Babylon South

by Jon Cleary

  In the row behind Walter sat Chilla Dural and Jerry Killeen. It had been the latter who had suggested they should come to the court and see what was happening—“It’s only ten minutes’ walk, Chilla. We’ll go over and see how they treat a silvertail in the dock. How’d they treat you?”

  “Fucking terrible,” said Dural without rancour. “But I was never a silvertail.”

  He had never been anti the silvertails. Like most professional crims, he had no interest in class warfare. You stole from the rich only because they were the ones who had it, not because they were silvertails and you had to hate them as a matter of course. Heinie Odets had been rich and he sure as hell had never hated Heinie.

  Dural saw the look pass between the grey-haired man in the row in front of him and the two Springfellow women. He could see the man only in profile: the strong straight nose, the short white beard, the steel-rimmed glasses. A vague memory stirred, but it meant nothing. The old bloke was probably a neighbour of the Springfellows, someone he had caught a glimpse of when he had been casing the Mosman lay-out. He turned his gaze back to the business in the court.

  Walter Springfellow felt something leap in his chest when Justine came up through the trapdoor into the dock. Despite her wan look, she was more beautiful than he had expected; she had been beautiful enough in her photo, but he knew too well how the camera could lie. She was dressed in a simple dark dress and wore no jewellery: an ex-judge, he knew that would have been the recommendation of her lawyer. She wore make-up, but very little. She glanced at Venetia and Alice, gave them a small smile, then turned towards the Bench and sat down. When the jury filed in she rose politely like a well-trained schoolgirl.

  Walter could feel himself fluttering inside. This was his daughter! There was the memory of the fierce row the Friday night before he had disappeared; he had accused Venetia of carrying another man’s child. For years he had suffered the cancerous thought that the girl had been John Leeds’s child; it had eaten away at him as much as the carcinoma that was now killing him. Yet he looked across at her now and knew she had to be his daughter. He suddenly realized he felt as he had felt when Venetia had first told him she was pregnant: he wanted to be a father. He had once been the law, or represented it, and the law recognized blood tests. But now he felt only animal instinct: he knew his own young.

  The second day of the trial was given up to forensic evidence. First, there was a video film of the Emma Springfellow flat; it seemed the jury had asked for that. There had been nothing like this in Walter’s day on the Bench; he found his interest in the proceedings sharpening. All the old trappings were there: he looked up at Gilligan J. and felt the red robe round his own shoulders. But he was not sitting as the judge in this case; he was a silent defence counsel.

  Constable Jason James went into the box and Wellbeck led him through the ballistics evidence. The young officer knew his subject and had rehearsed what he had to say; Walter had seen it all before. The police were sure of their charges, they were certain of the accused’s guilt.

  Wellbeck finished with James and Albemarle rose to begin his questioning. The big man never just stood up; he came to his feet in a sort of slow levitation, a series of almost imperceptible pauses. One sensed that if this building collapsed in an earthquake, he would slowly rise, while everyone else fled, and address the roof as it fell in. He would always have the last word.

  Walter recognized the type. He was the product of a thousand Law Society dinners and a thousand litres of claret, of after-dinner speeches laced with port and carefully rehearsed ad lib wit. He was a man’s man in the social sense, too big and fat for the rugby club, too snobbish for the corner pub; he would have a wife somewhere left to run her own life on a generous allowance.

  “Constable James—you have mentioned the weapon, Exhibit B3, the Walther PPK .380, and the ammunition magazine and the bullets found in the body of the deceased. You have mentioned all those, am I right?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You didn’t mention a silencer, but I noticed there is threading on the Walther for the fitting of such a device.”

  “No silencer was ever found, sir. We don’t know if one was used.”

  “No, perhaps not.” Albemarle looked down at his papers, though Walter guessed it was only a ploy. The barrister had had all his thoughts and words well sorted out before he had got to his feet. He looked up as if a sudden thought had just struck him. “Haven’t you missed something, Constable?”

  James looked puzzled, exactly as Clements had yesterday. “No, sir, I don’t think so.”

  “You checked the lands and grooves on the bullets against those in the pistol and found they matched. You went to all that trouble, but you still don’t know what you missed?”

  “I’m not sure what you’re getting at, sir—”

  “Constable James, where are the shells? Doesn’t a Walther PPK .380 eject shells when it is fired?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then where are they?”

  “As far as I know, none were found at the scene of the crime.”

  “Did you ask if any had been?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “If no shells were found, wouldn’t that suggest to you that the murderer picked them up and took them with him?”

  “Possibly. I’m not sure why he would do that—”

  “It is possible, Constable, to find a partial fingerprint on an ejected shell. I once prosecuted a case along those lines—”

  “Objection!” gritted Wellbeck, seeing where this was leading.

  “Let us confine ourselves to this case, Mr. Albemarle. It may be long enough without a recitation of your distinguished career.”

  “You underestimate my modesty, Your Honour. But as you wish . . . Constable, how many instances have you known of a murderer gathering up the shells and taking them with him?”

  “I can’t recall exactly—I suppose two or three—”

  “Would you recall their names?”

  “Objection!”

  “Mr. Albemarle, please—”

  Albemarle bowed to the Bench, then turned again to the witness. “I suggest to you, Constable James, that the murderer in this case did indeed pick up the shells and take them with him, because he was experienced enough to know that he might have put a fingerprint on them when he was loading the magazine. I put it to you, and I will bring evidence for that fact, that my client is an absolute novice in the handling of guns and such attention to detail would never enter her pretty head.”

  James kept his own pretty head. “I don’t know about that, sir. My task is to give evidence on technical facts, not on hypotheses.”

  “True, Constable, true. But where would justice be without hypothesis?” He glanced up at the judge, who gave him a dry smile. “All I am saying is—” He had turned to face the jury, though his gaze seemed to be on the window high above their heads. “All I am saying is that an amateur, an absolute rank amateur like my client, would not know enough about guns to worry, or even think, about collecting the shells after the gun had been fired. This murder, I suggest, was committed by a professional. Would you agree with that hypothesis, Constable?”

  Malone, sitting in the police box, looked idly back at the public gallery. He saw the white-bearded man in the steel-rimmed glasses, but took no notice of him. Then he saw Chilla Dural sitting in the row behind; beside him was the little bloke who lived in the same rooming house. Dural was smiling at Malone and shaking his head and Malone got the message. He was a professional, or had been, and he knew the procedure. You didn’t pick up bloody hot shells to make sure your fingerprints weren’t still on them. You made sure there were no prints before you fired the gun.

  Walter Springfellow had listened to Albemarle’s argument and with every word his heart had sunk further. He recognized a hopeless case. Albemarle didn’t believe in what he had been saying; he was clutching at straw ideas. Justine, it seemed, was doomed.

  Malone sat up in the police box as Andy Graham pus
hed his way through the crowded gallery and came towards him. The young detective leaned close to him and whispered, “There’s a Constable Sobers outside. He says he’s found the silencer.”

  12

  I

  “IT WAS down in the Gardens, Inspector,” said Gary Sobers. “We missed it the first time—it hadn’t been thrown away near where we found the gun. A gardener found it this morning under a pile of mulch. He called the station and Sergeant Greenup told me to bring it up to you right away.”

  Malone looked at the metal cylinder in the narrow plastic envelope. “Was it in the plastic when you found it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “If she bought that, and it doesn’t look like a home-made job, it would be in the plastic bag.” Clements took the envelope and opened it, but did not remove the silencer. “No, it’s not home-made. It’s a Gold Spot, the Aussie make. It’d fit the Walther.”

  The three policemen were outside the courthouse. Out of the corner of his eye Malone could see the TV cameramen at the gates; one of them had raised his shoulder-borne camera and was aiming it at them. Malone moved round so that what he and the other two were discussing was hidden from the inquisitive eye of the camera.

  “Where would she have got it? They’re illegal here in New South Wales. I doubt if Justine would have known where to buy it under the counter.”

  “You can buy them over the counter in South Australia,” said Clements. “Evidently the South Australians see no harm in murder, so long as it doesn’t wake anyone.”

  “Well, first we have to see if there are any prints on it. Then we’ll check if it fits the Walther. Don Cheshire is giving evidence today—we’ll hold on to it and pass it over to him. Then Ballistics can have a look at it, see if it fits the Walther.”

  Sobers looked disappointed. “You won’t be wanting me any further then, Inspector?”

  Malone grinned sympathetically. “Don’t worry, Gary, your day will come. If ever you apply to come over to plainclothes, let me know. I’ll give you a recommendation.”

  Sobers went off, satisfied, and Clements looked after him. “Were we ever as young and keen as that?”

  “Sure,” said Malone. “In another life.”

  He looked at the silencer in the plastic envelope, wondering if it would prove to be another nail to pin Justine to the wall. Then he went looking for Sergeant Cheshire. On the way he passed Chilla Dural and Jerry Killeen coming out of the court, which had risen for the lunch adjournment.

  “Hello, Chilla. I thought you’d have had enough of courts.”

  “Just looking, Inspector.”

  “Seeing how the other half lives,” said Jerry Killeen. “The public seats are full of silvertails. I never seen so many.”

  “Excuse me,” said Walter Springfellow, and Malone and the other two men stood aside to let him pass as he came out of the court entrance.

  Dural looked after him. “He’d be one.”

  Malone didn’t look after the white-bearded man, just grinned at Dural and Killeen. “They’re everywhere in Sydney now. Everybody’s rich but thee and me. Ask Sergeant Clements about them—he’s an authority on them.”

  “Good luck to „em,” said Dural.

  “Bugger „em,” said Jerry Killeen.

  After lunch on that second day Justine did not have a good day in court. The evidence continued to pile up against her, despite Albemarle’s efforts to divert the prosecution’s line. Malone went home convinced that Justine had no real hope of being acquitted.

  The phone rang that evening at Randwick. Lisa went out to answer it and Malone remained in the living-room, sprawled on the couch. The children had gone to bed and he was looking at LA Law, wondering at the lifestyles and why he hadn’t gone to university and become a lawyer. Lisa came back. “It’s the Commissioner.”

  Malone closed his eyes for a moment: Arnie Becker and Michael Kuzak and the others didn’t know what trouble was. Then he opened his eyes and looked up at Lisa. “How did he sound?”

  “Quiet. But I don’t know him, really. Maybe he’s always quiet.”

  Malone got up and went out to the hallway. “Yes, sir?”

  “Scobie, I’m sorry to call you at home. I’m ringing from my office. I’ve just had a session with Deputy Commissioner Zanuch. He tells me things didn’t go well today for Miss Springfellow.” The Commissioner’s line would never be tapped, but he sounded to Malone as if he feared it might be. “Does it look bad?”

  “I’m afraid so, sir. The Crown start producing Emma’s diaries tomorrow. Things will get worse. There are entries about Justine threatening her, all that . . .” He could offer John Leeds no hope for the acquittal of his (possible) daughter. “What did Mr. Zanuch have to say?”

  “When it’s all over, he wants to announce a commendation for you and Sergeant Clements.”

  “Oh Christ,” said Malone softly.

  There was silence for a moment, then Leeds said, “How is Lady Springfellow taking it?”

  “It’s hard to tell. Bravely, I think would be the word.”

  “Yes, I think that would describe her.”

  “How are you taking it?”

  There was a sound at the other end of the line: it might have been a clearing of the throat or a sour chuckle. “I can’t think of a word. Good-night, Scobie. I’m sorry I called.”

  The phone went dead, but Malone continued to hold it in his hand, trying to picture the stricken man at the other end of the line. Then he hung up. There was nothing he could do for the Commissioner or, for that matter, for Justine.

  He went back into the living-room. Lisa had turned off the television and was waiting for him. “He’s never done that before.”

  “No.”

  “Why?”

  He sat down beside her on the couch, put his arm round her. “I shouldn’t be telling you this.”

  She waited, knowing he wanted to tell it.

  “The Commissioner isn’t sure he’s not Justine Springfellow’s father.” He went on to tell her everything about John Leeds and Venetia. It would help no one but himself, but telling her seemed to lighten the load. Some of us feed on secrets, hiding them like candy bars in a cupboard, but they only made him sick. He told the nurse everything.

  She, with an attempt at Dutch practicality, said, “There’s nothing you can do, so try and forget it.”

  “That’s the bugger of it—I can’t. You couldn’t, either.”

  “No,” she admitted. “But I’d be seeing the woman’s side. The Commissioner isn’t going to suffer as much as Venetia.”

  Late next morning Sergeant Cheshire came to the courthouse and sent in word that he wanted to see Inspector Malone. The latter came out. “Come up with anything, Don?”

  “G’day, Scobie. We went okay yesterday, don’t you reckon? That bastard Albemarle gave me a pain, though. All lawyers do. Yeah, I come up with something.” He held out the silencer in the plastic envelope. “The plastic protected it. There’s a partial print on it, not much, as if he held it by his fingertips.”

  “He?”

  “I couldn’t swear to it, but it looks like it could be a male’s print. It ain’t Justine’s, definitely.”

  Clements had followed Malone out of the courtroom. He took the silencer, holding it carefully, as if a loaded pistol were attached to it. “If her prints aren’t on it, then I don’t think we need to mention this, do we?”

  Malone could read what was in Clements’s mind: he wanted nothing that would weaken the case against Justine, no contradictory evidence. He would not be the first cop who didn’t want his convictions discouraged.

  “If that’s the way you want it,” said Cheshire. “I’m not gunna say anything. I’ve never seen the silencer.”

  Malone said quietly, “I don’t think that’s the way we want it at all. When your fellers went through Emma’s flat, how many prints did you come up with?”

  “There were six different ones. I give all that information to Russ.” Cheshire was rough and bluff, bu
t he had worked for years in a Department where men rubbed up against each other every day; he was sensitive to friction, if to very little else. He sensed now that Malone and Clements were at odds, and he was surprised: he knew their reputation in the Department as a team.

  “What were they? Male or female?”

  “Three of them I put down as male. One of them was the doorkeeper’s, the one on the bedroom door, so you can cross him off the list. The other two belonged to two different men. One set was on the drinking glass and the other, a single print, was on the bedside table, if I remember right.”

  Too late Malone saw his mistake: he had forgotten John Leeds’s print on the drinking glass. But he couldn’t turn back now. “Try the one on the bedside table, see if it matches this one on the silencer.”

  “I’ll call you tomorrow. I gotta give evidence at two other courts today.”

  When Cheshire had gone, Malone said to Clements, “I’m not out to ruin the case against Justine. But . . .”

  “I guess you’re right,” said Clements reluctantly. “I’m still sure she did the job. But I’ve never yet had the wrong person convicted. I don’t wanna spoil my record. But unless we get something conclusive from that other print . . .”

  “I promise you. Nothing conclusive, we don’t mention it.”

  “Are you going to ask for the Walther so’s we can check the fit of the silencer?”

  “Not right away.” Malone knew he had to make some concession to Clements. “As soon as we start asking for a second look at one of the exhibits, especially the gun, Albemarle is going to be suspicious. He’ll start asking awkward questions.”

  The third day of the trial was more presentation of evidence; Wellbeck pouring water on the stone. There were minutes of board meetings in which the bitter antagonism between Emma and Justine stood out; there were statements of share sales and purchases by both sides in the takeover battle. The papers were passed round the jury; one woman, a copious note-taker, took fifteen minutes to read her copy, as if she were being paid by the word. The forewoman, as if aware that her ship was slow in the water, whispered to the woman to hurry up, but the latter took no notice of her. Madame Forewoman began to look like Captain Bligh’s sister: she was not accustomed to mutiny, she would deal with it once they got back to the jury room.