Five-Ring Circus

by Jon Cleary

  She stared ahead of her. Suddenly the colour seemed to drain out of her face; her mouth thinned as she bit her lips, she looked older. This side street was lined with small factories and warehouses; cars and trucks went by, but there was little pedestrian traffic. She saw none of it; he had demolished her argument when he mentioned the children. At last she said, still not turning her head, “All right, you win. Where do we go?”

  “I’ll have Russ round up the kids.” Claire was at Sydney University, Maureen at New South Wales and Tom at Marcellin College in Randwick. “He can take you with him while he picks them up. I’ll ring Greg Random and get permission to move you into a safe house they keep under the Witness Protection scheme.”

  “Where is it?”

  “Camden, I think.”

  “Camden!” It was a semi-rural town that had been almost absorbed by the spreading outer suburbs of Sydney. “Why not Tibooburra?”

  Tibooburra was a family and Service joke: the most remote posting in the State, up in the far north-west where the only crims were old men kangaroos that went in for wife-bashing. “I can arrange that for you, if you like.”

  “Stop joking.”

  He reached for her hand. “Darl, I can’t help it—I wish to Christ I could. I hate these bastards who try to bring my family into it . . .” A truck went by, back-fired; her hand jumped under his. “I like my job. But I love you and the kids. If anything happened—anything . . .”

  His hand tightened on hers; she almost cried out. She freed her hand, touched his cheek. “We’ll go to Camden. But the house had better be clean . . .”

  He drove on in to Strawberry Hills, took Lisa upstairs and explained the situation to Clements. “Collect the kids, Russ, then take Lisa and them home so’s they can pack. Then bring them back here. I’ll take them out to Camden.”

  Clements was a mixture of anger and concern. “This is getting outa hand. I think we oughta bring in everyone on our list—”

  “Russ—” Malone was surprised by his own patience—“we don’t know that whoever is making these threats is on our list.” He kissed Lisa. “I’ll see you back here in about an hour. Tell Claire she doesn’t need to take her entire wardrobe.”

  “Stop joking,” she said for the second time, but kissed him in return. She wasn’t angry at him: she knew the jokes were no more than camouflage for the anger and fear for them that he felt.

  The detectives in the big room all stood awkwardly as Clements took Lisa out through the security door. They nodded or said just a word or two. All of them, with the exception of the two women detectives, had been the target of threats. But never their families.

  Malone went back into his office, rang Greg Random and explained what had happened.

  There was silence at the other end of the line; then: “I could take you off the case.”

  The offer was tempting; but habit was too ingrained: “No, Greg. I’m going to get this bastard, whoever he is.”

  “There might be more than one.”

  “No, I’m staying on the job. Just get the permission for Lisa and the kids to move into the safe house.”

  Random made no attempt to hide the reluctance in his voice; he valued his men, Malone above all of them. “Okay. But you take care. Don’t go playing bloody heroes.”

  Malone hung up, looked up as John Kagal came into his office. “Yes?”

  “I went over to the morgue early this morning, got them to put Jason Nidop first on their autopsy list. They took the bullet out of his head and I had Ballistics come and collect it.”

  Malone was impressed, but did his best not to sound too enthusiastic; Kagal would one day be Commissioner, but he should not be encouraged too much at this stage. “Where do you get all this influence?”

  “It’s charm, not influence,” said Kagal, but his smile took the conceit out of it. “Clarrie Binyan rang five minutes ago. The bullet in Mr. Nidop’s head came from the same gun that killed Mr. Zhang out at Bondi, not the one in the drawer in Nidop’s flat.”

  Malone pondered this for a moment, then said, “Go on, you haven’t finished yet.”

  “No, I haven’t. That Chinese army gun, the Type 67, had been wiped clean, there wasn’t a single dab on it that PE could find. Why would a hitman wipe his fingerprints off his gun before he put it away in a drawer? Unless he always wore gloves when using it. Was he wearing gloves when you saw him in the Golden Gate last Friday night?”

  Malone shut his eyes, tried rescreening the memory of the murders. Last Friday night: an age ago. Then he opened his eyes and shook his head. “I’m not sure. What I am sure is that Jason was not the feller in the stocking mask. He’d be—what?—six three, six four?”

  “A hundred and ninety-two centimetres, the autopsy report said. Close enough to six-four or a bit more. A hundred and five kilos, according to the report. A big bugger.”

  “No,” said Malone, closed his eyes for a long moment, then opened them. He was definite this time: “The killer was slim, might’ve been six feet but I don’t think so. Jason wasn’t the hitman.”

  “So the hitman plants the gun on him? Or was Jason minding it for him?”

  “I don’t know. If he planted the gun, hoping we’d tag Jason as the hitman, he wasn’t very bright. But it wouldn’t be the first less-than-bright thing done in this case. Planting that fifty-one million in those bank accounts wasn’t very bright, either.”

  Kagal nodded. “Something fishy is going on here. Neither the bank nor Canberra have put out a statement. If the media are on to it, they’ve been told to keep quiet.”

  “How do you keep the media quiet?” Like all cops he used the media whenever it was necessary, but, like all cops, he was suspicious of them. They were a necessary evil.

  “By denial, I guess. Someone will run a story on it and the government will say it’s just a furphy. All Kate can find out—and Fraud aren’t in on it any more—is that once the story got to Canberra, it was buried.”

  “Maybe I’d better see Mr. Deng, their consul-general, again.”

  “I tried to get him, but he’s down in Canberra again at their embassy.”

  Why didn’t I guess you’d have already covered that point? Why don’t I just retire and let you take over this chair right now? “Keep me posted when he’s back in town . . . What did you find out about this bloke Jason was supposed to be seeing? The one he and Mr. Zinner had the blue about?”

  Kagal looked at his notes; he had the case covered from every angle. “His name’s Harvey Smythe—S-M-Y-T-H-E. He’s an actor, a young guy—he’s a heart-throb in one of the soap operas. Friday he was up on the Gold Coast, he’s got a part in a feature film. He was there Friday night. I rang the production company and he was in a night-shoot they were doing. He’s in the clear.”

  “Follow him up, he may know something. Is there a station at Surfers Paradise? What a posting! I suppose they wear bikinis and Ray-Bans. Ask them to question Mr. Smythe, see if he can tell them anything about Jason.” He looked at his watch. “I’m going down to the Olympic Tower site. Come with me. Gail can get on to Surfers.”

  He wasn’t sure why he had suddenly decided to take Kagal with him. Perhaps he needed reassurance. The younger man seemed to have the touch of someone who believed that there was nothing that could not be resolved.

  Out in the main room he told Gail Lee to get on to Surfers Paradise, then he said, “If Russ gets back here with my family before I do, tell ‘em I won’t be long. What’s the latest on Miss Feng?”

  “Day Street and Drummoyne are still keeping an eye on her. Madame Tzu had dinner with the Feng family last night.”

  “She doesn’t hide herself, that lady.”

  “The Empress Tzu was never shy.”

  Malone looked at Kagal. “I’m just waiting for the local feminists to find out about these Chinese empresses. We’re done for, mate . . . Gail, has anything come through on the Hong Kong bank that sent out those dollars?”

  “We tried getting the Hong Kong police to he
lp, but nothing’s happening. It’s not like the old days, when the British were there—they’re suspicious of us. Then we asked our consulate there what they could do. Nothing’s happened.”

  “Did China ever build a Great Wall of Silence?”

  Gail smiled. “I’ll ask my dad.”

  Kagal drove the unmarked car down to the Olympic Tower site, driving with all the skill and arrogant confidence of a professional. Is there anything this bloke doesn’t do well? Malone asked himself. Sooner or later he would have to recommend three stripes for Kagal, but at the moment there was no place for another sergeant in the establishment.

  The first person they saw when they pulled on to the site was Guo Yi. He came down the side of the structure in a work-lift, opened the gate, stepped out and pulled up dead as he saw them. The two detectives got out of the car and crossed to him.

  “You shouldn’t be on the site without helmets,” he said.

  “Get us a couple, John,” said Malone, and Kagal went across to the shed by the gate. “You decided to come back to work, Mr. Guo? Who recommended it?”

  “You did.” He was in slacks, white shirt and tie: a black tie.

  Malone nodded at it. “You’re wearing that out of respect for the dead?”

  “They were all older men. We respect age.”

  “You don’t respect me.” Guo just shrugged: take it or leave it. Malone went on, “Mr. Zhang wasn’t old, but he’s dead. So’s Jason Nidop.”

  Guo frowned as if the name meant nothing to him.

  “The Allied Trades delegate here. A bullet in the head, night before last. You hadn’t heard about it?”

  “Oh, of course.” The recovery was quick. “I just didn’t know his name. I never had any dealings with him.”

  “But you have dealings with Roley Bremner? Thanks, John.” Kagal came back with two helmets. “You know his name?”

  “Yes. A very aggressive little man.”

  “A good many of our union men are.” Remembering Con Malone, who would have knocked down this uppity young Chinese without speaking to him. Oh Dad, you retired just in time. “It’s one reason why our workers are better off than they are in China. You find it difficult working with our unions?”

  “Yes.”

  “Enough to threaten one of the union men?”

  “I told you, I had no dealings with Mr. Nidop.”

  “You remembered his name?” Malone waited, but Guo Yi did not bite. “Just for the record, Mr. Guo, where were you the night before last?”

  Guo took his time. “I was with Li Ping, at her flat in Cronulla.”

  “Oh, you’re back there? Glad to hear it. And Mr. Tong?”

  “He’s back at his Bondi flat.”

  “So the three of you are feeling safe again?”

  Guo adjusted his helmet, as if it had slipped. “We think so.”

  “Even after we’ve told you about Mr. Nidop’s murder? He was killed by the same gun that killed Miss Li’s brother, Zhang.”

  Guo took off his helmet, fiddled with the lining and put it back on. “That’s upsetting. You’re sure?”

  “Oh, very sure. We have one of the best Ballistics units of any police service in the world. The Hong Kong police used to call on them for advice.”

  “Not any more.”

  “No, I guess not. I suppose they’re no longer interested in the finer points of forensics. Well, thanks, Mr. Guo. Take care.”

  As he and Kagal turned away the work-lift came sliding down, the gate was slammed open and Roley Bremner stepped out. Guo Yi looked at him, then turned his back and walked away. Roley gave his back the middle finger salute.

  “Uppity bugger . . . Well, what can I do for you? As if I didn’t know.”

  “It’s just routine, Roley. Would anyone you know have gone looking for Jason Nidop?”

  “Like putting a bullet in him? Nah, no way.” Bremner held his helmet while he shook his head. “We were losing members to him and his mob, but it wasn’t that serious we hadda get rid of him that way.”

  “Had you or anyone from your union threatened him?” Kagal asked.

  “You kidding? We didn’t go around throwing him kisses. Yeah, I suppose some of us did tell him to lay off or else.”

  “Or else what?”

  Bremner grinned. “Your guess is as good as mine. But not else a bullet. Nah, look, you’re wasting your time trying to lay it on us. I gotta be honest, I’m glad to see him go, but I wouldn’t of done it that way. Neither would anyone from the union.”

  “What about the two fellers down there, the foundation members?” Malone pointed at the ground.

  “Before my time, mate. Look somewhere else, Scobie.”

  “Where, for instance?”

  Bremmer shook his head again; this time he took off his helmet. “What’s that about the monkeys? Hear no evil, speak no evil, see no evil. Or whatever it is.”

  Malone looked at Kagal. “Another philosopher.”

  “Confuckingfucious,” said Bremner, and walked off. “Give my regards to your old man.”

  Malone looked after him, then switched his gaze to Guo Yi, who had just come out of the administration hut. He paused by three men sitting on saw-horses having a smoke. He said something, then raised his hand and pointed a finger at them. Malone shut his eyes, then opened them again. Guo left the men and walked across to the work-lift. He got in, closed the gate and pressed the start button. The lift rose, crawling up past the floors that had already been clad by the outer walls, up until it was rising past the skeleton of the upper floors. Guo Yi looked down on the two detectives till the lift reached a height, still travelling, where the floor of it obscured him.

  “He’s the one,” said Malone.

  “The one what?” said Kagal.

  “The hitman. He did the Golden Gate job.”

  “And Jason and Mr. Zhang?”

  “Probably.”

  “So do we go up there and tell him what you think?”

  Malone began to walk back towards their car. “What hard evidence have we got? We take him in and hold him and he just sits there, says bugger-all, and at the end of it what’ve we got to pass on to the DPP? They’d tell us we haven’t got a leg to stand on when it comes to prosecution.” He got into the car, slammed the door with more force than was necessary. “But we’ll get him. If he’s the bugger who threatened Lisa this morning, I’ll get him!”

  Kagal paused before getting into the car, stood back and looked up. High on an upper floor, there on a girder, someone in helmet and white shirt stood looking down at them.

  “Jump, you bastard,” said Kagal.

  IV

  Malone drove Lisa and the children out to Camden in the family Fairlane. The small town lies in the middle of what was the beginning of the nation’s wealth, the wool trade. Now the city is reaching out to engulf it; soon it will be just another suburb and wool will only be something that politicians and used-car salesmen pull over people’s eyes. It is a pleasant town, clustered around a central hill, and the safe house was halfway up the hill, on the street leading to the town graveyard.

  “Very appropriate,” said Lisa.

  “We’ll never forgive you for this,” said Maureen. “How long are we going to be stuck out here?”

  “Don’t let the locals hear you talking like that,” said Malone.

  “Well, how long?” asked Tom. “Geez, we’re just about to start our holidays. It’d better be all over by Christmas. I start my work experience again the Monday after New Year’s Day—”

  “We’ll have it all wrapped up by then. Come on, let’s see what the house is like.”

  “Who’s here with us?”

  “A policewoman disguised as a cook-housekeeper.”

  “Can she cook?” asked Lisa.

  “I don’t know. If she can’t, you can teach her.”

  “Does she carry a gun?” said Tom.

  “In the pocket of her pinny. For God’s sake, I’ve never met the woman—” Then he calmed himself as they
reached the front door of the old stone house. He noticed its windows were barred and there was a security door; just your normal abode in a sleepy country town. “Look, I’ll get you out of here as soon as it’s safe. I don’t like this any more than you do—”

  “It’s okay, Dad,” said Claire, and kissed his cheek. “Relax. We’ll do the same. Are we allowed visitors?”

  “No.”

  “Shit!” said Maureen, then looked at her mother. “Sorry. I hope we’re not going to spend Christmas here, that’ll be jolly. The Commissioner playing Daddy Christmas.”

  The front door opened. Constable Barbara Sherrard, in a pale blue sundress, no pinafore and no gun, stood there. She was tall and pleasant-looking; Malone immediately felt confidence in her. “Constable Sherrard? My family.”

  “Let’s get off on the right foot,” said Lisa, putting out her hand. “Lisa, Claire, Maureen and Tom. And I’m sure none of us is going to call you Constable.”

  “Come in.” She appeared genuinely pleased to see them; keeping a safe house was evidently not a chore for her. She had a smile that seemed to take up the whole of her wide face. “I’m just preparing dinner.”

  “You like to cook?” said Lisa.

  “Love it! I did a Cordon Bleu course once when I was running a safe house up in the Blue Mountains. I was minding a French canary—” She looked at Malone.

  “I remember him. Sang like an aviary of canaries. He put away half a dozen heroin smugglers.”

  “What are you cooking?” asking Lisa, keeping her priorities.

  “I thought coquillettes en pâté sauce Janik might be a good introduction?”

  “Go home, Dad,” said Claire. “You won’t be needed.”

  V

  Malone, however, stayed for dinner. Barbara Sherrard was unashamedly showing off; she confessed it. The coquillettes whatever was, to his taste, perfect; the crème brûlée that followed was as good as Lisa’s. The safe house even ran to bottles of Hunter reds and whites.

  “Is it always like this?” Lisa asked.

  “I try to make it so,” said Barbara; then looked at Malone. “Don’t worry, sir. I’ve been ten years with the Service. I’ve been in three siege situations.”

  “Inside looking out or outside looking in?” said Claire.