Now and Then, Amen

by Jon Cleary

  “They’re holding him,” said Kerry. “They’re going to oppose bail. Paredes has stayed with him for the time being. He says he’ll move out of here.”

  “He won’t be missed,” said Fingal. “I never liked either of them.”

  “Did Domecq kill Father Marquez?” Brigid asked, still calm.

  “Yes.”

  “Did he kill Teresa?” Icily calm now. “If he did, I’ll have him killed.”

  She’s like me, Fingal thought with wonder. She would have Domecq killed; just as I tried to have Malone killed in Rome. He had no conscience about that; it had been a mistake to have commissioned the contract. Brigid would have a conscience: he recognized enough of Sheila in her to see that.

  “No. No, he didn’t kill her. It wasn’t Domecq. Nor Paredes, either.”

  “Who was it then?”

  All at once, unaccountably, he wanted to save her from herself. If she tried to have anyone killed, she would never cover her tracks as he could.

  “We don’t know. Unless . . .”

  “Unless what?”

  She was staring at him, and so was Kerry. The latter said, “Be careful, Dad, If you have no proof . . .”

  “You’re thinking the same as I am.” He had not even thought of the possibility up till now.

  “Who?” demanded Brigid.

  “I’ll tell you when I’ve done a little more checking.”

  “No, tell me now!” She had lost her calm, was standing opposite him, pounding his desk. “Dad, I have to know!”

  “You will know,” he promised her and meant it. But she mustn’t be allowed to endanger herself with her own revenge. “But let the police do it. Let Inspector Malone do it—he owes it to us.”

  She stared at him, not trusting him; yet suddenly wanting to. Blood bound the three of them here in this room; she was caught in it, as in a whirlpool. She looked into the once-bright blue eyes, now dimmed by age and pain and loss, and saw something she had never seen before: an effort at love.

  She could find no words for him. She turned abruptly and went out of the room. She was running by the time she reached the stairs, stumbling as the tears blinded her.

  Fingal reached for the phone book, then dialled Police Centre. They put him through to Inspector Malone at Homicide. “This is Fingal Hourigan. You’re holding Mr. Domecq.”

  “That’s right, Mr. Hourigan. We’re going to oppose bail, if that’s what you’re calling about.”

  “No, I’m not. I’m calling about something else. How far have you got on the murder of my granddaughter?”

  “We’re still working on it.”

  “Which means you haven’t got anywhere. Ask Sir Jonathan Tewsday what he knows about it.”

  “Are you accusing him of it, Mr. Hourigan?”

  “You know better than that,” said Fingal and hung up. He looked across his desk at Kerry. “There, it’s done.”

  “It’s malicious,” said his son. “You have no proof whatsoever.”

  “None at all. But who else is there left to suspect? Tilly Mosman? She wouldn’t dump the body on her own doorstep.”

  “How do you know anything about the brothel-owner?”

  “I set her up in business. We were—friends, once upon a time. Don’t look shocked. Fornication is an everyday—or everynight occasion.” He was feeling better. In his inflamed imagination he could see the police cars screaming towards Tewsday. “Jonathan knew about it. He hates me, Kerry, always has. I sacked him—he’d do anything to get back at me. We’ve hated each other for years. I’ve enjoyed it. He never did.”

  Kerry had always suspected this uglier side of his father; it shocked him now to see it so openly displayed. “But why poor Teresa? An innocent—”

  “I don’t know. He wouldn’t have killed her himself—he’s pure yellow all through. But he would have paid someone. Once, long ago, he did that . . .” But then he stopped. Too much confession was not good for the soul; or the neck. “If he did have Teresa murdered, Malone will nail him.”

  At Homicide Malone had looked at the dead phone, then also hung up. He believed in the law of coincidence, though it was rarely recognized in a court of law. In the hours he had been awake in bed at home the murder of Teresa Hourigan had been as much on his mind as that of Father Marquez; one could not be thought of without thinking of the other. He had run down a list of everyone remotely connected with the dead nun; Tewsday’s name had been there only because he had been at the funeral and there was no explanation for that. He was also connected with Ballyduff and Austarm; on top of that he had been less than forthcoming on the ride back from the funeral. Perhaps Tewsday should be asked a few more questions. But why had Fingal Hourigan suggested it?

  “What do we know about Sir Jonathan Tewsday?” he asked Clements.

  “I don’t think there’s a file on him, is there?”

  “There’s probably one over in Fraud. When I was on the squad over there, oh, I dunno, fifteen or twenty years ago, we thought we had a case against him. Bill Zanuch was in charge of it.”

  “What happened?”

  “I don’t know. They just suddenly shut up shop on it.”

  “I interviewed him a couple of years ago, him and a few others at Ballyduff. That Pommy junkie they found with his neck broken in the garage at Ballyduff House.”

  “What happened on that one?”

  “Nothing. We couldn’t trace any of the junkie’s relatives. He was better off dead, anyway.” Clements was not callous; he just had his own ideas of justice. But he never voiced them to anyone but Malone. “We just put the file in a drawer and turned the key on it.”

  “Whom else did you interview?”

  “Whom? I’d have to look up the file. The only one I remember was Tewsday’s driver, a Yank, I can’t remember his name.”

  “Gawler. Why did you remember him?”

  “Yeah, Gary or Larry Gawler. I dunno, he just wasn’t—forthcoming?”

  “That’s a good word. Put an enquiry on the telex to the FBI in Washington, see if they have anything on him. Do the same with Immigration here. In the meantime, let’s go and have a word with him. And Tewsday, too.”

  “Mind if I ask—who put this bee in your bonnet?”

  “Fingal Hourigan.”

  Clements bit his lip. “This mob, they really love each other, don’t they?”

  Clements sent off the telex to the FBI, then he and Malone went to see Gary Gawler, Tewsday’s unforthcoming chauffeur. “Where do drivers hang out when their bosses are in their offices?”

  Their first call hit the jackpot: Gawler was in the Ballyduff House garage. He had the bonnet of the Rolls-Royce up and was tinkering with the engine when Malone said, “I didn’t think anything ever went wrong with Rolls-Royces.”

  Gawler put down the bonnet, wiped his hands on a clean rag. “Hello, Inspector. Just a battery connection, that’s all. Nothing is perfect.”

  “So they tell me. Mr. Gawler, can you remember where Sir Jonathan was last Saturday week, the night of the fifteenth?”

  “I’d have to look up my book. Sir Jonathan has me write down every trip. He’s very meticulous like that, with the fringe benefits tax.”

  “I didn’t think you’d have to look this up. It was the night Sister Mary Magdalene was murdered.”

  Gawler was still wiping his hands, but now suddenly they were still, the rag held tightly between his fingers. A car went out of the garage, its tyres screeching a little as it went up the ramp into the street. At the far end of the garage a radio was playing: a talkback guru was listening to the woes of housewives whose husbands wouldn’t listen to them. It was cold here in this concrete cavern and Gawler seemed to be feeling it. He abruptly dropped the rag and reached for his uniform jacket hanging on the car door.

  “Yes, I remember. Sir Jonathan was home all day that day. The night, too. His family had gone down to their place at Bowral. He had a lot of paperwork to do. I cooked the evening meal for him.”

  “He never went out?
He doesn’t drive himself?”

  “I sleep over the garages, my wife and I have our flat there. I’d have heard him if he’d taken the car out.”

  “You didn’t go out yourself?”

  “No. I was on my own. My wife had gone down to Bowral with Lady Tewsday and the girls.”

  “And I suppose you watched television?”

  “Maybe an hour or so, I can’t remember. I don’t watch much TV.”

  “You read?”

  “No, I watch videos.”

  “What sort?”

  “Anything with action in it. Sylvester Stallone, Arnold Schwarzenegger. It relaxes me.”

  “It bores me,” said Malone. “Is Sir Jonathan up in his office now?”

  “Yes.” Gawler looked at his watch. He seemed warmer now that he had his jacket on, more at ease. But he hadn’t liked Malone’s remark about the action videos. “I have to take him out in twenty-five minutes. He’s always punctual.”

  “We’d better get a move on, then. Thanks, Mr. Gawler. We may be talking to you. What floor is Sir Jonathan on?”

  “The sixty-eighth.”

  As they walked across to the lift Malone said, “What did you think?”

  “He’s used to being questioned,” said Clements.

  “Yeah, not a stutter or a stammer. I wonder where he got the practice?” Malone pressed the floor button in the lift. “Sixty-eight. I’ve never been this high before.”

  “Getting into a lift is the only way I’m going to go up in the world.”

  “Don’t put yourself down. If we solve this case, they may make you inspector.”

  Clements grinned. “I got the feeling, we solve this case we’re both going to end up out at Tibooburra.”

  Sir Jonathan’s secretary said he was terribly busy. “So are we,” said Malone. “We’ve got homicides piling up like those letters in your In basket.”

  She gave him a look that said she didn’t think either he or his remark was funny. But she spoke to Tewsday on her intercom, then stood up and ushered them into his office. “You have your Reserve Bank appointment in twenty minutes, Sir Jonathan,” she said pointedly.

  Malone smiled at her. “We’ll see he’s not late.”

  She nodded coldly and closed the door. Tewsday remained seated at his desk, but waved a hand to the two chairs opposite him. Malone, aware as ever of his surroundings, remarked the quiet elegance of the office; he guessed that more money had been spent on this one room than on all the rooms in the Malone house at Randwick. He was not to know that the man sitting behind the big antique desk was spending his last day in the office.

  “I won’t waste time, Sir Jonathan, since your secretary made a point of telling us how busy you are. Where were you last Saturday week, the fifteenth, from say eight o’clock in the evening till two o’clock Sunday morning?”

  “Last Saturday week?”

  “The night Sister Mary Magdalene was murdered.”

  A flush darkened the pink marbled face. “Are you saying—are you saying I’m some sort of suspect?”

  “I haven’t said you’re anything. I’m just asking a question.”

  “You’re implying.”

  “Only if you want to take it that way, Sir Jonathan. Sergeant Clements has been doing a lot of leg-work on the case. Nobody has been able to tell us where Sister Mary Magdalene went between leaving the convent at Randwick at six-thirty that evening and when she was found next morning outside the Quality Couch. She rang her mother at seven o’clock—what did she say, Russ?”

  Clements had his notebook open, saving Tewsday’s precious time. “She didn’t say where she was ringing from or where she was going. They had a date to go to the opera, but she said she’d have to put it off. Her mother was at the Regent Hotel—they were booked in there for the night.” He glanced at Malone. “Under the Hourigan name. We didn’t think to ask when we were looking for her that Sunday morning. We were looking for Miss O’Keefe, remember?”

  “I remember,” said Malone, but he had forgotten.

  Clements looked back at Tewsday. “She said she’d see her mother out at Stokes Point on the Sunday. She didn’t turn up, as you know.”

  Tewsday was solid jelly; but at any moment he would begin to quake. He had been expecting just such a call as this; yet he was unprepared for it. In a desk drawer, hastily put away when Malone and Clements had been announced, was a note from Fingal sent down half an hour before. It told him what his golden handshake was to be and it demanded his delayed resignation by 5 p.m. today. Fingal was back in business, no longer put off by mourning. Tewsday’s mind had been full of further threats against Fingal, but he knew now they were as empty and lethal as party balloons. He was the one under threat and he had no proper answer.

  “I think I was home. Yes, I was. I had work to do.”

  “Your wife or your family can corroborate that?”

  “Yes. No. No, they were down at Bowral. I have a property down there.”

  “Your driver, Gawler—what about him?”

  “He was at home with me.”

  “So he’d be your only witness if—” Malone let the sentence dangle in the air like a looped rope.

  “If what?” Tewsday was moving his opal ring round and round as if trying to unscrew his finger.

  Malone stood up. “You’ll be relieved to know, Sir Jonathan, you and your driver have told the same story.”

  “You’ve already seen him? You have a lot of gall!”

  “It’s one of my few talents,” said Malone. “That and persistence. Goodbye, Sir Jonathan. I don’t think we’ve kept the Reserve Bank waiting.”

  “Give them my regards,” said Clements, who had great respect for banks, even though so many of them were being held up these days. He wondered what sort of crim it would take to hold up the Reserve Bank. Someone like Sir Jonathan Tewsday? No.

  Going down in the lift he said, “He was as nervous as an old-fashioned virgin.”

  “I didn’t know there were any left. You’re right, though. I thought he had piles, he was moving around in his chair so much. But why would he kill Sister Mary? Unless he’s tied up in this Austarm deal more than we know. How’d you like to drive out to Pymble and talk to the Tewsdays’ neighbours? They might give you morning tea—they’re very keen on morning tea up that way. Check if any of them heard him drive out during the night. Or if he had any visitors.”

  “Now? Okay. You want me to drive you back to the office?”

  “No, thanks. I’ll have a think walk.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Ask Arnold Bennett.”

  He left Clements bemused and walked back to Liverpool Street; but the think walk produced no solutions. The telex to the FBI did. When Clements returned from Pymble, Malone, smiling with satisfaction, laid the telex in front of him. “Get a load of that. We’re getting somewhere.”

  Clements read the report, sucking on his bottom lip as he did so. Then he looked up. “That tells us he has a police record. But what do they mean—check with CIA? Don’t they know the CIA never tells foreign police anything? We’re not in the spy business, we’re low life.”

  “I’ll get on to Joe Nagler over at Special Branch. He’s got contacts at ASIO.” ASIO was the Australian Security Intelligence Organization. “They work with the CIA. In the meantime, what did you get?”

  “Morning tea.” Clements brushed imaginary crumbs from his lapel. “They’re just like the rest of us up in Pymble—stickybeaks. Or anyway the Tewsdays’ neighbour is, Mrs. Prunello. I think she must spend all her weekend at the front window. Someone did go out on the Saturday night—or rather, Sunday morning early. She was awake. She doesn’t know what time it was, but she heard a car go out of the Tewsdays’ drive. Not the Rolls, she thought it was a smaller car. I had a peek in the Tewsdays’ garages—the doors were open. They have a BMW and what looked like a Toyota.”

  “Will Mrs. Whatever-her-name-is keep her mouth shut?”

  “I doubt it, though I don’t think sh
e’ll talk to the Tewsdays. She didn’t seem to have much time for them, thought they were uppity.”

  “What’s she doing living in Pymble then? I thought everyone up there was uppity.” He sounded like his father, the worker from the south side of the harbour. “You learn anything else?”

  “This is the bit I’ve been saving. Tewsday had a visitor Saturday night, a young woman. Mrs. Prunello saw the taxi arrive there about eight o’clock. It dropped whoever it was out in the street, then drove off. I’ve got the cab companies checking with their drivers. They’re going to ring me when they find out who had the fare.”

  There is always something where they slip up, Malone thought. He had known so many criminals who had overlooked the small, inconsequential links that bound the world together: a forgotten phone call, a taxi ride, an inquisitive neighbour. There was no proof yet that Tewsday had done anything criminal; but yes, now he was a suspect. There was a gleam of hope in Malone’s eye. We all like to have our suspicions confirmed, no matter what prejudices they arise from. The truth of the matter was, he didn’t like Sir Jonathan. Cops, after all, are human.

  He reached for his phone, called Detective Inspector Joe Nagler at Special Branch, told him what he wanted, then hung up. “Joe’ll see what he can do.”

  “What do we do now?”

  “Wait. And put a stake-out on the Tewsday house.”

  “What about Domecq?”

  “He’s been refused bail.”

  “Paredes?”

  “I’ve got Andy Graham tailing him. He’s safe.”

  “The Archbishop?”

  “I guess he’s out at Vaucluse praying hard. He’s more a politician than a priest. And now he’s going to find out that politicians can’t fall back on the privilege of the confessional.”

  “You Tykes,” said Clements. “You make life so bloody complicated for yourselves. It’s never like that with the Congregationalists.”

  III

  The meeting between Tewsday and Fingal was short and bitter.

  “You’ve got your handshake—six times your salary. You own six hundred thousand shares—if you sell those at today’s prices you’ll have another twelve million. If you want to go on working, there’ll be head-hunters rushing to offer you another job. You won’t starve.”