Yesterday's Shadow (23 page)

O'Malley was all bone-and-gristle, with a ginger crew-cut and eyes too bright and frank for a cop. He ran a police force that was highly regarded, even by criminals; it had not always been so in Kansas City. Stephen Pavane could remember his grandfather telling him stories of the K.C. force in the days when the Pendergast machine ran local politics. At one time there had been seventy-five ex-cons on the force, none of them rehabilitated; squad cars often carried liquor in their trunks for bootleggers. All that had been cleaned up and Chief O'Malley was the image of what the voters wanted in a police chief.

“Who's handling it out in Australia? The murder?”

“There's an FBI man in Sydney—”

O'Malley wrinkled his thin nose. “They're never much good twenty-five miles out of Washington.”

Pavane smiled. “Terry, you know they're better than that. Anyhow, it's really in the hands of the local New South Wales cops.”

“What are they like?”

“As good as yours.” Too good, perhaps: they were uncovering more than he wanted to know. “They're pretty modern out there.”

O'Malley's grin was a widening slit in his thin face. “I've heard they're ahead of us on some things. Identification imaging, stuff like that. You going back there?”

“I have to talk that over with the Secretary. Excuse me, Terry.”

He left O'Malley and crossed to the Secretary of State, took him by the arm and led him out on to a wide terrace that looked out on a large garden and a tennis court. The terrace was crowded with mourners, all on their third or fourth drink, and the two men went down into the garden and crossed to the chairs beside the tennis court.

“
So what do you want to do, Stephen?”

Benjamin Market was a New Yorker, a Wall Street lawyer who recognized that the rest of the world resented the United States, but knew where to come when it wanted money. He was small and neat and amiable, a Jew whom even the Arabs liked and trusted. He had been married three times and had learned diplomacy the hard way; that is, domestically. He and Pavane were old friends, though separated by regional differences.

“Take your time in making up your mind. The Aussies have got other things on
their
minds, with an election coming up. That's when foreign affairs become irrelevant.”

Pavane had always liked this small, unfussed man. “No, I'll go back at the weekend, Ben.”

He looked down towards the south. There had been storm warnings this morning on the radio; tornadoes were beating their way up from the Gulf of Mexico. They could do no more damage than he already felt.

“Ben—I have to tell you . . .” This wasn't easy, not even to an understanding friend, who still had an official position to safeguard. “There are some things about Billie that may come out that I didn't know about. I'd like to be there to handle them if they do.”

“What things? I have to ask, Stephen. Not because I'm personally curious, but—well, you understand . . .”

“I'm not sure, yet. But—well, Billie wasn't who I thought she was.”

“Who was she, then?”

“I don't know, Ben. That's what I have to go back and find out. At first, when their cops out there started telling me things, I didn't want to know. But now . . .”

“Is it serious stuff? I mean, political?”

“No, it's nothing like that.” But how could he be sure?

Market looked down to the south; the sky had begun to darken. He was an urban man, but even he knew that the swift tremble of birds in the still air was not a good omen. He looked up at the tall man beside him.

“
How do you find the Aussies?”

“Oh, you never have any trouble finding them. It's like Washington—there are no retiring people in Canberra.”

“You know what I mean—” He was not an insensitive man, he knew when to be patient.

“Ben, it took me a little time. They're very sensitive to criticism. They'll ask, 'What do you think of Australia?' You think they want an honest answer. So you tell 'em, but try to be polite. But that's the last thing they want. They bridle, as if you've raped their grandma.”

Ben Market nodded. He had been around the world enough times to know that foreigners never really wanted to know Americans' opinion of them. The Brits and the French, he guessed, had never been asked their opinions of lesser breeds. Their superiority had been too self-evident.

“Stephen, I'll appreciate it if you do stay on out there. The Aussies can be a pain in the ass at times.”

“They say the same about us.” Then he smiled.

“What's funny?”

“An old joke out here in the boondocks. The hen says to the farmer, 'An egg may be breakfast for you, but it's just a pain in the ass for me.'”

“You still have your sense of humour.”

“Barely,” said Stephen Pavane.

IV

Fairbrother, Milson and Gudersen were one of those law firms that had more partners than a cotillion ball. Its offices were in Phillip Street, where lawyers are more numerous than pigeons and briefs were tool of trade, not underwear. The offices covered enough floors to suggest a small government department, but no jeans and open-necked shirts and trainers were tolerated here. Fairbrother, Milson and Gudersen were
old
school, though they charged new school fees.

Monday morning Malone and Graham presented themselves at the reception desk. No casual
clothes
this time, but suits and ties and Malone with his trademark pork-pie hat. The receptionist was certainly not jeans-and-trainers; she was sleek as a fashion model but healthier looking. She had the fluting vowels of one of the eastern suburbs' private schools.

“Do you have an appointment with Miz Gudersen?”

“No, we're police. Usually we don't make appointments.”

She gave them a smile that showed what she thought of police wit. “I'll check if she can see you. You may be lucky.”

“We usually are,” said Malone and gave her a smile that showed what he thought of snooty receptionists.

Ms. Gudersen was free if not welcoming. She was power-suited in clerical grey offset by a yellow silk blouse. Her face this morning was not puffed from sleep or love-making; the wild tangle of hair was drawn back in a smooth chignon. Her voice was as crisp as that of a platform announcer: “You have five minutes—”

“We have as much time as it will take,” said Malone. “Don't let's get off on the wrong foot, Miss Gudersen.” He waited for her to tell him
Miz
Gudersen; but she didn't. She gazed at him steadily, measuring an opponent; then nodded. “We're working on a murder case. Unfortunately, those sort of cases can't be hurried. You may know that.”

“I do only civil cases.”

She sized them up again, then waved the two of them to chairs. Malone noted that she had a corner office, which meant that she was a senior partner; probably by inheritance. The office itself was standard old school: lots of timber panelling, glass-fronted bookcases, an antique desk that had probably been used by her father and her grandfather. The only bright note in the room was a Lloyd Rees painting of a harbour bay, but even the artist was dead.

“The Pavane case? Is Bruce Farro in trouble?” She spoke as if, though she slept with him, Farro was just an acquaintance. Or a client.

“No,” said Malone. “We are looking for someone who worked with him back in the 1980s. We
believe
Fairbrother etcetera did their legal—”

“Fairbrother, Milson and Gudersen,” she said and smiled; she was relaxed now, almost hospitable. “I like to get a mention. I'm the last of the Gudersens.”

“I'll remember that,” said Malone and smiled in return. Then, because he didn't believe in letting his junior officer sit there like a shag on a rock, he said, “Detective Graham has the man's name.”

“Jack Brown,” said Graham. “We'd like to know where he is.”

“That was when?”

“Last seen 1987,” said Graham.

She shook her head. “I was very junior here in those days, I'd just graduated. I knew no one there at that firm of stockbrokers.”

Malone had been watching her. At the mention of the name Jack Brown the hand on the desk had closed into a fist, but otherwise there was no reaction. However it was enough for Malone to ask: “But you know of Mr. Brown now, right?”

“You're stepping outside your brief, Inspector—”

“You know that I'm not.” The tones of both of them were even. “Where is he now?”

“I don't know.”

“But you've seen him recently?”

“Inspector, you've heard of lawyer-client confidentiality—”

Malone grinned wearily; it was like listening to a joke repeated time and time again. “Yes, I've heard of it. All we want to do is ask Mr. Brown a few questions—”

“I'll see what can be done. Now, if you'll excuse me—?”

Going down in the lift, surrounded by other travellers, Malone said nothing to Andy Graham. But out in the street, in the cold sunlight, with lawyers striding past, gowns flapping in the wind, clerks trailing behind with trolleys packed with books, as if they had just come from a legal supermarket shopping spree, he snarled, “Jack Bloody Brown is somewhere here in Sydney! Find him, Andy!”

“Where do I start?” For once Graham looked like a bloodhound that had lost its nose.

“
He must've had a family before he left here. Find 'em! Go back to Farro and Jones, find out if Brown had a mother or father or siblings!”

“Siblings?” Graham suddenly grinned; it was almost impossible for him to remain depressed. “If I called my sisters siblings they'd kick me for talking dirty.”

“Get cracking!”

Malone stalked off, forgetting that he had come here with Graham in an office car. Uncharacteristically, temper was getting the better of him; he had either aged suddenly or reverted to adolescence. He had walked a hundred metres before he realized where he was heading; he turned, looked back and saw Andy Graham driving off. Reluctantly, he hailed a cab, got in the back and refused to enter into conversation with the talkative cab driver. At Strawberry Hills he got out and paid the exact fare, counting out the last coins.

“Have a nice day,” said the cab driver, a Greek. “Fall under a truck.”

Back at Fairbrother, Milson and Gudersen the phone had been picked up as soon as the two detectives had left the room. Rita Gudersen said, “Get me Mr. Wexall.”

V

When Malone got up to his office, Clements was waiting for him: “You look as if you've got shit on the liver again.”

“Righto, stop laughing. What have you got?”

“Nemesis—I have to laugh every time I hear that. Who was Nemesis?”

Malone had looked it up: “The Greek goddess of vengeance. She'd kick you up the bum if she were here. Get on with it.”

“Simmer down, mate. Well, Nemesis, she's just rung in. She may be the goddess of vengeance, but she's cocked things up. That fingerprint they found on the flush-button at the Southern Savoy, it was a woman's print. She had a record, so they started looking up her record and the report got temporarily lost. She was the housemaid found the Pavane corpse. She went into the bathroom and vomited in the
toilet,
then flushed it. They've interviewed her now and it's got us nowhere.” He sat down opposite Malone, took his time: “You got nowhere, too. Right?”

“No, we've narrowed it down. Jack Brown. Find him and maybe—
maybe
—we'll know who did in Mrs. Pavane.”

“And then you tell Ambassador Pavane and he won't want to know. And the shit goes from your liver to the fan.”

“Nemesis might've gone out with you if she'd known you.”

“I think her other name is Delia Jones. She's rung twice, wanting to speak to you. Only you. I told her you were no longer on her case.”

VI

Claire Malone (she still used her maiden name at work) saw the Notice of Intended Distribution of the Estate of Charles Brown while looking through the Legal Notices in the daily newspapers. She did not know her father was looking for Charles Brown's son and she passed on to other notices that might concern any of her clients. It was Andy Graham, dogged as usual, who pressed both Bruce Farro and Wayne Jones till Farro remembered that Brown had once mentioned that his father was a chemist somewhere on the North Shore. From there, though it took him another two days, the trail led to Jack Brown's sister, married to Walter Wexall, SC.

“I know Wexall's reputation, boss. He wouldn't have defended Jesus Christ—too radical. If Jack Brown is Mrs. Pavane's killer, Mr. Wexall will divorce Jack Brown's sister.”

“Have you got in touch with Wexall or his wife?” asked Malone.

“I thought you'd like to do that,” said Graham, straight-faced.

“You'll get on, Andy,” said Malone and the younger man grinned.

Malone rang Wexall's chambers, only to be told: “Mr. Wexall is in court today.”

“Where?”

“Darlinghurst. Central Criminal Courts, Number 4.”

Malone
and Graham drove over to Darlinghurst through another fine but cold day. When Malone had come out of the house this morning he had been greeted by a fire of camellias and azaleas, Nature showing she was not all cold heart. The sun had no warmth, but it was bright enough to throw shadows. Only the shadows in the courts were darker.

There were half a dozen bikies outside Court 4, sun glinting on their studded black leathers like on molluscs on dark rocks. They looked at the two detectives, recognizing them for what they were, and turned away with contempt. Inside the court two bikies were being charged with murder. One was bearded and long-haired and ear-ringed, the other clean-shaven and close-cropped and unmarked; they looked unrelated, as if in the dock on separate charges. Their defending counsel was Walter Wexall.

Gowned and bewigged, sonorous voice rolling like muted thunder, he was impressive; but ten minutes inside the court and Malone saw that Wexall was fighting a lost cause. Twenty minutes later the court rose for lunch and Malone and Graham followed Wexall out into a corridor. Malone signalled to one of the court sheriffs and they were ushered into a side room.