by Jon Cleary
He had had women make confessions to him before; he had just not expected her to be so confiding. “Better than your husband?”
Her gaze didn’t waver. “Yes.”
None of this can go into any report, he thought; not even to Lisa in the privacy of our bed. “When you gave Uritzsky the five thousand, what happened then? Did he give you the photos?”
“Yes. I burned them.”
“Did he give you any negatives?”
“I insisted on those. I burned them, too.”
“As far as you know, he hadn’t been to see your husband?”
She hesitated, then said, “He’d been in touch with him. I don’t know whether it was on the phone or whether they actually met. My husband brought up the subject when he came back from Melbourne on the Friday night. We had a dreadful row. He moved into another bedroom over that weekend.”
“He knew about John Leeds?”
Again she hesitated, as if the memory was painful. “No, fortunately.”
“What about the gun?”
“I don’t know anything about it. I didn’t even know it was missing till the ASIO men came here and started poking about.”
“They did their own investigating? Not the Commonwealth Police or our own fellers? I came here with Inspector Zanuch—”
“Did you? You must have been very young—I don’t remember you.” She smiled apologetically. “No, it was ASIO who went over everything. I suppose they thought it was their responsibility, with Walter being their boss. They asked me about the gun, but I couldn’t tell them anything.” She looked directly at him again. She put her hands on the arms of her chair and leaned forward. “I’m telling you the truth, Scobie. I didn’t murder my husband.”
He didn’t move, not shortening the distance between them; he could smell her perfume, could still feel the sexual tension. I look, but I don’t go any further . . . “Then Uritzsky must have killed him of his own accord. You may be lucky that he never came back for more money.”
“What for? I’d burned the negatives and the photos.”
“He could’ve made other copies. Maybe he showed those to your husband, Walter wouldn’t come good with any blackmail money and he killed him. He would have had to, otherwise Walter would have given him away to the KGB. Spy organizations work together sometimes, it’s a sort of trade union. Unless the KGB was in on the blackmail.” Oh Christ, he thought, I hope not! The hole would only get deeper and deeper.
She sat back, collecting herself and her recollections. “Nobody has been near me in twenty-one years, not till they found Walter’s remains. I thought it was all over and done with. Nobody’s been near me since they found his skeleton, nobody but you and Sergeant Clements.”
“And John Leeds.”
“Yes, and John.”
“No one from ASIO?”
“No one at all. One or two of them came to the funeral—they paid their respects to me, but that was all.”
Malone snapped shut his notebook, in which he hadn’t made a single note. He stood up and so did she; the coffee-table separated them, but he felt they might have been touching each other. He felt an odd sense of guilt, as if he had betrayed Lisa. Venetia smiled with only her lips, not showing her teeth, a private smile. She knew she had made another conquest, or anyway half a one, but she would never take it any further.
“Will you be talking to Mr. Leeds?” he said.
“I may be.”
“You can tell him I’m satisfied with what you’ve told me today.”
“Thank you.” She put out her hand and he took it. It was a firm handshake and he was glad there was no coquetry in it. “What about my daughter?”
He blew out a soft sigh. “There’s nothing I can do there. The Crown Prosecutor has it now. I’m sorry, but it doesn’t look good for her. You’ll just have to wait till the committal proceedings.”
“Do you think she murdered Emma?”
“You really don’t expect me to answer that.”
“No, I suppose not.” She took her hand away, but it was not a withdrawal of mood. “I hated you at one time, Scobie.”
“It’s happened to me before. But not now?” It was the closest he could come to going further.
She smiled again, but it was sad this time. “No, not now.”
V
Christmas came and went. Clements went home to the country, to his parents in Cootamundra. Before he left he wished Malone a Merry Christmas, but sounded as if he himself would be merrier if Malone would confide in him as he once had. Malone, in the spirit of Christmas, almost did. Then he thought of John Leeds, probably spending an agonizing season rather than a festive one, and he held his tongue.
He bought presents for Lisa and the children, spending more than he usually did, grateful that the Lord, whom he acknowledged only seasonally, like a farmer, had given him a family who, so far, had caused him no worries. He bought expensive presents for his mother and father, or at least expensive by his standards, those of a natural-born tightwad. There were ivory and silver rosary beads for Brigid and an Italian panama hat for Con. Brigid at once put the beads away in a bottom drawer, to be used only for births and deaths, afraid that the Lord might strike her down for extravagance if she used them every day. Con, afraid of being taken for a dandy, especially in Erskineville, put the panama hat away in his wardrobe and forgot it. Malone, not surprised at his parents or anything they did, only grinned and wondered ruefully why he had spent the money.
The new year came in, the voters both expectant and apprehensive. This was the nation’s two hundredth birthday. The government exhorted the populace to Celebrate in „88. The implication was that one was unpatriotic if one didn’t burst into song as soon as one joined a group, even if it was a queue at the dole office. The nation was handicapped in that it slipped out of 1987, when it was only 199 years old, into an immediate celebration of its bicentenary: there was no gradual build-up as the United States had had towards July 4, 1976. The Big Party was held on January 26 and, the day after it, doubts were already expressed that the celebration might turn out to be a case of premature ejaculation. Malone and Clements, however, had little or no time to wave flags or burst into song.
The Police Department was stretched to the limit policing the celebrations. Malone and Clements were switched from the Springfellow cases to the murder by a terrorist of a political refugee; it was a case they wrapped up in five days, though it had many loose ends, like blood-stained streamers left over from the Big Party. The outcome of it did not improve the sour taste in Malone’s mouth and he went back to the Springfellow cases pondering what opportunities there might be elsewhere for a 42-year-old disillusioned cop.
The committal proceedings were set down for February 1. They lasted two days. The magistrate, suffering, it seemed, from a Big Party hangover, almost peremptorily committed Justine for trial for the murder of Emma Springfellow. The trial date was announced a day later for May 2. Malone, who in the past had often seen trials held back for nine or twelve months, wondered what strings the Springfellows had pulled for such a quick listing. Justice, it appeared, was being given the hurry-up for Justine.
Chilla Dural abandoned the idea of kidnapping one of the Springfellow women. The arrest of Justine had shocked him; he even felt a certain sympathy for Venetia, the mother; for the first time in a long time he thought long and hard about his own daughters. He continued to pay his fortnightly visit to Les Glizzard, who continued to try and rehabilitate him. He took several casual jobs, but was always glad to leave them. He had an occasional cup of tea and cakes with Jerry Killeen and suffered the old man’s ear-bashing; he became more familiar with the city and life in it. But he was still a long way from home.
The nation’s stock exchange, against all predictions, recovered from the Crash. Peter Polux disappeared from sight, or anyway from the financial pages of the newspapers; he was glimpsed once on Queensland’s Gold Coast, once again wearing white shoes but they were no longer handmade. Michael Broad s
old the Aston-Martin and replaced it with a second-hand Porsche: a dark-green one, so that his slide in status would not be too obvious. Money still made the world go round, though perhaps not as fast as it had last year.
The Police Department was reorganized, split into regions. Malone and Clements found themselves in Homicide, South Region, still in the Remington Rand building, still with no more equipment or funding: only the names had been changed to protect the guilty, the State government. Chief Inspector Random was still down for transfer, but all at once there was no place for him elsewhere. Regionalization had produced regional jealousies; the police force had become a collection of tribes. Each tribe had Indians who thought they, and not some outsider, should be the chiefs.
In the last week of April Greg Random, content to remain where he was in South Region, called a conference on the Emma Springfellow case. “Okay, have we got everything covered in the way of evidence?”
“I think so.”
Malone, with the committal of Justine now a fact, had at last committed himself to the prosecution of the case. He had had one phone conversation with John Leeds since the committal proceedings; the Commissioner had sounded like a man resigned to the possibility of the worst. He had asked no more favours of Malone and the latter had been grateful for that. Sympathy can be more debilitating than a virus.
“We still haven’t found the silencer, but maybe she didn’t use it. The Fingerprint men and Ballistics say their evidence is watertight. We have the doorkeeper who saw her go up to Emma’s flat and we have the doorkeeper from The Wharf apartments who saw her go out at roughly the time the murder was committed. There are Emma’s diaries and the entries about Justine threatening her. And there’s the motive. With Emma out of the way, there would be no opposition to Justine and her mother taking over the Springfellows’ little empire.”
“What about the fact that after the Crash Justine and her mum would have had no financial backing, so that the takeover bid was a dead duck anyway?”
“We can only go on newspaper reports that the Springfellow women knew nothing about Polux’s lack of money till after the murder. I’ve asked the Crown Prosecutor to subpoena Polux for our side, just in case we need him. I don’t think he’d be prepared to go into the box and lie for the Springfellows.”
“Where is he?”
“Somewhere up on the Gold Coast amongst all the other white shoe refugees.” Malone suffered from Southern snobbery. He grinned at Clements, acknowledging his own prejudice.
“Who’s defending Justine?”
“Albemarle. It figures they’d hire the best.”
“Who’s prosecuting?”
“Billy Wellbeck. He’s a terrier, he won’t let go. He’s like Russ, he hates the rich.”
Random looked at Clements. “Are you a Commo? I didn’t know that.”
“No, I’m just a little Aussie battler,” said Clements, fifty kilos overweight as a featherweight battler. “Don’t worry, Greg. I’m not going to let my prejudices get in the way on this one.”
“You just want to nail her to the wall in her mink coat, that’s all?” Random grinned. “Okay, get it all as watertight as you can. Bill Zanuch has suddenly started taking a personal interest in this one. I dunno why. Being promoted Deputy Commissioner has probably gone to his head.”
“I didn’t think there’d be any room left in his head,” said Malone. Then he said, “Do we have to report to him direct?”
“Only through me.”
Malone was determined to stay out of Zanuch’s way as much as possible. He was relieved to hear Clements say, “Keep him away from us, Greg. We’ve got enough to worry about.”
“What about Walter Springfellow? How are you going on that one?”
Malone said, “I thought we might tread water for a while, till we get Justine out of the way.”
“I don’t think you can. Zanuch is interfering on that one, too. He wants it pursued with all diligence. His phrase.”
“Does he hate the rich, too?” said Clements.
“Maybe only some of them,” said Malone. “He’s the greatest social climber in the Department.”
“Watch yourself,” said Random but grinned.
“My wife’s phrase. I’m only quoting her. She’s a student of the social columns.”
“Well, anyway, how are you going on it?”
“I want to go easy for a while. I don’t think the Department could handle two murder charges against the Springfellow women, not at the same time.”
Random pursed his lips. He never minded rocking the boat, but he was a poor sailor in rough seas. “Could you conclusively prove anything against her after all these years?”
“I don’t know.” Malone hedged, the shadow of John Leeds in his mind. “I’m beginning to think we could never make a charge stick.”
He was aware of Clements’s look at that remark, but he kept looking at Random.
“Well,” said Random, “do what you can without making waves. Frankly, after all this time I couldn’t care less what happened to Sir Walter Springfellow. We’ve got enough happening today.”
Malone silently agreed. But, as John Leeds and Venetia had both said, the past had a habit of catching up.
VI
The first day of Justine’s trial was a beautiful day to be free. After the wettest April ever, when half of Sydney seemed to be floating on a lake of water and mud, when houses several miles inland suddenly had waterfrontages, this Monday dawned sunny and warm. Birds, animals and the human elements shook the water from themselves and dug in their pockets and other crevices for some optimism. Only the elements converging on the Criminal Courts at Darlinghurst looked glum: the accused, the witnesses, even the jurors and some of the judges and their associates. The lawyers and the media elements were the only exceptions to the general glumness. They looked at the sky and uttered silent hurrahs. The case in No. 5 court promised to be a remunerative one for the lawyers and a sensational one for the media. Murder has a climate that can be appreciated a hundred ways.
The main building of the Criminal Courts had been built of sandstone over a hundred years before; other sections had been added as the population and concomitant crime increased. No. 5 court had not been built for a murder spectacular; it was an intimate theatre. It had all the trappings of the English courtrooms on which it had been modelled: high ceilings; high windows so that outsiders could not take pot-shots at the judge; dark panelled Bench, boxes and pews. The judge had the highest elevation; high above his head was a wooden canopy and beneath it the coat-of-arms, carved in wood. Immediately to the judge’s right and below him was the witness box. Beyond the witness box, coming towards the back of the court, was the jury box and next to it the police box. Facing the judge was the dock; on the accused’s right, going back towards the front of the court, was the press box. In the well of the court was the Bar table, the barristers sitting facing the jurors. At the rear of the court were pews for witnesses who had been heard and for the spectators. It was a theatre-in-the-round, legitimate, of course: no television cameras were allowed.
The law men contributed to the theatrical look. The judge wore red robes trimmed with grey silk, the barristers were in black; both judge and lawyers wore short grey wigs that looked like sheep’s scalps. Optimism, and certainly not enjoyment, were not encouraged by the atmosphere, though levity, that human cork, was occasionally allowed to bob to the surface. The law, or at least its practitioners, has always prided itself on its wit.
Mr. Justice Gilligan was the judge presiding, a tall thin man whose complexion matched the hue of his robe. He was a mixture of mercy and malice, and barristers and veteran court journalists took bets on the daily state of his liver. The Crown Prosecutor was Ishmael (Billy) Wellbeck, Queen’s Counsel, a bantam of a man who pecked at witnesses as in a cock-fight and who spoke so fast the court reporters had difficulty in keeping up with him. Defence Counsel was Joseph Albemarle, QC, reputedly the highest paid barrister in the country, a tall, stout actor
manqué whose black silk gown, it was said, had been designed by Giorgio Armani and his wig by the Queen’s milliner. The cast, on the legal side, could not have been better for a production.
The swearing-in of the jury took all the first morning. Prosecution and defence were allowed only three challenges each, but at least half of those called for jury duty were looking to be dismissed. It is a natural human instinct to judge one’s fellow men and especially fellow women; the backyard fence and the dinner table were invented to encourage such opinions. Yet it is a sad fact that when called upon to give judgement as a civic duty, more than half the voters rush to opt out. Some are influenced by loss of work and income, some put off by the thought of being bored with the law system, some by fear of having to take away another person’s freedom: a sense of guilt isn’t confined just to the dock. Whatever the reason, there is always a majority of called jurors who want to be excused.
This morning there was a man with a wooden leg who pleaded he couldn’t sit still for longer than ten minutes; he was excused by Judge Gilligan. There was a woman who crept up to the Bench and hung by her fingertips to it while she whispered to the judge; he stood up and leaned over to hear her, while the rest of the court almost took their ears off the sides of their heads and held them out like long-range microphones. She, the woman said, was going through the menopause and was subject to hot flushes; the judge sympathized with her, said he occasionally had the same trouble and excused her. A young man candidly confessed he hated women, but said he would lean over forwards to be fair. He, too, was dismissed.
Wellbeck and Albemarle made their challenges. A punk-haired young man in a black T-shirt and a sleeveless black leather jacket, with brass studs on the back spelling out F—K, was challenged by Albemarle; he did not appear the sort of juror who would find in favour of a rich girl yuppie. A motherly-looking woman, who had brought her knitting and her lunch, was challenged by Wellbeck, who was not looking for a juror to mother the accused. At last, however, there was a full jury: seven women and five men.