by Jon Cleary
He picked up the papers, his expression not changing. “Here’s how things stand. The television network is in a hole, a big one.”
“That happened suddenly, didn’t it? Thank you, Liz.” Mrs. Leyden had come in with the tea-tray. She put it on the table and went out without a word or a glance at Broad. “What’s gone wrong? Is it Justine’s fault?”
Justine had run the television and radio division of the corporation.
“Partly. But it’s mostly yours. You paid far too much for the Channel 15 network.”
“You advised me on it.”
“You ignored my advice, remember? The network isn’t taking in nearly enough to service our debt on it. The advertising dollar has dropped off 15 per cent in the last six months. We’re bottom of the ratings. Sydney Beat has flopped here, after all the money we spent on it, and this week the Fox network cancelled it in the States.”
She took in all the bad news without flinching; it was nothing to the possibility of losing Justine for God knew how many years. I complained because I had no shoes . . . She knew she had been losing her grip since the day after Justine’s arrest, her fingers slipping almost imperceptibly, like those of a climber on a cliff face. The only one on the rope who could save her was Michael Broad; and looking at him, she knew that he knew it . . . “What are the papers for?”
“I’m firing Roger Dircks—this is his golden handshake. I’m putting in one of my own men, an accountant. He’ll cut the fat out of the network—it’s almost as bad as the ABC—and then we’ll see what we can do about improving the ratings.”
“Does Roger know he’s being fired?”
“I told him this morning before I came to the court. He wilted—all the starch went out of his collar.” He tried another smile, but again there was no return.
She had reached the bottom of the cliff face, it seemed; she was sliding off into the sea. “You’ve really taken over, haven’t you? Everything, I mean.”
He pushed the papers towards her, offered her his gold pen. “Someone had to, Venetia. Like Justine, you’ve had your mind on other things.”
Then she did smile, cold and hard. “You bastard, Michael.” But she took the pen and signed Roger Dircks out of a job and, probably, out of the television industry. She knew he had lasted far longer than his small talent warranted. “Anything more to sign? What other divisions are you now running?”
He handed her more papers. “As you said, everything. You can always fire me if I’m not doing things the way you want.”
She knew it was a challenge, but she was too weary to take it up now. And she knew that he knew that, too. She signed the remaining papers and went to hand back his pen. Then she withdrew it.
“No, I’ll keep this for future signings. You can have it back when I take over control again.” It was a token challenge, but it was all she could muster at the moment. “Don’t come to the court tomorrow, Michael. Just stay in the office and run everything.”
He wasn’t sure whether she was being sarcastic or not; he played it straight, “I’ll do that tomorrow. But if the trial goes on, I’ll drop in occasionally. Just to show you I’m not all bastard.”
When he had gone she sat on in the sun-room. The westering sun struck slantwise across the room, casting shadows that fractured its brightness. She held up her arm and saw its shadow on the back of the chair opposite. She waved her hand limply: she had slipped off the last rock into the sea, it looked like the last desperate appeal of someone drowning.
Then Mrs. Leyden came to the door that led into the drawing-room. Behind her was a man standing in the shadows of the other room.
Mrs. Leyden was pale, obviously shaken. “Someone to see you, Lady Springfellow.”
The man stepped forward. He was tall, with steel-rimmed glasses, thinning grey hair and a neatly trimmed white beard.
“Hello, Venetia,” said Walter Springfellow.
11
I
“YOU HAD better begin at the beginning,” said Alice Magee.
She had come downstairs when she had heard Michael Broad’s Porsche drive away and she had been in the kitchen when there had been the ring at the front doorbell and Mrs. Leyden had gone to answer it. She had come out to the sun-room only moments after Walter had first spoken to Venetia.
Venetia had stood up when the vaguely familiar man had stepped out into the sunlit room. It was the voice that she recognized before the features; Walter had always had a distinctive voice about which he had been rather vain. It had not lost its timbre, though it did sound softer than she had remembered it.
She could feel herself trembling, though it was not apparent to either Walter or Alice. Mrs. Leyden had retreated to the far door of the drawing-room and stood there, ready to run for the security guard if he were needed. Walter made no move at all after his initial step into the sunlight. He just stood looking at her, an old man who could have been asking for forgiveness or comfort, she wasn’t sure which. She took two steps towards him and put her arms round him, was shocked that all she felt beneath the tweed jacket was bones. He held her to him, but there seemed no strength in his arms; she felt him kiss her hair, but he went no further than that. Then she stepped away from him and looked past him at her mother.
“Do you believe it’s him?”
“Of course,” said Alice matter-of-factly. She put out her hand. “Welcome back, Walter. Where the hell have you been?”
He smiled. Venetia, scrutinizing her husband back from the dead, was noticing every small detail about him. She saw that his teeth now were false, that his own, of which he had been so proud, had gone. The more she looked, the more she noticed how much of the old Walter was gone. The years, whatever had occurred during them, had smudged him.
“I’ve been in Germany ever since I left here. May I sit down? I’m rather tired after the flight. I’m not as young as I used to be.”
Alice looked over her shoulder at Mrs. Leyden still standing at the far door of the drawing-room. “Liz, bring us some fresh tea, please. Do you want something to eat, Walter?”
“Just tea, thank you.” He looked at the two women as they sat down opposite him. Alice was the least awkward of the three of them; but then she was not the deserted wife. Venetia had taken the chair next to Walter’s; she was close enough to reach out for his hand, but she didn’t. There was a huge gap between them that could not be closed in a hurry with a show of affection. Love, they both knew, had died long ago.
“I read about Justine’s arrest. I saw it in The Times and the London Daily Telegraph—I used to get them every day in the small town in Germany where I lived. English newspapers only run the more sensational Australian news. As soon as I read it, I knew I’d have to come home sooner or later. I’ve never seen her, you know.”
Venetia, close by Walter, was now seeing beneath the surface of him. He looked ill, drained of substance; he who had once been so strong and healthy looked now as if he could be snapped in half. But then she felt that way herself, and she was not ill. It had taken some time for the reaction to his appearance to hit her; all at once she felt hollow, weightless, as if she were in a dream which neither frightened her nor made her happy. Walter had disappeared from her life all those years ago; months ago she had buried his bones. Now here he was, the bones and the flesh, frail though it was, sitting beside her, giving her a shadow of the once familiar smile that could appear so unexpectedly on that stern, handsome face. She had the bizarre feeling that her whole married life was about to be re-run and she knew she would not have the strength to sit it out.
“I’ve never seen her,” Walter repeated.
Venetia got up, went into the drawing-room and came back with a photo of Justine. “That was taken on her twenty-first birthday.”
Walter took off his glasses and replaced them with another steel-rimmed pair. In the moment he was without the glasses Venetia saw something of the Walter of long ago, a hint of the virile handsome man he had once been. He looked at the photo of the smiling Justin
e and his eyes seemed to mist over.
“She’s beautiful. Just like you were.” He looked across at her. “Still are.”
Venetia ignored the compliment. She was accustomed to compliments from men, but now she felt uncomfortable with one from her husband. “She looks nothing like that now—I mean, not as happy. She’s in trouble, Walter.”
“She didn’t murder Emma, of course?”
“Of course not,” snapped Alice. “Oh, thanks, Liz. Mrs. Leyden, this is Sir Walter—we’ll explain later. Walter, this is Mrs. Dyson’s niece. She took over when Mrs. Dyson retired.”
“She’s still alive? Danke” The German word slipped out, but he didn’t seem to notice it, as Alice handed him a cup of tea. He looked up at Mrs. Leyden. “You might give my regards to your aunt, please. But not yet. I’d appreciate it if you said nothing about my being here, at least for the time being.”
“Lady Springfellow will tell you I’m very discreet. It’s nice to know you’re still—” Then Mrs. Leyden stopped.
Walter smiled. “That I’m still alive? Yes, it is.”
Mrs. Leyden went back to the kitchen and Venetia said, “We’ll have to tell someone you’re back. Whom do we tell first?1
“I honestly don’t know. ASIO? The police? John Leeds perhaps—he’s Police Commissioner now, isn’t he?”
Venetia said awkwardly, “I’ll call him if you like.”
Walter shook his head. He looked down again at the photo of Justine. “When can I see her?”
“To speak to her? Not before the weekend. We can visit her in the women’s prison. I think I’d better prepare her first. I can usually manage a word with her in court before she leaves the dock.”
“My daughter in the dock—” Again he shook his head. He put down the photo, changed his glasses again. “But then I’ll be there myself soon enough. All the English newspapers will run that story.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s a long story.”
“You had better begin at the beginning,” said Alice.
II
Walter Springfellow had never met Alexis Uritzsky till the morning of Monday, March 28, 1966. He had, however, had two phone calls in the previous week, both of them threatening and demanding. The threat was to give to the newspapers incriminating photos of Lady Springfellow with a man; the demand was for ten thousand pounds in cash. The man had not identified himself by name and Walter had not been able to identify the accent. Had the blackmail concerned himself, Walter would have had no hesitation in contacting the Commonwealth Police: he had the arrogant confidence of the totally blameless. If, however, Venetia’s affairs were to be exposed, then the blackmail had to be paid and the police kept out of it.
He arranged for ten thousand pounds to be transferred from his Sydney bank account to the account he had opened in Melbourne when he had started work in the southern city. That was on the Wednesday. On the Friday he withdrew the ten thousand, ignoring the restrained curiosity of the bank teller as he paid over the large amount in cash. He had flown back to Sydney on the six p.m. flight, carrying the money with him in his one suitcase.
“I shan’t recap that weekend,” he said to Venetia as the afternoon light died in the sun-room and Alice got up and switched on some table lamps. “That would be too painful for both of us.”
“Let’s forget that,” said Alice, the moderator and umpire. “What happened next?”
On the Monday morning the decision to take the Colt .45 was a last-minute one. He passed the gun-cabinet on his way in from the sun-room where he had had breakfast alone. He paused, looking at the collection of guns, then on the spur of the moment took the Colt and half a dozen rounds from the ammunition drawer below the cabinet. There was no thought of using it unless he had to; it was purely for self-defence. He had loaded the pistol, put it in his briefcase beneath the bundles of bank notes, had paused outside Venetia’s door, wondering if he should go in and attempt a reconciliation, decided against it and gone out and got into the Commonwealth car that had called for him as it did every Monday morning.
At Kingsford Smith Airport he had thanked the driver, said he would see him Friday night on his return, gone into the terminal and walked straight through and out another door. He had walked across to the parking lot and found the man standing, as he had promised, beside the Ford Escort with the Australian Capital Territory plates.
“Sir Walter?” The young man was handsome in a broad-faced sort of way, with a pleasant smile. Walter recognized him at once, though he had never met him. ASIO had photos of all the KGB agents in Canberra and the various consulates throughout the capital cities. Walter had a photographic memory and he recognized this smiling young man, though at first he couldn’t put a name to him. “You’ve brought the money?”
“Yes, Mr.—” The name came to him all at once. “Mr. Uritzsky, isn’t it?”
The smile was suddenly gone. “That was a mistake, Sir Walter, letting me know you recognized me,” He put a hand in his pocket and it came out with a pistol. “Get in the car behind the wheel. You drive.”
Walter carried his suitcase and briefcase round to the driver’s side of the car, watching Uritzsky all the time. Other cars were coming into the car-park, but they were at the far end. Uritzsky had chosen a spot where empty cars, their owners already in the terminal or already flying, were banked up on either side of the Ford.
Walter put his suitcase in the back of the car and took his briefcase into the front seat with him. Uritzsky slid in from the other side. He handed Walter the parking ticket and the money.
“Pay the man at the gate. And please—no funny business.”
They drove out of the car-park and Walter instinctively took the road leading out of the airport towards the city. “No,” said Uritzsky. “Go west, old man. I’ll tell you when to pull up.”
So Walter drove the Ford west, out through the suburbs, out through Parramatta and past the Housing Commission houses beyond. As they climbed into the Blue Mountains, with no word passing between them, Walter realized that Uritzsky intended to kill him.
“This blackmail is your own idea?” he said at last. “Your masters know nothing about it?”
“Nothing.” Uritzsky studied him for a while. Then: “When you see who is in the photo with your wife, you are going to be a very sad and angry man.”
“Of course. A husband is always sad and angry if he finds out his wife is unfaithful.” He wondered who the man could be. “What are you going to do with the money?”
“Disappear. Defect. Call it what you like. Your wife has already paid me five thousand pounds.”
“I know. We discussed you on Friday night.”
“Does she know you were meeting me this morning?” Uritzsky sat up in the seat, his voice grew edgy.
“You’d like to know that, wouldn’t you?” Walter was not a recklessly brave man, but he had courage.
Uritzsky raised the gun. Walter recognized it as a Smith & Wesson, standard issue to the NSW police; he wondered where Uritzsky had acquired it. “I could make you tell me.”
“I don’t think so,” said Walter, looking straight ahead up the winding road. His hands were tight on the wheel, but his driving was steady. “You’re going to kill me, anyway, aren’t you?”
Uritzsky seemed put off by the accusation. The gun wavered; then he sat back in the corner of the seat. They passed through several towns before he said, “Turn left here.”
Walter did as he was told, driving through the neat, quiet streets of Blackheath and down into the scrub. At last he could drive no farther and he pulled up, switching off the engine. They were at the end of a long narrow track, at least three-quarters of a mile from the nearest house. Below them lay the deep forest-covered valley, looking as primitive and virgin as if still undiscovered. He’ll shoot me, then push me over the cliff, Walter thought, and I’ll never be found.
“Get out,” said Uritzsky.
Walter took the briefcase with him as he got out of the Ford. Ur
itzsky slid across the front seat and followed him out. They stood looking at each other and Walter realized that Uritzsky was having to pluck up the courage to kill him. He belonged to the KGB, but he was not one of their killers, not professionally trained and certainly not licensed to kill.
Walter flipped back the locks on his briefcase. “You’ll want to be sure I’ve brought the money. There. Ten thousand pounds.”
He held open the case, put his hand under the notes and drew out the Colt .45. He was not a trained killer, but he was far from a novice in the use of guns. He flicked off the safety catch, brought the gun up and fired it at Uritzsky from close range. The Russian, greed making him momentarily unwary, had leaned forward to check the small fortune in the briefcase. Had he been better paid by the KGB, had he been as accustomed to money as Walter was, he would not have been so excited by a mere ten thousand pounds: he died, in a curious way, because he was still a poor farmer’s son from outside Smolensk. The bullet hit him in the lower part of his face: his smile died in the blast.
He fell down in an undramatic way. Walter stood over him, for a moment feeling absolutely nothing at all. Then he saw what he had done to Uritzsky’s face and was hit suddenly by the larger enormity of what he had done. He turned away and was violently sick.
The sound of the shot had gone cracking across the valley; a faint echo came back from somewhere, or it might have been another gun going off. He leaned against the car, his legs barely holding him up. Then he sat down on the seat behind the wheel, half-in, half-out of the car, the open door shielding the view of the dead Uritzsky, and waited for someone to respond to the sound of the shot and come down from the houses up beyond the scrub. He did not know that all the nearest houses were holiday homes, vacant during the week, and he sat there for twenty minutes, waiting to be found beside the man he had murdered, but nobody came.
At last he stirred, knowing in a dim way that something had been decided but to which he had not yet agreed. He reached into the back of the car and took out the briefcase there; he saw the initials, VS, and recognized it as an old one of Venetia’s. He opened it and saw the bundles of fifty-pound notes. Then he took out the brown manila envelope, shook the three ten by eight inch photos from it. He looked at them, saw the man with his hands up under Venetia’s raised dress, saw the manic look on her face that he had seen so often right beneath his own: she was in orgasm. Then he saw the man’s face: it was almost as if he had tried to avoid looking at him. It was John Leeds.
