by Jon Cleary
“Twice. He also spoke to Inspector Malone.”
“Jesus!” Fingal raised his silver stick and for a moment Paredes thought the old man was going to hurl it at him. “Why, for Christ’s sake, did he do that? Of all the fucking stupid—” It was the first time he had heard the old man swear. “This isn’t fucking Nicaragua—you don’t threaten our police! You talk to them—you bribe them—”
Paredes spread a hand, as respectful as ever. The cause must not be lost, the money must still be promised. “I’m sorry, señor, we all make mistakes—”
It took Fingal a moment or two to come off the boil. “You’d better keep him under control. Christ knows what he’s likely to do next. Where is he now?”
Paredes hesitated, “He—he’s gone out.”
“Where?”
Again the hesitation; then, “He’s gone to dispose of Father Hourigan.”
“Who?”
It had been a slip of the tongue; this old man was fast turning into another enemy in his mind. “Sorry. Father Marquez.”
Fingal opened his mouth, but nothing came out but a coughing gasp; it was as if he were beyond words. He stood up abruptly, grabbed his walking stick and came round the desk. Paredes stepped aside, throwing up an arm to ward off the expected blow; but Fingal went right by him and out of the study, hurrying with surprising agility for such an old man. He went up the curving staircase in the big entrance hall, suddenly pausing half-way up as if he were about to collapse. He drew a deep breath, looked down at Paredes with a terrible expression of rage on his face, then went on up to the landing and disappeared.
Brigid, an empty glass in her hand, came to the doorway of the drawing-room. “Do you know where the liquor’s kept, Mr. Paredes?”
“No.” He was still staring up at the empty landing.
She followed the direction of his gaze. “Something wrong with my father?”
“I don’t know, señorita. He’ll tell you, I suppose.”
“I doubt it,” said Brigid and went back into the drawing-room.
Upstairs in Kerry’s bedroom Fingal was explaining what Domecq had gone to do. “Get packed! We’ve got to get you out of here! Now! Do you hear me, for Christ’s sake—now! Get back to Rome tonight—”
“I can’t leave just like that! How can I get on a plane at such short notice? Planes don’t leave for Rome every hour—”
“Just get out to the airport—I’ll have the Falcon ready for you. If you can’t get Qantas or Alitalia or one of the others for Rome, I’ll have our crew fly you to Perth. You can pick up something there and change at Singapore. But you’ve got to get out now! You hear me?”
“I can’t believe it—” Kerry, in this bedroom where he had harboured all the doubts and fears of boyhood, was nothing like the confident, arrogant man he presented to the world. He was still suffering from the shock of Teresa’s death; and now this. The Lord was deserting him; he felt both hollow and angry. His devotion had always been narrow, a thin rod of sustenance; now it threatened to break. “God, it’s not worth it—”
“What’s not worth it? Of course it’s worth it! It’s just bloody stupid, that’s all, the way they’ve gone about it. Get packed! I’ll have the car round the front in ten minutes. You’re going back to Rome!”
It was an order. Or a coronation: Fingal was not going to be denied his ambition.
12
I
WHEN THE Falcon 900 landed at Kingsford Smith airport Malone said a brisk goodbye to Fingal and Kerry Hourigan and walked quickly across the tarmac to the main building. He had had enough of the Hourigans for the moment; he breathed in the crisp autumn air as if it were smelling salts. He would not even think about them for at least twenty-four hours. He knew, however, that thoughts could be as slippery as criminals.
He stopped at the duty-free store on his way out to Immigration. Zara Kersey, looking as fresh as if she were about to begin a journey instead of just finishing one, came in after him. “I’m buying something for my children.”
“So am I,” he said, conscience-stricken that he hadn’t bought something in Rome or Singapore. “But what? Kids today are so choosey. My thirteen-year-old actually reads Choice magazine. A thirteen-year-old consumer!”
She helped him choose: Italian boat shoes for the girls, a model airplane for Tom. “Boat shoes? I don’t own a boat.”
“It doesn’t matter. Believe me, Scobie, those shoes are going to be the in thing for kids next summer. If I know anything about something, it’s fashion.”
He grinned. “You know more than that, Zara.”
She nodded. “I’ve learned a few things on this trip. Good luck, Scobie. This case is a long way from over. Don’t get in the way of any more knives.”
Lisa was waiting for him outside Customs, He had discarded his sling, hoping that they would be home before she discovered another attempt had been made on his life. But she rushed at him, embraced him; he let out a gasp of pain as she flung an arm round his wounded shoulder. She drew back in alarm.
“What’s the matter? Have you been hurt?”
“Not here—I’ll tell you about it in the car—”
She seethed with concern all the way to the car-park. Six overseas airliners had arrived within twenty minutes of each other; the path from the terminal to the car-park was a United Nations reunion. A party of Greeks blocked the Malones’ way; Lisa pushed through them with discriminatory prejudice. A large family of white natives, back from a holiday in the tropics, shivering in their thongs and shorts, got the same treatment. She had only one nationality this morning, that of her family and him in particular.
Once in the car she demanded, “What’s the matter? Have you been hurt?”
“Not here—wait till we get home—”
“Tell me!”
He did, flatly and in as few words as possible. “I’m okay. They got the cove who tried it—”
“They arrested him? You’ve got to go back to Rome?”
“No-o. They—they shot him.”
“Oh Jesus!” She rarely, if ever, swore. She slumped back in the seat of the car, stared at him as if she didn’t believe what he was telling her. “Twice! Twice they’ve tried to kill you!”
“It won’t happen again—”
“How do you know?” He couldn’t remember when he had last seen her so angry.
“I don’t. Darl—Please . . .”
He looked and sounded unutterably weary and abruptly she relented. “I’m sorry. I’m selfish—all I think about is myself and the kids.”
“No. No, you’re not selfish.” He put his arm round her and kissed her again. “I’m just in the wrong job for a family man.” They drove home and he was reunited with the children when they came home from school. Zara Kersey had been right: the girls were delighted with their boat shoes (“Daddy, how did you know?) and Tom wanted to take off at once in his airplane for the moon (“Planes don’t go to the moon.” . . . “Mine does.”). As numerous times before, he rediscovered God and was grateful to Him: his family was his harbour. Sunday he would go to Mass with them, suffer the boring sermon and the banal hymns and the monotonous guitar music, and say a heartfelt prayer of thanks. It suddenly occurred to him that he could not remember saying a single prayer while at Mass in St. Peter’s.
Clements came to the house at six o’clock. “I guess you’re ready for bed, eh? The Commissioner told me to ask how you were. Rome rang to tell him about the guy knifing you. You okay? Who paid for the job? Domecq and Paredes?”
“I don’t think so.”
Clements bit his lip. “Not the Archbishop?”
“No. It might have been his old man. I just don’t know.” Clements sat chewing on his lip. Then he said, “Well, that’s another tiger snake out of the can. If we bust this case, I hate to think where you and I are going to finish up. Still, that’s all to come. I’d better brief you before you come in tomorrow. I’ve got them all together tomorrow morning at ten—the Archbishop and Paredes and Domecq. Mrs. Kers
ey will be there, too, I guess. You want me to bring in old man Hourigan?”
“No. You made any progress with Domecq?”
“A little. I’ve found out how he could have known about you and Father Marquez and the letter. I went around all the TV stations checking if they had any Nicaraguans working in their crews.” He shook his big head. “None. But a guy at Channel 8, Hourigan’s own station, said they’d run a piece on the funeral on their eleven-thirty news last Tuesday morning. He got out the tape and ran it for me. You and Father Marquez are there plain as day—he’s giving you the letter and you’re reading it. There’s a second shot and you’re saying something to him and he’s looking pretty worried. If Domecq saw that clip, he could put two and two together.”
“We’ve got no proof that he did.”
Clements grinned. “Don’t be obstructive, mate. We have to hit him over the head with anything we can. How’d you go with the Archbishop?”
Malone shrugged. “I don’t know. How much resilience have martyrs got?”
“He’s a martyr? You could have fooled me. Go to bed, Scobie, get a good night’s sleep. I’ll see you in the morning.”
On his way out he said to Lisa, “Take care of him. He looks beat.”
“So am I,” she said, but good-humouredly. “Who’s taking care of me?”
“Uncle Russ,” he said and put his arms round her, the first time he had ever done that.
Next morning when Malone went into Homicide, Kerry Hourigan, Paredes and Domecq were waiting for him. Clements had procured a separate room for the interrogation; it was small and the five big men made it smaller. When Zara Kersey arrived, looking much fresher than Malone felt, she looked around and smiled. “Whose lap do I sit on?”
Clements squeezed in a chair for her between the Archbishop and Domecq. The two detectives sat on the opposite side of the narrow table with Paredes beside them. It looked more like a conspiracy than an interrogation.
“We’re taking Mr. Domecq into custody on suspicion of murder and attempted murder,” Malone said without preliminary. “Specifically, the murder of Father Luis Marquez and the attempted murder of myself at Randwick.” He turned his head and looked at Paredes. “Someone also tried to kill me in Rome. Did you know that?”
Paredes showed no surprise or concern. “How would I know it, Inspector?”
“I thought His Grace might have told you.”
Kerry Hourigan flushed, but said nothing.
“Have you any evidence against Mr. Domecq?” said Zara Kersey. “Any witnesses?”
“We’ll be calling Archbishop Hourigan as a witness for the prosecution.”
It seemed for a moment as if the room were going to burst; the walls, Malone was sure, were pushed back. The Archbishop grew bigger with shock and indignation; beside him Malone felt Paredes swell. Domecq pushed his chair back, half-rose as if he were about to bolt through the door. Only Zara remained calm.
“You can’t do that, Inspector.”
“Oh, yes, I can.” It was a gamble, but he had been mulling it over in his mind since four o’clock this morning when, his body still out of rhythm with Sydney time, he had woken. “If he doesn’t tell the truth, we’re going to leak all we know about his work for the Contras. Rome will be interested in that.” He looked at Kerry Hourigan. “There’s another thing, Your Grace. You’ve told enough lies—but so far they’ve only been to me and Sergeant Clements and we’re used to them. If I get you into the witness box, you can act as a hostile witness, but you’re going to be no advertisement for the Church. People, even the non-believers, expect archbishops to tell the truth. Your father once told me that truth is a dangerous weapon. You’ll have your chance to prove it.”
Paredes and Domecq looked at the Archbishop. He avoided their gaze, unable to suffer their anger and contempt if he showed that he might go against them. How could he explain to them his ambition? They would laugh, even though they had ambitions of their own. They were Catholics, but in name only: it was a good cover in Latin America. They would never understand the ambition of a man to be head of all the Catholics in the world, or the ambition of the father of that man to make him so. He had discovered in the months he had known them that they were men of little imagination, especially Domecq. Paredes might understand, but he was not the one who would be sacrificed.
“We didn’t come here to be betrayed,” said Paredes and there was no mistaking the threat in his voice. He showed no surprise, it would not be the first time he and his fellow Contras had been betrayed. “Especially if you have to lie.”
Kerry Hourigan’s own voice was just a rumble in his throat. “I didn’t come home to see my niece murdered. Nor that young priest . . .”
“We had nothing to do with your niece’s murder—you know that!”
“We’re not charging Mr. Domecq with that murder,” said Malone quietly.
Paredes saw his mistake, looked quickly across the table at Zara Kersey. “Do something, señora. They are trying to railroad Señor Domecq!”
She stood up. “May I see you outside, Inspector? You too, Your Grace.”
Outside in the corridor people were coming and going busily; homicide, it seemed, was on the rise today. Oh, for a nice simple homicide, Malone thought, an open-and-shut case with the murderer still standing over the victim yelling that he had done it. But those were usually domestic murders and sometimes they could be worse, far worse, especially when the children had to be told what daddy had done to mummy or vice versa. At least there were no kids in this one.
“Will you be a witness against Mr. Domecq?” Zara Kersey said.
Archbishop Hourigan was going through agony. “If I do, I’m going to crucify him—”
“Don’t let’s get too religious,” said Malone. “I know who threatened me and Father Marquez over the phone. I know who shot at us—I can feel it every time I’m near him—”
“That would never be accepted in court, Scobie,” said Zara, but she sounded sympathetic. She was out of her depth in a murder case, especially this one; her pool was white-collar crime where only money and not blood was spilt. Fingal Hourigan had made a mistake in calling her in on this and when she left here she would call him and tell him she was withdrawing from the case.
Malone said, “Was Domecq still at your father’s house at Vaucluse before you left for the airport that evening?”
Kerry hesitated, then shook his head. “No.”
“Where had he gone?”
“I don’t know.” Then he thought better of the answer: “My father said he had gone looking for Father Marquez.”
“Did he have a gun?”
“He—yes, I suppose so.”
“What do you mean, you suppose so?”
Kerry hesitated again. “When we were down at Austarm, at Moss Vale, he told the men we were talking to that he often went hunting in the States. He said he wanted to go pig-shooting while he was here—he’d seen it in some travel movie, he said. They presented him with the gun. It was a heavy, pump-action shotgun.”
“The sort they use for security?”
“I wouldn’t know, Inspector. We don’t go in for that sort of security in the Church.”
“You were going in for 7.62 rifles, ten thousand of them.” The Archbishop made no answer to the jibe and Malone went on, “So he had the shotgun with him at your father’s house?”
“I saw him showing it to Paredes. He’d confessed to me on the way back from Moss Vale that he really wasn’t interested in pig-shooting, he just collected guns. He’s the sort of man who likes people to give him things.”
“Will you testify in court that Domecq had the shotgun at your father’s house?”
“God, do I have to?” There was real anguish in his voice. Pope Judas—would it be worth it? “Do I have to, Mrs. Kersey? Isn’t there some way out?”
“You can refuse to answer any questions.” She showed him no sympathy.
“If I testify against him, he’ll bring everything out into the open. I
can’t risk that!”
“You should have thought of that before you got yourself involved with them,” said Malone, equally unsympathetic. “I don’t know about the other Contras, they may be honest patriots, but these two are gangsters. You should have looked into their credentials, Your Grace. Well?”
The Archbishop looked at Zara Kersey again, but now he could see he would receive no help from her. He felt no bitterness towards her, though life itself had never tasted more bitter. He sighed, gave himself up to God, Who also might offer no help. “I’ll testify.”
II
Fingal Hourigan fell headlong into a terrible rage when Kerry went home and told him what he intended doing. “Holy shit, do you know what you’re doing?”
“Of course I do,” said Kerry gloomily, offended by his father’s language as much as his rage.
“You’re throwing everything out of the window! Years of effort, God knows how much goddam money—”
“Do you want me to pay you back?” A spark of rebellion showed. “With interest?”
Fingal ignored that. He stomped up and down his study, swearing and yelling till Brigid opened the door and came in. “I think every window in Vaucluse is open and listening to you. What’s the hullabaloo?”
“Tell her!” Fingal stormed; the silver stick threshed the air like streaks of lightning. “Tell her!”
Kerry told her, leaving out only that he was throwing away his ambition to be Pope. It was bad enough to be raged at; he could not bear to be laughed at. And he knew Brigid would laugh. “I’ll probably be asked to leave Rome.”
“Not necessarily,” said Brigid. She was the only calm one of the three of them. She had lived in Italy and she knew the Italian talent for accommodation. And the Vatican, after all, was still Italian, or almost. “Doesn’t The Lord look after His own? They’ll probably make you a papal knight or whatever they do to cover up your mistakes.”
“They only do that in the civil service.” Fingal was simmering down. His eye was not so filled with fury that he missed his daughter’s reaction to the crisis. But, of course, she did not know of the real prize that had been sacrificed. He looked at Kerry. “What are the police going to do with Domecq?”
