Jon Cleary - Endpeace

Shoemaker couldn’t hear them; or if he could, he gave no sign. He was a tall, wide man with black kinked hair; he had fierce black eyebrows and a bulldozer jaw. Malone could imagine his scaring the pants off cadet reporters, boy and girl alike; but whatever his approach, it must have pleased the Huxwoods. He had been editor for ten years, a long time in modern Australian newspapers. ‘We’ll run the story straight, as if it was some other proprietor, not our own, who’d been murdered. Will you be in charge of the investigation, Inspector? Can I come to you for progress reports?’

‘I’ll let you know,’ said Malone. ‘For now it looks as if I’m in charge. But I could be out-ranked by lunchtime.’

Shoemaker grinned; or gave a grimace that might have been a grin. ‘I follow. It could be like our Olympic challenge, everyone jumping into the act. Well, I’d better be getting back to the Haymarket.’ Huxwood Press, its offices and printing press, was in an uptown area of the city, had been there for a hundred and fifty years. ‘Give my sympathy to the family, Derek. I’ll come back this afternoon, be more formal.’

‘I’ll come with you,’ said Gates and was gone out the door ahead of Shoemaker.

‘What does Mr Gates do?’ said Clements, who liked everyone labelled. ‘Managing editor?’

Derek looked at Van Dieman before he replied. ‘It’s a title we borrowed from the Americans and changed it a little. He sort of manages the editorial side.’

This, Malone realized, was office politics and he didn’t want to get into that, not now.

‘Do you mind if Alan stays?’ Derek gestured at Van Dieman. ‘Or will that look as if I’m preparing some sort of defence?’

‘Do you expect to be on the defensive?’ said Malone.

‘No.’ Derek sat down on a cushioned cane lounge, waved to the other three men to take seats. ‘But it is murder. Christ!’ He abruptly put a hand over his eyes, was silent a long moment. The others waited; then he withdrew his hand and blinked. But Malone could see no tears. ‘No one deserves to go out like that.’

‘We want no sensationalism,’ said Van Dieman.

Resentment shot up in Malone like a missile; but it was Clements who said, ‘The Police Service doesn’t go in for sensationalism, Mr Van Dieman. It’s the media does that.’

‘That’s what I mean,’ said the lawyer, but he sounded a little too hasty to convey that.

Though he was no more than forty, he was a grey man: grey-faced, grey-haired, grey-suited. The only spot of colour was his tie, but even that was plain purple rather than the strips of regurgitation that had been the fashion for the past couple of years. He had a soft voice, a grey voice, and a composure about him that hid his reputation. Malone had never met him, but knew that Van Dieman was considered the toughest corporation lawyer in town, if not the country.

Malone decided it was time to get down to cases. ‘It’s only a guess at the moment, but we think the murder occurred last night somewhere around midnight. Had the dinner party broken up by then?’

Derek nodded. ‘I think so. My wife and I were over in our house by eleven-thirty. The others who weren’t staying here had gone.’

‘Leaving who here?’

‘My sister Linden and her – her partner. They usually stay here when they come down from Sutton Forest. And Ivor and Beatrice Supple are staying here – or they were. We moved them out an hour ago, sent them into the Sheraton-on-the-Park. Sheila and her husband live over in the other house.’

‘Little House Two?’

‘You find that quaint? Or twee? Don’t look like that when you mention the houses in front of my mother. She thought she was being sarcastic when she named them, but everyone took the names seriously. If you can take names like that seriously ...’ Derek seemed to be talking too much.

‘How is your mother?’

‘Pretty shattered. She and Dad –’ He stopped, looked at Van Dieman as if for advice, then went on, ‘It’s hard to describe how close they were. People outside the family might have mistakenly thought they were always at odds with each other. They weren’t –’ He shook his head. ‘All our lives it was them against us. The children.’

‘Derek –’ said Van Dieman warningly.

‘Ah Christ, what’s it matter now, Alan? It’s all going to come out soon enough.’

There was silence in the big room but for the rustle of a sudden breeze amongst the potted palms. Out on the water someone in the photographers’ launch shouted something at one of the policemen on the shore; the policeman, risking being photographed in the act, gave the someone the finger. Then Malone said, ‘What’s going to come out? You mind telling us?’

A palm frond was brushing Derek’s shoulder; he raised a hand and absent-mindedly stroked it, as he might have a woman’s comforting fingers. He didn’t look at either of the detectives as he said, ‘There are certain members of the family want to sell the Press. Lock, stock and barrel, as they say.’

Malone looked at Clements, the business expert; the latter was frowning, not quite believing what he had heard. ‘Sell Huxwood Press? Everything?’

‘Everything. The papers, the magazines, the radio and TV stations in the other States ... Sounds crazy?’

‘But why? Huxwood is, I dunno, an empire . Its share price is higher than anyone else in its field, higher than News Corp. or Fairfax, your debt is nothing –’

Derek looked at Malone. ‘He’s a ring-in, isn’t he? He’s not with Homicide?’

Malone grinned. ‘Russ just does homicide as part-time ... Sorry, that’s tasteless, considering. No, he’s a punter. Used to be on the horses, now it’s on the stock exchange. He’s probably got shares in Huxwood.’

‘I have,’ said Clements. ‘But I won’t get a say, will I? Or any of the other public shareholders?’

‘Afraid not,’ said Derek Huxwood and made no attempt to sound less than privileged. He was part of the dynasty, for a moment he had the arrogance of his parents. ‘The family owns sixty per cent, we have the controlling interest.’

‘And who has the controlling interest in the family?’

Van Dieman said, ‘Is any of this really relevant at this stage?’

‘Yes,’ said Malone flatly. ‘Everything is relevant that will give us a lead on why Sir Harry was shot.’

‘Jesus!’ Derek snapped off a piece of the palm frond. ‘You’re saying one of us killed him?’

‘We’re not saying anything like that. Everyone working on a homicide has got his own way of doing it. Russ and I work from the outside inwards. It’s called elimination. You tell us everything about this house, the three houses, about the family, and we’ll do our own picking and choosing what to eliminate. So who has the controlling interest in Huxwood Press?’

Derek said nothing, looked at Van Dieman. It seemed that they had arrived rather late at the idea that this was a matter that was out of their hands, that could not be contained by a Chronicle editorial or a legal restraining order. The lawyer tapped his fingers on the arm of his chair, then he nodded:

‘Okay, the family shares are parked in a holding company which has no other assets. The shares will always be voted in one line to maintain control.’

‘So who decides how the holding company votes?’ Clements seemed to have taken on a whole new image, sounded smoother. He is turning into a lawyer or a banker before my very eyes, thought Malone, amused at the thought but backing Clements all the way.

‘Sir Harry has – had the shares which carried the whole of the voting power.’

‘What about Lady Huxwood?’

‘No, not in Sir Harry’s lifetime.’