Jon Cleary - Yesterday’s Shadow

‘They missed somewhere along the line. They didn’t link her with Mrs Belinda Paterson.’

‘The FBI is thorough –’

‘Joe, I’m not criticizing. I’m stating a fact, that’s all. Mrs Pavane apparently has had three names – I’d like to find out which was her real one. Then, maybe, we can start tracing her killer.’

‘You think it was someone from her past who killed her?’

‘I haven’t a clue, Joe. But it would be better if it were, wouldn’t it?’

Himes stood up, looking weary. ‘I dunno, Scobie. There are no good aspects to murder, are there?’

‘I’m not sure of that, either. I’ve seen some bastards who were better dead than alive.’ He, too, stood up. They both looked weary enough to be at the end of a case rather than the beginning of it. ‘What if the bloke who killed her didn’t know who she really was? She had all her valuables up in the room with her. Only her passport was in the safe deposit box. Didn’t she want him to know who she was?’

‘I hate the thought she might just have been there as a pick-up. Are you gonna ask the Ambassador what their sex life was like?’

Malone grinned without humour. ‘I think I’ll leave that to Foreign Affairs.’

On his way out Malone looked in on Consul-General Avery. ‘We’ve started, sir. But there’s a long way to go.’

‘I once played in a Rose Bowl game. We were behind thirty-eight to nil at the end of the second quarter.’

‘Did you win?’

‘No, but we gave UCLA a helluva fright.’

Malone shook his head. ‘I’ve spent all my police career trying to give crims a fright. It never works, not with the pros. This feller who killed Mrs Pavane, he’s way ahead at the moment.’

‘You sound pessimistic.’

‘No, just realistic. It’s a cop’s philosophy.’

Ms Caporetto rode down in the lift with him. She was wearing a thick brown coat and the sort of tea-cosy hat that he thought was worn only by seven-year-olds with fashion-conscious mothers. She did not look demure, nor as innocent as a seven-year-old, but the body was not visible to be whistled at.

‘I’m on my way to see your Premier.’

‘Is he getting into the act?’

‘I don’t think so. It’s a courtesy call on our part. We want to ask if everything can be played down, if and when the questions come up in Parliament.’

‘Not if. When. Another twenty-four hours and the Opposition will be asking why we police haven’t wrapped it up. It’s par for the course. Never be constructive when in Opposition.’

‘I love working here. You’re such a primitive lot.’ But as she stepped out of the lift she gave him a smile that said it was a compliment.

He drove back to Police Centre and Delia Jones. The day had turned grey, but the clouds were still high, scarred by wind. Down at street level another wind chased paper down the gutters, straightened people into mannikins as they turned corners into it. A day for a grey mood.

He first went into the Incident Room, where Gail Lee and Sheryl Dallen had finished the display board. There was not much: a few photos, names, diagrams. There would have been less if the coverage had been of only a single murder.

‘Not much, is there?’

‘Did you get anything new from the Ambassador?’ asked Gail Lee.

‘Just that Mrs Pavane has a murky past. No,’ he said as both women raised their eyebrows. ‘Nothing dirty. It’s just that even Mr Pavane can’t tell us much about his wife before he married her.’

Then he looked at the photo of the dead Boris Jones. Even in death there was a look of cruelty in the broad Slav face; or was that his own imagination, a desire, too late, to protect Delia? ‘What would you say of a bloke like that?’

‘A bastard,’ said Sheryl. ‘But some women would find him attractive.’

‘Mrs Jones must have. How is she?’

‘A bit edgy,’ said Sheryl, ‘but nothing much. She’s more worried about her kids than about what she’s done.’

‘Her lawyer turned up yet?’

‘Mrs Quantock’s brought in a solicitor from out their way, Balmain. She and Mrs Jones have been arguing about who’ll pay – evidently Mrs Jones has got nothing. It looks like it might be a Legal Aid job.’

Legal Aid did its best but it could never afford the talent that could turn a no-win case into an acquittal. ‘Righto, I’d better see her. You come with me, Gail.’

‘Do we keep both murders on the one board?’ asked Sheryl.

‘I hope not.’ He would like the Jones murder dropped off the board altogether. ‘We’ll see what she has to tell us.’

‘Not us,’ said Gail. ‘You.’

‘Don’t remind me.’ He looked at both of them. ‘You know I’d rather walk right away from this?’

‘Of course,’ said Sheryl and he saw at once that their support was genuine. And it was more acceptable because they were women. This was not blokey mateship.

He took Gail into the interview room with him. He was annoyed but not surprised when he saw Mrs Quantock sitting to one side of Delia and the woman solicitor. Rosie Quantock sensed his annoyance for she said at once, ‘I’m here for Delia to lean on.’

‘That’s okay, Mrs Quantock, but don’t interrupt when I’m questioning Delia.’ He sat down, looked at the solicitor across the table. ‘G’day, Pam. Are you taking Delia’s case or are you here just for now? I understand she has asked for Legal Aid.’

‘I’m here for the whole term.’ Pamela Morrow was an old foe, but a friendly one. She and Malone had met years ago when she had been a law student leading demonstrations against this, that and everything and he had been a new police recruit trying to handle gently a woman trying to kick him in the balls. She was a short dumpling of a woman with red hair cut in a bob with bangs and with bright blue eyes that, he knew, could be as challenging as Rosie Quantock’s. ‘I’m on the board of the Women’s Protection League. We’re taking Mrs Jones’ case. Right through from now to acquittal.’

He grinned. ‘You haven’t changed, Pam.’ Only then did he look at Delia. ‘Pam and I are old mates.’

‘Old Home Week,’ said Delia and smiled as if she were here on no more than a traffic charge. He caught a glimpse of the girl he had once been in love with. She had been a pretty girl rather than beautiful; chocolate-boxy, his mother had called her. Prettiness, he knew, faded quicker than beauty; but the years had been too cruel to her. ‘We’re not going to be any trouble, Scobie.’

‘Tell us what happened.’ Not me : us. He had to keep Gail in the frame to protect himself.

‘Tell him everything ,’ said Rosie Quantock. ‘How he’s been belting you for years –’

Malone looked at Pam Morrow, who looked at Rosie Quantock. ‘Please –’

‘Sorry,’ said Rosie, but you knew it was just an empty word. ‘But she’s gotta tell him everything –’

‘I will,’ said Delia, hands folded together on the table, steady as two interlocked rocks. She nodded at the recorder: ‘Is that on?’

‘Yes,’ said Gail. ‘Everything you say –’

‘I know.’ The composure was so complete; Malone had to admire her. ‘Well – where do I begin?’

‘At the beginning,’ said Malone, knowing he was making a concession.

‘Well, Boris and I have been married fourteen years. He’s from Leningrad – or what do they call it now?’

‘St Petersburg,’ said Gail.

Delia didn’t look at her; her gaze was solely on Malone. ‘Yes, there. He was a merchant seaman – he came to Australia twice on a ship. I met him, I liked him, he liked me –’ She stopped for just a moment, her gaze still focused on Malone; then she went on, ‘The third trip he jumped ship and stayed on.’