Read Online A Certain Malice by Felicity Young - Free Book Online

kettle and a set of sheep shears shared space with piles of tyres and mounds of rusting car and truck parts. The four-wheel drive fire unit and a tow truck were parked within easy access of some locked double gates at the end of the yard.
    But it was what was standing alongside the tin wall of the workshop that interested Cam the most: a custom-made Harley with studded leather saddlebags and more chrome than a Mack truck.
    “Umm, er, Sergeant Fraser. Cliff’s not going to like it that you’re down here in his yard. Shouldn’t you have a search warrant or something?”
    “Why? I’m not searching for anything. I’m merely talking to you.” Cam bent over the bike. He ran his hand over the chrome mudguard and made appropriate sounds of appreciation.
    “Do you know something about bikes then?” Angelo asked with a glimmer of interest.
    “Not really. I used to ride one, that’s all.”
    “A bike copper then?”
    “No. I just rode for fun.”
    “What, a rice burner?” Angelo said with the lip curl of a serious bike enthusiast.
    “A Fat Boy.”
    Angelo’s good eye lit up a pleasant face that glowed with an intelligence Cam hadn’t noticed earlier.“Cool,” he said.
    It always amazed Cam how teenagers could elongate that one word into two or three syllables. He looked back at the bike, caressing the silky paintwork of the fuel tank, then stopped. He glanced at Angelo then back at the blemish under his fingertips. It was a sticker: a triangle with two dots for eyes making it look like a hood. Around the border of the triangle were the words Made For Whites By Whites . He had seen stickers like this often enough and they never failed to make his neck prickle. This white supremacist sticker was a clear indication that the machine did not belong to any weekend biker.
    Cam straightened up. “Who owns this bike, then?”
    “A mate of Cliff ’s.”
    “In a club?”
    Angelo took a breath. “Maybe.”
    “Is Cliff in it?”
    “No. He says bikes are death machines. He just works on them sometimes.”
    “And you?”
    Angelo shrugged.“I like bikes. But I don’t have anything to do with the bikies, they’re a mob of animals.”
    “Sensible man, stay right away from them,” he said, jotting the bike’s numberplate in his notebook.
    Angelo wiped his forehead with the back of his hand.“Is this all you wanted to talk to me about, bikes?”
    “No. I wanted to talk about Sunday’s fire.”
    “Yeah. What about it?”
    “You got there at about 11.20?”
    Angelo nodded and licked his dry lips.
    “When you first arrived, what colour was the smoke?”
    “Um, the other cop asked Cliff that. Just ask him.”
    “But I’m asking you,” Cam said.
    Angelo shifted his weight from one foot to the other. Cam moved to one side so the sun shone into Angelo’s face like a spotlight.
    “Greyish white I guess,” he said. A bead of sweat trickled down the side of his face.
    “Like an ordinary bush fire?”
    Angelo shrugged. “I dunno.”
    “Of course you know. You’re a fireman, for Christ’s sake. You know full well different fuels make different coloured smoke.”
    Angelo took a step back.
    Cam softened his voice. “How’d you get the black eye, son?”
    “I slipped in the shower.”
    Cam folded his arms and stepped forward, his eyes fixed on Angelo’s face. The kid swallowed but this time stood his ground.
    The sound of footsteps broke the silence; the boy glanced at the side entrance. The gate creaked and the sun was eclipsed by the shadow of one of the biggest men Cam had ever seen. Angelo seemed a midget beside him. He introduced Cliff Donovan to Cam before scuttling off into the workshop.
    The mechanic watched Angelo’s retreat. The thick beard around his mouth moved, suggesting a smile, though there was no evidence of one in his eyes.
    “He’s a good kid,” he said, paternally. “It’s hard to find decent apprentices these days, he’s one of the best I’ve had.” He paused. The heat radiated off the