by Jon Cleary
“Can I help? Oh, it's you, Sarah!”
“Just checking a few things,” said Walter while Sarah was trying to find something to say.
“Are you going to put the house on the market?” Despite the cold, Mrs. Next-Door wasn't going to waste the opportunity to pick up crumbs of news. Real estate was important, it had to be kept in mind, no matter what the circumstances. You never knew who might move in next to you.
“Too soon to think of that,” said Walter and took Sarah's arm and steered her to the front door.
Inside the house, with a couple of lights switched on, they stood and looked at each other. They were suddenly assailed by memory, though they had not come here looking for memories. But all this around them was part of what they were trying to protect. This was the house where he had courted her (she still used the old-fashioned term), when he had been a law student and she had been a doctor's receptionist. They had built their life in a pyramid of blocks and the pinnacle, so Walter had been advised, was only a year or two away. And now . . .
It was a widower's house, a bachelor's by marriage. Sarah's mother had died twenty years ago and her father had refused a live-in housekeeper (telling them he couldn't afford one, while the money piled up in his portfolio) and had settled for a cleaning woman who came in twice a week and re-arranged the dust. There were no flowers in the vases, no life-style magazines on the coffee table, no scarves (Sarah's mother had loved scarves) lying around. There were books everywhere: spy novels, histories, biographies. But, oddly, there were no books on investment nor copies of business magazines. As if, when they came to visit, he had been hiding his secret interest. As for women he might have entertained here, no trace of them had been left. It struck Sarah only then that her father, in his own way, had been as self-contained as Jack.
Jack (she would never get used to Julian, though she liked the name) arrived twenty minutes later by cab. When they opened the door to him he stood a moment, as if reluctant to enter the house where he and his father had argued so often.
“Who's the woman next door? She wanted to know if she could help me.”
“Mrs.—” Walter named the woman. “Full of good works. Come in before she hops the fence.”
“What's happened to the North Shore? It used to mind its own business.”
“It never did. It was just subtler in the old days.”
Jack (Julian) stepped in the door. He was wrapped in a dark overcoat and his hair was a grey mess. Walter closed the door against the wind and the police, wherever they might now be.
“What's this about?” Julian (he had shucked off the old name, despite what his brother-in-law might say) smoothed down his hair. He opened his overcoat, but didn't take it off as he followed them into the cold living room. “It must be serious—”
Don't act innocent, thought Walter. “Jack—”
“Julian.”
“No. Jack. Because this concerns us as much as you, because the mess that's building up around us—us, Jack—must have started a long while ago, when you were Jack Brown. Did you know the American Ambassador's wife?”
“Mrs. Pavane,” said Sarah, who now remembered the name.
“Christ, it's cold in here!” He wrapped the coat round him, but didn't do it up, and sat down in the worn green leather chair that had been his father's favourite. “Did Dad still persist in not having air- conditioning?”
“You know what he was like,” said Sarah.
“Jack—” said Walter, persisting.
He looked up from the deep chair, sighed, then said, “Why did the police come to you?”
“They traced Sarah as your sister—don't ask me how. I know this Inspector Malone, he's no fool. I think they know a lot more than they told us. Did you know Mrs. Pavane?”
“Not as Mrs. Pavane, no.” He took his time: “We used to go out together years ago. It was nothing serious—you remember what it was like in those days, everyone having a good time—”
“We were married—” It was difficult to tell whether Sarah was being prim or regretful. “I had the boys—”
Walter said, “Did you see her the night she was murdered?” It was a prosecuting counsel's question, direct and blunt.
Sarah had sat down, but Walter was still standing. Julian looked at her, then up at him. “Whose side are you on, Walter? Are you working for the police?”
“No, I'm not. I'm on our side, if you want to put it that way. Sarah and me. Have you seen her since you landed back in Sydney?”
Who would have recognized him that night, would identify him as being with her? The Regent's commissionaire, the staff at the Japanese restaurant, the cab drivers? No. Only the woman who had stared at him as he had opened the door of Room 342.
“No. I phoned her down in Canberra, just to congratulate her. We had a chat, a friendly one, and that was it.”
“So you weren't with her on the night she was murdered?”
“Darling—”
Walter didn't look at her, continued to stare at Julian. As he did at defendants in the dock. “I have to ask it, Sarah. Jack knows that.”
“Of course you do,” said Julian, all at once seemingly relaxed, self-contained. “No, I wasn't with her. Wasn't I here, having dinner with you?”
“No,” said Sarah, reluctantly.
He's amazing, thought Walter. In a courtroom I would be battling him for hours.
Julian gestured helplessly. “Then I don't remember. I haven't been out much, other than coming to see you, going to the lawyers . . .”
“Why did you call Mrs. Pavane?” asked Walter. “After all these years?”
“Wouldn't you call an old friend if he got to be a judge or a Cabinet Minister? I knew Mrs. Pavane when she was Trish Norval, we worked in the same office. We were friends, we went out together a few times. But I haven't seen her since I left here all that time ago. I spoke to her, but that was all.”
He's lying, thought Walter; but they had to accept it. So far he had not let himself think that his brother-in-law might be a murderer. But Jack was lying about something . . . “Well, that's all we wanted to know.”
“Why couldn't you have asked me over the phone? Instead of dragging me all the way out here?” But he didn't ask the question belligerently, more as if he were puzzled.
God, thought Walter again, he is so self-contained. “I wanted to ask you face to face. It's the way I work, Jack, you know that. Or you should.”
“You've made your reputation while I've been away, Walter. I've never seen you in court. But now—are you satisfied? Now we've been face to face?”
Sarah said, “Jack, don't let's fight—”
“Rah, I'm not fighting,” he said evenly. “I'm just upset that you thought I might have had something to do with this—this—” for the first time he missed a beat “—murder.”
“It's not us,” she said defensively. “It's the police.”
“You seem impressed by them,” said Julian, looking at Walter. “They weren't a very impressive lot back in the eighties. Corrupt cops in cahoots with criminals—”
“They're different now, they've cleaned up the Service—there are still a few bad apples, but not many. This Inspector Malone knows much more than he's told us. If you have nothing to hide, I'd advise you to go and see him.” Then Walter tried to lighten the moment, backing off, seeing how upset Sarah was: “That's free advice. Normally I charge a whopping fee.”
Julian smiled at both of them, stood up unhurriedly. “I'll think about it. In the meantime, there's another meeting tomorrow morning, that right? Will that be the last?”
“I think so,” said Walter. “There are a few papers to sign, then the administrator can go ahead settling the estate. You should get your share, two to three months at the outside. We'll put this house on the market—” He waved a hand around the room.
“Do we have to?” said Sarah. “I'd like to keep it for one of the boys, either one. I was born here.” She looked around her, as if looking for her lost girlhood.
“We both were.”
“No,” said Julian. “We were both born in hospital. Sell it, Walter. What'll it bring?”
“Eight or nine hundred thousand, the agents say.” He's still greedy, thought Walter. “We'll sell, if that's what you want.”
“That will be the last link, then,” said Julian and looked at Sarah. “Except for you.”
She wasn't sure what was in his voice: warmth, indifference, what? So she said nothing. There was an emptiness in her that she had never felt before, not even when her father died. She had looked forward so much to the reunion with Jack, hoping he had changed. He had, but for the worse, it seemed.
“We'll see you tomorrow morning,” said Walter. “Nine o'clock. I'm due in court at ten.”
“A winning case?” asked Julian.
“No, a losing one. Two bikie murderers, guilty as hell. But I tried—”
“I'm sure you would have. Can you give me a lift back to the nearest station? I'll catch a train back to town.”
“We can drive you back to town—” said Sarah.
“No, the train will do.”
“So you're still staying somewhere in the city?”
“Yes,” he said with a smile, but offered no more.
They drove him to Lindfield station, he kissed Sarah on the cheek and shook Walter's hand and they left him and went home to Killara. They went to bed and Walter tossed and turned all night. He was egotistical, pompous and wrapped in leaves of social values as many and thin as those of a lettuce. But he had a conscience, a value with no price.
In the morning, at seven-thirty he rang the number Malone had given him at Homicide.
A man's voice answered and Walter asked for Inspector Malone. “I know he won't be in his office at this hour, but it's urgent I speak to him. This is Walter Wexall, Senior Counsel.”
“The barrister? I can't give you the boss' home number, that's definitely not on. Give me your number and I'll have him call you right away.”
Walter gave his home number, put down the phone and looked at Sarah, who had come to the door of their bedroom. “I have to do it, darling. It's a matter of conscience.”
“You've thought everything through? What it might do to us?”
“Everything. It won't affect me at the Bar. Or going to the Supreme Court—” He put out a hand and she took it. “There'll be some awkwardness with our friends—”
She was almost afraid to ask the question: “Do you think he murdered that woman?”
“I don't know—” But he did. Then the phone rang: “Wexall.”
“You wanted to speak to me, Mr. Wexall?”
“Yes, Inspector. Nine o'clock this morning, at the offices of Fairbrother and company. He'll be there. And, Inspector . . .”
Malone, at the other end of the line, waited on the long pause. Then: “Yes?”
“Inspector, could you not let him know I called you?”
“Mr. Wexall, I'll take all the credit. And thank you—I know this hasn't been easy for you.”
Walter put down the phone and wrapped his arms round the weeping Sarah.
IV
Malone tossed up in his mind whom to take with him: Andy Graham or Gail Lee. Then he decided that it was Graham's dogged work which had brought them this far.
So he and Graham were waiting in Rita Gudersen's office when Julian Baker came in. Walter and Sarah Wexall had not yet arrived and Mrs. Gudersen had been surprised when Malone and Graham told her why they were here.
“I think it'll be better if we meet him here in your office, rather than outside. We don't want to upset your other clients.”
“Why did you have to choose here?”
“Because we knew he'd be here.”
“Who told you?”
“No one. We just worked on deduction.”
She gave them a sour smile. “Who are you trying to kid? Okay, but no fuss, understand?”
“No fuss,” said Malone. “Unless Mr. Baker starts it. What name has he been using with you?”
“John Brown—though he's called Jack all the time.” She walked to the big window, sat down on its ledge and looked back at the two detectives. And Malone looked at her. She was a good-looking woman, successful, possibly had everything she wanted. Then he wondered why she would want to spend her time with a shonk like Bruce Farro; but he had long ago given up trying to fathom women. To be honest, he might somehow have made things easier with Delia Bates all those long years ago . . . Then Rita Gudersen said, “Is he—is he connected to the murder of the American Ambassador's wife?”
“We don't know. That's what we want to ask him.”
She smiled again, less sour this time. “I'd hate to cross-examine you in the witness box.”
“I'm a novice compared to Detective Graham.”
Andy Graham smiled and took the compliment. Then Mr. Brown was announced by Rita Gudersen's secretary. He came in, overcoated, hat in hand, and pulled up sharply when he saw the two strangers.
“I'm sorry, Miz.Gudersen. Am I too early?”
“Not at all,” said Malone and introduced himself and Graham. “We'd like to talk to you, ask a few questions.”
“What about?”
“Not here, Mr. Brown—”
Julian looked at Rita Gudersen, who had moved back to her desk but was still standing. “Did you arrange this?”
“No, I did not, Mr. Brown. We are not in the habit of ambushing our clients—” Her voice was like a double-edged sword.
He dipped his head. “I apologize.”
“Miss Gudersen had nothing to do with this,” said Malone. “We'd like you to come up to Police Centre with us. We shan't keep you any longer than is necessary.”
“I can't come now. Can't it wait? I have a meeting—” He looked at Rita Gudersen. “Are my sister and her husband here?”
“No.” She was playing her part better than Malone had expected from her early attitude towards him and Graham. “Mr. Wexall phoned—they've been held up. They'll be twenty or thirty minutes late.”
“You'll be back here by then, Mr. Brown,” said Malone. “Do you mind coming with us?”
“And if I do mind?” For a moment there was a show of belligerence; then he thought better of it. “Okay . . . Tell the Wexalls I'll be back here before ten, Rita.” Then his face stiffened with shrewdness: “Walter told me he had to be in court at ten. So he won't be coming?”
He's guessed who gave us the word, thought Malone.
“I wouldn't know about that,” said Rita Gudersen.
He studied her, then said, “Okay, we'll get everything signed and sealed. I'm booked out this afternoon for San Francisco.” Then he looked at Malone. “Ready, Inspector?”
The bastard's cool. “All the time, any time. It's the Police Service motto. Right, Detective Graham?”
“All the time, sir,” said Andy Graham.
8
I
“DELIA,” SAID Rosie Quantock, “you gotta find yourself something to do. A job or something.”
She was wearing the burden of Delia and her crime and the care of Delia's two kids, but it hardly showed. She had been a battler all her life, coming from a large family with no money; she had had her dreams, but they had always been beyond her reach. She had had a voice that, in other circumstances, might have at least got her out of the chorus; but she had never had enough money to hire a top coach, she had never been quite good enough to win a scholarship, she had been a union organizer and management had always shied away from her, fearful that if they promoted her she would have organized Sutherland, Pavarotti and only God knew who else. She had married a stagehand and retired, but still went to the Opera House, stood in the wings and sang silently every note with those on stage. She had surrendered but no one but her husband knew.
Delia Jones looked at her two children. “What d'you reckon? You want me to work?”
The boy and girl looked like each other and both looked like their mother. If there was anything of their father in them, it was only
that their cheeks were wider than their mother's. They both had her dark hair and the girl had her mother's lively, pretty mouth. The boy had a quiet countenance to him, as if always waiting for tomorrow.
“It'd help, wouldn't it, Mum?” said the girl. “I mean, it'd give you something to do, instead of sitting around, moping all day.”
“You think that's what I do?” She loved them and was tolerant of their criticism.
“Yeah,” said the boy. He was eleven years old, but already he had put a foot inside the door of adulthood, opened for him by his warring parents. “Get a job, Mum. It'd give us more money to spend.”
“You need it, the extra money,” said Rosie Quantock. “You dunno how long this—this thing is gunna drag on. Are you behind in the rent?”
Delia didn't answer and the girl said, “Yeah. The man was here yesterday and Mum sent me to the door—”
“Dakota, you talk too much,” said her mother, but wearily.
They were seated round the kitchen table, the breakfast things still in front of them. Morning light streamed in the curtainless window, but it did nothing to relieve the drabness of the small room. In the past two weeks Rosie Quantock had noticed that Delia had grown careless about housekeeping. The woman who, even when battered and bruised, had kept the small house as neat as a cell no longer appeared to care. But the calendar, with those battle days circled in red, had disappeared from the wall above the fridge. A certain amount of housekeeping had been done.
Delia looked at her friend. “Rosie, what would I do? They don't want me back where I used to work—like when I take calls on the board, people are gunna recognize who I am.”
“Change your name,” said the boy.
“Calvin, I can't do that.”
“I'm gunna change mine,” he said.
“What? Calvin or Jones?” said Rosie Quantock, who had no children of her own, and smiled at him and rubbed the back of his neck. Then she looked at Delia with real concern. “Go down to the job office this morning, love. Take anything they offer you. But get off your arse, get out and do something!”
