Babylon South

by Jon Cleary

  “I got the news about Emma’s death a couple of hours ago. It was pure accident—I usually don’t get reports, summaries, till the next day. I was trying to make up my mind whether to call you—”

  “Why? To offer sympathy? Tea?” She poured two cups. A tray with a fine china tea-set was waiting for them in the sun-room. “I’m sorry Emma is dead, but you’d be wasting sympathy on me, John. She’d have felt the same way about me if I’d died.”

  “Venetia—it was murder!” He was still an innocent man in some ways; he couldn’t bring himself to believe the depths of enmity some women have towards each other.

  “I know. Biscuit? I’m sorry she died that way—it’s horrible. I’m not callous, John, just honest. Now why did you come? Why all the secrecy?”

  He stirred his tea without looking at it; he might have been stirring his reasons into some sort of coherence. He was here for reasons that went against the whole grain of his training and character. Like her, he had claims to honesty; perhaps more, he thought, than she did.

  “I went to see Emma last night.”

  She frowned, her cup stopped halfway to her mouth. “To see Emma? But you haven’t seen her in God knows how long . . . Have you?” She hadn’t meant to, but she abruptly sounded suspicious.

  “I haven’t seen her since a week or two after Walter disappeared. We saw each other at his funeral, but we just nodded, that was all. She called me yesterday morning and asked me to go and see her. She said she had something important to discuss with me. I got there about nine, a few minutes afterwards. Venetia—” He paused, put down his cup and saucer. “I was just coming down Macquarie Street when I saw Justine come out of The Vanderbilt. She was running and she had her hand over her face, as if she were upset. She ran down Macquarie Street, going home, I guess. She lives in The Wharf, doesn’t she?”

  Venetia nodded. She put down her own cup and saucer. “Yes, I know she’d been to see Emma. The police know, too—your Inspector Malone and Sergeant Clements. They’ve already been to see us.”

  Leeds nodded morosely. “I might have known it. Malone doesn’t miss much.”

  “Did you go up to see Emma?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was she still alive?”

  “Of course! Good Christ, Venetia, I’m not saying—”

  “That Justine might have killed her? I know you’re not. She’s not as tough as I am and I’m not a murderer. Neither are you, John.”

  “Of course I’m not!” He picked up his cup, took a long swallow of tea, as if his throat had suddenly become dry. Then he sat back, re-arranging himself in his usual mode, neat and calm. It was a mask, but it was a familiar one and he felt more comfortable in it.

  “What did Emma want to see you about?”

  “She accused you of having Walter murdered.”

  “She what?” Venetia lost her own control. She almost sprang out of her chair, began walking up and down, stiff-legged but with her body trembling. “Good God—what a bitch! I knew she hated me—she was ready to start spreading dirt about you and me after all these years—but to say something like that! What did you say?”

  “I said it was ridiculous.”

  “That’s all? That it was ridiculous?”

  “No, if you must know, I lost my temper. We had quite a row.”

  “She seems to have spent last night having rows—she had one with Justine.”

  “Did she make the same accusation to Justine?”

  “No, not as far as I know. If she did, Justine hasn’t told me. What did Emma actually say?”

  “That she was going to tell Inspector Malone to start looking into your past, that you had reason to have Walter killed because he had found out about your—your lovers.”

  “Did she include you amongst them?”

  He hesitated. “Yes.”

  Venetia paused, leaned on the back of her chair. “She’d gone crazy, I think. Even Edwin said she was far worse over the past few months than she’d ever been before.”

  “It could have been a late menopause.”

  She gave him a dry laugh. “Oh, come on, John! God, you men blame everything on that. Emma went through the menopause ten or fifteen years ago. She was a natural-born bitch even before she got into puberty. No, she just went round the bend naturally. If you go crazy naturally,” she added; she had a pedantic grasp of her own sanity, she would know exactly the reasons if ever she went mad.

  Then she said, “Do you think I hired someone to kill Walter?”

  “No.”

  She sensed he was holding something back. “What do you know that I don’t? About Walter?”

  He hesitated again, looked uncomfortable. “I don’t know everything, but I can’t tell you the little I do know.”

  “John, he was my husband! Your friend! God Almighty, how can you keep secrets from me on something like that? I didn’t have Walter killed. I have a right to know who did, if you know!”

  “I don’t know. All I know is there was a cover-up.”

  “Why? Who by? ASIO?”

  He nodded, reluctantly. “I was never on the case—I deliberately dodged it. You know why,” he said, the old conscience-stricken lover. “Everything was just suddenly pulled out of the files. It wasn’t just ASIO—I understand the word came from higher up than that. From the Prime Minister’s office.”

  There would be a blank wall there, she knew. The Prime Minister of the time was himself dead; he, too, had disappeared, while surfing. There had been suggestions of mystery about that, bizarre theories that, in retrospect, were laughable. She wondered why Harold Holt, an uncomplicated man if what history told her was true, would have ordered all enquiries on Walter’s disappearance to be stopped.

  “He’d have done it on ASIO’s advice,” she said.

  “Of course. But you don’t think you’re going to get anything out of them, do you?”

  “Do you think Emma’s death has anything to do with Walter’s disappearance? Could she have sent for someone else to see her after you?”

  “Who else would it have been? Another—lover?” It was difficult for him to be cruel, but he was a policeman as well as an ex-lover.

  She shook her head, saddened that he had to put such a question. There was still some of the old feeling left for him; old love that is not chopped off by bitterness lingers in the heart, if not in the mind. She had not really looked into her heart in a long time. Our deepest feelings are a hundred fathoms deep: most of us are not capable of diving so far.

  “You didn’t have to ask that, John. I was never an angel, you knew that. But I never went to bed with devils.”

  “That sounds like something out of a Channel 15 soap opera.” But he smiled, suddenly relieved.

  She smiled, too. “I know. I get that way sometimes. I don’t read any more, not like I used to. Except company reports and business magazines. I look at TV now for relaxation. Sometimes I think I’m a character in Dynasty.”

  “So do a lot of other people,” he said not unkindly.

  “We’re beating about the bush, John. We still don’t know if there’s any connection between Emma’s death and Walter’s. If there is—if it comes out . . . Too much may come out about you and me. Inspector Malone has an old photo of you and Walter. I said I didn’t know who you were.”

  “That was foolish. Malone is no fool.”

  “I’m beginning to appreciate that. I was just hoping to protect you.”

  He nodded, put his hand up to fix his already perfectly knotted tie. He said carefully, “Venetia—is Justine my daughter?”

  “Did Emma mention that last night?”

  “Yes.”

  She sat down again, pulled her chair close to his and put her hand on his. She could see him last night with Emma as the latter raked up old coals and hauled him across them. “John, I honestly don’t know. There would have to be a blood test and I’m never going to put that to Justine—or to you. She wants to be Walter’s child, that’s the way it’s always been with her and t
hat’s the way it’s going to stay. You’re happily married—you told me that at the cemetery that day. Why complicate things for yourself?”

  “If she were, I’d feel responsible for her—”

  “Don’t you think I can look after her? What about your wife and children? You have—what? three, haven’t you? Oh, I looked you up in Who’s Who, when I came back that day from the funeral. What about your responsibility towards them? Don’t be chivalrous, John—it’s too late for anything like that. And I never expected it—not of any of my men.”

  “Ah, if only things had been different—” Then he smiled. “That sounds like something out of a soap opera.”

  “I’m surprised you look at them. John—stay for dinner.” She wanted his company, not sex.

  He leaned forward and kissed her on the lips. “It’s too late, Venetia. Even for us to be just friends.”

  She wiped the pink lipstick from his mouth: she could not leave her trademark on an old lover. “You’re right. I shouldn’t have suggested it.”

  When he had gone she went and sat in the window-seat of the sun-room, looking out across the lawns and shrubs to the harbour. The sky to the west was bright red: it was wonderful, she thought idly, how Nature could sometimes get away with such bad taste. Bright colours were not her taste, though there were few more colourful figures in Australian business.

  Her colours had been dimmed in the past couple of weeks. Engrossed in the takeover bid, she had kept only half an eye on the stock market: that had been Michael Broad’s domain. When the dust had settled after Black Tuesday, she had been shocked at the extent of their losses, the corporation’s and her own. She was candid enough to admit, to herself if to no one else, that greed had blinkered her; if she had brought off the takeover, she would have had only one or two peers in the whole country in power and wealth. She was philosophical about the loss of her wealth; to be worth 500 million instead of 700 million takes only a minor adjustment, a shrug of the shoulders and no less respect from one’s bank. The loss of the prospective power, however, was a body blow. She had been on the road to being an empress, but had finished up still a commoner. Which, being philosophical again, she supposed was better than being common.

  Emma, and perhaps a lot of other women, had thought of her as common. That was because of her men; history has always had less respect for whores than for rakes. She had never stolen another woman’s man, at least not for more than a night and she had never considered that theft; sex was not love and so long as the man took love home to his wife, no harm was done. She had cheated on Walter, but love there had died six months after they had married; she had become pregnant, on his insistence, trying to save the marriage, but she had known, even before his disappearance, that it would not work. She had been on the verge of falling in love with John Leeds, but she had known in her heart that marriage to him would be a failure, too.

  There had been a dozen proposals over the past twenty years, but she had always said no. She was capable of love, but not of sacrifice; and marriage demanded both. She loathed partnerships; in marriage she would always be making takeover bids. Only lately had she begun to recognize that amongst her dividends was loneliness.

  II

  Russ Clements had gone home and Malone was putting on his jacket, ready to follow him, when the phone rang. “Inspector Malone? Scobie, this is the Commissioner. Can you come over and see me?”

  “Now, sir?”

  “Yes, now. And Scobie—for the moment, don’t mention this to anyone. You understand? Anyone.”

  Malone hung up, smelling politics again; but this might be the worst of all, personal politics. Do I take the photo and the diary? But they were locked away in Clements’s desk, safe from even hands like his own.

  He walked across to Police Headquarters in College Street. The evening was still warm; the sky was turning from red to pink. He was checked in at the desk and was about to get into the lift when Assistant Commissioner Zanuch stepped out.

  “Malone, how are you? Coming up to see me?”

  Why would I be coming to see you? “No, sir. I’m on my way up to the Commissioner.”

  Zanuch was the best-dressed man in the Department, every bit as spruce as Leeds but more relaxed, less of a band-box dummy. He was as well known at society functions as any of the charity queens or free-loading celebrities; he was a social mountaineer, though the heights he scaled didn’t take one’s breath away. He was also a good policeman, honest and incorruptible. Blatant ambition was his only sin, but in Sydney that was considered only venial.

  He drew Malone aside. “What case are you on? The Springfellow one?”

  “Both of them, sir. The sister, Emma, was murdered last night.”

  “Yes, I heard that. What’s the Commissioner’s interest in it?”

  “I don’t know if he has any, sir. I just got the call that he wanted to see me.”

  Zanuch was itching with curiosity, but he didn’t scratch himself. Instead he just smiled, nodded and went on his way out of the lobby with, “Good luck with the cases, Inspector. I’ll look forward to hearing of an arrest or two.”

  Malone got into the lift, wondering at what rivalries went on here where the brass polished itself every day. He rode up to the twentieth floor and was shown into the Commissioner’s office by a secretary who had already refreshed her make-up, ready to leave. She said good-night and Malone and the Commissioner were left alone.

  “You’re wondering why I sent for you?”

  Malone took it carefully. “I hope it’s not politics again, sir.”

  Leeds smiled wryly. “If only it were as simple as that . . . You’re on the Springfellow cases, both of them, right? Any progress?”

  “Not much. I—”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m here because you’re somehow connected with them, sir. Am I right?”

  Leeds said nothing for a moment, tapping with a brass ruler on his tidy desktop. He was renowned for his insistence on neatness and the slobs in the Department were always running for cover. Everything had to be in its place; but now, suddenly, things were starting to unravel. He hated the thought that he was now having to confide in a junior officer, even though one for whom he had the greatest respect.

  “I understand you have a photo you took from Miss Springfellow’s flat—one of me and Sir Walter. Where is it?”

  “Locked away in Sergeant Clements’s desk. I haven’t shown it to Chief Inspector Random yet.”

  “You’ll have to, of course.” He waited for Malone to agree and after a moment the latter nodded. “There’s something else. You may find out eventually or you may not, but I think I’d better tell you. I visited Emma Springfellow last night. Someone else had been there before me, as I gather you already know.”

  “Yes, Justine Springfellow.”

  “Emma was still alive when she left. I saw her leaving, when I was coming down the street.” Malone remained silent and Leeds said testily, “I’m telling you she didn’t murder Emma.”

  “She could have gone back after you left, sir.”

  “For God’s sake, Scobie!” Malone had never seen him so agitated. They had had awkward moments between them on three or four other cases, but they had involved politics; this was different and the awkwardness now had spikes on it. “The girl didn’t do it! Don’t start building a case against her on nothing—” Then he stopped abruptly, put down the brass ruler and steadied himself. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have flown off the handle like that. You do what you have to.”

  “What sort of state was Emma in when you got up to see her?”

  “Quite a state. Angry, a little hysterical—”

  “Did she quieten down?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why did you go to see her, sir?”

  Leeds hesitated, then shook his head. “I’m not prepared to say at this stage. It was a—a family matter.”

  Malone drew a deep breath, slumped back in his chair. “I think I’d better ask Greg Random to take me off t
his one. I have too much respect for you. I don’t want to have to start nailing you to the wall with questions.”

  Leeds gazed steadily at the younger man. There was reciprocated respect; there was no more decent, hardworking man working under him. Malone was an example of what he had tried to make the Department. He was handicapped by his own decency, by his own ambitions for the Department: “Thanks, Scobie, but no. You have to stay on it.”

  Malone said nothing for almost half a minute. Beyond the Commissioner’s head he could see the lights now bright in the valley of Woolloomooloo; the towers of St. Mary’s Cathedral stood on the slopes like medieval watch-towers. The windows were closed and the sounds of the city were shut out. The silence between the two men seemed to expand to fill the room. At last he said, “Righto, I’ll stay with it. But I may have to come back and ask awkward questions.”

  “I know that.” Leeds sighed, seemed to shrink down in his chair. “The past has a habit of catching up, hasn’t it?”

  “If it didn’t, we wouldn’t solve half our crimes. Did you leave any prints in the flat, sir?”

  Leeds sat up again, frowned. “What? I suppose so. Yes, I did. I was holding a glass—I had a whisky and water.”

  “Scientific will have found it. Emma hadn’t washed any of the glasses—I noticed them on a tray on a sideboard in the living-room. Justine’s prints are probably on a glass, too. We’ll have to check hers.”

  “What about mine?”

  “If nobody saw you going up to the flat—did they?”

  “No, I don’t think so. There was nobody in the lobby—Emma herself let me in through the security intercom. I’m not asking for favours, Scobie—” But he was, and they both knew it. “There should be a third set of prints. The person who did the killing.”

  “Yes,” said Malone non-committally; he could see the riptide and he was doing his best to avoid it. “Anyhow, yours may never be traced. What time did you leave the flat?”

  “Just after nine-thirty. Nobody saw me leave.”

  “You saw nobody waiting to go in?”

  “No.”