by Jon Cleary
“No. My sister said another man came into your apartment after my brothers had left with you. It could've been one of the yakuza who are supposed to be after you. They keep talking about a man named Tajiri.”
“Where was your sister?”
“It doesn't matter. It was the other man who killed your maid. My brothers aren't killers . . . Why are you looking at me like that?”
He had never thought he would say it: “I'm wondering if I'm still in love with you.”
She kissed his cheek, pressed his hand. “You never were, Errol. But thanks for the thought. What are you going to do? You going overseas?”
“Why would I do that?”
“Errol darling, what about the forty million?”
“If it were true, which it isn't, would you come and share it with me?”
She kissed him again, this time a little lingeringly. “Try me.”
“Why did you come home when you did? After all this time?”
“I worked in a stockbroker's office in London, I knew what was going on out here. All those collapses, all those smartarse names going broke. I came home because I thought I might be some help for you, hold your hand, sort things out. But I was too late.”
He stared at her, then he heard himself say, “I think I love you.”
She pressed his hand. “We'll see, sweetheart.”
She hadn't called him that after the first six months of their marriage. But now it sounded—sweet? He was becoming sentimental.
Then Malone came along to them. “Time to go, Mr. Magee. Detective Decker will be taking your wife back to her hotel. Detective Ormiston—”He gestured towards the young officer from the strike force. “He'll meet us back at your apartment. I'll ride back with you in your car.”
“You're not letting up, are you? I've been the bloody victim here, in case you've forgotten.”
“We never do let up, Errol. Persistence is our motto. Take care, Mrs. Magee. I may come out to the airport to see you off. If you're going . . .”
“I may not be going after all.” She smiled at Magee, gave his hand a last squeeze. “Take care, sweetheart, as Inspector Malone advises everyone.”
Malone and Magee went down to the garage. As Malone fitted himself into the Porsche Carerra, he said, “When I was young, I was in bigger women than this.”
“That's an old one. You don't like sports cars?”
“I regret we gave up the horse and buggy. I warn you, as a police officer, that I consider anything over fifty ks as dangerous driving.”
“I'll never get out of second.”
“I won't mind if you don't get out of first.”
Magee wondered, as he took the car up out of the garage, why Malone was so relaxed and affable. But at the first red light, while they waited, Malone looked at him and said, “Why did you bullshit us, Errol?”
The light turned green, Magee resisted the temptation to put his foot down hard. “Superintendent Random asked me the same question. I didn't lie, Inspector. I just didn't recognize anything out at the Briskin house. And I didn't recognize the old lady's voice. That's all. No bullshit.”
“Caroline organized it all, you know that.”
They were going down College Street, past Police Headquarters where the only questions ever asked were political. The car was still in second, the traffic thick ahead of it. All that speed under me, thought Magee, and I can't get away.
“No, she didn't. I'm thinking of getting back together with her again. Would I do that if I thought she'd organized the kidnapping?”
“Errol, I could tell you a dozen stories of men who trusted no-good women. She's conning you. Believe me.”
“You're an expert on women as well as on criminals?” They were passing St. Mary's Cathedral, where a new archbishop was due in a couple of months, one who was hard on sin and knew little about women. Magee knew less about sin than he did about love.
“I've met more women crims than you have.” Then they were going down Macquarie Street, past Parliament House where the law-and-order issue, like a weekly wash, was being given another thumping. “I don't care a damn about your kidnapping, Errol. But I do care who killed your maid. I just wish you and Caroline would understand that.”
Magee looked sideways at him, saw the sudden tightness in the face, the jaw almost re-defined. For the first time he had a glimmer of a cop's approach to life and the preservation of it.
“I do understand, Inspector. But you're wrong, dead wrong.”
Malone didn't answer and Magee took the Porsche down to the bottom of the street and swung it down into the apartments garage. He waited while the steel lattice gate lifted. The media had gone, chasing another story. Magee took the car in under the gate, neglected to close it as Malone said, “We're not wrong, Errol. You'll be the first to find out.”
Magee swung the Porsche in beside Kylie's car, a BMW sports. That will have to go, he thought as he stepped out of his own car. Then he heard Malone say, “For Crissakes!”
Vassily Todorov, in full Foley's Flyers kit, had come down the ramp on his bicycle and slipped into the garage.
“Mr. Magee!” Todorov jumped off his bicycle, a courier with bad news from the front. “I have to talk to you! It is about Juanita, your maid—”
“Who the fuck's he?” said Magee.
“Your maid's boyfriend. He's after money—”
But then Malone had moved round the car and intercepted Todorov as the Bulgarian, furious, came at Magee as if he intended thrashing him. Malone grappled with him, pushing him away.
“Todorov, get outa here!”
“He owes Juanita—he owes me—” Todorov was splitting with rage, his plumed helmet wobbling as if the top of his skull was coming apart.
Malone began to push him towards the ramp. They struggled, but Malone, though older by several years, was the bigger man. He pushed, swung round, pulled Todorov up the ramp, the Foley's Flyer swearing in a language that Berlitz would never have taught.
Magee stood unmoving beside his car. Then a voice behind him said quietly, “Mr. Magee—”
He turned towards the voice. Nakasone stood there on the other side of a black Mercedes. He held a gun aimed straight at Magee: it was a Heckler & Koch P7, though Magee would never know that. It was fitted with a silencer and when Nakasone squeezed the trigger the small sound was lost in the yelling coming from the ramp.
Magee died instantly, the bullet through his right eye; he died without wonder, which is unusual. His mind had become as blank as a dead computer screen.
Nakasone, taking off his gloves, putting the gun and the silencer in his briefcase, walked quickly to the lifts, where the door of one was propped open. The door closed on him and the lift began to ascend as the yelling in the ramp suddenly stopped.
II
“I don't bloody well know!” Malone could hardly control his voice. “I got rid of Todorov and came back down to the car—and Magee wasn't there. I started towards the lifts, thinking he had gone up to his apartment . . . Then I saw him—Greg, I've got no idea who did him in. I can guess—”
“Scobie,” said Random, “guesses aren't good enough. Okay, you think it was the yakuza—we know it was the yakuza. But till we pick up Mr. Tajiri . . . Did you search the garage?”
“Greg, I'm not bloody stupid! Of course I searched the place. Then I went up to the ground floor, but the concierge said he saw no one go out through the front doors—he'd taken some woman's parcels up to her apartment—”
“Simmer down, mate,” said Clements. “Nobody's blaming you—”
“And nobody's going to,” said Random. “If that bloody Bulgarian hadn't shoved his nose in, Magee would still be alive. You write the report, Russ. No blame attached.”
“What about Todorov?” asked Clements.
“You mean was he in on the act? As a decoy?” Malone shook his head, which ached. “As he'd say, he was just pedalling his own bike. Forget him. He was a pain in the arse, but that's all.”
The gar
age was as busy as a motor-racing pit. Cars were being moved for the Physical Evidence team to go about their work; Crime Scene tapes were strung about like sponsors' bunting; media hawks were hovering at the steel gate, which had been closed. Magee's body was already on its way to the morgue, past greed, past love.
“Where are Magee's women?” asked Malone.
“Upstairs,” said Clements. “Paula Decker brought Mrs. Magee down from the hotel. Miss Doolan's up there with Sheryl.”
“How are they?”
“I'm just about to go up and see. Can we leave all this in your hands, Chief Superintendent?”
“One of these days my Welsh patience is going to run out,” said Random. “Give my respects to the ladies. Where do you go next?”
“To the Kunishima Bank.” Malone was pulling himself together. “I’m getting old, he thought. The tussle with Todorov had been tougher than he was going to let Random and Clements know. “We're still looking for Tajiri.”
As he and Clements rode up the lift, the latter said, “How d'you feel?”
“Shitty. Pissed off. Wouldn't you be? I was that close to cracking Magee—” He held finger and thumb an inch apart.
“You really think so? I don't, mate. I watched him and his missus when they were together back at the Centre. He was never gunna finger her.”
Malone leaned back against the wall of the lift, sighed, then nodded. “I've become cross-eyed over this case. It's time I moved on.” Then he looked directly at Clements. “I never thought I'd say that.”
“I'll be saying it in a year or two. It catches up with us in the end.”
“What?”
“Human bastardry.”
Kylie Doolan opened the apartment door to them, looking expectant, as if she might be waiting for Errol to come back from the dead. She stared at the two detectives as if they were unexpected. “Yes?”
“May we come in? We want a word with you and Mrs. Magee.”
She stood aside and the two men walked in. Paula Decker and Sheryl Dallen rose from their chairs, but Caroline Magee remained seated. Malone tried to sense the atmosphere of the room, but couldn't. This was women's atmosphere, a fog in which he always moved carefully.
“We've come to give our condolences,” he said, words he had said at other times and which always sounded hollow in his mouth.
“I thought you were supposed to be protecting him!” Kylie had found her voice and her attitude.
It was nothing new to Malone and Clements. It was the latter who said, “We were protecting him, Miss Doolan. Mr. Magee was attacked by a man named Todorov, your maid's boyfriend—Inspector Malone was hustling him out of the garage when—”
“Shut up and sit down, Kylie,” said Caroline.
“Don't tell me what—” But suddenly Kylie did shut up and sit down. She looked around at all of them, then turned and stared out through the big glass doors as if looking for someone more comforting there.
Caroline still hadn't risen, as if she had become the chatelaine of Magee's castle. Which, Malone abruptly recognized, she was indeed. Kylie Doolan was on her way back to Minto or points obscure.
“No one is to blame, Inspector,” Caroline said. “It was always on the cards. Do Miss Doolan and I still need protection?”
“No,” said Malone. “Not unless you'd like Detectives Dallen and Decker to stay on, at least for tonight?”
Neither Sheryl nor Paula moved their heads, but their eyes were vigorously saying No, no, no. Clements grinned and said, “Get your sister down here, Miss Doolan, she'll be the best company for you. You'll be okay back at your hotel, Mrs. Magee.”
“I'll be staying here,” she said, “till the funeral.”
Kylie abruptly stopped looking out through the doors. “You're what? Jesus, who do you think you are?”
“I'm his wife, Kylie. There'll be things to attend to—”
“We'll see about that! We'll see what's in his will—”
“There is no will, Kylie.”
There was a sudden silence; Malone broke it with, “How do you know?”
“I checked ten minutes ago with the lawyers.” She was still seated, still holding court. “Don't be shocked. It will probably be me who'll have to tidy up everything.”
“So you won't be leaving for London immediately?”
“No.”
Malone was suddenly dead tired; he couldn't resist it: “You'll spend more time searching the computers?”
Her gaze was steady. “If needs be.”
It was time to go; Malone could feel himself becoming cross-eyed again. “Take care, Chantelle. You too, Kylie.”
He jerked his head at Sheryl Dallen and she followed him and Clements out to the lifts. “Did you question Kylie? Did anyone call here looking for Errol? A phone call or anything?”
“Nothing, boss.” Then she said, “I'm glad he didn't take a shot at you. That'd be no way to retire.”
“I'm not retiring, I'm being promoted.”
“Same thing, as far as we're concerned. Right?” She looked at Clements. For a moment all rank was forgotten.
“Right,” said Clements and held the door open for Malone, embarrassed, to step into the lift.
III
“Remember,” said Nakasone, “our stories have to be exactly the same. I've been here all morning, sometimes in conference with you about a replacement for Tajiri.”
“Everything is true except the facts,” murmured Okada.
“What?”
“It was something someone said of a Soviet trial in Russia in the 1930s. Our historians are following the rule.”
“You would not dare say that back in Tokyo or Osaka.”
“I'm at risk everywhere, Kenji. Here, back home, it doesn't matter. Okay, you have been here all morning. What if they question Miss Minato? She's a devil for facts.”
“She didn't see me go out or come back. Neither did the rest of the staff.”
“What if they had come looking for you?”
“I will say I must have been in the toilet. All we have to do is corroborate each other, Hauro. For the sake of the bank.”
“Of course. But Mr. Magee's death doesn't get the bank back its forty million dollars. Unless you asked him before you—er—wiped him off our books?”
“No jokes, please,” said Nakasone, who had no sense of humour.
For the next hour Okada sat waiting the inevitable: the arrival of the police. He was not surprised that when they came they were familiar men: Inspector Malone and Sergeant Clements.
He pressed the button under his desk when they were announced and Nakasone came in from his office as the two detectives entered. Okada rose. “Inspector, back so soon? More due diligence?”
“Very much so, Mr. Okada. Mr. Nakasone.” Malone glanced at the latter, then looked back at Okada. “Your client Mr. Magee is dead. He was shot just over an hour ago, in the garage of his apartments. I'm sure it's been on the radio.”
“We haven't heard it—we never listen to the radio, Inspector. Naturally, we're upset about Mr. Magee. Murdered? Dreadful.” He shook his head at the way of the world. “We were looking forward to sitting down and talking to him. About solving our problems.”
Clements turned to Nakasone. “You heard from or seen Mr. Tajiri today?”
“Tajiri? Why would I see him today? He has been sacked, paid off. You haven't talked to him yourselves?”
Don't push it, Clements advised him silently. “What's been your programme this morning?”
“Programme? I was here, working, have been since seven-thirty. I had a conference with Mr. Okada. I am in the process of finding someone to replace Tajiri.”
“You can vouch for that, Mr. Okada?” said Malone, switching the bowling.
“Of course, Inspector. Are you suggesting we might have had something to do with Mr. Magee's death?”
“It crossed our minds that someone from Kunishima might have.”
“Inspector, may I remind you that Mr. Magee owed our bank fort
y million dollars. His death won't return our money. Unless he has had a stab of conscience and made a will in our favour, told us where the money is.”
“There's no will,” said Clements. “But he might of told his killer where the money is, just before he was shot.”
“He might have done that,” said Nakasone, wondering if he had given Magee more time there might have been a return. But, of course, there had not been enough time . . . “So far no one has told us if he did.”
“And you haven't a clue where Tajiri might be?” said Malone.
“Not a clue,” said Okada.
“We'll want a list of all your employees,” said Clements. “We'll have officers back here within twenty minutes to question them. Tell them, all of them, not to go out to lunch.”
“We'll tell them, Sergeant,” said Okada. “We'll do everything we can to help.”
“To get your money back?” said Malone.
“We have to balance our books, Inspector.”
“So have we. We'll be back, gentlemen,” said Malone, bowed mockingly and led Clements out of the office.
Nakasone looked at Okada. “I think we're safe, Hauro.”
“Are you a religious man, Kenji? No? I didn't think so. I'll pray for both of us. And poor Mr. Magee. But don't quote me.”
Going down in the lift Malone and Clements said nothing to each other. But outside in the sunlight Clements said, “You're not happy.”
“I'm bloody un-happy. Wouldn't you be? My last case and I look like finishing up with two, two, unsolved murders.”
“Not unsolved, mate. We know who did them. One of the Briskins and Mr. Tajiri. We'll solve ‘em eventually.”
“We?”
“Well, someone.”
12
I
AND SO history, as it does, has slid on through its regular pattern of a hundred opinions, half-truths and winners and losers. By the time you read this:
Caroline Briskin is back in London with Greenfield & Company, doing some day trading on the side, building her own small fortune. She has a lover, an Italian soccer player with the English Premier League who has his own small fortune in his left boot.
Kylie Doolan lives in a small flat in Paddington and works as a general dogsbody for a bald-headed dress designer. Occasionally she goes back to Minto for Sunday lunch with Monica and Clarrie and her two nieces. She still has hopes of marrying money.