by Jon Cleary
“Let’s go somewhere quiet, Camilla. We have a few more questions.”
“Down there.” She nodded towards a far corner of the big room. “T’ai Chi goes on for another half-hour.”
Down this end of the hall there was gymnasium equipment: weights, exercise bikes, three treadmills. Camilla sat down on the cushion of a press-bench and the two detectives sat on a wall-bench facing her. She was lower than they and Gail wondered if it were some sort of ploy. Look, you’re trying to beat me into the ground.
“So why are you here again? I’ve got nothing to add to what I told you last time.”
“I think you might have, Camilla,” said Gail. “One of our detectives has been looking into an insurance policy you took out some months ago on your father—”
Camilla looked around, saw a towel on a nearby bike and reached for it. She wiped her face, though there was no reason to; except that, for a moment, it was a blind to retreat behind. She looked away, like a Method actor in a movie, then back at Gail and Sheryl. “So?”
“Ten million,” said Sheryl. “Enough to get your father out of the trouble he was in. Then, conveniently, he is murdered.”
Camilla’s eyes narrowed, but it was the only sign that she had winced. “You’re pretty brutal, aren’t you?”
“We’ll try not to be,” said Gail, “if you tell us who suggested taking out the policy. Was it you or your father or someone else?”
“My father.”
“Did he discuss it with you?”
Camilla hesitated, then nodded. “Yes.”
The T’ai Chi class behind her was still going through its slow motions. Hands and arms drew abstract patterns in the air; heads turned and profiles were sketched against the light from the windows at the end of the room. Silence prevailed; somewhere an ambulance siren wailed, a cry from another world. Sheryl, an energetic girl, felt out of place.
“There was also a policy taken out on Mr. Sun’s life. Who suggested that? Your father?”
“I don’t know.” She retreated behind the towel again for a moment.
“Were there policies on the lives of Mr. Chung and Mr. Aldwych? Your father’s partners?”
“I don’t know.” She began to fold the towel, like a hotel maid.
“What about Madame Tzu?”
“Why don’t you ask her? Ask Mr. Chung and Mr. Aldwych, too.” Her hands squeezed tightly on the towel. “Look, the insurance policy was my father’s idea—he didn’t discuss it with me till after he’d taken it out.”
“Would he have had any ideas about suicide?” asked Sheryl.
Camilla looked genuinely shocked. “Good God, no! You really have weirdo minds, haven’t you?”
The two women gazed at her, said nothing.
Camilla squeezed the towel again. “No, Dad wouldn’t have thought of suicide—or planned it, like you’re suggesting. He was an optimist, that was how he got into the mess he was in. Everything was always going to come up roses. He was a gambler.”
“Gamblers usually don’t take out insurance policies, do they?” said Gail. “Had your father had any threats? Was he afraid something might happen to him?”
Camilla thought for a moment. “I don’t know. If he had, he would never have told us. But yes, he might have had. He was acting—well, different over the past few months. It’s difficult to explain, unless you knew my father. But he was different. He said something once—never trust a stranger. I asked him what he meant, but he just smiled and walked away.”
“Who were the strangers?”
Camilla shrugged. “Mr. Aldwych. Madame Tzu. Mr. Shan—General Huang.”
“But not Chung and Sun?”
“No. Dad didn’t know Mr. Chung well, but they weren’t strangers to each other. They’d worked together on a couple of charities.”
The class had stopped for a short break. All at once the figures on a frieze became human, lost their grace. Half the heads turned to look at the three women in this far corner; lips moved but the gossip was silent. Camilla looked back over her shoulder at the class, then back at the two detectives.
“They suspect you’re police.”
“How have they been treating you?”
“Sympathetically. Everyone in Chinatown knew Dad. He was very popular.”
“Camilla,” said Gail, “who else knew about the policy on your dad’s life? And the one on Mr. Sun?”
“Darren and Troy knew—I don’t know if they knew about my father’s, but they certainly knew about their father’s. They’re the beneficiaries.”
“And that’s all who knew? No one else?”
Camilla put down the towel, still neatly folded. “My aunt.”
“Madame Tzu?”
In the background the class had begun to reform. Arms were raised, heads held still, the frieze frozen.
“Yes,” said Camilla, standing up. “There’s nothing she doesn’t know.”
II
“There’s been another homicide,” said Clements.
Malone sat back in his chair. It was late afternoon and he was ready to go home. There had been three more murders today: a security guard shot dead outside a suburban bank; a domestic in an outer suburb; a woman’s head found in a hatbox on a riverbank at the foot of the Blue Mountains. He had taken Phil Truach off the Olympic Tower case and sent him to take charge of the hatbox murder; it would have him out in the open air for a few hours and he could smoke to his lungs’ content. Out in the big room half a dozen of his men were finishing the paperwork on four solved murders, getting their notes together for future use in the courts, preparing their ammunition for use against the defence lawyers. Gail Lee and Sheryl Dallen had reported to him on their meeting with Camilla Feng and he had decided to leave her alone for a while on a loose rope; Day Street and Drummoyne were keeping an eye on her and she was their responsibility for the time being. Tomorrow morning, first thing, he would visit Madame Tzu again.
“Where?”
“Kirribilli.”
“That’s not our territory. Let North Sydney take care of it.”
“It’s Jason, the muscleman on the Olympic site. He didn’t report to work this morning and a mate called in at the flat this afternoon and found him dead. A bullet in the head.”
“Bugger!” He sat up, feeling weary: no adrenaline this time. “The body still there?”
“No, it’s gone to the morgue. Crime Scene are still there, though. You wanna go over?”
Malone reached for his phone, rang home: “Tom? Tell Mum I may be a bit late this evening. What are you doing?”
“I’m on the Internet. The market went up again today.” Tom had done two weeks’ work experience in a stockbroker’s office during his last holidays and ever since then had been running the country’s economy. He was going to do Economics at university and already could see himself as a $300,000-a-year market analyst. “You should’ve bought NAB when I told you.”
“I hope you’re married and out of the house before I retire or my superannuation will just evaporate. Why don’t you study to be a postman or a street cleaner? See you tonight.” He hung up, looked at Clements. “He’ll be a millionaire by the time he’s thirty, shouting me first-class trips round the world.”
“You complaining? I hope Amanda grows up to be rich.”
Malone reached for his hat and jacket. “You coming with me?”
“No, I’m going home to my wife and child. I’ve told John to go with you. That’s all you’ve got on the Olympic case now—I’m stretched. John, Gail and Sheryl.”
“I used to be in charge of this place once. What happened?”
Malone and John Kagal drove over the Bridge to Kirribilli. The westering sun flickered on the harbour; a small yacht, red and yellow spinnaker curved like a large apple slice, ran away from the breeze. The peak-hour traffic streamed homewards, drivers locked in their cars with their own secrets.
The streets of the tiny Kirribilli peninsula were lined with a mix of plane trees, jacarandas and Chinese rai
ntrees; Malone remarked the last with a wry grin. The buildings were also a mix, with flats predominating. Those built in the last fifty years were either tall and ugly or, at best, plain and bulky; those surviving from pre-World War Two strove for some appearance of dignity and solidity. There were some private houses, but not many. Down on the point were Admiralty House, the Sydney residence of the Governor-General, and Kirribilli House, that of the Prime Minister. Both lent some tone to the area, though past residents of both houses did not always do the same.
Jason Nidop lived (or had lived) in a block of six flats on the northern slope of the Kirribilli ridge. It was not a luxury block, but it had a view over the narrow waters of Careening Cove, where a fleet of small yachts floated like sleeping gulls. Two police cars were parked in the street outside and a uniformed cop was just removing the Crime Scene tapes that blocked the entrance to the flats.
“Anyone still upstairs?” Malone asked.
The cop nodded. “They’re just about finished, I think.”
Going up the granite stairs to the second floor Kagal said, “I never met this guy. Was he trouble?”
“I don’t know. I thought he was only involved in a union battle.”
“Do unionists go around shooting each other in the head?”
“My old man would shoot you for suggesting such a thing. No, they were more rough-and-ready, guns weren’t their thing.”
“You’re talking about your old man. That’s the past. Maybe things are different today.”
The flat was a two-bedroom unit, comfortably furnished but without any style. On the wall of the small living room were two large framed posters of two heavily muscled, scantily clad supermen: Mr. World and Mr. Universe. The latter looked slightly superior as if he knew his competition was bigger. A low bookcase held paperbacks, magazines and a row of videos. The latest decoration was the outline on the blue carpet where Jason Nidop’s body had lain.
Two members of the Physical Evidence team were putting away their equipment. The young woman officer smiled at Malone and Kagal as they entered the room and Malone said, “G’day, Norma. What’ve you got?”
“Not much. Some prints on the door. Maybe the guy in the bedroom will be able to tell you something.”
Malone and Kagal went into the main bedroom. This room was decorated with another poster, this one of Arnold Schwarzenegger in his more bulbous days. A slim good-looking man, not at all muscular, sat on the bed, head held in his hands. He looked up as the two detectives came in. “Christ, not more cops—”
“I’m afraid so,” said Malone. “You are . . .?”
“Joe Zinner.” He gave his name as if it were a throwaway card.
“You worked with Jason?”
Zinner stood up, walked to the window and looked out; but it was obvious he saw nothing nor was he interested in what lay out there. Then he turned. “We were partners.”
“Partners? In some business?”
Zinner’s smile barely stretched his lips. “No, we-we were friends. Lovers, if you like.”
“How long have you known Jason?” asked Kagal.
“A year. After he left the TV show he was on and came back to Sydney.”
“When did you last see him?”
“Last night.”
“You were both home all night?” said Malone.
“No.” He had turned his back on the window, was against the last light in the northern sky. The bedroom was not dark, but it had deep blue walls that threw off no light.
Malone looked for the light switch, turned it on. In the sudden illumination Zinner looked gaunt and pale, middle-aged, though he could not have been more than in his early thirties.
“So where were you last night?”
“Is it any of your business? Christ, I’ve just lost my—my friend, the guy I loved!”
“We understand that, Mr. Zinner, but we’re trying to find out why anyone would want to kill your friend.”
“You think I did it? Jesus!” He threw his head back, an almost effeminate movement. Yet, Malone thought, there was nothing—sissy about the man. And rebuked himself for the thought.
“Where were you last night?”
“We had a row—a terrific one. One like we’ve never had before.”
“What about?”
“It was personal. Christ, you really do pry, don’t you?” Malone and Kagal said nothing and after some hesitation Zinner said despairingly, “Okay, it was over another guy he’s been seeing. We had the row and I stomped out of here and went home.”
“Home? Where’s that? Your parents’ home? Your own place?”
“Neutral Bay. No, I went home to my wife.” He gestured, a meaningless movement of his hands. “Okay, I’m double-gaited—”
“Fluid,” said Kagal.
Zinner looked at him. “You know the terms?”
“We learn them,” said Kagal, telling him nothing more. Don’t complicate things, Malone told him silently. “You stayed the night with your wife? She’ll verify that?”
“Maybe, maybe not.” He gestured again, but there was meaning to it this time: he was full of despair, his life had fallen apart. “She hadn’t any time for Jason.”
“Any time for you?” said Malone, and hoped he didn’t sound cruel.
“What do you think? We have a little girl—” Suddenly he turned back to the window, buried his face in his hands and began to weep silently.
Malone said, “Take care of him, John,” and went out into the living room. The second PE officer was just coming out of the second bedroom.
“G’day, Sam. Got anything?”
The PE man was in his forties, prematurely grey with a squeezed look to his eyes, as if a lifetime of peering at his trade had marked him. He collected the spin-off from a crime: the bullet in a wall, the dropped knife, the fingerprint, the shoeprint, the hair, the thread. He was the clue-maker and every detective paid his respects.
“G’day, Scobie. The bullet was still in the guy’s head, it didn’t exit. There didn’t appear to have been any struggle, a fight or anything. Evidently he knew who killed him. There was no forced entry, he’d unlocked the door and let in whoever it was. The GMO said he’d been dead about eighteen hours, maybe a bit more. His friend Mr. Zinner came by this afternoon about four and found him. So he was killed around ten o’clock last night, give or take an hour or two.”
“Any bullet casing?”
“No. It’s possible the gun he used didn’t eject any shells or he tidied up after himself. Some killers are born housekeepers.” He grinned.
“What’s that you’ve got?”
Sam Penfold held up the large plastic envelope he was carrying. “This was in a drawer in the bedroom. It’s one I’ve never seen before.”
Malone took the envelope, looked at the gun inside it. “It’s a Chinese army Type 67.”
III
Malone had slept soundly, as he almost always did; but he was still tired. He had got up at six and gone for his usual five-kilometre walk down to and round Randwick racecourse. The horses, doing trackwork, went by him, all muscle and energy, the morning sun etching them in golden line. The trainers and strappers and the bookies’ spies lined the rails in small groups, no excitement showing, just men at work. Malone had no interest in racing but he knew of the contrast between the silence, but for the drumming of hoofs, of morning trackwork and the roar of the crowd on Saturday afternoon. It was the comparative silence that appealed to him, that and the great grandstands as empty of sound as forgotten temples in the jungle. Here he got his mind into gear for the day.
He did his own trackwork, then went back up the hill, climbing into the sun towards home.
When he was leaving for the office Lisa had come out to him as he got into the car. “I’ll ride in with you and catch a cab from Strawberry Hills.”
He sometimes drove her into Town Hall, but this morning he sensed something different in her. He was in the mainstream of city-bound traffic before he said, “What’s on your mind?”
“When you were under the shower there was a phone call. I didn’t tell you at breakfast, I didn’t want to mention it in front of Claire and the others. It was a man. He said to tell you that we should all beware of accidents.”
“We?”
“That’s what he said. We should all beware of accidents. Then he hung up.”
He said nothing for almost half a mile, trapped in the middle lane of traffic. He could not stop and turn round, though that was what he wanted to do. Cars hemmed him in on both sides; at one point there was a car on either side of him, both with four men inside, all laughing like a primed TV audience. One man turned to look at him, still laughing, and Malone was almost tempted to wind down the window and hurl abuse at him.
Another half-mile and his patience ran out. He put the blue light on the roof of the Fairlane, turned on the siren, flicked his indicator and squeezed his way through a gap on the inside lane and up on to the footpath. He drove along the pavement and swung round a corner into a side street and bumped back onto the roadway. It was the sort of caper he sneered at in TV cop shows. He pulled up, turned off the siren and pulled the blue light in off the roof.
“Spectacular,” said Lisa drily.
He was in no mood for dry wit; he was dry with fear for her and the family. “What did he sound like?”
“What do you mean, what did he sound like? It was a man, that was all.”
“Australian? Chinese?”
“I don’t know whether he was Chinese, but I don’t think he was Australian. He was—precise. Careful with his words. He could have been Chinese, but I wouldn’t swear to it.”
He said, careful with his own words, “I may have to move you and the kids to a safe house, get you protection.”
“No.” She was adamant; he could see her stiffening. “If we have to be protected, we stay in our own house. No,” she repeated, “no, I’m not even going to allow that. I’ll be careful, I’ll keep an eye out, but I’m coming to work each day.”
“What about the kids? They don’t break up till next week. We’re going to let them run around loose? To let God knows what happen to them?”
