by Jon Cleary
“Let's stay here, then. We can have a quiet chat—you and me and Dakota. I'd like you to get to know her—”
I don't want to know her! I have kids of my own! But all he said was, “Let's go, Delia—”
She grabbed his hand. “Kiss me!”
He snatched his hand away, stepped out into the corridor as three of the strike force men came by. They nodded to him, looked past him and saw Delia in the store room, face flushed, a lock of hair hanging down over her face. Then they went on down the corridor towards the Incident Room. They had just looked in on what Malone knew they would, later in conversation amongst themselves, refer to as another Incident Room.
He went down towards Gail Lee and Sheryl Dallen, who appeared to be entertaining Dakota with stories of how exciting life was in the Police Service. Whatever they were telling her, Dakota was gasping and laughing, hands to her mouth. Then all three turned and saw Malone coming towards them, anger plain as a birthmark on his face. He was hurrying, but Delia, pulling on her beret, was coming behind him at her own measured pace.
“Gail—Sheryl—” He took out his wallet. Take Mrs. Jones and her daughter out for morning coffee. Or an early lunch—” He took two fifty-dollar notes out of his wallet.
“No,” said Gail and gave him a hard stare. “It'll be on the office expense account.”
He was suddenly grateful to her: she had saved him from himself. He put the notes back in his wallet, amongst the dust there. “See you back here at twelve-thirty,” he said and almost plunged into the Incident Room and shut the door.
He waited there, while the strike force men at their desks sneaked curious glances at him, then he opened the door and stepped out into the corridor again. And looked into the equally curious face of Chief Superintendent Greg Random.
“Just missed being run over by a bus?”
“What?”
Random put up a hand and leaned against the wall. “What's on your mind, Scobie? They tell me you've brought in this bloke Brown you've been looking for. He proving difficult?”
“No. No.” Malone leaned back against the wall, tried to look relaxed. Be relaxed. “He's not going to be easy, but we still have a few things to put to him. No, it's Mrs. Jones.”
Random said nothing, at which he was very good.
Malone hesitated, then went on, “I'm off her case, Greg—”
“Wise move,” was all Random said.
“But I want her to identify Brown as the feller she saw that night at the Southern Savoy, coming out of the murder room.”
“And she's refusing?”
“No. No, she's just being bloody difficult.”
“Who with?”
“With me. She thinks she has a proprietary interest in me. You know she was an old girlfriend—”
“Old girlfriends are like scenes of the crime—they should never be re-visited. Old Welsh police proverb . . . I can take you off the Pavane case.”
The two men, bound together by twenty-five years of association, looked at each other. “You could, Greg. And maybe I'd feel better for it—it's a bloody headache. But who takes over handling the Ambassador, all the diplomatic shit? You want it?”
Random leaned away from the wall, put up a denying hand. “No, thanks. There's another old Welsh proverb—”
“Stuff the bloody proverbs. And none of your Welsh poets and their wisdom. Do you want to take over?”
“No, I don't. That's one thing about us Welsh—we're more cautious than you Irish. Stay on the job and stay away from Mrs. Jones.”
He went on down the corridor and out to the lifts that would take him up to his office, where complications came in triplicate and could be put in the Out basket for others to deal with. There were compensations for being a Chief Superintendent.
Malone went into the interview room where Baker, cup and saucer at his elbow, sat reading a morning newspaper. He had obviously just commented on an item to the strike force man sitting with him, for the latter was laughing and had just said, “I know him—he's a real lair—”
“Who's a real lair?” asked Malone.
Baker, smiling, unworried still, looked up at him, the newspaper still held spread out. “Bruce Farro. Detective Chatswood says he was on the Fraud Squad before he came here—”
“You investigated Farro?” asked Malone.
Chatswood was a burly young man with shoulders that started under his ears and a red urchin's face that would still be smiling and winking at the world when he was drawing his pension and his shoulders had fallen away to his elbows. “No, sir. But we had an interest in him for a while—he's always been on the shonky side. We never got anything positive on him—”
“What's your interest in him, Jack?”
“Julian . . . None, really. You know how it is—you see an old mate's name in the paper and you wonder how he's going . . . Is Walter Wexall on his way?”
“He'll be here at lunchtime. Read your paper. Get Detective Chatswood to tell you more about Fraud and how they work. You might find it educational.”
Baker smiled at him above the newspaper. “I doubt it, Inspector.”
Malone then went out to the small rest room off the Incident Room. Phil Truach was there with two of the women detectives from the strike force, drinking coffee and watching a daytime soap opera on the small TV set beside a microwave oven.
“I should of been an actor,” said Truach.
Today's episode was a weepie, everyone crying, including the men. Tears flowed like a burst water main; everything, including the furniture, looked sodden. Except the masses of hair on the actors. It floated above the flood like a drift of dark clouds, blow-dried and wavy.
“I'd love hair like that,” said Truach, who was almost bald. Tossing in the wind, women racing after me to stroke it—”
“While you blew cigarette-smoke in their faces.” Malone winked at the two women, who smiled: you don't have to tell us about men, bald or blow-dried. “On your feet, Phil. I want five or six fellers for a line-up, all about six feet and not too bulky, all with grey hair blowing in the wind—”
“He once sent me out to look for six virgins,” Truach told the women.
“You still looking?” they said and gathered up the coffee cups, switched off the TV.
Malone made himself a cup of coffee and went back into the Incident Room and sat down facing the flow-chart. The Jones murder had been removed; it was now just papers on its way to the Director of Public Prosecutions. The Pavane murder was still on the chart, like a gallery exhibition gathering dust. Very soon, he hoped, they could start taking down the layout. He looked up as Phil Truach passed behind him.
“Near the end?”
“I hope so, Phil. I put Jack Brown in the line-up, Delia Jones points the finger and that'll be it.”
“You hope.”
“Yes, I hope.”
III
Walter Wexall said, “I shouldn't be here, Jack. It would have been much better to have had Rita Gudersen send one of their solicitors—”
“No,” said Baker. “I wanted you. For the family's sake. Your sake.”
Wexall looked at Malone, shrugged hopelessly. “What do you want me to do, Inspector?”
Malone was surprised that he had asked. “We don't want you to do anything, Mr. Wexall. That's between you and your client.”
“He's not—” Then Wexall sat down heavily beside Baker. “Well, yes, I guess he is. Has he been charged with anything yet?”
“Walter—” Baker looked at him with mocking disapproval.
“Shut up, Jack. We're beyond the joking stage.”
“We've charged him with nothing—so far.” Malone was not going to lose control of the situation while these two bickered. “We want Mr. Brown to appear in a line-up and to take a DNA test. He's refused the latter. We can get a court order.”
Baker was sitting very still now; Malone had remarked the coolness turning to coldness. Or was it fear? “Okay, I'll stand in the line-up, I've got nothing to hide.
But the DNA—” He shook his head. “No.”
“Have you made any statement yet?”
“No. And I'm not going to.”
“If you're not going to say anything, why did you bother to call me down here?”
Baker looked at Wexall; there was no doubt in Malone's mind that he was mocking him. “I was trying to impress Inspector Malone with the connections I have.”
The two men stared at each other; Malone and Andy Graham could have been out of the room. The tension was palpable and Malone waited for Wexall to erupt. But Walter Wexall had learned from long experience in court that temper never won an argument. Fiery rhetoric could sometimes win a jury, but fiery temper never. He turned back to Malone:
“Where do you have the line-up?”
“Next door, in the Surry Hills station.”
“Are there any media wolves here?”
“I think there are one or two out front.”
“Get rid of them—”
“Mr. Wexall, we're not running this case to suit you and your client. We'll get you in next door through the back way, but don't tell me what to do with the media.”
Wexall remained stiff and impassive for a long moment; then he seemed to shrug inwardly. “I'm sorry, Inspector . . . When he has passed the line-up test, can he go?”
“If he passes, yes.” He looked at Baker.
“Oh, I'll pass, no fear of that.” If there was any fear, he was hiding it well.
“We'll still wonder why, if you're denying you were nowhere near the Southern Savoy hotel on the night of Mrs. Pavane's murder, you won't take the DNA test.”
“It's just personal,” said Baker, pushing back his chair, picking up his overcoat and hat. “As my lawyer says, it's an invasion. I even hated taking blood tests for a doctor . . . Shall we go?”
He's so bloody confident But he's going to come a gutser when Delia recognizes him.
“I'll wait here,” said Wexall and stood his ground.
“As you wish,” said Baker, but his smile was again mocking.
Malone nodded at Wexall. “Whatever you wish, Mr. Wexall. Unless you'd like to volunteer for the line-up?”
“No, thanks.” Wexall's mouth twitched, but not with humour.
Baker stopped at the doorway. “You never did take risks, Walter.”
“Unlike you, Jack.”
When the two detectives stepped out of the room with Baker, Joe Himes was waiting for Malone. “You got a minute, Inspector?”
Andy Graham took Baker down the corridor and Himes looked after them. “Who's he?” “He's the feller murdered Mrs. Pavane. Another ten minutes and we'll be charging him.” “How do you feel about it?”
Malone caught the caution in the other man's question. “How do you feel?”
“I dunno, Scobie. As a law enforcement officer—pleased for you, I guess. I've spent the last few days listening to Roger Bodine on the line—he's convinced there's more to the murder than we've dug up. He's sure the Taliban or Colombian drug lords or Russian mafia are behind it somewhere. I'll be happy to prove him wrong . . . But then there's the Ambassador. I wonder how he'll feel when we tell him?”
“That his wife's murderer was his wife's old boyfriend? Not happy, I'd say. You want to tell him?”
“Balls to that. We tell him together—tonight. He's due back late this afternoon and he'll be waiting for us at the Consulate. I got word this morning from Bradley Avery.”
“This is when I'd like to turn the whole thing over to senior officers. The Commissioner—he should be carrying the can now.”
“Scobie, when did you ever hear of a senior officer carrying the can? That's why they breed us, low men on the totem pole. I'll see you at the Consulate at five, okay? Good luck with your suspect.”
“Joe, would you prefer we let this whole thing drop out of sight?”
Himes took his time; then: “Frankly, yes. It's gonna do more harm than good.”
He turned quickly, as if to avoid more questions, and went out towards the front of the building. Malone stared after him, then Sheryl Dallen came out of the Incident Room.
“Where's Mrs. Jones? Not in there?” he snapped.
“No.” Sheryl was surprised at his abruptness. “Gail has taken her and her daughter in next door to the station. Gail is gunna sit with Dakota out the front while Delia does the line-up.”
“You take them for lunch or morning coffee?”
“Early lunch. Dakota ate as if she was starving, like she'd never been in a restaurant with a menu. Delia chose the place—a restaurant in the QVB.” She paused, still unsure of his mood, then said, “She said she'd had lunch there with your wife.”
He was abruptly all caution: “She talk about my wife?”
“No. She just made that remark, then she was all sweetness and what-have-you. She can be pretty nice when she likes. She and her daughter get on well.”
“Good. I'm glad there are one or two things in life that don't upset her.” She stared at him and he said, “Righto, don't say it. But she's been making life bloody difficult—”
“She's okay now. Will I start the paperwork for looking up Mr. Baker?”
“Tell Russ to clear his desk.”
When he came in through the back entrance to Surry Hills police station Delia Jones was standing with two of the strike force officers and Senior-Sergeant Garry Peeples, of the Surry Hills staff.
“G'day, Scobie.” They had worked together on another case. They also had another bond: Peeples was a fast bowler, as Malone had been. They were bound by blood, that of batsmen they had hit. “We're all ready to go. Phil Truach has got five grey-haired guys, middle-aged, in the room there. Where'd he get 'em at such short notice?”
“Phil could find you five grey-haired gay dwarfs at short notice.” At last he looked at Delia: “Are you ready?”
“Of course,” she said with an executioner's smile.
“I've explained the procedure to Mrs. Jones—” Peeples, two or three inches taller than Malone, big in chest and shoulders, towered over those in the small outer room. “She's not to point at any guy, just take her time, then come out and let us know which one she saw at the crime scene.”
“Take your time, Delia,” said Malone and tried to sound comforting. He knew the task was never easy, except for the malicious. “Write the number of the man you think you saw on that piece of paper Sergeant Peeples has given you and then give it to me. Above all, take your time.”
“Oh, I will, Scobie. Trust me.” She gave him a wide smile, then actually squared her shoulders and marched into the line-up room.
She slowed once inside the room. Six men, grey-haired, well-built, stood side by side, each holding a square of cardboard with a number on it, 1 to 6. Each had his individual look, but they were distant relatives to each other; Phil Truach, somehow, had picked a gallery in which Julian Baker, or Jack Brown, did not stand out. No accused could claim that the line-up had been loaded.
Delia moved slowly along the line, taking her time as she passed each man. Baker was No. 4; she paused in front of him, then moved on. She got to No. 6, paused again, frowned as if trying to catch a memory; the man's face stiffened and the square of cardboard trembled slightly in his hand. Then Delia turned and made her slow way back down the line. She passed by Baker without looking at him and walked out of the room to where Malone and the others stood waiting for her.
“No,” she said, speaking directly to Malone. “The man I saw at the hotel isn't in that line-up.”
Malone felt the anger boil up in him, but somehow he sat on it. She's shafted me! She recognized Brown and she's given him the blind eye! He looked directly into her eyes and she gazed back at him, a glint of amusement in the gaze. He said quietly but with strain, “You're sure, Delia?”
“Certain, Scobie. Have I ruined your case?”
“No. We have another witness,” he lied. Christ, this is like a lovers' fight! “Thanks for coming in.”
“That's all you have to say?”
/> He was aware of the others standing around them; in the margin of his gaze they seemed to have multiplied. Their faces were like stone masks looking at him, not her.
“That's all,” he said and pushed past Garry Peeples and went back to the interview room where Walter Wexall had said he would wait. He went in, leaving the door open, and Wexall got up from where he had been sitting at the table.
“Well?”
“He's in the clear. For the time being.”
“Your witness—?” Wexall knew the value, and non-value, of witnesses. They were no more reliable than cheap barometers.
“She let us down.” She let me down: but he wasn't going to say that. “He's the one, Mr. Wexall, he killed Mrs. Pavane—”
Wexall held up a hand. “Hold it . . . Whatever happens to Jack, I'm not going to be representing him. So I don't want to know—”
“That's what he holds against you, isn't it? You don't want to know—” Then he heard the sourness in his own voice and instantly relented: “Sorry. I've got shit on the liver—we had him nailed in there—”
Wexall said nothing for a moment; then: “I think you're right about him—what you're accusing him of. But I can't help, Mr. Malone—I don't want to help—” He buttoned up his jacket, pulled on the raincoat he had been wearing when he arrived. “I'm not proud of not wanting to be involved . . . But Jack has never thought of anyone but himself. Let him look after himself.”
He went out without saying goodbye, just a sharp nod, went through the doorway and paused a moment, as if he might shut the door. But he had already shut a door. Jack Brown was outside it, left to see if Julian Baker could rescue him.
Malone remained in the room, standing at the table like a man who had come in expecting it to be laid for dinner and found it bare. Then Sheryl Dallen was standing in the doorway.
“Boss—”
He turned, blinked, drew himself together. “She sank us, Sheryl. Sank me.”
Sheryl didn't correct him. “It was on the cards. She has it in for you . . . Am I talking outa turn?”
“No, Sheryl, you're right. Jesus!” He wanted to bang a fist against the wall, let anger vomit out of him.