The Easy Sin by Jon Cleary Read Free Book Online

and snatch Miss Doolan?”
    â€œ We don't know. You know what happened?”
    â€œWe 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?”
    â€œNo, sir. Our patrol commander had a word with her, he said she didn't seem particularly put out. I mean about the kidnapping.”
    â€œThat'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?”
    â€œYou 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?”
    â€œOccasionally.” 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.
    â€œKylie'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—”
    â€œErrol Magee,” said Sheryl, and Malone wondered just how much interest Monica, out here in the backblocks, had taken of Kylie in the high life.
    â€œYeah. 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?”
    â€œItchy. 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?”
    â€œYeah. It's too crowded here.”
    â€œThanks,” said Monica, drily. “Any port in a storm, so long's it's not too small.”
    â€œWell, it is. I'm not ungrateful—”
    â€œPut 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—”
    â€œDon'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.
    â€œClarrie,” Monica told the two detectives, “he's my husband. She never liked him—”
    â€œThat's not true—he was just—just—” She flapped a hand.
    â€œYeah, he was just . He never had any ambition, he never looked beyond the end of the