Yesterday's Shadow

by Jon Cleary

  “They're not gonna pick me up, Bruce. Do it. The money will be yours in a month. Trust me.”

  The phone went dead. Farro looked at it as if expecting a delayed message, then he set it back in its cradle. He would find Mrs. Jones this evening and kill her.

  He reminded himself he had always been prepared to take risks. Which was how he had got into his present financial mess with Finger Software. Another risk would get him out of it. He would begin thinking about Plan A . . .

  II

  “What d'you reckon?” asked Malone as they walked down to their car.

  “I wouldn't trust him with a dollar,” said Clements. “But I don't think he's gunna be any help on our case. He's no mate of our guy Brown.”

  “I'm wondering why Brown would have looked him up.” He took off his hat and slapped it at a gull that was using the roof of the car as a toilet.

  “Birds of a feather. Maybe Brown just wanted to see how well Farro had done out of that scam years ago. Money binds.”

  “Where'd you learn that? Your stockbroker tell you that?”

  “No, a crooked jockey when I used to punt on the horses. Back to the office?”

  “Unless you'd like to try Tibooburra?”

  They were inside the car now, the windows up against the cold. Clements looked at him. “You still thinking about Delia?”

  “No.”

  “Like I said, forget her. She's mine now, but I don't think she's gunna be any more trouble. She crapped in her nest when she gave us the finger in the line-up. I'll get the girls to call on her occasionally, but so long as she reports each week to Balmain, we won't hear from her again till she goes to trial. In the meantime—”

  “In the meantime, I've got my own troubles. Next time I have to talk to the Ambassador . . .”

  Back at the office Malone spent the next hour wrist-deep in paperwork. Despite the proliferation of computers, somehow paper had not decreased. He looked up with relief when Sheryl Dallen came into his office and put an envelope on his desk.

  “The court order for the DNA,” she said. “We've got him!”

  He felt his own lift of excitement. “Any trouble getting it?”

  “The judge raised his eyebrows when I told him why we wanted it.”

  “Righto, go down to Wharf West with Andy Graham and pick him up. Take him to Police Centre, then charge him. He'll argue against that, but it'll hold him till we've done the DNA test. I'll get a doctor in from Forensic Biology, we'll get the lab started on it right away.”

  When Sheryl had gone, Malone rang Forensic Biology at Lidcome; a doctor would be on his way at once. Then he rang Joe Himes at the US Consul-General's office.

  “Joe? We've got the DNA order and they're on their way now to pick him up. You'd better ring the Ambassador and warn him. The shit's not flying yet, but the fan is starting to spin.”

  It took Himes some time to say, “I'm not looking forward to this.”

  “Tell him we'll tone down the personal bits as much as possible. It may be a year or eighteen months before Brown comes to trial and maybe by then the Ambassador will be back home. Your ambassadors change with the presidents, don't they?”

  “Only some. I think if this hadn't happened, he could have been ambassador, here or anywhere, for as long as he liked. Let me know when you've got Brown in custody. I'd like to sit in while you question him. Just for our records.”

  “No problem, Joe.”

  “You kidding?” said Himes and sounded morose.

  Malone put down the phone as Clements came into the office. “Sheryl told me the good news.”

  “I hope so.” He sat back in his chair. “When we've wrapped this up, I think I may take long service leave. Lisa is getting fed up at Town Hall. We'll go off on a trip. I've always wanted to see the Andes.”

  “Why not the Himalayas?”

  “Too crowded. I hear they've got a McDonald's at the Everest base camp.”

  “No, you just want to get as far away as possible from all the crap we've had the past coupla weeks.”

  “You're worse than Lisa for seeing through me.”

  “We've been together longer.”

  Malone looked after him as he went out of the office. Affection for the big man welled in him. Friendship (he disliked the word mateship, which had become devalued) bound them like a chain.

  Half an hour later the phone rang: “Boss? Andy here. Bad news. Our man's disappeared.”

  Malone blued the air for almost half a minute; everyone out in the main room looked up. Then he simmered down: “What happened?”

  “The two guys tailing him were outside in their car, watching both the front entrance and the exit from the garage. They're pretty sure he didn't know they were tailing him—”

  “You wanna bet? He knew they were there, Andy. I dunno how, but he must have. He probably—” Then he stopped.

  “He probably what?”

  “Andy, Russ and I saw Bruce Farro this morning, we told him we knew Brown had been to see him last night—” He stopped again. He had said too much, he did not have to confide in his junior officer.

  There was a judgemental silence at the other end of the line. The two bosses had cocked up things. It would be all over Homicide within the hour. At last Graham said, “Well, maybe. Anyhow, he's gone. He checked out just after nine and we can only guess he exited through the service bay—that's around the corner.”

  Malone was pulling hard on the reins of himself. “Righto, you and Sheryl get over to Police Centre—tell the blokes at Wharf West to report there, too. I'll meet you there with Greg Random.”

  He put down the phone, looked up to see Clements standing in the doorway.

  “We stuffed it, mate,” he said. “Our bloke's shot through.”

  III

  Julian Baker (though he knew in his heart he was still Jack Brown) was not panic-stricken; but he was worried. He was not a criminal (well, not a professional one), so why would he have suspected he might be followed? But, of course, he should have thought of that. He had been too confident, he had thought about Delia Jones and not the police.

  He decided that he could not leave Sydney by plane; the police would have all the airports watched. After leaving Wharf West by the service delivery bay, he had walked a couple of blocks, carrying his bag and his briefcase, then hailed a cab. For a moment he had thought of going to Walter and Sarah's at Killara; but that would be stupid, the instinct of a rabbit looking for a home burrow. Then he said, “Central Railway Station.”

  There, he bought a first-class ticket on the express for Melbourne tonight, put the briefcase and bag in a locker, and went out to lose himself for the rest of the day. Where to go?

  He went to the movies in a complex in George Street, the main city artery, to a morning and then again to an afternoon session. On both occasions he chose the wrong movies, for he was not a regular moviegoer. The movies featured young actors he didn't know in situations that didn't interest him: coming-of-age kids didn't know what the real world held for them. Older actors, whom he dimly recognized, appeared spasmodically in both movies, either as villains or dickheads, troglodytes from another age. In the afternoon movie the young non-hero (no one could think of him as a hero, surely?) shot one of the dickheads and all the dickheads in the packed audience cheered and stamped their feet. Baker left the cinema feeling terribly old.

  As he walked out he looked up and saw the video cameras on mountings above the pavements; he was not to know, but the cameras were meant as surveillance on gangs that had been creating a nuisance in this part of town. He instinctively turned his face away.

  He walked back to Central, crossed the square and stood at the top of the sloping roadway that led up to the station. He looked across at the Southern Savoy. What a dickhead he had been! He cursed himself and found something unusual blurring his vision: tears. He turned quickly and went into the station.

  He retrieved his bag and his briefcase. In the latter, stuffing it till it bulged, were the five t
housand dollars he had been going to lodge in Bruce Farro's bank. Well, Bruce wouldn't be needing it now; jellyback that he was, he would call off killing Mrs. Jones now the police had been to visit him. He needed the money himself; he dared not cash any travellers' cheques, not till he was out of Sydney. He had his first-class plane ticket for the States, but he would not present it at Melbourne. Too close to Sydney. He might have to go all the way across the continent by train, catch a plane out of Perth for London, go home the long way. Home: sentiment was creeping up on him like a debilitating illness.

  The big central ticket hall of the station was not as cavernous as some he had seen overseas; nor as gothic, renaissant or art deco as some. It had a certain dignity and style, but, like all big railway stations, it had an air of loneliness, the hollow breath of departure and goodbye. Tears might be shed in airports, but they were always too crowded, too noisy, for loneliness to stand out.

  He passed two railway police officers, who gave him just a cursory glance, more intent on looking for loiterers or the homeless seeking a warm place for the night. He showed his ticket at the gate, then walked down the long platform to his carriage. And now he was seated comfortably, feeling safe for the time being, in a first-class compartment. He had tried for a sleeper, but they were all booked. No matter: he had always been able to sleep anywhere.

  An elderly couple came into the compartment, nodded to him, put their luggage in the racks, sat down and each took out a mobile phone. They smiled at each other, tapped in numbers, then looked out the window and said goodbye to their grandchildren. Out on the platform three teenagers, mobiles to ears, waved in farewell. The elderly couple put their phones away, smiled at Baker and said, “Presents from the grandkids. They think the world can't go round without a mobile.”

  “My kids are the same,” said Baker; then looked up at the two big men crowding the narrow doorway.

  “Evening, Mr. Brown,” said Phil Truach. “Would you mind stepping out here? Detective Graham will bring your bags.”

  Baker stood up, rising like a man crippled by arthritis. He did not look at the elderly couple, but pushed past them and went out into the corridor. Andy Graham went back into the compartment, punched numbers on his mobile and put it to his ear.

  “We've got him. Thanks, guys.”

  Out on the platform one of the two railway police, mobile to his ear, listened and then gave the thumbs up to Graham through the compartment window.

  Graham took the briefcase and the bag down from the rack, was careful not to discommode the elderly couple as he edged his way past them.

  “Have a nice trip,” he said.

  “Who is he?” said the man, gaunt as a ring-barked tree, country written all over him. “What's he done?”

  “We're gunna ask him about that,” said Andy Graham and went down the corridor after Truach and Baker.

  In the compartment the elderly couple took out their mobiles and out on the platform the three grandkids responded.

  IV

  Malone and Clements were waiting at Police Centre when Baker was brought in. The entire strike force of Nemesis was in the Incident Room and Greg Random had come down from his office. Assistant Commissioner Hassett had been informed of the arrest and he had passed on the news to Commissioner Zanuch, who passed it on to the Police Minister, who in turn passed it on to the Premier. Everyone was happy.

  Everyone but Malone. He had brought Clements over from Homicide because he needed support; though he was not quite sure why. There was a feeling of relief that the Pavane case, as far as the police were concerned, was over; once the charges were made the case would become the responsibility of the Director of Public Prosecutions. Yet with the relief Malone felt, there was the feeling of wreckage still to be accounted for. He had, in effect, brought Clements with him to hold his hand.

  He and Clements took Baker into an interview room, closed the door.

  “It's all over, Jack.”

  “Julian—” Then he shrugged. He was still in his overcoat, as if he feared the atmosphere in the room was going to be chilling. He sat down, didn't slump; there was still some backbone there. The eyes were wary rather than hopeful. “Okay, Jack. But whichever one, I'm gonna fight it all the way.”

  Malone threw an envelope on the table. “That's a court order, Jack. You have to do the DNA test, no argument. You want to call a lawyer?”

  Baker/Brown pursed his lips, then shook his head. “Not now. I'll get my brother-in-law to recommend the best. He may change his mind and come in himself.”

  “I doubt it. You don't have to say anything etcetera, etcetera . . .”

  The accused looked at Clements. “Shouldn't he quote that in full?”

  “I'll swear that he did,” said Clements. “You want us to go right through the whole rigmarole?”

  Brown gave them a tired smile. He was sick inside and afraid; but he would never show cowardice. “You're good, aren't you?”

  “We try,” said Clements, switching on the video recorder. “But more often than not, we win.”

  “Jack,” said Malone, “there was five thousand dollars in your briefcase. What were you going to do with that?”

  “It's my sister's. I borrowed it because I thought I'd need it to get out of the country. Give it back to her, will you, with my thanks.”

  “She'll have to claim it.”

  Brown shook his head. “I doubt she'll do that. Her good name is worth more to her than five thousand bucks. She wouldn't want it on the news that she was here claiming the money—”

  “It won't be on the news—we can keep that particular bit quiet. Do you want to make a statement?”

  “A statement?” Brown looked genuinely puzzled, but he was acting.

  “A full confession to the murder of Mrs. Pavane.”

  “No, thanks.”

  Malone stood up and Clements rose, too. “There's a doctor outside from the Police Biology Section. He'll take a saliva test . . . You sure you don't want a lawyer present?”

  “No.” Brown looked at the recorder, which Malone had switched off. Then he looked up at the two detectives. “It's all over, isn't it?”

  “Yes,” said Malone. “It's all over.”

  Half an hour later, still at Police Centre, he called Joe Himes. “Joe, we've got him. He hasn't made a statement yet, but I think he's given up. Have you spoken to the Ambassador?”

  “Yes, he didn't say much . . . Congratulations, Scobie.”

  “Forget them, Joe. Do you mind if I call the Ambassador? I feel I owe it to him.”

  “It's always been your case, Scobie. I'll talk to you tomorrow. The embassy number is—”

  Malone sat for another five minutes before he lifted the phone again and made the call. There was a delay at the Canberra end before Stephen Pavane came on the line: “Inspector Malone? Sorry about that. Security sometimes has its drawbacks.”

  “I understand, sir. I have—” He couldn't help the slight hesitation. “Good news. We've caught and charged our man.”

  There was a long silence at the other end of the line. Then: “Has he confessed? Told you what happened and why?”

  “Not so far, sir. But he knows the evidence we have against him. I think he's already given up.” Then he added, “All we can hope is that we don't have to let everything out.”

  “No-o.” The word was drawn out, like a long sigh. “It has not been easy, but now—”

  “No, sir, it has not been easy. But it's over now—”

  “No, Scobie—” Man to man, not ambassador to police officer. “Do you have a philosophy?”

  Malone considered a moment. “My philosophy is that commonsense solves more problems than philosophy.”

  “Maybe. But commonsense won't solve this problem.”

  Murder is a stream that trickles on endlessly. It is all over only for the murdered one.

  11

  I

  BRUCE FARRO was both determined and apprehensive; a disturbing mix. He had come out here to Rozelle after
dark and parked in the main street. Subconsciously he was thinking criminally; there is always a sediment of evil that can be stirred up. If he parked in one of the side streets, some resident might wonder who owned the stranger's car; they would do nothing about it, other than maybe break into it, until the police came questioning them. A Mercedes 500 was not an anonymous car. So he parked it in the main street, where there were several restaurants, and went looking for Delia Jones' street and house.

  He carried a brown-paper shopping bag and looked like a man who might be taking a couple of bottles of wine to a BYO restaurant. He was dressed in dark slacks, dark golf jacket and blue-and-white trainers: in case he had to run, though he had no optimism that he could run far. He found the street he was looking for, turned down it, realized he was on the wrong side for No. 28 and crossed over. He passed the house without pausing (it was so narrow—Christ, who could live there?), went on down, turned the corner and walked right round the block. He could feel the nervousness in his legs and even his arms felt weak. But as he walked he dug deep and began to dredge up courage. What he was about to do was a terrible thing, but it was her life or his. He would stop breathing without money.

  He came down towards the house a second time, paused. Then the door of the house opened, two women were silhouetted against a hall light. One of the women, stout and bouncy as a huge beach ball, opened the gate, shouted back over her shoulder:

  “Night, love! Tomorrow's a date, okay?”

  “Tomorrow,” said the slim woman in the lighted doorway. “Night, Rosie. And thanks for everything!”

  Farro walked on, past the stout woman as she went in the gate of the house next door. He almost gave up then; determination drained out of him like blood. But by the time he walked round the block again he knew the job had to be done, tonight.

  He came down towards the house for a third time. There was no street light here; the closest was at least thirty or forty metres up the street. No doors of any of the houses were open; the night was too cold. A strong wind blew from the south-west, seeming to gather strength as it came down the narrow street. He had to lean back against it as he came down towards the house. He wished he had a silencer for the gun, but hoped that the wind would blow away the sound of the shot.