by Jon Cleary
“Shut up, smartarse,” snapped Maureen.
“The damage is done,” said Claire. “They have to pay for it. Plenty.”
“Pull your heads in, all of you,” said Malone. “I—”
“Pull your head in,” said Lisa, “I’m in the chair and we’re going to discuss this without getting at each other’s throats.”
Malone had called Claire and Maureen and told them he wanted to see them at home this evening, no matter what arrangements they had made. “You’ll come or I’ll bring both of you in here to Homicide and question you as to what you know.”
“That’s an empty threat and you know it,” Claire had said.
“Try me.”
Now they were sitting in the living room at Randwick, surrounded by home; but the atmosphere was anything but homelike. Dinner had been eaten in threadbare silence, Lisa vetoing any discussion or argument while they were eating. True to form, she insisted the girls clear the table and stack the dishwasher. Dutch order was being forced on the evening. Malone had no idea how Dutch parliaments were run, but he knew they would not be of the order, or disorder, of Italian, Japanese and New South Wales parliaments.
Lisa went on, “Why did you have to do that midday piece, Mo?”
“It was what we came up with. Balmoral, backed by Clizbe and the Allied Trades union and two or three other unions, is flat out to take over Boolagong. They’re holding a gun at Labor Party headquarters on the pre-selection issue.”
“That’s where you made your first mistake,” said Malone. “Using that phrase—holding a gun at their heads.”
“I got carried away—it wasn’t in the script—” She had inherited the Malone tongue that slipped its leash too often.
“If it wasn’t in the script, then you’ll be carrying the can,” said Tom. “Channel 15 will just wash its hands of you.”
“Oh shit!” Maureen was all at once deflated, slumped in her chair.
“Who’s the lawyer here?” asked Claire. “The piece was filmed at 11.45, it went out at 12.05. The editors could have cut it if they’d wanted to. We’re suing the channel, not Mo. She has no money.”
“Now you’re talking like an economic rationalist,” said Tom admiringly.
“Shut up,” said his mother. “What we have to discuss is if it goes to court. Once the Malone name is bandied about it could mean Dad being taken off the case.”
“No complaints,” said Malone, but they all looked at him, telling him they didn’t believe him.
“It’ll go to court,” said Claire. “Balmoral and Clizbe have already asked us to hire senior counsel. My boss says he’ll handle it as instructing solicitor. I’m to be the dogsbody, so maybe I shan’t be noticed.”
“Not much,” said Tom. “Can you get out of it, Mo? Let Channel 15 carry the can.”
“No, she can’t,” said Claire. “I’m sorry, Mo. I’m only doing my job.”
“So was I.” But Maureen was still low, still angry with herself. “If I hadn’t shot my mouth off . . . Why did I inherit your tongue, Dad?”
“Ask Grandpa. He gave it to me.”
“Would they have sued if I hadn’t said the bit about holding the gun at the Labor Party?”
“Yes,” said Claire. “The complaint is against the general statement. The inference is that Balmoral—and Clizbe, too—have gone to any lengths to take over Boolagong. Even to getting rid of the Premier—”
“Oh, come on!” Maureen sat up. “There was nothing like that in our piece—”
“Mo—” Lisa put her hand gently on her daughter’s arm—“when you were doing Communications at university, they should have taught you to read between and write between the lines. I’ve learned that at Town Hall, writing press releases. There are a dozen different ways of reading anything you see in the press or hear on radio and television. That’s why politicians are always ambiguous, even when wishing the voters Merry Christmas. They know there are going to be a dozen different ways of its being interpreted. Your producer should have double-checked what you were going to say, even before you shoved in your own little piece. Litigation is a way of life these days. Ask any doctor.”
Tom opened his mouth and Malone said, “Shut it! We’re getting nowhere right now. The case will go ahead?” Claire nodded. “Righto, it’ll be in the lists. It’ll be 2002 before it’ll be heard, maybe longer. By then I’ll be long off the case, we’ll have found out who shot the Premier and you two will probably be in other jobs elsewhere. Crowded court lists have their advantages. But for the time being, Mo—watch yourself. There are some nasty bastards in this whole set-up and you’re too young and pretty to be bashed up. Or worse.”
They all looked at him; then Lisa said, “Your father’s right. You too, Claire, be careful.”
“Maybe I should say some Hail Marys that nasty bastards don’t beat up economists,” said Tom.
“Your turn will come, the way you’re buggering up the country,” said his father. “One other thing. If Channel 15 follows up our investigation of who killed the Premier—which they will, they’re not going to stand back and let the others have it—tell your producer you are not to ask me questions or come on camera while I’m there.”
“You don’t know him,” said Maureen. “He should’ve been an opera director. If I told him what you just suggested, he’d have me on camera twenty-four hours a day. I’m working for a news producer, not Sesame Street. What you’ve just suggested is news. Police intimidation.”
Malone looked at Lisa. “Why couldn’t she have been a nun?”
“Then the Church would’ve been sueing us,” said Tom. “I think your only out of this, Mo, is for Labor to lose the election. Then it won’t matter what you or Channel 15 said, especially if Mr. Balmoral doesn’t make it into parliament.”
“He’s right,” said Lisa. “There’s nothing so boring as old politics. Especially the politics of a party that’s out of power.”
Malone stroked her arm. “You’ve had an education none of us has had. Two years at that school outside Lausanne—where the IOC lives and had to have explained to it what corruption is. Then two years at the High Commissioner’s office in London, eighteen months at Town Hall—none of us will ever be as cynical as you.”
“I’m not cynical,” she said. “Just disillusioned.”
“Same thing, different label.” Then he looked at his daughters. “I’m not fooling when I say there are some nasty bastards in this set-up. Both of you take care.”
It was police advice, not fatherly advice, which is rarely taken seriously by the young, especially young girls. They nodded, but there was no way of knowing if they agreed with him.
IV
The Premier was dead; long live the Premier. The Acting Premier, the media called him; and that hurt. He would have sued them if he could have got Legal Aid to finance the suit. Take no notice of them, Ladbroke, the real if dead Premier’s minder, had told him. Don’t start small fights with the media when the Big One is coming up:
“We’ll have a battle to win the election,” said Ladbroke, who no longer cared but hid his feelings. “Keep all side issues out of the way.”
“What do you think, Bill?” Billy Eustace looked at Police Commissioner Zanuch.
“With all due respect, Mr. Premier, the police have only one issue. Finding who killed the—Hans Vanderberg.”
Billy Eustace nodded. He had been in politics twenty-three years, had been a union organizer for ten years before that. He was bald and thin, with close-set eyes, a wide mouth and a tendency towards volubility, his only profligacy. He was not unintelligent, but his brain and his personality were always at odds. He had risen to be Deputy Premier because everyone else, thinking Hans Vanderberg would last forever, had not wanted the job. Standing in the shade is not a favoured location in politics. Only over the last couple of months had the Party’s members woken up that there were people in the Party who wanted to get rid of The Dutchman.
“Of course. It would help, Bill, if you could n
ail the culprit soon.” Say a month before the election. “It would look good for the Service.” And Us, he added under his breath.
Something’s happened to him, thought Ladbroke: he’s become almost cryptic. He said, “It won’t look good for us if the hitman, or whoever hired him, turns out to be someone in the Party.”
Both he and Eustace looked at Zanuch, as if expecting him to produce the hitman there and then. The Commissioner was in uniform, silver-braided like a five-star doorman; it was his first visit to Eustace in the latter’s role as Premier. Or Acting Premier. Or Police Minister. Or Acting Police Minister. Billy Eustace was like a man in a clothing warehouse sale, trying to find a suit to fit him.
“Do the police think someone in the Party organized the shooting?” Eustace sounded as if the question was choking him.
“What’s happened over the last couple of days hasn’t helped.” Zanuch was even more reserved than usual. This man on the other side of the big desk might not be there in a few weeks’ time. Yet again, he might be. Sometimes the Commissioner yearned for the comfort of a police state. “The bashing in the—in Hans Vanderberg’s electorate. Then the stupid writ yesterday from those two at the Trades Congress.”
“Oh yes, yes—Christ, that was just incredible!” For a moment Eustace looked as if he might be his old voluble self; then caution fell on him like a sack: “But we can’t say anything. How do I not say anything, Roger?”
A good question. “Leave it to me. Look busy elsewhere.”
“Good idea,” said Eustace and looked as if he wondered if elsewhere would be far enough. For years he had always been available for a statement, at great length, and now he was being advised to keep his mouth shut. “Give me a list of things to do. Make me busy.”
“In the meantime,” said Zanuch, “I am taking thirty men off the Olympic security detail and adding them to Task Force Nemesis.”
“You can’t do that!” Eustace looked on the point of being voluble again. “Nick Agaroff will drop his bundle—he’s had enough trouble with SOCOG.”
In his three years as Minister for the Olympics Agaroff had had more trouble and dissension than the gods on Olympus.
“Get your extra police from the bush—get them from anywhere! The bush are going to vote against us anyway on the law and order bullshit.”
The Commissioner for law and order remained impassive. “Now that you are Acting—” he seemed to emphasize the word—“Police Minister, you should be well aware that we are almost two thousand men short of what is agreed the necessary establishment. Country stations are already short of personnel. The only place where I can draw experienced men is from the Olympics security detail. This is the first political assassination in this country and it happened in my bailiwick. I’m going to clear it up as soon as possible with the maximum number of men at my disposal.”
Eustace backed down; he was lost for words, a vacuum he didn’t believe could exist. “Well, of course—”
Ladbroke stepped in; he still had a certain loyalty to the Party, despite his cynicism. “I’ll get on to Nick Agaroff, explain the situation, Commissioner. We’ll keep the transfer quiet, make no press release.”
“Good.” Zanuch stood up. He had the look of a man who had just won a gold medal, broken a world record and not raised a sweat. “We’ll find out who organized the killing of the Premier. Let’s hope it’s none of your friends.”
“Oh God,” said the Acting Premier, finding a couple of words.
In another office on Level 10 in the parliamentary complex the Leader of the Opposition and his Deputy Leader were fencing with each other. Up till last week the polls had shown that the Coalition was a certain loser in the coming elections. Now all at once darkest night had faded, the sun had risen, bands were playing, heavenly choirs singing. It was heady stuff, especially to two men as light on intellect as Bevan Bigelow and Byron Lavenham. No one had wanted the top job while the party looked as if it would be in Opposition forever; Bevan and Byron had floated to the top, like tiddlers in a stagnant pool. Now, with the sun risen and the bands playing, both men saw competition coming from the back benches, big trout rising to the bait.
“There’s a whisper going around,” said Lavenham, “that we might have arranged to shoot The Dutchman.”
“We? You mean your mob?”
“No!” Angrily. “Us. The Party. We’ve got some hotheads from the bush. They’re still fighting the gun laws.”
“Byron—” sometimes Bigelow could be avuncular, though nephews shied away from him—“we fight dirty, like every party, but we don’t go around shooting our opponents. We’re Australians, for Crissake!” He stole a glance out the window of his office, but there were no flags to salute. If re-elected, he would have a flagpole erected right outside the window. “I’m from the bush originally, I know the blokes out there. They want their guns, sure, but only to shoot foxes and kangaroos.”
“And Greenies,” said Lavenham. “They’re always at war with someone.”
“Not me, mate.” He had other wars, much closer. Right opposite him, in fact.
Laveham sat back, contemplated the future. He and Bigelow had swapped the Opposition leadership several times; the voters had hardly noticed. He was a handsome man in a vacuous way; he looked good on television, but his image faded as quickly as the switch to the next item of news. He had no vision of the future, but since the nation was myopic when it came to the long view, the voters did not hold that against him. He was an agreeable man, always agreeing with the last three persons he had spoken to, but now something was happening to him. Inside, a new Byron Lavenham was beginning to stir, jelly was turning to steel. He saw himself standing on the official dais at the Olympics in eight months’ time, exposed to a billion TV viewers around the world. Celebrity makes human balloons.
First, however, he had to topple the man sitting opposite him.
6
I
THE COUNTRY had never known such police cooperation. The State Premiers, even the Prime Minister, suddenly were aware that back-stabbing could be lethal. Certainly they were a wild bunch in New South Wales, always had been, and no one should be surprised at what went on there. But assassination? The other police services had been told there was a suspect under surveillance and they had told their political bosses. They were also told there was no evidence against the suspect and that he was not a known political ratbag and, as far as could be ascertained, had no connection with any subversive group. The Premiers and the Prime Minister breathed no more easily, because they knew that, now an example had been set, copies could follow. For the first time in a hundred years the nation’s leaders felt as if they were family.
“The bugger hasn’t given us a thing to go on,” said Malone. “He’s going about his handiwork as if we didn’t exist. He asked the fellers watching him last Friday if he could give them something from Meals on Wheels.”
Clements was at work at his own desk, fumble-fingering his way through a bibble-babble of papers; true to bureaucracy’s rule, nothing should be said briefly that could be said at length. Homicides hadn’t stopped with the shooting of Hans Vanderberg; there had been seven murders in the past seven days. Clements had the look of a man who had fallen into a quicksand, one he knew but which he had been unable to avoid.
“Don’t come to me with your troubles—”
Malone was sitting on the edge of Clements’ desk, his bum a paperweight on a sheaf of reports. “Who’s got shit on the liver now?”
“I have.” Clements pushed the papers away from him and sat back. “Scobie, I’ve got enough problems. There’s one here—” He searched amongst the papers, held up a report, “Some couple murdered their two-year-old son and skedaddled—they’re druggies. Bondi wants us to handle it because the guy, the father, is the son of a local alderman. They don’t want to shit on their own carpet. I’m turning it back to them—I haven’t got enough personnel to handle what we’ve got. So you go chasing Mr. August or Mr. June of whatever he calls hims
elf and I’ll go back to all this crap and ask myself why I still have some respect for human nature.”
“Join the club,” said Malone and left him as he heard the phone ring in his own office.
It was from a member of the task force: “Inspector Malone? This is Detective Constable Heston. We’ve been looking into Peter Kelzo and the guys with him, Gandolfo and Joe St. Louis. We’ve come up with something. John June did some finishing work for Kelzo’s building firm—he’d be brought in after all the major work was done. I thought you’d like to know,” he added with the satisfaction of someone who knew he had come up with a nugget that might turn into gold. “You want us to bring in Mr. June?”
Malone thought a moment; then: “No, let him run around a while longer. We’ve got tabs on him. We’ll talk to Mr. Kelzo first. You any idea where he is at the moment?”
“He’s out at Homebush. One of his bigger companies is working on a project in the Olympic complex. We’re keeping an eye on him right now.”
“I’ll be there. Don’t lose him.”
He went back out to Clements. “Righto, we’re going out to Homebush to talk to Mr. Kelzo.”
“I told you I can’t—” Clements gestured at the papers on his desk.
“Who’s got the rank around here? Get your coat, give all that to one of the girls.”
“Chauvinist,” said one of the girls behind him.
He grinned at Sheryl Dallen. “All the time, Sheryl. Do a coupla old men a favour and see if you can get some system into that mess Russ calls his desk.”
She was a plain girl who looked attractive because she was so healthy; she kept trim only because of regular work-outs at gym. She handled men as well as she did dumbbells and sometimes wondered where the difference lay.
“No worries,” she said and implied the mess would be cleaned up five minutes after they had gone out the door.
Malone was in good humour; light was glimmering at the end of the tunnel, even if it was only a firefly. They drove out to Homebush through a stampede of traffic that didn’t augur well for when the Olympics arrived. When they came to the huge complex Malone looked out at it while Clements sought directions. He was an opponent of the Games, because of their cost to taxpayers, but he had to admire the job that had been done in building this vast showplace. Most of the many sections of the complex were already working, but the real test was still to come when the hordes, competitors, officials, media and spectators, came swarming in. Malone, a careful man when it came to money, his own or anyone else’s, hoped that taxpayers would not be left holding too many bundles.
