Yesterday's Shadow

by Jon Cleary

  “Rosie's right, Mum,” said the girl. “While we're on holidays, I'm gunna do some baby-sitting.”

  Delia looked at the boy with a tired smile. “And what are you gunna do?”

  “I dunno. I could mow lawns, only grass don't grow in winter. Maybe I can wash someone's car.”

  “Well, wash all these things up first,” said Delia and rose. She led Rosie Quantock to the front door, opened it and stepped out into the cold sunlight. “I really appreciate you trying to help me, Rosie. But it isn't easy, going into places where people recognize me. I see 'em nudging each other—There she is.”

  “Stuff 'em, love. The only ones who wouldn't be on your side would be the men. The women understand. You had the guts to do something some of them might want to do.”

  She opened the front gate, stepped out. “Go and register for a sole parent's pension.”

  Delia laughed. “Rosie, I'm a sole parent because I killed my husband!”

  “Don't matter. You'll be dealing with bureaucrats—they're only interested in facts, not reasons.”

  Delia smiled; her smiles now all looked tired. “You're on your own, Rosie. I dunno what I'd do without you to buck me up.”

  “You need bucking up.” Rosie closed the gate. “Go out and get yourself some money. Only don't hold up a bank or some guy flashing his money around.”

  “You think I might do that?”

  “I wouldn't blame you, love—” She was smiling, not tiredly.

  “You never blamed me for—for what I did to Boris.”

  “He had it coming to him. I'll never blame you for that. Neither will the kids. If it hadn't been him, it would of been you that some day would of finished up dead.” She was inside her own gate now, talking over the small dividing fence. “Now go and get a job, pay the rent, buy the kids a meal at McDonald's or Pizza Hut. Get yourself a life again. It's gunna be a long wait till you go to trial.”

  She went into her house, closing the front door as if to say there was no further argument. Delia leaned on her own front gate and looked up and down the narrow street. A few cars were parked along one kerb: nothing new, nothing that would excite the revheads who went to motor shows: four wheels, an engine, a means of escape for a day or two to something better than this. She had dreamed of better than this, she was convinced; twenty-five years ago came back to mind like an old movie. Scobie had been in the dream, she had told herself over the past weeks. They had been more than lovers, they had been deeply in love. He had proposed to her, she could hear the words even now . . . Her mind whirled, just as it had when she had driven the knife into Boris.

  She clutched at the gate to steady herself. Her gaze had blurred; she blinked and tried to clear it. Slowly she recovered, still holding to the gate. Then her mind cleared, her legs strengthened and she was all right. She must not let the kids see her like this . . .

  “Mum?”

  She turned her head. Dakota was in the doorway. “Yes?”

  “Calvin's out the back, he's burning Dad's photo. The one you threw out.”

  “Let him go. If that's what he wants to do—” She felt a sort of mad glee.

  Dakota looked at her, then the lively, pretty mouth curved in a smile. They were mother and daughter.

  Delia smiled back. She loved both of her children so much. She would get another job, find money somehow to give them a good life . . .

  II

  Before he left home that morning Malone had called Gail Lee at her flat in Leichhardt. He had never been to her home nor she to his; they lived three lives, only sharing the one at Homicide. Once or twice he had thought of inviting Gail and Sheryl Dallen home to meet his girls and Tom, but decided against it. Police life had enough skeins to it without getting them tangled.

  “Gail, you and Sheryl go out and pick up Delia Jones, bring her in to Police Centre.”

  “Something on?” Gail sounded as if she might be brushing her teeth, her usual clear speech was indistinct.

  “We're picking up Julian Baker. I want her to have a look at him in a line-up, but don't tell her that.”

  “What if she won't come?” Her voice was clearer, the question clearer still.

  “Tell her I want to talk to her. That'll bring her in.” He hung up and turned round to find Lisa leaning against the wall only feet from him. “Ah.”

  “Yes—ah. Another little tryst?”

  “I'm just going to ask her what she's doing this weekend. I thought we might have her over for dinner.”

  She peeled herself off the wall, came to him and put her arms round his neck. “Will she be a help in the Pavane case?”

  “I'm hoping so. If she can pick him out of a line-up—” He kissed her. Then cocked an eye over her shoulder at Tom standing in his bedroom doorway.

  “I wish you wouldn't do that in front of the kid,” said Tom. “You're worse than a Spanish movie.”

  “It's his hot Irish blood,” said Lisa. “You should be so lucky to have some.”

  She went down towards the kitchen and Tom grinned after her. “You're lucky, aren't you? We both are.”

  “How's your tutor?” asked Malone.

  “Like as if we'd never met. We just nod to each other in class.”

  “She doesn't resent you jilting her?”

  “I didn't jilt her. I just didn't renew my subscription. I heard you then on the phone—your ex-girlfriend coming to see you?”

  For the first time he could remember he looked with suspicion at his son. “What does that mean?”

  “Nothing.” Tom looked surprised. “What—oh, come on, Dad! What do you think I'm doing? Spying for Mum? It was just a question, that was all. I heard you say the other night she wouldn't talk to anyone but you—”

  “Righto—”Malone waved an apologetic hand. “She's a bloody nuisance, if you want the truth. But she's a witness and I have to talk to her.”

  “A witness? I thought she was a killer?”

  Malone had said enough; Delia kept tripping him up. “I'll tell you about it when it's all over.”

  “No, you won't,” said Tom; then smiled. “Mum'll have your balls if you mention that woman again.”

  “Mum would never have thoughts like that—”

  “You kidding?” said Tom and, grinning, went into the bathroom.

  Where did the innocent four-year-old go, the one who used to greet me with “Friend or fuzz?” He just wished he could not renew his subscription with Delia. Had his own life been so simple when he was young? But he knew the question had been answered in Delia's mind. She didn't think so. She had never thought of him as part of her library. It only came back to him now that he had broken her hymen. Where had he read that first love is never forgotten? He would have to handle Delia with kid gloves, which were not a uniform issue with police.

  Now, gloveless, he was escorting Julian Baker into Police Centre. “A few questions, Mr. Baker, and you can be back at your meeting and then on your way home to—Toronto, is it?”

  “How do you know so much?” Baker had regained his good temper, though he was not affable.

  “It's a computer world, Mr. Baker. There are no secrets any more—you must know that. They're hacking into the Pentagon. Next thing they'll be hacking into the Vatican and nothing will be secret any more . . . In here?” He led Baker into an interview room, gestured for him to be seated. “Detective Graham and I have a few questions about Mrs. Pavane. You remember her? She used to be Patricia Norval.”

  He and Andy Graham sat down on the other side of the table from Baker. The latter looked at the video recorder, but made no comment. Then he stood up and took off his overcoat, folded it and laid it over the back of the empty chair beside him. Then he sat down again, shot his cuffs and laid his hands flat on the table. It was an act and Malone had to admire it.

  “Yes, I knew Trish. Who told you?”

  “We've been visiting some of your old workmates,” said Malone. “We know something of what went on in those offices—the scam, gossip, stuff like that—
”

  “What scam was that?”

  This bastard is so cool. “It's none of our business, Jack—”

  “Julian.”

  “Sorry. Julian. It's none of our business, we're Homicide, so we won't go into it. Patricia Norval—or Mrs. Billie Pavane, which was who she was when she was murdered—she's our business. Did you see her after you came back to Sydney this time?”

  “No. I phoned her in Canberra, talked for about five minutes and that was it—”

  “Yes, we know that. We checked the phone records from your room at the Regent.”

  “You're thorough,” said Baker, unworried.

  “Yes, you'll find that we are. Go on.”

  “I just congratulated her on how well she'd done. From office manager to ambassador's wife.”

  “She must have enjoyed hearing you say that. You're a snob?”

  Baker smiled. “Who isn't, to a greater or lesser degree? You must consider yourself better than some people?”

  “Only crims. So you thought you were better than Patricia Norval?”

  “Not really. We just had different standards.”

  “We know about the scam you were involved in,” said Andy Graham. “You were the prime mover. That was part of your standards.”

  Baker had been ignoring Graham up till now. He stared at him, then looked back at Malone. But the latter had seen the tightening of the jaw. He's self-contained, the Wexalls had said of him. But every armour-plating has a weakness somewhere: Malone had seen it so often.

  “Mrs. Pavane had an abortion years ago. Was the child yours?”

  Nothing showed in his face; which was a mistake, Malone thought. He should have been surprised or indignant: anything. “I knew nothing about any abortion.”

  “Did you kill Patricia Norval?” Malone said quietly while the armour was still being adjusted.

  “No.” The answer was as soft as Malone's question.

  He's too self-contained. “Where were you the night of July 16?”

  The brow furrowed: he's a good actor, too. “I think I had dinner at my hotel, the Regent—”

  “No, you didn't—”Graham came in almost too quickly. “You had dinner at a Japanese restaurant in Hunter's Hill with Mrs. Pavane.”

  Baker shook his grey head. “You're wrong. I haven't been in Hunter's Hill in years.”

  “Then you won't mind if we put you in a line-up?” said Malone.

  That dented the armour. “I can refuse?”

  “No, you can't. You can have a lawyer come here and advise you, but you will still have to stand in a line-up. We'd also want to do a DNA test on you.”

  “A what? Why, for Crissake?” The self-containment was falling apart.

  “We think you had sex with Mrs. Pavane the night she was murdered and you left your semen in her. It's a dead giveaway, Jack. Julian.”

  “This is—it's bloody demeaning!” Sex has become a common social habit, like shaking hands; but it is still a practice that brings about varying degrees of reaction. Like hypocrisy, as in Baker's case: “Jesus, talk about intrusion—Can I refuse a DNA test?”

  “We can get a court order. It'll look suspicious, won't it, if you refuse?”

  “I don't care what it looks like! If you think I'm going to jerk off for you guys—”

  “There'll be no need for that. We can get a DNA identification from a single hair from that nice thatch you've got on your head. We don't go in for crudity here, Jack.”

  “Julian—”

  “Whatever.” He was chipping away at the armour.

  “I want to see a lawyer—”

  “Who?”

  Baker was silent, re-soldering the armour. Then he said, “My brother-in-law, Walter Wexall.”

  “He wouldn't be available. He's defending a case up at Darlinghurst—he'll be in court this morning.”

  “Then we'll wait till the lunch recess.”

  “You'll miss your plane this afternoon,” said Andy Graham.

  “There'll be others. I'll be back in Toronto before the week's out.”

  This bugger's too confident. But Malone knew the old proverb: Confidence goes farther in company than good sense. Experienced crims had proven it time and time again; jails are stuffed with men, and women, who thought confidence was some sort of protection.

  “You may well be back there, Jack. In the meantime—” He looked at Graham. “Check with Mr. Wexall, tell him we'd like him down here as soon as the court rises for lunch. Have a car for him.”

  Graham rose, went out with his usual rush. Baker looked after him. “He's an eager beaver, isn't he?”

  “You know much about beavers? Living in Canada?”

  “Never seen one. I'm not an outdoors man, except for golf. No hunting, stuff like that. Can I go now?”

  Malone shook his head in mock disbelief. “You're a card, Jack. What do you think I am? A bleeding heart that trusts every man? No, Jack, you'll have to stay here, we'll make you comfortable. I'll get you a paper, you can fill in the time reading how unsophisticated we are out here.”

  “Get me the Financial Review.”

  “I don't think they'd run to that, Jack, not here at Police Centre. That'd be more in Fraud Squad's line. Would you like tea or coffee?”

  “Tea, black, no sugar. And a biscuit. Do you have any Iced Vo-Vos?”

  “You're still Australian through and through?” The Iced Vo-Vo was a national icon, on a par with certain racehorses; generals and statesmen were ignored.

  “Only part-way.”

  Malone called in a detective from the strike force to sit with Baker, then he went out to the corridor outside the Incident Room. Gail Lee and Sheryl Dallen were there with Delia Jones and a pretty girl about twelve or thirteen.

  “Hullo, Scobie,” said Delia, smiling as if she had been invited to dinner. “You wanted to talk to me? Oh, this is my daughter Dakota.”

  North or South? But he couldn't lay his sarcasm on the girl. “Hello, Dakota.”

  “He could of been your father,” said Delia, still smiling.

  The girl looked up at him: appraisingly? She was tallish for her age, with traces of her mother in her pretty face; she was an adolescent, but it wouldn't be long before she was older than her mother. The years ahead were already there in her face. “Hi.”

  “Hi,” he said. “Delia, can I see you alone? Detectives Lee and Dallen will look after Dakota.”

  He turned instinctively towards the Incident Room, then changed his mind and led Delia down towards the end of the corridor. There was traffic here and he looked around again, then led her into a small store room. She spun right round, almost a pirouette, then said, “I killed Boris in a room like this.”

  She's nuts, he thought; and looked at her with sharpened eyes. She's bloody enjoying this. “Let's forget Boris, Delia. Why did you bring your daughter?”

  “Company. We're very close.” Some refinement was creeping back into her voice, the voice she had had when she had known him; it seemed to come and go like a hoarseness of the throat. “I wanted you to see her. What might have been, you know what I mean?”

  He took a deep breath. “Delia, that's history now—”

  “Not for me.”

  He almost took her hand, as he might have for someone grieving; but that would have been a mistake. “Did Detectives Lee and Dallen tell you why we wanted you in here?”

  “They said you wanted to talk to me.”

  “No, Delia. What we want you to do is walk up and down a line of men and see if you recognize anyone.”

  She looked disappointed, narrowing her lips; then she seemed to shrug off whatever she felt and said, “A line-up? I've seen it in movies, on TV. I stand behind a glass screen—”

  “No, not here. We're behind the times. You walk up and down in front of the line-up, each of the men will have a number, then you come out and write on a piece of paper the number of the man you've pointed the finger at. Only,” he added hastily, “don't point the finger while you're in there.”


  “That's pretty primitive, isn't it? Compared to what you see in the movies, TV?”

  “Delia,” he said patiently, “stop comparing us with the movies and TV. This is real life—”

  “TV is about all I get to see—” For a moment there was a whine in her voice. She was wearing her long black coat, but had taken off her beret and shaken out her hair; as if trying to look younger, like the girl of long ago. She swallowed and said, “What man am I supposed to be identifying?”

  “The man you saw coming out of Room 342 at the Southern Savoy the night—” He almost said, the night you killed Boris. “The night the American Ambassador's wife was murdered.”

  “So I'm important?” It was hard to tell whether she was being childish or sarcastic.

  “You're very important, Delia. But—”

  She looked at him; like a wife: “But?”

  “There's been a delay. We can't have the line-up for another two or three hours. Do you want us to take you back home till then?”

  “You could take me and Dakota to morning tea. I know a nice place—in the QVB—”

  “Delia, I'm not allowed to visit with a witness.”

  “That's all I am—a witness?” She was smiling again, almost coquettishly.

  “Yes,” he said bluntly. “Let's go back—”

  “No!” She stood her ground. They were close together in the narrowness of the store room; he could smell the cheap perfume she wore, feel the sudden heat of her body. Shelves of paper pressed in on them: charge-sheets, witness reports, pamphlets: they were surrounded by officialdom. But she was determined to keep everything personal. “You can't brush me off like this!”

  “Delia—” He was finding it hard to keep his patience. Too, a happily married man for twenty-five years, he was out of practice with a thwarted lover. He had met women almost every week of his police career who made demands on him: murderers, drug dealers, drug addicts, widows looking for comfort. He had been bruised by the contacts, but none of them had been personal. Still, something was nagging at him: conscience? But he knew, knew, he had never thought of marriage with her. “I'm not brushing you off. It's just the way the system works—”

  It was a lie: he had sat and talked with dozens of witnesses.