by Jon Cleary
Malone was listening intently. “What happened last night?”
Magee was more cooperative now, his bad temper seemed to have evaporated. “They said they were going to let me go, that things had become too complicated. The old lady, Mum, she didn't seem to think it was a good idea. Letting me go, I mean. They put me into a car, they blindfolded and gagged me.” He felt around his mouth, which was still sore. “The guy who spent most of the time with me, he and the girl dropped me near some park, I think it could've been in Arncliffe, I dunno much about out there—”
Out there, thought Malone. Maybe ten kilometres from the heart of the city. He makes it sound like the Far West, out there where the rabbits and kangaroos roam. Just east of Tibooburra . . .
“I was in a main road when I got a cab—the driver said it was Rocky Point Road, I've never heard of it—”
Malone felt the computer against his back. Buried in its hard disk were roads and streets all over the world. But not Rocky Point Road . . .
“Did they ever mention the maid?” asked Random.
Magee shook his head. “Look, I don't think they could've been the ones who did it. The guy spent most of the time with me, we got on well. I mean, after a while I began to like him. The girl, too. I don't think they were killers.”
“Mr. Magee,” said Random, “killers come in all shapes and sizes and temperaments. Inspector Malone and I have had too much experience of them. You said they wore hoods all the time. You saw only half of what they might truly be like.”
“No.” Magee shook his head again. “I think—I'm sure I'm right about the guy and the girl. The other guy, the one who disappeared—I dunno about him. Or the mum. I just, y'know, I just don't believe they were killers.”
“Someone killed your maid,” said Malone.
“Yeah, I know.” He felt some guilt about that; or something. Juanita had been a stranger to him; not because of her, but because of him. The circle of which he was the centre had always been small; he had slept with women who had been strangers, even though they were on first-name terms. He would never have missed Juanita if she had suddenly departed, though he had not expected her to depart in the way she had. “Look, your guys who were here earlier, they mentioned the yakuza. Kylie told me about ‘em, too. Could they have killed Juanita?”
Random looked at Malone, who shrugged. “Maybe. But my money's on the kidnappers. Errol, what was the woman like, the mother?”
“Christ, I dunno. How do you describe a woman who's got a bag over her head all the time?”
“Don't tempt me,” said Random, and the three men laughed, allies for the moment, all blokey.
“I'd say she was maybe in her forties—I'm not good at women's ages.”
“Join the club,” said Malone, keeping Magee at ease, seeing he was now more ready to cooperate.
“Slim and—and brisk, I guess is the word. Organized. She ran the show. I remember thinking she'd have made a good office manager.”
“There was no older man? A father?”
“Never saw one. The young guy gave me a jersey to wear, a Souths' one. It's outside somewhere. He said his old man played for Souths years ago, but he could've been bullshitting me.”
“Did they talk to you about Kunishima Bank?” asked Random.
“They said they'd called the bank and got nowhere.” Magee made no attempt to hide his bitterness.
“We've had a negotiator sitting with them and one at I-Saw, but there were no more calls after we put them in place. Just the original two calls, the one to I-Saw and the one to the bank. I think your kidnappers were rank amateurs, Mr. Magee.”
Magee thought a moment, then nodded. “You could be right.”
“When they stopped calling was when things must've started going arse-up,” said Malone. “I wonder what went wrong and why?”
Magee shook his head. “I can't tell you. The guy used to talk to me, he, I dunno, he sounded depressed. I didn't think anything of it at the time—”
“I wonder,” said Random, “if the kidnappers found out the yakuza were looking for you?”
Random's tone, as usual was dry and soft. He shovels dust, thought Malone, better than anyone I know. You could be gasping for breath . . .
Magee was gasping. “Kylie told me—I thought the guy was, whoever he was—”
“Tajiri,” said Malone. “He told her his name was Ikura, but we know it was Tajiri. He works for Kunishima.”
“Jesus, I know him! Well, no, not know him—but I met him! A coupla times, no more. He just sat in on a conference with Okada, the Kunishima boss, and some other guy—”
“Nakasone.”
“Yeah. Yeah, Nakasone—” He took another deep breath. “They're really after me? To kill me?”
“I gather,” said Malone, soft and dry as Random. “Unless you tell ‘em where the forty million dollars are.”
“There's no forty million dollars missing! That's all bullshit—”
“Come on, Errol, we're not Fraud Squad or the Tax Office. We couldn't care less where the forty million is, could we, Superintendent?”
Random gave his dry smile, playing the friendly game. “Speak for yourself. But we'll forget it for the moment, Mr. Magee. Your main worry is the yakuza boys, with or without the missing money.”
“When your wife Caroline came out from London, did she know about the forty million?” asked Malone, still gentle.
“Of course she didn't!” Then he saw his mistake. He shrugged, no longer denying the missing dollars. “I didn't know she was coming. She just turned up a coupla weeks ago.”
“Were you glad to see her?”
Again the shrug. “I dunno. Yeah, I guess so. She understood me better than any of the others. We were married . . . You married?”
“Very much,” said Malone. “The Superintendent, too.”
“We separated, but I guess we always understood each other. You know what it's like.”
The other two married men nodded, then Malone said, “She wasn't coming out to help you with your problems?”
“How could she?” He was no longer defiant on the money question. “The shit was too deep. You know what it's been like. You pick up the papers every day and another two or three dotcoms have gone bust. I could've survived if the big overseas lawyers hadn't got smart. They saw all the IT companies going bust and they decided to set up their own service sites. I'm suing half a dozen of them, but whoever sued lawyers and won? Especially the American and European firms. I could cry,” he said, but didn't.
If he had, Malone might have belted him over the ear.
“What are you planning to do? Go back to I-Saw?”
“What's the point? It can't be saved. I'll look around for something else, another job. In the IT business they don't hold a failure against you. It's part of the game, like a knock-on in football.” He had chosen a sporting metaphor, but he didn't know why. “You play rugby or rugby league?”
“The Superintendent is Welsh,” said Malone. “Rugby is their religion. My son plays rugby.”
“Inspector Malone's game was cricket,” said Random. “They're very tough on failure there.”
“Till you make up your mind, Errol,” said Malone, “we're going to give you police protection. Free of charge.”
Magee looked as if he was about to protest; then he nodded. “Okay, I guess that's sensible. But shit—”
“Out of the frying pan,” said Random, “into the fire. An old Welsh cliché.”
“What's he on about?” Magee asked Malone.
“He's an old Welsh philosopher. The Welsh are good at that.”
“You should practise it, Mr. Magee,” said Random. “You may need it.”
Out in the living room Clements was at the table with the three women, drinking coffee poured for him by Sheryl. He was affability itself as he said, “Mrs. Magee, why did you tell us you had only just arrived back in Sydney? You've been back two weeks.”
Caroline was just as affable. “I didn't tell anyone
I'd just arrived back. No one asked me when I'd arrived.”
“You let us think—” said Kylie.
Caroline cut her off as if she had picked up one of the breakfast knives and slid it across her throat: “Kylie dear—”
“I'm not your Kylie dear—”
“No. No, that's true. You're Kylie's dear, selfish as hell—”
“Ladies—” Clements held up a hand, looked at Sheryl for support.
The latter hid her disgust and her smile. She had found herself both liking and disliking Mrs. Magee, but the girlfriend was just a pain in the butt.
“We checked with Immigration, Caroline. It's standard procedure.” It wasn't, but lies are one way to the truth: standard police procedure. “It must of been our mistake, assuming you'd just arrived.”
“It was,” said Caroline, reaching to pour herself more coffee. “Errol knew when I arrived.”
“You'd seen him before the other night? Last night?” Sheryl was exhausted, it seemed she had been here in this apartment a week or more.
“Yes, when he told me I'd arrived too late.” She stood up. She was in a green silk dressing-gown; green, Sheryl noted, seemed to be her colour. She looked around her, then down at Kylie. “It's all over, Kylie dear. You'd better get used to it.”
Carrying the cup of coffee she turned to leave as Random, Malone and Magee came back into the room. Random said,
“We'll be giving Mr. Magee police protection. Are both you ladies staying on here?”
“Not me,” said Caroline. “I'm going back to my hotel now and I'll be flying out tomorrow, going back to London. I'll talk to you later, Errol.”
“No, you won't—” Kylie was throwing up barriers.
Magee looked at his two women; looked, thought Malone, as if he wanted neither of them. But he said nothing and Malone took over: “It will be easier to give you protection if you are all in the one place. It would be better if you moved in here till tomorrow, Mrs. Magee.”
“No!” Kylie was piling barricade upon barricade.
Magee said wearily, “Cut it out, Kylie. I won't be sleeping with her—”
“Thanks,” said Caroline and put down her coffee. She smiled wryly at Sheryl. “Isn't it nice to be wanted? . . . All right, Inspector. I'll stay here tonight. Will I need an escort to the airport tomorrow?”
“We'll see to that,” said Malone, then looked at Random: “Anything more, sir?”
“I think there's a lot more,” said Random. “We just have to see when it turns up.”
II
“You've heard the news,” said Nakasone. “He's back!”
“I don't want to know!” Okada threw up his hands as if he had been told General MacArthur had sailed back into Tokyo Bay. His father had been one of the junior officers on board the USS Missouri that soul-destroying day; his father had kept the memory alive in the family like an inherited disease. His father was dead now, beyond the knowledge of his son's involuntary involvement with gangsters. “The bank washes its hands of it!”
They were in Okada's office, the early-morning sun making the room more cheerful than the mood of its occupants. Nakasone sat down, not in the chair behind the big desk; but there was no doubt who was assuming charge. He, too, came of a family of tradition: his father and his grandfather before him had been yakuza. They had been rougher, but no tougher.
He looked at his nominal boss. Hauro Okada was that too-often impediment to progress, an honest man. “Hauro, we have to be sensible. Our patrons back in Osaka—”
“Yours, not mine.” Okada sat down behind his desk, but he knew the position meant nothing. He might as well have been sitting on a toilet seat.
“Ours,” said Nakasone. “Things are so bad back in Japan, we can't just turn a blind eye to what Magee has stolen. Our bank is like all the other banks—we were too trusting—”
Despite himself, Okada laughed. “Kenji, Kunishima wasn't trusting. It was like all the other banks—greedy. And now it's in a hole. Not as big as some, but a hole nonetheless.”
“You approved the original investment in I-Saw—”
“Only after you and Osaka had supposedly done due diligence. I'm not going to commit hara-kiri over this—”
Nakasone looked out the window behind Okada; gulls climbed up towards them on shafts of sunlight. “The means are behind you.”
“Don't talk to me about honour when it comes to money. Your bosses—”
“Our bosses.”
Okada continued as if there had been no interruption: “—are owed no giri by me. When we are this level—” He waved a hand behind him; a poor man's debts never flew at this height.
“Up here, money has no pride or shame. It's a commodity, Kenji, nothing more, nothing less. Mr. Magee is your problem, not mine. If your bosses want him attended to, then you and Tajiri have to do it. I'll be looking the other way—for the bank's good name.”
He smiled inwardly at the hypocrisy of what he had said. The bank, unlike the yakuza who financed it, had no tradition; it was a mere ten years old, a sucker-fish amongst the sharks. He himself was more honourable than Kunishima; he had a name. Which Nakasone and Tajiri did not. Up till a hundred and fifty years ago only noble families and samurai families had surnames. The Okadas had been samurai, going back five centuries, coming forward to his father on the deck of the USS Missouri and the ignomy. Now there was only himself, no samurai, just a banker. But, he was desperately trying to prove, an honourable one. Working for a bank whose profit-and-loss columns were its only bow to giri.
“Where is Tajiri?” he asked.
“On his way home,” said Nakasone. “He flew out yesterday to Perth, on a domestic flight. He is travelling on a second passport, under another name.” He didn't mention the name and Okada did not ask. “He flies out of Perth tonight for Singapore, then home to Osaka.”
Okada was almost afraid to ask the question: “What about Magee?”
Nakasone stood up. “I'll attend to him. He trusts me, he knows I was the one who took him to Osaka. He will tell us where the forty million dollars are.”
“Good luck,” said Okada and turned to stare out the window, looking north to Osaka, Japan and home. Where corruption and cronyism prevailed in politics and business, but where some pockets of honour still remained.
III
Back at Homicide Clements said, “What d'you reckon?”
“Let the strike force blokes look after Magee,” said Malone. “We go looking for the kidnappers—they were the ones who did in Juanita.”
“So where do we look?”
Then the phone, as if Malone had willed it, rang. It was Sheryl Dallen: “Boss, I've just talked to Immigration again. It didn't click with me the first time, I was checking when Mrs. Caroline Magee had arrived. I've just checked again, they've read off their computer particulars on her. Mrs. Caroline Magee, maiden name Briskin.”
Malone felt the lift in spirit that in him passed for excitement; nobody would have known. “She still at the apartment? You still there?”
“Still here, both of us. Till the strike force guys arrive to relieve me.”
“We're on our way, Sheryl. I love you, but only platonically.”
“Good enough,” she said and hung up.
“What's the love-in all about?” asked Clements.
Malone told him: “Caroline probably organized it. She bullshitted us about having only a brother, one she hadn't seen in years. She's got a mother and a sister and two brothers, all out at Hurstville.”
“So where do we go first—down to the Quay or out to Hurstville?”
“Get the locals to pick up the family—and the younger brother, he's in hospital, St. George. Tell ‘em they won't need the State Protection blokes—I don't think Mum Briskin is going to come out with guns blazing. But tell ‘em to send more than a couple of men. Bring ‘em back to Police Centre—we'll have Mrs. Magee there to front them. Here's the Hurstville address.”
Clements went out to phone the Hurstville commander and
Malone picked up his own phone to ring Greg Random. The latter, as usual, was as excited as a drowsy owl. “Sooner or later things fall our way, Scobie.”
“It's a long way from over—”
“Don't sound so pessimistic—”
“I'm not,” said Malone and hung up, smiling, which is another expression of excitement.
He got up, pulled on his jacket, took his pork-pie hat and went out to Clements. Normally he would have taken a junior officer with him, but on this one, maybe his last Homicide case, he wanted Clements. It would be a ceremonial handing-over.
When Malone and Clements got to the bottom of Macquarie Street the media horde had thinned to a scribble. Mr. Magee, the word had come out, would not be making any statement at this point in time nor at the end of the day. The two detectives got out of their car and the first person Malone saw was Vassily Todorov, helmeted and geared for action, his bicycle held at the ready like a skeletal horse. He plunged at Malone.
“Tell Mr. Magee I must see him!”
“Mr. Todorov, we're here on police business—”
Several of the reporters had gathered around, notebooks ready, tapes held out like tidbits to be munched on. “What's going on, Inspector? Who's the guy on the bike? Is he the new Flying Squad?”
“Tell ‘em who you are, Vassily,” said Clements and pushed Malone ahead of him through the revolving door. “They might run your story.”
They went up to the Magee floor, knocked on the apartment door and it was opened by Caroline Magee, dressed in black slacks and cream shirt. She appeared unsurprised, unperturbed, to see them.
“Come in, Inspector. Good news?”
“It could be. Where's Mr. Magee?”
“He's asleep,” said Kylie, watcher of the bedroom. She and Sheryl Dallen were in the living room behind Caroline. “Why are you back again? Aren't you going to give him any rest?”
“I'd like a word with Detective Dallen,” said Malone and took Sheryl out on to the apartment's balcony. “You're sure Immigration's got everything right? I don't want her making a fool of us.”
