by Jon Cleary
“What the hell's going on?” Magee looked as if he had just got out of bed; which he had. “What's Caroline doing here? Where is she?”
“I told you—” said Kylie.
“Shut up,” he said, and took his arm out of hers.
“Don't talk to me like that!”
“Mr. Magee,” said Malone, taking Magee's other arm; the last thing he wanted was a domestic to upset the scene, “let's go in here. No, Miss Doolan, not you—”
He led Magee into a room off the Incident Room, followed by Evans, Random and Peeples. Kylie let out a gasp, but didn't attempt to move as Peeples closed the door in her face.
Magee pushed back his hair, which was not in a ponytail. He was in jeans, what looked like a pyjama-top, a suede jacket and Reeboks. He was in casual wear, but he looked anything but casual. The skeins of nightmare were still around him.
“I can't believe Caroline is involved in all this. We didn't get on, I mean while we were married, but Christ—kidnapping me?”
“We'll leave your wife out of the picture for the moment,” said Random; it was hard to tell whether he was sympathetic towards Magee or not. “We'd like you to look at her mother, Mrs. Briskin—”
“In a line-up, you mean? I told you, the mother, all of them, they all had blue hoods on all the time. I never saw their faces—”
“You will have to put her in a line-up if you want her identified,” said Evans.
Random looked at him. “Are you representing her now?”
“No, I'm giving you free legal advice.”
“Errol,” said Malone, “would you recognize her voice?”
Magee looked dubious. “I might. But let me get one thing straight—are you telling me Caroline was in on all this?”
Malone went out on a limb, a not unfamiliar perch: “We think she might have organized the whole thing. What she didn't organize was the murder of your maid Juanita. That's when it became serious.”
“It was bloody serious being kidnapped! Jesus—”
“Sorry. Yeah, sure it was. But—” Malone gave him a rundown on the Briskin family. “They fit your description. A mother, a daughter, two sons. It was probably the sons who grabbed you and on their way out of your apartment ran into Juanita. Whoever, whatever, Juanita's dead.”
Magee considered a moment, then nodded. “Yeah, you're right. I'm sorry about that—her, I mean.” He didn't sound very sincere nor concerned, but Malone made no comment. “I don't know Caroline's family. When we were together, she'd get letters from them, but she never showed them to me. Then we split up—”
“She ever mention her father?”
“Not that I recall. Tell you the truth, I wasn't really interested. I'm not a family man. My own folks are dead.” He spoke as if he didn't miss them.
“Righto, we'll have you listen to Mrs. Briskin's voice.” Malone looked at Evans. “That okay, touch judge? You're not going to put your flag up?”
Caradoc Evans grinned. “I'm no longer on the sidelines. I'm Mr. Magee's legal counsel. You want to try and identify Mrs. Briskin's voice?”
“I'll try,” said Magee, but, to Malone's ear, all at once sounded reluctant.
Malone went out of the room, found Clements having coffee with Caroline Magee. “You two getting on well together?”
“Like old friends,” said Caroline. “He's been telling me about his young daughter.”
“He's a real family man. I see you a moment, Russ?”
Clements followed him out into the corridor. “She's not a bad sort when you talk to her—”
“Russ, pull your head in, or I'll tell Romy and your young daughter. I want you to take Mrs. Briskin into a room, there's one off the Incident Room. Have a little chat with her. I want our mate Errol to identify her voice.”
“Will that stand up in court?”
“Probably not. But have you got any other suggestions how we start nailing her and her family? It'll be something to kick off with. Then we start leaning on her.”
“If she's like her daughter, it'll be like leaning up against a stone wall. Okay, I'll try. What'll I talk about?”
“Tell her about your busted investments with I-Saw. Compare them with the ransom she and the family didn't get.”
“You're a real bastard, you know that?”
“I know. I enjoy it now and again. Chat her up, then when I knock on the door, bring her out. I'll have Magee there. Don't stop, just walk her past him and we'll see what reaction we get.”
Shirlee Briskin didn't object when Clements came into the room where she was having coffee with a young policewoman: “Come with you, Sergeant? Of course. I was just telling Roma here how good it is you're getting more women into the police force. About time—”
Clements led her gently into the room off the Incident Room. “What did you think about the Magee kidnapping? You read about it? Heard it on the radio?”
“Terrible! I agreed with all those talkers on radio—what do they call ‘em?”
“Shock jocks.”
“Do they? I think that's a bit unkind. But what they said is true, nobody's safe any more, are they? Am I being interrogated—is that the word?”
“We never use it, Mrs. Briskin. Only shock jocks do that.” Clements was as friendly as an insurance salesman. “No, we'll be letting you go soon. What did you think of the ransom they were asking? Five million!”
“I know. Everything's going up—”
“And that was without GST.”
She laughed, comfortable and at ease; or so it looked. “They tax everything, don't they? But it was no joke, was it? I mean, for him.”
Out in the Incident Room Malone had brought Magee close to the slightly open door, but out of line of sight. Magee appeared to be listening intently; then he shook his head. Malone stared at him: you sure? Magee shook his head again and Malone gave up. He knocked on the door, moved himself and Magee back to join Random, Peeples and Evans.
Clements brought Shirlee Briskin out of the inner room, walked her towards the door into the corridor, still chatting to her. She glanced at Magee and the other four men, but didn't pause. At the door she said to Clements, “Is that him?” Then she was out in the corridor and gone from sight.
Malone looked at Magee. “Recognize her? Her walk, her figure, anything about her?”
“No,” said Magee.
You bastard, you’re lying. He had been reading faces, eyes, body language for twenty-five years. But all he said was, “Righto, now we're taking you out to Hurstville, to the Briskin house. You might identify something there.”
“Is all this necessary?” said Evans. “My client has said he doesn't recognize the woman.”
“Doc, we're just eliminating all the possibilities.” He was keeping control of his temper. Magee, for reasons he couldn't yet fathom, had screwed him. “It's an inconvenience for Mr. Magee, but we are trying to solve a murder. The murder of someone who worked for him, who made his bed, served him breakfast . . .” He was piling it on, looking at Magee, not at Evans. “I'm sure you feel you owe her something, Mr. Magee.”
Magee hesitated, then nodded. “Of course. But first, I'll have to get rid—I'll have to tell Kylie to go back to the apartment. And what about my wife?”
It was the first time he had referred to Caroline as his wife. As if a relationship had been renewed, even if involuntarily.
“You have a couple of problems there,” said Malone, trying to sound sympathetic; he wanted to keep Magee on side. “Sergeant Clements will look after them. We'll need to keep Caroline here till we get back, but Miss Doolan can go.”
“That won't be easy,” said Magee and for a moment showed a spark of wry humour.
“Chief Superintendent,” said Malone, “will you mind Mr. Magee while Inspector Peeples and I look for Mrs. Briskin?”
“Certainly, Inspector,” said Random, deadpan.
Malone grinned at him, trying to get his own mood up. Then he and Peeples went out to tell Mrs. Briskin that they were taking her
back home.
“What if she demands a search warrant?” asked Peeples.
“We're not looking for anything, just doing a recce. If she asks for a warrant, that'll look pretty suspicious, won't it?”
“All women are born suspect,” said Peeples, another born chauvinist.
Malone let that pass, went looking for Clements and Shirlee Briskin. He found them in the room where they were having another cup of coffee. Shirlee looked at home, as if she might move in and tidy up the housekeeping. But she demurred when Malone told her what he wanted to do:
“I'm not gunna have the place over-run by cops,” she said, putting down her cup, putting down her foot. “What'll the neighbours think?”
Malone grinned again, trying to keep it friendly. He didn't want to have to go through the chore of getting a warrant, even if that would only confirm his suspicions about the Briskin family. “The woman next door? We'll go in an unmarked car. There'll be another unmarked car—Chief Superintendent Random and Mr. Magee.”
“You're wasting your time,” she said. “And his.”
“He doesn't mind.”
She considered for a moment; then: “What about Chantelle? My daughter?”
“Mrs. Magee?” He was having trouble marrying Chantelle and Caroline. “She'll stay here. Sergeant Clements will look after her.”
“Are you charging her with anything? It's ridiculous, like I told you, saying she kidnapped her own husband.”
“There's no charge so far, Mrs. Briskin.”
“So far?”
“A figure of speech, Mrs. Briskin. Can we go? Inspector Peeples and I, two inspectors from Hurstville council.” He grinned again, the friendly man from the council, the ratepayers' mate. “We'll handle Mrs. What'shername. No gossip, no scandal.”
She looked them up and down, then picked up her handbag. “Be friendly with my daughter, Sergeant.”
“Like her own father,” said Clements.
“Not like him, anything but,” said Shirlee and led the way out of the room.
As they were heading down towards the underground garage of Police Centre, Malone saw Paula Decker. He stopped, telling Peeples he would catch up with him in a moment, and pulled Paula aside. “What are you doing up here?”
“I'm still attached to the strike force, sir. They called me in to help with the security on the two women, Mrs. Magee and Miss Doolan.”
“Forget Mrs. Magee, I think we'll be keeping her up here, charging her. You'll have your hands full with Kylie. How's she been?”
“Clinging to Magee like crazy. I think she's at last woken up to the fact that everything's gone down the gurgler. She's a greedy little bitch.”
“Get used to it, Paula. That's the way the world is going. Take care.”
“How's your luck holding, sir?”
“Just.”
Down in the garage Random was standing beside his own unmarked car with his driver and Errol Magee. “Garry has just told me we're all from Hurstville council. No fuss, no gossip.”
Malone looked at Magee. “You don't want Mr. Evans with you?”
Magee did not look comfortable, but there was no antagonism in him. “He won't be necessary. He's seeing what he can do for my wife.”
Malone didn't press the point. He just nodded and went across to Peeples' car. Peeples was behind the wheel and Malone got into the back seat beside Shirlee Briskin.
“Comfy, Mrs. Briskin?”
“No,” she said. “I'm never comfortable with a seat-belt.”
The two cars drove up out of the garage into the bright sunlight.
10
I
DARLENE BRISKIN had just come out of the strongroom in Rockdale when she got the message from her mother. She wasn't sure what had prompted her to carry her mobile with her in the office; maybe it was pessimism, which cloaked her like rough underwear. She took the message, understood its abruptness, then shut off the phone. She looked back at the strongroom's open door and wanted to laugh, even if it hurt. It was full of money and more was due any minute when the Armaguard truck would arrive. She looked at it all, at the uselessness of it to her, then she turned her back on it and went to the staff locker room. She grabbed her handbag and jacket and went out of the bank with just a nod to one of the girls and no word at all to the manager. She had just resigned, involuntarily.
She had never kept an account at the bank, wanting privacy. She went down the street to the credit union office where she kept her money. She closed the account, taking out $3822.48. She looked at it as she stuffed it into her handbag and smiled wryly; no, sourly. Her entire stake for the future, if she had a future.
She went round a corner, stood in a shadow (already acting instinctively?) and called Corey on her mobile. He answered at once, as if he had been waiting on her call.
“Where are you?”
“Not at work,” she said. “I've just resigned. Mum called you?”
“Yeah. I've just resigned, too—though the boss doesn't know. What we gunna do?”
“You got the car? Okay, I'll catch a train to Sydenham.” Five or six kilometres down the line: the first stage to where? But she didn't think any further than meeting Corey. “Meet me there.”
“What about Pheeny? They'll pick him up, for sure. Can he keep his mouth shut?”
“We'll have to risk that, we can't go to the hospital. The cops may already be there. They'll have picked up Mum—she said they were at the front gate. Oh Christ, Corey!” But she switched off the phone before she let him hear her weep.
Corey was waiting for her outside Sydenham station when she got there. He was parked right outside the station, giving the middle finger to other drivers as they hooted and yelled at him for blocking a traffic lane. He didn't care: their troubles were nothing compared to his.
Darlene got into the car beside him and they didn't speak till he pulled up five minutes later in a suburban street. Then she said, “We've really fucked up, haven't we?”
“Wash your mouth out,” he said, but his grin had no humour in it.
“What happened? How did we ever get into this?”
“Chantelle. She conned us, told us we were better than we thought we were. We were like football players, we moved up three grades, out of our class.” He looked through the windscreen, up the street. Three Aboriginal kids were throwing a football to each other: that was where the image had dropped into his mind. “Mum was dazzled by her. Her daughter, the one who'd made good in London.”
“Don't start picking on Mum. Or Chantelle, either. We could of always said No. The money got us in. Five million. Jesus, what I was gunna do with my share!”
He didn't ask what her dreams had been. They were gone now, like his own. “I dunno I could of handled it, that much dough.”
One of the Aboriginal kids kicked the football too hard and it came bouncing down the street to hit the front of the Toyota.
The boy came trotting down, picked it up, then walked round to look in at Corey.
“You looking for someone?” He was about fourteen, thin, with beautiful dark eyes made old with suspicion.
“No,” said Corey, “just taking a breather.”
“You're not cops, are you?”
Corey laughed, but it seemed to catch in his breast. “Nah, mate. Just thinking about suicide.”
The boy's eyes suddenly whitened. “Shit, don't think about it around here! We got enough trouble, the cops down here all the fucking time!”
“No, sport, I wouldn't do it on your doorstep.” Corey started up the car and pulled it away from the kerb. “Shit, why did I say that? Fucking suicide!”
“Like he said, don't even think about it.” Darlene was silent for a mile or two, then she said, “You're gunna have to get rid of the car. They'll have the registration, they could be out now looking for it with us in it. Head for Canterbury Road.”
“Ah shit, Sis, I don't wanna sell it—” But he had already turned the car, heading south-west. “Where do we go?”
“Canterbury Road, it's all car salesyards.”
“No, I mean after that. Where?”
“I dunno.” She put her hand on his arm; she truly loved this brother of hers. He had done some stupid things, but she didn't believe he was bad. “We'll think of something.”
The traffic was heavy, as if it were on the side of law and order and respect for road rules; which it was not. They could not speed, much as Corey wanted to. Drivers yelled at each other, horns were blown, fanfares of road rage. On pedestrian crossings people who didn't own cars ambled across at their leisure, provoking more abuse.
At last Corey pulled off on to a car lot where a big sign claimed: Best Toyota Buys In Town!
The salesman had been born spruiking; his mother's tit had overdosed him with confidence: “Best buys south of Cape York! Whatever you want, we've got it—what? You're selling?”
Corey and Darlene were out of the car, putting on dark glasses against the glare from metal and windscreens and sales talk. “What'll you give us? Five years old, I been the only owner. You can see, looks just the same's the day I bought it.”
The salesman smiled, one of a dozen variety he kept handy. He was no older than Corey, overweight, good looks spoiled by good living. All that spoiled him was his spiky hair, which looked as if it was kept on by Velcro. “You in the trade? You got the talk . . .” He walked round the car, shaking his head, nodding it, the expert who relied only on the eye. He came back to Corey and Darlene. “Eight thousand.”
“Eight?” Corey looked as if he had been offered vouchers. “Ah, come on, sport—”
“Take it,” said Darlene, who had seen the police car cruising by, taking its time as if looking for stolen cars on the lot.
“Sis—”
“Take it!”
Corey looked at her, puzzled; then he turned back to the salesman. “Okay, eight thousand. I'd like it in cash.”
“We-ll—” The salesman pursed his lips. “We don't carry much cash here. Too risky. I don't wanna offend you, you know what I mean, but the car's not hot, is it?”
Corey was offended. “Look, I can give you my licence and the registration—” Then he stopped. “Shit!”
“What's the matter?” said Darlene, but she knew.