by Jon Cleary
BABYLON SOUTH
The Scobie Malone Series
Jon Cleary
FOR CATE
Copyright © 1989 by Sundowner Productions Pty Ltd.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission in writing from the publisher.
First ebook edition 2013 by AudioGO. All Rights Reserved.
Trade ISBN 978-1-62064-793-6
Library ISBN 978-1-62460-109-5
Cover photo © TK/iStock.com.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
MORE JON CLEARY EBOOKS
BABYLON SOUTH
Prologue
ON MONDAY March 28, 1966, Sir Walter Springfellow, Director-General of the Australian Security Intelligence Organization, left his home in Mosman in the city of Sydney to return to Melbourne and the then headquarters of ASIO. An ex-Justice of the Supreme Court of New South Wales, he had been Director-General of Security for only a year. It was his habit to fly up from Melbourne each Friday evening, spend the weekend with his wife and return to Melbourne on the 8 a.m. Monday flight of TAA. A Commonwealth car picked him up at his home this Monday morning, as it usually did, and delivered him to Kingsford Smith Airport at Mascot at 7.45. He got out of the car, said his usual courteous thank you to the driver, walked into the terminal and was never heard of again.
It had been a stormy weekend, though not, according to his wife, in the Springfellow home. A huge storm had blown up along the New South Wales coast and there had been considerable damage north of Sydney; the sea had been such that big swells had rolled into Sydney Harbour and for the first time surfies had ridden their boards down Middle Harbour. The storm, however, had not got beyond the Blue Mountains fifty miles west of the city and out on the plains there were cloudless skies and one of the worst droughts in twenty years. Down in Melbourne there had been an ugly demonstration against the sending of draftees to Vietnam and the Prime Minister, Harold Holt, had suffered a barrage of eggs and tomatoes, something a little softer than the draftees would have to face. The report on the demonstration and photographs of the egg and tomato bombardiers were waiting on the Director-General’s desk for him. He would have smiled at such criminal acts, but only to himself.
He was fifty years old, handsome, came of a wealthy established family and had made a considerable reputation as a Queen’s Counsel before being appointed a judge five years before. His appointment as Director-General had been welcomed by both major political parties, but the public were not invited to comment: national security was thought, in those days, too esoteric for public intelligence to comprehend. Sir Walter, who had been knighted just before his appointment, was considered by his own organization to have no enemies except, of course, the hundreds of criminals he had prosecuted or sentenced and the countless foreigners, traitors and activists his organization was seeking.
He had been married for two years to a beautiful wife, twenty-five years his junior, and it seemed that he lived in the best of all possible worlds. Though, naturally, he did not boast of that during his five days a week in Melbourne, a city which thought it was the best of all possible worlds.
“We were perfectly happy,” said Lady Springfellow. “He must have been kidnapped or something. I just can’t believe what’s happened. When he took this job he warned me there might sometimes be trouble. But this . . . !”
The Commonwealth Police, who were in charge of airport security, had called in the New South Wales Police after consultation with ASIO. Scobie Malone was then a 21-year-old constable on temporary duty with the Missing Persons Bureau. Sergeant Harry Danforth, who couldn’t trace a missing bull in a cattle chute, was in charge of the Bureau, but his men found that no handicap; a lazy man, he left them to their instinctive guesses and hunches. Missing persons usually leave fewer clues than murderers and the police assigned to trace them more often than not have to rely on guesswork. There were dozens of hunches as to the reason for the disappearance of Sir Walter Springfellow, but none of them led anywhere.
“It is some activist group,” said one of the two men ASIO had sent up from Melbourne. They were ex-Army Intelligence, middle-aged and military, and it was obvious they didn’t have much time for the two younger men, recent university graduates, who represented ASIO’s Sydney office. From where they sat the earth was flat, easily interpreted. “We’ll get some outlandish demand pretty soon.”
The Commonwealth Police inspector shrugged. He, too, was middle-aged, with a countryman’s face, gullied and sun-blotched. He had transferred from a bush division of one of the State forces and sometimes he longed for those other, placid days. “Could be. But three days have gone by and there’s been nothing. They usually try to grab their publicity while everything’s still on the front page. They’re like politicians.” All the older men nodded: they had a common disrespect for politicians. Only Malone, who had never met one, kept his head still. “What’s your opinion on this, Bill?”
Senior Detective-Sergeant Zanuch, of the NSW Police Special Branch, had been seconded to this case by one of the Assistant Commissioners. Ordinary voters who disappeared could be left to a lazy sergeant and a few junior constables in Missing Persons; a senior public servant, a knight and an ex-judge at that, had to be given better treatment. Zanuch, the best-dressed man in the room by far, shot his cuffs, a sartorial trick none of the others, especially Malone, would ever master. “Will our intelligence system suffer if we, h’m, don’t get him back?”
The four ASIO men looked at each other, none of them wanting to be responsible for that sort of intelligence. At last the senior man from Melbourne said, “We haven’t even entertained that possibility.”
Malone sensed that Zanuch was less than impressed by that answer; he got the feeling that the ASIO men, especially the two from Melbourne, resented having to call in outsiders. It was their job to find spies and now they couldn’t find even their own boss.
Zanuch’s voice was suddenly a little sour: “I take it you’ve seen Lady Springfellow? Good. But I think Constable Malone and I will go over and have a word with her. We can’t rule out the possibility of personal problems.”
“The Director-General?” said one of the ex-military men, a happily married man whose wife knew when to stand to attention. “Ridiculous!”
Malone wanted to ask why it should be ridiculous, but he was too junior and, anyhow, what did he know about life and marriage? At that time he was on a merry-go-round with three different girls, jumping on and off to run for his life before one of them could tempt him into a commitment. The two men from Melbourne, as if reading the question in his mind, glowered at him. The two university men from Sydney knew enough about life not to argue with the men from headquarters, especially ex-military types.
“Do you vet each other’s personal relationships?” said Zanuch.
Again all four ASIO men looked at each other, then the senior man answered, “That’s classified.”
“Of course,” said Zanuch, but frowned when Malone made the mistake of smiling. “Well, we’ll go over and see what Lady Springfellow has to say.”
“We’ll come with you,” said the senior man from headquarters.
“No,” said Zanuch. “Our investigations are always classified.”
******
He and Malone drove over to Mosman, with Malone at the wheel. “Do you know this part of the world, Constable?”
Malone h
ad never met Zanuch before today; but he had been warned of the senior man’s regard for rank. He was known to be ambitious and had used the heads of junior men as stepping stones on his way up. His one handicap, in the police force of those days, was that he was totally honest, a character fault that didn’t endear him to certain of his seniors.
“No, Sarge, I come from the south side of the harbour. I’ve played cricket at Mosman Oval, but that’s all. I was born in Erskineville and so far I’ve only worked at Newtown and in the Bureau.” Even in his own ears it all at once sounded as if he came from Central Africa or some other remote region.
“You’ll notice the difference here in Mosman. They invented respectability—they think they have the copyright on it. The Springfellows more than any of them.” Then he looked sideways at Malone. “If you’re going to work with me, Constable, could you smarten yourself up a little? Where did you get that bloody awful tie?”
“My mother. She’s Irish, she thinks green goes with anything.”
“That’s not just green, it’s bilious. I’m sure your mother is a wonderful old biddy, but she’s colour blind.”
So was Malone, or almost; but he was not blind to snobbery. Zanuch was out to impress whoever lay ahead of them. As the unmarked police car turned into the short dead-end street, Zanuch looked out at the sign. “Springfellow Avenue. That’s something, to have your own street.”
“My mum tells me there’s a Malone Street in Dublin.”
Zanuch wasn’t impressed. He was scanning the imposing houses on either side of them. It was not a policeman’s look; it was that of a social climber. Anyone who lived hereabouts would be in his good books.
“Do you come from this side, Sarge?” Malone said innocently as they got out of the car.
Zanuch gave him a look that should have reduced him to a cadet. “No,” he said shortly and Malone wondered if he, too, came from Central Africa or its equivalent.
The Springfellow house and grounds were the most imposing in the street. The housekeeper who opened the big front door was just as impressive. Starched and polished, she carried herself with all the confidence of someone who knew that, below her, all the voters, including policemen, ran down to the bottom of the heap.
“I shall see if Lady Springfellow will see you.” She went away as if to consult with the Queen of Australia.
But Zanuch was still impressed. “You can now see how the other half lives. Constable. It may give you some ambition.”
“On my pay?” But he had the sense to grin as he said it and Zanuch, after a moment, found a smile that didn’t hurt him too much.
The housekeeper came back and ushered them into the house. Malone, in those days, had little sense of surroundings. Erskineville, where he had grown up, with its tenement terraces and small factories, had never been a major subscription area for House and Garden. Now, as the starched Grenadier Guard took them towards the back of the house, he was aware only that this was a large place with large rooms where shadows and dark panelling seemed to dominate. But the young woman who came into the big drawing-room suggested all lightness and brightness, even though she was not smiling.
“I’m Lady Springfellow,” she said, then gestured at the slightly older woman of darker mood who had followed her into the room. “This is my husband’s sister, Miss Emma Springfellow.”
Zanuch introduced himself and then, as an afterthought, Malone. He shot his cuffs and was all police department charm, something Malone had never experienced before. “. . . If you could just dig into your memory, Lady Springfellow, give us some hint that your husband may have let drop in the past week or two, something that was worrying him . . .”
Venetia Springfellow shook her golden head. She was Venetia Magee to a million television viewers; but that was another territory, there she was another person. Malone had seen her occasionally on television, but he was not enthusiastic about daytime TV, unless it was a cricket telecast, and hers was a midday chat show. She was undeniably good-looking, but it seemed to him that she had looked better on TV. Still, with the simple candid curiosity of the young, he wondered what a good sort like her had seen in a man twenty-five years her senior.
“Nothing, he told me nothing about ASIO business.” She had a throaty voice that was not quite natural; the vowels had been worked on, were plummy ripe. “His only regret was that we were separated for five days each week, he with his job in Melbourne and I with mine in Sydney. But we were going to change that—we were going to live in Melbourne when I had my baby.” For the first time Malone noticed the swelling under the well-cut silk suit with its long jacket.
“You didn’t tell me—” said Emma Springfellow; then stopped. She could have been a beautiful woman if she had had more vanity; beside the beautifully groomed Venetia she looked like someone who never glanced in a mirror. “But then . . .”
“But what?” said Zanuch.
“Nothing.” She seemed to hesitate for a moment, then was steelily at ease.
“Do you live here, Miss Springfellow?”
“No. I used to, until my brother married.” She had half-turned away, as if she were trying to distance herself from her sister-in-law, “I live across the street with my brother Edwin and his wife. This house used to be the family home.”
It still was, to her; but she had been exiled.
There was an awkward moment of frozen silence. Then Zanuch turned back to Venetia Springfellow. “I apologize for asking this—but was there any disagreement between you and your husband? Could he have just gone away for a few days to think over something that had happened between you?”
Her gaze was steady, she looked unoffended by the question. “No. We have never had a cross word in all the time we’ve been married.”
Zanuch looked at Emma Springfellow. She had been gazing out the window, as if she no longer had any interest in what was being said. She seemed to start when she became aware that Zanuch was waiting for her to comment. “Am I supposed to say something? To contradict my sister-in-law?”
“Not at all,” said Zanuch. “Did he have any disagreement with you? Or any other member of the family? You have only the one other brother, haven’t you?”
“Yes. No, we had no disagreement. We were always a very close family.” But her tone said that no longer held true. Malone saw Venetia flinch and he sensed that the gap between the two women was much wider than the four or five feet of carpet that separated them. Emma said, “You’re wasting your time, Sergeant, with that line.”
“We have to try every line,” said Zanuch. Malone had the feeling that he was now less impressed with Mosman. “I’m sure your brother, running ASIO, would appreciate that.”
“I’m sure he would,” said Venetia Springfellow, not looking at her sister-in-law.
“Did your husband draw any money out of his bank account?” Malone was learning from Zanuch: the senior man knew how to change his line abruptly.
“Not that I know of. We’re not the sort who have joint accounts.” There was just a note of snobbery in the answer: Venetia Springfellow, or Magee, wherever she had come from, had also learned.
“Where did Sir Walter bank?”
“The Bank of New South Wales. Their head office.”
“Were you the last to speak to him, other than the driver who took him to the airport?”
“I think so. No—” She hesitated.
“Go on,” said Zanuch carefully.
Venetia glanced at Emma, “I was at the front door—my sister-in-law ran across the street to say something to my husband.”
Zanuch waited for Emma Springfellow to volunteer something. Malone, callow in the ways of woman against woman, yet knew that he and Zanuch were on the outskirts of a female war. On the beat, as a probationary constable in Newtown, he had seen women fight like men, with fists, or anyway claws, and language that had had a nice medieval ring to it. This, however, was different, somehow more deadly. Knives would be used here, with good manners and kid gloves and decorous malice.
>
“It was private,” Emma said at last. “Nothing important.”
“Nothing that would have upset him?”
“I told you—it was unimportant.”
The two policemen stayed only another few minutes, getting nowhere. Venetia Springfellow took them to the front door, thanking them for coming; she could have been ushering out two guests from her chat show. “Do call me, Sergeant, if you have any more questions. We want my husband back home as soon as possible . . .” Then she glanced over her shoulder at Emma standing in the shadows of the big hallway like a bit-part player whom the cameraman had missed. “All the family does.”
In the car as they drove away Zanuch said, “Well, what do you think?”
“If I was the Director-General, I’d have run away from the sister, not the wife.”
“Don’t put that opinion in the running sheet. No, I don’t think this is a domestic.” Domestic situations were the bane of a cop’s life. You might fight with your own wife, but that was no training for interfering in a battle between another warring couple; nine times out of ten both husband and wife told you to go to hell and mind your own business. Except, of course, in Mosman, where the domestic battles would always be fought in whispers and the police would never be called. “ASIO are probably right, it’s some activist group. If it is, that’ll be a Commonwealth job, we’ll let them worry about it. Keep an eye on it and let me know what you’re up to. Check Sir Walter’s account at his bank. I’ll tell Sergeant Danforth you’re to be kept on it for a month.”
“I’m taking a week’s leave this Friday, Sarge. I’m going to Hong Kong to play cricket.” That past summer he had played his first season in the State team. “Australia’s most promising fast bowler,” a cricket writer had called him after Malone had bought him three beers. “The Department thinks it’s good PR, a cop who’s a State fast bowler.”
“What would they think if he was a slow bowler?” Zanuch’s Latvian parents had brought him to Australia when he was one year old; thirty-four years later there were still certain Australian customs he didn’t understand or want to. Sometimes the original white Australians were as puzzling and annoying as the more original Aborigines. “Have you got your priorities right? We’re supposed to be looking for the country’s top spy, for Chrissakes!”