by Jon Cleary
Corey was wearing his blue hood. “Sorry we been carting you around like this, but blame your mates. We thought we had a deal on the ransom, but they reneged on it.”
“I don't fucking care any more.” Magee found his voice, a growl that sounded as if it had been buried for a long time.
“Come on!” Corey tried to sound jovial; but didn't feel that way. “Where's your fucking capitalist spirit?”
Magee was slowly coming back to normal; or near normal. “What do you think you are? You're out to make money. Five million. That's not pension stuff.”
For the first time in several hours Corey grinned, behind the hood. “It is for me, sport. You want a leak or anything?”
“Not yet. I'd like a beer, a light one.”
Corey laughed this time; the hood fluttered like a mask about to crumble. “You're on your own, Errol. I'll get you a beer, but it's a VB, not a light one. That okay, sir?”
“Up yours,” said Magee. “Yeah, a VB.”
Out in the kitchen Corey said, “What do we do with him if the cops come?”
“You better gag him,” said Shirlee. “Case he hears ‘em and starts yelling. What're you doing?”
“Getting him a beer.”
“You're spoiling him.”
“Yeah. Fucking ridiculous, ain't it?”
“Wash your mouth out.”
The police sergeant and another constable arrived at seven-thirty in the last light of the day. The sun had gone down beyond the escarpment and there were no shadows, just the diminishing light. The timber back beyond the house was losing its shape, the trees merging into each other, a dark grey wall. Down in front of the house, beyond the road, the timber there had some pale-trunked eucalyptus that still reflected a little light, like thin ghosts waiting for the nights.
Corey, at his mother's instructions, had been waiting out on the front verandah for the police that he and she knew would come. As soon as he saw the police car coming up the road, its headlights already on, he got up and walked unhurriedly, but like a gaited two-legged horse, down to the front gate. Shirlee had come out on to the front verandah, but stayed there, wiping her hands on a dish towel.
“You got some word on my brother?” Corey tried to sound natural. He stepped carefully round a mud patch, noting out of the corner of his eyes that the wallow of mud across the other, wider gate showed only the tracks of one car, the Toyota. “I mean, we ain't heard anything—”
“No,” said the sergeant, “it's another matter. Did Constable Haywood come up here this afternoon?”
“Constable Hay—Oh, the young guy with you this morning? No. Was he supposed to?”
“He said he might.” The two policemen, the younger man standing behind the sergeant, were almost po-faced in their seriousness. “You been here all afternoon?”
“All the time. Me mum come back about an hour ago. When she left, me brother was okay, still unconscious but okay. Me sister's staying with him.” Every word made the Briskins sound like a tightly- knit family, battlers to the core. “When I seen you coming . . . Why are you looking for your mate?”
“We're not looking for him,” said the sergeant. “He's been found. Dead, from a wound in the head.”
“Jesus!” Corey shook his own head, as if it had been clouted. “How'd it happen? Where?”
“We dunno where it happened or how. We thought you might of seen him up here and he'd told you where he was going next.”
“I'm sorry, mate, I can't help you. This is gunna upset me mum when I tell her—she's got a lotta time for you guys.” Feeling more confident, he was letting his tongue get away from him. He pulled back: “I dunno I oughta tell her. Not while she's worrying about me brother.”
The sergeant looked up towards Shirlee on the verandah, now barely discernible in the gloom. “No, don't mention it. Tell her, I dunno, tell her I was introducing Constable Gilchrist here, he's new to our station. Case you wanted any help. Tell her that. Thanks, anyway, for your help.”
“I didn't help at all, Sarge. And I'm sorry about your mate.”
“Yeah,” said the sergeant, getting back into the car. “So are we.”
The junior officer swung the car round and they drove away, disappearing round a bend in the road. Corey stood staring after them, feeling no lift in his spirits. He felt like a swimmer in the surf who knew the waves would keep coming, getting bigger and bigger. The moon came up above the timber and a flying-fox scratched a line across it, defacing it for the moment. He turned and walked back up towards the house while a night-bird called from the timber, up where his father lay buried.
“What did they want?” asked Shirlee.
“Nothing to worry about, Mum.”
The rest of the night dragged till midnight. Then they woke the dozing Magee, put him in the boot of the Toyota.
“Where the fuck are we going now?”
“Wash your mouth out,” Shirlee told him from inside her hood.
They drove up to Hurstville and the three bedroomed house in a quiet street. They smuggled Magee, who had been gagged again, into the house and tied him to a bed in what was Darlene's room. Darlene was at home, waiting for them.
“Pheeny's still unconscious, but they say he's improving. They'll call if there's any change. What do we do now?”
“Go to bed,” said Shirlee, all of a sudden looking tired and (Darlene thought with shock) old. “Tomorrow's the last day.”
“The last day for what?”
“We'll see,” said Shirlee and said nothing more.
In the morning they heard the news on the radio that Errol Magee's girlfriend, Kylie Doolan, was also missing.
III
Malone waited in the foyer of the I-Saw building for Daniela Bonicelli. He had to wait longer than he had expected, but he was a patient man. She stepped out of the lift after twenty minutes, pulled up sharply when she saw him.
“Waiting for me?”
“Who else, Daniela?”
Again there was no coquetry. “I saw you eyeing Mrs. Magee.”
“No more than I was eyeing you and Louise.”
“Are you going to offer me protection?”
“Against possible kidnapping? No, Daniela. I'm with Homicide, we come in after the event.” He was using the big club this morning. Pull your head in, Malone. “I don't think you're in any danger, Daniela. Not unless there's something you haven't told me about?”
“Such as?”
“Did you go and see Mr. Magee at his apartment a coupla weeks ago?”
She looked at him, then looked away. She was carrying a bottle of spring water; she unscrewed the cap and took a swig. Behind her Malone saw four other women, all with the statutory accoutrement of mobile phone and bottle of spring water. No one under the age of thirty, apparently, drank tap water any more. Ecstasy tablets were washed down with spring water; intestines had to be cleaned, though minds might be fogged. He waited till Daniela had capped the bottle again. But his patience was now beginning to wear thin; perhaps he should ask for a swig of spring water to cool him down. At last Daniela looked back at him.
“Yes, I did. I forget which day, I went there one morning when the place was clear. When Kylie wasn't there.”
“What for? I thought you and he had finished that sort of thing.”
“I didn't go there for that. I wouldn't have gone to bed with Errol again for—how much is the ransom supposed to be? Not for any money. I went there because I'd heard a whisper that things were much worse than we'd been told.”
“And what did he tell you?”
“Not to worry. The bastard!” He waited for her to take another swig at the bottle, but evidently she needed something stronger than water. “He said they were negotiating for a Japanese company to come in and bail them out.”
“You believed him?”
“Well, yes and no. I believed him because I wanted to. Errol could be very convincing . . . But when I got back here to the office—” She nodded over her shoulder—“I knew we were
finished.”
“And what did you think of doing then?” Like arranging a kidnapping?
“I started looking for another job.” She uncapped the bottle, took another swig, capped the bottle again. Could someone go downhill from non-alcoholism? In the background the other four women, all unconnected, it seemed, had their bottles to their lips, like a silent back-up group. “Which I've decided to take.”
“Who with?”
She looked at him, still with no coquetry. “Inspector, am I under suspicion or something?”
“Why would you think that, Daniela? I never suspect my son's girlfriends.”
“You should,” she said enigmatically; and Malone wondered what Tom got up to, or down to, in bed. “I'm not Tom's girlfriend. We're just—friends. The job? I'm going to work for Kunishima Bank.”
“From IT to banking? The New Economy to the Old Economy?”
“They're connected these days. Don't you bank electronically?”
“No, I have it all in a jar under my bed. Take care, Daniela. And good luck at Kunishima. Especially take care there.”
He left her on that. When he looked back she had the bottle of spring water to her mouth again. Behind her the four women, bottles in one hand, had their mobiles to their ears.
He left Daniela with doubts about her still troubling him. Why had a job at Kunishima suddenly become available? Who had offered it to her? Okada? Tajiri?
He was halfway to his car when his own mobile rang. He stepped into a doorway, as if the call he was about to receive was from a sex worker. Instead, it was Paula Decker, not breathing heavily: “Sir, I took time out from the Magee apartment—someone else is on duty there now. I went up to the Aurora building garage and had a word with Mr. Okada's driver, from the Kunishima Bank.”
“Is he Japanese? You wouldn't have got far.”
“No, sir, he's Italian. I lifted my skirt a couple of inches and he was ready to talk.” Malone said nothing and after a pause she said, “Sir, am I being too facetious?”
“No, Paula. I'm just sorry we don't have those male advantages. I'm also wondering why he wasn't interviewed before this.”
“Today is his first day back at work. Mr. Okada told him to take a coupla days off.”
“That usual with Mr. Okada?”
“The driver says no. I asked him about Mr. Tajiri and Mr. Nakasone. Seems the three of ‘em aren't close mates. The driver says he's never driven Mr. Okada to Tajiri's place. He also said that Mr. Tajiri was not in the office today.”
“Does the driver know Miss Doolan?”
“No, he's never seen her.”
“Did he ever take Okada to the Magee apartment?”
“Never.”
“Where does Tajiri live?”
“I've checked that. He has an unlisted phone number, but Telstra turned it over to me. He lives at Kirribilli, just along the street from Kirribilli House and Admiralty House. He's a neighbour to the Prime Minister and the Governor-General. As respectable as you could ask. It must impress his yakuza mates back home.”
“Paula, don't forget—the yakuza connection is still not on the record. We don't want the media playing around with that, not on our say-so. What's the address?” She gave it to him. “Have you got wheels?”
“No, sir.” She sounded disappointed.
“Go down to the Quay, catch the ferry to Kirribilli—I'll wait for you there at the wharf.” This was not, strictly, Homicide business; but he was part of Strike Force RLS. Greg Random would understand. “Good work, Paula.”
“Thank you, sir.” She sounded as if she had curtsied.
He drove over to Kirribilli, two minutes away, parked the car and went down to the ferry wharf. Years ago he had caught the ferry from here to go to work; the skyline across the water, even life itself, had been much simpler then. The area had climbed up-market, bedsits had given way to million-dollar apartments. Breezes blew across from the city, carrying the scent of money.
When Paula Decker stepped off the ferry twenty minutes later he looked at her before he went to meet her. She was wearing a blue skirt and white shirt today and he saw that she had long slim legs that would have enhanced a stockings advertisement. He could understand why the Italian had responded.
“Are you armed?”
She patted the large handbag slung over one shoulder. “My Glock and also a capsicum spray. Are you expecting trouble?”
“I hope not. But just in case—”
Back in his car he drove it along Kirribilli Avenue, past the two official residences, and parked it at a bus stop. They got out and walked along to the waterfront block of apartments. Malone stood a moment, appraising them like an estate agent looking for business. Even the smallest apartment in the block would have cost a million and a half; the penthouse would probably bring three or four million. Tajiri was doing well for a yakuza.
Paula Decker pressed the buzzer under Tajiri's name. A moment, then a voice said, “Yes?”
“Police. We'd like to talk to Mr. Tajiri.”
“What about?”
“We'll tell him that when we meet him. Let us in.”
“Just a moment, please.”
They waited, and three cars went past, one of them flying a standard on its wings. The Governor-General was on his way to a function, while two detectives waited to interview his neighbour, a yakuza gangster-banker. Only in Sydney, Malone thought.
Then the voice said, “Please come in. First floor,” and the security lock on the front door clicked open. Malone and Paula Decker walked in, found that the first floor was at street level. A slim young man in white shirt, striped waistcoat and black trousers stood waiting for them at an open door.
“I am Teagarden,” said the young man. “Mr. Tajiri's butler.”
“Jack Teagarden?” said Malone.
“No, sir.” Slightly puzzled. “Jocelyn Teagarden.”
“But you play trombone?”
“No, sir.” Still puzzled. “Soccer.”
Malone gave up being a smartarse; he was getting old, the jokes were going downhill. In his mind's ear he could hear the needle screeching to a halt on his old vinyl of Jack Teagarden playing “Lazy River.” “Is Mr. Tajiri in?”
“No, sir.”
“Do you speak Japanese?”
“No, sir.” Jocelyn Teagarden spoke No, sir fluently. Butlers were a rare breed in Australia, but he, apparently, was a well-bred one.
“Then how do you and Mr. Tajiri communicate? I understand he doesn't speak English. Whom did you speak to before you decided to let us come in?”
Teagarden suddenly looked flustered, like a trombone player who had hit a flat note. They had come in through the small entrance lobby and now were standing in the big living room. Behind the butler sliding glass doors led out to a wide terrace; the city skyline was like a mural on a wall of the room, the Opera House shells hiding the lower face like a fan. Doors led off the living room, two on either side, all closed.
“I think you had better tell Mr. Tajiri we're not leaving till he comes out to talk to us.”
The butler hesitated, but before he could turn one of the doors opened; out stepped Nakasone. “Mr. Tajiri is not here, Inspector.”
Malone looked at him, then turned his head towards Paula Decker, who up till now had been still and silent: “This is Mr. Nakasone, Detective Decker.”
Paula gave him a polite nod and he gave a small bow in return.
“He's from the Kunishima Bank. Yesterday I was told he didn't speak English.” He looked back at Nakasone. “A quick course at Berlitz, Mr. Nakasone? I know a Berlitz teacher who might help you.”
“No jokes, please, Inspector. Yesterday Mr. Okada was our spokesman. In Japan we do not all try to be vocal at once.”
“Not like here, eh? We're a very vocal lot. But today you're the spokesman?”
“Yes, today, Inspector. How can I help you?”
Malone looked around. The apartment was apparently rented furnished. There was nothing Japanese in the
room except a print of a chrysanthemum against the outline of a snow-capped mountain, a picture as delicate as the flower's petals. Everything else in the room was solidly Ikea. Whoever owned the apartment hadn't splashed money around.
“Do you live here, Mr. Nakasone?”
“No.”
“Then you're just visiting Mr. Tajiri?”
“Yes.”
“Even though he's not here? Is that a Japanese custom?”
Nakasone said nothing; then Paula Decker spoke for the first time: “But you're visiting a woman?”
Up till now Nakasone had ignored her except for his small bow to her; he looked at her sharply, as if to admonish her for having spoken. “What woman?”
“The one who owns that handbag on that chair there.”
Malone hadn't noticed the brown leather handbag tucked into the curve of a club chair. He mentally patted Paula Decker on the back. He let her continue the questioning:
“You're not entertaining the Australian version of a geisha, are you?”
Nice one, Paula. But Nakasone said, “An insulting question.”
Paula went on: “Or would it be Miss Doolan? She's been missing since yesterday afternoon and we know she paid a visit to Kunishima just before she disappeared.”
It was a moment before Nakasone replied: “I know nothing about Miss Doolan. I heard the news this morning that she had disappeared, that she was Mr. Magee's girlfriend. But I have never met her.”
“So whose handbag is that?” said Malone. “There's no Mrs. Nakasone or Mrs. Tajiri, is there? If it's an Aussie geisha you're entertaining, we'll understand, we're broadminded. But just so's we'll know . . . Teagarden, open that door there and ask the lady to come out. We shan't hurt her.”
The butler hesitated, waited on his cue from Nakasone. The latter looked as if he might suddenly erupt in a burst of temper; one could almost see the effort at control. He drew a deep breath, then nodded. Teagarden moved to the door and opened it.
Malone would not have been surprised if Kylie Doolan had come through the doorway. Instead Louise Cobcroft appeared in it.
Malone sighed; this case was turning into a revolving door circus. “Hello, Louise. Holding hands again?” I’m getting to be as sour as that middle-aged cop in NYPD Blue, the one who never smiles. “Or are you like Daniela, taking a job with Kunishima?”
