by Jon Cleary
“The Pavane case? Is Bruce Farro in trouble?” She spoke as if, though she slept with him, Farro was just an acquaintance. Or a client.
“No,” said Malone. “We are looking for someone who worked with him back in the 1980s. We believe Fairbrother etcetera did their legal—”
“Fairbrother, Milson and Gudersen,” she said and smiled; she was relaxed now, almost hospitable. “I like to get a mention. I'm the last of the Gudersens.”
“I'll remember that,” said Malone and smiled in return. Then, because he didn't believe in letting his junior officer sit there like a shag on a rock, he said, “Detective Graham has the man's name.”
“Jack Brown,” said Graham. “We'd like to know where he is.”
“That was when?”
“Last seen 1987,” said Graham.
She shook her head. “I was very junior here in those days, I'd just graduated. I knew no one there at that firm of stockbrokers.”
Malone had been watching her. At the mention of the name Jack Brown the hand on the desk had closed into a fist, but otherwise there was no reaction. However it was enough for Malone to ask: “But you know of Mr. Brown now, right?”
“You're stepping outside your brief, Inspector—”
“You know that I'm not.” The tones of both of them were even. “Where is he now?”
“I don't know.”
“But you've seen him recently?”
“Inspector, you've heard of lawyer-client confidentiality—”
Malone grinned wearily; it was like listening to a joke repeated time and time again. “Yes, I've heard of it. All we want to do is ask Mr. Brown a few questions—”
“I'll see what can be done. Now, if you'll excuse me—?”
Going down in the lift, surrounded by other travellers, Malone said nothing to Andy Graham. But out in the street, in the cold sunlight, with lawyers striding past, gowns flapping in the wind, clerks trailing behind with trolleys packed with books, as if they had just come from a legal supermarket shopping spree, he snarled, “Jack Bloody Brown is somewhere here in Sydney! Find him, Andy!”
“Where do I start?” For once Graham looked like a bloodhound that had lost its nose.
“He must've had a family before he left here. Find 'em! Go back to Farro and Jones, find out if Brown had a mother or father or siblings!”
“Siblings?” Graham suddenly grinned; it was almost impossible for him to remain depressed. “If I called my sisters siblings they'd kick me for talking dirty.”
“Get cracking!”
Malone stalked off, forgetting that he had come here with Graham in an office car. Uncharacteristically, temper was getting the better of him; he had either aged suddenly or reverted to adolescence. He had walked a hundred metres before he realized where he was heading; he turned, looked back and saw Andy Graham driving off. Reluctantly, he hailed a cab, got in the back and refused to enter into conversation with the talkative cab driver. At Strawberry Hills he got out and paid the exact fare, counting out the last coins.
“Have a nice day,” said the cab driver, a Greek. “Fall under a truck.”
Back at Fairbrother, Milson and Gudersen the phone had been picked up as soon as the two detectives had left the room. Rita Gudersen said, “Get me Mr. Wexall.”
V
When Malone got up to his office, Clements was waiting for him: “You look as if you've got shit on the liver again.”
“Righto, stop laughing. What have you got?”
“Nemesis—I have to laugh every time I hear that. Who was Nemesis?”
Malone had looked it up: “The Greek goddess of vengeance. She'd kick you up the bum if she were here. Get on with it.”
“Simmer down, mate. Well, Nemesis, she's just rung in. She may be the goddess of vengeance, but she's cocked things up. That fingerprint they found on the flush-button at the Southern Savoy, it was a woman's print. She had a record, so they started looking up her record and the report got temporarily lost. She was the housemaid found the Pavane corpse. She went into the bathroom and vomited in the toilet, then flushed it. They've interviewed her now and it's got us nowhere.” He sat down opposite Malone, took his time: “You got nowhere, too. Right?”
“No, we've narrowed it down. Jack Brown. Find him and maybe—maybe—we'll know who did in Mrs. Pavane.”
“And then you tell Ambassador Pavane and he won't want to know. And the shit goes from your liver to the fan.”
“Nemesis might've gone out with you if she'd known you.”
“I think her other name is Delia Jones. She's rung twice, wanting to speak to you. Only you. I told her you were no longer on her case.”
VI
Claire Malone (she still used her maiden name at work) saw the Notice of Intended Distribution of the Estate of Charles Brown while looking through the Legal Notices in the daily newspapers. She did not know her father was looking for Charles Brown's son and she passed on to other notices that might concern any of her clients. It was Andy Graham, dogged as usual, who pressed both Bruce Farro and Wayne Jones till Farro remembered that Brown had once mentioned that his father was a chemist somewhere on the North Shore. From there, though it took him another two days, the trail led to Jack Brown's sister, married to Walter Wexall, SC.
“I know Wexall's reputation, boss. He wouldn't have defended Jesus Christ—too radical. If Jack Brown is Mrs. Pavane's killer, Mr. Wexall will divorce Jack Brown's sister.”
“Have you got in touch with Wexall or his wife?” asked Malone.
“I thought you'd like to do that,” said Graham, straight-faced.
“You'll get on, Andy,” said Malone and the younger man grinned.
Malone rang Wexall's chambers, only to be told: “Mr. Wexall is in court today.”
“Where?”
“Darlinghurst. Central Criminal Courts, Number 4.”
Malone and Graham drove over to Darlinghurst through another fine but cold day. When Malone had come out of the house this morning he had been greeted by a fire of camellias and azaleas, Nature showing she was not all cold heart. The sun had no warmth, but it was bright enough to throw shadows. Only the shadows in the courts were darker.
There were half a dozen bikies outside Court 4, sun glinting on their studded black leathers like on molluscs on dark rocks. They looked at the two detectives, recognizing them for what they were, and turned away with contempt. Inside the court two bikies were being charged with murder. One was bearded and long-haired and ear-ringed, the other clean-shaven and close-cropped and unmarked; they looked unrelated, as if in the dock on separate charges. Their defending counsel was Walter Wexall.
Gowned and bewigged, sonorous voice rolling like muted thunder, he was impressive; but ten minutes inside the court and Malone saw that Wexall was fighting a lost cause. Twenty minutes later the court rose for lunch and Malone and Graham followed Wexall out into a corridor. Malone signalled to one of the court sheriffs and they were ushered into a side room.
“You're not on this case, are you, Inspector?”
They had met a couple of times on other murder cases, but they were on formal terms.
“No, Mr. Wexall. We're on the Pavane case, the American Ambassador's wife. You've read about it.” As who hasn't?
Wexall raised an eyebrow above the gold-rimmed glasses. Malone had been in enough court audiences to know that barristers were all actors manqué; they used gestures, expressions with measured abandon. “Why me?”
“We understand your wife's maiden name was Sarah Brown. Did she have a brother, Jack Brown?”
Wexall had taken off his wig and gown, looked reduced without them; or was he reduced by some sudden unease? “Yes.”
He's going to make this difficult. “We want to talk to him. Is he in Sydney?”
“I'm not his lawyer—”
“We know that. That's why we know we won't be breaking any lawyer-client confidentiality.”
Wexall saw his mistake. “Why do you want to question him? Is it something to do w
ith the Pavane case?”
“Yes.”
Wexall frowned at the shortness of the answer, waited as if expecting more; then he chewed his lip. “Is he in serious trouble?”
“We don't know. But he knew Mrs. Pavane—”
The eyebrow went up again. “When? Where?”
“I'm afraid we can't tell you that, not yet—” Not till I've told the Ambassador. “All I can say, Mr. Wexall, is that we think he can help us in our enquiries.”
Wexall smiled at the old cliché. “In what way?”
“You are defending him, aren't you? Maybe not for a fee, but because he's your brother-in-law.”
Wexall looked at him, then at Graham, who had remained silent, then back at Malone. “I could refuse to answer—”
“You won't, Mr. Wexall. You know the law better than I—”
“So he's in trouble?”
“Not yet, no. Do you know where we can find him?”
Wexall chewed his lip again, then nodded, more to himself than to the two detectives. “He's staying at the Regent. Under the name of Julian Baker.”
“Thanks, Mr. Wexall. Nothing may come of this—we're not out to spread it to the media—”
“You have to do what you have to do—who said that? Gary Cooper or John Wayne?” He was looking for humour to prop him up.
“You have to do the same, I'm sure. How's it going out there?” He nodded in the direction of the courtroom.
“Hopeless, I fear. But one keeps trying.”
At five thousand bucks a day, why wouldn't one? “Good luck. We'll let you know how we get on with—” He looked at Andy Graham.
Who had jotted down the name in his notebook: “Julian Baker.”
“Do you know why he has changed his name?”
“Ask him,” said Walter Wexall and barely refrained from washing his hands.
When Malone and Graham came out of Court 4 the bikies were still there, munching on hamburgers and sandwiches, looking like horseless knights without their Harleys. The two detectives walked across to their car and Andy Graham said, “They stick together, don't they?”
“Who?”
“Bikies.” Then as he got in behind the wheel: “I don't think Mr. Wexall is gunna stick by Jack Brown.”
They drove down to the Regent and Malone waited in the car while Graham went in to enquire after Mr. Baker. He was back within two minutes. “He's gone. Checked out the morning of July 17.” He got in behind the wheel again. “That was the morning after the murder.”
The hotel commissionaire tapped on Malone's window and he wound it down. “Yes,” he said absently, mind stuck in the mud of frustration.
“Would you mind moving your car, sir? There are three taxis waiting to come in behind you.”
“Would you remember a Mr. Julian Baker, a guest here? He checked out just on two weeks ago.”
“No, sir, I can't place him, not the name. Would you mind moving on, please?”
Graham eased the car down the ramp. “Where to now? Back to Darlinghurst?”
“No, back to the office. Check with Immigration, see if Julian Baker has left the country. Check with all the airlines, see if Julian Baker booked on an interstate flight. Then if you were taking your girlfriend out to dinner this evening, tell her you'll be late. We're going up to see Mr. and Mrs. Wexall. We'll give Mr. Wexall time to get home.”
“Where do they live?”
“I'm depending on you to find out.”
7
I
JULIAN BAKER had not told Sarah and Walter why he had moved; and he had not told them where he had moved to. All he had said in a phone call to Sarah was, “I've moved. The Regent was a bit too public—I almost bumped into two guys I used to work with.”
“Where are you?” she had said.
“I'll let you know when I've settled.”
“Jack—”
“Julian.”
“No. It's a nice name, but I'll never get used to it. Jack, why all the hide-and-seek? I spent years writing to a box number. Now—”
“If ever you and Walter come to Toronto—” He hoped to God they wouldn't, though he didn't believe in God. “If ever you come, you'll understand what I'm trying to protect, Rah.”
He hadn't called her that since they were children and she noticed it. “Rah. That was a long time ago, wasn't it? Where did it all go?”
He had no answer to that and hung up. Then he had stared at the phone, cursing it. If he hadn't picked it up that morning at the Regent and called Canberra . . .
She had hesitated, then said yes, she would meet him; as he had guessed she would. She had been surprised at his call, but not cool. They had been a drug for each other, an addiction that was still there. It had been sex and nothing else. She had tried to tell him, when she fell pregnant, that it was love; but he hadn't believed her because he knew she was as selfish as himself. Love, he had read at university, was a mutual selfishness and he had told her he had no argument with that. She was still bitterly hating him when he had walked away from her and later he would wonder if the pregnancy had been planned.
Hate survives; he knew that, too. But when she called for him in a cab at the Regent and he got in beside her, she pressed his hand and kissed him on the cheek and he knew the evening was going to be fine. He didn't query why she had insisted on calling for him, instead of the other way round.
“We're going to a Japanese restaurant in Hunter's Hill.”
He noticed she now had an American accent. He had once read that Australian actors were considered the best at imitating American accents; and she had always been something of an actor. For himself, he had cultivated a mid-Atlantic accent. Both of them, he thought, were still intent on disguise.
“Nobody will know us there.” She had dropped her voice, as if she suspected the cab driver had his ears pinned back.
He was studying her in the dim light of the cab. “I'd have still known you.”
“I'm not sure I'd have known you. But you still look good.” She squeezed his hand.
“Likewise.”
The restaurant, it seemed, had been designed for those who wanted to be discreet. Nobody made entrances here; paparazzi would have been as welcome as terrorists. Julian didn't know where Trish (he called her that and she did not mind, smiling as if at the memory of a long-lost relative) had learned about Japanese food; she did the ordering with confidence, but allowed him to order the wine. The dinner went smoothly and halfway through it, after the second glass of wine, he knew the evening was going to end in bed.
He was surprised when she told him where she was staying. He did not know the Southern Savoy, but then the hotel scene had changed a lot in the years he had been away. As, indeed, had Sydney itself.
“Where is it?”
“On Railway Square. It's a two-bit hotel, but clean and nobody asks questions.”
“How did you get on to it?”
“My brother manages it.”
“Your brother? I didn't know you had one. Won't he broadcast who you are and where you're staying? Hotel managers are always looking to advertise.”
“He doesn't know who I'm meeting. He's not the sort who wants to let everyone know who his sister is married to. Are you married?”
He nodded. “Three kids. Have you any children?”
That was a mistake. She put down her wine glass and her eyes were suddenly cold. “The abortion buggered up my uterus. You knew that.”
“No, I never—”
Her accent was abruptly Australian, the past catching up with them for the moment. “I can never have children, thanks to you.”
He had to look elsewhere to avoid her stare. He looked towards a waiter without seeing him; unfortunately, the waiter saw him and came towards them. “Something wrong, sir?”
“Eh? No. No, everything's fine, thank you. Beautiful meal.”
“Thank you, sir. It is our pleasure to please.”
The formality sounded almost like a joke. But Julian was at ease with o
ther races, always had been; right now he was very much not at ease with one of his own. The waiter bowed and went away and he looked back at her. “I'm sorry. A bit late—”
“Yes. Very.” She stared at him a moment longer, took a sip of her wine. Moved it around in her mouth, as if tasting him as well as it. Then her gaze softened, just a little. “It's over. My husband—”
“What's he like?” he said hurriedly before she could tell him that her husband had always wanted children.
“You'd like him.”
“Ambitious?”
“Not so's you'd notice. He doesn't need to be. He has everything he wants. Including me,” she said, but smiled widely.
“He's lucky, then.”
“Thank you,” she said, as if he had handed her a bus ticket.
But as they waited outside the restaurant for the cab that had been called, she said, “Do you want me to drop you off at the Regent?”
“Or?”
“Or you can see me home to the Southern Savoy.”
“Will your brother be there?”
“No.”
“I'll see you home to the Southern Savoy.”
They sat close together in the cab, saying little, their hands saying everything for them. They walked through the deserted lobby of the hotel, nobody in sight at the reception desk, and waited for the lift. Going up in the lift to Room 342 he said, “You didn't get your key.”
“I didn't hand it in,” she said and held it up.
“You planned this. You were never a planner.”
“I am now. Have been for a long time.”
They had not forgotten each other's bodies; nor had the bodies changed that much. Sex is an exploration as well as an exploitation; they mapped each other like besotted cartographers. When they finally fell apart they were as exhausted as Burke and Wills. They lay, not under a coolibah tree, but under the light of a cheap bedside lamp, and looked at each other, not with love but a coldness that each managed to hide.
“Still good?” she said at last.
“Still good.”
“Better than your wife?”
