Yesterday's Shadow (28 page)

“No. I phoned her in Canberra, talked for about five minutes and that was it—”

“Yes, we know that. We checked the phone records from your room at the Regent.”

“You're thorough,” said Baker, unworried.

“Yes, you'll find that we are. Go on.”

“I just congratulated her on how well she'd done. From office manager to ambassador's wife.”

“She must have enjoyed hearing you say that. You're a snob?”

Baker smiled. “Who isn't, to a greater or lesser degree? You must consider yourself better than some people?”

“Only crims. So you thought you were better than Patricia Norval?”

“Not really. We just had different standards.”

“We know about the scam you were involved in,” said Andy Graham. “You were the prime mover. That was part of your standards.”

Baker had been ignoring Graham up till now. He stared at him, then looked back at Malone. But the latter had seen the tightening of the jaw. He's self-contained, the Wexalls had said of him. But every armour-plating has a weakness somewhere: Malone had seen it so often.

“Mrs. Pavane had an abortion years ago. Was the child yours?”

Nothing showed in his face; which was a mistake, Malone thought. He should have been surprised or indignant:
anything
. “I knew nothing about any abortion.”

“Did you kill Patricia Norval?” Malone said quietly while the armour was still being adjusted.

“No.” The answer was as soft as Malone's question.

He's too self-contained
. “Where were you the night of July 16?”

The brow furrowed:
he's a good actor, too
. “I think I had dinner at my hotel, the Regent—”

“No, you didn't—”Graham came in almost too quickly. “You had dinner at a Japanese
restaurant
in Hunter's Hill with Mrs. Pavane.”

Baker shook his grey head. “You're wrong. I haven't been in Hunter's Hill in years.”

“Then you won't mind if we put you in a line-up?” said Malone.

That dented the armour. “I can refuse?”

“No, you can't. You can have a lawyer come here and advise you, but you will still have to stand in a line-up. We'd also want to do a DNA test on you.”

“A
what
? Why, for Crissake?” The self-containment was falling apart.

“We think you had sex with Mrs. Pavane the night she was murdered and you left your semen in her. It's a dead giveaway, Jack. Julian.”

“This is—it's bloody demeaning!” Sex has become a common social habit, like shaking hands; but it is still a practice that brings about varying degrees of reaction. Like hypocrisy, as in Baker's case: “Jesus, talk about intrusion—Can I refuse a DNA test?”

“We can get a court order. It'll look suspicious, won't it, if you refuse?”

“I don't care what it looks like! If you think I'm going to jerk off for you guys—”

“There'll be no need for that. We can get a DNA identification from a single hair from that nice thatch you've got on your head. We don't go in for crudity here, Jack.”

“Julian—”

“Whatever.” He was chipping away at the armour.

“I want to see a lawyer—”

“Who?”

Baker was silent, re-soldering the armour. Then he said, “My brother-in-law, Walter Wexall.”

“He wouldn't be available. He's defending a case up at Darlinghurst—he'll be in court this morning.”

“Then we'll wait till the lunch recess.”

“You'll miss your plane this afternoon,” said Andy Graham.

“There'll be others. I'll be back in Toronto before the week's out.”

This
bugger's too confident
. But Malone knew the old proverb: Confidence goes farther in company than good sense. Experienced crims had proven it time and time again; jails are stuffed with men, and women, who thought confidence was some sort of protection.

“You may well be back there, Jack. In the meantime—” He looked at Graham. “Check with Mr. Wexall, tell him we'd like him down here as soon as the court rises for lunch. Have a car for him.”

Graham rose, went out with his usual rush. Baker looked after him. “He's an eager beaver, isn't he?”

“You know much about beavers? Living in Canada?”

“Never seen one. I'm not an outdoors man, except for golf. No hunting, stuff like that. Can I go now?”

Malone shook his head in mock disbelief. “You're a card, Jack. What do you think I am? A bleeding heart that trusts every man? No, Jack, you'll have to stay here, we'll make you comfortable. I'll get you a paper, you can fill in the time reading how unsophisticated we are out here.”

“Get me the
Financial Review
.”

“I don't think they'd run to that, Jack, not here at Police Centre. That'd be more in Fraud Squad's line. Would you like tea or coffee?”

“Tea, black, no sugar. And a biscuit. Do you have any Iced Vo-Vos?”

“You're still Australian through and through?” The Iced Vo-Vo was a national icon, on a par with certain racehorses; generals and statesmen were ignored.

“Only part-way.”

Malone called in a detective from the strike force to sit with Baker, then he went out to the corridor outside the Incident Room. Gail Lee and Sheryl Dallen were there with Delia Jones and a pretty girl about twelve or thirteen.

“Hullo, Scobie,” said Delia, smiling as if she had been invited to dinner. “You wanted to talk to me? Oh, this is my daughter Dakota.”

North or South?
But he couldn't lay his sarcasm on the girl. “Hello, Dakota.”

“
He could of been your father,” said Delia, still smiling.

The girl looked up at him: appraisingly? She was tallish for her age, with traces of her mother in her pretty face; she was an adolescent, but it wouldn't be long before she was older than her mother. The years ahead were already there in her face. “Hi.”

“Hi,” he said. “Delia, can I see you alone? Detectives Lee and Dallen will look after Dakota.”

He turned instinctively towards the Incident Room, then changed his mind and led Delia down towards the end of the corridor. There was traffic here and he looked around again, then led her into a small store room. She spun right round, almost a pirouette, then said, “I killed Boris in a room like this.”

She's nuts, he thought; and looked at her with sharpened eyes. She's bloody
enjoying
this. “Let's forget Boris, Delia. Why did you bring your daughter?”

“Company. We're very close.” Some refinement was creeping back into her voice, the voice she had had when she had known him; it seemed to come and go like a hoarseness of the throat. “I wanted you to see her. What might have been, you know what I mean?”

He took a deep breath. “Delia, that's history now—”

“Not for me.”

He almost took her hand, as he might have for someone grieving; but that would have been a mistake. “Did Detectives Lee and Dallen tell you why we wanted you in here?”

“They said you wanted to talk to me.”

“No, Delia. What we want you to do is walk up and down a line of men and see if you recognize anyone.”

She looked disappointed, narrowing her lips; then she seemed to shrug off whatever she felt and said, “A line-up? I've seen it in movies, on TV. I stand behind a glass screen—”

“No, not here. We're behind the times. You walk up and down in front of the line-up, each of the men will have a number, then you come out and write on a piece of paper the number of the man you've pointed the finger at. Only,” he added hastily, “don't point the finger while you're in there.”

“That's pretty primitive, isn't it? Compared to what you see in the movies, TV?”

“
Delia,” he said patiently, “stop comparing us with the movies and TV. This is real life—”

“TV is about all I get to see—” For a moment there was a whine in her voice. She was wearing her long black coat, but had taken off her beret and shaken out her hair; as if trying to look younger, like the girl of long ago. She swallowed and said, “What man am I supposed to be identifying?”

“The man you saw coming out of Room 342 at the Southern Savoy the night—” He almost said,
the night you killed Boris
. “The night the American Ambassador's wife was murdered.”

“So I'm important?” It was hard to tell whether she was being childish or sarcastic.

“You're very important, Delia. But—”

She looked at him; like a wife: “But?”

“There's been a delay. We can't have the line-up for another two or three hours. Do you want us to take you back home till then?”

“You could take me and Dakota to morning tea. I know a nice place—in the QVB—”

“Delia, I'm not allowed to visit with a witness.”

“That's all I am—a witness?” She was smiling again, almost coquettishly.

“Yes,” he said bluntly. “Let's go back—”

“No!” She stood her ground. They were close together in the narrowness of the store room; he could smell the cheap perfume she wore, feel the sudden heat of her body. Shelves of paper pressed in on them: charge-sheets, witness reports, pamphlets: they were surrounded by officialdom. But she was determined to keep everything personal. “You can't brush me off like this!”

“Delia—” He was finding it hard to keep his patience. Too, a happily married man for twenty-five years, he was out of practice with a thwarted lover. He had met women almost every week of his police career who made demands on him: murderers, drug dealers, drug addicts, widows looking for comfort. He had been bruised by the contacts, but none of them had been personal. Still, something was nagging at him: conscience? But he knew, knew, he had never thought of marriage with her. “I'm not brushing you off. It's just the way the system works—”

It was a lie: he had sat and talked with dozens of witnesses.

“
Let's stay here, then. We can have a quiet chat—you and me and Dakota. I'd like you to get to know her—”

I don't want to know her! I have kids of my own
! But all he said was, “Let's go, Delia—”

She grabbed his hand. “Kiss me!”

He snatched his hand away, stepped out into the corridor as three of the strike force men came by. They nodded to him, looked past him and saw Delia in the store room, face flushed, a lock of hair hanging down over her face. Then they went on down the corridor towards the Incident Room. They had just looked in on what Malone knew they would, later in conversation amongst themselves, refer to as another Incident Room.

He went down towards Gail Lee and Sheryl Dallen, who appeared to be entertaining Dakota with stories of how exciting life was in the Police Service. Whatever they were telling her, Dakota was gasping and laughing, hands to her mouth. Then all three turned and saw Malone coming towards them, anger plain as a birthmark on his face. He was hurrying, but Delia, pulling on her beret, was coming behind him at her own measured pace.

“Gail—Sheryl—” He took out his wallet. Take Mrs. Jones and her daughter out for morning coffee. Or an early lunch—” He took two fifty-dollar notes out of his wallet.

“No,” said Gail and gave him a hard stare. “It'll be on the office expense account.”

He was suddenly grateful to her: she had saved him from himself. He put the notes back in his wallet, amongst the dust there. “See you back here at twelve-thirty,” he said and almost plunged into the Incident Room and shut the door.

He waited there, while the strike force men at their desks sneaked curious glances at him, then he opened the door and stepped out into the corridor again. And looked into the equally curious face of Chief Superintendent Greg Random.

“Just missed being run over by a bus?”

“What?”

Random put up a hand and leaned against the wall. “What's on your mind, Scobie? They tell
me
you've brought in this bloke Brown you've been looking for. He proving difficult?”

“No. No.” Malone leaned back against the wall, tried to look relaxed. Be relaxed. “He's not going to be easy, but we still have a few things to put to him. No, it's Mrs. Jones.”

Random said nothing, at which he was very good.

Malone hesitated, then went on, “I'm off her case, Greg—”

“Wise move,” was all Random said.

“But I want her to identify Brown as the feller she saw that night at the Southern Savoy, coming out of the murder room.”

“And she's refusing?”

“No. No, she's just being bloody difficult.”

“Who with?”

“With me. She thinks she has a proprietary interest in me. You know she was an old girlfriend—”

“Old girlfriends are like scenes of the crime—they should never be re-visited. Old Welsh police proverb . . . I can take you off the Pavane case.”

The two men, bound together by twenty-five years of association, looked at each other. “You could, Greg. And maybe I'd feel better for it—it's a bloody headache. But who takes over handling the Ambassador, all the diplomatic shit? You want it?”

Random leaned away from the wall, put up a denying hand. “No, thanks. There's another old Welsh proverb—”

“Stuff the bloody proverbs. And none of your Welsh poets and their wisdom. Do you want to take over?”

“No, I don't. That's one thing about us Welsh—we're more cautious than you Irish. Stay on the job and stay away from Mrs. Jones.”

He went on down the corridor and out to the lifts that would take him up to his office, where complications came in triplicate and could be put in the
Out
basket for others to deal with. There were
compensations
for being a Chief Superintendent.

Malone went into the interview room where Baker, cup and saucer at his elbow, sat reading a morning newspaper. He had obviously just commented on an item to the strike force man sitting with him, for the latter was laughing and had just said, “I know him—he's a real lair—”