The Bear Pit by Jon Cleary Page B

There were shouts of laughter coming from the hall, kids in a happy hour.
    While Gail went looking for someone in charge Malone moved into the yard and stood looking at the children there. He was not naturally a child-lover, but the behaviour of the very small always fascinated him. Sometimes, but only occasionally, he saw in them what he would have to face when they grew up. He believed that the bad seed could show in sprouts.
    Half a dozen sat in a tight circle under one of the jacarandas, bound by giggles as by a daisy chain. Malone smiled at them and they smiled back.
    â€œYou like it here?”
    They all nodded, heads under their blue sun-hats going up and down like a circle of semaphores.
    Malone looked at the large name-tabs pinned to their yellow smocks. There were Justin and Jared and Jaidene and Alabama and Dakota and Wombat Rose—“Wombat Rose? That’s a nice name.”
    She was four or five, a cherub with a wicked glint already in her big blue eyes. “Me mother wanted to call me Tiger Lily, but that was taken, she said.”
    â€œNo, I like Wombat Rose better.” Then he saw the small boy sitting by himself under the other jacaranda and he crossed to him. “Why are you sitting on your own over here?”
    â€œThey won’t talk to me.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œâ€™Cos me name’s Fred.”
    Before Malone could laugh Gail Lee came out of the hall with a woman. “This is Mrs. Masson, the owner.”
    She was in her forties and feeling the heat and the children, two pressures that rarely have a woman looking her best. She was good-figured and had thick brown hair and large brown eyes, but today, one guessed, was not one of her good days.
    â€œPolice?” She frowned, making another subtraction from her looks. “What do you want? Here?” She gestured at the innocence around them. “Has someone been trying to get at the children?”
    â€œNothing like that, Mrs. Masson. We’re actually looking for a Mr. June. We’d like a word or two with him.”
    â€œJohn? My partner?”
    â€œHe’s a partner in the Centre?”
    â€œNo, no, he’s my partner in that other—” She gestured. “We live together. De facto, if you like, but I hate the term.”
    â€œMe, too. Where could we find him?”
    â€œWhat’s it about? Go and play, kids.” The children had gathered round the three adults, eyes and ears wide. “Go and play ball with Fred.”
    Fat chance. Fred got up and went into the hall, taking his isolation with him.
    â€œWe’d just like to ask him some questions—”
    â€œAre you a policeman?” asked Alabama or Dakota.
    â€œKids—” Mrs. Masson was losing patience with the children or the police officers or both—“inside!”
    â€œIs she a lady cop?” asked Wombat Rose.
    â€œInside!”
    Malone and Gail Lee hid their smiles as the children, taking their time, made their way into the hall. Suddenly the yard was bare, threatening; the playground equipment looked like torture machinery. Mrs. Masson said, “You’re not local police, are you?”
    â€œNo.” Malone added almost reluctantly: “We’re from Homicide.”
    â€œHomicide?” She frowned again. “You’re investigating a murder or something?” Malone nodded. “And you want to talk to John about it? Why?”
    â€œWe’re not accusing him of anything, Mrs. Masson.” This route was well-worn: telling the innocent party things they didn’t know. “We think he can throw some light on a case we’re working on. How long have you known John?”
    â€œI dunno—five, six years. We’ve been together ever since I opened this—” she swept an arm around her; it looked as if she wanted to sweep it away—“four years ago. It’s a struggle since the government took money out of child care—”
    â€œJohn