The Easy Sin

by Jon Cleary

  “I got them to repeat it,” said Sheryl. “They don't have the maiden name of a woman on a passport any more—they said they stopped that back in 1984.”

  “Germaine Greer arranged that?”

  “None of your male chauvinism—sir. But today, when a passport is applied for, they put the lot, married name, maiden name, on the computer. Her passport was issued at Australia House in London in March 1993. Just after she married him, I guess.”

  He looked out on the scene below them. The city, as always, was oblivious of its undercurrents. The ferries came into the wharves of the Quay without fuss, passengers ready to leap, running, towards whatever had brought them to town. On the other side of the water a cruise boat eased out towards the harbour to show tourists and day-trippers the better aspects of the city, the harbourside mansions of those who had made good, or bad, depending on how they had got their money. Over by the wharves a busker noiselessly tap-danced to the silent music of his banjo, like a puppet without strings. Immediately below, people meandered towards the Opera House, watched by diners in the cafés and restaurants along the colonnade, different levels of credit cards waving to each other. Errol Magee was yesterday's news and the public eye, seeking distraction, not disaster, was looking elsewhere. If Magee, or his wife Caroline, jumped off this balcony, then, ah then, they would stop to look, thankful that they had not been felled by a low-flying suicide.

  “Righto, we take her in. Watch Miss Doolan's face when I tell Mrs. Magee where we're going.”

  Caroline just raised an eyebrow when Malone told her he wanted her to accompany him and Sergeant Clements back to Police Centre. “You never let up, do you, Inspector?”

  “We try not to,” he said amiably.

  “Why are you taking her?” said Kylie, as if she had been excluded from something.

  “Just for questioning.”

  Kylie's expression changed: she had just won the lottery. “You think she had something to do with Errol's kidnapping? Oh, wait till I tell him!”

  “Let's get out of here,” said Caroline abruptly and picked up a jacket and handbag. “She's going to have an orgasm.”

  “Go home when the strike force fellers come back,” Malone told Sheryl. “You look wrung out.”

  Sheryl's voice was just a murmur: “Wouldn't you be?”

  As they went down in the lift Malone told Caroline, “There are reporters still outside. You may be in the news from now on.”

  He had to admire her composure: “Any escape from Miss Doolan is welcome. Do I stop and give them a statement?”

  “You do, and Sergeant Clements will knee-cap you.”

  She smiled at both of them. “Are you two married?”

  “Not to each other,” said Clements as the lift reached the lobby. “Okay, here we go. If I knock anyone over, don't stop to help him up.”

  As they got out into the street Vassily Todorov led the charge, plumed head thrust forward. “Where's Mr. Magee?”

  “Who's the woman?”

  “It's his wife—”

  But Malone and Caroline had jumped into the back seat of the unmarked car. Clements, behind the wheel, the ubiquitous parking ticket still behind the wipers, swung the car out into the traffic to a clamour of horns from others who thought they owned the road. He did a swift U-turn, turning Malone's stomach, and they were heading back uptown and out towards Surry Hills and Police Centre.

  Caroline had sprawled against Malone in the back seat; she recovered her balance. “Does he always drive like this?”

  Malone smiled at her admirably. “Do you ever lose your cool?”

  “You'll find out,” she said and settled back in the seat, staring straight ahead.

  “You may need a lawyer, Caroline. You want to contact one when we get to Police Centre?”

  “I'll see,” she said, still staring straight ahead.

  At Police Centre there were few officers in the Incident Room; they all looked up as Caroline Magee was brought in. Clements had called Greg Random on the car phone and he came into the room behind them:

  “Mrs. Magee, thank you for coming.”

  “No pleasure of mine,” she said and looked around at the four strike force officers, three men and a woman, who stood in the background like football replacements. “Do you all interrogate me?”

  “No, just Inspector Malone and Sergeant Clements. Both very experienced and very hospitable.”

  “I'll bet,” she said and followed Malone and Clements as they led her towards an interview room.

  Once inside the room Clements turned on the video recorder and gave the usual warning. “You sure you don't want a lawyer here with you?”

  “Not yet.” She settled herself in the chair across the table from them. She had put on her jacket, arranged the collar of her shirt over it. “I'll decide when I know what you're charging me with.”

  “Caroline,” said Malone, determined to keep the interview on as even a keel as possible, “we're not charging you with anything at the moment. A lot will depend on how you answer our questions. Now, your maiden name was Briskin. You are related to Shirlee Briskin—she's your mother?”

  “You'll have to ask her.”

  He grinned. “Nice one, Caroline. We'll do that—they're bringing her in now.” He waited for a reaction, but there was none. He went on, “Her and your brother Corey. There's also another brother, right? Phoenix? He's in hospital. Anyone else? A sister, whose name we don't have yet . . .”

  “Am I supposed to be helping you with a family history?”

  “No,” said Clements, the support bowler, “no, Mrs. Magee, what you're doing is buggering us about.”

  “Very hospitable,” she said, but her smile was friendly, she was still at ease. “Yes, that's my family.”

  “And,” said Malone, “they were in the kidnapping of your husband? They were the ones who carried it out?”

  “Inspector—” She took her time, looking directly at Malone; as if he were the more hospitable officer. “How can I be accused of kidnapping my husband? We're still legally married, not divorced.”

  Malone wasn't sure of the answer to that one. “You, or your family, demanded ransom from Kunishima Bank.”

  “Who told you that? Errol told us this morning that it employs Japanese gangsters, yakuza. You believe what the bank told you?”

  “No,” said Clements, “we believe what we've found out.”

  “And what's that?”

  “That the kidnappers murdered your husband's maid, Juanita Marcos. That's why the inspector and I are on this case, Mrs. Magee. Because of the murder, not the kidnapping.”

  Clements had turned the questioning at right angles; he had taken her round a corner and faced her with something she didn't want to know. For a moment she looked ugly, but she remained motionless. “I had nothing to do with that.”

  “Not you, maybe. But maybe one of your brothers.”

  Malone had learned enough about women to know their uses of silence. They use it with more finesse than men; they can use it cruelly or lovingly or as an invisible wall. Caroline Magee all at once was on the other side of a wall.

  Malone waited, then at last said, “Well?”

  No answer; she was another woman.

  Clements also waited, then he switched off the recorder.

  “I think you had better get a lawyer, Mrs. Magee.”

  IV

  Mobile phones have widened communication, thickening the herd instinct. Getaway drivers are now in instant touch with bank robbers to warn of danger. Unwanted lovers get the instant flick without having to wait for the two-day post. Funerals now can be arranged before the body is cold.

  Shirlee Briskin had a built-in awareness of danger that would have made her an ideal presidential bodyguard. By accident, or because of her awareness, she was at the front window of her house when the four police cars came cruising down the street, looking for her house-number, and pulled up, like a white wedding procession come for the bride.

  She had
made two swift calls to Corey's and Darlene's mobiles, something she could not have done if she had had to go through their office switchboards, before she answered the ring-ring-ring at the front door.

  She looked at the three police officers, two men and a woman, as if they were door-to-door salespeople. “Yes? What do you want?” She didn't turn her head, but out of the corner of her eye she saw the armed officers going up beside the house towards the rear. She also saw Mrs. Charlton already at the side fence on sentry duty. “What's wrong? Is my son Pheeny worse?”

  “No, Mrs. Briskin. You are Mrs. Briskin, right?” She nodded. “We'd just like you to come with us for some questioning.”

  “What about?”

  “The kidnapping of Mr. Errol Magee.”

  “Who?” Then light dawned; or so it seemed. Judi Dench, one of her favourites, couldn't have done better. “That businessman? You must be joking!”

  “I'm afraid not,” said the sergeant in charge of the detail; he was showing a lot of patience. “Just come with us—”

  “Am I being charged with anything?”

  “Not yet. Please, Mrs. Briskin? No fuss.”

  She considered, as if buying something they had offered. Then she nodded, “I'll get my coat and handbag.”

  “I'll come with you,” said the policewoman.

  Shirlee looked her up and down, as if deciding whether to trust her in the house, then she nodded and led the way towards the front bedroom.

  “This is ridiculous,” she said as she pulled on her coat, looked in the wardrobe mirror to check that her hair was neat.

  “Possibly,” said the policewoman; she was young and learning which ropes you used for hanging. “We'll bring you back if everything's okay.”

  “They're not gunna turn over the house or anything, are they?” The blue hoods had been burned, along with the Versace dress and jacket, by Corey early this morning; the ashes were buried in the back garden. “I like everything to be neat.”

  When she came out of the house, taking care to close the front door and lock it, and walked down towards the front gate surrounded by ten police officers, some still putting away their guns, Mrs. Charlton was out on the footpath, tongue at the ready:

  “Something wrong, Shirlee? Pheeny's okay? You're not in trouble?”

  “Just some speeding tickets, Daph. Corey's been booked.”

  “All these cops for speeding tickets? With guns?”

  “They're practising, Daph.”

  She got into the back seat of the lead police car, said to no one in particular, “Bloody busybody.”

  “Life's tough, Shirl,” said the sergeant in the front seat.

  “Shir-lee,” said Shirlee and settled back for the ride. She hoped Corey and Darlene had taken her warning and fled. She was dead scared, but it didn't show. She was neat, steam-pressed for combat.

  When she arrived at Police Centre the first person she saw was that inspector, Malone. The second person she saw was her elder daughter, sitting comfortably in a chair as if she came here regularly.

  “Chantelle? What are you doing here?”

  “Chantelle?” said Malone.

  “It's a nickname,” said Caroline Magee. “A joke. Mum, they think we kidnapped Errol, my husband. That's another joke. She's never met him,” she told Malone.

  “Of course it's a joke!” snapped Shirlee. “Her husband? How could we kidnap her husband? You kidnap strangers.”

  “You've read up on kidnappers?” said Malone.

  “Nice try, Inspector,” said Caroline and gave him a nice smile. “Just relax, Mum. Our lawyer will be here soon.”

  “Our lawyer?” said Shirlee. “Mr. Bomaker?”

  “Who's he?” said Caroline.

  But then Caradoc Evans arrived before Mr. Bomaker had to be explained. He came in briskly, as he always did, as if he had a string of clients waiting and he was running down the line of them. He didn't look at the two women, but went straight to Malone.

  “Scobie, what's going on? I'm Mr. Magee's lawyer, but I get a call his wife wants my appearance. His wife? I didn't know he had one.”

  Caradoc Evans had come out of the Welsh coal valleys thirty years ago. There he had studied law and played rugby and got drunk, all with equal enthusiasm. He had poked fingers in eyes, bitten ears and twisted testicles as a rugby forward: all good preparation for a career in law. He had come to Australia, turning his back and lungs against coal dust and the drunken singing of hymns on Saturday nights, and established himself as a no-holds-barred defender of the criminal. Yet, Malone knew, he was not crooked and would have poked the eye and bitten the ear and twisted the testicles of any crim who had tried to bribe him. He loved the law because it was a worthy opponent.

  Malone introduced him to Caroline Magee and Shirlee Briskin. Evans was impressed; he liked women, especially good-looking women. “I'll talk to Inspector Malone first, then come back to you. Do you want me to represent both of you?”

  “Yes,” said Caroline. “My mother and I think the charge is ridiculous.”

  Evans had heard that more times than a rugby referee's whistle. “We'll see. Excuse me.”

  He went back to where Malone stood waiting for him. “What's the charge?”

  “There's no charge so far,” said Malone and took Evans out into the corridor and explained the situation. “We think they were both involved in the kidnapping of your client.”

  “Magee? And I'm here to defend them?” Evans shook his head, as if he had been stomped on. “What are you doing on a kidnapping case? Homicide?”

  “There was a murder,” said Malone and gave more details. “This is turning into a circus, Doc, if Mrs. Magee wants you to represent her. You've never met her before?”

  “Never. She's a nice-looking piece of goods. You think she had something to do with the murder?”

  “Not directly, no. And maybe her mother didn't, either. There are a daughter and son missing and another son in hospital. It was a family party.”

  “Where's Magee?”

  “Back at his apartment, he's pretty well stuffed by the last couple of days. You'd better talk to him first before you start representing Mrs. Magee.”

  Evans leaned against a wall. He was built like a boulder, even to his bald head; he would have been nominated at birth as a front-row forward. But in the chipped, blunt features there was shrewd intelligence; in court he was always one step ahead of the competition. He cocked a scarred eyebrow at Malone:

  “I'll call him now, get him up here. Stuffed or not.”

  “Be my guest,” said Malone and went to look for Greg Random.

  He found him in the Incident Room with Clements and the senior officer of the strike force, Inspector Garry Peeples. “Caradoc Evans is here.”

  “We're beaten, licked,” said Random with mock gravity. “Welsh intelligence and philosophy. Unbeatable.”

  “Balls,” said Malone. “Are you pessimistic or patriotic?”

  “Both. It's being Welsh.”

  Garry Peeples, like Malone, was an ex-fast bowler: a breed bred for hard work. He was taller than either Malone or Random, had the build of a weight-lifter and the look of a man who wondered why he bothered about public safety. “You think this—Briskin?—family, you think they did the killing and the kidnapping?”

  “Sure of it, Garry. Whether they killed the maid—” Malone shrugged. “But the kidnapping—yes.”

  “Who else could have done it?” asked Random. “His girlfriend, Miss Doolan? The yakuza?”

  “No,” said Malone, committing himself. “The Briskins did it, the kidnapping. But it's not going to be easy to get Mrs. Magee or Mrs. Briskin to admit it. It floored me for a moment when I found out Mrs. Magee was a Briskin. But then things began to fall into place. But first, we'll have to see what sort of advice they take from Doc Evans.”

  “Jesus,” said Garry Peeples, looking as frustrated as a bowler who had just had three catches dropped off his bowling, “I remember when I first started on the beat, all
we had to deal with was a pub brawl or a break-and-enter and the occasional wife-bashing. Life's getting too complicated.”

  “Keep working your way up the ladder,” said Chief Superintendent Random. “Life at the top has no complications. So long as you keep three copies and bless the Commissioner's name . . . Ah, here's Mr. Evans, as honest as daylight saving. How are things, Caradoc?”

  “Couldn't be better, Gregory. You saw last week's news? We beat the English 14-10! That'll settle the nabobs of Twickenham back on their smug arses. We're slowly working towards the Disunited Kingdom . . . My client, Mr. Magee, is on his way.”

  “So who'll you be representing?” asked Malone. “Him or his wife and mother-in-law?”

  “He'll be surprised when he finds out he has a mother-in-law. They are often surprised when you know about them.”

  The three married men nodded in agreement.

  “In the meantime,” said Evans, “I'm a touch judge, on the sidelines.”

  Malone looked at Peeples. “These bloody rugby types. I've got a son who's infected. Thank Christ the Welsh don't play much cricket—they'd be singing bloody hymns at the tea interval.”

  “The way you Aussies are playing in India, you could do with some hymns,” said Evans, enjoying himself immensely.

  It was the sort of chat that keeps tradespeople, no matter what their trade, afloat. Without the diversion of it they would drown in responsibility or sometimes the horror of their trade.

  Caroline Magee and Shirlee Briskin were kept apart. They were taken into separate rooms and given coffee and biscuits. Both women were composed, seemingly at ease. Clements looked in occasionally on each of them as they sat with policewomen and came back to Malone shaking his head.

  “It's not gunna be easy. They come out of the same mold—an earthquake wouldn't budge them.”

  Then Errol Magee arrived. He was accompanied by Kylie Doolan, hanging on to him like an anchor that was losing its grip. With them, as security, was a young male officer Malone recognized from the strike force. He realized that he had, for the moment, forgotten about the yakuza threat to Magee.