by Jon Cleary
Malone had welcomed the going-out; anything to get his mind off the day. He had managed an hour’s nap between coming home and going out; he had the sort of constitution that could be restored by the shortest of sleeps. His mother and father came out from Erskineville to baby-sit (“Baby-sit?” said Maureen. That’s insulting!”). Malone also rang the Randwick station and asked if a patrol car could cruise by every so often during the evening. “Just in case,” he said.
Wal Dukes had said, “No worries, Scobie. I don’t think too much more can happen. Our luck’s gotta change.”
“Sure,” said Malone and wondered if Clements thought that way.
The evening was a pleasant diversion; Olive Rockne was a good experimental cook and she served Thai food. There was another couple at the dinner, the Sackvilles, the husband an accountant. Police work was mentioned only once. Malone wondered if Lisa had rung Olive and asked that the subject of Scungy Grime in the Malones’ pool not be raised; but he didn’t query her on it. He had had enough of interrogation for the week; he didn’t want to add to it by interrogating his wife on her good intentions. He was content to listen to Will Rockne, an armchair statesman, talk about the Gulf war.
“Forget the peaceniks—” Will Rockne was an almost man: almost handsome, almost charming, almost sincere. Malone could not put his finger on what Rockne lacked. In the end, because he wanted to enjoy the evening, he decided to settle for the admission that we all lacked something. “What’s amazing is the way the country’s got behind the government in this war. What do you think, Scobie?”
What Malone lacked was a full barrel of tact; once again the deficiency let him down: “Well, what amazes me is the latent belligerence in the ordinary voter. Just before the Falklands war, Mrs. Thatcher would have been lucky if Denis had voted for her. Then she declares war on Argentina and suddenly she’s the greatest Englishwoman since Boadicea. The middle of last year George Bush was a wimp, then he goes into the Gulf and all of a sudden he’s the greatest President since George Washington.”
“So you think we are all, at heart, warlike?” Stephen Sackville had said virtually nothing all evening, but his wife Emily was a lady of opinion. She was Lisa’s age, but looked older: big, blonde and robust, she reminded Malone of the figureheads he had seen on old sailing ships. She would have reduced the Roaring Forties to a whimper as she forced her way into them.
“Maybe.” Malone had seen Lisa’s warning glance; he scraped the bottom of the barrel for some tact. “I wouldn’t want to generalize.”
“If that is the case,” said Sackville, perhaps deciding that his spouse wasn’t tactful, “would that account for the criminal class?”
The criminal class. Malone had heard that phrase only once, at a seminar of criminologists he had attended as an observer; he had come away from it with the usual practitioner’s amusement at the theorists. “There’s a sub-class of criminals, the regulars. Yes, I guess they’ve declared war on the rest of us, but I don’t know they’ve ever said it out loud, like some sort of battle-cry. Some of ’em may have, but they’re mostly kids. I don’t think the really hardened crims think they’re at war with us.” He wondered how Jack Aldwych would handle the conversation if he were at this table. “But ninety-five per cent of crimes are committed by people who are not habituals.”
“But they’re aggressive. Their latent belligerence, I think you called it, it’s coming out?”
Malone realized all at once that Sackville was all latent belligerence; perhaps as a result of dominance by his belligerent wife. He backed off, smiling at Olive Rockne, his hostess, “If I get started, I’m going to let this good food get cold . . .”
Olive Rockne recognized the tactful retreat. She was small and attractive, but Malone, a late developer as a judge of women, had decided she was just a little too feminine; she was frilly, even her hair; if she held any opinions, they were ones her husband, overloaded with them, had given her to hold. But she was not unintelligent and she saw that Malone did not want to get into any long discussion about crime and the law.
“Does he bring his work home, Lisa?” she asked.
“Never,” lied Lisa and that turned the conversation.
Going home she said, “You were really tactful tonight. You’re learning.”
He wondered how he could tactfully tell her of his suspicions of Peter Keller and what they might do to Clements’ romance with Romy. He dropped her off at the house, then took his parents home to Erskineville, his father riding beside him, sitting tensed as if riding shotgun, and his mother sitting squarely in the middle of the back seat like the late Queen Mary. Brigid was Irish, but, to the disgust of Con, admired the English, especially their ladies. Malone had never had the heart to tell his mother that Queen Mary was actually German.
“You’ve got three wonderful kids,” said his mother from her throne. Long ago she had been a pretty girl, but she had never had the money or the vanity to save her looks. But Malone had noticed that a trace of youthfulness had crept back into her face as she had found a new life for herself in her grandchildren. “You shouldn’t go dumping dead men in your swimming pool.”
“He didn’t,” said Con. “Someone else done that. You get to see Roley Bremner?”
“Who’s Roley Bremner?” said Brigid.
“I’m talking to him,” said Con, nodding at his son. “Did you?”
“Yes. He was helpful.”
“I read about them other murders.”
“Do we have to talk about them?” said Brigid. She had a stern respect for the proprieties; talk of murder was outside them.
“It’s his job, for Crissakes—”
“Watch your language. You don’t wanna talk about them, do you, Scobie?”
“The kids wanted to talk about ’em,” said Con appreciatively. “That Maureen. She’ll make a great detective.”
“A detective for a granddaughter,” said Brigid, frigid at the prospect.
“Almost as bad as one for a son,” said Malone.
“I’m getting used to the idea,” said Con.
Malone dropped them outside the narrow terrace house in the narrow street. He patted them both on the shoulder; kisses between them would have been an embarrassment. Love was there, but it was silent.
“Thanks for looking after the kids.”
“You keep them away from any murders,” said his mother.
When Malone reached home Lisa was in bed but still awake. With her usual prescience, which is a female trait that only the best career ambassadors and successful con men achieve, she said, “You’ve got something on your mind. It’s been there all evening, you’ve looked guilty.”
He put on his pyjama trousers, slid under the sheet beside her and told her of his suspicions of Peter Keller. She was shocked, but her first remark was, “And what’s that going to do to Russ and Romy?”
“I thought you’d say that. I don’t know what it’s going to do to them. All I can hope is that they’re both professional about it.”
“Professional? God, what a word! They’re in love with each other, you’re going to jail her father for three horrible murders, and all you can say is you hope they’ll be professional about it.” She sat up, switched on her bedside lamp. She was nude, the way she slept during the hot summer months, but she might as well have been wearing armour. If he so much as raised a hand to touch her breast she would break his wrist. She was a born match-maker, a breed that never gives up, even when, sometimes, the intended matched pair have fled in different directions. She had been trying to match Clements with a woman for the past ten years, so far without success. She had had nothing to do with the matching of Romy with him, but she had recognized its possibilities. “You can’t do it. If her father is the—the killer, let Romy discover it for herself. But keep Russ out of it. Let him comfort her—she’ll need it.”
“How do I let Romy discover it for herself? Ring her up, anonymously, tell her to have her father checked through Interpol? I’m going to have to go thro
ugh with it my way. I’ve got no option.”
She lay back, leaving the light on. “How does Russ feel?”
“Like you.”
She reached up and switched off the light. He turned his head on the pillow and, as his eyes became accustomed again to the darkness, he saw her profile against the pale light of the window. He put his hand on her breast, but she didn’t stir, just continued to lie on her back gazing at the ceiling.
“I’m lucky,” he said.
“Yes, you are. So am I.” She turned her face towards him. “Can’t you give them some luck, too?”
IV
When Peter Keller had finished telling Romy what he had done and why, he waited for her to say something. But she said nothing; her judgement was plain in her face. He got up from where he had sat down opposite her, picked up the Alloferin box and went out of the living room and along to his bedroom. A minute or so later she heard him go into the bathroom; then she heard him showering. He was in the bathroom his usual amount of time, ten minutes; nothing, it seemed, could break him from habit. Then she heard him come out of the bathroom and go back to his bedroom. Ten minutes later, fully dressed, wet hair slicked back, he appeared again in the living-room doorway.
“I’m going out,” he announced and waited for her to comment.
But she had nothing to say. She was numb, not angry, not afraid, not even shocked: in her heart she had known it would happen again, that he had the capacity to kill without compunction. In the dim light of the unlit room she could not distinguish his expression; his face was just a pale oval above his dark suit. He remained motionless for almost half a minute, then he sighed, turned and a moment later she heard him going out the front door.
When he had gone she got up and went out to the kitchen and made herself some coffee. Then she went into the bathroom, stripped off and showered and washed her hair, cleansing herself of the day’s work. But when she got out of the shower she still felt unclean.
She went to bed and for the first time in her life she locked her bedroom door. The phone rang once, but she did not get up to answer it. At midnight she heard her father come in, but there was no knock on her door, no whispered calling of her name.
In the morning he was gone. So were two suitcases and most of his clothes. Only then did she allow the tears to break.
10
I
WHEN MALONE walked into his office Clements was already there, a fax sheet in his hand. Without comment he handed it to Malone, who took it and glanced at it, then handed it back. “So?”
“It’s up to you,” said Clements, laying the Interpol report on Malone’s desk, “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t ask me to be part of it. You want some coffee?”
He went out to get the coffee and Malone sat down and reached for the fax sheet. He wished he could tear it up, drop it in the waste-basket, there to be collected by Peter Keller, the innocent. Except that, unfortunately, Keller was not innocent.
Working without official authority from his superiors in Starnheim, often in his own time, he had pursued a woman and a doctor who were suspected of murdering the woman’s husband. The two suspects had finally been brought to trial, mainly due to Keller’s efforts. That fact had been admitted in the court, but he had not been commended for his efforts; Malone guessed that it was because he had flouted authority, a German sin. The woman had been convicted, but the doctor had been acquitted. A month later the doctor had apparently committed suicide. But it was known, though the evidence was only circumstantial, that Peter Keller had murdered him. There had been no official enquiry, but Keller had been quietly discharged from the police force. Two weeks later the Kellers had sold up their home and left Germany.
“An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.” Malone looked up as Clements came back with the coffee. “He was sounding off about that the night before last. You think that’s why he did it?”
“What other reason?” Clements slumped down. He was utterly exhausted, he felt boneless; he knew that if his skull was opened up (by Romy?), the post-mortem would reveal that his brain was severely bruised, “I rang Romy last night. I dunno what I was gunna say to her. She didn’t answer. Which was just as well, maybe. If I’d known last night what’s in that report and I’d rung her and she didn’t answer, it’d have scared the shit outa me.”
“He’s not going to touch her, put that out of your mind.” Malone tasted his coffee; as usual, it couldn’t be better. It was as good as Lisa’s, which was the highest praise he could offer. “We’ve got to bring him in, Russ, at least for questioning. I’ll see you’re not around when it happens. Is Phil Truach still on surveillance with the Customs and the Feds?”
“He was relieved by Terry Stratton—he should be reporting in here at noon. Nothing has happened so far down on the wharf, the container hasn’t been collected. Customs have put a bug in it, so’s they can follow it when it’s picked up.”
“What’s happening with Janis Eden?”
“The Drug Unit’s got a team tailing her. Andy Graham is with them.” Clements finished his coffee and stood up. “I think I better show some guts. I’m going over to see Romy—”
“There’s no need,” said Malone.
Clements turned round, said, “Oh Christ,” and went out to meet Romy as she came into the big room. He took her hand, but didn’t kiss her; there was no one else in the room, but it was not embarrassment that stopped him. One look had told him he was greeting a stranger. He led her back to Malone’s office.
Malone rose. “Hello. Romy. I was going to call you. Get her some coffee, Russ.”
“Sure.” But Clements remained stationary for a moment, staring at Romy as if waiting for some sign of recognition from her. But there was none, so he went out of the office, stopped, as if he was unsure what he was supposed to be doing, then moved towards the percolator.
Malone looked after him, then at Romy. “It’s a guess, but you know why I was going to call you?”
She nodded. Her hair, usually worn loose, was drawn back, accentuating the strained, almost haggard set of her face. Malone had seen it countless times, as if women found their hair, their supposed crowning glory, a nuisance in times of stress. “Russ knows, of course?”
“Yes. But I’m the one who found out about your father. Where is he?”
“I don’t know.” She saw him raise an eyebrow. “That’s the truth, Scobie.”
“How long have you known he might be a suspect?”
Her nervous hands opened, then shut her handbag. “I suppose, at the back of my mind, I’ve known since the other night, when he started to talk again about an eye for an eye. But I didn’t want to think about it. Then last night—”
Clements came back with another cup of coffee. She took it from him, for the first time showed some of the old intimacy with him. “Thanks, Russ. This isn’t easy for either of us, is it?”
Then the phone rang. Malone excused himself, took the call; it was from Terry Stratton, one of his junior officers. “Boss, the container’s just been picked up—the truck’s on its way. Guess who’s just started following it in a green Jaguar?”
“Dumb,” said Malone to himself; there were lairs who could never resist showing off their cars or their women. Then he said to Stratton, “Has Snow White got Schultz with him?”
“The two of them are in the car. The Federals think there should be an arrest within the hour.” Stratton was a precise young man whose reports, with their formal phrases and qualifying clauses, sometimes made the computer, programmed for jargon and bad grammar, break into hiccups. “I’ll keep you posted on the hour. Stand by.”
“Is it okay if I sit?” But Stratton had already rung off. Malone hung up, leaned back in his chair. He felt a lightening of the load that had been weighing him down, even though arrests were still to be made. He said gently to Romy, “So you don’t know where your father is?”
“No.” Romy sipped her coffee; it seemed to give her strength. Or perhaps it was that the two men’s sympa
thy and understanding was more than she had expected. “He had left the flat before I got up this morning. He took all is clothes with him, two suitcases full.”
Malone looked at Clements. “Get on to Mascot, have Immigration stop him if he tries to leave the country.” Clements, for the first time that morning, moved quickly. Malone looked back at Romy. He held up the Interpol report. “We know what happened in Germany before you left to come out here. Did he ever confess to you or your mother that he killed that doctor in Starnheim?”
“Never to me. I don’t know whether he did to Mother. The subject was taboo.” She was speaking freely now, almost with relief at being able to tell someone her long-held secret. “Once I tried to raise it with her, after we’d been out here two or three years, but she just cut me off. But there were small things that gave him away. He would talk about the case, the woman poisoning her husband, he would tell other people about it in front of Mother and me. And he was always talking about the leniency of the law. He had contempt for it.”
“An eye for an eye—he really believed in that?”
“Absolutely.”
“But why kill Grime and Sally Kissen and Leroy Lugos? Lugos, yes, if your father had a thing about people dealing drugs. But Grime and Sally Kissen? She was just a prostitute—” Then he stopped.
She looked at him as carefully as if she were dissecting him; she had read his mind. “Yes, I’ve thought of that. If the DNA profile from the semen we found in her . . . Will I have to give evidence?”
“That’ll depend on the Crown Prosecutor. We’ll try and keep you out of it. Get them to call the pathologist.” Then Clements came back. “Well?”
“Immigration will check for him on all international flights. The airport police are gunna watch for him on the interstate flights, but we may be too late there. He could already be in Melbourne or Perth or wherever.”
“He will go home to Germany,” said Romy. “I know.”
“Well, we’ll get him,” said Malone. “I’m afraid this time he won’t be able to complain about the leniency of the law.”