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were the blokes on site for the big men, the ones who never came near the waterfront, who had nothing to do with the shipping game. Gangsters, big businessmen, there was even one politician in the racket. Drugs, gold, they had it all wrapped up. You must of known all about that?”
    â€œI’d heard about it—Russ Clements was once on the Pillage Squad. But you never mentioned it.”
    â€œYour mum was protecting you. She knew about it, vaguely, and she laid down the law to me that I was never to talk to you about it. By the time you was old enough to talk to, you’d become a copper. How could I talk to you then?” Con Malone asked what he thought was a reasonable question.
    Malone agreed with a grin. “Sure, how could you? How did you fellers work under a foreman who was in on the smuggling?”
    â€œWe turned a blind eye. We had to, or else. Foremen were different in them days, few of ’em were popular, we looked on ’em as the bosses’ men. We never drank with them after we’d knocked off work, nothing like that.”
    â€œI want to go down to the wharves tomorrow. You know anyone I can see?”
    â€œRoley Bremner.” Con Malone said without hesitation. “He’s been secretary of the New South Wales branch of the WLU for the last ten years and he’s as straight as a die. Him and me worked together when he first started. Tell him I sent you. It’s a pity you’ll have to mention you’re a cop.” But he had the grace to grin.
    â€œI’ll try and keep it out of the conversation as long as I can.”
    Then the phone rang. Malone picked it up. “Inspector Malone?”
    â€œWho’s this?” He had an experienced cop’s built-in defence: never identify yourself till you have to or there is some advantage to it.
    â€œMalone,” said the voice, flat but distinct, “stay in your own paddock. Don’t mess around with something that’s none of your business. You’ve had one warning. This is your second and last.”
    II
    At 7.30 Tuesday morning, while Malone was preparing breakfast for himself, Lisa returned home with the children.
    â€œI see they’ve taken down all the decorations.” The blue and white tapes had been removed last night.
    â€œI was going to bring all the girls down from my class.” Maureen, it seemed, had made a full recovery. “I phoned ’em yesterday from Grandma’s. They were going to bring their cameras.”
    â€œGet ready for school before I get my whip out,” said her mother.
    When the children, grumbling, had gone into their bedrooms, Malone looked at Lisa. “You still cranky?”
    â€œDo you blame me? Well, not cranky. But yes, I’m—I’m on edge. Are you any closer to finding out who dumped that man in our pool?”
    â€œNo.” He had had a restless night, hearing there in the darkness the flat threatening voice. He had called Lisa last night with the intention of telling her not to bring the children home, but as soon as she had spoken, before he had had time to ask how she was, she had told him she was coming home and there was to be no argument. Her voice had had the same flat adamancy as the stranger’s: it had had the added adamancy of a wife’s voice.
    â€œThere’s still a police car parked outside. Do we have to have that?”
    He spread some marmalade on a slice of cold toast; he could have been eating chopped grass spread on cardboard, for all the taste he had in his mouth. Then, forcing the words out of his mouth, he told her about the phone call and the threat. “It’s either police protection or you go back to your parents.”
    She took her time about replying. “I’m not going to be driven out of my own home.”
    â€œWhat about the kids?”
    â€œDarling—” She sat down opposite him, leaned forward. Normally she was one of the coolest, calmest women he had