by Jon Cleary
Then he knew the hate was still there and he should never have picked up the phone to call her. “Let's leave spouses out of it. I'm not going to ask you about—what's his name? Stephen?”
“Oh, you can ask me about him.” She rolled over on her back, pulled the sheet up on her; as if to say one didn't talk about one's husband with everything exposed. “I love him.”
“Good,” he said, not yet hating her. “And I love my wife.”
Neither of them smoked, so there was none of the stagecraft with cigarettes after intercourse. And there was no smoke to the dialogue: “Do you give her a good life? I don't mean this—” She gestured at the bed.
“I think so. I've done well—” He hadn't meant to say that: he was not normally boastful.
“So have I.” She sounded boastful; he waited for her to throw out her chest, but she kept it under the sheet. “I married a rich man, Jack.”
“I always knew you would.” He managed a smile.
“No, you didn't. You didn't give a damn who I married. So long as it wasn't you.”
It was time to get dressed; he began to draw on his shorts. He had his back to her when she said, “Whoever you are now, whatever you've done, I could ruin you, Jack.”
He said nothing for a moment, stood up and turned round. Then: “I could do the same to you.”
She shook her head; her dark hair fell down and she pushed it back. “What could you tell them? That I'm not who I said I was? You have no idea where I've been or what I've done in the last—what is it? Fourteen years? When we were with the firm, I was never under suspicion like you and the others, Bruce and Wayne and Grant—I wonder if they're still around? Who cares? You don't, do you?”
“No.” His voice was flat as he pulled on his trousers.
“They interviewed me and I came out virgin pure—”
“Does your husband know all about you?” He was pulling on his shirt.
“Yes.” She's lying, he thought; but wasn't sure. “But not about you and me.”
“You're lying—”
“How would you know? I'll tell your wife about you and me—”
It was then that he hit her; when suddenly he really hated her. If she had not hit back, coming out of the sheets like an animal out of a burrow, had not fought him with her own hatred, he might have stopped. Rage vomited out of him and, later, he would be confused as to what actually happened. When he drew back from her she was dead.
He sat down on the side of the bed, trembling. He looked at her, then looked away. He sat there for almost ten minutes, not moving. Then the discipline that had run most of his life seeped back into him, like water hardening into ice; he was not shattered, he was not going to go to pieces. He stood up, finished dressing unhurriedly. He thought criminally: had he left any fingerprints anywhere? He wiped the bedhead, avoided looking at her; the dressing-table; the chair over which he had hung his clothes. He went into the bathroom, relieved himself, put a piece of toilet paper over his finger before he pushed the flush-button:
He came out of the bathroom, looked around him, satisfied himself he was leaving nothing of himself in the room but the marks of his fingers on her throat. Then, handkerchief in hand, he opened the door and looked out and straight into the face of a slim woman staring at him over the shoulder of a man in overalls with a carpet-cleaner. He closed the door, leaned against it on the inside.
Five minutes later he opened the door again, looked out. The hallway was deserted. The woman and the man in overalls had gone. He stepped out, closing the door behind him, and went looking for fire stairs as a way out of the hotel.
He knew nothing of the fact that he had left his DNA print in the vagina of Trish Norval.
II
Malone changed his mind at the last minute: “Andy, you've got the night off. I'll take Gail with me to see the Wexalls. Two boofheaded cops walking in on Mrs. Wexall might upset her too much—we'd get nothing out of her.”
“I've never thought of myself as boofheaded.” Graham grinned; he was becoming sophisticated. He did not object to being replaced by a woman; he had a girlfriend who, with due diligence (she worked for a firm of accountants), was educating him in the skills of women. “I'll tell Louisa what you said—she'll be disappointed. Here's the address.”
“Enjoy your date with Louisa.”
“I always do. I listen to only half what she's telling me, but isn't that the best principle?”
“All the time, Andy,” said Malone and was glad Lisa and his girls could not hear him.
Gail Lee was not happy when she was told she would be on duty for a couple of hours this evening. “I wish you'd told me sooner—I was taking my mother to the opera—”
Instantly he regretted he had not given her more notice; but Andy Graham was already gone. “I'm sorry, Gail. But I need a woman on this visit—”
“It's okay.” She sounded ungracious, but in the cool way that only East Asians can achieve, “My sister can stand in for me.”
“What's the opera?”
She looked at him in surprise; she knew he was not an opera-goer. “Don Giovanni. It's supposed to be a comic opera, but I always cheer when the hero is dragged down to hell.”
“You drive. I'll ride in the back with the airbags.”
But he rode up to Killara with her in the front seat. She had done a stint with the Highway Patrol before joining Homicide and she drove fast but with skill. He, as usual, rode with his feet in the floorboards.
“How would you go in a Ferrari?”
“Highway Patrol would never catch me.”
Now that the base had been broadened and she was on the Pavane case as well as the Delia Jones one, she had softened her coolness. Young detectives, if not the older ones, prefer cases that are not open-and-shut. As if they are still sitting for exams.
The Killara street was not a setting where one would come looking for a murderer; or news of one. It was tree-lined, the street-lamps shining through them like stage lighting, throwing shadows that held no menace. There were no cars lining the street. Every house had its garages; some had curved driveways where cars were parked. Large deep gardens fronted the houses like moats.
But here in secure suburbia there was still a need for security, it seemed. Gail pressed a lighted button and a voice over an intercom demanded, “Yes? Who is it?”
“Police,” said Gail. “Detective-Inspector Malone and Detective-Constable Lee.”
The voice was a woman's. “Police? What do you want? Just a moment.”
Gail looked at Malone, who said, “She's checking with hubby if we're okay. Here he comes—”
Walter Wexall's voice was the sort that never crackled, not even over an intercom. “What is it about?”
Malone leaned into the intercom: “Mr. Wexall, I'm not going to talk to you through this thing. Will you please come to the door?”
“I'm freezing,” said Gail. “I left my coat in the car.”
“Here he comes.”
The front door opened and Walter Wexall stood behind the security door, outlined against the lighted hallway behind him. “I don't appreciate being intruded on in my own home, Inspector—”
“Will you ask us in, Mr. Wexall?” Malone managed to keep the sharpness out of his voice. “Detective Lee is freezing.”
Wexall opened the security door, suddenly relaxing as if realizing his stiff attitude would get him nowhere; or as if, belatedly, realizing his impoliteness. “Come in. I apologize. I don't welcome even clients here at my home—”
“I understand, Mr. Wexall.” Malone decided to be polite, too. “I never invite crims home.”
Wexall was not all stuffed shirt; he had a sense of humour. He laughed and stood aside, gave a theatrical gesture. “Come in, come in. Sarah—”
She came down the hallway, a galleon of a woman beside the very slim Gail Lee. “It's about Jack? My brother?”
“Just a few questions—” said Malone.
They were led into a large living room as comfortable and secure as a
furnished vault. The evening was still young, just gone seven, and it struck Malone that he and Gail had probably interrupted the Wexalls' dinner. But if that were so, the Wexalls made no mention of it.
They were polite; but they were not offering coffee or drinks. “Did you see my brother-in-law?” asked Walter.
The two detectives were seated in deep armchairs; Sarah Wexall sat opposite them in a matching lounger. Walter stood in front of the fireplace, where logs burned, warming his backside. He had his hands clasped behind his back and, almost Victorian-like, he dominated the room. But Malone cut the legs from under him:
“He wasn't at the Regent. He checked out the morning after the murder we're investigating. I think you knew that, Mr.Wexall.”
There was a silence but for the hiss of flames. Sarah looked as if she was about to say something, then changed her mind. She glanced up at her husband, but he appeared to be gazing at the painting on the wall above Malone's head. Then he looked down and said lamely, “We were hoping to be kept right out of it. You caught me off-balance this morning—”
Malone didn't buy that, but made no comment. Wexall had been too long a court performer to be caught off-balance; he was an actor manqué, but not a failure in measured delivery. He had been playing defence counsel this morning and he still was.
Gail Lee looked at Sarah: “Mrs. Wexall, do you know where your brother is? Is he still in Sydney?”
Sarah hesitated, glanced at her husband again, then said, “I think so. I've spoken to him a couple of times on the phone, but he wouldn't say where he was.”
“You didn't find that strange?”
“Well—” Then she looked again at counsel for advice, but Walter was silent.
Gail persisted: “You didn't find it strange?”
“Yes . . . No, not really.” Sarah was having difficulty with her voice. “We hadn't spoken for so long—fourteen years. We were—are still getting to know each other again—”
“Where has he been the last few years? Those fourteen years?” asked Malone. “We know he left Sydney in 1987—”
“Paris,” said Walter, taking over from Sarah; she looked at him with gratitude, almost non-wifely. “Toronto. He works for some Canadian bank.”
“Walter—” Sarah suddenly changed her mind.
“Darling—” For the moment the two detectives might not have been in the room. Walter moved away from the fireplace, sat on the arm of the lounger and took her hand. “He has to defend himself. We can't do it for him.”
“I know—” Her face looked doughy, ready to fall out of shape. “I just can't believe he would have anything to do with—with—” She flapped a hand helplessly, looked at Malone and Gail Lee. “With what you're investigating.”
Malone fed them a crumb. “We don't know he has anything to do with it. But we're working our way through a list and he's on it.” He looked up at Walter. “You know that's the way we work, by elimination.”
Walter hesitated, then nodded. “Yes. Of course.”
“Have you seen him at all in the past week or ten days?”
Again there was hesitation. Walter looked at a loss in his own home; at a Bar table there would have been papers to shuffle, junior counsel to consult. Then he said, “We had a session at our solicitor's—”
“Fairbrother etcetera?”
“Yes. We're dealing with the estate—their father, my wife's and Julian's—Jack's—he died two weeks ago. Intestate. With no will, there are things to be cleared up.”
“He keeps in touch, then?”
“Yes,” said Sarah. “We've had a meeting at the solicitor's. He calls every two or three days.”
“Never saying where he's staying?”
“No.” Then tentatively, almost fearfully: “Can you trace those calls?”
“Unfortunately, no. Once you put down the receiver, that wipes the call.” Then Malone looked at Wexall: “We'd like to put a tap on your line.”
That was an idea that did not appeal to Wexall: “No. No, I can't allow that—”
“Mr. Wexall—” Malone was all patience. “We can go to a magistrate or judge—”
“They'd never agree.” He knew his standing with the Bench.
“Maybe not, but they'd ask questions why we wanted it and we'd tell them in detail. Gossip flies—”
“There are judges who'd give you hard labour for such a slander—” But once again he eased out of the stiffness that seemed to come and go like an arthritic attack. He said almost plaintively, “You're threatening us.”
“No,” said Malone. “It's the situation that's threatening, not us. You know that.”
Wexall said nothing, looked at Sarah, grimaced, then looked back at Malone: “All right, you can put a tap on the line.”
“Walter!”
“Darling, please—” He was standing again in front of the fireplace, no longer looking Victorian and dominant. “We can't obstruct them . . . What you hear on the line, Inspector, it will be kept under strict control? Wire taps are always being leaked.”
“I promise I'll have the head of any bloke who leaks anything. I have reasons why we don't want this case spread around.”
Wexall never missed a point: “It might harm the American Ambassador?”
It was Malone's turn to hesitate; then he nodded. Abruptly he went off on another tack before any more questions about the Pavanes could be asked: “Do you have a recent photo of your brother, Mrs. Wexall?”
She shook her head. “Nothing. I think there might be one or two of him as a teenager, but he's changed. A lot.”
“What does he look like now? Describe him.”
“Well . . .” She had to take her time, as if describing a stranger. “He's tall—I don't know, six feet, six-one.”
No centimetres for her. “He's well-built, he seems to have looked after himself. He's—yes, I think he's good-looking?” She looked at her husband, who nodded. “He has grey hair. He dresses—American, I suppose you'd call it.” She would always be conscious of dress; had she been around at the time, she would have described what Anne Boleyn and Marie Antoinette had worn on their last outings. “You know, those button-down shirts that always look as if they haven't been ironed—”
Malone was glad he was wearing his soft collar with the stays. Beautifully ironed.
“Yes, American—”
“Canadian,” said her husband.
“Well, they're much the same, aren't they?”
“Not quite.” He turned back to Malone. “He's distinctive, Inspector. He has a very—a very self-contained look.”
“He was always like that,” said Sarah. “Even as a boy. Self-contained, that's Jack.”
Malone and Gail Lee asked a few more questions, but they had the feeling the Wexalls had been drained dry, both of them. At least for this evening. The two detectives stood up and Sarah rose with them, rushing, but politely, to sweep them out of the house.
At the door Malone said, “We'll have the tap on your phone first thing in the morning. If Jack—or Julian—calls tonight, advise him to come in and see us.” He handed Wexall his card. “It'll save a lot of bother all round, tell him.”
“Did he know—” said Sarah. “Did he know the Ambassador's wife?”
“Yes. Tell him we know that.”
He and Gail went down the garden path, the wind threshing the trees above them, and out to the car. Once in it, with the windows wound up and the heat turned on, Malone said, “Righto, up to Gordon, that's the local shop. We'll get them to put surveillance on the house while I rustle up some blokes from the strike force.”
“Do we stake out the Fairbrother office, too?”
“Yes. One way or another we're going to have Mr. Baker, or Mr. Brown, talk to us. Even if we have to follow him to Toronto. Get Andy to check which Canadian bank Julian Baker works for.”
“I'll do that,” said Gail. “I'd like a trip to Canada. As compensation.”
“For missing the opera?” He grinned. “Sorry about that.”
“This is starting to sound like one. Only there's no music.”
III
Five minutes after the two detectives left the Wexall house the phone rang. Walter picked it up: “Yes? Jack? Sorry. Julian . . . No, I'm okay. The police have just been here.”
There was silence for a moment; then: “What did they want?”
“To talk to you—about the American Ambassador's wife.” Sarah, standing beside him, went to say something, but he waved her to wait. “Julian, I think we'd better talk—”
“What about?”
“You.” He took his own pause, then said, “And what you're involved in.”
Another long pause; then: “What makes you think I'm involved in anything?”
“Julian—” He would come to hate that name. “My whole career has been based on sizing up people—from how they act, what they say, what they don't say. Don't let's beat about the bush over the phone. If we can help—” He glanced at Sarah and she nodded. “If we can help, you'd better see us. Soon.”
“I'm not coming up there—”
He's guilty of something. But Walter didn't pursue the thought, shying away from it. “No, not here . . . Get in a cab and come to your father's house. We still have the key. We'll meet you there in half an hour—”
“Walter—”
“Jack—” Never mind Julian. “If you want us to help—or understand—meet us at the house in half an hour.”
He hung up and turned to Sarah. “He's hiding something.”
She clutched his arm as if wanting him to hold her up. “I can't—I just can't believe—”
“Don't believe the worst—don't believe anything till he's talked to us. Give him the benefit of the doubt.” But he now had no doubt himself. No proof, not a shred of evidence, but no doubt.
“Oh, I'm so glad the boys are away for the night—”
On a school camping trip, learning about hazards and how to cope.
“Don't worry about them. We have ourselves to think of.”
He put on a turtleneck sweater and blazer, she a cashmere cardigan and camelhair coat; they would have dressed for a garage sale. He got the Mercedes out of the garage and they drove down the North Shore to Lindfield. As they pulled into the driveway of the house where Sarah and Jack had grown up, a woman came out of the neighbouring house. There are faces at windows even in the best of districts.
