by Jon Cleary
“Well, no. No, I didn’t, actually. I was otherwise occupied.” He didn’t look at Dr. Bedi, and Malone wondered if it had been a hangover that had otherwise occupied him. “Dr. Bedi went out to the scene of the crime. Anju often helps out, don’t you, old girl?”
Anju, old girl, gave him a tolerant smile. “Just occasionally. Yes, I inspected the body, Inspector. Then I gave instructions for it to be brought in here to the hospital morgue.”
“Did you prepare the report?”
“No, I have no official standing as a GMO. I just instructed them to bring the body in here and then left it to Dr. Nothling. He was here at the hospital by then.”
“I took over right away,” said Nothling, taking over now. “The body was a mess, not a pretty sight at all.”
“How long did it take you to find out Sagawa had been shot?”
“Well, actually—” Nothling glanced at the Indian doctor, who just returned his gaze with what looked almost like a half-smile in her eyes. She’s mocking the pants off him, Malone thought. “Well, actually, Anju discovered that. I was called away, an emergency here in one of the wards, and Anju went on with the examination.”
“You hadn’t noticed the bullet wound when you first examined the body out at the gin?”
Dr. Bedi shook her head slowly; all her movements were unhurried. She was dressed in skirt and blouse and white coat, but one could imagine her in a sari, the silk floating like a drifting mist around her slow grace. “I wasn’t looking for anything like that, Inspector. The damage done by the spikes of the roller would have been enough to kill him.”
“So how did you come to find the bullet wound?”
“Sheer accident.”
There was something in the air that made Malone uneasy, a friction that rubbed almost indiscernibly against his own awareness. It was a moment or two before he remarked that Nothling and Anju Bedi were not looking at each other, as if deliberately avoiding each other’s gaze, while she spoke. Had there been some professional negligence, had Nothling not been present in the morgue at all and she was covering up for him?
“Do you do many autopsies, Dr. Bedi?”
She was unhurried, taking time to fold her long white coat over her plump knees. “No, I don’t. Dr. Nothling usually does those. I’m just the staff doctor here at the hospital. He is the senior surgeon.”
There was an edge to her voice that was unmistakable, and Malone all at once wondered just how placid she really was. The tension between her and Nothling was like that of lovers who were trying to keep private their quarrel.
“You called Dr. Nothling at once?”
“Of course. He came as soon as he could get away from the—from the emergency in the ward.”
Malone looked at Nothling. “What was your reaction to the news, Doctor?”
“Oh, astonishment, old chap, absolute astonishment. Anju will tell you, I just stood there shaking my head.”
“You’re not used to seeing murder victims who have been shot?”
Nothling’s eyes narrowed just a little; almost as if, for the first time, he was taking Malone seriously. “We don’t get that many murder victims out here, Inspector.”
“No, I guess not. Things are different where Sergeant Clements and I come from. So you’re satisfied that death was due to the gunshot wound?”
“Oh yes, yes.” Nothling appeared to relax again. “It was right through the heart, dead centre. Oh, the bullet killed him, all right.”
“Did the bullet lodge in the heart?”
Nothling looked at Dr. Bedi, who said, “Just. It didn’t break through the wall of the heart—it was in the right atrium. It entered the body near the spine.”
“Near the spine? You mean he was shot in the back?”
“Yes. I don’t know much about guns—”
“Why should you, old girl?” Nothling interrupted. “That’s the Inspector’s trade, right, old chap?”
“Yes,” said Malone, old chap.
“The murderer probably hoped we wouldn’t find it, that we’d think the spikes on the roller had killed him.”
“Why try to hide it?” said Clements, who had been taking his usual notes. “After he’d killed him, why put him in the module feeder? He must’ve known the body wouldn’t be chewed up. It wouldn’t be like feeding bits of a body into a sausage grinder.”
Nothling looked at Clements as if he were a gate-crasher; then he looked back at Malone. “The sergeant has a vivid imagination. Or is something like that an everyday occurrence in your trade?”
“Not everyday. But we did have a case like that once, a butcher minced a girl in a supermarket. Business at the supermarket fell off for a while. But you see Sergeant Clements’s point? The body was never going to finish up any further than the roller.”
Nothling shrugged, a major displacement. “I’m no detective, Inspector, no talent for that sort of thing at all. Every man to his last, eh?”
“I guess so. When will the inquest be?”
“You know how long these things can take. We don’t have a resident magistrate here, he comes in from Cawndilla. When everything’s ready, he’ll probably do Sagawa and Billy Koowarra on the same day.”
Malone looked at Wally Mungle, who had been standing silently in a corner of the small office, like a patient waiting for the specialists to decide what to do with him.
“I think I better tell you now,” Mungle said, “my uncle and aunt are gunna demand an inquiry into why Billy died.”
“Your uncle and aunt,” said Nothling, “or those radicals down at the camp?”
“There’s only two or three of them, Doc, and nobody takes much notice of „em. But I don’t think it matters. The noise is gunna be just as loud, no matter who complains. The deaths in police custody is a hot potato right now. I’m as much to blame as anyone for letting Billy commit suicide. I should’ve tried harder to get him released.”
“You couldn’t have done anything more,” said Malone, though he knew he sounded unconvincing. “Not while Inspector Narvo was away.”
“I hope those bloody hotheads aren’t going to start any demonstration,” said Nothling. “Not tomorrow, of all days. Think what the media will make of that, with the Governor-General up here for the Cup!”
“Is he going to be here?” said Clements.
“He’s a friend of my father-in-law’s. He’s going to present the Cup to the winner. It won’t look too good if he has to present it to me. I’ve got a horse running.” He smiled broadly; then sobered. “But the G-G won’t like it too much if there’s a demo.”
Malone had seen the Governor-General only once in the flesh. He was an ex-diplomat, a little man who loved the trappings of his office and regretted that the days had gone when he would have worn the plumed hat, the epaulettes and the sword. It was said that he never turned down an invitation and had once been on his way to open a garage sale when his aide-de-camp discovered the mistake. Though he had been a diplomat he hated controversy and would probably out-run the horses if there was a demonstration tomorrow out at the racecourse.
“If there’s going to be a demo, Wally,” said Nothling, “tell „em to keep it down at the courthouse, there’s a good chap.”
“I’ll try, Doc,” said Mungle, “but I can’t guarantee anything.”
Malone stood up, finishing the interview; well, almost: “What sort of car do you drive, Dr. Nothling?”
Nothling had been about to rise from his chair; but he paused, arms stiff, holding his bulk in mid-air. “A Ford LTD. Sometimes I drive my wife’s car.”
“What sort is that?”
“A Mercedes coupé. What’s this all about, Inspector?”
Baldock hadn’t mentioned Mrs. Nothling and her Mercedes; but then she was Chess Hardstaff’s daughter and there was no reason why she shouldn’t drive the same sort of car as her father. Hardstaff surely wouldn’t think that his daughter was competing against him.
“Where were you on the night of the murder?”
; Nothling came right up out of the chair at that; his face suddenly went red and he seemed to sway, as if the sudden movement had made him light-headed. “Jesus Christ, what are you getting at? What sort of stupid question is that? That’s bloody outrageous!”
Malone glanced sideways at Dr. Bedi. She was impassive, her eyes now seemingly black and opaque. She caught his glance, but her expression didn’t change.
Malone looked back at Nothling. “Just a routine question, Dr. Nothling. A car was seen outside Sagawa’s office early on Monday evening, a fawn Mercedes. We’re just checking on all the Mercedes in the district.”
“Who saw the car?”
“That’s confidential.” But Malone knew all at once that he now had no witness at all; he couldn’t produce Billy Koowarra. “Were you visiting Sagawa Monday evening? I understand you’re part of the partnership that owns South Cloud.”
Nothling had regained his composure; the colour drained out of his face. “Yes, I’m a partner. No, I wasn’t visiting Ken Sagawa. I was at home with my wife all Monday evening. I was worn out. I had been in the theatre all afternoon. Dr. Bedi can confirm that.”
“Fair enough,” said Malone, choosing his moment to depart. Always leave them hanging, preferably by their thumbs: it was an old police trick. He had upset Nothling with his last few questions and he was certain that it was not just because the doctor had found their inference insulting. “Thanks for your help. You too, Dr. Bedi.”
Outside the hospital the Koowarra family still stood under the peppercorn tree. What are they waiting for? Malone wondered. Billy’s resurrection? Then it occurred to him that waiting seemed to be a natural part of the Aboriginal existence, especially among the older blacks; it was as if life had come to a standstill for them and they would just wait for extinction instead of hurrying towards it. But that, he knew, was not how the radicals thought: most of them had just enough white blood in them to spark some hope; or anyway, rebellion. He could blame neither branch for their attitude.
“I’ll stay with them,” said Wally Mungle.
“Sure.” But Malone hoped he would not just stand around waiting; Mungle had too much promise in him for such hopelessness. “Wally, is there anything going between Nothling and Dr. Bedi?”
Mungle looked puzzled for a moment, as if he had missed the meaning of the question; then he shook his head. “I don’t think so. He wouldn’t be good enough for her.”
“How do you mean?”
“She’s very uppity, thinks she’s a cut above most people. And he’s a drunk and a slob. Most people don’t know how his wife puts up with him.” He sounded almost garrulous; and he seemed all at once to realize it. “Sorry, I’m getting as bad as everyone else. Gossiping, I mean.”
“Never knock gossiping, Wally. Not if you want to make things easier for you as a detective.”
“There’s a difference between listening to it and saying it.”
Malone changed tack a little: “How well do you know Dr. Bedi?”
Mungle waved his hand in a so-so-gesture. “She’s colour-conscious.”
“You’re kidding!” said Clements.
“No, I’m not. I told you she’s uppity. She’s middle class and she’s fairly light-skinned, you saw that. I think she puts most of us Kooris on a par with the Indian Untouchables. Why?”
“She knows something about Nothling. I don’t know what it is, but it’s something. I was hoping you might be able to get it out of her.”
“Because we’re both coloured?” Mungle saw the instant flash of anger in Malone’s face and he hastily said, “Sorry, Inspector. I’m not feeling the best this morning.” He glanced towards the family group, nodded reassuringly at them. “My mum’s taking this as hard as Billy’s mother.”
Malone looked towards the stout, prematurely grey-haired woman to whom he had been introduced. She was holding the hand of Billy’s mother, her sister, and they were like a mirror image of each other. It struck him that there was no shock in their faces, more a look of old pain that had been years coming to the surface.
“I understand,” he said quietly. “Forget it, Wally.”
“No, I’ll see what I can do. But don’t count on it.”
“Play it by ear. If she’s going to be uppity towards you, back off. I’ll get Russ to work on her. He’s the lady’s man.”
“I’m working on Narelle,” said Clements. “Isn’t that enough?”
“It might be more than enough,” said Malone cryptically.
As the two detectives stepped out of the front gate of the hospital a fawn Mercedes coupé drew up, its rear tires skidding a little on the gravel at the side of the road. A dark-haired woman got out, slamming the car door behind her and making no effort to lock it: things are different in the bush, Malone told himself. Yet this woman looked more city than country, would not have been out of place in the kill-’em-dead chic of Double Bay; or perhaps would have been more at home in the don’t-let’s-even-mention-it chic of Mosman. She was in her forties, he guessed, but money and care of herself had held back the years; she was handsome rather than beautiful, a woman who had made the most of what she had. She had a good full figure and a well-chiselled face and she wore her country casual clothes with the confidence of a model.
“Mr. Malone?” She came striding towards them. “I’m Amanda Nothling-Hardstaff.”
It was the first time he had heard the double-barrelled name; to everyone else she had been Amanda Nothling. But, obviously, she bore the Hardstaff like a sceptre or whatever it was that queens carried.
“Inspector Malone. This is Detective-Sergeant Clements.” Sometimes it was politic to broadcast rank; it drew the boundaries of the playing field, level or otherwise. “We have just been interviewing your husband.”
She nodded at Clements without really looking at him; she kept her gaze on Malone, the inspector. “My husband is terribly upset by the—the murder of Mr. Sagawa. We all are,” she added, but it sounded like a polite afterthought. Then she noticed the small group of Aborigines standing by the peppercorn tree. “What are they doing here? Have you been interviewing them?”
“About the murder? No. Should we?”
She looked back at Malone, her pale blue eyes hardening. “I don’t know, Inspector. Like most of the people around here, I know nothing about police investigation. But I am interested in the welfare of the blacks.”
“One of the young blacks committed suicide this morning, hung himself. Billy Koowarra. I thought everyone would know by now,” he couldn’t help adding.
She shook her head, looked genuinely upset by the news. Then Max Nothling came out on to the veranda of the hospital, pulling up sharply when he saw Malone and Clements with his wife. He hesitated, then came down the few steps and across to the gate, not even glancing at the Koowarra family. Malone guessed they had been waiting to see Nothling, but now they didn’t move, waited for him to come to them.
“Hello, sweetheart. Something wrong?”
“No, Max.” She looked at him carefully, as she might check him after he came out of the operating theatre to see that he had washed himself clean of blood. “I just introduced myself to Mr.—Inspector Malone and Sergeant—Clemson?”
“Clements,” said the sergeant and, with the eye that was hidden from her, winked at Malone.
“The Inspector tells me one of the black boys hung himself this morning?”
“In a police cell. The gendarmes are having a bad time lately with all the deaths in custody. Nobody’s fault, of course. Certainly not Inspector Malone’s, right?” He looked at Malone and smiled with bad taste that Malone, somehow, hadn’t expected from him. The bugger’s a bundle of nerves.
“I think you—we should go and speak to the family,” said Amanda.
“Yes. Yes, I suppose one should.” Nothling looked across at the Aborigines, as if their patience was proving a magnet he could not resist. “Yes, that’d be a good idea. Afternoon, Inspector. You know where to find me if you want me. Don’t know how much I can
help, though. Coming, sweetheart?”
He held open the gate, as if he wanted something to do with his hands; it was already pushed back almost as far as it would go. Amanda nodded at Malone and Clements, went through and took one of her husband’s hands, as she might have taken the hand of one of his patients who was unsure of himself. Together they moved across to the Koowarra family, all of whom seemed to be as unmoving as the trunk of the tree under which they stood.
III
The two detectives left the hospital and started their walk back to the police station. Malone said, “What d’you reckon?”
“About Mrs. Nothling-Hardstaff or both of them?”
“Both.”
“She wears the pants and signs the cheques, I’d say. Probably drawn on a Hardstaff trust fund, since she seems dead set on hanging on to the family name. As for him, he’s got something on his mind and she knows it.”
“You think he knows who killed Sagawa? Or he’s made an educated guess that’s got him shit-scared?”
“Do we start leaning on him?”
“Not yet. Let’s take it softly, softly for the moment. We start chucking our weight around the day after we get here, kicking the arse of the town’s leading doctor and son-in-law of King Chess, what happens if we find out we’re barking up the wrong tree . . . ? What’s the matter?”
“I’m trying to sort out all those mixed metaphors.”
“You taken up night school again?” But he grinned, glad he had Clements here with him in Collamundra, where more than just metaphors were mixed.
As they waited at a traffic light in the main street, a slim arm inserted itself into Malone’s. “Hello, sailor.”
Malone kissed his wife on the cheek. “Book this woman for soliciting, Russ.”
Lisa kissed Clements on the cheek. “There, that takes care of you. You don’t know Ida Waring, do you?”
Clements raised his hat, smiling expansively; he always seemed to open out, like one of the rougher wild-flowers, when in the company of good-looking women. Ida returned his smile, asked if the men had time for a cup of coffee. She seemed intrigued by the presence of two Homicide detectives, and Malone wondered if Lisa had told her of his work on past murders. Ida took them along the main street towards the Buona Sera coffee lounge, leading the way with Clements while the Malones brought up the rear.
