by Jon Cleary
“Do you think he did?”
Random shrugged, sucked on the pipe again. “Your guess is as good as mine.”
Malone and Clements looked at each other. They had been this route before, with a Labor government, with past and present Conservative coalition governments. In any democratic State, politics is always ready to interfere; that, Malone was convinced, was what democracy was about. Power had to be protected, to a political party it was as precious as motherhood. So long, that is, as the mothers voted the right way.
“Greg,” said Clements, “we can’t just let this lay. We’ve got another four unsolved murders out there, ones that have got nothing to do with the Sweden case.” He nodded through the half-glass wall to the big room. “If we drop another one in the Too Hard basket, the media will be on us like a ton of bricks. They’re ready to pile the shit. There’s those four young coppers accused of stealing drugs, there’s the suspected cover-up by our two senior blokes—” He bit his lip. “Nothing may come of those, we dunno. But I’d rather protect the service than take care of the Minister. Four Corners is just itching to make another TV documentary that makes us look fools. If the media starts querying why we’re back-pedalling on the Sweden case, we might as well pack up, take our superannuation and go fishing.”
Random looked at Malone, held up a finger. “My finger in the wind tells me you feel the same way?”
Malone nodded. “Let’s do it our way, Greg. If the boat has to be rocked, too bad.” He sighed, leaned back in his chair, stretched his legs; he was not relaxing, just trying to ease the sudden tension that had taken hold of his limbs. “I’ve reached a point where I don’t care a stuff about politics. I think I might welcome being shifted out to Tibooburra.”
“Don’t write it off as a possibility.” Random stood up, put his pipe back in his pocket. “Okay, go ahead. But keep me informed all along the way, everything you come up with, including stuff you won’t put in the briefs. I’ll make the decisions, understand?”
“You don’t think I want to make „em, do you?” Malone grinned, but there was stiffness in his facial muscles, too.
As soon as Random had gone, Malone tried some politics of his own. He rang Fred Falkender, AC, Crime. “Sir, I’d like to come over to Headquarters and talk to the Minister. I thought I’d better tell you first.”
“Does Chief Super Random know?”
“He’s told me to pursue the Sweden case my own way,” Malone half-lied.
“You mean you haven’t told him you’re coming over here? Scobie, you really are a pain in the arse.” Falkender had worked his way up from the ranks; there wasn’t a trick he did not know. Still, he laughed. He was always laughing, but the unsuspecting had too often found it was just a smokescreen. The Assistant Commissioner was too experienced to believe that all was laughter in the human comedy. “Okay, come over. See me first, I’ll find out if the Minister wants to see you.”
When Malone reached Administration Headquarters several blocks away, Falkender was coming down the corridor from another of the offices occupied by the seven assistant commissioners. “I’ve just been talking to AC Zanuch.”
Malone looked warily at him. “Yes?”
“Don’t worry, I’m running you, no one else.” Falkender was built like a bowling ball and as hard; he had skittled more opponents and competitors than he had bothered to count. He presented a jovial face to the world, but he was as shrewd as any long-time politician and he knew more about the law than anyone else in the service. “You want to tell me why you want to see the Minister?”
He had led Malone into his office, but both men remained standing. Malone knew at once that there was no guarantee Falkender would allow him to see Derek Sweden. “We’ve dug up something on his son that doesn’t look too good.” He went on to explain all the new details that had been added, or were about to be added, to the running sheet on the Sweden case. “The son wasn’t murdered by some break-and-enter stranger. He was murdered by someone he knew and for a reason. There’s also this corpse that was stolen from the morgue. Looks like he was killed by the same method, a needle or a scalpel or something in the back of the neck. There could be a connection.”
Falkender was usually an almost non-stop talker; but he had listened patiently while Malone gave him the facts. Now he folded his plump hands in front of him and rolled his thumbs. He was silent a moment, no joviality at all in his bright blue eyes. Then, “If that’s the way it is, you have to see the Minister,” he said, abruptly taciturn for a change. “Okay, let’s go.”
They went up to the Minister’s office, a large suite that fitted the ministerial ego. Up till a few years ago, Police Ministers had been well removed from their department; when one of Sweden’s predecessors had insisted on moving into the building, he had been as welcome as one of the city’s top crims. The situation had settled down somewhat since then, but there was still a suspicion that, with their boss virtually sitting on top of them, the service could become politicized. Malone and Falkender walked into Sweden’s office prepared for the worst.
Sweden was a coat-off, shirtsleeves Minister; it was not a pose for media cameras, he was a genuine worker. He waved Falkender and Malone to chairs, offered them coffee, then sat back. “I’m as busy as a girl when the Yank fleet’s in and I’m about as stuffed. I hope you have some good news, Inspector.”
Malone looked at Falkender, who nodded; he noted that the AC had not laughed or even smiled since they had met downstairs in the corridor. “Well, Minister, it’s like this—” He went on to tell Sweden what he had told Falkender. “It’s not good news, I’m afraid.”
Sweden’s desk was the sort that Malone always thought of as being furnished by a woman. There was the gold desk set, the gold-embossed leather barrel for pencils, the gold-embossed leather writing pad, the blotting-roller, the address book, the diary; the desk looked like a Dunhill show-case, stacked with paraphernalia that few men ever bought for themselves. Sweden picked up a gold-plated letter-opener, a business stiletto.
“You’re accusing my son of being some sort of criminal, is that what you’re saying?”
“I’m not accusing him of anything so far.” Malone’s tone was as sharp as Sweden’s; he couldn’t help it. He glanced at Falkender, expecting some sort of rebuke, but the big round face was impassive. “All I’m giving you, Minister, are facts that are real. I hope we can give you more when our men have come back from the bank I mentioned. You don’t know anything about Shahriver, do you?”
Sweden’s dark narrow eyes seemed to darken even further; then he put down the letter-opener and leaned forward. “Yes, I know about it, we’ve discussed it in Cabinet a couple of times. The Minister for Finance has his eye on it. That’s all I know about it. I certainly would never have suggested to my son that he do business with it. You still have to convince me that the bank statement in that name—Sexton?—that it’s actually a statement of my son’s account with the bank. I hope you’re not going to let something like this out to the media, Fred?”
Malone waited for Falkender to back down; but the AC, Crime, bent his knee to no one. “Inspector Malone is not out to make political capital of this.”
Sweden banged his desk; his bony face abruptly looked ugly. “Jesus Christ, I’m not talking politics! We’re talking about my son! Is that all you think I’m capable of, worrying about the fucking politics of it?”
“I’m sorry.” Falkender at least sounded genuinely contrite.
There was a knock at the door and Tucker, the minder, the guardian of the gate, was there, though a little late. “Minister, I would’ve been here if I’d known—”
“Beat it, Rufus.” Sweden waved a rude hand, hardly glancing at the press secretary. “I’m okay. I’ll let you know when I want you.” He waved the hand again and Tucker, red in the face, disappeared, shutting the door with some force. “Bloody minders, they think you can’t survive without them. All right, Fred, I’m sorry I flew off the handle. But, Jesus, I’m still in shock—”
He looked at Malone. “You’re used to murder, I suppose? I’m not.”
Malone had learned to cope with murder, but he hoped he would never become used to it; that way lay barbarism. “Did your son ever give any hint of being in trouble?” He was quiet but persistent, certain now that Falkender was not going to obstruct him in the interests of harmony here at Headquarters. AC Zanuch, he was equally certain, would now have been on his feet leading the way out of the Minister’s suite. “Did he ever make any unexplained trips anywhere?”
Sweden picked up the stiletto again; it was, Malone remarked, an ideal weapon for puncturing the base of a man’s skull. “Rob was always going away on unexplained trips, usually with a girl. They were unexplained because I never asked about them. I did the same sort of thing when I was young. Didn’t you?”
“I couldn’t afford it, not on a constable’s pay.” There was the tongue again; he smiled to take the edge off it. “Rob made a quick trip to Manila last month, a weekend trip. Would you know why?”
“No.” The stiletto was steady, its point pressed against one palm.
“This isn’t a smart-arse remark, Minister, but your son wouldn’t have gone there on one of those quick sex tours. He went there, I think, on business. His own business, not his firm’s. They’ve said they never sent him overseas, he wasn’t experienced enough.”
Sweden looked at the stiletto, then carefully set it back on the desk, as if he had just realized it was a weapon. He leaned forward again, finger pointing. This was how he attacked the opposition in the Bear Pit, the State Parliament: Malone had seen clips of him on television. “Inspector, I am not going to help you besmirch my son’s name. All I want from you is to find his murderer.”
Malone’s tone was measured: That’s what we’re trying to do, Minister. Murder, unfortunately, is rarely a nice clean job, there’s always dirt around the edges. Mr. Falkender will back me up there.”
Falkender, rather than acting as if he had been put on the spot, as indeed he had, spoke up. “That’s true, Minister. We’ll do our best not to spread any dirt. But we think your son’s murder is connected to another on the same night.”
“Whose?”
“We don’t know,” said Malone. “The body was stolen from the morgue. It’s been in the papers.”
“I haven’t had time to look at the papers today. Or yesterday’s. It’s probably there in that file of clippings. A corpse stolen from the morgue? Christ, what next?”
Malone wondered why the Police Minister’s press secretary didn’t insist his master look at all crime reports as soon as they appeared. So he told Sweden what he knew of the missing corpse and why they thought its murder was linked to Rob Sweden’s.
“That’s bloody ridiculous! You’re linking Rob to some stranger—”
“He’s a stranger to us, Minister, but he may not have been to your son.”
Sweden looked at Falkender; the top of his bald head was glistening, though there was no sweat on his face. But he was angry, ready to boil: “I hope these sort of insinuations are not going to be broadcast?”
“We don’t work that way,” said Falkender in a voice that suggested he was giving a lecture to a Minister still new to the job.
“Okay, I’ll see the Commissioner.” Sweden’s own tone suggested that he knew the chain of command. “In the meantime, no press conferences on this, not till you have solid evidence. If the media want to hear about my son I’ll get Rufus Tucker to arrange it and I’ll do the talking.”
Falkender stood up. From long experience of politicians, he recognized a brick wall when it was being built. “Inspector Malone will handle this with his usual discretion, Minister. You’ll get a daily report on how he is progressing.”
Going back to Falkender’s office Malone said, “Thanks for that bit about my usual discretion.”
Falkender grinned, his face relaxing for the first time. “Don’t make a liar of me. What d’you reckon?” He jerked his head back towards the Minister’s suite. “Is he just a father doing the usual, protecting his son’s good name?”
Malone lowered his voice; no one knew where the ears were in an empty stairwell. “I think he knows a lot more than he’s told us.”
Falkender nodded. “But be discreet, okay?”
III
In the Opposition Leader’s suite in the annexe to Parliament House, Hans Vanderberg, The Dutchman, was seeking material for his last hurrah. He had been Premier of New South Wales for twelve years, running the State almost like an old-time American ward boss; his heroes had been Boss Tweed and Frank Hague and Jim Curley; he knew the names of all the political bosses but only three or four of the Presidents. He had discovered, only a year or two after he had landed in Australia from Holland back in 1948, that real political power does not work on the large stage. Being Prime Minister gave you pomp and ceremony and national headlines, but no PM ever had the power that a truly ambitious State Premier could achieve. The Dutchman had almost had a stroke when all his power had been taken away from him by a mere hundred votes in the last State elections.
“What d’you know about this young Sweden case? They say it’s murder.”
“It is.” Roger Ladbroke had been Vanderberg’s press secretary for ten years. He had often thought of resigning, of going back to being a political columnist, but in the end always decided that he was a natural masochist and no editor would ever give him the exquisite pain The Dutchman could inflict. It was a consolation that the bruises never showed on him; he always just smiled when the State roundsmen asked him how he continued to put up with the abuse and insults to his education. Some day, when The Dutchman was dead, he would write a book and he possessed secrets that no roundsman could even guess at. “But as far as I can gather, they have no clue as to who did it or why.”
“His old man connected with it?” Vanderberg played with the quiff of hair that was the cartoonists’ delight. He was an ugly little man, shrunk by age, his clothes hanging on him like a wet wash; he was loved only by his wife, but that was enough. “I tried to give him some sympathy this morning, but he just wiped me.”
The ex-Premier’s sympathy was like strychnine: best in small doses.
“There’s some skulbuggery in it, I can smell it. Keep sniffing around.” He had never believed that anything was crystal-clear, except his own perceptions.
“Hans, we can’t make capital out of a family tragedy. The papers would be on to us like a load of shit.”
“We handle it delicately, son.”
Ladbroke shook his head invisibly at that. The Dutchman’s idea of delicacy was how the Chinese had handled Tiananmen Square.
“Use your contacts, find out what’s going on. Who’s in charge of the case?”
“As far as I can gather, both Assistant Commissioners Falkender and Zanuch seem to have a hand in it.”
“That means they’re trying to hide something.” The old man raised his nose, like a hound pointing.
“The man who’s actually in charge of the case is that guy, Inspector Malone. You remember him?”
“The honest one?” Vanderberg flattened his quiff. “He wouldn’t tell you the time of Friday—” No one, not even Ladbroke, was ever sure that The Dutchman did not deliberately mangle everyday phrases. “We’ve got to upset the apples, son. Time’s running out.”
“The government’s got another three years to run.”
“I wasn’t talking about them. I was talking about me. I’m getting on, Roger. If we wait for the full term to run, I’ll be eighty by the next election. I want to toss out these bastards, get back in, set up things the way I want „em, put Denis Kipple in my place and then I’ll retire. Gracefully.” The thought of his doing anything gracefully seemed to amuse even him: he gave a cackling laugh. “Get cracking, son. A stitch in time is worth the needling.”
Ladbroke couldn’t wait for the graceful retirement. But he would miss the old sonofabitch.
5
I
IN A waterfront apartment out at Po
int Piper, a narrow diamonds-and-pearls-encrusted finger jutting into the southern waters of the Harbour, another old man was having lunch with his son, his daughter-in-law and his daughter-in-law’s father. This weekly lunch was a ritual with Jack Aldwych and he looked forward to it, though he could have done without today’s extra guest, Adam Bruna.
“I adore this view!” Bruna clasped his manicured hands and gazed out at the Harbour. “Why don’t you move over this side, Jack? Why do you have to live way out there in the Outback, Harbord or wherever it is?”
It amused Aldwych that he might have felt at home here on this tiny peninsula. It had been named after a colonial naval officer, a rake who laid women like stepping stones and who, when it came to making money, had as much dedication to principle as he had to celibacy. Aldwych had never been a womanizer, but he had had little regard for principle if it stood in his way.
“I couldn’t afford to live over here.” He was one of the country’s richest men, albeit one who never appeared in the rich lists. Wealth based upon prostitution, bank hold-ups, extortion and fraud was not publicly assessable, although in the Eighties fraud had been an almost acceptable method of becoming rich. Aldwych’s wealth, thanks to Jack Junior’s management, was now squeaky clean, but the smell of its origins still clung to it in certain quarters. “I could never afford an apartment like this.”
Jack Junior and Juliet had paid three million for the apartment, a price that had shocked Jack Senior almost as much as the day, long ago, a judge had given him five years for attempted murder when everyone knew it was no more than an attempt to teach a welsher a lesson. It had been Juliet who had spent the money, but Jack Senior had said nothing; if she, and what she did, made Jack Junior happy, then there was nothing to be said. At least for the time being.
“Oh, I don’t mean you would have to buy something like this!” Bruna fluttered his hands. He was a handsome man, as good-looking as any of his daughters; small and compact in build, always beautifully dressed, if a trifle flamboyantly for Aldwych’s tastes, he had sharp eyes and a smile that winked on and off as if on a rheostat. He was not homosexual, but he had exaggerated gestures and expressions that had at first confused Aldwych, a man of prejudice whose hands had the stillness of holstered guns. Bruna had once been a sculptor and still occasionally exhibited a piece or two, but his main source of income, apart from his daughters, was a gallery he owned in Woollahra. He had tried to sell Aldwych a small Giacometti, but the older man liked his statues, as he called them, rounded and in marble. The two fathers-in-law were not compatible, but so far not at war. “But this would be nice. I hope you’ll leave it to your dear old dad, darling, if you go first. You and Jack,” he added with a smile towards Jack Junior.
