Five-Ring Circus (36 page)

“Not if she's dead.” He looked upwards. “We're going up to the next floor. You keep behind us. And don't go wandering off on your own, understand?”

Now she was here she all at once looked uncertain; she didn't bridle at all at being told what she had to do. “I'll keep close. It's so dark—”

They went up cautiously, hugging the wall. They reached the floor above and Malone stepped through the open doorway into the dim corridor. He looked towards the far end, towards the oblong of light that was the window opening, saw the heap of debris in the middle of the corridor. Stepped a few paces towards it and saw that the heap was Tong Haifeng.

He kneeled down, peered closely, saw the large bloodstain on the back of the white shirt and
the
shattered back of the skull. He felt for the neck pulse, then looked back at Clements.

“Two bullets, both from the back. He's dead.”

Madame Tzu said something in Mandarin: it sounded like a curse.

“So she's still alive and somewhere around,” said Clements; then yelled, “Miss Li!”

There was no answer but the echo of his voice. Then Madame Tzu shouted something in Mandarin. There was no reply for a moment, then there came a faint voice from a room at the far end of the corridor.

“What did she say?” said Malone.

“She told us to go away. She'll shoot if we don't—”

Malone faced down the corridor, pushed Madame Tzu flat against the wall and pressed himself against it. Clements had retreated into a doorway opposite.

“Miss Li! This is Inspector Malone—let me talk to you!” His voice echoed in the long empty corridor.

There was no immediate answer; then: “Go away! I am not going back to China!”

“Miss Li—” Argument at a distance and with her hidden from his view was not easy. “We are State Police—we're not going to send you back to China. Why did you shoot Tong Haifeng? Was he threatening you?” He knew that wasn't on the cards; but anything to keep her talking . . . “Was it he who killed General Huang?”

A moment; then softly, difficult to hear: “Yes.”

“Liar,” said Madame Tzu just as softly.

“So you shot him to avenge your father?” He was glad this interrogation was not being taped. She gave no answer and he said, louder this time, “Were you paying him back for shooting your father?”

Another long pause; then: “Yes.”

“Liar,” said Madame Tzu again and Malone motioned to her to be quiet.

“Then put down your gun, Miss Li. Come on out—you won't be sent back to China—”

“How can I trust you?” Her voice was stronger this time.

“
You'll have to trust me, Miss Li. There's no one else.”

Clements had come out of the doorway and begun edging along the wall, gun held out in front of him with two hands. He passed another doorway and suddenly something hit him on the shoulder; a bird careered off him, went flapping down the corridor as if on a broken wing, its shrieking bouncing off the walls. Li Ping stepped out of the far doorway, was silhouetted against the oblong of light behind her. The bird hit her squarely in the chest, she fell backwards, her gun went off. Two bullets zinged down the corridor; cement dust flew off the walls. She sat up, aimed the gun and fired; the bullet struck a chip off the wall above Clements' head. He dropped to one knee, took aim and fired. Li Ping, now on her knees, shuddered, then fell sideways.

Malone sprinted down the corridor past Clements, dropped to one knee and grabbed the gun from Li Ping's hand. She looked up at him almost sadly, shook her head, then died.

Malone got to his feet as Clements and Madame Tzu came up behind him. “She's gone.”

“Stupid girl,” said Madame Tzu, but her voice had more pity in it than criticism.

“Did you know she was behind the murders?” said Malone.

But Madame Tzu was not stupid; she recognized a leading question. “No.”

“Liar,” said Malone.

But said no more as the first of the SPG men came up out of the stairwell.

III

The Premier had never previously met Jack Aldwych or Leslie Chung. But he had known crooks, even criminals (if not sentenced) in his own party and that of the Opposition and he felt neither uncomfortable nor endangered. He had also not met Madame Tzu and General Wang-Te and he did feel somewhat uncomfortable with them. As he had said to Ladbroke, who arranged the meeting, “The trouble with the Chinese is that they think they know everything but tell you nothing.”

Then you should feel right at home with them.
But Ladbroke didn't voice the thought.

The Dutchman looked at his other guests. There were Sports Minister Agaroff, Lord Mayor
Amberton,
Councillor Brode and Police Commissioner Zanuch. They sat apart from the other group, like relatives of the bride and groom at a wedding. But then this was a marriage, of sorts. Everyone intent on keeping the name of the Games above reproach.

“You're probably wondering why I've got you all here. None of you has said anything to the media about it?” He glared at them, inviting them to be executed.

“Stuff the media,” said Raymond Brode, moderate in his language this time.

“Eight o'clock in the morning,” said Rupert Amberton, hair flat on his head as if still in its night-net. “What sort of time is that for a meeting?”

“I haven't been up this early since I was in jail,” said Aldwych, and grinned at the Premier. He knew a gang boss when he saw one. He also knew, or thought he knew, why they were here.

“I've been in touch with Canberra,” said Vanderberg, sounding as if he had been in touch with Hell or one of its suburbs.

“Who needs them?” said Amberton, and Brode, for once, nodded in agreement.

“We all do,” said Madame Tzu unexpectedly, and everyone looked at her, especially General Wang-Te. “Am I right, Mr. Premier, in thinking you have made a deal with Canberra?”

Ladbroke waited. How much is he, who knows everything, going to tell them? The phone conversations last night had gone on till midnight.

The Dutchman evaded the question for the moment by turning his attention to Zanuch. “The Federal Police have gone back to their cubbyhole. The murders are all yours now.”

“They were all along.” Though Zanuch's chair was only a foot or so from that of Agaroff, he gave the impression of being well apart. Perhaps it was that he was the only one wearing a uniform, but the real separation from them, even from the Premier, was in his face.

Vanderberg transferred his gaze back to General Wang-Te. “Have you been in touch with Beijing since yesterday?”

“Yes.” Wang-Te was playing his cards close to his chest, aware that he was in a poker game where the cards, none of his, were marked.

“
For Crissakes,” said Brode, exploding at last, “what the fuck's going on?”

The Premier ran his eye over all of them; his smile had all the satisfaction of a vulture that had just eaten a buffalo. He held them all in the hollow of his claw: a politician could wish for no more. “The young Chinese Guo Yi will be charged with the murders of Mr. Shan, Mr. Sun and Mr. Feng. He—”

Madame Tzu interrupted. “Mr. Shan? General Huang's name will not be mentioned?”

Vanderberg glanced sideways at Ladbroke and the latter said, “Oh, it will be mentioned, all right. The media will find out and it will mention it in headlines. But we'll deny any knowledge of it and it will be a three-day wonder. Beijing will also deny it, General?”

“Oh yes.” Wang-Te had his hands folded on his chest, as if hiding his cards.

“Canberra are gunna deny it?” asked Aldwych.

“Yes,” said Ladbroke. “Foreign Affairs are very good at the cover-up. It's called diplomacy.”

“He's so cynical,” said the Premier, and nodded in approval.

“So what happens next?” Up till now Les Chung had sat silent. He was out of his depth, but not neck-deep. “What happens about the money Huang sent out to those two bank accounts?”

Vanderberg looked at Wang-Te. “You going to tell ‘em, General, or shall I?”

Wang-Te took his hands away from his chest; the cards had to be played. “My government in Beijing has agreed that the fifty-one million dollars that were in the young people's accounts can remain here in Australia—”

“Wonderful!” Madame Tzu looked almost young.

“—a company will be set up in Beijing and will take over General Huang's—Mr. Shan's—share of the partnership in Olympic Tower, with other investment of capital as it is needed.”

There was a gasp from Madame Tzu; she looked suddenly aged. “Where does that leave me?”

“That will depend on your partners,” said Wang-Te.

They don't even tell each other anything, thought Ladbroke.

She turned on Aldwych and Chung. “Well?”

“You'll need more money,” said Chung; he abruptly relaxed, back in his depth again. “Can you
raise
it?”

“Yes, yes.” It was twenty years or more since she had showed such eagerness. Unfortunately it made her look older rather than younger. “I'll leave for Hong Kong tomorrow—now everything is settled again—”

As if the murders hadn't happened, thought Ladbroke. And wondered at life in China, where amongst a billion people maybe murders dropped out of sight like a stone in a vast quicksand.

“So what happens?” Amberton was very much out of his depth. The usual shenanigans in council at the Town Hall suddenly looked like the Teddy Bears' Picnic. He couldn't get back there fast enough. He'd blow-dry his hair and clear his brain.

Agaroff spoke for the first time, rubbing the top of his bald head. The recent fashion craze for bald skulls had given him confidence in his looks; he looked in mirrors now almost as often as Amberton, the hairy one. “If Mr. Aldwych and Mr. Chung agree to the new arrangements, we'll put everything of the past week behind us. The sole objective is that the Olympics—” he refrained from making the sign of the cross—“go ahead without any hitches. Particularly in the accommodation area—we're having trouble there.”

“Five murders?” said Brode. “You're going to hush all that up?”

“No,” said Commissioner Zanuch, and moved his chair further to one side.

“Bill—” The Premier gave him the basilisk eye. “Least said, you don't have to mend anything.”

“Mr. Premier—” Zanuch was no stranger to political chicanery, but he could see himself and his men carrying the can here. “The police don't run the Justice system. We have a man in custody, Guo Yi, he will be charged and after that the Director of Public Prosecutions takes over—”

“I've talked with the Attorney-General,” said The Dutchman, which meant he had talked
at
the A-G. “That young feller will be remanded till all the fuss has died down—say about six months' time—”

“You can keep him in custody all that time?” Amberton was the most innocent of all those in the room.

“There are ways and means,” said Aldwych, who knew from experience. “Right, Mr.
Vanderberg?”

The old honest crook acknowledged another wise man. “Like you say, Mr. Aldwych, there are ways and means.”

“Won't his lawyer make a fuss?” asked Brode.

“He's a Welshman,” said Ladbroke. “They know a roadblock when they see one—they live next door to the English. If he
does
protest, we just send Mr. Guo back to China. What would happen to him there, General? You'd execute him, wouldn't you?”

Wang-Te shrugged, but said nothing. Nothing was enough.

The Premier looked at Ladbroke. “Well, Roger, looks like we've cleaned up the mess.”

“You don't want a statement put out, do you?”

The Dutchman tried to look demure, but failed miserably. “I wouldn't know what to say.”

IV

Last night Malone had driven out to Camden to the safe house and picked up Lisa and the family. He had felt light-hearted, almost light-headed. It was a long time since he had been so glad to see the end of a case. For the second time on this road he passed a police chase of a stolen car. Both cars went by him like comets, the police car with siren blaring and the blue and red lights a swivelling glare. He had blown his horn in encouragement, on the side of law and order.

When he knocked on the front door of the house and announced himself over the intercom, Constable Sherrard, in a pinafore, opened the door. “So it's all over?”

He nodded. “They can come home.”

Which they did. They drove back to Randwick through a night that seemed to him to have music in it. I
am
light-headed, he thought. The suburbs lay on either side of them, tiled roofs covering a thousand agonies; but those were other people's and tonight he couldn't care less for other people. All he cared for and about were the four people here in the Fairlane with him. Nobody asked how the case had been wound up; they knew he would tell them in his own time. They just knew he was safe, they were all
safe.

In bed, in the capital city of the country of marriage, as Lisa called it, he wrapped himself in her limbs, felt the warmth and comfort of her that only she could generate. She said, “You want to tell me about it?”

“No, not now. It'll keep.” He kissed her. “I love you.”

“I know. Where's your loving hand?”

“On its way.”

Then this morning a uniformed Harold Boston, brand new sergeant's stripes bright as neon on his shoulder, came to collect him at Homicide. “The Commissioner wants to see you. Now.”

“How come he sent you?”

“I volunteered.”

“Why did I ask?”

Boston looked sideways at him as they got into the Headquarters car. “He's going to kick you up the arse.”

“It was worth it, Harold. That's something you'll never understand.”