Bleak Spring Read online

  “Dad always liked his office,” said Jason. “He did it up, all new, about six months ago. He never wanted to move from here.”

  “Did anyone ever suggest he should?”

  “My mother did. I think she wanted him to be in the city. You know, a little more class.” He looked sideways at Angela, who just smiled.

  “Did he rent this office or did he own it?”

  “He rented it,” said Jason. “I dunno who from. Jill will be able to tell you that.”

  Jill Weigall and Russ Clements arrived together. Malone introduced Clements, then looked at the secretary. She was young, perhaps twenty or twenty-one, her attractive face smeared this morning with shock. She came in ahead of Clements, stood for a moment looking lost, like a girl on her first morning in a new office; or her last. Clements had paused behind her, waiting for her to find herself.

  “I’m still trying to make myself believe this—” She spoke to Jason rather than to the two detectives and Angela Bodalle. She had a light, flutey voice that threatened to crack at any moment, a schoolgirl’s voice. Then she made a visible effort to settle herself; she sat down behind her desk as if ready for business. She looked up at Malone: “Yes?”

  Malone had to restrain himself from smiling; instead he admired the girl’s attempt to fit herself back into what he guessed was her usual efficient self. “First, we’re checking if Mr. Rockne ever received any threats here at the office. Did he?”

  She shook her head. Her dark hair was cut short in what Malone, always a decade or more behind in fashion, somehow thought of as the French style; the front of it fell down over her forehead and she pushed it back. More settled now, the shock absorbed, her looks had improved; it struck Malone that she was a very attractive girl. “Mr. Rockne didn’t have the sort of clients that would threaten him.”

  “Did he handle Family Court cases?” He knew of solicitors and judges who had been threatened by men, most of them immigrants from male-dominated societies, who had blamed the law and its practitioners for taking away their wives from them. In Homicide’s computer there was still the unsolved murder of a judge’s wife who had been killed by a bomb.

  “Of course. But we never had any trouble with any of them.”

  “It’s not as bad as it used to be,” said Angela Bodalle. “The men seem to be learning.” She made it sound as if all men, not just the immigrants, had been taking lessons.

  “I’m glad to hear it,” said Malone. “Righto, Miss Weigall. Mrs. Bodalle tells me, quite rightly, that we can’t touch the files. But maybe we can open the safe?” He looked enquiringly at Angela, who shrugged, then nodded.

  “I can’t do that, Inspector. Mr. Rockne always kept the key himself.”

  Malone raised an eyebrow. “How long have you worked for him, Jill?”

  “Two years.”

  “And he never trusted you to open the safe?” Out of the side of his eye he saw Jason frown resentfully. Whatever the boy’s relationship with his father, he obviously didn’t want him criticized.

  Jill Weigall, too, didn’t like the implied criticism. “It wasn’t that he didn’t trust me. It was just, well . . .” But her voice trailed off.

  “Scobie—” Clements had been silent up till now, his bulk against the closed front door of the office. He took a plastic envelope out of his pocket. He was in sports jacket, slacks and a rollneck cotton sweater this morning and looked his usual rumpled self, nothing like the dude he must have looked at last night’s medical dinner. Malone wondered what he would have talked about with the diner on the opposite side of him from Romy: the relative effects of a bullet or a blunt instrument on one’s health? “They cleaned out Mr. Rockne’s pockets last night, Maroubra asked me to bring them back to Mrs. Rockne. There’s a key-ring—”

  He held up a key-ring with five keys on it and Jill Weigall said, “It’s that big one. He always carried it with him.”

  Malone took the key, held it out in front of Jason. “You’re the family rep, Jay. I’m going to open the safe, OK?”

  “Go ahead, Mr. Malone.” The boy was building blocks of maturity by the minute.

  “OK, Mrs. Bodalle?”

  “Let’s see what’s in the safe first. If there are any clients’ confidential files in there, I’ll have to advise you against looking at them.”

  Malone went into the inner office, unlocked the safe and swung back its heavy door. It was stuffed with papers: files, wills in envelopes, legal documents tied with ribbons, a cash box and a flat metal box, the sort that Malone had seen in bank and hotel safety-deposit vaults. The keys to both boxes were lying on the shelf beside them.

  Again he looked at Jason. “Okay to open the boxes?”

  For a moment the boy looked uncertain; he glanced at Angela. “Is it okay, Mrs. Bodalle?”

  “You’re on thin ice, Mr. Malone, but so far I think you might be able to convince a judge that you haven’t invaded any client’s privacy.”

  Malone opened both boxes. The cash box was stuffed with money, all one-hundred-dollar notes. He handed the box to Clements. “Count it, Russ.” He saw the expression on Jill Weigall’s face. “You’re surprised to see so much?”

  “I had no idea—” She shook her head in wonder, the hair fell down, she pushed it back again. “During office hours that cash box was out in my desk. We never carried more than a hundred dollars, maybe a bit more, in it. And stamps, things like that.”

  “There’s ten thousand here.” Clements’s big fingers had handled the notes like those of a flash bank teller; but then he had served time on the Fraud Squad. “All of them brand-new and genuine.”

  “Shit,” said Jason bitterly, “did you expect my dad to be into forgery or something?”

  Clements gave the boy a look like a back-hander, but Malone got in before the big man could say anything: “No, we’re not thinking that, Jay. Relax. At the moment all we’re intent on is finding out who shot him.”

  “Sorry.” The boy stood awkwardly in the inner doorway, shifting from one foot to the other. He looked suddenly afraid, as if he had just realized that doors were going to be opened that might best be left shut.

  Jill Weigall stood up, took his arm. “Come on, Jay, let’s make some coffee. We need it, I think.”

  The two of them went into the outer office and Malone sat down in Rockne’s leather chair and looked at Clements and Angela Bodalle. “The money could mean nothing, he could’ve been holding it for a client. What’s your opinion on that, Mrs. Bodalle?”

  “Could be. Before I went to the Bar, when I was a solicitor, I’d hold money for clients. But never as much as that, not in actual cash. Solicitors hold money for clients all the time, but usually in trust accounts.” She was sitting in one of the chairs across the desk from Malone, her legs crossed, showing a lovely curve of instep. She was wearing a pink wool dress that moulded her figure; a navy-blue cardigan with brass buttons was thrown over her shoulders. It was early in the day, but she looked as if she was already dressed for lunch. “Are you going to open the other box?”

  “You’re the witness. If it’s clients’ stuff, I won’t touch it.”

  There were no clients’ papers: just Will Rockne’s passport, a bank statement, a chequebook and a small flat gun. “A Beretta Twenty-two. A lady’s special.”

  “I must remember that,” said the lady opposite.

  “Very effective at close range,” said Clements. “We had a woman do her husband in with one of those about six months ago.”

  “Is that supposed to mean something?” She looked up at Clements, her gaze as sharp as a knife.

  “No,” said Clements blandly. “Nothing at all.”

  Malone sniffed the barrel of the gun. “I doubt if it’s ever been fired. We’ll ask Jill about it.”

  Then he looked at the chequebook. It was for a joint account in the names of William A. Rockne and Olive B. Rockne, held in the Commonwealth Bank, Coogee. The last stub showed a balance of $9478.33, the last amount drawn $5000 in cash. Then he looked
at the bank statement, which was in Rockne’s name only.

  “What would you think of a suburban solicitor, a one-man band, who has a bank account with five million, two hundred and twenty-one thousand dollars in it?”

  “I’d nominate him for Solicitor of the Year,” said Clements and looked around the office. “This is okay, but it ain’t a rich practice, would you say?”

  Malone was studying Angela Bodalle’s reaction; there had been none. “You aren’t surprised?”

  “Yes.” But if she was, she was disguising it well.

  “What’s the bank?” asked Clements.

  “A merchant bank, I’d say—I’ve never heard of it. The Shahriver Credit International.” He hadn’t looked at Clements, but at Angela.

  “Are you asking me if I’ve heard of it? No.”

  “Where is it?” said Clements. “Here in Sydney?”

  “Sydney, Hong Kong, Manila, Kuwait—Kuwait? They wouldn’t be doing much business there right now. Oh, and Beirut. Some nice-smelling places on that letterhead.”

  “Remember the days when all banks smelled like roses—or like the Mint?” Clements moved around and sat down next to Angela in the other client’s chair. “Mrs. Bodalle, why aren’t you surprised to learn that Will Rockne had that much money in a bank?”

  It was an old ploy between Malone and Clements: switch the bowling without telling the umpire or the batsman. She looked first at Malone, as if expecting him to put Clements in his place, then she looked at the big man. “I told you I was surprised.”

  Clements shook his head. “Mrs. Bodalle, I think I’ve spent as much time in court as you have. You’ve learned how to read reactions. So have I. You weren’t surprised.”

  “Does it matter whether I was or not?” She was not going to let a mere cop get the better of her in cross-examination. “Mrs. Rockne will be the one who’ll be surprised.”

  Jill Weigall came in with three cups of coffee on a tray. “It’s only instant. Mr. Rockne never drank coffee—he’d become a bit of a fitness freak lately—”

  Mr. Rockne appeared to have changed quite a bit lately, “How’s Jason?”

  “He’s okay. He’s a very intelligent boy, but I guess that doesn’t help much when a situation like this happens, right?”

  Malone had seen the stupid and the wise equally devastated by grief; it didn’t require much intelligence to remark that. He looked at Angela Bodalle. “Would you leave us alone with Miss Weigall for a few moments?”

  “I think I should remain here—”

  “Only if Miss Weigall insists?” He looked at the girl.

  She hesitated, then said, “I’ll be okay, Mrs. Bodalle. If I need you, I’ll—”

  Angela stood up abruptly and went out of the room; she did it in such a way that Malone had a mental image of her swirling her barrister’s gown as she exited; she left behind a strong smell of her perfume, as if she had generated some sudden heat. Both Clements and Jill Weigall were impressed. The girl said “Now I’ve upset her—”

  “Don’t worry, Jill. Sit down. Did Mr. Rockne hold trust accounts for clients, money held in escrow, stuff like that?”

  “Of course. All solicitors do.”

  “With what bank?”

  “The Commonwealth, the one here in Coogee.”

  Not a bank with branches in Kuwait or Beirut. “What about Shahriver Credit International?”

  She shook her head, the hair fell down, was pushed back up again; Malone began to wonder if the gesture was part of the fashion. “We never did any business with them—wait a minute!” She had thick, unplucked eyebrows; they came down in a frown. “They called a coupla times. I put them through to Mr. Rockne, but then he’d hang up and call them back on his private line. He had that put in about four or five months ago, the private line.”

  “Did you think that was strange?”

  “Well, yes, a bit. He used to be always so open with me. And then about six months ago, maybe a bit more, he just sort of, well, played things close to his chest. Just with one or two clients.”

  “You remember who they are?”

  “Inspector, I dunno I should be telling you all this . . .” She glanced towards the still open door. “I mean, there’s client confidentiality—”

  “That’s true. Do you have a law degree?”

  “No, why?”

  He kept one eye on the doorway, wondering how much Angela Bodalle could hear in the outer office. “Well then, there’s no client confidentiality, is there? You were Mr. Rockne’s secretary, not his law partner.” He knew he was drawing a fine line, but the law, after all, was a mass, or mess, of fine lines. He had suffered more than once from judges who had had their own reading of the law. “We’re not here to probe clients’ secrets, pry into their affairs. We’re just trying to find out if there is something in this office that might lead us to whoever killed Mr. Rockne.”

  All at once she broke down, leaned forward as if she were about to fall off her chair. Clements leaned across from his own chair and eased her back; the two men waited while she wept silently. Then Jason said from the doorway, “Leave her alone, Mr. Malone. She was in love with my dad. They were having an affair.”

  The words had been blurted out. Then suddenly he looked embarrassed and angry at himself; he had opened a door and was hurt by what he had exposed to the police. But it was obvious that he had sympathy for Jill Weigall, that he did not feel she was to blame for the affair. He appeared more puzzled by her than angry at her.

  Angela Bodalle appeared in the doorway behind the boy. “I wouldn’t say any more, Jay, not right now.”

  Malone ignored her, looked at the girl. “Jill?”

  “It wasn’t an affair—it was just one weekend—” She dried her eyes, pushed back the hair that had fallen down over her brow again; it was beginning to annoy Malone and he felt like offering her one of the paperclips on the desk in front of him. “I knew it was never going to get anywhere—”

  He had long ago given up wondering what attraction women felt for certain men. What had this very good-looking girl seen in the opinionated, chauvinistic, bony-faced man twenty years her senior? But no detective, from Homicide or even the Fraud Squad, will ever solve a woman’s emotions. He looked up at Jason, still hanging like a bag of bones in the doorway. “Did your mother know?”

  “I don’t think you should be asking the boy those sort of questions,” said Angela Bodalle.

  “Why not?”

  “It’s a question you should ask her, not her son.”

  “How did you know, Jay?” That was Jill, turned questioner.

  “Just luck. Bad luck.” A sardonic air coated him at odd moments, like something borrowed from an older generation. “You went to that place at Terrigal, Peppers, and one of my mates from school, he was there with his parents, he saw you and Dad.”

  “Did he tell all the school?”

  “No. I’d of belted him if he had, he knew that.”

  “Thank you, Jay.” For a moment she looked as young as he.

  Malone nodded to Clements. “Russ, take Jay and Mrs. Bodalle back outside. I want a moment alone with Miss Weigall.”

  The girl suddenly looked apprehensive, but it was Angela who caught Malone’s attention. “Are you going to question her, Inspector?”

  “Yes.” His voice was sharp; he was growing tired of her interference.

  “Would you like me to stay with you, Jill?”

  Again the girl hesitated; then again she came down on Malone’s side, if reluctantly. “I’ll be okay. I’ll call you if Inspector Malone gets too tough with me.”

  “You’re not going to do that, are you, Inspector?”

  Malone’s smile was more like a grimace. “I’m a gentleman, Mrs. Bodalle.”

  Her smile was wide, one of disbelief; but she went out, closing the door behind her. Then Jill looked at Malone, all at once seeming to gain some confidence. “What are you expecting me to tell you you didn’t want them to hear?”

  “It’s not t
hat I don’t want them to hear, it’s that I think you’ll talk to me easier if they’re not in the room with us. Did you kill Will Rockne?”

  He hadn’t altered his tone, but the question was like a rock thrown at her head; she seemed to duck, then looked up at him from under the fallen hair. “How can you say something like that? Jesus!” She pushed the hair back, sat up. She looked towards the door, as if she meant to call for Angela Bodalle, then she turned back to Malone. “No, I didn’t! What makes you think I’d want to kill him?”

  “Righto, forget I asked. Have you seen that before?” He had put the Beretta in a side drawer of the desk; now he took it out and laid it in front of her.

  “No.” She stared at it, her fear genuine. “Where was it—in the desk?”

  “No, in the safe. Did Mr. Rockne ever talk about wanting to defend himself?”

  “Never.”

  “How long ago did you have the af—did you have that weekend with him?”

  “Two months ago, the last weekend in June.”

  “And what happened? I mean afterwards, when you came back here on the Monday?”

  She picked up a paperweight from the desk. It was a brass lion on a marble base; there was a Lions Club emblem on the base. Malone hoped she was not going to throw it at him. “Nothing happened. That was it—the one weekend, and just nothing. I thought I was in love with him, but it only took that weekend to find out I wasn’t.”