopped down in an easy chair. ‘Oh God, not another cop show!’
‘Your father likes to look at it to see how many technical errors they make. It’s his version of Wheel of Fortune.’
‘I don’t believe it,’ said Claire, picking up a book. ‘You just want to get your menopausal flutters over—’ She named the star of the show, a muscular actor who seemed to spend all his time off-duty with his shirt off. ‘You’d better keep an eye on her, Dad.’
It was a one-hour series that had been running for three months, to critical acclaim and public indifference. It was shot with an in-your-face, up-your-nose camera technique that a lone dissenting critic had described as film school wankery. Malone had watched the previous week’s episode, found no glaring technical errors, liked the script but grown tired of the close-ups of acne-riddled villains, of the flaring nostrils of the hero and the backs of the heads of minor actors whose only purpose seemed to be to block out half the screen while the camera focussed on a player in the near-background.
Tonight’s episode was about a serial killer, someone who was killing off cops. The hero, shirt on or off, was the principal cop in danger. The actor was a big blond man in his mid-thirties; his sidekick was a younger, slim dark man. The script avoided the wise-cracking buddy-buddy set-up; there was a genuine relationship between the partners, much as there was between Malone and Clements. That, at least, was real.
He saw the last half-hour with only half an eye and heard it with only half an ear; he dozed through the climax, and was wakened by Lisa digging him in the ribs.
Ten minutes later he was in bed. Just before he dropped off, a voice whispered on the edge of his consciousness, a soft echo, but before he could identify it he had fallen asleep.
1
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.
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