Jon Cleary - The Easy Sin

The suburb lay on the slopes of gentle hills, a mix of would-be mansions on the heights, new villas, modest older and smaller houses and cramped terraces built by the State government and blind bureaucrats in the late 1970s. There was a shopping centre, with the new patrons, McDonalds, Pizza Hut and Burger King flying their pennants above it. There were several parks and playing fields and two schools that had large open playgrounds. It was better than Malone, trapped in the mindset of inner Sydney, had expected.

Malone had got the address from Detective Decker and Sheryl found it as if she came to Minto every day of the week.

There were half a dozen cars parked in the street, only one of them occupied. Malone got out and walked down to the grey, unmarked Holden. The young plainclothes officer got out when Malone introduced himself.

‘Detective-Constable Paul Fernandez, sir. We’re doing two hours on, four hours off, just one man at a time. Are you expecting anyone to try and snatch Miss Doolan?’

‘We don’t know. You know what happened?’

‘We got it through on the computer.’ He was tall and heavily built and at ease. And bored: ‘There’s not much market for kidnappings around here, sir.’

Malone grinned, though he was not amused. But you didn’t throw your weight around with the men from another’s command. He knew how boring a watch could be. ‘Have you spoken to Miss Doolan?’

‘No, sir. Our patrol commander had a word with her, he said she didn’t seem particularly put out. I mean about the kidnapping.’

‘That’s Miss Doolan.’

Sheryl waited for him outside the gate of Number 41. It was a weatherboard house that had a settled look, as if it had stood on the small lot for years; but its paint was not peeling and the small garden and lawn were well kept. There were cheap security grilles on the windows and a security door guarding the front door. On its grille was a metal sign, Welcome , like a dry joke.

The door was opened by a larger, older, faded version of Kylie Doolan. I’m Monica, Kylie’s sister. You more coppers?’

Malone introduced himself and Sheryl. ‘May we come in?’

‘You better, otherwise we’re gunna have a crowd at our front gate. They’re already complaining about your mate over there in his car.’ She led the way into a living room that opened off the front door. ‘But I suppose you’re used to that? Complaints?’

‘Occasionally.’ Malone hadn’t come here to wage war.

The living room was small, crowded with a lounge suite, coffee table, sideboard and a large TV set in one corner. The sideboard was decked with silver-framed photographs, like a rosary of memories; Kylie was there, younger, fresher, chubbier. Hans Heysen and Elioth Gruner prints hung on the walls; someone liked the Australian bush as it had once been. The whole house, Malone guessed, would have fitted three times into the apartment at Circular Quay.

‘Kylie’s in the shower,’ said Monica and waved at the two suitcases by the front door. ‘She’s going back to the flat, where her and What’shisname –’

‘Errol Magee,’ said Sheryl, and Malone wondered just how much interest Monica, out here in the backblocks, had taken of Kylie in the high life.

‘Yeah. Siddown. You like some coffee? It’ll only be instant –’

Malone declined the offer. ‘We’re here to talk to Kylie. How’s she been?’

‘Itchy. It’s a bit crowded here, we only got two bedrooms. There’s me and my husband and our two girls, they’re teenagers. Wanna be like their aunty,’ she said and grinned, but there was no humour in her. ‘Ah, here she is.’

Kylie Doolan stood in the doorway, wrapped in a thick terry-towelling gown, barefooted and frowning. ‘What are you doing here?’

Malone ignored that, nodded at the suitcases. ‘You’re going back to the apartment?’

‘Yeah. It’s too crowded here.’

‘Thanks,’ said Monica, drily. ‘Any port in a storm, so long’s it’s not too small.’

‘Well, it is. I’m not ungrateful –’

‘Put a lid on it, Kylie. You thought you’d got outa here, outa Minto, for good. But they hadda bring you back here to be safe –’

Malone and Sheryl sat silent. Listeners learn more than talkers.

Monica turned to them: ‘She always wanted to get away from here, from the time she was in high school. Now she’s got my girls talking like her –’

‘Don’t blame me, they’ve got minds of their own. You’d of got outa here if it hadn’t been for Clarrie –’ Her voice had slipped, she sounded exactly like her sister.

‘Clarrie,’ Monica told the two detectives, ‘he’s my husband. She never liked him –’

‘That’s not true – he was just – just –’ She flapped a hand.

‘Yeah, he was just . He never had any ambition, he never looked beyond the end of the street. But he was – he is solid . He’s a pastrycook,’ she was talking to Malone and Sheryl again, ‘he works in a baker’s shop in Campbelltown. He’s good and solid and he loves me and the girls –’ Suddenly she buried her face in her hands and started to weep.

‘Oh shit!’ said Kylie and dropped to her knees and put her arms round her sister. ‘I’m sorry, sis. Really.’

The room seemed to get smaller; Malone felt cramped, hedged in. He was no stranger to the intrusion into another family, but the awkwardness never left him. He waited a while, glanced at Sheryl, who had turned her head and was looking out the window. Then he said, ‘Get dressed, Kylie. We’ll take you back to town.’

She hesitated, then she pressed her sister’s shoulders, stood up and went out of the room without looking at Malone and Sheryl.

Sheryl said, ‘Monica, did she ever talk to you about Mr Magee?’

Monica dried her eyes on her sleeve, sniffed and, after fumbling, found a tissue in the pocket of her apron. ‘Not much.’

‘She say anything about him being kidnapped instead of her?’

‘She laughed. We both did. But it’s not something to laugh about, is it? The maid dead, and that. God knows what’s happened to him. You find out anything yet?’

‘We’re working on it,’ said Malone; you never admit ignorance to the voters. ‘She ever talk to you about how much he was worth? And now it’s all gone?’

Monica raised her eyebrows. She would have been good-looking once, Malone thought, but the years had bruised her. He wondered how tough life had been for her and Clarrie and the girls. Wondered, too, how much she had envied Kylie.

‘It’s all gone ? He’s broke? I read about him once or twice, he wasn’t in the papers much, but I’d see his name and because of Kylie … He was worth millions !’

‘All on paper,’ said Sheryl.

Monica laughed, with seemingly genuine humour, no bitterness at all. ‘Wait till I tell Clarrie. He’ll bake a cake –’ She laughed again; she was good-looking for a moment. ‘He won’t be nasty, he’s not like that, but he’ll enjoy it. He’s not worth much, but it’s not paper, he brings it home every week –’ She shook her head, then said, ‘What’s gunna happen to Kylie?’

‘I don’t know.’ Crime victims had to be dropped out of one’s knowing. It wasn’t lack of compassion. It was a question of self-survival.

‘I don’t mean in the future, I mean right now.’ She was shrewder than he had thought. ‘Will she be in –’ She hesitated, as if afraid of the word: ‘- in danger? I’d hate to think I’d let her go back to that –’

‘We’ll take care of her, there’ll be surveillance on her. Eventually –’ He shrugged. ‘Is she strong?’

Too strong. She’s always known what she wanted.’

‘What was that?’ said Sheryl.