by Jon Cleary
“I can’t help you there, mate. You gimme something more than one bullet to go on and I’ll try and build you a case. Or gimme a particular gun. But one slug . . .” He shook his dark head, rolled a black eye that showed a lot of white. “Some day you’re gunna bring in a spear and ask me to name it. I’m looking forward to that. I might run it right through you.”
“Get out of here, you black bastard.”
Binyan grinned and left: the two of them respected each other’s ability and there had never been a moment’s friction between them. The big room outside began to fill up with detectives; Malone had seventeen men under him in Homicide. There had been a spate of murders since the Strathfield massacre, but that was often the case, as if a damn had burst and murder had escaped. All the detectives were assigned. He looked out at them through the glass wall of his office and, not for the first time, remarked how few of them had come out of the same mould. Some of them were straight down the line, as if they worked under the eye of some stern judge; others bent the rules because, they argued, life itself didn’t run according to the rules. There was Andy Graham, all tiring enthusiasm; chainsmoking Phil Truach, so laconic he seemed bored by whatever he had to investigate; John Kagal, young and ambitious, his eye already on Malone’s chair, a fact that Malone had noticed without letting Kagal know; and Mike Mesic, the Croat whose attention for the past month had been home in Yugoslavia where his hometown was being blasted by the Serbs. There were twelve others and there was Russ Clements, who came into the room as he sat staring out through the glass.
“What’s the matter? You counting the bodies or something?”
The men outside had begun to disappear, going off on their enquiries. “I was looking in at a show the other night. Cops, on Channel Ten. The Yanks seem to have a bloody army of cops. And hardware! When their helicopters take off, it’s like that scene in Apocalypse Now, you remember? I sat there and I lost heart.”
Clements dropped into a chair that threatened to break under his bulk. “Let me cheer you up. I’ve done a trace, through a mate of mine in a stockbroker’s office, on Shahriver Credit International. It’s as gen-u-ine as those Reeboks they sell you off the back of a truck.”
“It’s not a bank?”
“Oh, it’s a bank all right, properly registered here, with its headquarters in Abadan.”
“Abadan? That wasn’t mentioned on the letterhead. Where’s that?”
“In Iran, just over the border from Iraq. My contact tells me nobody worthwhile here in Sydney does any business with it.”
“It sounds like the O’Brien Cossack Bank.” He and Clements had worked on that case. “Or Nugan Hand.”
“Worse. It’s nowhere near as big as that other one that’s in the news right now, the Bank of Credit and Commercial International, the BCCI—”
“I love the way these banks just roll off your tongue.”
Clements went on as if he hadn’t been interrupted: “Shahriver is the same shonky set-up, I gather.”
“Is it being investigated?”
“Not yet, but it’s on the cards, according to my mate. They took forever to get into BCCI and that’s twenty times bigger than this outfit.”
“Who deals with it if no one here in town does?”
“That’s something we’ve got to track down.”
“You come up with anything else?”
“Yeah, I got in touch with the Commonwealth, out at Coogee. There was a withdrawal last week from that joint account—five thousand in cash.”
Malone pondered that a moment, then: “Where does Shahriver hang out?”
“Down in The Rocks.”
“That’s not bank territory.” He stood up, reached for his hat. “Let’s go down and see if they offer us anything. We might get a cheap pair of Reeboks.”
The area known as The Rocks is a narrow strip crouched between Circular Quay, where the harbour ferries dock, and the hill that carries the southern approach to the Harbour Bridge. For the last half of the nineteenth century it held its own as one of the roughest, toughest enclaves in the world; its gangs, or “pushes,” with their eye-gouging, elbows to the jaw and knees in the kidneys had set the example for footballers of the future. For a brief while it was Sydney’s Chinatown; the smell of opium was only slightly less than that of the sewage that ran down the hill. A prostitute did not cost much more than a meal, except that, when the exercise was finished, her pimp stood over the client and, with a knife or a razor, extorted his own value-added tax. Nowadays The Rocks is a tourist area, the old shops dolled up, the warehouses turned into museums, the Chinese opium dens now Japanese suchi restaurants. The occasional prostitute can be seen propositioning male tourists, but she is tolerated by the police as reducing the country’s external debt. The Rocks is chicly historical, but at least it is where it was born and happened and has not been transplanted.
Shahriver Credit International was housed in a restored colonial mansion in what was known as the High Rocks. Driving up through the Argyle Cut, the 80-foot-wide and 120-foot-deep cut hacked out by convicts using only picks and shovels, Malone said, “When they first moved me in from the suburbs. I was posted down here.”
“You want to come back?” said Clements. “You’d look good in uniform. A nice cap with silver braid on it instead of that bloody awful pork-pie you’re wearing.”
“I’ll stay where I am. One thing about Homicide, the public isn’t always on your back.”
Here in the High Rocks one caught a glimpse of what life, for the colonial middle class, had been like. They had built homes that reminded them of Home; from the rear windows of their houses they could look down on the ships bringing them their wealth, for most of those who had lived here on the ridge had been shipowners or importers. Devon House, headquarters of Shahriver Credit International, was the largest house in the street, an English Georgian residence given a colonnaded verandah across its front as a concession to the southern sun. A spiked railing fence separated it from the street; a discreet brass plate beside the big oak door was the only hint that business was conducted inside the mansion. It was not a bank that invited small-time depositors or offered charge-free cheque accounts.
Malone and Clements, having taken the receptionist by surprise, were shown into the office of the managing director. The receptionist, a Chinese girl whose English was as affected and precise as that of a bad elocution teacher, said, “We have two police officers here, Mr. Palady. They had no appointment.”
“That’s all right, Kim.”
Palady rose from behind his big desk. He was short and thin, black-haired and sallow-skinned, further monotoned in banker’s grey. It was impossible to tell his nationality; the roots of his family tree could have stretched from Constantinople to Cathay. He had a soft silky handshake and a voice to match. He would not have had a clue how to run a suburban bank branch, but one had the feeling he could rip off a million or two in added fees from even the smartest entrepreneur. Still, his smile was practised enough to make the two detectives feel not unwelcome, though Malone doubted they would be asked to stay to lunch in the boardroom.
“Mr. Palady, we’re investigating the murder of one of your depositors, Mr. Will Rockne.”
“The name doesn’t ring a bell, Inspector.”
“He had five and a quarter million dollars deposited here. I don’t want to sound a smart-arse, Mr. Palady, but how much do you have to have in your bank before a name rings a bell?”
Palady smiled; he had been offended by the best, so a smart-arse Sydney cop could be suffered. “I am new here, Inspector, only a few weeks in your country. I still have to acquaint myself with all our depositors. At the moment, like all banks, we are concerned only with those clients going bankrupt or reneging on loans.”
“You have your share of those?” said Clements, making notes.
“Not as many as other banks.” He smiled again, smugly.
“Where did you come from, Mr. Palady?” said Malone. “You said you’ve just arrived her
e.”
“From Kuwait. I was there all through the Iraqi occupation. Our board thought I needed a rest cure.”
“Where are your board?”
“In Curaçao, the Netherlands Antilles.”
“Your board’s in Curaçao,” said Clements, “but your head office is in Abadan?”
Palady seemed to look with new respect at Clements; up till now he had hardly glanced at the big man, as if treating him as Malone’s office boy. “Our board is international. Curaçao is safer at the moment than Abadan.”
“I’m sure you’ll feel safe here in Sydney,” said Malone. “Now, could we see someone who would know of Mr. Rockne?”
“Certainly.” Palady spoke into his intercom. “Kim, would you ask Mr. Junor to come in? . . . You say Mr.—Rockne?—was murdered, Inspector?”
“It’s in the morning papers.”
“Ah, I never read such items. By the time I have read and understood what your politicians are doing, I have no stamina for matters such as murder and rape. I saw enough of that in Kuwait, performed by experts. Ah, Harold, come in.”
Harold Junor was English, an ex-rugby forward, ruddy-faced and flustered, who looked as if he had just come out of a ruck without the ball; the Chinese scrum-half had told him there were two police breakaways waiting to tackle him, with or without the ball. Told why the police were here he said in a loud voice, “Ghastly! I read about it this morning—I knew it was our Mr. Rockne, it’s not a common name. Ghastly! Do you want me to take the gentlemen out to my office, Walter?”
“There’s no need, Harold. I should like to acquaint myself with our Mr. Rockne, dead though he may be.”
Malone could hear echoes in his head; but Palady’s phrasing was not literary, as Bezrow’s had been, but hinted of the pedantry of someone whose English was not his native tongue. Palady was stroking his grey silk tie, which was no softer than his hands. It struck Malone that he was feline, a description he had never applied to a man before.
“Where did we acquire him, Harold?”
Junor seemed to wince: he was a rugby forward, blunt and head-on, but he would never have acquired a client. “I think he was recommended by another client.”
“Would you know who the other client was?” said Malone.
“Oh, I don’t think we could tell you that,” said Junor, and Palady nodded appreciatively. “Not without the client’s permission.”
“Would you ask him?” said Malone.
Junor looked at Palady, who left him in no-man’s-land. “Well, yes, if you insist. Yes, we’ll do that.”
“Now.”
“Now?”
“I don’t know what merchant banking is like, Mr. Junor, but murder is handled better if you can beat it from going cold on you. The murderer has about thirty-six hours’ start on us at the moment and I’d rather he didn’t get any further ahead.”
“But why do you need to talk to our client?” said Palady.
“Because, Mr. Palady, the starting point for any murder case is the victim. The next step is who knew him and why.”
“Of course. Elementary. Go ahead, Harold, call your client, see if he wishes his name to be used.”
Junor went out of the room and the two detectives and Palady sat watching and smiling at each other. The room showed its colonial heritage. The metal ceiling pictured cream Aborigines hiding among cream English trees; the half-panelled walls were of cedar no longer available. Colonial prints hung on the regency-striped upper halves of the walls: ships at anchor in Sydney Cove, St. Philip’s Church, the original still standing just up the street from this house. There were no prints of Kuwait or Abadan or Curaçao.
Junor came back, smiling apologetically. “I’m afraid I could not raise him. No answer.”
“Keep trying, Mr. Junor. I’ll leave you my card. In the meantime we want Mr. Rockne’s account frozen.”
“Oh, no trouble at all there. Frozen it is, as of now. But we’ll need a piece of paper, a court order or something. Will there by any claimants?”
“I’m sure there will be. If not his family, then someone else. Five and a quarter million isn’t usually left in limbo, is it?”
“There is no limbo in a bank,” said Palady, the smile still at work. A feline smile, Malone thought, and wondered if he had ever seen a Persian cat smile. Cheshire cats were said to smile, but Palady came from further east than there.
“We’ll get a court order and I’ll send someone here to look at the account. I take it that the five and a quarter million wasn’t all in one deposit? And you’ll be able to trace where the cheques came from?”
Neither Junor nor Palady looked at each other; but the current that passed between them was palpable. Palady said, “That may be something that Mr. Rockne wouldn’t have wanted.”
“I’m afraid it’s too late to ask him. In the meantime keep trying with the man who recommended him to you. It was a man?”
Junor’s smile was the sort he would have given a referee who had just awarded a penalty against him, right in front of the goalposts. “Yes. Yes, it was a man. We don’t deal very much with the ladies. They don’t appear to have the money, not in this country.”
“They’re working on it,” said Malone, whose wife was continually working on him.
Outside in the bright sunshine the two detectives exchanged glances that said they had both arrived at the same conclusion: Shahriver Credit International, for all the dignified façade behind which it hid, had darker secrets than most banks. Clements said, “I don’t think I’d deposit pocket money with them.”
The Harbour Bridge towered above them like a grey rainbow; Malone waited till a train had rumbled across it, taking its sound with it. “Do you think their client who recommended Rockne could be Bernie Bezrow?”
“I’d put money on it.”
“Take John Kagal off whatever he’s on and put him on this. He’s thorough and he’s quick. Get him to check on that joint account withdrawal.”
Clements nodded. “Where do we go from here?”
“We go back and see Olive. We’ll see what she has to say about no sound of a shot. And we’ll see how she reacts when we tell her we’ve frozen that five and a quarter million.”
3
I
JASON OPENED the front door. “Hello, Pa. We wondered if you’d come.”
“Sugar and I thought we’d better.”
Though George Rockne was a good six inches shorter than his son had been, the resemblance was clear: he had the same bony face, though it was more weatherbeaten and the lines were deeper, the same aggressive eyes, the same shaped head, though his was entirely bald. The woman beside him was as tall as he, blonde and buxom, full of life but not aggressive about it. Jason had a lot of time for his step-grandmother, Sugar Bundy, the Kings Cross stripper who, against all the odds, had married his commo grandfather and made the old man happy.
“Anyone else here?” George Rockne sounded wary.
“Just Grandma Carss.”
Rockne wrinkled his nose, though the wrinkling was barely discernible amidst all the other lines on his face. “Well, she’s the least of our worries. Forget I said that, Jay.”
The boy grinned. “I know what you mean, Pa. Hello, Sugar.” He kissed her on her well-powdered cheek. “Was that you I saw on Saturday night on That’s Dancing?”
She dug him in the ribs. “None of your cheek, kid. How are you?”
“Pretty down. So’s Mum and Shelley.”
He led them out to the back room, the garden room as his mother called it. Olive and Shelley kissed George’s cheek and did the same with Sugar; they were funeral kisses, when dislike and disagreement were buried for the day along with the corpse.
Mrs. Carss, unforgiving, offered neither kiss nor cheek, but did offer coffee.
“Tea?” said Sugar, “I’m off coffee.”
Mrs. Carss nodded sourly, as if she would have to go all the way to Sri Lanka for the tea, and went out into the kitchen. Jason remained standing, leaning against
the door jamb, but the other four sat down. There was silence for a long moment, that of strangers: they had nothing in common but a dead man. Jason, embarrassed by the silence, wondering why adults always had to be so bloody uptight with each other, looked out at the back garden and the pool, where a magpie strutted like a developer marking out his territory. In another month the bird would be dive-bombing them in the pool, coming out of the big camphor laurel where he and his mate had already built their nest. He thought of going out and grabbing the maggie, bringing it in here and letting it loose just to shake up his mother, his grandfather and Sugar. Shelley, sitting there like the doll she thought she was, was no bloody use.
At last George Rockne said, “Did Will tell you him and I’ve been talking to each other the last few months?”
“No.” Olive was in all black this morning, sweater, slacks and hairband. She frowned, as if she did not like the thought of Will and his father having been on good terms again. “Why?”
“Why?” The lines on George’s face seemed to increase. “Olive, we were father and son! Fathers and sons, they sometimes become reconciled.”
“He didn’t mention it to me. Did he make the first move?”
“No-o. I suppose I did that. I rang him up about some legal advice and it just sorta went on from there. Just three or four times, no more than that, but at least we weren’t arguing any more.”
“It did George the world of good,” said Sugar. “He would come home looking real pleased, you know what I mean?”
“He didn’t come to the house?” said Olive and looked real pleased when Sugar said no.
Jesus, Mum, Jason thought, relax for Chrissake. They’ve come offering an olive branch or whatever it is they offer and all you can goddamn do is spit in their face. He had never tried to fathom his father or mother, there really hadn’t been any desperate need; but now, ever since Saturday night, he was understanding less and less of her. She was turning into someone he had never recognized before.
