Yesterday's Shadow

by Jon Cleary

  He pushed open the gate, pushing it right back against the fence that separated the house from that next door, leaving him an open exit. He took the gun out of the shopping bag, then the Homer Simpson foam mask. He slipped the mask on, stepped up to the front door and rapped the iron knocker.

  No response; he knocked again. Then a woman's voice inside the house said, “Who is it?”

  Farro had a sense of humour, but it was not sardonic; later he would wonder what prompted him to say, “Inspector Malone.”

  Delia opened the door to him, delight on her face: “Scobie—”

  Farro shot her once, right through the heart, with accidental accuracy. He saw the expression on her face change as she repeated, “Scobie?”; then she fell back into the hallway. He turned, raced out the open gate and down the street, the wind speeding him along. He ran blindly behind the face of Homer Simpson, horrified now at what he had done.

  II

  Malone felt sick when Clements rang him and told him of the third murder. “Jesus, why weren't we protecting her?”

  “Scobie—” Clements was sympathetically patient. “The only guy who might have threatened her, we have in custody. She reported to the Balmain cops today—they said she seemed in pretty good humour. Nobody had been near her. How would Brown have known where she lived?”

  “He could have hired a hitman—”

  “He could of. We'll talk to him about it. We'll talk to everyone Brown knows—the guy Farro, the one up at Gosford, everyone . . .” Then there was silence.

  “You still there? Russ?”

  “I'm still here . . . Mate, you're off this case, understand? I'm taking over, you stay right out of it. You understand what I'm telling you?”

  It was Malone's turn to be silent; then at last he said, “I understand. It's all yours.”

  “Try and explain that to Lisa. Goodnight.”

  Malone hung up the phone, stood a while in the hallway. He was filled with a mix of feelings; something like relief floated to the top. He wondered why; and was ashamed. He went into the living room, where Lisa was curled up on a couch, an open book in her lap. There was nothing worth watching on TV, she had said, it was all cookery programmes.

  “Who was that?”

  “Russ.” He sat down on the couch, pushing her slippered feet away from him. She was in a nightgown and dressing-gown, her face fresh of make-up after her shower. Her hair was loose and she looked relaxed and comfortable. He said, “Delia Jones is dead. Someone shot her.”

  Her feet were against his thigh, he felt her stiffen. “Who? Who shot her?”

  He shook his head. “We—they have no idea.”

  He could still feel the stiffness in her. “Do you have to go out?”

  “No. It's not my case. Russ is handling it.” He stroked her instep above the slipper. “It's got nothing to do with me, darl.”

  She gazed at him, then she closed the book and dropped it on the floor. She opened her arms and he leaned forward and kissed her. Neither of them said what each of them was thinking. Someone, whoever he was, had solved their problem of Delia Jones.

  III

  Clements put every spare detective in Homicide on the Delia Jones murder. The media made a party of it, but Clements contributed only scraps. With Greg Random's approval he made himself the only spokesman and he was as close-mouthed as an Asian general after a coup. A TV reporter asked if there was any connection between this latest murder and those at the Southern Savoy hotel.

  “None that we know of,” said Clements and closed the press conference.

  Then he and Phil Truach interviewed Jack Brown, who was still being held in the cells at Surry Hills awaiting arraignment that morning.

  “Did she get in touch with you after the line-up?” asked Clements.

  Jack Brown (or Julian Baker) had never thought quicker: “Yes.” The police would go to Wharf West, ask questions of the reception desk. “She came to see me the day before yesterday. About an hour after I got back from the line-up.”

  “Why'd she do that?” asked Truach.

  “She said she didn't think I was the guy she saw that night at the Southern Savoy, but she wasn't sure. She thought she might have to come back to see you guys.”

  “She was screwing you for money?” said Clements.

  “That was what she was after. I gave her some travellers' cheques—a thousand bucks.”

  Truach nodded. “We found 'em in her handbag, out at her house.”

  “Why were you so generous, Jack?” said Clements.

  Brown had been kept in a cell separate from other overnight detainees, but he had not slept well. He had not shaved and his clothes were rumpled. His descent had begun, but his mind was still sharp: “Look—I didn't feel sorry for her, nothing like that. I dunno, maybe she's got nothing, she's on her uppers, but I wasn't playing St. Vincent de Paul. I wanted her out of my hair. She asked for the money, I had it to spare and I gave it to her to get rid of her. If you hadn't picked me up last night, I'd have been gone. Out of the country before she went back to you and tried to screw you guys with her lies. She was a weirdo, I thought. I had nothing to do with her murder.” He held up his hands. “Nothing at all.”

  The two detectives stared at him; he gazed back, not brazenly, just the steady stare of a man telling the truth. Then Clements pushed back his chair. “Okay, Jack. But what was the five thousand for, the cash you had when we picked you up? You weren't gunna send her that, were you?”

  Brown managed an air of patience; he even sighed. “Look, I was on the train for Melbourne. What do you think I was going to do with it? Post it to her? Meet her down there, pay her some more? I told you last night, I borrowed the money from my sister, it was going to pay my way back home. I repeat, I had nothing to do with killing that woman. I saw her for twenty minutes, no more, but that was enough. She was a trouble-maker. Look for someone else. I'm clean.”

  When they left him Clements said to Truach, “He's either the best liar I've come across or he paid someone to hit her.”

  “I'm going outside for a smoke,” said Truach. “I've got a bad taste in my mouth.”

  “Forget your smoke.” Clements had not done this much footwork in ages; adrenaline had stirred, like fresh water coming up from the bottom of a stagnant pool. “We're going to see Farro.”

  IV

  Bruce Farro had not come in to his office this morning, said his secretary. “Mr. Farro phoned in—he's not well. He's at home.”

  When the two detectives had gone she called Farro. “There were two cops here, Bruce—a Sergeant Clements and I forget the other guy's name. You okay to see them?”

  “They're on their way here?”

  “I think so. You want me to come over?”

  “No, Darlene. I'm okay—I'm feeling a little better. I'll be in after lunch—”

  “You really okay? You sounded—”

  “I shouldn't have mentioned lunch.”

  He had been throwing up all night; Delia Jones' shocked face hung in his memory like a shattered TV image. Decency, respect for others, standards he had forgotten, had come crowding back as if he had fallen back into childhood. The reaction had started as soon as he stumbled out of the Jones' gate and began running down the street. Somehow he had found his way back to his car, had sat in it for ten minutes before he could trust himself to start it up and drive it away. Twice on his way back, after he had come off the Anzac Bridge, he had got lost on the turn-offs. Panic had slowly subsided and he had taken his foot off the accelerator, careful not to be picked up for speeding, and at last found his way back to Elizabeth Bay.

  None of the other seven residents' cars had been in the underground garage when he had gone out; the garage was still empty as he drove back in. He didn't remark the luck of that draw; last night he had not been thinking of evading police suspicion. He had, however, got rid of the gun and the Homer Simpson mask; but more because they were a reminder of the horrible deed he had done. Before going up to his apartment he had gon
e out into the street and walked half a dozen blocks down to a nearby harbourside park. There, making sure he was not observed by any of the druggies who frequented the park, he had thrown the gun far out into the black waters. Then he had ripped the mask into pieces, the big laughing teeth of Homer the last to be torn apart, and thrown them out, like bread to invisible ducks, into the harbour. Then he had come back to his apartment and spent the worst night of his life.

  And now he was opening the door to Clements and Truach, two cops who looked as if they had never believed a sworn statement from the time they had graduated from kindergarten.

  “Hullo? Inspector Malone not with you?”

  “Were you expecting him?” said Clements.

  “No, not exactly. I just—”

  “He's on another case. Your secretary said you've not been well—”

  Somehow, since Darlene's phone call, he had managed to pull himself together; but it had been like trying to make an effigy out of a string bag. The newspapers, which had been spread all over the room as he searched for stories on Delia Jones' murder, had been gathered up and put away in a kitchen cupboard. He was still in pyjamas and dressing-gown, the same outfit he had been wearing when the first police officers had come to interview him.

  Coffee was perking on the kitchen bench and he offered cups to the visitors. “What's the problem this time?”

  “You look pretty off-colour, Mr. Farro,” said Clements, taking the cup of coffee. “Something upset you?”

  “Something I ate last night—”

  “You were out last night?”

  “No. No, I was home all night.” He led them to chairs in the living room. He sank down, glad of the support beneath him. “What's this about?”

  “You haven't read the news? Listened to the radio?” said Truach.

  Farro was used to the two-man question team; he had faced board teams when selling his company. “I was feeling too lousy to read the papers or listen to gabby voices—” He sipped his coffee, drew up his defences. “Can we get to the point? Is this something to do with Jack Brown?”

  “Slightly,” said Clements. “We arrested him last night and charged him with the murder of the American Ambassador's wife. A coupla hours later someone shot a woman who was at the same hotel on the night of the Pavane murder. A Mrs. Delia Jones.”

  Farro made a good pretence of remembering: “Delia—? Was she the woman killed her husband at that hotel?”

  “You remember her?” said Truach. “People usually don't remember the names of strangers in a murder case. That's our experience.”

  Farro sipped his coffee; he would have to be wary of being too clever. “Normally I take no interest in murders. But you—” He looked at Clements. “You mentioned Mrs. Jones when you were here with Inspector Malone. The business at that hotel—two murders on the one night, one of them the wife of the American Ambassador . . . How many cases do you have like that?”

  “Point taken,” said Clements. “So you were here all night last night? Didn't go out at all? No one here with you?”

  “No, I intended to work, I'd brought it home from the office with me. But I made myself a crab sandwich, out of a tin, and half an hour later I was throwing up . . .” He sipped his coffee again, as if to freshen his mouth. “It went on till two o'clock this morning. Then I fell asleep.”

  “You didn't call a doctor?”

  “Have you tried to get a GP at night? I didn't even try. If I'd thought I was going to die, I'd have called an ambulance. . . . You've arrested Jack Brown?”

  Clements nodded. “He's in custody. He's being arraigned this morning and we'll oppose bail. I'm afraid your friend is a goner, Mr. Farro.”

  “He was never a friend,” said Farro and felt even sicker; the million dollars had proved to be a mirage after all. He had murdered someone for absolutely fuck-all. “Just a colleague, someone I worked with a long time ago.”

  “So you're not upset? You looked a bit sicker when I told you that.”

  “I'm upset at all you're telling me.” He was becoming more confident. Unless they had something secret to spring on him . . . He became more careful again. “Are you accusing me of something?”

  “Not at all,” said Clements. “But in the police business we throw a wide net and work our way inwards.”

  “Where am I? On the edge of the net?” He knew now that he was, he could see it in their faces. “Yes,” said Clements. “But you're not thinking of leaving town, are you? Or going overseas?” “No,” said Farro and almost smiled, though sourly, at the irony of the question. “No, I'm staying.”

  At the door he asked, “Has Jack Brown had anything to say? I mean, has he confessed?”

  “Virtually,” said Clements. “He's looking pretty sick . . . Get well, Mr. Farro.”

  “I'll do my best,” said Bruce Farro, but didn't know where to begin.

  12

  NEWS, AS it does, has become history; or, as it does, dropped from recall. At the end of the day, still the only deadline for supposedly educated spokespersons everywhere, though they never say whether it is the going down of the sun or the chimes of midnight, murder continues as part of life and Homicide is one department that is never downsized.

  Mobile phones, like rabbits and TV cookery experts, have bred and bred till at any moment in any hour a mobile is ringing somewhere in the world. Texarkana Smith, nineteen and an aspiring model, mobile to her ear, crossed a road against the lights, was hit by a truck and killed. Her last words were, “I'll be in t-OUCH!”

  Billie Pavane's life so far has not been publicly traced back beyond her existence in Sydney as Patricia Norval. Jack Brown, however, though indicted, is still on remand in jail and not yet brought to trial. Nobody knows what will come out then, but press reporters are polishing their biros and TV cameramen are sharpening their lenses.

  Deric Niven, still unknown as Mrs. Pavane's brother, has left the Southern Savoy and is now the assistant manager at one of Melbourne's five-star hotels. He has a live-in partner, to whom he has confided nothing.

  Lucille Baker and her three children flew out from Toronto as soon as the news of the arraignment of her husband and their father reached them. They stayed a week, dodging reporters, then flew back home. Lucille, on Julian's advice, is suing for divorce. When they had departed, he wept for a whole day, no longer self-contained.

  Walter Wexall is now a judge of the New South Wales Supreme Court and Sarah, having claimed her five thousand dollars without fuss or publicity, is chairwoman of two charities and still well established socially. Scandal is not unknown in Killara, but it is whispered, not shouted, as it is in the eastern suburbs.

  Delia Jones' daughter by her first marriage, Melissa, has come back from London and is caring for her half-siblings, Dakota and Calvin, with whom she gets on very well. Rosie Quantock hovers over all three of them like a benevolent Valkyrie.

  Finger Software went into liquidation, owing millions of dollars, and Bruce Farro was declared bankrupt. Some irate shareholders suggested looking for a hitman to polish him off, but the idea came to nothing. He is now living in a one-bedroom flat in Erskineville, where Malone was born, rides public transport because he can no longer afford a car and has become a born-again Christian, who occasionally prays for greed to be de-listed as a sin. He still has nightmares at what he did to Delia Jones.

  Stephen Pavane has been a success in Canberra, but he has privately asked Washington to replace him before his wife's killer goes to trial. If he is out of the country, back home in Kansas City, he hopes that the media will not indulge in overkill on the background to the trial. He is looking forward to returning to K.C., where Will and his now-bride have come back to await the birth of another Pavane. Stephen himself is still bruised and he knows he will not recover quickly.

  Joe Himes is to be posted back to take charge of the FBI bureau in Cleveland. On his last night he went to dinner with the Malone family at Catalina, a waterfront restaurant where Malone's American Express card got a ma
ngling he will still be recovering from next year.

  Lisa had bought him a new double-breasted blazer for his birthday, six gold buttons on the front, three gold buttons on each sleeve.

  “You look like an admiral in the Liechtenstein navy,” said Tom. “How many ships did you sink today?”

  “I'll sink you,” said his father.

  “You look like James Bond,” said Maureen and kissed him. “How many women did you sink today?”

  Claire had brought Jason, but Maureen and Tom were without dates: Lisa had insisted it would be family. Something Joe Himes appreciated: “I'm divorced,” he told Malone for the first time. “I've got two kids, two boys, back home in college. They're at Case, which is in Cleveland. They're both computer freaks. They'll join the Bureau eventually, they tell me, but only if they never have to go out into the field. They'll catch everyone on the internet. It's gonna be a sad, dull world, Scobie.”

  “I guess so,” Malone had said. “But on the internet you don't have to face a man and tell him a lot of things he doesn't want to know.”

  The dinner went well. Claire announced that she was pregnant and Maureen at once ordered champagne, French of course, none of your domestic stuff. Jason looked across the table and Malone said, “Now your troubles begin.”

  From the first course Malone's mind had been working like a cash register. Lisa saw the occasional expression of pain and she leaned close to him and whispered, “I'll go you halves.”

  “No, no,” he whispered back without conviction. “But we won't be coming here again till 2005.”

  “It's a date,” she said. “Just you and me.”

  “Definitely,” he said. “There'll be bloody grandkids by then.”

  But he looked around the table and thought how, though financially crippled, lucky he was.

  That night Delia Jones began to fade from his mind. But the past is never entirely lost, as he knew.