Yesterday's Shadow

by Jon Cleary

“These things happen,” said Sheryl. “Personal things—”

  “I should've stepped right away from her—right from the start—”

  “How were you to know it was gunna come to this? Come on, no one's blaming you—” She put a hand on his arm: a personal gesture. “She's gone now, her and her daughter. She's outa the Pavane case now. Gail and I'll look after her—”

  It was a physical strain to bring himself together; like lifting the weight of himself. “Thanks, Sheryl.”

  She stepped back from him; the personal moment was over. “Baker's gone, too—we had to let him go. Do we let him go outa the country?”

  “No. Start the paperwork for a court order for the DNA test. We'll get the bastard yet—”

  “We can have another line-up, bring in the housemaid or the waiter from the restaurant in Hunter's Hill. He'd recognize him—”

  “All he did there was have dinner with her. He didn't kill her at the restaurant. If he gets away from us, he goes back to Canada—he has a wife and kids there. Is he going to run away from them?”

  “Looks like he's been running for the past fourteen years,” said Sheryl. “He could go on running . . .”

  “Get the court order. Put a tail on him, case he tries to board a plane out of the country—I'm not sure a court order from us would hold any water in Canada. I'll talk to Greg Random whether we let the Toronto police know what we know.”

  “It would of been much easier if Delia had fingered him—” Then she stopped. “Sorry.”

  As Tom had warned him this morning, he would not mention Delia again to Lisa.

  IV

  Delia and her daughter left Surry Hills station and walked out into bright sunlight. A wind still blew from the southwest, but they were protected from it by the big building behind them. Delia stood in the sunshine, feeling it as if it were a blessing. She had done the right thing, for herself, if not for Scobie.

  “Did you find it interesting in there?” she asked Dakota.

  They began to walk down towards Railway Square, where they would catch a bus for home. She would look across to the Southern Savoy hotel, but not tell Dakota that was where she had killed her and Calvin's father.

  “Yeah. I think I might do an essay on it for school—social studies.” Dakota was a bright pupil at school; already she had ambition. To get out of the narrow street in Rozelle, out of being poor; but she never told her mother that. They passed a giggle of girls in the uniforms of a private school and she glanced at them, not resentfully but enviously. “I think I might be a cop. That lady, Miss Lee, she made it sound all pretty interesting. Did you do what they wanted you to do? You know, recognize the man?”

  “No, I didn't. Did you see him?”

  “Yeah, he came out while I was sitting at the front with Miss Lee. He got the sergeant on the desk to call him a cab.”

  Delia stopped. “He say where he wanted to go?”

  “I wasn't really paying attention, except I saw Miss Lee write it down. I took a squint at her pad—Wharf West. Where's that?”

  “I dunno. You didn't hear what the man's name was, did you?”

  “Yeah. Mr. Baker—I heard the policeman on the desk say it when he phoned the cab company. Why didn't they get a cab for us?”

  “We're in the doghouse.”

  “Why?”

  “I'll tell you when I get home.” They were standing on the kerb waiting for the traffic lights to change. They turned green, a sign for her to go ahead with the thought that had just sprung to mind: “Dakota, you go on home—I'll put you on the bus. I've just thought of something I've gotta do—”

  “Mum, let me come with you—”

  “No, darling, go home. I think things are maybe gunna look up for us. We'll go out tonight to eat—Pizza Hut or somewhere—”

  Dakota wrinkled her nose: she had wide, even lofty ambitions: “Ah gee, can't we go somewhere better'n that? A restaurant, not a posh one—I liked that place we went to this morning, in the QVB. Let's go there—you seemed to like it—”

  “Someone else was paying—” She smiled, to herself, not her daughter. “Okay, we'll go there.”

  9

  I

  JULIAN BAKER was worried. When they had brought in that woman to identify him in the line-up, he knew he was doomed. He knew, as clearly as if she had spoken directly to him, that the memory of that night at the Southern Savoy, when they had stared at each other from no more than six feet, was as clear in her mind as in his.

  All his strength and confidence had drained out of him and he could not remember how he had managed to remain standing. She had come slowly towards him, paused for a moment no more than three or four feet in front of him, looked him in the eye, then passed on. There had been no recognition in her gaze, but there had been in his: he had not been able to hide it. But no cop had been walking behind her; she was alone, the sergeant in charge standing out by the door. She had paused in front of the end man, whom Baker couldn't see; he wanted to turn his head, look to see if the end man, No. 6, resembled him. But, though his eyes hurt with the effort, he kept staring straight ahead. The woman had come slowly back down the line, gone past him without pausing, with only a cursory glance, and on out of the room with the sergeant.

  Nonetheless, Baker was worried. Why had she paused in front of him and not in front of Nos. 1, 2, 3 and 5? Why in front of No. 6? When the line broke up, Baker glanced at No. 6. The man looked vaguely like himself, but only to someone wearing dark glasses in a fog. No, she had recognized him, No. 4, but why had she denied any recognition?

  He had not seen Inspector Malone when he came out of the line-up room. The sergeant in charge, Sergeant Peeples, had obviously been upset; his curt dismissal was an insult. One of the women detectives had looked at him, shaken her head in disgust and gone into another room. They had a case against him, otherwise they would not have been so sure that the woman would recognize him.

  The police knew more than they had let him know. Who had told them? Walter? Sarah? But they had known nothing of the night of the murder. No, the only hook on which they could hang him was that bloody woman.

  He stood at the window of the small service apartment in Wharf West, staring down towards the central business district. He had heard people refer to it as the CBD, everything was initials now; but it had not been called that in his day here. He could not see the street and the building where he had worked, where he had met Trish Norval and this whole mess had begun. Cliffs of buildings blocked the view like monuments pushed up out of the tectonics of progress. No matter: he had finished looking back. He had to protect the future . . .

  He had called Lucille as soon as he had got back from Surry Hills police station. It had been 10.30 p.m. in Toronto, yesterday, still part of the past . . . “I've been delayed, darling. If I can get a business or first-class cancellation, I'll be on a plane tonight—”

  “I've missed you so much, cherie.” She was fluently bilingual; making love to her was like being in bed with two women. “With the children away, I'm so lonely—”

  “Me, too. I'll see you in a couple of days at the outside. I love you—”

  He had hung up, determined to protect that life, to put everything else behind him. He was thinking of the future when the phone rang:

  “Mr. Baker? It's reception. There is a lady here would like to see you.”

  He frowned. Another fucking detective? “Ask her what she wants.”

  There was a long silence, then the receptionist came back on the line: “She says she has a message from the Southern Savoy hotel.”

  Who was it? Was it that woman detective who had given him that look of disgust when he had come out of the line-up room? But he knew it wasn't; he knew who it was: “Send her up.”

  He had the door open waiting for the woman when she stepped out of the lift into the small lobby. It was she, all right: same long black coat, same beret, same cool look; but this time of recognition. “Hello, Mr. Baker. Nice of you to see me.”

 
“Come in.” There was no invitation in his voice, all he wanted was to get her into the apartment out of sight.

  She went in past him, waited in the middle of the small living room for him to close the door and come in after her.

  “Who sent you? The cops?”

  She smiled. “Hardly.”

  “Are you wired?” The movies and television had taught him how the police worked.

  She opened the black coat. “Want to feel me?”

  It was sexual, but all he felt was disgust: to his own surprise. “No, I'll trust you. Sit down.”

  He sat down opposite her. They were on upright chairs, no lounging back in armchairs.

  “What do you want?”

  “You think I want something?” As if to fit in with the apartment around her, Delia was careful with her voice; as if visiting past surroundings. No slovenliness, just clear enunciation, the voice she had had when she had known Scobie.

  “You wouldn't be here if you didn't.” His own voice had lost something of his accent, the past creeping in, the vowels flattened.

  “I did you a favour today.”

  “In what way?”

  “I didn't point the finger at you and tell them you were the man I'd seen that night at the Southern Savoy.”

  He couldn't help but notice how composed she was, unafraid. As if there was nothing more in life to be afraid of. She knew he was a murderer, but she could have been here soliciting a charity donation. He had dealt before with demanding women: Trish; Bernadette, the girl from Brittany; even Lucille could be demanding. He had not had to bargain on a question of murder. Even Trish had never thought of the abortion she had had as murder.

  “I wasn't that man—”

  She shook her head. “You were the man, Mr. Baker. I could go back and tell Inspector Malone—he'll always listen to me—”

  “What do you want?”

  “To keep my mouth shut?” She had a pretty mouth, even when demanding. “Money, Mr. Baker.”

  “I could ring Inspector Malone and tell him you're here demanding money.”

  “Go ahead.” She looked around, then nodded at the phone on the bench that divided the living room from the small kitchen. “I can give you his number—”

  “You seem pretty close to him?” He was buying time, trying to think of alternatives to buying her.

  “We were old friends, we were going to be married once—” For just a moment there was an edge to her voice, the pretty mouth turned ugly.

  “And you're getting your own back on him?” He could read women as he could read a computer. Unfortunately, like computers, women were not fail-free. But he had read this woman correctly, he saw the answer in her face.

  “That's my business,” she said sharply. “How much will you pay me?”

  “How much do you want?”

  There was a knock on the door, then a key in the lock and the door opened. A cleaning woman, trolley at the ready like an armoury of weapons, stood there. “Oh, sorry, sir! I thought you'd checked out—”

  “Tonight,” he said, barely glancing at her. “Close the door.”

  The woman glared at him, another opponent; then she slammed the door and was gone. Delia smiled at him. “You're a real charmer, aren't you?”

  “Don't flatter me. What's your name?”

  “Do you need to know that?”

  “Don't bugger me about!” He was getting edgy.

  “Delia Jones.”

  He frowned, squinted at her. Pieces of jigsaw fell into his mind. There had been another murder at the Southern Savoy the night he had been there with Trish Norval. He had read the story in the newspapers, seen it on television; but all the time it had been separate in his mind to his own case. Something distant, like a tidal wave in the Bay of Bengal or an earthquake in Mongolia. He had seen a TV clip of the woman, face obscured, charged with the murder of her husband—“Jesus!” he said. “You murdered your husband!”

  “Yes,” she said, sitting primly on the chair, knees together, handbag held by both hands. “We're partners, in a way.”

  “Christ, you have a hide! You kill your husband and you come here—”

  “Mr. Baker, I've already been charged. I've admitted killing him—he deserved it, every time I put the knife into him.” Her face had tightened, the mouth turned ugly again; the bitterness in her voice soured every word. “He used to bash me and my girl and boy. You haven't been charged—not yet.” Then the mouth flowered again, the bitterness went from her voice. She smoothed the drape of the coat over her knees. “It's bizarre, isn't it? You and me, both murderers, sitting here having a little chat. You should've offered me coffee and biscuits.”

  She's nuts, he thought. But if she was, she was the sanest madwoman he could imagine. She was sitting calmly on her chair, occasionally looking around like a woman sizing up another woman's home, then looking back at him and smiling.

  “Mr. Baker,” she said pleasantly, “I'd like a hundred thousand dollars.”

  “Like fucking hell—”

  “Don't swear at me, Mr. Baker,” she said, prim again. “That's not going to help. It'll be much better if we have a nice friendly bargain.”

  “A hundred thousand? A bargain?” He was surprised at himself: he was becoming hysterical.

  “Just for starters.” Then she smiled again. “Just kidding—”

  Jesus, he thought, I've let her take control. He who, even when things had gone wrong, had known when to leave before he lost control. “What does a hundred thousand buy me?”

  “My shut mouth.”

  A part of his mind, the moviegoer's mind, heard her and marvelled. Quentin Tarantino wrote dialogue for everyone to use. “I don't have a hundred thousand, just like that. I'm not that rich—”

  “What do you do, Mr. Baker?”

  He gave her his honest stare, at which bankers are expert. “I'm in the second-hand car business—”

  “Where?”

  “In the States. A small town in—in Wisconsin.” The lies were weak, but he had known occasions when truth had been weak. Or sounded so.

  She looked around the apartment, then back at him. “You're lying, Mr. Baker.” She opened her handbag, took out a small folder. “These were on the desk downstairs—I took one.” She read from it: “One-bedroom serviced apartments, three hundred and twenty dollars a night, plus GST.” Then she looked up at him. “A second-hand car salesman in a small town in—where? Wisconsin? You can afford something like this? You've been here—how long? You're lying, Mr. Baker.”

  “You're lying, too.” He was no longer self-contained; he was having difficulty keeping his temper under control. “You wouldn't keep your mouth shut—”

  “I'm honest, Mr. Baker. Or I have been up till now. Not that it's got me very far—” She had another moment of bitterness; but he was outside it. “All I want is the hundred thousand and you can go back to wherever it is, your used-car yard, and you'll be safe. And I'll be comfortable, me and my children.”

  He had been leaning forward, but now he sat back in the upright chair. He looked at her steadily, for the first time taking her in whole. He was not reassured by what he saw. She would never keep her mouth shut; she was too poor, too bitter, to do that. He was enough of a chauvinist to be convinced that only one woman in a thousand could keep her mouth shut. This one wouldn't: she would talk to a friend, maybe even a cop—Inspector Malone? Even if she kept her mouth shut, the ante would be upped: another hundred thousand, two hundred thousand, it would go on and on. Give a woman money to spend and she could never stop. Trish had been like that; and Bernadette and even Lucille. He had never had any confidence in women and sometimes cursed his weakness for them.

  “I can find out what you really do, Mr. Baker. They would of taken down your particulars up there at Police Centre. All I have to do is call Inspector Malone—he'll always talk to me—” There was a peculiar note to her voice that he couldn't fathom. “I can do it—”

  “He's your old boyfriend, you said—what guar
antee would I have you wouldn't tell him I was the guy you should have fingered?”

  “You'd have to trust me.”

  “A blackmailer?” He was regaining a little control, but he wasn't sure what he could do with it.

  “Don't start calling me names.” Primly again. “I did you a favour, Mr. Baker. You owe me.”

  “How would I pay you? I don't have a hundred thousand dollars here with me. You'd have to trust me to send it to you, to your bank . . . Do you know what happens when large amounts of money, like a hundred thousand, arrive in someone's bank account? The bank has to report it to some government office—I'm not sure what it's called here. So it can be traced whether it's money that's been laundered, drug money, stuff like that.”

  “How do you know so much?”

  “Because I'm a businessman. If you were in business, you'd know it, too.”

  “We could find a way—” He had put her off-balance.

  She shifted on her chair. “You could start paying me now, while you're here.”

  He laughed, even if it had to be forced. “You think I carry that sort of money with me? I'm an honest businessman, Mrs. Jones, not some under-the-counter jerk. I have some travellers' cheques, but I rely mostly on my credit card.”

  “I want to be paid,” she said doggedly; her elocution slipped a cog or two: “I done you a favour.”

  “I'm leaving here tonight, I'm going back to—to Wisconsin. I'll be out of sight, out of mind—” He didn't believe that, but he tried to sound convincing.

  He could see that she was wavering; but he hadn't frightened her: “That's what you think. They know you killed the Ambassador's wife. She was important—they're not gunna let up on you. They'll tell the FBI or the Wisconsin police about you—”

  “So what are we going to do?” He had leaned forward to press his points, but now he sat back, gathering reins.

  “We'll work something out. I'll get your address from the police, I'll write you—”

  “You think they'll give it to you—someone who's up on a murder charge?”

  “I'll get it, don't worry,” she said, but she had lost her confidence. “In the meantime, what've you got?”