by Jon Cleary
“Was she a political refugee?”
Her jaw loosened, but she did not smile. “Good God, no! She was only ten years old when she came out here with my grandparents. I suppose you could say they were political refugees, but they weren’t called that in those days. My grandfather was a major in the Kuomintang. When Chiang Kai-shek fled to Formosa, my grandfather chose to come out here.”
“What did your grandfather do?”
“Here? He became an importer, silks, that sort of thing. My grandmother’s father had been a silk merchant in Shanghai.”
“Did your grandfather keep up his contacts with the Kuomintang?”
“I wouldn’t know, Inspector. What happened in China in the thirties and forties was never discussed, not in my presence.”
Malone glanced at Gail, hoping for some comment; he was lost in any map of China. But Gail was looking up towards the terrace above them and Malone followed her gaze. A woman stood there staring down at them, her face half-hidden by dark glasses.
“Is that your mother?” said Malone.
“No,” said Camilla Feng. “It’s my mother’s cousin, Tzu Chao.”
“Madame Tzu?”
Even the dark glasses could not hide Camilla Feng’s surprise. “You know her?”
“We hope to. Ask her to come down.”
IV
“What d’you reckon?” said Malone.
“Madame Tzu? She’s every other inch a charmer,” said Gail Lee. “It’s the in-between bits I wouldn’t trust.”
They were driving back to Homicide through a bright gold day; summer was promising to be hot and long. The beaches would be thronged this weekend; it would be murder trying to get a parking space at Bondi or Coogee or Maroubra. In his youth, when he had had no money, Malone had spent a lot of time at the beach: there was no cheaper exercise and relaxation. But now, with the pool in the back garden at the home at Randwick, with the constant search for a parking space, he never went near the surf. But he would go down to Coogee this afternoon, to the oval, and watch Tom play cricket and maybe close his eyes and see himself in those summers of long ago when, a year or two older than Tom was now, he had been what the cricket writers had called promising. The time when, as a cadet constable, he had just been entering the playing fields of murder.
“I wonder if Tzu is her real name,” said Gail, not turning her head but keeping her eyes on the road. She drove with calm precision, a little faster than Malone, a nervous passenger, liked, but always with room to spare between her and the other traffic. “She has the name of two empresses, two of the worst China ever had. One named Wu Chao, who lived in the seventh century—Christian century, that is—” For a moment she took her eyes off the road as she smiled at him. “Only yesterday, in Chinese history.”
“Are you Confucian or Buddhist or what?” He had no idea of what religion had prevailed in China before Communism.
“I’m Christian, actually. Roman Catholic, like you.”
“Not like me. I’m Irish Catholic. We’re a breed apart. Was this Empress Wu Chao a Christian?”
“I hardly think so. She was one of the most murderous bitches of all time—she would have made Lucrezia Borgia look like Mother Theresa.”
“The other one?”
“The Last Empress, Tz’u-Hsi. She put her nephew on the throne, then had fifty-three of his servants executed when he tried to assert himself. She had his favourite concubine wrapped in a rug and thrown down a well and then for good measure she poisoned her sister. Both those ladies made a pastime of murder, like needlework, and I’m sure Madame Tzu is the sort who would know every detail of their history. I’ll find out if there’s a Mr. Tzu.”
“If it’s not her real name, why would she adopt it?”
“The Chinese revere the past, even the bitches and sons-of-bitches. They’re not so different from Westerners. The state religion of England was founded by a king who cut off the head of one of his wives to get rid of her.”
“Like I told you, I’m an Irish Catholic,” said Malone piously.
While Camilla Feng had been collecting Madame Tzu, Malone and Gail had admired the tranquil view. A rowing eight, on a practice run, came under the towering leap of the bridge; the shell’s wake was as delicate as a Chinese fan. A small yacht, under power, chugged out of the bay beneath the Feng house; a laugh floated up, light and careless. On the terrace above, from which Madame Tzu had now disappeared, there came a soft wail, ululating till it died away in a sob.
Then Camilla Feng and Madame Tzu came out onto the lower terrace. Madame Tzu was as tall as the girl, carried herself like a woman whose back had never been bent under any burden. Her black hair was cut in soft waves, a grey streak like a feather angling away from the centre parting. She was wearing dark glasses, so that her eyes were not visible, but the features round the glasses were regular and well cared for. It was Gail who recognized how expensively the older woman was dressed: the Chanel summer suit, the silk blouse, the Ferragamo shoes. But even Malone, who would have had trouble distinguishing a Karl Lagerfeld label from a K-Mart tab, remarked that Madame Tzu looked like a woman who, even if she had been a peasant, would have had her field pyjamas custom-made. He guessed she was the face of the New China, the face that the Old Guard in Beijing hated and feared.
“Do you speak English, Madame Tzu?”
“Reasonably well.” She had a soft but clipped voice, “I spent four years at Oxford. I may be a little pedantic at times, but that’s Oxford for you.”
“Our questions are a little pedantic at times, but that’s Homicide for you.” He hadn’t meant to joke, but if she was put out by his remark it did not show. “You understand why we’re here?”
“My niece has explained.”
“Your niece?”
“Well, second cousin or whatever the relationship is—does one ever work these things out? Does it matter? I always think of her as my niece.” She gave Camilla a smile like a bequest. “Almost as my daughter.”
If Camilla was pleased or honoured by the adoption, she gave no sign. As he often had, Malone damned dark glasses. They might guard against cataracts or glaucoma, but they put a screen over communication.
“So you’ve known each other for some time?”
Madame Tzu took off her glasses, blinked in the bright sunlight, and put them back on. Malone recognized the ploy; she had stumbled and wanted to get back in step. Suddenly she smiled, was all expensive caps, friendliness and good humour. “I tend to exaggerate. That was something else I learned at Oxford. Some of the dons there were professional eccentrics.”
She’s dodged the question, thought Malone; but let it go. “Had you known Mr. Shan long?”
“Oh yes, we were students together.”
“How well have you known him since, say over the last few years? Would you know if he had any enemies?”
“We all have enemies, haven’t we? Even the police.”
“Very true. We just try not to cold-bloodedly murder them.” That was untrue: there had been several cases of cold-blooded killings by cops. But he reckoned on Madame Tzu’s not being too well versed in the history of the New South Wales Police Service.
She was silent a moment; behind the dark glasses she was studying him. “I could quote some saying by Confucius about enemies, but he was a misogynist and I prefer to ignore him.”
“I’m glad of that. I sometimes have trouble separating Confucius from Charlie Chan, they’re such wiseacres.”
“Charlie Chan?” All three women looked at him.
“Forget it.” None of them, obviously, was a fan of late-night movies. “Do you have any enemies?”
“Possibly. Probably. Yes, Mr. Shan had enemies. Our generation grew up in that sort of climate.” She shrugged, as if the past was too familiar; then she looked at Camilla. “But I don’t think your father had any enemies, did he? He was a dear man.”
“If he had any,” said Camilla, “he never spoke of them.”
“Did you know Mr. Sun?”
/>
“No,” said Madame Tzu. “I met him once, that was all.”
“What about Zhang Yong?”
“Who?” She looked genuinely puzzled.
Malone put the dead student on the back burner for the moment; he went on: “Did you work with Mr. Shan?”
“We were together for a while in the Central China Department of Trade—before I left.”
“To do what?”
“I’m an economic consultant. A new breed in China.” Again the smile.
“Is that what you did at Oxford—Economics?”
“Oh no. History. I went on to Harvard to do Economics.”
“You’ve been very fortunate,” said Gail. “All that foreign study. Was it condoned—I mean, say twenty years ago?”
The smile this time almost ate Gail. “You’re guessing at my age.” But she didn’t give it. “There were some people in power then who didn’t have closed minds about what the West could teach us. As you say, I was fortunate.”
“Are you a consultant to the Bund Corporation?” asked Malone. “Or a partner?”
There was a barely discernible hesitation. “I’m registered as a partner.”
“Here and in Shanghai?” said Gail, who had done her homework. “The corporation is registered here in Sydney and in Hong Kong. What about Shanghai?”
Again there was the slightest hesitation. “No, it is not registered there.”
“So,” said Gail, “it is a private company?”
“Yes,” said Madame Tzu, and she was now beginning to look less at ease. “Overseas investment is being encouraged. A quid pro quo for the foreign investment in China.”
“Seventy or eighty million dollars,” said Malone. “Quite a quid pro quo.”
“I think it incredible,” she said, finding the smile again, “but such sums are common currency these days. But would you excuse us now? Camilla and I should get back to her mother. She is absolutely devastated by what has happened.”
“You’ll be staying in Sydney?” said Malone. “At the Vanderbilt?”
An eyebrow went up above the dark glasses, but she made no comment on the fact that they already had a trace on her. All she said was, “You must come and have tea with me.”
“We’d like that,” said Malone, and matched his smile with hers, though it hurt. “Perhaps we can talk history. Corporation history.”
He and Gail followed the two women into the house and up to the street floor. As they went out into the street Les Chung followed them. “Thanks for being discreet, Inspector. You caused no comment in there.”
“We try not to, Les. Your friend Madame Tzu is a charmer.”
“You think so?”
“There’s another side to her?”
“There always is, isn’t there?”
“You mean, to women?” said Gail.
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that. I just don’t believe that, with anyone, what you see is what you get. You police would know that better than I.”
He left them, walked along the street and stopped by a large green car. “A Bentley Turbo,” said Gail. “Half a million dollars’ worth.”
“You envious?”
She shook her head. “No. With money like that—as Madame Tzu said, everyone has enemies.”
Then they had driven back to Strawberry Hills and now as they drew into the yard where Homicide and the other police units parked their cars, Gail said, “Do we follow up Madame?”
“We do, but let her sweat for a while. Although—” he grinned—“I don’t think Madame Tzu would ever sweat. Just see she doesn’t try leaving the country before we talk to her again—get on to Immigration. Also, keep digging into the Bund Corporation. There’s nothing much we can do over the weekend—let Day Street and Bondi do the legwork, they’ll call us if something breaks. First thing Monday look into Zhang Yong, find out who and what he was.”
“First thing.” She got out of the car, then looked at him across the roof. “This is my biggest case so far. Thanks.”
“You’re very necessary on this one, Gail. We may need you to get behind all the inscrutability we’re going to come up against.” She looked disappointed and he hurried on, “That’s only part of it. You do your homework and that’s what counts in my book.”
He knew he would never have to sack her as he had Harold Boston.
V
That afternoon, forgoing his usual tennis, Malone went down to Coogee oval to watch Tom play for Randwick seconds. At the tea interval father and son sat with their sandwiches and cups of tea on a seat by the picket fence. Anyone passing by would have recognized them for father and son: the same build, the same way their dark hair grew in a widow’s peak, the boy better-looking than his father but with similar features. What was still undefined was whether the boy would have his father’s pragmatism in an emergency.
“You’re pitching the ball too short,” said Malone. “If you were a yard or two quicker, it would be okay. But you’re giving them time to get on the back foot and play you.”
“I can bowl faster.”
“No, there’s time for that later on.” He didn’t want Tom plagued in later life by back and hip trouble, brought on by too much fast bowling too young.
“How quick were you?” Tom never seemed to resent his father’s advice.
“It’s hard to tell, yourself. But they reckoned I was as fast as Dennis Lillee.”
“Why didn’t you play for Australia?”
“I never had the killer instinct. Have you got it? D’you hate batsmen?”
Tom sipped his tea, thought a moment, then grinned. “Not really. I hate the guys who hit me around the paddock, but no, I guess I’m not a killer.”
Malone changed the subject, abruptly; the worry had been with him all day: “Did that killer upset you last night?”
Tom took his time swallowing a mouthful of sandwich; then he nodded, “It was so bloody cold- blooded.”
“Fifty per cent of the time, murder is.”
Tom looked sideways at him. “Dad, are you worried that Claire and Maureen and me saw what happened?”
“Of course. Any father would be. It doesn’t make it any better that I’m a cop.”
“We were worried, too.” Tom looked out at the empty oval now. “When you ran after that guy. I had to hold Mum back from going after you.”
“I’m glad you did.”
Then the players were filing back onto the field: men dressed all in white, no fancy colour costumes, no logos spattering them like birdshit: it was the sort of cricket in which he had grown up but which was fast disappearing.
Tom stood up. “I guess we all worry for each other, right?”
Malone nodded, words stuck in his throat.
The rest of the afternoon was a father’s delight; the son took five wickets. Malone sat there and saw himself in every pace that Tom took, every ball he bowled. Memory mixed with pride and turned the afternoon golden.
Murder was an aberration on another planet.
3
I
BUT IT wasn’t, of course; it was right here in Harbour City. The playwright Williamson had called it Emerald City; but Malone had never seen it as anything but a cracked and flawed jewel. Violence was on the rise, racial tension was increasing, the gap between poor and rich was growing. The cracks in the jewel were widening.
Sunday there had been two more homicides, both domestics: men and women who had snapped in the condition of living together. Monday morning Malone did paperwork at his desk, then went out into the main room for the ten o’clock conference.
He glanced towards the wall where Sheryl Dallen’s flow chart had been mounted, a neat collage of murder. Then he sat on a desk and looked around. “Well?”
Boston was in the circle of chairs this morning. “I was at Union Hall eight o’clock this morning, got in early before they got too busy to talk to me.”
“They tell you anything?”
“There’s been trouble on the Olympic Tower site. Nothing, I gather, to
do with the bosses. It’s inter-union stuff, the Construction mob against Allied Trades, the usual argument about whose turf it is. There was the building slump a coupla years ago, now they’re fighting about who’s gunna get the jobs.”
“It’s not dirty enough, is it,” asked Clements, “for them to start hiring hitmen?”
“I suggested it to Albie Krips, the assistant sec. down at Union Hall, and you’d of thought I’d suggested his mother had done it. They’re so pious, these days, they’ve never heard of what used to go on.”
“We’ll look into it,” said Malone, and in the moment before he shifted his gaze saw the resentment in Boston’s face; the latter had thought he was on his way to rehabilitation. “John?”
“I’ll tread water a while,” said Kagal. “Kate is coming over from Fraud. She has some information I think you’d like to hear. I’ll let her tell you.”
Kate Arletti had left Homicide a year ago to work for Fraud, which was on the same floor but in another wing. She and Kagal had been both police partners and lovers till, during the hunt for a gay serial killer, he had confessed to her that he was bisexual. She had instantly asked for a transfer from Homicide and Malone had reluctantly but wisely let her go, recommending her for a vacant post in Fraud, where she had done well. Over the past year, however, she and Kagal had patched up their differences and were now living together in Kagal’s flat, an arrangement that had Kate’s mother, an ardent Catholic, on her knees morning and night. Malone said his own prayers for Kate, not for the present but for the future.
“Righto, we’ll wait for her. What’s happening at Day Street and out at Bondi?”
“No progress,” said Phil Truach.
“The post-mortems?”
“I’ve just talked to Romy,” said Clements, and managed not to make it sound like a husband-to-wife chat. “They did the PMs on all four Chinese this morning. Ballistics picked up the bullets half an hour ago. If they get their finger out, we should have their report pretty soon. I rang Clarrie Binyan and asked him to make it a priority.”
