by Jon Cleary
She thought about it, then nodded. “Okay, I’ll go to my sister’s. In the morning.”
“Why not tonight? Now?”
“She talked to me this morning, she called me. Her and her husband have had a donnybrook, they aren’t speaking—it gets a bit tense over there sometimes. I don’t wanna walk into her house with things like that between „em. I’ll ring and ask if I can come tomorrow and that’ll give „em time to patch things up.”
Other people, other wars: they went on all the time. Malone nodded. “Righto. In the meantime get your niece over here to stay the night.”
She lifted her head to peer up at him. “Jesus, you sound just like Terry! Is someone really gunna try and hurt me? For what? For just being married to him?”
“At the moment, Mrs. Kornsey, we don’t know why they killed him. We don’t think it was the Mafia, after all. It was someone else, we’re not sure who. Until we find out, Sergeant Clements and I would feel better if we knew you were safe. We can get you police protection—”
“No!” Her hand knocked her cup, spilling some coffee. “No, I won’t have that, not if I’m gunna stay with Carmel. Joe, her husband, would go off the deep end—he can’t stand cops, he’s always saying . . . Sorry, I don’t mean you. No, no police protection . . .” She was wiping up the spilled coffee with a Wettex. “I’m coming to the conclusion that I didn’t know Terry at all. Conclusion. He used to say, a joke, that a woman never came to a firm conclusion till she died. I used to throw this at him.” She held up the Wettex.
Malone wondered how Lisa would have reacted to Kornsey’s piece of male chauvinism; but Leanne Kornsey had uttered it without any apparent resentment.
He tried for one last time to pierce this woman’s total acceptance of her husband: “Mrs. Kornsey, didn’t you ever query anything about your husband’s past life?”
She took her time, not wanting to open up too much of herself: Malone had seen the same self-protection countless times, not always with women. “I sometimes wondered if there’d been another wife before me. But I—I didn’t wanna know, you know what I mean? Well, no, mebbe you don’t. I—I’ve never had much luck with men, not before Terry. I was married once—it was a disaster, I try not to think about it. Then there were a coupla others . . . Then Terry came along. A woman gets to my age, she doesn’t query her luck, right? D’you gamble? I do. Not big, I just play the poker machines down at the club. When you hit the jackpot on the pokies, you don’t question your luck. It was the same with Terry, he was my jackpot. He was kind and loving and—permanent. Or so I thought.”
“When your husband left the house, the day he disappeared, how did he go?”
She paused on her way to the sink to wash out the Wettex. “How d’you mean?”
“The day I came here to tell you we’d found his—his body, his Mercedes was in the garage. So was your Honda. So how did he leave? Did you see him go?”
“He took the dog out for a walk. It’s something, isn’t it, when the last words your husband says to you is, I’m taking the dog for a walk.”
“Did the dog come back?”
She shook her head. “They probably killed it, too. He was a gentle dog, a real sook, he wouldn’t have attacked anyone. We had all the windows barred and the security doors and a dog that would’ve slobbered all over anyone who tried to break in.” She was melting the irony; which was preferable to seeing her weep. “You sure you don’t want more coffee?”
“It’s time we went. Get your niece over here as soon as you can. If anyone calls you, or comes to the door, someone you don’t know . . .”
“You’ve already warned me. I still can’t believe this has happened—” She had put her glasses back on, but now she took them off again; Malone saw the beginning of tears. “I’ll be careful.”
“And, Mrs. Kornsey—” He didn’t want to mention the twenty-five million; but: “Tell your solicitor to go easy for a while. If there’s anything coming to you out of your husband’s estate, you’ll get it eventually.”
“I’m not hungry for it,” she said defensively.
He wondered how hungry she would be if she knew of the twenty-five million; but that was judging her by the standards of too many others in this case. “Take care,” he said, and he and Clements were ready to leave.
“Do you like marmalade?” She gave them each a jar. “It was Terry’s favourite, said he’d never tasted a decent jam all the time he’d lived in America.”
Driving away, Clements said, “You think they’ll try to get to her?”
“I don’t know. Let’s go and see Douglas Fairbanks. I should’ve brought my autograph book.”
“You think your kids would know who Douglas Fairbanks was? Even Junior? They wouldn’t know who Clark Gable was.”
“You’ve got him on your mind since that estate agent said you looked like him. You going to grow a moustache?”
It was the sort of prattle that helped them unwind; they had both been tense while they were with Leanne Kornsey, not wanting her to break up on them. Prattle does more than fill empty air.
The main street of Hurstville was chock-a-block with parked cars. Clements pulled into a No Parking zone and a parking warden appeared out of nowhere like a grey genie. “Not there, mate. Move it.”
“Police.”
“Okay,” said the warden, a huge Fijian who looked as if he could have picked up the Commodore and carted it away under his arm. “But it sets a bad example.”
“You sound just like my mother.”
The two detectives went into the building next to the Treasury bank, where Malone had visited last week, went up a flight of stairs and into the offices of Douglas Fairbanks, Solicitor. A grey-haired woman, old enough to have been a fan of Fairbanks Junior, took them into an inner office.
Fairbanks, as Leanne Kornsey had said, was as dull as dishwater. There was nothing about him that suggested he might leap over his desk to greet them, that he might even leap over a flooded gutter. In the latter case he would take off his shoes and socks, roll up his trousers and wade through the water, mentally composing a stern letter to the local council. He was in his fifties, with wispy grey hair, of stout build and a bland face that looked as if it had never known excitement, not even in love-making. His voice was thin and reedy, a silent film star’s voice.
Malone explained the reason for their visit. “How did you know where to look for Mr. Kornsey’s estate?”
“He left a will.” Fairbanks’ elbows rested on the arms of his chair, his long but plump fingers locked together.
“May we see it?”
“You know better than that, Inspector. It’s in probate.”
“Is everything left to the widow?”
The solicitor hesitated, then nodded. “Yes.”
“Are Sue City Investments and Hannibal Development mentioned in the will?” said Clements, who had a better memory for such details than Malone.
“Yes.”
“Mr. Fairbanks,” said Malone, “we respect client confidentiality, but your client is dead and we’re trying to find out who killed him.”
“My client is now Mrs. Kornsey.”
“You’re getting to be a pain in the arse—” said Clements.
“It’s a lawyer’s talent.” There was no smile, not even a twist of the lips, so there was no way of knowing if Fairbanks had any sense of humour.
“We’re also trying to prevent Mrs. Kornsey from being killed,” said Malone.
That stiffened the locked fingers. “H’m. That makes a difference, doesn’t it?”
“Especially if they come bounding up those stairs outside, like the villains in your grandfather’s movies,” said Clements.
Even then Fairbanks didn’t smile. “Those sort of jokes are a real pain in the arse.”
“Righto, let’s say we’re even-Stephen on who’s a pain.” Malone was losing patience, as he often did with lawyers. “Let’s agree it’ll be no joke if Mrs. Kornsey goes the same way as her husband. And it’s l
ikely to happen if you start scratching around too deeply into where Mr. Kornsey’s money is stashed away. How well did you know him?”
The lawyer unlocked his fingers. “Hardly at all. I saw him only twice, to my recollection. He played everything close to his chest, he reminded me of those gangsters you see in American films.”
“He was one,” said Malone.
“Oh. Are you going to tell me more? No? All right, then. He came in and asked me to make out a will, just a few lines leaving everything to his wife. Then he came back a week later and signed it. He left a sealed envelope with me, said it was a list of everything he owned, but I wasn’t to open it till his death.”
“When was this?”
“A month ago. The next I heard of him was the report the other day in the newspapers of his death. I gave his widow time to get over the shock, then I got in touch with her.”
“Is she on your back to get everything cleared up in a hurry?”
“No. But I have the feeling she will ask me to account for every penny. She’s a lady who likes everything neat and tidy. Well ordered.”
Except for the huge hole in her life. “Let’s keep it neat and tidy. Ease off till we clear up the murder. Otherwise you might be risking her life.”
One of the plump fingers scratched the plum nose. “Am I likely to be receiving a visit from whoever killed Mr. Kornsey?”
“Probably not. But like I said, don’t scratch too deep.”
On their way down to the street Clements said, “He doesn’t know about the twenty-five million.”
When they got out to their car the traffic warden was writing out a ticket for a car parked in front of the Commodore. “You see? I told you you were setting a bad example.” He gave them a huge smile, a metre of teeth. “You make good bait. This woman fell for it.”
“How do you know this is a woman’s car?”
“It’s parked a short walk from the kerb.”
Another huge smile. Male chauvinism knew no national boundaries.
II
Malone was having dinner, steak-and-kidney pie with two veg, a glass of Hunter red and with poached pears to follow, when the phone rang. He looked at his three children. “If that’s for any of you, hang up. We’re going to finish dinner together and in peace.”
“I’ll get it.” Maureen went out to the kitchen. She had a few moments’ conversation with someone on the other end of the line, then she came back into the dining room. “It’s Uncle Russ. I asked him when he and Romy are getting married.”
“Why don’t you mind your business?” Malone pushed back his chair.
“It is our business.”
Malone went out to the kitchen, picked up the phone. “I’m in the middle of dinner. This had better be important.”
“They’ve found the Viet girl, Kim Weetbix. Killed the same way as Rob Sweden, the puncture in the back of the neck.”
“Where did they find her?”
“She was dumped on Mrs. Kornsey’s front doormat.”
III
Jack Aldwych had brought Emily Karp to dinner in the Gold Room at the Hotel Congress. The waiters were too young to know who he was or had been. The maitre d’, if he knew, didn’t care: business had been so bad all this year that even Pol Pot would have been welcome, with or without his American Express card. Emily, beautiful and elegant in black silk, did the unexpected: she didn’t order the most expensive items on the expensive menu nor did she ask for French champagne. “Just a glass of the house white.”
Aldwych smiled, pleased with her. “Give the lady the best white you have. Australian.”
“Sir, we have splendid French whites. Perhaps a Montrachet?”
“Australian,” said Aldwych and gave him his killer’s look. The maitre d’ went away, his blood turned to mineral water, and Aldwych smiled again at Emily. “There are two kinds of conmen who never get locked up, head waiters and fashion designers.”
“I was a fashion designer, once. Till I married.”
“I know. I got Juliet to tell me all about you.”
“You think I’m a conwoman? Or was one?”
“Not now. You would’ve been when you were a designer. I read it somewhere, fashion is for sheep who like a conman as their shepherd.”
“Vogue would put out a contract on you if they heard you say that. Were you ever a conman?”
The young waiter, bringing fish-knives, managed not to drop his eyeballs on the table. Aldwych waited till he had gone: “You don’t mind being with an old crim?”
“I might, if you hadn’t told me you’d retired.”
“No, I was never a conman. I didn’t have that sorta brain. Early in the piece I was a bash artist, what you’d call a thug. I was pretty nasty.” He had a certain honesty about his youth that some of the elderly manage to carry without embarrassment. “Then I graduated, I learned to leave the rough stuff to others. I became a general, I planned things. I could of run the Gulf war if they’d asked me,” he said with self-mocking conceit. “Being a successful crim is all strategy and tactics, that’s all, just like running a war.”
“Maybe you’d be better than the police at solving the murder of Ophelia’s stepson.”
“Maybe. But I dunno if it’s any of my business, not any more. Once I made sure my son Jack wasn’t gunna be dragged into it . . .” The maitre d’ had not come back, but had sent the wine waiter, who held out a bottle for Aldwych’s inspection. “I wouldn’t know one label from another, son. But if it’s no good . . .”
The wine waiter got the message, but, given to waiter’s hyperbole, made the wrong recommendation. “I’d stake my life on this one, sir—”
Aldwych smiled, winked at Emily. “I’d already done that for you, son.”
After the waiter, with shaking hand, had poured their wine and gone away, Aldwych said, “Do you mind me playing the old terror like that?”
“Just so long as you don’t overdo it.”
She was enjoying his company; but then almost any company was enjoyable. She had lost her husband five years ago, her only son ten years ago; she had loved them both with perhaps too much love; their deaths had left a hollowness in her. She had been left with very little money and it had been too late for her to go back into fashion; tastes had changed, which they do every year in fashion, and she would have had to gallop to have caught up. Women in their fifties never look attractive galloping; she had settled for a slow walk, which attracts more invitations from men than a quick trot. She never took expensive gifts from men; she was promiscuous but honest and selective. She lived frugally at home, but no one ever got rich by economizing. So she was an always available dinner companion, even if people talked about her. She reasoned they would have talked about her if she had remained at home in the lonely flat and she preferred gossip to pity. She was, as she said, a lady but only just.
“Do you think the police will solve the murder?”
Aldwych toyed with his smoked salmon. The Gold Room was a hangover from the boom years of the Eighties, when extravagance had been mistaken for a virtue, when designers thought they had been let loose in Byzantium. The crystal was gold-rimmed, the plate gold-patterned: the smoked salmon was spread on a gold grid. “Eventually they will. The man in charge is one of the best, Inspector Malone. He won’t give up. Did you know young Rob?”
“Yes, I knew him. I couldn’t stand him, though he was always charming to me. But he wanted to go to bed with every woman he met.”
“Including you?”
“No, I was just out of his age group. But he didn’t mind a middle-aged woman, so long as she wasn’t sagging in the wrong places.”
“Like the Bruna sisters?”
She looked at him above her gold-rimmed soup spoon. “You don’t miss much, do you?”
“Are you saying he went to bed with them? All of them?”
“Not with your daughter-in-law.” She had suddenly recognized that in certain things he was strait-laced; under the criminal was a Methodist struggling to ge
t out. She was not a good liar, but she managed to convince him: “No, not Juliet. Nor Rosalind, I’d say, though I’m not sure. But Ophelia . . .”
“Why her?”
“Jack, what do you know about women?”
He grinned, not afraid to be honest with this woman. “Not much. You never learn much from hookers, not unless you’re their pimp. I ran a string of brothels, but I never thought of myself as their pimp. I was the managing director.”
Roland, her husband, would never believe this conversation if he were alive and she could tell him; Roland had been a senior executive with a trustee company, handling trusts for old ladies who, if they knew anything at all about brothels, believed they were women’s cooperatives. Pimps were girls who had told tales on them in school. Roland had not been as innocent as the old ladies, but he had been a sweet gentle man who looked for the best in everyone. Since his death she had been out with and into bed with crooked politicians, crooked lawyers, crooked bankers; but none of them had been killers or run brothels. She had to treat Jack Aldwych differently from all the others.
“Ophelia thinks the world is her oyster. She would never miss an opportunity, no matter what the opportunity was. Cormac is an old man . . . Are you offended at me saying that?”
“Emily, I am old. Why should I be offended?”
“Male vanity.”
“I’m not gunna put the hard word on you, love. I’m too old for that, so if you had your hopes up—Did you?” He smiled, enjoying her almost as much as if making love to her. “I wouldn’t wanna die on top of a woman. We had that politician of ours who did—”
She nodded, “I know the lady in question. It was a nightmare for her.”
“I won’t ask who she was. There was an ex-governor in the States, too, you would of read about him. That must of been funny. The woman in that case, she called his minders and they went rushing to his place. He was naked and they tried to put his clothes back on before they called the ambulance. But they couldn’t get his shoes on—Did you know it’s almost impossible to put shoes on a dead man? It’s got something to do with the way the bones of the foot set. There’s a moral there. Over a certain age a man should always make love with his shoes on, just in case . . . I wanna die with dignity. Some men think it’d be a wonderful way to go, while making love.” He shook his big head. “Not me. I think it’d be the most undignified way to go.”