Yesterday's Shadow

by Jon Cleary

She must have read his mind: “I am a Gudersen. We handle all Bruce's legal business. Anything else?”

  There were several snide remarks that could have been made, but Malone never saw any point in cheap scores. He stood up. “Thank you, Miss Gudersen. We shan't be bothering you again.”

  “Nor me?” said Farro.

  “We'll see. Have a good weekend.”

  Going down in the lift Andy Graham said, “I had a few more questions I wanted to ask him.”

  “Andy, that will give us a reason for calling him again. When he's not sleeping with his legal adviser. We may need him to identify Mr. Brown and Mr. Jones. If we find them.”

  “Mr. Jones wouldn't be our Boris, would he? That would simplify things.”

  “No, it wouldn't, Andy. Not for me.”

  Malone went home, did some notes for his report, had lunch, then he and Lisa went down to Coogee to watch Tom play rugby for Randwick against Gordon, an old rival. There they were met by Claire and Jason, Maureen and her boyfriend-of-the-week, Clint or Flint or something. His name didn't matter, he would be replaced next week. Malone worried at this production-belt attitude towards her love-life, but Maureen was obviously a good production manager. She appeared to be carrying no neuroses.

  “But what if she gets pregnant to one of these blokes?” Malone had asked.

  “Relax,” Lisa had said. “Mo knows how to take care of herself.”

  “You didn't. We didn't plan to have Claire, not so soon—”

  “I said, relax. When Mo falls pregnant it will be to someone she's in love with.”

  “How can you be so relaxed? You're condoning free love—”

  “Pull your head in, as Mo would tell you. You're assuming your daughter goes to bed with every boy she goes out with. Have more faith in her.”

  He had given up, but watched for signs of stress in Maureen; she smiled back at him as if Lisa had told her of his concern. Now today, out of the corner of his eye Malone sized up the latest—Clint? Flint?—and hoped next week's choice would be better. The bugger was actually barracking for Gordon.

  But Randwick won, with Tom scoring a try and kicking four goals. As he came off the field he waved to them, then went up the pavilion steps towards the dressing-rooms. Halfway up he stopped and spoke to a woman. Malone, on his way out to the gates, stepped out of the crowd and looked up.

  The woman looked like Rita Gudersen; but it wasn't she. She had a lot of dark reddish hair and, from a distance, looked very attractive. She gave Tom a big smile and pressed his arm affectionately.

  “That's his tutor,” said Maureen, stopping beside her father. “She has every professor and lecturer and half the students falling all over her, slobbering like pups. She can pick and choose. We should feel honoured she's chosen our Tom.”

  “She's old enough to be his mother!”

  “Tell that to Mum. She's twenty-eight, that's all.”

  “How do you know all this?”

  “I'm a Four Corners researcher, aren't I? All we have to do is keep an eye on him, Dad. When he wants to leave Mum's cooking and move out, then'll be the time to squash it. She's not serious about him, she'll move on to someone else. He's her toy boy.”

  “That's what I've raised? A toy boy?”

  “We can enter him in next year's Cosmo Bachelor of the Year. Though his IQ might be too high for it.”

  She put her arm in his and he said, “Where's Clint? Or Flint?”

  “He's squiring Mum to the car. He's very polite—they're very polite, those Gordon men, when they're off the field. They have mother fixations up on the North Shore.”

  “Spoken like a true Four Corners researcher. What do you see in him?”

  “He has a Porsche. Second-hand, but a Porsche. How's your old girlfriend going?”

  “Are you a Four Corners researcher or my darling daughter?”

  “Your darling daughter. Do you think I'd sneak a professional question in on you?”

  “Yes.” They were outside the ground now; the crowd had thinned. Down along the street he could see Lisa and Clint (or Flint?) standing by a silver Porsche. He could imagine Lisa thinking about a spin in it; she had always been a speed demon, always drove much faster than he. “Your mob are not thinking of doing anything on her?”

  “Dad, she's a nobody. I don't mean that nastily. If we were going to do a programme on battered wives—well, yes, we might consider her. But compared to Mrs. Pavane's murder? No way. I was just asking was she troubling you?”

  “No. But she invited herself to lunch with Mum yesterday.”

  “Ah.”

  He heard the echo: Ah.

  “Then she's going to make a nuisance of herself?”

  “That's what your mother suggested. Or told me—not suggested. You women and your bloody intuition!”

  “Never fails. Hullo, Hugh.”

  Malone looked after the huge young man who had just passed, football kitbag slung over a shoulder that looked as if it could carry a steel beam. “Who's that?”

  “Last week's choice.”

  “What does he drive?”

  “He has a second-hand Yamaha with a pillion. Didn't you always warn me to keep my legs together?”

  “Never talked to my daughters like that in my life.”

  She kissed his cheek as they came to Lisa and Clint (or Flint). “Take him home, Mum. He's getting parental. Or have you seduced Mum into going for a drive with you? She used to be a dolly bird in London years ago.”

  Clint, no student of history, looked blank. “What's a dolly bird?”

  “Clint,” said Lisa, “if you'd had a Porsche in London in those days you'd have been wearing dolly birds as mascots.”

  Going home in the family Fairlane, Lisa at the wheel said, “She's safe with Clint. He's more interested in cars than he is in girls.”

  “Did you see the woman Tom's interested in?”

  “Woman?”

  “She's old enough to be—Maureen tells me she's twenty-eight. Every bloke at NSW is slobbering over her.”

  “Good for Tom.”

  “He's her toy boy.”

  She looked sideways at him, at the same time swinging out on to the wrong side of the road to pass a labouring Beetle. “Do you really think Tom's so soft in the head he'd fall for that?”

  “It's not his head I'm thinking of. Take your foot off the pedal! You're doing ninety and we're coming up past the police station. Geez—a middle-aged dolly bird and a toy boy!”

  “Bless your luck.”

  So he blessed his luck by taking her to bed before supper, knowing that if Tom was with the toy-boy fancier he would not be home till late. After supper they watched weak comedians on television; switched over to what was, by Lisa's count, the nineteenth cookery show on TV. Then they watched the late news. A reporter was doing his piece on a small earthquake in New Guinea: “Incredibly, the de-bree is mostly coconuts as plantation after plantation has been devastated. The scene is absolutely fantastic—there's no other word for it.” Not in his vocabulary, Malone thought. “So far the death toll is, basically, ten dead—”

  And then, as if the call had been waiting all day to spoil their mood, the phone rang. He went out into the hallway and picked it up: it was Gail Lee, not worried but apologetic: “I'm sorry, boss, but we have a problem. The Southern Savoy called in Regent Street, who called us—I'm on weekend call. Mrs. Jones has been making a nuisance of herself here at the hotel.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Threatening one of the housemaids—says she was the one who had sex with Mr. Jones that night. Regent Street want to cart her off in the wagon, but she's putting on an act, getting a bit hysterical, says she won't leave here till she talks to you.”

  “Oh Christ!” He saw that Lisa had come to the door of the living room.

  “We can manhandle her, if you don't want to come in—”

  “No, hold her there. Give me twenty minutes. Make sure there is parking right outside for me.”

  “Delia?” said
Lisa as he hung up the phone.

  “How'd you know?”

  “I told you—she's going to cause trouble.”

  “Darl—” She had followed him into their bedroom as he got out of his pyjamas. She laid out his turtleneck sweater, went to the closet and took out a sports jacket and slacks. A wife getting her man off to work. “Darl, she won't after tonight. She's been threatening one of the housemaids, the girl who had it off with Boris the night Delia did him in. They'll revoke her bail, remand her to Mulawa.” The women's prison. “She's likely to spend all the time in there till she goes to trial.”

  Lisa was unimpressed. “Give her my regards. Tell her you were about to go to bed with me for the second time tonight.”

  “That's nasty.”

  “I know. And it tastes sweet.”

  But at the front door she kissed him, stood there in her robe in the open doorway as he drove away. “Don't catch cold!” he called to her, but the wind snatched his words away.

  He turned on the heater in the car, but it didn't warm him. He couldn't remember when he had last felt so astray; he was like an astigmatic man trying to thread a needle. He had a major murder on his hands, a killing that was cloaked in fog, and now a simple murder, a domestic, for Christ's sake, was pulling him into its net because of bait that was twenty-five years old. He had loved Delia back then; or had thought so. He wondered if, had her life since then been happy, she would have remembered him. But he could not ask her that question. He had to tell her to drop out of his life, that he could no longer help her. And yet . . .

  Gail Lee, wrapped in a thick camelhair coat and what looked like a matching hat, well dressed enough to be the Commissioner's wife, was waiting for him under the awning outside the Southern Savoy. He pulled the car into an empty space, was tooted by a taxi trying to pull into the same space, got out and crossed to Gail. They went into the hotel, leaving the taxi driver, who had now got out of his cab, shouting after them in a thick spew of words that was spattered by the wind.

  In the lobby Gail paused. “She's in the manager's office with one of the Regent Street guys. They took the wagon away, the hotel thought it was lowering the tone.”

  “How is she?”

  “Bloody spiky. Won't talk to anyone but you.” She looked at him solicitously. “I'm sorry.”

  He sighed. “I'm getting tired of this. Righto, let's go inside. Where's the maid Boris is supposed to have screwed?”

  “She's in the small office behind the reception desk. Scared out of her mind.”

  Guests were coming in the front door, swept in by the wind, tossing chat amongst themselves, everyone looking as if they had had a night that was—“Fantastic!” said a young man, and his three friends couldn't find a better word: “Fantastic!”

  Malone looked at them sourly. “Basically, that is.”

  Gail looked at the two couples as they got into a lift, then looked back at him. “I shouldn't have called you.”

  He managed a grin. “I'll talk to the maid later. Let's see what Delia has to say.”

  There were only Delia Jones and a young uniformed officer in the manager's office, sitting far apart as if there was no connection between them. The officer stood up as Malone and Gail came in, but Delia just raised her eyes without raising her head.

  “Evening, sir. Constable Szabo, from Regent Street.” He was short and thickset, barely the required Service height, with wary eyes and a pleasant, nondescript face. At least his eyes were wary of Delia; he had so far only put his toe in the pool of women. “The lady has had nothing to say.”

  Malone pulled up a chair and sat down in front of Delia. “Have you got nothing to say to me, Delia?”

  She had been sitting stiffly in her chair, but now suddenly she relaxed and smiled. She was in her long black coat and her beret and evidently had just repaired her make-up: made-up for him. She looked triumphantly at Gail.

  “I've said all along that I'll talk to you. Gail, here, doesn't seem to get the message.”

  “Detective Lee has a job to do, Delia. Now what do you want to tell me? I understand you came in here to bail up the maid you say Boris had sex with. That right?”

  “Yes.”

  “And what were you planning to say to her? Or do to her?”

  “Nothing. I just wanted to see what sort of trash he liked to poke.”

  “Delia—” He wanted to slap her, though he didn't know why. “What was the point? The maid, whoever she is, wasn't the reason you killed Boris. Or was she?”

  She was abruptly cautious; or cunning. One could almost see the change of gears behind the cosmetics. “I killed him because he belted me.” She put her hand up to her face, touched her mouth, her bruised cheek, both now almost disguised by the make-up. But the gesture was theatrical, as if she had rehearsed it. “I've said that all along.”

  “You had no intention of hurting the woman?”

  “None at all.”

  Constable Szabo coughed and Malone turned to him. “Yes?”

  “Mrs. Jones did attack the maid. A coupla the guests, upstairs, they had to separate them. It was pretty rough, they said. Then reception called us.”

  Malone looked back at Delia, shook his head. “Delia, when are you going to learn? If you want us—” he almost said me “—to help you, you're not going about it the right way by lying. Why'd you attack the maid?”

  “Are you on my side or not?” It was almost a fierce demand.

  “I'm on the law's side.” He stood up. “Call the wagon, Constable. Lock her up for the night and we'll see she's taken before the Bench in the morning.” He turned back to Delia. “They'll revoke your bail and you'll be remanded. You'll spend the time till your trial, maybe a year, maybe two, in jail. Think about it, Delia.”

  “Okay, okay!” She stood up, stepped towards him; but he moved away. She was wearing a cheap perfume and the heat of her sudden desperation made it smell stronger. “I was stupid—I lost my block with her—I wouldn't have hurt her, not really—”

  He was aware of Gail Lee and Constable Szabo watching him, but it was impossible to read what their gaze was saying. He took the plunge: “Stay here. Sit down—” She didn't move and he snapped, “Sit down! Don't call your station yet, Constable. I'll be back.” He jerked his head at Gail and led her out of the office.

  He leaned against the closed door and looked at her. She said, “Like I said, I'm sorry I called you.”

  He was grateful for her concern. “No, it's okay, Gail. But she's going to be a pain . . . Let's talk to the maid.”

  She was in the small office behind the reception desk, sitting on a chair in the middle of the room, knees together, hands clutching each other in her lap.

  Malone introduced himself. “You are—?”

  “Dolores Cortes.”

  She had a thin light voice, made thinner by her fear. She was a Filipina, young, on the verge of prettiness with a sensual mouth and dark eyes that in other circumstances might have been lively, even inviting. Now they were dark and frightened.

  “What happened tonight, Dolores?” Malone drew up a chair opposite her and Gail half-sat on a small desk.

  “Boris's—Mrs. Jones came in—I was upstairs on the second floor, she came up there looking for me, she asked me what I'd done with Boris—”

  “And what did you tell her?”

  “I didn't tell her nothing—at first. But she was pretty angry—in a quiet way, you know what I mean? Then I told her Boris and me had had—you know.” She looked at Gail, as if she would understand more than this man sitting in front of her. “I've never done it before—with a married man, I mean.”

  “When did it start with Boris?”

  “I dunno—a month ago, I think it was. He—you know—” She looked at Gail again and the latter nodded sympathetically.

  “Did he attack you, force himself on you?”

  “Oh no! Nothing like that—”

  “Did it happen only once? And then again on the night he was murdered?”


  She looked up at Gail again, then back at Malone. He suddenly had the feeling he was in a Saturday night confessional; she was stumbling over how she was going to tell him she had sinned. “No, it happened other times.”

  “Often? And you consented?”

  She nodded. “Every night.”

  Gail rolled her eyes and Malone had to keep his own steady. Life at the Southern Savoy was not humdrum. “He didn't force himself on you?” She looked puzzled. “He didn't belt you, like he did his wife?” Why did I say that?

  “Oh no! I liked him. He was—you know—”

  “You told Mrs. Jones all this?”

  “No. No, I just said it happened the once. If I'd told her about the other times . . . She's his wife. He was having it with her, too.”

  “He told you that? He didn't plead with you that he wasn't getting it at home?”

  “No, he liked to—to show off? How many times he could do it.”

  Malone leaned back, didn't look at Gail. “Dolores, have you ever thought about going back to the Philippines?”

  “Why? They're just as bad there. Worse.”

  “Dolores,” he said patiently, “let's get away from oversexed men. Why did you come out here?”

  “Because there's work here.” She was practical now, her hands relaxed on her knees.

  Gail put the questioning back on track: “So after you'd told Mrs. Jones what you and Boris had been up to, she attacked you?”

  “What's gunna happen to her? She'll go to jail?”

  “That's not for us to decide,” said Malone. “Did she attack you?”

  She was hunched for a moment now, suddenly less relaxed; then she straightened up, ready for a dive: “No, she didn't do nothing like that. She just hugged me.”

  The two detectives looked at each other, recognizing at once the way things were going to go. Malone said, “Dolores, people had to separate you—”

  She was sitting up very straight now, her hands clutching the edges of her chair. “We were hugging each other, that was all—”

  “So you won't lay charges against her?”

  “Charges? You mean send her to jail? No, why would I wanna do that?”

  Malone pushed his chair back. “Righto, Dolores, you can go. The office here has your home address?”