Death by the Book (19 page)

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

A
N 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.

It began to rain again. The water on the road peeled off the tyres like glue, curling in small perfect waves.

‘See the paper this morning?’ said MacAllister. His tone was cool, on the serious side. He nodded towards the back seat. ‘Take a look. Page three.’

Jack stretched around for a copy of the
Daily Telegraph
. He knew what it was going to be about even before he picked it up.

Poet shot in home invasion

by John Ecclestone

AN ACCLAIMED POET was shot dead in his Potts Point apartment yesterday after an attempted burglary, say local police. Edward Kass, 72, was found slumped over his kitchen table at approximately 4.30 p.m. with a bullet wound to the head. The intruder, whose name has not been released by police, was also found dead at the scene. Ian Douglas Durst, 43, arrived at the Kass apartment during the attempted burglary and surprised the intruder, wherein a struggle ensued and another shot was fired, fatally wounding the gunman. The murdered poet’s daughter, Ms Celia Mitten, 46, arrived home with a friend soon after and discovered the gruesome scene.

Police held Mr Durst for questioning but released him a short time later. No charges have been laid. Last year, Mr Durst, a former gynaecologist, was involved in a drug and insider-trading scandal that saw him struck from the medical register.

Edward Kass was the recipient of numerous literary awards for his poetry. His brother, well-known Sydney business entrepreneur Hammond Kasprowicz, was unavailable for comment yesterday.

Jack folded the newspaper and tossed it onto the rear seat.

‘Did you know?’ asked MacAllister.

‘I was there.’

‘What?’

‘I’m the friend. I walked in with Celia Mitten.’

‘Jesus. What were you doing there?’

‘Meeting Kass.’

‘Why?’

‘To get some ideas. Celia came to the shop a few days ago and told me somebody had burnt her father’s books and sent them to him in the mail. A note said more would follow. Something like
and soon it’ll be as if you never wrote any books at all
.’

‘Christ.’

‘I’ve seen the note but not the ashes.’

MacAllister thought for a moment. ‘And you’re getting hold of the same books for Kasprowicz?’

‘You got it. She thinks it’s him.’

‘Have you asked Kasprowicz about it?’

‘He denies it, says I’m crazy, but won’t tell me why he wants them.’

‘What do you think?’

‘Not sure. But even his own daughter wouldn’t put it past him. Apparently Kass didn’t mind a bit of Mrs Kasprowicz on the side, once upon a time. I suppose that kind of thing can put a strain on sibling relations.’

‘Jesus, these people! You don’t know who’s paying and who’s drinking!’

‘I’m sure there’s something else, something I don’t know. Why would he suddenly decide to burn his brother’s books for something that happened so long ago?’

MacAllister shrugged his shoulders. ‘Maybe he’s one of those guys who bottles things up.’

Jack shook his head. ‘Kasprowicz had already taken his brother to the cleaners over the family money, you told me that. And that was years ago. I was hoping Kass was going to give me a hint about where things stood with rich
brother Hammond now.’

Roadwork machinery stood abandoned beside the highway, parked unevenly near newly laid asphalt and between large sections of concrete pipe. Loose gravel bounced up into the wheel arches.

MacAllister slowed and leaned forward in his seat, concentrating like a pensioner. ‘You think the shooting’s got something to do with the whole book burning thing?’

‘Maybe.’

‘I don’t know,’ said MacAllister, doubtfully. ‘This is a big city. All sorts of things happen.’

Jack stretched a little in his seat, felt an itchiness around his stitches. He wondered if he should tell MacAllister. ‘Yeah, but think about it. Kass was at the kitchen table working on his couplets when he got it in the head. From behind. Then Durst is suddenly there and he shoots the killer almost immediately after Kass gets it. Sound like a burglary gone terribly wrong?’

‘I’ve heard stranger things.’ MacAllister watched a car pass them. ‘What did the police say?’

‘Nothing. They’re too busy following wrong leads.’

‘What do you mean?’

Jack sucked in a deep breath. ‘One of the detectives found out I used to work for Ziggy Brandt.’ It was a touchy subject: he had left MacAllister’s to work for Brandt.

‘I told you not to take that fucking job!’

‘Doesn’t matter now.’

‘It always matters with the cops.’ MacAllister rubbed his beard vigorously. ‘Always will. Permanently on the books now. I told you that. Suspicious by association.’

‘Not that old record. You’re worse than the fucking cops.’
Jack had not meant it to sound like that. He loved the guy, but the truth was different engines drove them. MacAllister stuck to the straight line and Jack liked to change lanes.

‘How old are you?’ MacAllister frowned. ‘Fifteen?’

Jack ignored him.

‘Don’t be an idiot. The police are probably talking to Kasprowicz about the burnt books right now. Then they’ll be back to talk to you again ’cause they’ll want to know why you withheld stuff. Why, what, when, over and over, because they won’t believe anything you say until you’ve said it fifty times. And then they’ll arrest you for being a smart-arse. Just like last time. You already know the drill.’

‘Yeah, I know it.’

Brendan MacAllister raised his voice. ‘Why the hell did you have to visit Kass? What’s it got to do with you if Kasprowicz is burning the books? The whole thing is none of your business. Soon as you found out you should have quit. Kasprowicz probably
is
burning the fucking books!’

Jack stared out of the window.

MacAllister glanced at him. ‘Listen, you might want to start using that grey pulpy shit in your head. Don’t get involved with these people. No matter what you think, you’ve got no idea what’s going on. Like you said, Durst was at the fucking apartment and shot the guy. He was probably there because he’s fucking Kass’s daughter. Who knows what else? And what if the shooting wasn’t a coincidence, like you said? All the possible scenarios look crap to me.’ MacAllister eased off the accelerator a little. ‘They live in another world, Jack. You should know that after working for Ziggy Brandt. I’m not helping you out of another fucking mess.’

Jack pulled out a cigarette and played with it. Outside, cars streamed through heavier rain — their rear lights blurred and dimmed, then were swallowed by the downpour.