Yesterday's Shadow

by Jon Cleary

  A dry biscuit crackled in his mouth like static. “Was it interesting?”

  “Yes. Yes, it was. She's still in love with you.”

  “No.” He shook his head adamantly. “No, she's not. She thinks I'm a bastard.”

  “Women can still love bastards. I can quote you a long list, from history right up to today. But all right, she's not in love with you. But she hates me because you love me.”

  “Darl—” The brie was turning sour in his mouth; he gulped down a mouthful of wine. “Why didn't you tell her to go to hell?”

  “I don't know. I did, eventually. But at first I was curious—”

  “At what I saw in her?”

  “I suppose so. What did you see in her?” She felt the need for a little masochism. Who was it said, Jealousy is inborn in women's hearts? She would have to look it up. Was it Euripides or St. Paul? Some misogynist, for sure.

  Scobie reacted like a man: “Oh, come on! That was twenty-five years ago. I was another—person. Simpler, if you like. She was a good-looker, she was good company, she—” He paused a moment; then: “Are you going to ask me was she good in bed?”

  “No. And don't tell me. There were plenty of others—”

  He looked at her in surprise. “Cut it out!”

  “Sorry. I didn't mean that—” She reached for his hand. The jealousy drained out of her like a blood-letting. “Darling, she's dangerous—”

  “For you and me? No—”

  “No. I don't know what it is, but I saw it in her today. Her life's been a shambles . . . I had to get up and leave her. I paid the bill and walked out. Outside the restaurant, I had to pass her—she looked at me through that window you and I stare out of—it was as if she had already forgotten me. But she hasn't forgotten you—”

  “She will.” But he didn't sound convinced or convincing. “I'll be off the case—”

  “Stay away from her. And I'm not saying that because I'm jealous—”

  “Are you?”

  She considered; then: “Yes. But I can live with it—”

  He turned her hand over in his. “It's over, darl. It was twenty-five years ago. I don't feel the least spark of interest in her—no, that's not true. I do. I feel sorry for her. But that's all.”

  “Watch her. She could make trouble.”

  Then the phone rang out in the hallway. He got up, wondering why he felt relieved at the interruption. It was Andy Graham: “Sorry to call you at home, boss, but Gail said not to call you at the airport—”

  “No, Andy. I had enough on my plate out there. What are you going to pile on it now?” He felt utterly depressed. What sort of night was the man in charge out at Tibooburra having? Was he sorting out a fight between two kangaroos? Locking up a drunken emu? I'm getting light-headed, he thought.

  “A bit of good news, I hope.” But then Andy Graham was always hopeful of good news; he would look to the UN hurrying to peace-keep Armageddon. “I've traced another of those guys who worked at that firm of stockbrokers. A guy named Bruce Farro. F-A-R-R-O. He's into software or something now.”

  Malone's mood lightened; someone who can help with our enquiries was one of the better type of aspirin. “Why do I think that name is familiar?”

  “I dunno. I don't think he'd run around in your—what's the word?—milieu.”

  “What milieu does he run around in?”

  “The social pages. My girlfriend has pointed him out to me a coupla times. As if I'm interested.”

  Malone remembered the name now. “My daughter Maureen's mentioned him. When she was at uni she did a thesis on social celebrities for her Communications course. She counts the mileage of teeth in the Sunday papers.”

  He remembered Farro now, though not well enough to have picked him out in a crowd picture. Maureen had said he was double-gaited, fluid, in his sexual choices. One week he would be seen arm-in-arm with a shaven-headed male whose skull looked like a transplant of five o'clock-shadow. Next week he would have his arm round a woman with more hair than a burst chesterfield.

  Malone hoped there was more to Mr. Farro than social celebrity.

  But Malone was still bone-weary. “Andy, does he know you're on to him? Is he likely to shoot through tonight?”

  “He knows nothing about our enquiries. He's safe, boss.”

  “Righto, I'll see you in the morning, then. Where does he live? We'll drop in and have Weet-Bix and toast with him. Maybe some Vegemite.” He was getting lightheaded again.

  “In Elizabeth Bay. He has an apartment in—” He gave an address. “On the water.”

  “So he's not short of cash?”

  “I'd say not.”

  “I'll see you there at nine. Dress casual, Andy—we don't want to frighten him.”

  “See you, boss. Have a good night's sleep.”

  The phone went dead and Malone could imagine Andy Graham galloping off into the night, bumping into people and things, apologizing, still full and always would be of boundless energy and enthusiasm.

  “Good news?” said Lisa.

  Malone turned, put his arm round her as she came into the hallway. “It could be. Or maybe not. I'm not sure how much I want to learn about Mrs. Pavane.”

  “Let's go to bed.”

  “You can take advantage of me. I'll be asleep.”

  She jabbed him with her elbow, a lover's punch.

  5

  I

  RANDWICK IS on the southern rim of the eastern suburbs; Elizabeth Bay on the northern or harbour rim. Maureen, the social commentator, called the latter area the “sophisticated but shallow eastern suburbs.” Real estate, fashion and gossip were the interests of the harbour rim; Versace was much better known than Voltaire or Veblen and no one would have known what the latter meant by “conspicuous waste.” There were stories that during the Olympics, following pressure by the authorities to use public transport rather than their Bentleys and BMWs, some of the sports-minded had been shocked to learn there was no first class on buses. There was a large Jewish population in the area and they did manage to raise the level of discussion and interest in the arts. But the Deep South and the Deep West of Sydney were Ultima Thule (what's that?) to the harbour rim.

  Andy Graham was casual: jeans, open-necked shirt, golf jacket. Malone was in slacks, blazer and turtle-necked sweater; he wore a tweed checked cap, which made Graham look at him as if he had turned up in a tiara. Very unofficial—or unofficious-looking, both of them. Malone pressed the button on the intercom and it was almost a minute and two more pressures on the button before an irritated voice asked, “Yes, who is it?”

  “Police.”

  “Police?” There was a clearing of throat, sleep being coughed up. “Did you say police?”

  “Detective-Inspector Malone and Detective-Constable Graham. May we come up for a few minutes, Mr. Farro?”

  Another clearing of the throat. “Show me your badges. There's a security camera right above you. Hold them up to it.”

  Grinning at each other, Malone and Graham did so, holding their arms high like a Nazi salute.

  “Okay, come up. Top floor.”

  A white-haired woman came out of the door as the two detectives lowered their arms, looked curiously at them, walked on, stopped and looked back.

  “We've scared her,” said Graham.

  “Let's go up and see if we can scare Mr. Farro.”

  They went into an entrance lobby as cold as marble: the walls and floor were marble. They rode up in a lift that had all the welcoming warmth of a refrigerator. This building had been up only six months; it still smelled of money. They stepped out into a small lobby and Bruce Farro was standing at an open door opposite them.

  “Come in, gentlemen.” He sounded more hospitable than he had over the intercom.

  He was dressed in cerise-and-blue striped pyjamas and a royal blue dressing gown with a cerise crown on the breast pocket. There was a blue handkerchief in the pocket and Malone wondered whether it was for blow or show. He was slightly shorter than the two
detectives, about Malone's age, handsomeness fattening into blandness. He offered no handshake but waved them into his apartment.

  It, too, was cold; it had the lived-in look of a House & Garden feature. Everything in the big living room was white but for the pictures, all bright abstracts, like graffiti, on the walls. Beyond the big glass doors on to a wide verandah the harbour was steel-blue under the grey skies.

  “What's this all about? Coffee? I haven't had breakfast yet. Friday night is always a late night. You know how it is.”

  “Indeed,” said Malone, remembering last night.

  The living room ran into the dining room which was overlooked by the open kitchen: all white. In summer one would have to wear dark glasses indoors. Farro went into the kitchen, talking to them through the gap between an overhead cupboard and the serving bench, then brought coffee to the living room and waved to them again to make themselves comfortable. He was affable, comfortable. Or he was a good actor.

  “Is it business? Are you from the Fraud Squad or something?” His teeth were set back in his mouth and his smile seemed to come out of a small cave.

  “No, we're from Homicide,” said Malone.

  The smile went back into the cave. “Go on.”

  Andy Graham took out his notebook, but didn't look at it. “Back in the eighties, up till 1987, you worked at—” He named the firm, then waited.

  Farro took his time, as if trying to remember the firm or if, indeed, he had worked there; then he nodded. “Yes.”

  “You knew a girl worked there, Patricia Norval. Right?”

  Farro again took his time, sipped his coffee; then he said, “Ah, now I see where we're going.”

  “Yes,” said Malone, sipping his own coffee; it was good coffee and must have been brewing for some time. Which meant someone else was in the apartment. “And you were surprised when we rang your buzzer downstairs a moment ago?”

  “We-ll—well, no. I just didn't expect you here. How did you get on to me?”

  “Detective Graham's parents ran bloodhound kennels, he learned early.”

  Farro looked at Graham and smiled. “Droll.”

  “He has the names of everyone who worked at your firm. You're the first we've called on.”

  “This is about the murder of the American Ambassador's wife?”

  “Yes, it is. How did you know she was here in Australia?”

  “I recognized her down in Canberra a month ago. I was down there for my firm. She and her husband were at a reception at the Ministry of Defence, one of our clients.”

  “Did you speak to her?”

  “I tried to, but she stared right through me. You know the way some women can do that.” Malone wondered if he made that sort of remark to his gay friends. “She didn't want to know me. So I didn't press it.”

  “But you were sure you knew her, had worked with her?”

  “Yes. How much do you know?” He sounded cautious.

  “We'll tell you first what we know about you.” Malone nodded at Graham.

  The latter was looking at his notebook now: “Mr. Farro, you left Sydney in 1987, the end of the year. Where did you go to?”

  Farro could never be accused of blurting out the truth; or a lie. He said very slowly and deliberately, “I went to Hong Kong. I was there a year, working with an investment firm, Americans. Then I went to New York, I was there three years. I had a green card, I worked in Wall Street. Then in 1991, I think it was, I went out to Silicon Valley. California. I wanted to learn the computer game.”

  “In California did you hear of or meet Patricia Norval?” asked Malone.

  “I heard of her in San Francisco—well, no, I didn't. Not Trish Norval. She'd changed her name—I can't remember what to.”

  “Belinda Paterson?”

  “Could've been. I wasn't that interested in her. I didn't try to look her up.”

  “Where were you Tuesday night?” Malone hadn't raised or quickened his voice.

  Farro once more took his time: “Tuesday? I was home here, working. Then a friend came, stayed the night.”

  “He or she will confirm that?”

  Farro looked at him, almost smiled: so you know my choices. Then he said, “I'm sure she will. She's in the bedroom right now.”

  “We won't disturb her—not yet. Go on, Andy.”

  “When did you come back to Sydney?”

  “In 1996. I started up a small software company—”

  Graham looked at his notebook: “Finger Software. You publicly floated it in 1999 and on paper, overnight, you were worth forty million. The Securities Commission looked into it—”

  “I was cleared.”

  “You gave them the finger?” said Malone. “Which one?”

  Farro held up the middle finger of his right hand and the smile came out of the cave again. “We're a reputable and established firm. I'm the managing director and we're very well respected by some very reputable clients. If you have them in your notebook, ask them.”

  Graham went on: “When you worked with Miss Norval—”

  “I didn't work with her. She was just the office manager, she had no dealing with clients.”

  “She knew what was going on,” said Malone.

  The cave was now just a fissure in a rock-face.

  “You see, Mr. Farro,” Malone went on, “we know about the scam you and two or three other brokers were pulling—”

  “Would you care to make that charge public? I'll sue you.”

  “Oh, we'll make it public if you wish.” One bluffer can recognize another one. “We'll contact the Securities Commission on Monday—”

  “There's a statute of limitations—” The bluff had folded.

  “Not on scandal,” said Malone, still bluffing. “Go on, Andy.”

  “There were four of you in—we'll call it the scam, for want of a better word—”

  Nicely put, Andy, thought Malone and hid a smile, though not in a cave.

  Farro sat quietly, only moving to change the cross-over of his legs. He wore blue velvet slippers, also with the crown emblem on them. He took the handkerchief out of his breast pocket, wiped his upper lip with it and put it back. It was not a blow but a show: it showed he was starting to feel uncomfortable.

  “Look, Mr. Farro,” said Malone, “we're not interested in the scam—that's someone's money down the gurgler. We are Homicide, not Fraud. We're trying to find out who murdered Mrs. Pavane—who we now know was Patricia Norval. Did she have a relationship with any of your colleagues? You all left the firm at the same time.”

  “Okay.” He was still taking his time. “This is off the record—” He stared at Andy Graham, who took the hint and closed his notebook. “There were four of us—the other three were Jack Brown, Wayne Jones and Grant Kael.” He spelled out the last name. “He's dead, Kael—he was killed in a car accident in Victoria about a year later.”

  “Brown and Jones?” said Graham.

  “They're common names. Amusing, eh? You're looking for Mr. Brown and Mr. Jones.”

  “I once counted the Joneses in the phone book,” said Graham. “There were 3822 of them.”

  “Droll, eh?” said Malone. “Come on, Mr. Farro, give us their names.”

  “I told you. Brown and Jones.”

  Malone looked at Graham, who shrugged and said, “They were on the stock exchange register at that time. Where do we find them now, Mr. Farro?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine. I haven't seen either of them since we split up.”

  “Did either of them have a relationship with Miss Norval?”

  Again he took his time: “Probably. She played the field. It was a heady time, back then. I never got involved with her—she wasn't my type—”

  Malone refrained from asking what his type was and Farro seemed to notice the reticence; the smile came out of the cave again, but he said nothing. Then there was the sound of a door opening; someone had got tired of waiting to be called. A moment later a woman appeared at a corner of the room in which they sa
t.

  “Bruce?”

  “Rita—” Farro rose, went towards her. “We won't be long—it's just some business that's cropped up—”

  “While your friend is here with us—” said Malone; he wasn't going to let her escape to be told by Farro to keep her mouth shut. “Miss—?”

  She looked at Farro, her brow furrowed. She had a mass of curly dark hair, a face puffed with sleep and love-making and she was not young and innocent. She was wearing what was obviously one of Farro's robes, a thick terry-towelling gown that fell to the floor and threatened to trip her. She appeared tripped by the two strangers who wanted to know her name.

  “Rita Gudersen,” said Farro and seemed to shrug resignedly. “These gentlemen are from the police, darling. Detective-Inspector Malone and Detective—?”

  “Graham,” said Andy Graham, notebook open again. “Rita Gudersen? How do you spell that?”

  “Why?” She had a soft pleasant voice that was strained now by her puzzlement. But she spelled it out. “What's the matter, Bruce? What's going on?”

  “Where were you last Tuesday night?” asked Malone.

  Still frowning, she looked at Farro.

  “No, don't look at him,” said Malone. “Look at me, I'm asking the question. Where were you Tuesday night?”

  She cleared her throat. “Here. I came here about—I think it was about ten, maybe a little after. I spent the night with Bruce.”

  Farro's smile came almost right out of the cave; he looked as if he had been given a signed blank cheque. “Well, there you are—”

  “May we have your home address and where you work?” Malone ignored him, addressing Rita Gudersen.

  “There's no need for that—” said Farro.

  “Just routine,” said Malone, still ignoring him, looking at the woman.

  She hesitated, then gave a home address in Mosman, on the other side of the harbour. “Work? I'm with Fairbrother, Milson and Gudersen.”

  One of the oldest and biggest law firms in the city. Malone couldn't remember whether it was her father or her grandfather who had helped found the firm. Or had she married into the Gudersens?