by Jon Cleary
“Is that so, Inspector?” Zara Kersey gave Malone a hard stare. “You’ll let us hear it, of course.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“You’ll hear it when we lay charges against Mr. Domecq.”
“You’re bluffing, aren’t you, Inspector?”
“No more than you, Mrs. Kersey.” He looked at Domecq, changed tack: “When you came out of the Quality Couch last Saturday night, did you bump into Sister Mary Magdalene? Had she followed you there?”
“The Quality Couch?” Domecq tried to look as if he were being questioned about a bedding store.
“The brothel in Surry Hills.”
Paredes and Zara Kersey looked sharply at Domecq; he just sat very still, a gambler who had been dealt a very bad hand. It was obvious that Paredes did not know his colleague had been to the brothel; anger darkened the older man’s face, but he said nothing. At last Zara Kersey said, “You don’t have to answer that question, Mr. Domecq. It may incriminate you.”
“He was at the Quality Couch last Saturday night,” Malone told her. “He’s already been identified.”
“You’ll produce the witness or witnesses?”
“When the time comes. Well, Mr. Domecq, what about Sister Mary Magdalene? Was she outside the brothel when you came out Saturday night?”
Domecq’s head was bent, as if he was ashamed of having been in a brothel. Or maybe, Malone thought, he’s afraid of Paredes. The latter’s silence was more threatening than an outburst of anger.
At last Domecq lifted his head. “She wasn’t there—at least, I didn’t see her. I told you—I never met her.”
“Not even at Mr. Hourigan’s house? She’d been there.”
“We never met the young lady,” said Paredes, his voice gravelly.
“Did you ever meet Father Marquez?”
“No.”
“Were you with Archbishop Hourigan when he was in Nicaragua last year? Oh, we know he was there, all right. It was in the letter I told you about.”
Paredes hesitated, then nodded. “Yes, we were with him. We flew down with him from Miami.”
“But you didn’t meet Sister Mary, his niece?”
Again the hesitation, then: “We saw her only from a distance. I tell you, Inspector, we had nothing to do with the death of this young woman! Why should we kill an innocent girl like that?”
“I don’t know. Why should Mr. Domecq threaten me and Father Marquez?”
“You’re making unfounded charges, Inspector,” said Zara Kersey flatly. She stood up, wrapping the silver shawl round her shoulders with an extravagant fling. “I think you have taken up enough of my clients’ time. Unless you care to produce a warrant or make some sort of definite charges, we’ll be leaving.”
Malone said nothing for a long moment; then he stood up.
He looked at Zara Kersey, not the two Nicaraguans. “It looks, then, as if we’ll have to bring Archbishop Hourigan back from Rome. He seems to be the key to this whole mess.”
“I’ll tell Mr. Hourigan.”
“If you don’t, I’m sure someone else will. Good-night, Mrs. Kersey. I don’t think that perfume you’re wearing has much future. It’s already wearing off.”
She wasn’t offended; she had become that much of a lawyer. She just smiled and shook her head. “You’re just not a ladies’ man, Inspector.” Unlike Domecq who, bouncy again, as if he had found good cards at the bottom of the deck, had offered her his arm. “You’ll be hearing from me again.”
“I’m sure I will.” Then he looked at Paredes. “And from you, too, Mr. Paredes? Or Mr. Domecq?”
The older Nicaraguan just stared at him, then turned on his heel and followed Domecq and Zara Kersey down between the desks and out of the big room. The other detectives looked after them, then turned towards Malone.
“She has a lovely arse, Scobie. How come you get all the cases with good-looking birds!”
“Anyone can have this one,” said Malone, but under his breath.
“What do we do now?” Clements looked lugubrious, ready to throw in the towel.
“I shove my neck out.” Even in his own ears it sounded like suicidal bravado.
II
“Daddy, why do people kill each other? Especially a nun?”
“If I knew that, Claire, I’d be the smartest cop in the world.”
“Well, I gotta admit,” said Maureen, the TV addict, “Sonny Crockett in Miami Vice is puzzled, too, sometimes.”
“I’m glad to hear it. I’m tired of being compared to those two over-dressed smart alecks.”
“Smart-arse is the word,” said Maureen, who occasionally sneaked a look at ABC telemovies, where language was freer.
“Not in this house it ain’t,” said Malone.
He was in the girls’ bedroom saying good-night to them. When he had arrived home they had just finished their homework, had their baths and got into bed. Tom was already asleep in his room, dead to the world and its cares. Malone, very much alive to its cares and worn out by them, had hoped for a quick good-night kiss, but as soon as he had walked into the room he had seen that Claire was troubled. It turned out that the murder of Sister Mary Magdalene had been the talk of the school yesterday and today and then this evening, on the TV news, there had been the story of the killing of Father Marquez.
“She didn’t teach our class,” said Claire. “She taught Year Eleven and Twelve. But she was always fun to be around when we were playing netball. Sometimes she’d play—she was pretty rough, a real tomboy, you know?”
“Why did they call her Red Ned?” asked Maureen.
But he wasn’t going to get into politics, not tonight; the day had been political enough and tomorrow would be worse. “It’s time you went to sleep.”
They lay on their pillows looking at him. Claire, blonde and promising to be beautiful, with a composure that was old for her years; Maureen, dark and vivacious, with his mother’s long Irish lip and plenty of the cheeky lip he himself had had as a boy. All his and Lisa’s and to be protected. But he knew, better than most fathers, how difficult it would be to shelter them, even against the possibility of murder.
Lisa came to the doorway. “It’s late, girls, and Dad’s tired.”
“Is it any use saying prayers for Sister Mary and Father Marquez?” said Claire.
“It’s always worth saying a prayer for anyone. I say them all the time.”
“Who for?” said Maureen, who had confessed to asking questions of the priest in the confessional.
“You. Claire and Tom. Dad. Everyone.”
“God, I didn’t know you were so holy!”
Lisa switched out the light and led Malone out of the room and down to the kitchen, where his supper was on the table. “Steak and kidney pie.”
“You always know just what a man needs. How do you do it?” He sat down and she poured him a glass of red wine from a cardboard cask. He raised the glass to her. “I’m glad I’m home tonight.”
“So am I.” She poured herself a glass and sat down opposite him. “Were you close to Father Marquez when he was shot?”
He hesitated, then nodded. The wine in her glass shook; then she put it to her mouth and gulped, as if it were medicine she was loath to take. He watched her carefully, waiting for some tears; but he should have known better. She lowered the glass, looked at him steadily. “How close to him were you?”
“Let’s talk about something else—”
“No!” She spilled some wine, but ignored it: she who was so careful of any crumb dropped or food splashed by the children. “Let’s talk about what happened tonight! Did they try to kill you, too?”
“I don’t know,” he lied. The meat in the pie was already in small chunks, but he applied himself to cutting the chunks even smaller. He picked up a piece of kidney, chewed on it, hardly tasted it. “The point is, I’m here, safe at home.”
“For how long, though? Safe, I mean.”
She looked around the kitchen, as if she were trying
to imagine it as a bunker. It was her pride, all quality timber and copper and brass; a combination fridge and freezer, a double-oven stove, a Swedish dish-washer: it had been their biggest extravagance in their renovation of the house, but he had never begrudged her a penny of it. He had realized after he had married her that, despite her education, her wide travels and her successful career as a government private secretary and then in public relations, she was a hausfrau at heart. She was an almost perfect mother to the children, a wonderful lover to him in bed, but it was from this kitchen that she ran her life, the children’s and, as far as the Police Department would allow, his.
She had put down the wine, no longer able to taste it. Almost automatically she now reached for the salt cellar and sprinkled salt on the red stain on the tablecloth.
The refrigerator suddenly started up: the sudden humming seemed to bring all his nerves together in an electric shock. “Darl, for Christ’s sake—I’m all right! If they meant to get me tonight, they won’t try again—”
“Why not?” She lifted the tablecloth, put a paper napkin under the stain.
“Because it won’t help their cause—”
“Who’s they?”
He sighed, pushed his plate away. “I wish I knew. I’m going round in bloody circles on this one. The only constant is Archbishop bloody Hourigan stuck there in the centre of it all . . .”
“What if they come here?” She looked around her again, as if she meant here, this kitchen, not the rest of the house. “I don’t want any threats against Claire and Maureen and Tom . . .”
“Do you want me to get you police protection?” He hated the thought, but it had to be faced.
“No. Well—I don’t know . . .” She stared at the red stain on the tablecloth. “It looks like blood, doesn’t it?”
“Stop it!” He had never seen her like this before. “No, it doesn’t. Blood goes darker . . . Christ Almighty, why am I talking like this? Look, I’ll get on to Jack Browning, the sergeant down at Randwick. We’ll work something out. The thing is, I don’t want a police car parked outside the house twenty-four hours a day.”
“Neither do I.” She had slumped forward, but now she straightened up. “Finish your dinner, there are poached pears for dessert. An empty stomach’s not going to do you any good. Are you going to arrest Archbishop Hourigan?”
“He’s gone back to Rome.”
“What are you going to do then?”
“I’m going after him, if they’ll let me.”
III
“No!” said Assistant Commissioner Zanuch emphatically. “The idea is ridiculous!”
“I agree,” said Chief Superintendent Danforth, who never disagreed with his superiors, not now, so close to retirement and his superannuation.
“Let’s hear your reasons, Inspector,” said Commissioner Leeds.
The four of them were in the Commissioner’s office at headquarters. Malone had put in his report, a copy to each of his superiors rising in rank; it was unusual for a daily report to go direct to the Commissioner, but neither Zanuch nor Danforth had remarked on it. They knew their places in this particular case. Malone had been sent for a half-hour after he had filed his report and, five minutes into this room, he had asked for an extradition warrant against Archbishop Kerry Hourigan.
“Because I don’t think we’re going to get anywhere in this case without him. He’s the key, sir.”
“It’s too hot,” said Zanuch. “We’ll get our arses burned off.”
“That only happens if you sit on something,” said Leeds. “I don’t think we can sit on this one. Apart from the two murders, I’m bloody angry at the attempt on Inspector Malone’s life!” He was too cool to show obvious anger, but the tension in him was apparent. He clenched a fist, the knuckles showing pale, but refrained from thumping his desk with it. “For that reason alone, I’d like the Archbishop back here in Sydney so that we can question him.”
“It’s not going to be easy,” said Zanuch, backing down. “I don’t think it’s possible to extradite anyone from the Vatican. Even the Italians can’t get anyone out of there.”
“I’m afraid the Assistant Commissioner is right,” said Malone when Leeds looked questioningly at him. Clements, the non-Catholic, had done some homework. “They treasure their own—I read that somewhere. The Pope makes his own judgement about his sinners—I read that, too.”
“What sort of books do you read? said Danforth, who read none. Then he saw the Commissioner’s cold look and he ran a hand over his head, searching for another thought: “What’s the point of going to Rome, then?”
“I think we can scare him into coming home. He and his old man don’t want a fuss. And neither do those Contra blokes, Paredes and Domecq.”
“Do you think those are the two who ordered those murders?” said the Commissioner. “You don’t come out and say that in your report.”
“I don’t have any evidence, sir. None that would stand up in court. For all I know, it could have been Old Man Hourigan.”
He glanced at Danforth out of the corner of his eye as he said that. The big beefy hand went to the top of the short-back-and-sides, but there was no thought there at the moment. But Malone knew there would be before the morning was out, even if Fingal Hourigan had to put it there.
“You sure as hell have some wild ideas,” said Zanuch; then he looked at Leeds. “What’s the Premier going to say about this? He’ll have to have a say in it, won’t he?”
“Oh, I never thought he wouldn’t,” said Leeds, unperturbed. “I’ll just let Inspector Malone argue his case before him.”
He looked at Malone and smiled his cool smile. Bugger it, thought Malone, why don’t I transfer to something easy like Traffic or Public Relations?
IV
In the Commissioner’s car going down to the State Office Block, Leeds said, “This is a messy one, Scobie.”
“I’m thinking of applying for a transfer out to Tibooburra.”
“You think there aren’t any politics out there? Scobie, if ever you finish up in my job—”
“God forbid, sir.”
Leeds grinned. “I think the chances are very slim. But if ever you do, you’ll find out that police work is about fifty per cent politics.”
“I know that, sir, even at my level.”
They got out of the car outside of the tall black building at the corner of Macquarie and Bent. Malone wondered if any of the Premiers who had occupied the offices in this government building had ever been embarrassed by their address. He knew that the incumbent Premier wouldn’t be: he had been bent all his life.
He was in a bent, bad mood this morning. “Holy Jesus, John, bursting in on me like this! I’m Police Minister, but do I have to be worried by every little thing that goes wrong? Hullo, you’re Malone, aren’t you?” He never forgot a name: voter, friend, enemy. “Oh Christ, it’s not the Hourigan affair, is it? My secretary just said you wanted to see me, it was urgent . . . What’s up now?”
“I want Inspector Malone to go to Rome and bring back Archbishop Hourigan.” Malone was grateful for the way the Commissioner phrased the suggestion; he wasn’t going to put one of his junior officers out on a limb on his own. Not in this room, where the toughest axeman in the country reigned. “An extradition order won’t work, so it’ll have to be by persuasion.”
“Stand-over stuff, you mean?” Hans Vanderberg might mince a phrase, but he never minced a meaning. “You think the Vatican will put up with that?”
Leeds looked at Malone, the Catholic, assuming he knew more about Vatican history. But Malone had never been interested in the Vatican till now; he was the sort of Catholic for whom it and its ruling were too remote. There were other ways to Heaven; or so he occasionally hoped. He had read bits and pieces about the intrigues and influence of the popes and cardinals; he knew that in the past some of them had used the gun and pike as much as the cross. He didn’t fancy his chances, but he would ask Lisa to pray for him. She seemed to be praying for everyone else.
“I’d like to try my luck, sir,” he said.
“It’ll cost money,” said the Premier, who had spent millions on memorials to himself; he was known not only as The Dutchman but also as the Human Foundation Stone. “How do you cops travel? Economy?”
“Overseas, I think he should go business class,” said Leeds.
“Jesus!” said Vanderberg. “Haven’t you heard a penny saved doesn’t make a pound look foolish?”
“No,” said Leeds and wondered if anyone else had.
The Dutchman grinned. “If you were one of my Ministers, John, you’d be on the back-benches in no time. Well, all right, Inspector, you can go to Rome, but for Christ’s sake, keep it discreet. Are you discreet?”
Malone didn’t look at his Commissioner. “I try to be, sir.”
“Well, try your hardest in Rome. No publicity, you hear? You run into any of them papapizza, whatever they call „em, them Italian photographers, you turn and run, okay?” Then he looked at Leeds. “What are you going to do with the Archbishop when you get him back here?”
“That depends on how far Inspector Malone gets with his interrogation of him. We have to get to the bottom of this, Premier. This could get much bigger. If a firm in this State becomes a major supplier of arms to the Contras in Nicaragua—”
Vanderberg sat up. “You didn’t say anything about that!”
“I was saving that for the final argument,” said Leeds and told him about Austarm.
“Holy Christ!” God the Son was being called upon so frequently, Malone wondered whose side He was on. Maybe all the odds were not with the Archbishop. “Can you smell the stink? We’ll have every lily-livered group in the country, the anti-war mob, the Mothers for Peace, the Greenies, they’ll all be out there in Macquarie Street demonstrating!”
“Not the Greenies, surely.”
“They’ll join any bloody demo!” The Dutchman had never found a vote amongst the conservationists, so he couldn’t be expected to be fair-minded about them.
“Are you in favour of the Contras?” said Leeds mildly.
“Christ, I’m in favour of no one!” Which was true; excluding himself, of course. “Foreign policy’s no concern of mine. Nothing that happens outside Sydney Heads has ever won or lost a vote for me. Who’s this crowd—Austarm?”