Pride’s Harvest

‘A Mercedes, last year’s model. A 500SEL.’ He did not say it boastfully, but as if mocking Malone’s questioning of him. He looked at Clements taking notes. ‘Got that, Sergeant?’

‘Colour?’ said Clements.

‘Beige, I think they call it. I don’t have a good eye for colour, I’m colour-blind.’

‘Does that apply to people, too?’

‘Jesus Christ!’ Dircks sat up in his chair. Hard-staff had left his drink in the study, but the Police Minister had brought his with him and now the ice rattled in his glass like dice. ‘That’s enough of that sort of insult, Malone! The interview’s over!’

My bloody tongue again, thought Malone. But Hardstaff’s air of arrogance, his apparent resentment that the police should interrogate him without making an appointment, acted on Malone like a burr in his pants.

Hardstaff did not appear disturbed by the question. He looked at Malone with new interest, as if the detective were an adversary who might prove hard to put down. Weak opponents bored him. Without looking at Dircks he said, ‘It’s all right, Gus. Perhaps the inspector has some point to his question?’

Malone saw that Hardstaff suddenly had some respect for him. ‘Yes, there was a point to it. I’ve heard that there is some strong anti-Japanese feeling in the district.’

‘Not from me, Inspector. I brought the Japanese investment in here. Mr Dircks will confirm that. He’s one of the partners in South Cloud.’

Malone saw Clements’s ballpoint suddenly slip, scratching across the page of his notebook. Then the big hand was steady again, waiting to make a note of Dircks’s reply.

‘I didn’t know that, Mr Dircks,’ Malone said.

‘It’s in the records. You’d have seen it if you’d looked at the books of the company.’ But Dircks sounded as if he wished the connection hadn’t been mentioned.

‘We’ve only just started. There’s a lot we still have to look into. Have you visited the cotton farm lately, Mr Hardstaff?’

‘No, I have no financial interest in it.’

‘Did you know Mr Sagawa?’

‘Yes. He came to dinner once. And he came out once or twice to tennis parties we had. He was an enthusiastic tennis player. He was enthusiastic at everything, come to think of it. Everyone liked him.’

‘Except the person who murdered him.’

‘Christ, you’re blunt!’ said Dircks, a politician never known for his subtlety in parliament.

Malone stood up, ignoring the Minister’s remark. ‘Did you know anything about Mr Sagawa other than that he was enthusiastic and popular?’

The other three men were now on their feet. Hardstaff said, ‘No, I don’t believe I did. Perhaps the other Japanese out at the farm, the assistant manager, Mr Koga, might help you there.’

‘You know Mr Koga? I thought you said you had no interest in the cotton farm?’

Hardstaff smiled, a crack in the stone. ‘I’m interested in everything that goes on in this district, Inspector. This is my turf, I think is the expression.’

‘Oh,’ said Malone, letting his tongue have its way this time, ‘I thought it was the Minister’s.’

‘Enjoy your stay, Inspector,’ said Hardstaff, the crack widening. The bugger’s enjoying this, thought Malone. ‘Come and see me again if you have any more questions. Just telephone me first, that’s all. I’m not always available to every Tom, Dick and Harry.’

‘Scobie and Russ,’ said Malone. ‘Thanks for your time.’

As he and Clements went down the steps from the wide front veranda, Dircks came hurrying out the front door. ‘Inspector!’

Malone turned. ‘Yes, sir?’

‘I heard you’re staying at the Mail Coach.’ Narelle Potter would have told him that. ‘Have lunch with me there. One o’clock. Just you and me.’ He didn’t look at Clements.

‘Yes, sir.’

They got into the Commodore and halfway down the driveway to the front gates Clements said, ‘You’ve stirred up something back there. I think we could be on our way outa town by this evening. I was looking forward to going to the races tomorrow afternoon.’

‘What are you going to put your money on? Narelle or her horse?’

‘Okay, wipe the shit off your liver. It’s just a bit of innocent nooky with her.’

‘She hasn’t been innocent since she got out of kindergarten.’

‘Geez, we have got S.O.L., haven’t we? You’ve let those two bastards get to you.’

Malone nodded morosely. ‘You’re right . . . Look, as soon as we get back to the station, get on to Sydney. Get Andy Graham, if you can. Have him contact the Tokyo police, I want a full background on Mr Sagawa – so far we know practically bugger-all about him. Tell him to phone you when he’s got something, not put it on the computer.’

‘We keep it to ourselves? Okay.’

‘Tell him to tell the Japs it’s urgent. I’d like it by Monday morning at the latest.’

‘It’s Friday now, for Chrissakes.’

‘Let’s see if the Japs are as industrious as I’m always reading. We work weekends, don’t we?’

‘Not tomorrow, I hope. Not while I’m out at the course, putting my money on Narelle’s horse.’

‘She’s really conned you, hasn’t she? Lisa’s going to be disappointed when I tell her. She’s still hoping she can marry you off to some convent virgin. What happened to that girl Sheila from Forensic Science?’

‘She was too clinical. She wanted to take a blood sample every time we did it.’

‘Excuses, excuses. You’re just afraid of marriage.’

They drove back to town, being overtaken several times by cars hurtling towards the Big Weekend; there was no respect for the speed limit out here in the backblocks. They went by the entrance to Sundown and Malone wondered what Lisa and the kids were doing right now; maybe Tom was falling off another horse, Claire was still mooning over Tas Waring, Maureen was chatting away, careless of whether anyone was listening to her or not. All at once he wished he could retire now, while the kids were still young; perhaps they wouldn’t need him by the time he got to retirement age. The thought suddenly saddened and frightened him.

They passed the racecourse, where workers were preparing the track for tomorrow’s meeting. Bunting was being hung from the small grandstand and several marquees had been erected. In a small showground beside the course a travelling circus and carnival was setting up its tents and stalls; two elephants were being used as fork-lift substitutes, raising up a long thick pole. Clements slowed the car.

‘You gunna bring the kids to the circus tomorrow?’

‘I’ll try. Depends whether we’re working or not.’ A day with Lisa and the kids would be a nice break. ‘I might even watch the Cup and put a dollar or two on something.’

‘Don’t get rash. That’s money you’re throwing around.’

They drove on into town, which now seemed full of cars and utility trucks and four-wheel-drive wagons. The sleepy air of the town had disappeared; Collamundra looked as if it might be getting ready to get drunk. Some drunks were already evident, but Malone noticed from the police car, slowed by the traffic, that they were mostly Aborigines. He wondered if Cup weekend was a cause for celebration for them or whether this was how they marked every weekend.

One of the drunks stepped off the footpath, walked unsteadily to the middle of the road, then stopped, facing the traffic. Clements slammed on the brakes. The Aborigine was middle-aged, thin but for a bloated belly; he wore a tweed cap, with his hair sticking out on either side and curling up like the horns on a Viking’s helmet. He grinned foolishly at the two strangers in the Commodore, raising his hand and giving them a slow wave. The traffic had banked up behind the police car and horns were being sounded in temper. The Aborigine leaned sideways, slowly, without moving his feet, and peered past the Commodore to the cars behind. He gave their drivers the same slow wave, still grinning foolishly.