Murder Song by Jon Cleary Page A

people will wait for ever for revenge. Women are the worst.”
    â€œNot necessarily,” said Malone. “War veterans are as bad, some of them.”
    â€œWe weren’t at war with Blizzard,” said O’Brien.
    He was aware of Clements’ feeling towards him; for a moment he had looked unexpectedly uncomfortable. His hands gripped the seat of the chair beneath him like anchors; then they slowly relaxed, like an arthritic’s whose pain had been conquered. He moved stiffly, showing his shoulder to Clements, and looked at Malone.
    â€œNone of us reported his cheating, not until they called us in and put it to us about what they’d heard. I can’t remember who it was who grassed, but then all the rest of us could do was nod and say yes, we’d done it. There were six of us, as I remember.”
    Malone nodded, remembering the scene in the Inspector’s office, hazy though the memory was, like a soft focus flashback in a television mini-series. At that time he thought they might all be dismissed from the academy; but Blizzard’s sin or crime or whatever you called it had been greater. Hazing, in those days, was tolerated in institutions as civilized barbarism, no worse than poofter-bashing. Blizzard had been doomed from the moment that—had it been Jim Knoble?—had opened his mouth and told about the cheating. Frank Blizzard had gone from the academy by lunchtime next day.
    â€œI was there when he went out the gates,” said O’Brien. “He got out into Bourke Street and all of a sudden he went berserk, right off his bloody rocker. I couldn’t hear half of what he was saying, he was standing out in the middle of the road, in the traffic, but I did hear him yell he’d blow the place up. Then he caught sight of me and he put his arms up, like he was holding a rifle, and made out he was shooting me.”
    â€œWhat happened?”
    â€œThey went out, brought him back and dumped him in a paddy-wagon and drove him somewhere. That was the last I saw of him. They didn’t charge him, I think the idea was to get rid of him as quietly as they could. You know what it was like in those days, the less scandal about the police, the better.”
    â€œWas he a bit of a psycho while he was at the academy?” Clements asked.
    O’Brien looked at Malone; the latter shrugged. “How would we know now? That was over twenty years ago. Incidentally, I’ve just remembered. It was Jim Knoble who dobbed him in.”
    â€œWhere’s he now? Is he still in the force?”
    â€œHe’s out at Randwick,” said Clements. “He’s a senior sergeant. I bumped into him a coupla months ago at the races.”
    â€œThat’s five of us accounted for,” said Malone and looked at the short list Clements had written down. “That leaves Culp, Sam Culp. I haven’t heard about him since we left the academy.”
    â€œHas anyone heard anything of Blizzard?” said O’Brien.
    â€œNo.”
    â€œSo what do we do?”
    â€œFirst, I’ll get permission to start a sweep for him, as wide as possible. I’ll get the other states and the Federal boys to co-operate.” He looked at Clements. “We’ll need some of your punter’s luck.”
    â€œDon’t ask for any of mine,” said O’Brien and grinned wryly.
    Malone said, “It might be an idea if you took a sudden trip overseas, get you out of harm’s way. Go and tie up another million-dollar deal.”
    â€œYou’re kidding. I wouldn’t cross the Harbour for chicken-feed like that.” For a moment there was a show of arrogance.
    â€œRighto, do a ten-million-dollar deal.” Malone out of the corner of his eye could see Clements biting his lip, trying to stop himself from saying something cheap and nasty.
    The arrogance suddenly subsided. “I can’t. The NCSC and the Tax Department got together and got me to