Yesterday's Shadow

by Jon Cleary

  “What exactly do you do, Mr. Jones?” asked Graham, pen at the ready.

  “I'm a stock market consultant. I have a list of clients, here and around the world—I cover all the major stock exchanges. I don't buy or sell—”

  “Like you used to,” said Malone.

  “You have done your homework.”

  “Without benefit of website or internet. Is that how you handle your clients?”

  “Yes. I do exactly what stockbrokers do—what I used to do. Only I don't buy and sell any more. Except my own investments.”

  Malone looked around, then out at the cruiser, then back at Jones. “It pays.”

  “Yes, it pays and it's all above board—” The affability slipped, he was angry. Then he seemed to realize that how he made his living did not concern them. They had, as he had said about Trish Norval, other fish to fry. The effort to settle himself was plainly visible: “Look, I haven't seen Trish since 1987. That's the truth.”

  “Did you ever hear of her?”

  “Never. Someone told me she'd gone overseas, but I didn't know where. I went to New Zealand till—well, till things blew over. Yes, there was a scam and we got away with it. I'm not proud of it—I was younger and I got carried away like so many back then—” Then he stopped, tilting his head as if listening to what he had just said. Then he smiled wryly: “Sorry. I'm starting to sound—pious? Conscience-stricken? Maybe I am—but I never gave the money back. We always told ourselves we weren't robbing anyone, just using someone else's money. Banks do it all the time, don't they? I kept it and used it and now I like to think I'm respectable and honest.”

  “We'd never think of contradicting you,” said Malone. “But we're Homicide, not Fraud. We never have to worry about morality—it usually doesn't come up in murder cases.”

  “They teach you sarcasm in Homicide?” Then Jones seemed to relax. “Look, Inspector, don't let's cross swords. I'm sorry to hear Trish Norval is dead—murdered. But I had nothing to do with it. I wish I could help, but I can't—”The head rolled again.

  “That leaves Jack Brown,” said Andy Graham.

  “What about Grant Kael?”

  “You didn't know? He was killed in a car accident in Victoria. It must of been while you were in New Zealand.”

  “Poor guy.” Jones looked genuinely concerned. “He was dotty over Trish, but she never gave him a look-in. He was the—well, I guess he was the quietest of us all.”

  “So that leaves Jack Brown,” Graham repeated.

  Jones shook his head, just a gentle shake this time; he looked completely relaxed now. “He went overseas, that was all I heard. He got out before the rest of us. Just walked out one Friday, I think it was, no goodbye, no farewell drink, nothing. Jack was the most self-contained bastard I ever met. But there was a thing between him and Trish. She was as shitty as the rest of us when he walked out. Maybe more so.”

  “So you've heard nothing of him since then?” asked Malone.

  “Not a word. But wherever he is, unless he's dead, Jack will be doing all right. He was the smartest of us all, he was the one who planned the—” He smiled again, eyes thinning. “The scam.”

  “He had no family here?” said Malone.

  “I think he did, but he never talked about them and we never met. Like I said, he was self-contained. I could never see what Trish saw in him.”

  “You're implying they were pretty close?”

  Jones nodded. “Office gossip.” He was silent a while, trying to recall those years. It was obvious he had not thought of them in a long time, putting them behind him. “There was a hint there had been an abortion, but I never took much interest—it was girls' gossip.”

  “Never reliable,” said Andy Graham and the three chauvinists looked at each other and nodded. “But go on, Wayne—”

  “Like I said—I never took much notice. By then Trish and I were history. Pretty small history. I don't think she would remember me.”

  “She won't now,” said Malone.

  “No.” Jones looked at the two detectives. “The wife of the American Ambassador—how did she get that far?”

  “We're still working on it,” said Malone and stood up. “Righto, Mr. Jones, thanks for seeing us.”

  Andy Graham took his time getting up. “Mr. Jones, what do you know about a firm called Finger Software?”

  There was no mistaking Jones' look of caution. “Why?”

  “It's run by your old mate Bruce Farro. You must of known that.”

  Malone said nothing, just a bystander with a stake in the game.

  “Yeah,” said Jones, still cautious, “I've had a look at it. For my clients.”

  “And what was your advice?”

  “I don't think I have to tell you that—it's confidential—”

  “We treat everything as confidential,” said Malone. “Or would you like a trip back to Sydney while we do our own checking and then get you to verify what we find out?”

  “Come on, Mr. Jones,” said Graham. “What you tell us isn't gunna affect your clients.”

  Jones still said nothing, looked out towards the terrace and the gulls battling the wind. He rolled his head again in his peculiar motion and Malone said, “Come on, Wayne. It's just between you, us and the gulls.”

  Jones turned back. “I wouldn't touch Finger with a forty-foot pole. It's falling over—it's got a mountain of debt and it's losing contracts. Bruce Farro is up to his arse in trouble and it couldn't happen to a nicer shit!”

  Malone looked at Andy Graham. “That's all we needed to know, Andy . . . Thank you, Wayne. Enjoy the rest of the day.”

  “Will that be all?” Jones all at once looked anxious.

  “We'll see what comes up. Do you work here at home?”

  “No, I have an office over in Gosford. I have a guy working there this morning, covering New York and Chicago. This job, you work six days a week. I'm on my way over there now. How did you find my home address?”

  “I never query Detective Graham's methods. I think if ever he left the Police Service, he'd do very well in the stock market.”

  Jones smiled again, but weakly; he was suddenly less comfortable, as if the past, like the wind outside, was rising. “If you want to see me again, could you make it at my office?” He flipped open a box beside a phone on a side table, took out a business card and handed it to Malone. “I'd rather my wife—well, you understand? I wasn't married when . . .”

  “We understand,” said Malone and handed the card to Graham. “The firm you worked for disbanded after the 1987 crash. Where would we look for their records?”

  Jones pondered, then said, “I guess the best place would be the lawyers we used.”

  “Who were they?”

  “Fairbrother, Milson and Gudersen. They're still around, I think.”

  Malone and Graham drove back to Sydney into a wind that was like a heavy surf. But they were happy. Graham used the siren and blue light only twice, almost like shouts of joy.

  II

  Two days later Wayne Jones was in his office when he got a phone call. What he took to be an American voice said, “My name is John Blake. I'm an investment adviser in Chicago. I'm out here looking at possibilities for clients of mine. Your name was given to me—apparently you know the market up, down and sideways.”

  “We do our best,” said Jones.

  “I understand that we'll have to register with you if we want to use your services. But just to give us an example of the information we'd be buying, would you advise me to buy into—just a moment.” There was a sound that might have been that of paper being turned over. “Finger Software. Do you know anything about it?”

  “I wouldn't touch it—Mr. Blake? Is that it?”

  “Yes, Blake. You wouldn't care to enlarge on that advice?”

  “I will, if you come to see me, Mr. Blake. I'm running a business—”

  “Of course. Well, I'll be in touch, make an appointment.”

  The line went dead. Jones sat back, not taken in
.

  Who was so interested in Bruce Farro and his dog of a company?

  Then his wife appeared at the door of his office, hung as usual with shopping bags. “Sweetheart, my credit cards have run out—”

  “All five of them?”

  “Yeah. Crazy, isn't it?” She was ten years younger than he, still beautiful and he had made the mistake of marrying her for her looks and her inconsistencies. But he still loved her, mainly because he was too busy to go looking elsewhere. “What's the matter? You look worried.”

  “It's nothing,” he said. “I just thought of someone I used to know.”

  “Not a girl?” But she was smiling, sure of him.

  “No, not a girl.” He took out his chequebook. “How much do you need?”

  “Why does a husband always say, How much do you need? Want is the word, sweetheart.”

  III

  The funeral director, a veteran of big events, thought the funeral a huge success; but, a man of taste, he did not mention his satisfaction to the Ambassador. The Episcopalian Bishop performed the service, the University of Missouri choir sang the hymns, the State Governor read the eulogy and the ghost of Harry Truman walked over from Independence and stood in a corner. The Secretary of State flew in from Washington with an entourage of such size it was thought he had just stopped off on his way to an international peace conference. Twenty-three senators, representatives and State assemblymen who had been financed by the Pavane family attended; they sprinkled themselves amongst the mourners, for there is nothing more off-putting to citizens, even in the United States, than a congeal of consuls. Kansas City society was there and all the directors of the Pavane agricultural and commercial empire. Private jets flew in from Omaha, Oklahoma City, Dallas and Denver; St. Louis, a rival city to K.C., just sent faxes. A sky-writer offered his services for a message on the heavens, but Stephen Pavane, also a man of taste, had scathingly rejected such an idea. Billie Pavane, entry into this world hidden in a dark cloud, went out of it in a blaze of glory.

  She was buried in Union Cemetery, amongst Stephen's forebears. The original were French fur traders who came west from the post at St. Louis and arrived at the Missouri; the family name then had been Pavan. They had settled on either side of the Big Muddy, as the local Kanza Indians called it, and gradually their holdings had grown. The dead Pavanes, including Stephen's parents, were buried with their feet facing east in the belief they wouldn't see God if their backs were turned. Billie, only a social guest of God, was buried with her feet in the proper direction.

  The wake, though it was not called that, the Ambassador being an Episcopalian, was held at the Pavane mansion on Ward Parkway, the thoroughfare in Kansas City. Stephen's two brothers and his sister hosted the gathering, while the widower stood in a corner and wondered again at funerals being for the living, not the dead.

  He was joined by Chief of Police Terence O'Malley. “My condolences, Stephen. Nobody here believed it when we got the news.”

  O'Malley was all bone-and-gristle, with a ginger crew-cut and eyes too bright and frank for a cop. He ran a police force that was highly regarded, even by criminals; it had not always been so in Kansas City. Stephen Pavane could remember his grandfather telling him stories of the K.C. force in the days when the Pendergast machine ran local politics. At one time there had been seventy-five ex-cons on the force, none of them rehabilitated; squad cars often carried liquor in their trunks for bootleggers. All that had been cleaned up and Chief O'Malley was the image of what the voters wanted in a police chief.

  “Who's handling it out in Australia? The murder?”

  “There's an FBI man in Sydney—”

  O'Malley wrinkled his thin nose. “They're never much good twenty-five miles out of Washington.”

  Pavane smiled. “Terry, you know they're better than that. Anyhow, it's really in the hands of the local New South Wales cops.”

  “What are they like?”

  “As good as yours.” Too good, perhaps: they were uncovering more than he wanted to know. “They're pretty modern out there.”

  O'Malley's grin was a widening slit in his thin face. “I've heard they're ahead of us on some things. Identification imaging, stuff like that. You going back there?”

  “I have to talk that over with the Secretary. Excuse me, Terry.”

  He left O'Malley and crossed to the Secretary of State, took him by the arm and led him out on to a wide terrace that looked out on a large garden and a tennis court. The terrace was crowded with mourners, all on their third or fourth drink, and the two men went down into the garden and crossed to the chairs beside the tennis court.

  “So what do you want to do, Stephen?”

  Benjamin Market was a New Yorker, a Wall Street lawyer who recognized that the rest of the world resented the United States, but knew where to come when it wanted money. He was small and neat and amiable, a Jew whom even the Arabs liked and trusted. He had been married three times and had learned diplomacy the hard way; that is, domestically. He and Pavane were old friends, though separated by regional differences.

  “Take your time in making up your mind. The Aussies have got other things on their minds, with an election coming up. That's when foreign affairs become irrelevant.”

  Pavane had always liked this small, unfussed man. “No, I'll go back at the weekend, Ben.”

  He looked down towards the south. There had been storm warnings this morning on the radio; tornadoes were beating their way up from the Gulf of Mexico. They could do no more damage than he already felt.

  “Ben—I have to tell you . . .” This wasn't easy, not even to an understanding friend, who still had an official position to safeguard. “There are some things about Billie that may come out that I didn't know about. I'd like to be there to handle them if they do.”

  “What things? I have to ask, Stephen. Not because I'm personally curious, but—well, you understand . . .”

  “I'm not sure, yet. But—well, Billie wasn't who I thought she was.”

  “Who was she, then?”

  “I don't know, Ben. That's what I have to go back and find out. At first, when their cops out there started telling me things, I didn't want to know. But now . . .”

  “Is it serious stuff? I mean, political?”

  “No, it's nothing like that.” But how could he be sure?

  Market looked down to the south; the sky had begun to darken. He was an urban man, but even he knew that the swift tremble of birds in the still air was not a good omen. He looked up at the tall man beside him.

  “How do you find the Aussies?”

  “Oh, you never have any trouble finding them. It's like Washington—there are no retiring people in Canberra.”

  “You know what I mean—” He was not an insensitive man, he knew when to be patient.

  “Ben, it took me a little time. They're very sensitive to criticism. They'll ask, 'What do you think of Australia?' You think they want an honest answer. So you tell 'em, but try to be polite. But that's the last thing they want. They bridle, as if you've raped their grandma.”

  Ben Market nodded. He had been around the world enough times to know that foreigners never really wanted to know Americans' opinion of them. The Brits and the French, he guessed, had never been asked their opinions of lesser breeds. Their superiority had been too self-evident.

  “Stephen, I'll appreciate it if you do stay on out there. The Aussies can be a pain in the ass at times.”

  “They say the same about us.” Then he smiled.

  “What's funny?”

  “An old joke out here in the boondocks. The hen says to the farmer, 'An egg may be breakfast for you, but it's just a pain in the ass for me.'”

  “You still have your sense of humour.”

  “Barely,” said Stephen Pavane.

  IV

  Fairbrother, Milson and Gudersen were one of those law firms that had more partners than a cotillion ball. Its offices were in Phillip Street, where lawyers are more numerous than pigeons and bri
efs were tool of trade, not underwear. The offices covered enough floors to suggest a small government department, but no jeans and open-necked shirts and trainers were tolerated here. Fairbrother, Milson and Gudersen were old school, though they charged new school fees.

  Monday morning Malone and Graham presented themselves at the reception desk. No casual clothes this time, but suits and ties and Malone with his trademark pork-pie hat. The receptionist was certainly not jeans-and-trainers; she was sleek as a fashion model but healthier looking. She had the fluting vowels of one of the eastern suburbs' private schools.

  “Do you have an appointment with Miz Gudersen?”

  “No, we're police. Usually we don't make appointments.”

  She gave them a smile that showed what she thought of police wit. “I'll check if she can see you. You may be lucky.”

  “We usually are,” said Malone and gave her a smile that showed what he thought of snooty receptionists.

  Ms. Gudersen was free if not welcoming. She was power-suited in clerical grey offset by a yellow silk blouse. Her face this morning was not puffed from sleep or love-making; the wild tangle of hair was drawn back in a smooth chignon. Her voice was as crisp as that of a platform announcer: “You have five minutes—”

  “We have as much time as it will take,” said Malone. “Don't let's get off on the wrong foot, Miss Gudersen.” He waited for her to tell him Miz Gudersen; but she didn't. She gazed at him steadily, measuring an opponent; then nodded. “We're working on a murder case. Unfortunately, those sort of cases can't be hurried. You may know that.”

  “I do only civil cases.”

  She sized them up again, then waved the two of them to chairs. Malone noted that she had a corner office, which meant that she was a senior partner; probably by inheritance. The office itself was standard old school: lots of timber panelling, glass-fronted bookcases, an antique desk that had probably been used by her father and her grandfather. The only bright note in the room was a Lloyd Rees painting of a harbour bay, but even the artist was dead.