by Jon Cleary
“Rosary beads—pretty expensive ones, by the look of them. The crucifix is solid gold—feel it.” Malone did, weighing it in his hand; it was something worthy of a Renaissance cardinal at least. He thought of his mother’s rosary, no heavier than a string of rice grains. “A handbag with some money in it, forty dollars and a few cents, a comb, a mirror, a key-ring with two keys on it, some tissues—the usual things from a woman’s handbag.”
“Nothing else? How did you identify her?”
Clements dropped the items he had named into the “murder box;” then, with clumsy sleight of hand, he laid a small black notebook on the desk. “She had this hidden up in her armpit, under her jacket. As if she had been hiding it from whoever did her in.”
Malone picked up the notebook. “Leather, not vinyl. This nun went in for nothing but the best.”
Inside the cover was her identification: Sister Mary Magdalene, Convent of the Holy Spirit, Randwick. Malone sat up: “My kids go there! I’ve never heard Claire or Maureen mention her. I was there at the school concert at Christmas—Lisa and I met all the nuns.”
“Maybe she started in the new school year. When the kids went back in February.”
“Maybe. But Maureen would’ve mentioned her—she brings home all the school gossip, never misses a thing. She wants to come into Homicide when she grows up. She thinks we work like those fashion dummies in Miami Vice.”
“I’d drown any kid of mine who wanted to follow me.” A confirmed bachelor, he was safe from committing infanticide.
Malone went back to the notebook. It was new, perhaps a Christmas present three months before; it had very few entries.
There were three phone numbers and, on a separate page, a note: Check Ballyduff.
The top phone number was marked Convent and the other two were marked only with initials B.H. and K.H. Malone dialled the convent number. “May I speak to Sister Mary Magdalene?”
“I’m sorry,” said a woman’s voice. “Sister won’t be back till this evening. Who is this, please?”
Malone hung up. He did not believe in giving bad news over the phone.
II
He and Clements drove out to Randwick. He hated it whenever he was called to a crime in his own neighbourhood; it was as if his family were being endangered. The rain had stopped, but everything looked sodden and limp, particularly the people standing at the bus stops. When he and Clements pulled up at a red light near a bus stop, the five or six people there looked at them resentfully. Because his father could no longer drive, Malone’s parents always travelled by public transport and he wondered what they felt towards those who could afford to travel in cars. His father, who still divided the world into “us” and “them,” the workers and the bosses, probably felt just like those staring at him now. The natives had become surlily envious since the economy had worsened.
The Convent of the Holy Spirit was perched on the highest point of the Randwick ridge, with a magnificent view down to Coogee and the sea. The sun, it seemed, always came up first on the Catholics.
“You ever notice,” said Clements, “how the Tykes always have the best bit of real estate in the district, no matter where they are?”
Tykes: it was a word for Catholics that had gone out of fashion. But Clements, like himself, still clung to words from his youth.
“Five of the Twelve Apostles were real estate salesmen.”
“I thought they were all fishermen?”
“Only on Fridays. Anything to make a quid.”
The jokes were poor but they were part of the cement between the two men. They had started together as cadets twenty-two years before and though, over the years, they had been separated into different squads they had never lost touch. For the past three years they had been working in Homicide. Malone had gained a jump in rank, but there had been no jealousy on Clements’ part. He was entirely without ambition, a bachelor who saw no point in burdening himself with responsibility in either his private life or his career.
They drove up the winding driveway to the cream buildings, dominated by the convent chapel, on the peak of the ridge. A young novice, looking bewildered and frightened when Malone introduced themselves as police officers, took them to the office of the Mother Superior.
Mother Brendan was a small woman, sharp-beaked, sharp-eyed and sharp-tongued; she believed in discipline, for herself and everyone under her. “Mr. Malone, you’re here as a policeman, not a parent?”
“I’m afraid so, Mother.”
“Who’s been playing up? One of our girls?”
“None of your students. We’re making enquiries about Sister Mary Magdalene.”
She looked at him shrewdly; her bright eyes looked as if they might burn holes in her spectacles. “So it was you who telephoned earlier? What’s happened to her? Is she in trouble?”
“She’s dead, Mother. Murdered.”
All the sharpness suddenly went out of her. She turned her face away and, in profile, Malone saw the trembling of her lips. Then she recovered and looked back at him. “God rest her soul. This is dreadful—” Then she stopped, her bright eyes watering.
As gently as he could, Malone told her what had happened to Sister Mary Magdalene and where she had been found.
“Outside a brothel? Will that be in the newspapers? I have to think of our girls . . . No, I don’t.” She had recovered some of her sharpness, her self-discipline. “I have to think of Mary Magdalene. Whoever killed her had a sick sense of humour, wouldn’t you say? I presume you know who and what the original Mary Magdalene was?”
“Yes.” The town bike: but you didn’t say that to a nun. “Did she ever tell you why she chose that name?”
“She was a rebel. She was quite frank about that. She joined us only two months ago—she’d spent two years in Nicaragua, with our mission schools there. She was a bit of a handful, a radical, if you like, but I put up with it. The senior girls called her Red Ned.”
Red Ned: he had heard Maureen mention her, but he had never asked who Red Ned was. He would have to pay more attention to school gossip in future.
“She never took her politics into the classroom and our girls absolutely adored her. They’ll be heartbroken.”
“Her politics?”
“She was something of a Marxist. Not really, not in any party sense. But she had some pretty radical ideas. The young ones, when they come back from working in the missions, are often like that.”
“Were you?”
“I grew up in a different time, Mr. Malone. We never questioned anything we were taught. Now I’m sorry that we didn’t . . .” Then she looked as if she could have bitten her tongue. She turned her sharpness on Malone. “Well, have you arrested her murderer?”
“No, not yet. So far we haven’t got a single lead. Who was she? Where did she come from? Has she any family?”
“As far as we know, no, she had no family. She did her training at our home order in Ireland—we’re an Irish order. She said she was born in England and brought up by foster parents—there always seemed to be a bit of a mystery about her. She went straight from Ireland to Nicaragua, then out here. We know very little of her background, but that isn’t unusual in our vocation. A nunnery has just as many individuals as ordinary society. We’re just less exposed to temptation, that’s all. That’s all I ever warn our girls against—temptation.”
“That’s always been my downfall,” said Clements and looked surprised at the warmth of her smile.
“She had no friends in Sydney?” said Malone.
“Oh yes, she had friends—or one, anyway. Miss O’Keefe. She came here once on a visit. We all liked her and I gave Mary permission to visit her. She was supposed to be spending this weekend with Miss O’Keefe. They were going to the opera last night, I thought.”
“Where does Miss O’Keefe live?”
She looked embarrassed, an expression that sat strangely on her bright face. “I don’t know, exactly. Somewhere in the country. Mary had permission to stay with her last ni
ght at the Regent Hotel.”
Malone kept his face in place: the Regent was perhaps the most expensive hotel in the city. He nodded at Clements and the latter produced the items he had taken from the murdered nun and a plastic bag containing her shoes.
“Did Mary Magdalene have any money of her own?”
Mother Brendan shook her head. “Not as far as I know. I queried her about those shoes and that rosary—they were presents from Miss O’Keefe, she said. I wasn’t happy about such extravagance.”
“Can we have a look at her room? Is that what you call it?”
“They do nowadays. I still call it my cell.”
“Does it have bars on it?” he said with a smile.
“Only to keep out the outside world,” she said, but didn’t smile. She knew where the dangers, and the temptation, lay.
It was a room bare of all but the essentials. A narrow bed, a small wardrobe, a chest of drawers, a table and chair, a prayer-cushion and a crucifix on the otherwise bare wall: even Ferragamo would have wondered what his shoes were doing in such a cell.
Sister Mary Magdalene’s possessions were as meagre. Amongst them, however, were two items that aroused Malone’s curiosity: a small photograph and a pocket diary. “Who’s the woman with Sister Mary?”
Mother Brendan looked at the handsome blonde woman in the rather flamboyant trenchcoat, her arm round the young nun. “That’s Miss O’Keefe.”
Malone flipped through the diary. The entries were brief, written with an impatient hand. “Who is K.H.? There are two entries here. Meet K.H. at Vaucluse, 4 p.m.—that was for last Tuesday. Then there’s another for yesterday—Meet K.H. same place 1 p.m. Did you give her permission to leave the convent last Tuesday?”
Mother Brendan frowned. “She was supposed to have gone to the dentist. She’s never lied to me before, not that I know of. She was always almost too honest.”
“Who’s K.H. then?”
“I have no idea.”
“Let me see that notebook, Russ.” Clements handed over the black leather notebook. “Here it is—K.H. and a 337 number.”
“That’s Vaucluse way.” Clements was a lode of inconsequential information.
“May I use your phone, Mother?” Lisa would have been proud of him: may, not can. He was afraid that Mother Brendan might be an English teacher.
She led them back to her office, a big room that was obviously furnished to reassure parents that they were not committing their daughters to a prison. Two couches and the window-drapes were in colourful prints, though they didn’t quite match. A bright Pro Hart print hung opposite what could have been a Neville Cayley painting of a colourful dove or the Holy Spirit in a fit of apoplexy.
Malone dialled the 337 number and a woman’s voice answered. “The Hourigan residence.”
“I’m sorry, I think I must have the wrong number. Which Hourigan is that?”
“Mr. Fingal Hourigan. Or were you wanting Archbishop Hourigan?”
“No. I’m sorry, I do have the wrong number.” He hung up and looked at Clements. “Fingal Hourigan. And Archbishop Hourigan.”
“K. H. Kerry Hourigan. That’s the Archbishop.”
Malone looked at him gratefully and admiringly. “Is there anything you don’t know?”
Mother Brendan said, “Archbishop Hourigan? His name came up one night at supper and I thought Sister Mary was going to blow her top. She got so angry . . . But she wouldn’t tell me why. She apologized and just shut up. He’s one of the Hourigans, isn’t he?”
“Yes,” said Malone. “I think we’ll go and see the Hourigan himself. Old Man Fingal.”
“Can we claim Mary Magdalene’s body? I’d like to bury her with a Mass. Unless we can find Miss O’Keefe, we may be the only mourners.”
“I’ll try the Regent,” said Malone.
III
There was no Miss O’Keefe registered at the Regent and no Sister Mary Magdalene. Clements, who had gone in to check, came out and got in beside Malone. It had started to rain again and taxis were banking up in the drive-in entrance to pick up departing guests. One of the bell-boys came along and looked in at Malone.
“The commissionaire says would you mind moving on, sir?”
“In a moment.”
“No, now, sir.” He was a bell-boy with ambitions to be a manager.
“Police,” said Malone. “One of our few perks is parking where we like. We’ll be moving on in a moment. G’day.”
The bell-boy thought for a moment, decided he held a losing hand and went away. Malone looked at Clements. “I don’t think Sister Mary Magdalene was as honest as Mother Brendan thought. Do you know where Fingal Hourigan lives?”
“No, but I don’t think we’ll have any trouble finding it. I’ve seen his place from the harbour, he built it about twenty years ago. It looks like a cross between a cathedral and a castle. There’s probably a moat and a drawbridge on the street side.”
They drove out along the south shore of the harbour. Vaucluse was at the eastern end, rising up towards the cliffs along the coast. New money had moved in over the past couple of decades, but Vaucluse still smelled of old money; some elements were said still to offer pound notes instead of dollars to the local tradesmen. Down in the waterfront homes money probably never made an appearance at all: the rich didn’t need it.
The home of the richest of them all had no moat or drawbridge, but it did have a ten-foot-high stone wall. Inset in the wall were tall wooden gates that totally obscured the view from the street. On the gates were welcoming signs that offered the possibility of either life imprisonment or dismemberment by guard dogs, YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED, said a final hospitable note.
Malone spoke into the intercom in a box beside the gate and a woman’s voice answered. “Yes? Who’s that?”
“Police,” said Malone. “We’d like to see Mr. Hourigan.”
“Do you have an appointment?”
“Do I need one? I once got in to see the State Premier without an appointment.” He winked and grinned at Clements. It was still raining and they were huddled together under Malone’s umbrella like over-sized Siamese twins.
It was two minutes before there was a buzzing noise and the gates swung open. There were no signs of any guard dogs; presumably they had been called in. The grounds were not large, perhaps no more than two acres; but two acres of harbour frontage would buy fifty to sixty housing lots out in the western suburbs where the dreamers and battlers lived. Malone was apolitical, but lately he had begun to feel anti-capitalist.
The house was built of stone and had ruined the architect’s career. Fingal Hourigan had wanted an Irish castle with the sun-catching aspects of a Mediterranean villa; what he had got looked like a drifting hulk in the Bay of Biscay. Cruising ferries on the harbour headed for it with their loads of tourists: it was the comic turn of their guided tours. The Japanese, being polite, didn’t laugh but wondered why the Australians made fun of their rich; the Americans smiled indulgently but thought, what the hell, a man could do what he liked with his money; and the British, at least those who bothered to make the cruise, only had their opinions confirmed that the Australians, especially Irish-Australians, had no taste anyway. Fingal Hourigan, never a man to worry about public opinion, least of all British opinion, only kept adding to his castle-villa. The latest addition was a gargoyle brought from a ruined French abbey and now standing on a terrace balustrade and poking its tongue out at the tourists.
Malone had met Fingal Hourigan only once, nineteen years before when he had been temporarily assigned to the Fraud Squad. Hourigan had come out of that investigation smelling of roses, but Malone had only remembered the smell of the fertilizer that had been used. He had seen no money change hands, but three months later a senior officer at Police Headquarters had a brand-new car.
Hourigan was smaller than he had remembered him, but perhaps that had something to do with his age; he was rumoured to have turned eighty. He had a handsome lean face, spoiled only by a certain foxiness about the pal
e-blue eyes; his hair was thick and silvery and he obviously took pride in it; and he had a smile that could be read a dozen ways. He was dressed in a dark-blue cashmere suit, a cream silk shirt and a blue silk tie, and he leaned on a solid-silver walking-stick. He was said to be the country’s only billionaire, but he was too shrewd to confirm or deny it. There is nothing so frustrating for self-made men than to be kept guessing about another man’s riches.
“I was just going to church.” He had a firm, mellow-toned voice, that of a much younger man. “You’re busting in, you know, Inspector.”
Malone apologized, careful of where he trod; another of the rumours about Fingal Hourigan was that he could pull more reins than a race-full of bent jockeys. “I really wanted to see your son, Archbishop Hourigan.”
Hourigan showed no surprise. “What about?”
“A murdered nun,” said Malone, hoping for some surprise this time.
There was none; the pale-blue eyes stared back at him. “That’s not a good subject for a Sunday morning. In any event, he’s coming with me to say Mass.”
“I won’t delay him too long. Perhaps he can say Mass for the dead nun.”
The pale-blue eyes didn’t flash; they just seemed to go dead, became pale-blue marbles. He stared at Malone for a long moment, then turned and pressed a button on a table near him. Almost as if she had been waiting poised on one foot for the call, the housekeeper who had admitted Malone and Clements appeared in the doorway. She was middle-aged, plump, matronly and brusque, the sort Malone had seen around presbyteries: she would say the rosary while she shot the butcher for over-charging. She looked at Malone as if he should be shot for intruding on her master.
“Maggie, tell the Archbishop he has a visitor. A police officer.” Malone wondered if his ears were too acute: was there a warning in Hourigan’s voice? “And ring the church, tell them we may be a little late for Mass.”
“Will I tell „em to be starting the Mass without His Grace?” She had a brogue one could have sliced with a peat-shovel.