by Jon Cleary
As he went out to his car, a hired stretched limousine drew up at the kerb. Six Japanese men got out, two of them with cameras strung round their necks, stood for a moment as if gathering their courage or their potency, then went into the Quality Couch, like tourists looking for Aussie souvenirs. Malone wondered if they would pay by credit card, if they would think the over-valued yen would give them a cheap roll in the hay.
He went straight home, suddenly feeling worn out. Enough had been done for the day; Sir Jonathan Tewsday could wait till tomorrow, Tuesday. The skies had cleared and he drove home through a beautiful autumn night. He pulled the car into the garage beside the house, got out and, before going inside, stood and looked up at the stars. He had read in the newspapers that a new supernova had just been discovered, the death of a star 170,000 years ago. He looked for it and found it, a tiny bright explosion south-west of the Southern Cross. He had always been interested in the stars, ever since he had been a small boy; not as an amateur astronomer nor as a carnival astrologer but as a dreamer. What a way to die, he thought, 170,000 years ago and only now the word was out. All deaths should be like that, so that those who loved the deceased would themselves be dead before the grief began. He wondered if Brigid Hourigan was sitting beneath the stars tonight and grieving for her daughter.
He went into the house, took off his jacket and dropped it over the back of a couch. Lisa kissed him, then, ever neat, picked up the jacket to put it away on a hanger. She lifted a sleeve and smelled it. “Arpège?”
“Russ Clements is wearing it.”
“You’re holding hands with a detective-sergeant?” She led him out into the kitchen. “Your dinner’s in the oven.”
“I’ve eaten.” He hadn’t eaten much, but he had a sweet tooth that was always hungry. “What’s for dessert?”
“I thought you’d had it,” said Lisa, taking a Dutch apple cake from the oven. “Maybe mousse Arpège?”
He mock-winced. “You can do better than that. If you must know, I had dinner with the girls at the Quality Couch. I had a girl on either knee and they fed me with a silver spoon. I think both of them were naked, but I’m not sure. I was too interested in what they were telling me.”
She cut a wide slice of apple cake, put whipped cream on it and pushed it across to him. Then she sat down opposite him and smiled. “The day I think I can’t trust you, I’ll walk out. It wouldn’t be that I just couldn’t stand losing you to some other woman, it would be that I’d be so disappointed. I could never believe in anyone again if I couldn’t believe in you. Now eat up.”
“You really know how to give a man an appetite.” There was a lump in his throat; and an oxyacetylene burn of guilt in his breast. He would never be able to tell her about Dawn, the whore of all men’s dreams. He clasped her hand, glad that the children were in bed: this was not a family moment. “I love you. I’ll buy you a gallon of Arpège.”
She squeezed his hand, lifted it and kissed it. Then, aware of the worry in him, she said, “What did the girls tell you that was so interesting?”
Should he burden her with his worries? But who else was there to confide in? Russ Clements, of course; but Russ couldn’t hold his hand. So he told her and as always saw the sympathy in her face. How could he have looked at the girl in the brothel, who would be worn beyond sympathy for anyone but herself?
“I think I’m opening a can of worms bigger than tiger snakes.”
II
Yesterday: a cathedral and a brothel. Today: what?
“How about a visit to a cemetery?” said Clements, as if reading his mind. “Sister Mary Magdalene is being buried this morning at Northern Suburbs. There’s nothing in the papers. I got that from the morgue.”
The forensic report had been on Malone’s desk when he came to the office this morning. It said that the killing of the young nun had been a professional job: “The knife used, I would say, was one designed for killing, possibly the type used by military Special Services or something like it. The knife was driven into the heart at exactly the right angle to a depth of eight centimetres. Death would have occurred within two seconds. Very professional.” One could feel the cold admiration of the writer.
On the way out to the cemetery Malone told Clements about his visit last night to the Quality Couch. “I think we’ll pay a visit to Sir Jonathan.”
Clements looked at him dubiously. “Scobie, we’re opening up—”
“I know. A can of tiger snakes.”
“That wasn’t what I was going to say. But—” He nodded, then bit his lip. “Yeah, you’re right. Tiger snakes, taipans, pythons, the bloody lot. Not to mention the Pope.”
“He’d thank you for that, in there in the snake-pit. I don’t think we have to worry about him.”
“I dunno. You Tykes have got the influence.”
“Is Tewsday a Catholic?”
Clements shrugged. “Does it matter, if he’s a mate of Old Man Hourigan and the Archbishop? They’re all in bed together.”
It was a cool day, the wind coming off the mountains to the west with a whisper of winter. The cemetery struck Malone as being like all others, hectares of loneliness: the dead never kept each other company, no matter what the living intended.
The gravestones, like tablets planted by some minor Moses, stared at each other with messages written by the living for the living: the dead beneath them were beyond any communication. Some of the gravestones were fancier than others, ornamented with marble angels, marble wreaths and a shower of marble snow; but they, too, were messages from the living to the living. Wealth, or the manifestation of it, should never be buried, unless one were an Egyptian king.
There was some evidence of wealth, though not of the Ptolemys, in the parking lot: a silver Rolls-Royce and the latest Jaguar, a bright-red model that stood out like a fountain of blood in the monochrome of the cemetery. Clements pulled the unmarked police Commodore in beside them and got out. Standing apart from the two expensive cars were a small mini-bus and a motor-cycle. Clements made a note of the number-plates and Malone once again nodded in appreciation of the methodical efficiency of the big yobbo.
Further over were half a dozen other cars and three television vans. The reporters and cameramen had already moved over towards the open grave where Sister Mary Magdalene was to be buried; they had the grace to keep apart from the small group of mourners around the grave. The cameramen, however, already had their inquisitive cameras pointed at Brigid Hourigan: no one any longer was entitled to private grief.
Father Marquez was saying the last prayers, his voice sometimes choking. Around the grave there were half a dozen uniformed schoolgirls; Mother Brendan and a younger nun; Brigid Hourigan and her manservant Michele; and a portly, bald man who had the look of an expensive physician. Sir Jonathan Tewsday, however, revived only sick companies, though he was known to have killed off as many as he had cured.
Malone wondered who had invited Father Marquez to say the prayers. When the young priest had finished, his face as sad as Brigid’s, the gravediggers moved in as the mourners moved away. Malone felt a touch of unaccountable grief; then he knew he was looking into the future, praying against the burial of his own children. As he turned away he saw the headstone on the neighbouring grave: Sheila Regan Hourigan, 1913—I950. Mary Magdalene was being buried beside her grandmother and Malone wondered why her grandfather and her uncle hadn’t attended.
He moved across to Father Marquez. The young priest was still looking down into the grave and he started when Malone touched his arm.
“Oh, Inspector—I didn’t see you. I’m glad you came. I was going to phone you later.” He turned away for a moment to give a sad smile to the schoolgirls as they filed past; through their tears they looked back at him soul-stricken. Mother Brendan harrumphed softly and pushed them on, but the young nun paused. “Yes, Helena?”
Sister Helena, on a better day, would have been plain and cheerful, good company; today she was just plain, her face turned to suet. “Did you get the le
tter?”
“Yes. I was just about to tell Inspector Malone about it. This is Sister Helena. She found a letter addressed to me under Mary Magdalene’s mattress. It could have caused a scandal . . .”
“I knew it wasn’t a love letter—Mary wasn’t the sort.” Sister Helena herself might have been, in other circumstances. She was still a schoolgirl, which was a reason she would always be popular with the girls she taught. “I must be going. There’s Mother Brendan cracking the whip.” There was just a faint crumbling of the suet; her energy could never remain far below the surface. “Nice meeting you, Inspector. Find the devil who killed her!”
Then she was gone and Father Marquez looked after her. “You see? I told you everyone loved Mary who knew her.”
“Did you?”
Marquez smiled, shook his head. “Not that way. Here’s the letter. I sort of wish I hadn’t read it. There’s more in there than I want to know.”
Malone took the letter. He read it, his face showing nothing of his reaction. “Can I keep it? Why would she have written it d’you think?”
“Sure, keep it, I don’t want it. I don’t know why she wrote it—unless she thought she was in danger. But she doesn’t say anything about being afraid. You don’t seem surprised by what’s in it?”
“Not surprised, no. But I’m like you—there’s more in it than I’d rather know.” Russ Clements had come up to stand beside them. Malone introduced him, then handed the letter to him. “Read it, Russ, then put it in the murder box.”
He said goodbye to Father Marquez and walked back to the car park. Brigid Hourigan stood beside the red Jaguar, complementing it with the rich blue cape that she wore. Jonathan Tewsday stood beside her, holding her wrist as if taking her temperature.
“I didn’t expect you, Inspector,” said Brigid. She had been weeping, but there were no tears now. Her blonde hair was wrapped in a blood-red turban that offset the cloak; she was a ball of style, if a little theatrical. Malone preferred it to the usual mourner’s black; at death there should be some challenge that life went on. “Is this police duty?”
“In a way. Sometimes the murderer turns up, fired by a sort of final curiosity.”
She looked at him with interest. “You’d know more about the psychology of that than I would.” Then she looked around her; it was difficult to tell if she was mocking him. “Did you see anyone you suspect?”
“No.” So far he hadn’t looked at Tewsday. As casually as he could, he said, “Your brother the Archbishop didn’t come?”
“No. He was afraid there might be some publicity.” Her voice was sour.
He could go all the way to Nicaragua, unafraid of the Sandinistas and their guns: so the letter had said. He could not come to his niece’s funeral because he feared reporters and their cameras. “So far you’ve kept the Hourigan name out of the papers.”
“Not me, Inspector.” She looked at Tewsday with a smile as sour as her voice. “Sir Jonathan and my father have done that. Do you know Inspector Malone, Jonathan?”
“I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure,” said Tewsday, exhibiting a convenient memory. “I take it you’re in charge of this awful case. Any clues so far?”
“A few. I think we’ll know before the end of the week why she was murdered.”
Michele held open the door of the Jaguar and Brigid was about to get into the car. She paused. “Will you let me know, Inspector? I’m entitled to know.”
“Of course, Miss Hourigan. We’ll be in touch again, anyway. There are more questions we want to ask you.” Out of the corner of his eye he saw Tewsday lift one of his chins.
Brigid nodded, then got into the car. Michele closed the door gently after her, got into the front seat and drove the car away. Malone wondered if Brigid always rode in the back seat or whether, today, she too was afraid of publicity.
“A remarkable woman,” said Tewsday. “Talented and beautiful and headstrong.”
“Her daughter seems to have been something like her. Headstrong, anyway. I’d like to ask you some questions, Sir Jonathan.”
There was the sudden roar of an engine: Father Marquez had kick-started his motorbike. He pulled on his dark-visored helmet, waved a gloved hand to Malone, then wheeled the bike round and sped off as if getting away in some religious grand prix.
“Who is the priest?” said Tewsday.
“A friend of Sister Mary’s—her closest friend, possibly.”
“The young—they’re so different from my day.”
“You don’t have children?”
“Three daughters. When do you want to ask me those questions, whatever they are?”
“Now.”
“Here? This is hardly the place.”
“Are you going back to town? Maybe I could ride back with you?”
“You’re intrusive, aren’t you, Inspector? Has anyone ever told you that?” He had the sort of voice that had been cultivated as he had gone up in the world; he sounded as if he were juggling his vowels, fearful that he might drop them and squash them.
“It comes with the job. I’m naturally shy.”
“That isn’t what I’ve heard.” Then Tewsday realized his mistake; he lowered the lids on his large pop-eyes. “Get in.”
Malone signalled to Clements to go back into town without him. The chauffeur, a musclebound man who bulged even through his grey uniform, smiled at Malone. “Mind your head as you get in, sir. A lot of people think these cars are higher than they are.”
“Especially people who travel in Holdens,” said Malone.
He got into the Rolls-Royce. It was a Silver Spur, a later model than Hourigan’s Phantom, but it did not have the other’s cachet. Tewsday evidently knew his place in the corporate garage.
Tewsday settled back in his seat as the car moved off. He was of medium height but looked shorter because of his bulk. He had a florid complexion and a voice to match: both had come with the indulgences of wealth. He was one of the leading financiers in the country and he knew it and would never be modest about it. He had character, most of it bad, but no one had ever proved it so.
He pressed a window-button and they were cut off from the chauffeur. “So what are your questions, Inspector?”
Malone nodded at the chauffeur on the other side of the glass panel. “An American as your chauffeur?”
“Isn’t Australia supposed to be a melting-pot, just like America was?”
“I didn’t think Americans migrated here to take menial jobs.”
“There’s no shame in starting at the bottom, Inspector. I did. I presume you did, too?”
This wasn’t going to be easy. He decided to attack at once. “Are you raising money for Archbishop Hourigan?”
“Raising—? You mean for some Catholic charity? I’m not a Catholic, Inspector.”
“I don’t think the Archbishop is really interested in charity. Not from listening to him preach last night at the cathedral. No, are you raising money for his crusade against the Contras in Nicaragua?”
Tewsday laughed, a rich sound, richly cultivated; Malone wondered if he spent half an hour each day in vocal exercises. “Contras? Good heavens, man, what have they got to do with us? Australia doesn’t invest in Central America. We have more bananas here than we can eat.”
“Then what is your association with Mr. Paredes and Mr. Domecq? What do they have to sell besides bananas?”
Tewsday turned away and looked out the window. The Rolls had pulled up at a traffic light. Standing beside them was the convent mini-bus; the girls who had been at the funeral stared out at them; two of them said something to each other, their mouths opening silently behind the glass like those of pretty goldfish. Sister Helena, who was driving the mini-bus, turned and smiled at Tewsday.
“Nuns,” he said, face still turned away from Malone. “I’ll never understand them.”
“Did that include Sister Mary Magdalene?”
The car moved off again; Tewsday waved some plump fingers at the mini-bus, then looked back at Mal
one. “She was a nuisance to her uncle, the Archbishop, but you probably know that.”
“Was she a nuisance to Mr. Paredes and Mr. Domecq? What’s their connection with you, Sir Jonathan?” Malone kept his tone conversational; it was difficult to be too confrontational sitting beside Tewsday in the latter’s luxury. “Better that you tell me. I’ll be taking them in for questioning some time today.”
Tewsday was fiddling with a ring on his left hand; it was a broad gold band with a black opal set in it. On the wrist of the same hand there was a gold watch; a gold cuff glinted on the cuff of the shirt. Over the years he had learned a certain restraint, but he was a man who would always advertise his wealth. All he lacked was power: his boss had that.
“I think you had better ask Mr. Hourigan, the Archbishop’s father, about that. I run Mr. Hourigan’s companies, but in the end I am still only his employee.” It hurt him to admit it: his chins seemed to quiver.
“What about Ballyduff? That’s the company that owns the freehold on the Quality Couch. Do you think it was just coincidence that Sister Mary Magdalene’s body was found there?”
“I have made money on coincidences, Inspector, so I’d never bet against it.”
That was no answer, but Malone let it pass. “Do you know anything about a company named Austarm? Sister Mary mentioned it in a letter.”
“Who to?”
“To a friend. Do you know anything about it?”
Tewsday looked out the window again, then back at Malone. “It’s a small company in our overall group. I don’t think I’ve ever visited it. It’s somewhere in the bush, Moss Vale, I think.”
“What does it make?”
“Small arms, maybe larger stuff. I don’t really know. There are over fifty companies in our group, Inspector. There are group managers within the larger organization. They run their own bailiwicks.”
“And all you’re concerned with is the profit and loss?”
Tewsday didn’t miss the mild sarcasm. “At the end of the financial year, Inspector, that’s all that counts. And I’m responsible for it.”
“Why did you come to the funeral this morning, and not the uncle or the grandfather? Are you responsible for funerals, too?”