Jon Cleary - Yesterday’s Shadow

‘That won’t work, Phil. She won’t talk to anyone but me. I tried her with Gail, but no go. I’m just starting to remember how stubborn she could be.’

Clements, the personal friend, said, ‘Does Lisa know about her? I mean before you married her?’

‘I mentioned her once or twice – just joking, I think. Do you talk about your old girlfriends to Romy? Do you tell your wife about them, Phil?’

‘What old girlfriends?’ said Truach. ‘I was an altar boy till I met her. Of course, there was Father Mulcahy –’

‘Righto, lay off. This is no time for joking –’

‘Sorry. So she was the one who did the damage? Because he belted her?’

‘Evidently he’s been doing it for years. He had a go at her last night.’

‘So it was self-defence?’ Clements, like most cops, was sympathetic to battered women.

‘They must of had a fight at the hotel,’ said Truach. ‘Maybe he tried to belt her again, her following him to work. The room where he was done, everything was in its place when we looked at it. But Norma Nickles rang in with a preliminary report. There were prints, blood on them, on a lot of the stuff, the buckets and mops and things. As if someone had picked it all up and put it back in place.’

‘That could be her.’ Memory was coming back. She had been wild and uninhibited in bed, but once out of it she had been as neat as a drill sergeant, a place for everything and everything in its place. She had dressed with almost convent-like neatness, then made the bed that they had wrecked. They had joked about her passion for order. Neither of them had known then that her life would be totally disordered. Or so it looked. ‘She was like that. She could make a rugby scrum look neat.’

‘Then that could save her,’ said Clements. ‘She gets a good lawyer, they plead the bashing and the self-defence –’

‘We can make it look –’ said Truach.

‘Phil, don’t make it look like anything but the facts. I don’t want some prosecutor tearing you apart … She was my girlfriend, but that was twenty-five years ago. We’ve both had our own lives since then. I’ve been the lucky one …’

Clements stepped out of his cop’s role: ‘Are you gunna tell Lisa?’

‘Whom –’ He had been coached by Lisa who, like most educated foreigners, had more respect for English grammar than the natives. ‘Whom do you think she is going to be interested in, an ex-girlfriend who’s murdered her husband or the murdered wife of the American Ambassador?’

‘The Ambassador’s wife,’ said Truach. ‘That will be the one all over the news tonight –’

‘You’re kidding. You’re still influenced by Father Whatshisname. She will ask me about Delia and so will my daughters. And even Tom will look at me with new interest. They know I’ve never looked at another woman since I met Lisa and they think my life before her was just a blank. Or at worst I spent all my time with blokes.’

Clements stood up. ‘Let’s put Delia on the back burner for a while. It’s time you went down to the Yanks again, to meet the Ambassador.’

‘I think I might ask for a transfer to Fingerprints.’ Malone got to his feet, feeling stiff and aged. ‘Nothing there turns round and bites you. Call Greg and tell him I’ll pick him up.’

The pigeon on the window ledge had been joined by four others. They sat there sheltering against the south wind, looking over their shoulders at the humans inside, their heads bobbing as if in gossip. Malone leaned across and banged on the window and the pigeons took off, caught at once by the wind.

‘Bloody birds, crapping all the time on that ledge –’

‘Simmer down,’ said Clements. ‘Don’t take Delia down with you to the Yanks. Leave her here with me and Phil.’

Malone nodded appreciatively. ‘Yeah, you’re right … Phil, get someone to check the restaurant, Catalina, where Miss Caporetto took Mrs Pavane for lunch. Get the names of all male guests that day. Restaurants always ask for a contact number, case you don’t turn up. We just have to hope they kept their booking list for – how long was it?’

‘Two weeks,’ said Clements, who had put it all on the computer.

‘Righto, get on with it. We’ll try and find that bloke.’

‘I don’t want to keep harping on her,’ said Truach, ‘but what about Mrs Jones?’

For a moment the name meant nothing: it was as if he were trying to shut Delia out of his mind. ‘Let’s hope she comes to her senses and talks to Gail and Sheryl.’

‘Yeah,’ said Clements but didn’t sound encouraging. ‘It would be nice if someone would come in and talk to us about the Ambassador’s wife.’

‘Fat chance,’ said Malone and left to pick up Greg Random. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the pigeons come back to the window ledge. They knew better than to be blown about by the wind.

Random came out of Police Centre, got into the car beside Malone and said without preamble, ‘I’ve set up the Incident Room here at the Centre – that way I can keep an eye on things. I’ve asked your two girls, Gail and Sheryl, to run it with the senior sergeant from Surry Hills. We’ll treat both murders as the one investigation till we’ve got things sorted out. Gail told me the woman who knifed her husband won’t talk to anyone but you.’

Malone told him why, as he drove through a snaking river of drivers who raged at everyone else for their own frustrations. ‘I’ve got to get out of it somehow, Greg.’

‘Do the media know about the relationship?’

‘Not yet, not unless she wants to tell them. Gail tells me she was photographed, by the press and by the TV cameras, when she was brought in from Rozelle. At that time she hadn’t been charged, she was just the widow of the murdered man. You know, the usual hearts-and-flowers thing. They wanted to photograph her two kids, but they’d been taken away by their grandmother. It’s a mess, Greg.’

Random said nothing more till they had parked the car in the basement of the MLC building and they were walking towards the lifts. Then: ‘Keep her at arm’s length. Get any closer and you’re off that case.’

‘You couldn’t make me a better offer.’

There were only four people in the Consul-General’s office besides Avery and Ms Caporetto. Malone had expected the Ambassador to bring an entourage. Newsreel clips of delegations to conferences, football teams running into a stadium, preparations for war: all had shown that Americans never arrived under-manned. More was better: it was a second national motto. Like sweat, resentment was building up against the possibility of his turf being invaded. Even if, given his druthers, he’d druther be in Tibooburra, the State foreign legion outpost.

‘Ambassador Pavane,’ said Avery, and the tall, handsome blond man stepped forward and shook hands with Random and Malone.

‘I’ve identified – my – my wife.’ The break in his voice was barely perceptible. ‘This is Walter Kortright, our DCM. Roger Bodine, our RSO. And Joe Himes, FBI.’

Initials, initials, thought Malone, and his puzzlement showed. As it did with Random.

‘Sorry,’ said Pavane, reading their faces. ‘Walter is our Deputy Charge of Mission. Roger is the Regional Security Officer. He works with your Federal Police, when called upon.’

‘And Mr Himes?’ asked Random.

Pavane didn’t answer, just looked at Himes. The Ambassador looked suddenly tired, as if he wanted to be shed of his role. He was well-built, looked very fit and had a presence; but at the moment, Malone felt, it was all facade. The man had been punched hollow by the death of his wife and the manner of it. He was above politics, investigation politics, at the moment. Himes could answer for himself.