“Try bran and some exercise.”
“You just come and get these books out of here.”
Jack tried again, his voice calm, friendly. “So what did they ask you?”
“They wanted to know why I was after Kass’s books.”
“What did you tell them?”
“That I’d heard on the grapevine a collector was after them.”
“And of course they asked who.”
“Yeah, they asked.”
Jack let out a slow, measured breath. He hated Chester Sinclair. It was going to be his new hobby. He was going to spend a couple of hours at it every morning, like yoga. “And?”
Down the line, a sound of phlegm being coughed and then swallowed. “I told them to speak to you.”
“You’re a real friend, Sinclair. Next time I need a two-thousand-volt migraine, I’ll give you a call.”
“Hey, what was I going to say? It’s got nothing to do with me.”
Jack remained silent.
“Anyway, what have you got to worry about? Just tell them who your collector is.” The logic eased the tension in Chester’s voice. His smug, confident tone returned. “Just pass it on down the line, man, easy as that. It’s not like you killed the bastard. You’re just a guy who sells books. Like me!”
“Just like you,” said Jack in a low voice. He glanced at the clock on the wall behind him: nearly 10.00 a.m. Time to open up the shop. “Did they say anything about the shooting?”
“No. But they wanted to see Kass’s books. I told them I didn’t have any.”
“Right.” It was a small lie, insignificant: not like Jack’s. He was jealous.
“So you going to pick them up today?” There was a bubble of hope in Chester’s voice.
Jack did not hesitate to pop it. “What for?” he said. “Now that you’ve palmed the cops onto me, I’ll obviously have to palm them off onto my collector, who I doubt will be interested in any more books of poetry. So what the fuck would I want with them?”
“Hey, we had a deal! Two hundred and seventy-five bucks! You can’t pull out now.”
“Really? Did I sign something, Sinclair?”
“What? No, you can’t —”
Jack hung up the phone. Fuck. Before speaking to Chester, he had believed there was a slim possibility the police might leave him alone. Not anymore.
He needed to buy a couple of newspapers, see if anything had been written up about Kass’s death. Jack slipped on his jacket, wound on his scarf and left the shop. There was a newsagent up the road.
He had just got back and was scanning the front page of one of the newspapers at the counter when Detective Peterson and Detective Sergeant Glendenning walked in. Peterson was grinning, arms casually slung into the pant pockets of his dark blue suit. Jack could hear keys jingling as he approached the counter. Glendenning followed: olive-green jacket and black pants, head down, stern faced, throwing quick sideways glances along the aisles of books. His shoes squeaked, but not like leather. Jack had known in his waters that the day was going to start with their arrival, no matter what time that was. He had been hoping for later.
“These old books, they really stink, don’t they? How do you stand it all day?” Peterson grimaced and puffed out his chest. “Like being locked up in an old woman’s closet.”
“Wouldn’t know,” said Jack. “Never been in one myself.”
Peterson’s brow tightened over his eyes like a belt. Jack casually flipped though the paper.
“Good morning,” said Glendenning. Nothing in his tone told Jack a thing. The detective moved up and stood beside Peterson, looking over the counter, itemising everything there with his steely cop eyes. “Sleep well?”
“Not bad. Yourself?”
“Fine, thank you.”
“Good.”
Silence, except for the rumble of buses on York Street. Jack waited, pretending to read. Nobody said anything. Glendenning was obviously a fan of awkward pauses. He was working the room.
Peterson broke the spell. “How’s Chester?” Jack looked up. He noticed Detective Sergeant Glendenning’s shoulders flinch, the barest movement, like he was annoyed. Peterson cleared his throat. “Seen him lately?”
“No,” replied Jack. He wondered who held the superior rank between the two. Glendenning looked around, as though he was bored. Jack got the impression the two detectives were not best friends: or maybe he just hoped that was the case.
Glendenning nodded at the newspapers. “What’s new?”
“Everything’s too expensive and the crime rate’s up.”
“Same old thing,” said Peterson with a sneer. “Living in the city was always shit.” He eyed Jack like he wanted to twist his arm. “Unless you’re your own boss, run your own business. With a little on the side now and then.”
Jack grinned, but not too much. “I was thinking about joining you guys,” he said. “High crime rate equals good job security. Plus the little extra on the side now and then.”
Peterson threw Jack a look like a back-handed slap. “Pity reading books doesn’t count as a qualification.” His pale face looked gaunt under the dull fluorescent light. With his blonde hair and frosty eyes and snarling contempt he would have made a perfect Nazi.
“You got a crime section?” asked Detective Sergeant Glendenning.
Jack nodded.
“Read much yourself?”
“More of late.”
“Courtroom drama or police procedural?”
“Psychological thrillers,” said Jack.
Glendenning nodded and looked around. “I like the police procedural.”
“Maybe you should start writing your own.”
“Yeah, I’ve thought about that.” The detective locked his eyes on Jack but spoke to Peterson. “What do you think, Geoff? I could write this one up.”
Peterson smiled. He had a big ugly mouth with loose rubber-band lips. “Plenty of twists and turns.”
“I could do you a nice deal on a dictionary and a thesaurus,” said Jack. He looked the two detectives up and down. “Throw in a style guide, too.”
Detective Glendenning put a hand in his pocket. Jack noticed it bulge with a fist. Maybe his mobile phone was in there. Or maybe it was an anger-management technique.
“Why don’t you write it for us?” said Glendenning. It did not sound like a question. “You know more than we do.”
“About what?”
Glendenning shrugged, looked away. “Oh, about lots of things, I’m sure.”
Jack rubbed his hands together, softly cracked a couple of knuckles. The cops watched him. He looked around. He was starting to feel like a nine-year-old altar boy who needed to go to the toilet.
Peterson leaned on the counter. “Come on, don’t play the dumb fuck.”
“That’s a good first line for your book.”
“Would you rather we dragged your arse down to the station?”
“Just watch the clichés.”
Detective Peterson turned to Glendenning. “Not cooperating with an official police investigation.”
“Technically obstructing.” Glendenning stared blankly at Jack.
“Technically giving me the shits.” Peterson scowled.
“Am I supposed to read your minds?” said Jack. “So far you haven’t even told me why you’re here.”
Detective Sergeant Glendenning rubbed the faint blue stubble on his chin. “We know somebody is paying you to find some Edward Kass books,” he said. “We’d like to know who that is.”
Jack realised he had been clenching his stomach. It loosened a little. They were not here about the other guy. They were following up angles. Connections. But it was only half a relief. Jack was not sure it was in his interests to tell them anything about Hammond Kasprowicz. He thought about the burnt books and Celia Mitten and the typewriter in Kasprowicz’s study. He thought about Ian Durst. He thought about Annabelle Kasprowicz. Was he trying to protect her or himself? He was not sure what to think. Jack remembered Ziggy Brandt
in the back of the big black Benz one day, spread out like he was on a banana lounge, handing out advice to a concerned gentleman who seemed to have some kind of problem. The guy called Ziggy, Mr Brandt. He had little beads of sweat on his forehead. Ziggy told him: “If you’ve got nothing to give, always keep your mouth shut with the coppers. Always.” Jack remembered the big black Benz and the gold Rolex and the Armani suits. Maybe sometimes Mr Brandt knew what he was talking about.
“Chester Sinclair is full of shit,” said Jack. “Four-year-olds know more than he does.”
“Please don’t waste our time, Mr Susko.”
“I work for myself. That’s why my name’s on the sign outside.”
Peterson looked at Glendenning. He pushed himself off the counter, stood up straight. “He wants to be difficult.”
Detective Sergeant Glendenning turned and walked around in a small circle, looking down at his shoes. “No, I’m sure Mr Susko wants to help us to the best of his abilities.” He ran a finger along a bookshelf and then rolled the dust against his thumb. “There’s no reason to be difficult. Not any I can see.”
Glendenning walked back over, hands in his pockets. Unlike Peterson, he had the face of a man with huge reserves of patience, like some kind of police Zen master. Time is on my side because I am time.
“I had a lot of enquiries about Kass,” said Jack, clearing the newspapers from the counter. “School kids, mainly. I thought maybe he’d been selected for a high school English list. Then I found out he was no longer in print. Thought I might corner the market.”
Peterson laughed. “We got ourselves an entrepreneur!”
“Yeah, another hundred thousand and I’ve cracked my first mill. If you guys ever need a loan.”
Glendenning eyed Jack like he was looking through a gun sight. “So you’re not working for any collector?”
“No.”
Detective Sergeant Glendenning nodded, though not necessarily because he believed what he heard.
“Funny that Kass was sitting at the kitchen table when he was shot. Just doing his work like that,” said Jack.
“Why?” asked Peterson. His eyes flashed a little. Glendenning’s stayed blank.
“Well, he obviously didn’t hear the intruder break in.”
The two detectives said nothing.
“Implies the intruder snuck up on him.” Jack pushed his point. “Shooting a man in the head that didn’t even know you were there is a pretty dramatic turn for a simple break and enter. Don’t you think?”
Now Peterson smirked, as though Jack had no idea what he was talking about. Glendenning breathed through his nostrils, slowly, and took his time blinking, as though he was holding a good hand but was unsure how much to bet.
Jack went on: “Broke in, tiptoed into the kitchen, found Kass wondering if his last two lines should rhyme and just let rip. Bang.”
A look slipped between the two cops like a whisper. A moment later, Peterson leaned an elbow against the counter and turned towards his partner. Whatever his eyes said had no impact on Glendenning’s poker face.
Jack moved the chair over from in front of his desk and leaned against the back of it. “Had he stolen anything? Did he leave his prints anywhere else in the house, looking for something of value?”
“I thought it was psychological thrillers, Mr Susko.” Glendenning’s voice was a monotone, but each word was tied to a lead sinker.
“I forgot to mention the odd Maigret.”
“What the hell’s that?” asked Peterson, turning his head slightly in Jack’s direction. Nobody answered him.
“I didn’t notice anything in the killer’s possession. No bag lying around anywhere,” said Jack. “Everything in the living area looked untouched, the bedroom, too. Unless, of course, Kass worked for a terrorist organisation and there was a piece of paper with a secret code that could wreak havoc on the Dow Jones index slipped inside the intruder’s Nike track pants.”
Glendenning looked away, down an aisle of books. “Maybe there was. What else do you think, Mr Susko?”
“You’re the experts.” But ideas were starting to pop into Jack’s head. “Was there much time between Kass’s shooting and Durst’s arrival?”
Glendenning did not turn back. “Why?”
“Because if there was —”
The front door swung open and a customer walked into Susko Books. Jack pulled himself up and smiled hello. He remembered where he was. It occurred to him that he was talking too much. Thinking out aloud. Not a very good idea.
The customer headed to a display of art books across from the counter.
“Anything else, Maigret?” Glendenning asked.
“You going to put me on the payroll?”
“Maybe we just won’t put you in jail.”
“For helping you solve a crime?” Jack smiled.
Peterson stood up and turned around. “For talking shit,” he said.
“That’s your speciality, Geoff.”
“You got a smart mouth.” Detective Geoff Peterson squared up. He had a couple of inches on Jack and used them for emphasis. “How about I teach it some manners?”
“How about an official complaint?”
“Let me help you with the paperwork. I’ll make sure it goes to the front of the queue.”
Detective Sergeant Glendenning walked over and touched Peterson lightly on the arm. His partner’s shoulders dropped about two millimetres but his face still looked hard and mean. Obergruppenführer Peterson.
“You are aware that this is a murder investigation, Mr Susko?” said Glendenning. “I’d hate there to be any confusion.”
“Perfectly clear.”
Jack wondered if he had gone too far. He was not sure what he was doing, but pissing the cops off was not what he wanted. It seemed he possessed a raw talent for it. Maybe from now on he would start not wanting things that he actually did want. Maybe he would start with not wanting an Aston Martin DB9 with a full tank and a long open road leading the hell out of there.
Glendenning’s mobile phone began to ring. He put it to his ear. “Fine. We’re five minutes away.” The detective turned to go. “We’ll continue our conversation later, Mr Susko.” His voice was low but firm. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“I’ll be in and out for most of the day.”
“That’s all right. We’re a twenty-four-hour service.” Glendenning paused at the front door and turned back to Jack. “Edward Kass was dead only minutes before Durst got there,” he said.
“What time was that?”
Glendenning narrowed his eyes. “We’re not exactly sure. Why, did you hear something?”
Jack hesitated. “No.”
“You’re still thinking, Mr Susko,” said the Detective Sergeant. Then he smiled. “Tell me.”
“Nothing to tell,”
“But plenty to think about, eh? We’ll have a nice chat tomorrow.”
Peterson and Glendenning left. The customer over by the art books looked up. Jack did not mean to frown at him, but did, and the man returned his attention to the book in his hands. Jack rubbed his forehead. It was only 10.20 a.m.
~16~
An hour later, Brendan MacAllister phoned. “Jackie! How’s my favourite lazy bastard?”
“Busy.”
“You poor man. Feel like a short break in the country?”
“Do I have to travel with you?”
“You can ride in the boot!” MacAllister laughed. “I’m going down to Bowral tomorrow morning to see Clifford Harris.”
“The telecommunications guy?”
“Home loans.”
Jack remembered. “Mister one hundred million in the bank. Loves coffee-table books with lots of female nudes.”
“He’s off to Tuscany, bought a vineyard or village or something, the prick. He rang yesterday and offered me first pickings of his book collection.”
“Nice.”
“I sold him most of it, but there’s only a couple of things I’m interested in. Thought of you
for the rest.”
“Sounds great. I’ll just leave a sign here saying: Help yourself, leave money on the counter.”
“It’s okay, I’ve spoken to Denise. She’ll come in for you until we get back.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah, it’s fine. She misses our old shop.”
“This isn’t quite the same thing.”
“Don’t worry about it. What do you say? He’s a gourmet snob so there’ll be brunch.”
Jack thought of his new detective friends. “What time?”
“I’ll pick you up at eight.”
“Say thanks to Denise for me.”
MacAllister scoffed. “She’s started some new diet. There’s nothing to eat in the house except rice biscuits and low-fat yoghurt.”
“I can’t believe you’re not in hospital.”
“I told her I’m moving back in with my mother if she doesn’t quit by Monday.”
“Make sure you give me the new number.”
MacAllister grunted. “I’ve got to go. The plumber’s here flashing his crack all over the bathroom and charging me for the view.”
“See you tomorrow.”
“Eight. Be ready.” MacAllister began singing Oh Jackie Boy, the books, the books are calling and hung up the phone.
Jack felt a sense of relief and was a little surprised by it. Was he more worried about the cops than he was willing to admit?
In the morning, traffic kept them within the city limits for over an hour. Parramatta Road was a nightmare. Busy swearing, MacAllister missed the turn onto the Hume Highway and had to wind slowly through a selection of low-slung, rain-wet suburbs until he found it again. The scenic route: potholed roads, greasy front yards grey with exhaust fumes, and droopy awnings over the shops. Time took its time around here. Rent was cheap and so were the businesses: hot chips and chicken rolls, Halal butchers, Vietnamese grocers, Macedonian accountants with bilingual signs. Jets flew regularly overhead, low enough to hit with a tennis ball. People were either stuck in their cars, on the trains, or unemployed. Go West, Young Man!
Traffic loosened up a little once they were on the highway, but MacAllister still strained along at seventy kilometres an hour. His car of choice was a white, 1988 automatic Volvo. In terms of distance, it had been around the world two hundred times and probably had one more noisy lap in it. In terms of style, it was always going nowhere at Mach 2.
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