Yesterday's Shadow (22 page)

“
Homicide? Your beat's murder, isn't it?”

“Yes,” said Malone and nodded to Graham.

The latter opened his notebook and read Wayne Jones' history back in the 1980s. “That all correct, Mr. Jones?”

“I don't like that word
scam
. I could sue you for that—”

“Mr. Bruce Farro threatened us with the same line,” said Malone.

“I haven't spoken to Bruce in—God, what is it? Fourteen years. I see him occasionally in the papers, all those whingdings you have down in Sydney—”

“Not us,” said Malone.

Jones smiled weakly; he would always try to be affable, a salesman. “No, I guess not . . . Why are you bothering us? Me and him?”

Malone gave him a quick run-down on the Pavane murder.

“Holy shit!” Jones swung his head back and forth like an animal. It was a most peculiar movement and Malone wondered where he had picked it up. Rock-and-roll singers did it, but Jones, Malone guessed, would neither rock nor roll. “That's how Trish Norval finished up—wife of the American Ambassador?”

“You're surprised?”

Jones stopped the head-rolling. He looked out at the water, at the white scabs that were rising as the wind increased. A small tourist ferry cruised past, half a dozen winter-wrapped sightseers staring out like prisoners on their way to exile. Gulls crawled up the wall of the wind and a jet-skier swept by, spray trailing him like a broken wing, a petrol-driven petrel. Then Jones turned back to the two detectives.

“No, on reflection, I'm not surprised.”

“Were you,” asked Malone, “close to her?”

Jones had thin eyes that almost closed when he smiled. “I'm glad you asked that while my wife isn't here. I took Trish out a coupla times—yes, we went to bed once, as I remember. But she had other fish to fry. And she fried them.”

“
Jack Brown and Grant Kael?” said Andy Graham, notebook still open.

“You've done your homework.”

“Bruce Farro helped,” said Malone.

“He would. Bruce was always ready to put the knife in.”

“You trusted him while the scam was on. Or did he put the knife in and you walked away with nothing?”

“I can still sue you, you know—”

It was Malone's turn to smile. “Wayne, this is just between you and us. All we are interested in is who murdered Mrs. Pavane—Trish Norval. Where were you last Tuesday week, around midnight?”

The question was put without any raising of the voice, but it was like a thrown knife. Jones reeled back; or sat back. “Christ Almighty—what does that mean? Where was—? I don't fucking know—yes, I do! I was at a business seminar in Gosford. I was there till, I dunno, eleven or eleven-thirty. Then I came home. I can give you names to check—”

“What exactly do you do, Mr. Jones?” asked Graham, pen at the ready.

“I'm a stock market consultant. I have a list of clients, here and around the world—I cover all the major stock exchanges. I don't buy or sell—”

“Like you used to,” said Malone.

“You
have
done your homework.”

“Without benefit of website or internet. Is that how you handle your clients?”

“Yes. I do exactly what stockbrokers do—what I used to do. Only I don't buy and sell any more. Except my own investments.”

Malone looked around, then out at the cruiser, then back at Jones. “It pays.”

“Yes, it pays and it's all above board—” The affability slipped, he was angry. Then he seemed to realize that how he made his living did not concern them. They had, as he had said about Trish Norval, other fish to fry. The effort to settle himself was plainly visible: “Look, I haven't seen Trish since 1987. That's the truth.”

“
Did you ever hear of her?”

“Never. Someone told me she'd gone overseas, but I didn't know where. I went to New Zealand till—well, till things blew over. Yes, there was a scam and we got away with it. I'm not proud of it—I was younger and I got carried away like so many back then—” Then he stopped, tilting his head as if listening to what he had just said. Then he smiled wryly: “Sorry. I'm starting to sound—pious? Conscience-stricken? Maybe I am—but I never gave the money back. We always told ourselves we weren't robbing anyone, just using someone else's money. Banks do it all the time, don't they? I kept it and used it and now I like to think I'm respectable and honest.”

“We'd never think of contradicting you,” said Malone. “But we're Homicide, not Fraud. We never have to worry about morality—it usually doesn't come up in murder cases.”

“They teach you sarcasm in Homicide?” Then Jones seemed to relax. “Look, Inspector, don't let's cross swords. I'm sorry to hear Trish Norval is dead—
murdered
. But I had nothing to do with it. I wish I could help, but I can't—”The head rolled again.

“That leaves Jack Brown,” said Andy Graham.

“What about Grant Kael?”

“You didn't know? He was killed in a car accident in Victoria. It must of been while you were in New Zealand.”

“Poor guy.” Jones looked genuinely concerned. “He was dotty over Trish, but she never gave him a look-in. He was the—well, I guess he was the quietest of us all.”

“So that leaves Jack Brown,” Graham repeated.

Jones shook his head, just a gentle shake this time; he looked completely relaxed now. “He went overseas, that was all I heard. He got out before the rest of us. Just walked out one Friday, I think it was, no goodbye, no farewell drink, nothing. Jack was the most self-contained bastard I ever met. But there was a thing between him and Trish. She was as shitty as the rest of us when he walked out. Maybe more so.”

“So you've heard nothing of him since then?” asked Malone.

“Not a word. But wherever he is, unless he's dead, Jack will be doing all right. He was the
smartest
of us all, he was the one who planned the—” He smiled again, eyes thinning. “The scam.”

“He had no family here?” said Malone.

“I think he did, but he never talked about them and we never met. Like I said, he was self-contained. I could never see what Trish saw in him.”

“You're implying they were pretty close?”

Jones nodded. “Office gossip.” He was silent a while, trying to recall those years. It was obvious he had not thought of them in a long time, putting them behind him. “There was a hint there had been an abortion, but I never took much interest—it was girls' gossip.”

“Never reliable,” said Andy Graham and the three chauvinists looked at each other and nodded. “But go on, Wayne—”

“Like I said—I never took much notice. By then Trish and I were history. Pretty small history. I don't think she would remember me.”

“She won't now,” said Malone.

“No.” Jones looked at the two detectives. “The wife of the American Ambassador—how did she get that far?”

“We're still working on it,” said Malone and stood up. “Righto, Mr. Jones, thanks for seeing us.”

Andy Graham took his time getting up. “Mr. Jones, what do you know about a firm called Finger Software?”

There was no mistaking Jones' look of caution. “Why?”

“It's run by your old mate Bruce Farro. You must of known that.”

Malone said nothing, just a bystander with a stake in the game.

“Yeah,” said Jones, still cautious, “I've had a look at it. For my clients.”

“And what was your advice?”

“I don't think I have to tell you that—it's confidential—”

“We treat everything as confidential,” said Malone. “Or would you like a trip back to Sydney
while
we do our own checking and then get you to verify what we find out?”

“Come on, Mr. Jones,” said Graham. “What you tell us isn't gunna affect your clients.”

Jones still said nothing, looked out towards the terrace and the gulls battling the wind. He rolled his head again in his peculiar motion and Malone said, “Come on, Wayne. It's just between you, us and the gulls.”

Jones turned back. “I wouldn't touch Finger with a forty-foot pole. It's falling over—it's got a mountain of debt and it's losing contracts. Bruce Farro is up to his arse in trouble and it couldn't happen to a nicer shit!”

Malone looked at Andy Graham. “That's all we needed to know, Andy . . . Thank you, Wayne. Enjoy the rest of the day.”

“Will that be all?” Jones all at once looked anxious.

“We'll see what comes up. Do you work here at home?”

“No, I have an office over in Gosford. I have a guy working there this morning, covering New York and Chicago. This job, you work six days a week. I'm on my way over there now. How did you find my home address?”

“I never query Detective Graham's methods. I think if ever he left the Police Service, he'd do very well in the stock market.”

Jones smiled again, but weakly; he was suddenly less comfortable, as if the past, like the wind outside, was rising. “If you want to see me again, could you make it at my office?” He flipped open a box beside a phone on a side table, took out a business card and handed it to Malone. “I'd rather my wife—well, you understand? I wasn't married when . . .”

“We understand,” said Malone and handed the card to Graham. “The firm you worked for disbanded after the 1987 crash. Where would we look for their records?”

Jones pondered, then said, “I guess the best place would be the lawyers we used.”

“Who were they?”

“Fairbrother, Milson and Gudersen. They're still around, I think.”

Malone
and Graham drove back to Sydney into a wind that was like a heavy surf. But they were happy. Graham used the siren and blue light only twice, almost like shouts of joy.

II

Two days later Wayne Jones was in his office when he got a phone call. What he took to be an American voice said, “My name is John Blake. I'm an investment adviser in Chicago. I'm out here looking at possibilities for clients of mine. Your name was given to me—apparently you know the market up, down and sideways.”

“We do our best,” said Jones.

“I understand that we'll have to register with you if we want to use your services. But just to give us an example of the information we'd be buying, would you advise me to buy into—just a moment.” There was a sound that might have been that of paper being turned over. “Finger Software. Do you know anything about it?”

“I wouldn't touch it—Mr. Blake? Is that it?”

“Yes, Blake. You wouldn't care to enlarge on that advice?”

“I will, if you come to see me, Mr. Blake. I'm running a business—”

“Of course. Well, I'll be in touch, make an appointment.”

The line went dead. Jones sat back, not taken in.

Who was so interested in Bruce Farro and his dog of a company?

Then his wife appeared at the door of his office, hung as usual with shopping bags. “Sweetheart, my credit cards have run out—”

“All five of them?”

“Yeah. Crazy, isn't it?” She was ten years younger than he, still beautiful and he had made the mistake of marrying her for her looks and her inconsistencies. But he still loved her, mainly because he was too busy to go looking elsewhere. “What's the matter? You look worried.”

“It's nothing,” he said. “I just thought of someone I used to know.”

“
Not a girl?” But she was smiling, sure of him.

“No, not a girl.” He took out his chequebook. “How much do you need?”

“Why does a husband always say, How much do you
need
?
Want
is the word, sweetheart.”

III

The funeral director, a veteran of big events, thought the funeral a huge success; but, a man of taste, he did not mention his satisfaction to the Ambassador. The Episcopalian Bishop performed the service, the University of Missouri choir sang the hymns, the State Governor read the eulogy and the ghost of Harry Truman walked over from Independence and stood in a corner. The Secretary of State flew in from Washington with an entourage of such size it was thought he had just stopped off on his way to an international peace conference. Twenty-three senators, representatives and State assemblymen who had been financed by the Pavane family attended; they sprinkled themselves amongst the mourners, for there is nothing more off-putting to citizens, even in the United States, than a congeal of consuls. Kansas City society was there and all the directors of the Pavane agricultural and commercial empire. Private jets flew in from Omaha, Oklahoma City, Dallas and Denver; St. Louis, a rival city to K.C., just sent faxes. A sky-writer offered his services for a message on the heavens, but Stephen Pavane, also a man of taste, had scathingly rejected such an idea. Billie Pavane, entry into this world hidden in a dark cloud, went out of it in a blaze of glory.

She was buried in Union Cemetery, amongst Stephen's forebears. The original were French fur traders who came west from the post at St. Louis and arrived at the Missouri; the family name then had been Pavan. They had settled on either side of the Big Muddy, as the local Kanza Indians called it, and gradually their holdings had grown. The dead Pavanes, including Stephen's parents, were buried with their feet facing east in the belief they wouldn't see God if their backs were turned. Billie, only a social guest of God, was buried with her feet in the proper direction.

The wake, though it was not called that, the Ambassador being an Episcopalian, was held at the Pavane mansion on Ward Parkway,
the
thoroughfare in Kansas City. Stephen's two brothers and his sister
hosted
the gathering, while the widower stood in a corner and wondered again at funerals being for the living, not the dead.

He was joined by Chief of Police Terence O'Malley. “My condolences, Stephen. Nobody here believed it when we got the news.”