Dark Summer Read online

  DARK SUMMER

  The Scobie Malone Series

  Jon Cleary

  FOR SHAUN ROACH FOR HIS CONSIDERABLE HELP

  Copyright © 1991 by Sundowner Productions Pty Ltd.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form

  without permission in writing from the publisher.

  First ebook edition 2013 by AudioGO. All Rights Reserved.

  Trade ISBN 978-1-62064-799-8

  Library ISBN 978-1-62460-118-7

  Cover photo © TK/iStock.com.

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  MORE JON CLEARY EBOOKS

  DARK SUMMER

  1

  I

  “DADDY, THERE’S a dead man floating in our pool.”

  Malone came awake, dimly conscious of his relief that what he had heard had been only a part of a dream. He had stayed up late, looking, almost against his will, at the latest newsreels on the Gulf war; the images had gone to bed with him, the camera eye in the dream becoming his own eye. Now he felt the hand still on his shoulder, the grip tight, and he opened his eyes to see Maureen standing by the bed in her swimsuit.

  “What?” He sat up, feeling Lisa stir beside him.

  “There’s a dead man in our pool.”

  His first thought was for the effect on his middle child: he looked at her for the marks of shock or fear. She was ten years old, a tomboy usually bursting with energy and curiosity; the one of his three children who, he had thought, would never be vulnerable to what life threw at her. But he had been looking at the future: not at now, a hot January Monday morning when she was only ten years old and had got up for nothing more threatening than an early morning swim.

  “You all right?” She nodded; and he turned to Lisa, now wide awake. “Keep her here, darl. Stay with Mum.”

  Lisa said, voice still thick with sleep, “I hope this isn’t some stupid joke—”

  He shook his head warningly, pushed Maureen into the bed as he got out of it. He could feel the trembling in the thin body and he felt a sudden spasm of anger. Any intrusion that cracked the peace of the life he had built for Lisa and the kids always angered him.

  In his pyjama trousers and bare feet he went out to the back of the house, opened the screen door and stepped out into the back garden. It was not a large area, maybe eighty feet by fifty, and a good part of it was taken up by the swimming pool and its fence-enclosed surrounds. He went through the spring-loaded gate, feeling the bricks beneath his feet still warm from yesterday’s scorcher, and stood on the side of the pool and looked down at the small, fully clothed man floating face-up in the blue-tinted water. It was Scungy Grime.

  Malone picked up the long pole with its skim-net, hooked the net over Grime’s head and pulled the body in to the side of the pool. There was no doubt that the little man was dead, but, routinely, he knelt down and felt for a pulse in Grime’s neck.

  “Hi, Scobie. Going to be another scorcher, looks like—What’s that?”

  Keith Cayburn was the Malones’ next-door neighbour. His house was two-storeyed and from the rear balcony, where he now stood in his pyjamas, he could look down on the Malones’ garden.

  “A dead man. Keep Gloria inside the house till I get him out of sight.”

  “Sure. Holy shit! Can I do anything to help?”

  “Maybe later, Keith.” Though how he could help, Malone had no idea. Dead small-time criminals in swimming pools were not common in Randwick, not objects for community action by Neighbourhood Watch.

  He left the body in the water for the Physical Evidence team and hoped that Gloria Cayburn, an hysterical type, would not come out on the balcony, despite her husband’s pleas, and throw a fit. As he went back into the house to call the police (call the police? Dammit, I am the police! But that was the way the system worked), Scungy Grime, in death as in life an incorrigible, drifted away towards the middle of the pool again, the skim-net still over his head like a fly-net, the long pole now caught in the crook of his limp arm.

  Malone picked up the phone in the kitchen and rang Randwick police station. He spoke to a young constable, who said “Holy shit!” and that he would get the local detectives round there right away. Malone hung up, rang Police Centre and got the duty officer in Physical Evidence, who said “Holy shit!” evidently the religious thought for the day, and told him the team was on its way. Then Malone rang Russ Clements, who, half-asleep but still awake enough to be concerned for the Malone family, said only, “Lisa and the kids all right? Okay, I’ll be there soon’s I can.”

  Malone hung up the phone and turned round. Claire, in her shortie nightgown, stood in the kitchen doorway, frightened and puzzled. “Is it true, Dad? Is there a dead man in our pool?”

  “It’s true. Where’s Tom?”

  “In with Mum.”

  “How’s Maureen?”

  “Quiet. It’s not like her, she’s not saying a word.”

  “Get dressed, the police will be here soon.” He hoped they would not arrive with sirens blaring, lights flaring; sometimes the theatricals of police work, though necessary, embarrassed him. This section of Randwick, mostly white-collared and comfortable, was a quiet neighbourhood and so far he and Lisa had fitted in. “And don’t go outside, understand?”

  “I’ve never seen a dead person.”

  She was fourteen, on the verge of becoming a beautiful woman; sometimes, forgetting the contribution of Lisa, he was amazed he could have sired such a beauty. There was also a matter-of-fact serenity to her that she had inherited from Lisa; or there normally was. But not now. The death of strangers, he knew, though not as shattering as that of loved ones, never left any but the most callous untouched.

  “You’re not going to start now,” he said, trying to keep his tone gentle. “Go and get dressed.”

  He went into the main bedroom, where Lisa was sitting on the side of the queen-sized bed with her arms round Maureen and Tom. She looked up at him and said accusingly, or so it seemed, “What’s happening?”

  “They’re all on their way, the local fellers, the Crime Scene team. They’ll all be here in minutes. Russ is coming, too.”

  “Can I watch, Dad?” Tom was almost eight: the world, and everything in it, even the horrible, was for watching.

  “Not this time, Tom. Get dressed.”

  Lisa rose to take the two younger children out of the room. As they passed him, Malone pressed Maureen’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, love.”

  Both children looked at him, puzzled; but he saw that Lisa understood. “What for Daddy? Sorry for what, the dead man?”

  “Yes, I guess so.” It would be useless trying to explain his regret at what, through his police work, he had brought into their lives.

  There was no time for a shower. Normally, at this time of morning, he would be in the pool; that, too, was out for the time being. He had a quick wash, throwing the cold water into his face as if to convince himself that he should be fully awake; which he was. He put on a short-sleeved shirt, cotton trousers and a pair of canvas shoes and went out to get the newspapers. He had no intention of reading them; it was force of habit. Today was Australia Day, a national holiday, when the natives, a notoriously phlegmatic lot, searched in themselves for a sediment of patriotism. This weekend, with the Gulf war promising to be more than a nine-day horror, with the country’s economy up to its crotch in recession and sinking further, the flag-waving would be even more desultory than usual. He glanced at the headlines. Saddam, the medieval thug, was
playing dirty: he was flooding the Gulf with oil. President Bush, always with an eye to the vote, was calling him an environment terrorist. Malone, taking a narrow view, wondered which was worse, oil in the Gulf or a dead man in your kids’ swimming pool.

  He was about to go back into the house when the two police cars, silent and with no blue and red lights flashing, pulled up at the kerb. Detective Sergeant Wal Dukes got out of the first car.

  “I was just knocking off, Scobie, when they told me you had a problem.” He was a big man, a one-time Olympic heavyweight boxer now run a little to fat; he was reliable, but sometimes a bit heavy-handed, as if he thought he still had a few rounds to go in his last bout. “Crime Scene on their way?”

  “Yeah.” Physical Evidence was still called Crime Scene by the older men in the Department: change for change’s sake was something they didn’t favour. Malone closed the front door. “Let’s go round the side. I want to keep the kids out of this. The bloody place is going to be over-run in a while. Stick to the path, in case there are some shoe prints in that grass strip there.”

  They went round to the back of the house, followed by Dukes’ junior, a young detective named Lazarus, and the two uniformed men who had come in the second car. Grime was still out in the middle of the pool, the skim-net still over his face, looking for all the world like a drunk who had decided to have a floating sleep.

  “He’s Normie Grime, Scungy they called him. I’ve been using him as an informant for the past three months, since he got out of the Bay.”

  “What was he in for?”

  “Passing dud notes. He was into everything, but he was always just a hanger-on, never big time.”

  “What were you using him for?”

  “I’ve been on a homicide, a young Vietnamese was murdered in a back lane in Surry Hills. He was into drugs, the Asian, and I hoped Scungy could give me a lead or two. Scungy himself, as far as I know, never sold the hard stuff, but he knew everyone who did.”

  “Was he coming here to see you?”

  Malone looked at him as if he had been accused of corruption. “Here? Wal, I don’t even let cops come here! Except Russ Clements.”

  “Well, we’re here now.” But Dukes said it as gently as he could, though gentleness was not one of his talents. He looked out at the drifting Grime, who had floated close to the far side of the pool and was now staring up through the skim-net at one of the uniformed men as he reached out for the long pole. “Watch out, Kenny, you’re gunna fall in!”

  Kenny fell in, with a loud splash and a muffled curse. Dukes turned back to Malone. “How do we divide this one up? It’s in my territory, but he’s your property, as it were.”

  “I’ll hang on to him, Wal, if it’s okay with you. If I need any help—?”

  “Sure, all you need.” The uniformed cop, Kenny, had pushed the body to the side of the pool. It was now floating at the feet of the two senior detectives. Dukes looked down at it. “Fuck ’em!”

  “Who?”

  “Crims. Why don’t they go out into the middle of the Nullabor Plain when they wanna bump each other off?”

  Ten minutes later Russ Clements and the Physical Evidence team arrived simultaneously. All at once the back garden was seething with activity, a police production; for the first and last time in this life Scungy Grime was a star. The Cayburn family stood on their balcony, the parents and their two teenage sons, Gloria Cayburn with her hand over her mouth as if stifling a scream; beyond the opposite side fence the Malones’ other neighbours, an elderly couple named Bass who normally minded their own business, stood on a ladder, one above the other, like a geriatric trapeze pair about to climb to the high wire. Malone, catching a glimpse of them, waved to them, then looked sourly at Clements.

  “You reckon we should charge admission?”

  “Take it easy, mate. They’re neighbours, for Crissake. You’d rather they turned their backs on you?” But the big, rumpled man knew what was causing the tension in Malone; he had gone into the house as soon as he had arrived and spoken to Lisa and the children. He was the surrogate uncle and he was as anxious as Malone to see that this murder did not throw too long a shadow over this house. “Let’s go inside.”

  Then he looked past Malone and suddenly smiled, an expression of abrupt pleasure out of keeping with his sombre mood of a moment ago. “G’day, Romy. You didn’t say you were on call today.”

  “They’ve given all the Old Australians the day off. We’ve been told we can wave the flag next year.” She was smiling as she said it, there was no sourness. She was the GMO, one of the government medical officers from the Division of Forensic Medicine in the State Department of Health. She was Romy Keller, slim and attractive, dark-haired and dark-eyed, with just a trace of accent, ten years out of Germany and still trying to be an Australian, “I didn’t know this was your place, Inspector. When they called me, they just gave me an address . . . When did it happen?”

  “The murder? I don’t know. My daughter found him in the pool.”

  “Poor child.” She glanced towards the body, which was now lying on the bricks beside the pool, a green plastic sheet thrown over it. “Anyone looked at the body?”

  “Sergeant Dukes gave him a once-over,” said Clements. “There’s no sign of any wound. It could be a heart attack.”

  “Then it wouldn’t be murder, would it?” She looked at Malone.

  He nodded. “Righto, you’re right. I jumped to conclusions. Maybe it’s some sick joke. Some mate of his found him dead and decided to dump him in my pool. I just don’t think that’s the way it is.”

  She sensed the tension in him, gave him no immediate answer, looked once more at the sheet-covered body, then said, “Okay, we’ll take him away and look at him in the morgue. I’d rather do it there than give a show for them.”

  She made a sweeping gesture, at the Cayburns, the Basses and at the back fence, where a family whose name Malone didn’t know were lined up, all seven of them, on chairs, their faces hung above the palings like pumpkin halves.

  “Take him away then,” said Clements. “You doing anything tonight?”

  She glanced at Malone before she answered Clements. “No. Call me at the morgue.”

  “I’ve never had a girl say that to me before.”

  “You haven’t lived, Russ.” She smiled at him and Malone and left them.

  Malone opened the screen door and ushered Clements into the kitchen ahead of him. “Is there something on between you and her?”

  “Just the last coupla weeks.”

  “You kept that pretty quiet.”

  “You know what it’s like. It gets out you’re dating someone connected with the Department and they put out an ASM. There’s nothing in it. She’s just a good sort.”

  “Who’s a good sort?” said Lisa, coming into the kitchen. She was dressed in slacks and shirt and her hair was pulled back from her face by a bright blue band. She looked composed enough, but Malone, a sixteen-year veteran of marriage and a policeman to boot, could recognize the signs of tension.

  “You are,” said Clements and pressed her arm. Over the years he had gradually fallen in love with Lisa Malone, but neither she nor Malone thought it was anything more than just affection.

  “Where are the kids?” said Malone.

  “I told them to stay in our bedroom, not to come stickybeaking out here. At least till they’ve taken the—the body away.”

  “I think it’d be an idea if you took ’em over to your parents’ for the day. The Crime Scene lot could be here for a while.”

  “I’ve already rung Mother. We’ll go over to Vaucluse after I’ve made breakfast. Have you eaten, Russ?”

  Malone left the two of them in the kitchen and went into the main bedroom at the front of the house. The two girls, dressed in shorts and shirts, were lolling on the bed; Lisa, with her Dutch neatness, had already made it up. Tom, in shorts and T-shirt, was flopped like a rag doll in the armchair in the corner by the window. Occasionally he would raise his head and pe
er out at the police cars in the street and the small knots of people outside the neighbouring houses. Disappointment clouded his small face: all that excitement going on outside and here he was stuck in the house as if he was sick or something!

  “What’s happening, Daddy?” Maureen had regained her natural curiosity; she would never allow the world to keep its secrets from her. Of course she would never know even half its secrets; but Malone knew her questioning would never cease. She still had not regained her normal bouncing energy, but at least she no longer seemed frightened. “Have they taken the corpse away?”

  “Not yet. When they take it out, don’t hang out the window like a lot of ghouls, okay?”

  “What’s a ghoul?” said Tom, who had his own curiosity, not about the world but about words.

  “Explain it to him,” Malone said to Claire. “Don’t lay it on too thick.”

  She gave him her fourteen-year-old-woman-of-the-world look. “I’m not stupid, Inspector. But what was that man doing in our pool anyway?”

  “I wish I knew,” said Malone and went out into the hallway and rang Superintendent Greg Random, commander of the Regional Crime Squad.

  “Sorry to ring you at home, Greg, but I’ve got a problem.”

  Random listened to what Malone told him, then said in his slow voice, “You want to stay on the case? Not to be too obvious, it’s a bit close to home.”

  “Grime was my pigeon, Greg. I’m not sure it’s murder yet, I’m only guessing. But if it is, whoever did him in has got something against me. I’d like to find out who it is.”

  Random took his time; silences were part of his personality and character. Then: “Okay, stay with him. But if this gets any closer to home, I mean if there are any threats against your family, you’re off the case, understand? Who’s assisting you?”

  “Russ Clements is already here.”

  “I might’ve guessed it. Are you two holding hands?”

  “Only when my wife isn’t looking.”

  He hung up and went back out to the kitchen. Lisa had drawn down the blinds on the window that looked out on the swimming pool; Clements and the children were now seated at the kitchen table waiting for her to serve breakfast. The scene looked cosy enough, but there was an alertness to everyone, that stillness of the head and stiffening of the neck of someone listening for a warning cry. Outside the house the Physical Evidence team were keeping their voices to a low murmur, as if this crime was on a new level, committed in an environment that had to be protected.