Yesterday's Shadow (14 page)

Malone looked after him. “If I sent him into a china shop he'd break every cup, saucer and plate before he found the door to get out. But if I sent him to the Antarctic to get the name of a particular penguin, he'd talk to a million of them and come back with the right bird.”

“After this posting,” said Himes, “I go back to take charge of a bureau somewhere—on the East Coast, I hope. Boston or Charleston would be nice. I hope I have your luck with the staff I get.”

They were standing in a square pool of sunshine; the rest of the narrow street was in shade. Malone became aware that the small square of warmth was crowded with about a dozen women, all in black except one, who was in grey, all with mobile phones stuck to their ears: power women who had just emerged from some conference. He had the sudden cock-eyed image that he was in the midst of a misery of Hasidic mourners, on their phones to determine the time of the next funeral. He looked for beards and wide-brimmed black hats, but there were none. Then he was aware that all the women, phones still to ears, were staring at him and Himes, all of them looking threatening, this time calling up reinforcements. Then he shook his head: he was having hallucinations.

“
Why do women in business all wear black?” he said, trying to remember what Lisa had worn this morning.

“I dunno,” said Himes. “I dunno why my wife wears what she does.”

“What does she wear?”

“I dunno,” said Himes and grinned again, proud in a long line of blind husbands.

Malone took the parking ticket from his windscreen, tore it up, dropped it down a grating in the gutter and got into the unmarked car and they drove back to Surry Hills as the group of black-suited women broke up and moved away, some with phones still to their ears as if massaging earache. Malone, watching them in his driving mirror, grinned to himself. He had lost his battle against the progress of technology but it still amused him. Cave-dwellers have a simplicity to them that is appealing. To other cave-dwellers.

Then his car-phone rang: it was Gail Lee: “We've found out where Mrs. Pavane had her Japanese dinner. At Kyoto in Hunter's Hill.”

II

The Queen Victoria Building, the QVB, is one of the city's treasures, a huge Victorian galleried, copper-domed emporium of boutiques, cafés and restaurants. Long neglected, there was talk of demolishing it; it was a nest for unwanted storage, rats and prowling developers. Then Asian developers took it over and restored it to even better than its original glory. Local municipal authorities and developers, blinded by cataracts of the quick buck, had laughed at the folly of the foreigners and went looking for other heritages to pull down. Now, this day, the boutiques, the Olympic boom long over and the tourists gone home, were back to selling to the natives at their half-price winter sales. Windows were plastered with signs—50%
OFF
!
BEST EVER SALE
!—like old-time death notices.

Lisa was in one of the restaurants. It was a ritual that she and Scobie had lunch together once a week, but occasionally she came across here from Town Hall, just across the road, to have lunch on her own. She had worked for two years as the city's PR agent on the Olympics, a two-year headache that no
amount
of analgesics had ever helped. Now, like everyone else, she was astray. The Lord Mayor, a man afraid of decisions, had talked for the past six months of letting her go. She wasn't sure that she would not welcome the pink slip. City council politics were small wars that gave conflict a bad name and she had grown tired of them.

She was looking at the menu when she became aware of the woman standing by her table. She looked up to tell the waitress she had not yet made up her mind; but it was not the waitress. It was a woman in a long black coat and a black beret.

“Mrs. Malone?”

“Yes,” said Lisa reluctantly, wondering if this was another complainant against another of the council's rulings.

“I'm Delia Jones.” She stood awkwardly for a moment, then nodded at the empty chair opposite Lisa. “May I sit down?”

No, thought Lisa; but said, “If you wish.”

Delia sat down, almost gracefully. Then a waitress was beside them, waiting on their order. “What'll it be today, Mrs. Malone?”

“I'll have the crab-and-avocado sandwich. And a glass of the usual white.” Then Lisa looked at the woman opposite, heard herself say, “Would you like lunch?”

“Thank you. I'll have the same.” The waitress went away and Delia went on, “It must be nice to be known.”

“I come here regularly.” She didn't add:
with Scobie
.

“I can't remember when I last had crab. Scobie used to like it. It was cheaper then. Does he still count his pennies?”

Lisa was gathering her defences.
Defences? What am I afraid of?
She was studying the other woman (the Other Woman?) without being too obvious. The black coat, done up to the neck, was cheap, but Delia wore it with some style; there was a purple-and-green scarf inside the collar, just enough colour to relieve the drab coat. The beret was cheap, the cheapest sort of headgear bar a beanie, but Delia wore it
rakishly,
pulled forward over one eye. Yes, thought Lisa, she had been attractive, once.

“Are you uncomfortable, sitting here with a murderess?”

Lisa was caught off-balance: “Murderess?”

“I'm old-fashioned.” Delia had misunderstood her reaction. “I prefer the old terms. Actress, heroine. Though I've never used murderess before. Are you a feminist?”

“No, I don't think so. Well, yes—yes, I guess I am. Up to a point.”

“Are you wondering why I'm here?”

“Yes.” Bluntly.

“Curiosity. He was a nice man. Has he changed?”

“No.” Just as bluntly.

“He was all cop the other day, when I saw him. I couldn't blame him. I was a terrible shock to him. I could see it. Did he tell you about me?”

“Yes.”

Delia said nothing, looked around her. The restaurant was full, every table occupied, everyone concerned with their own troubles, joys, whatever. Chatter filled the room like a smokescreen; one could hide an intimate conversation in it. Then Delia looked out the big window that was the wall dividing the restaurant from the gallery outside. Two young girls came out of a boutique, each with three shopping bags. They looked at the sign that obscured the store's window—50%
OFF
!—laughed like footballers who had scored a goal and went swinging their way along the gallery. Delia looked back at Lisa.

“Were you young once?”

“Yes,” said Lisa and was surprised she wasn't surprised by the question.

Then the waitress arrived with their orders, put the plates and glasses of wine down, said, “Enjoy your lunch,” and went away, leaving her smile behind like a blessing.

“Have you noticed?” said Delia. “Some waitresses are natural-born? Maybe that's because women are natural-born servers. Are we? But all waiters, they have to be—
made
.”

Lisa wondered if Delia's impression of waitresses and waiters was a memory from the past—from
Scobie'
s day? She didn't look as if she had lately eaten in places where waitresses and waiters held sway.

Delia bit into the sandwich, chewed on it, said, “This is delicious. I've hardly eaten the last coupla days.”

“How did you know where to find me?”

Delia took her time, enjoying the sandwich. “I knew where you worked—”

“How?” Lisa hadn't yet started to eat.

“You've been mentioned in the papers—when Scobie was on those two other cases the last coupla years. There was a photo of you—I cut it out—”

Women can read faces as men read maps; they may sometimes mis-read the co-ordinates but they are rarely lost when reading other women. Lisa read Delia's face and suddenly thought, This woman is dangerous.

“I came into town today, just got the idea I'd like to see you. I was going up the steps into Town Hall when I saw you come out. I followed you across here.” She took a sip of her wine. “I envy you. You know that, I suppose?”

“Mrs. Jones—”

“Delia—
please
?”

Lisa ignored the invitation. “Why did you want to see me?”

Delia, Mrs. Jones, looked at her across the rim of her wine glass, took her time. “I really don't know.” There had been a slight slovenliness to her speech when she had sat down, but now, as if bringing herself up to Lisa's level, or to the level of Delia Bates, she was careful of her delivery. “Maybe I just wanted to compare notes. On husbands and lovers. He was going to marry me, you know. Scobie.”

“He told me you were never engaged.”

“No-o. But it was understood.”

“By whom?”

“By whom?” She put the glass down. “By me. We're the ones who make the decisions, aren't we?”

She
stared at Lisa, who retreated, said, “How are your children coping?”

Delia smiled, as if a small victory had been won. “Okay. My mother is looking after them for a while. They hated their father as much as I did—he belted them, too. There was never any aggression in Scobie.”

Lisa ignored that. Women, with no strength for heavy weapons, fence with more patience than men. “You have a daughter—”

Delia cut in: “Scobie's told you a lot about me, hasn't he? Did you enjoy that?”

“Let's cut out the nastiness, Mrs. Jones. I didn't invite you to lunch.” Her mobile phone rang, but she reached down into her business satchel and switched it off.

“Always on call, always wanted? That must be nice.” Then she bit into the sandwich again, chewed awhile, then said, “Okay, no nastiness. Yes, I have a daughter—by my first husband. If I go to jail, she's coming home to help my mother with the other two.”

Calmly told, as if planning a family holiday.

“What does she do?”

“I dunno.” The careful speech slipped away; as if she were tired of the impersonation of a woman gone forever. “Every time she writes—which isn't often—she has a different job. She's one of the casuals of the world, she tells me. Big deal. You're lucky with your three—they have Scobie as their father. I had no luck—my first husband was a no-hoper and my second—” She grimaced, as if she had bitten on a crab claw. “The absolute worst.”

“Mrs. Jones, are you blaming me for taking Scobie away from you?”

She stared across the table, the almost-finished sandwich still in her hand. “You did, didn't you?”

Lisa pushed her plate away from her, picked up her satchel and stood up. “I'll pay for lunch at the desk. Good day and good luck.”

She paid for lunch, went out of the restaurant. Out on the gallery she had to pass by the window where Delia Jones sat. They looked at each other through the glass, imperfect strangers, and Lisa
went
on back to Town Hall and the small wars there that, she now realized, never touched her.

III

“I tried to get you on your mobile at lunchtime,” said Malone.

“I was busy,” said Lisa.

“I saw a mass meeting of mobiles today—never mind. I just rang to say I'll be late for dinner tonight. I have to go out to the airport, have a few words with Ambassador Pavane.”

“Difficult ones?”

Her antenna is perfect, he thought. “Yes . . . What did you do for lunch?”

“Just ate. I'll keep your dinner warm. I love you,” she said, her voice lowered, as if there was someone else in her office.

“Same here,” he said, put down his phone and looked across his desk at Gail Lee and Sheryl Dallen. “My wife.”

“I should hope so,” said Sheryl.

“So what did you find out at this Japanese place at Hunter's Hill?”

“The waiter and the manager recognized her from the photo we showed them,” said Gail. “They didn't know who she was when she was at the restaurant. It's a quiet place, mostly locals go there. They made no booking, just walked in.”

Hunter's Hill is a small community on a finger of land that juts into Sydney Harbour. It is home to one of the major private schools and a congregation of residents, not all religious, who would not have stared if the Virgin Mary had come to dine amongst them.

“We had to tell 'em who she was,” said Sheryl. “They were incredibly polite, showed hardly any expression.”

“Very Oriental,” said Gail.

“I'm being polite,” said Sheryl. “Anyway, we asked them to describe the guy she was with—”

“What did you get?” prompted Malone.

“
Have you ever asked one man to describe another?” said Gail. “Even a Japanese. You're all vaguer than a woman would be—”

Malone showed exaggerated patience. “What did he look like—vaguely?”

“Tall, middle-aged, they think his hair was grey, but they're not sure. Very well dressed—that's something Japanese men, or anyway these ones, do recognize.”

Malone felt they were looking at him. “So they'd never recognize me?”

“Probably not,” said Sheryl.

“How did they pay their bill?”

“Cash,” said Gail. “As if they were covering their tracks.”

“Were they intimate?” asked Malone, then shook his head at their mock look of shock. “Come on, I don't mean were they having it off on the table. Were they holding hands?”

“We asked that question,” said Gail. “The waiter said no. But they did look like old friends. When they went out of the restaurant, the guy had his arm round her.”

“Righto, it looks as if they might've been old lovers as well as lovers on the night of the murder. We think we've traced her to a previous identity—” He looked at the notebook open on his desk. “Patricia Norval. She worked for a small firm of stockbrokers, now out of business. Andy is down at the stock exchange, going through their back register. He'll come up with some names and we'll start sorting them out.”