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.
âYou like it here?â
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 RoseââWombat Rose? Thatâs a nice name.â
She was four or five, a cherub with a wicked glint already in her big blue eyes. âMe mother wanted to call me Tiger Lily, but that was taken, she said.â
âNo, I like Wombat Rose better.â Then he saw the small boy sitting by himself under the other jacaranda and he crossed to him. âWhy are you sitting on your own over here?â
âThey wonât talk to me.â
âWhy?â
ââCos me nameâs Fred.â
Before Malone could laugh Gail Lee came out of the hall with a woman. âThis is Mrs. Masson, the owner.â
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.
âPolice?â She frowned, making another subtraction from her looks. âWhat do you want? Here?â She gestured at the innocence around them. âHas someone been trying to get at the children?â
âNothing like that, Mrs. Masson. Weâre actually looking for a Mr. June. Weâd like a word or two with him.â
âJohn? My partner?â
âHeâs a partner in the Centre?â
âNo, no, heâs my partner in that otherââ She gestured. âWe live together. De facto, if you like, but I hate the term.â
âMe, too. Where could we find him?â
âWhatâs it about? Go and play, kids.â The children had gathered round the three adults, eyes and ears wide. âGo and play ball with Fred.â
Fat chance. Fred got up and went into the hall, taking his isolation with him.
âWeâd just like to ask him some questionsââ
âAre you a policeman?â asked Alabama or Dakota.
âKidsââ Mrs. Masson was losing patience with the children or the police officers or bothââinside!â
âIs she a lady cop?â asked Wombat Rose.
âInside!â
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, âYouâre not local police, are you?â
âNo.â Malone added almost reluctantly: âWeâre from Homicide.â
âHomicide?â She frowned again. âYouâre investigating a murder or something?â Malone nodded. âAnd you want to talk to John about it? Why?â
âWeâre not accusing him of anything, Mrs. Masson.â This route was well-worn: telling the innocent party things they didnât know. âWe think he can throw some light on a case weâre working on. How long have you known John?â
âI dunnoâfive, six years. Weâve been together ever since I opened thisââ she swept an arm around her; it looked as if she wanted to sweep it awayââfour years ago. Itâs a struggle since the government took money out of child careââ
âJohn
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