Yesterday's Shadow (36 page)

Baker stood up, rising like a man crippled by arthritis. He did not look at the elderly couple, but pushed past them and went out into the corridor. Andy Graham went back into the compartment, punched numbers on his mobile and put it to his ear.

“We've got him. Thanks, guys.”

Out on the platform one of the two railway police, mobile to his ear, listened and then gave the thumbs up to Graham through the compartment window.

Graham took the briefcase and the bag down from the rack, was careful not to discommode the elderly couple as he edged his way past them.

“Have a nice trip,” he said.

“Who is he?” said the man, gaunt as a ring-barked tree, country written all over him. “What's he done?”

“
We're gunna ask him about that,” said Andy Graham and went down the corridor after Truach and Baker.

In the compartment the elderly couple took out their mobiles and out on the platform the three grandkids responded.

IV

Malone and Clements were waiting at Police Centre when Baker was brought in. The entire strike force of Nemesis was in the Incident Room and Greg Random had come down from his office. Assistant Commissioner Hassett had been informed of the arrest and he had passed on the news to Commissioner Zanuch, who passed it on to the Police Minister, who in turn passed it on to the Premier. Everyone was happy.

Everyone but Malone. He had brought Clements over from Homicide because he needed support; though he was not quite sure why. There was a feeling of relief that the Pavane case, as far as the police were concerned, was over; once the charges were made the case would become the responsibility of the Director of Public Prosecutions. Yet with the relief Malone felt, there was the feeling of wreckage still to be accounted for. He had, in effect, brought Clements with him to hold his hand.

He and Clements took Baker into an interview room, closed the door.

“It's all over, Jack.”

“Julian—” Then he shrugged. He was still in his overcoat, as if he feared the atmosphere in the room was going to be chilling. He sat down, didn't slump; there was still some backbone there. The eyes were wary rather than hopeful. “Okay, Jack. But whichever one, I'm gonna fight it all the way.”

Malone threw an envelope on the table. “That's a court order, Jack. You have to do the DNA test, no argument. You want to call a lawyer?”

Baker/Brown pursed his lips, then shook his head. “Not now. I'll get my brother-in-law to recommend the best. He may change his mind and come in himself.”

“I doubt it. You don't have to say anything etcetera, etcetera . . .”

The
accused looked at Clements. “Shouldn't he quote that in full?”

“I'll swear that he did,” said Clements. “You want us to go right through the whole rigmarole?”

Brown gave them a tired smile. He was sick inside and afraid; but he would never show cowardice. “You're good, aren't you?”

“We try,” said Clements, switching on the video recorder. “But more often than not, we win.”

“Jack,” said Malone, “there was five thousand dollars in your briefcase. What were you going to do with that?”

“It's my sister's. I borrowed it because I thought I'd need it to get out of the country. Give it back to her, will you, with my thanks.”

“She'll have to claim it.”

Brown shook his head. “I doubt she'll do that. Her good name is worth more to her than five thousand bucks. She wouldn't want it on the news that she was here claiming the money—”

“It won't be on the news—we can keep that particular bit quiet. Do you want to make a statement?”

“A statement?” Brown looked genuinely puzzled, but he was acting.

“A full confession to the murder of Mrs. Pavane.”

“No, thanks.”

Malone stood up and Clements rose, too. “There's a doctor outside from the Police Biology Section. He'll take a saliva test . . . You sure you don't want a lawyer present?”

“No.” Brown looked at the recorder, which Malone had switched off. Then he looked up at the two detectives. “It's all over, isn't it?”

“Yes,” said Malone. “It's all over.”

Half an hour later, still at Police Centre, he called Joe Himes. “Joe, we've got him. He hasn't made a statement yet, but I think he's given up. Have you spoken to the Ambassador?”

“Yes, he didn't say much . . . Congratulations, Scobie.”

“Forget them, Joe. Do you mind if I call the Ambassador? I feel I owe it to him.”

“
It's always been your case, Scobie. I'll talk to you tomorrow. The embassy number is—”

Malone sat for another five minutes before he lifted the phone again and made the call. There was a delay at the Canberra end before Stephen Pavane came on the line: “Inspector Malone? Sorry about that. Security sometimes has its drawbacks.”

“I understand, sir. I have—” He couldn't help the slight hesitation. “Good news. We've caught and charged our man.”

There was a long silence at the other end of the line. Then: “Has he confessed? Told you what happened and why?”

“Not so far, sir. But he knows the evidence we have against him. I think he's already given up.” Then he added, “All we can hope is that we don't have to let everything out.”

“No-o.” The word was drawn out, like a long sigh. “It has not been easy, but now—”

“No, sir, it has not been easy. But it's over now—”

“No, Scobie—” Man to man, not ambassador to police officer. “Do you have a philosophy?”

Malone considered a moment. “My philosophy is that commonsense solves more problems than philosophy.”

“Maybe. But commonsense won't solve this problem.”

Murder is a stream that trickles on endlessly. It is all over only for the murdered one.

11

I

BRUCE FARRO
was both determined and apprehensive; a disturbing mix. He had come out here to Rozelle after dark and parked in the main street. Subconsciously he was thinking criminally; there is always a sediment of evil that can be stirred up. If he parked in one of the side streets, some resident might wonder who owned the stranger's car; they would do nothing about it, other than maybe break into it, until the police came questioning them. A Mercedes 500 was not an anonymous car. So he parked it in the main street, where there were several restaurants, and went looking for Delia Jones' street and house.

He carried a brown-paper shopping bag and looked like a man who might be taking a couple of bottles of wine to a BYO restaurant. He was dressed in dark slacks, dark golf jacket and blue-and-white trainers: in case he had to run, though he had no optimism that he could run far. He found the street he was looking for, turned down it, realized he was on the wrong side for No. 28 and crossed over. He passed the house without pausing (it was so narrow—Christ, who could live there?), went on down, turned the corner and walked right round the block. He could feel the nervousness in his legs and even his arms felt weak. But as he walked he dug deep and began to dredge up courage. What he was about to do was a terrible thing, but it was her life or his. He would stop breathing without money.

He came down towards the house a second time, paused. Then the door of the house opened, two women were silhouetted against a hall light. One of the women, stout and bouncy as a huge beach ball, opened the gate, shouted back over her shoulder:

“Night, love! Tomorrow's a date, okay?”

“Tomorrow,” said the slim woman in the lighted doorway. “Night, Rosie. And thanks for everything!”

Farro
walked on, past the stout woman as she went in the gate of the house next door. He almost gave up then; determination drained out of him like blood. But by the time he walked round the block again he knew the job had to be done, tonight.

He came down towards the house for a third time. There was no street light here; the closest was at least thirty or forty metres up the street. No doors of any of the houses were open; the night was too cold. A strong wind blew from the south-west, seeming to gather strength as it came down the narrow street. He had to lean back against it as he came down towards the house. He wished he had a silencer for the gun, but hoped that the wind would blow away the sound of the shot.

He pushed open the gate, pushing it right back against the fence that separated the house from that next door, leaving him an open exit. He took the gun out of the shopping bag, then the Homer Simpson foam mask. He slipped the mask on, stepped up to the front door and rapped the iron knocker.

No response; he knocked again. Then a woman's voice inside the house said, “Who is it?”

Farro had a sense of humour, but it was not sardonic; later he would wonder what prompted him to say, “Inspector Malone.”

Delia opened the door to him, delight on her face: “Scobie—”

Farro shot her once, right through the heart, with accidental accuracy. He saw the expression on her face change as she repeated, “Scobie?”; then she fell back into the hallway. He turned, raced out the open gate and down the street, the wind speeding him along. He ran blindly behind the face of Homer Simpson, horrified now at what he had done.

II

Malone felt sick when Clements rang him and told him of the third murder. “Jesus, why weren't we protecting her?”

“Scobie—” Clements was sympathetically patient. “The only guy who might have threatened her, we have in custody. She reported to the Balmain cops today—they said she seemed in pretty good humour. Nobody had been near her. How would Brown have known where she lived?”

“
He could have hired a hitman—”

“
He could of. We'll talk to him about it. We'll talk to everyone Brown knows—the guy Farro, the one up at Gosford, everyone . . .” Then there was silence.

“You still there? Russ?”

“I'm still here . . . Mate, you're off this case, understand? I'm taking over, you stay right out of it. You understand what I'm telling you?”

It was Malone's turn to be silent; then at last he said, “I understand. It's all yours.”

“Try and explain that to Lisa. Goodnight.”

Malone hung up the phone, stood a while in the hallway. He was filled with a mix of feelings; something like relief floated to the top. He wondered why; and was ashamed. He went into the living room, where Lisa was curled up on a couch, an open book in her lap. There was nothing worth watching on TV, she had said, it was all cookery programmes.

“Who was that?”

“Russ.” He sat down on the couch, pushing her slippered feet away from him. She was in a nightgown and dressing-gown, her face fresh of make-up after her shower. Her hair was loose and she looked relaxed and comfortable. He said, “Delia Jones is dead. Someone shot her.”

Her feet were against his thigh, he felt her stiffen. “Who? Who shot her?”

He shook his head. “We—they have no idea.”

He could still feel the stiffness in her. “Do you have to go out?”

“No. It's not my case. Russ is handling it.” He stroked her instep above the slipper. “It's got nothing to do with me, darl.”

She gazed at him, then she closed the book and dropped it on the floor. She opened her arms and he leaned forward and kissed her. Neither of them said what each of them was thinking. Someone, whoever he was, had solved their problem of Delia Jones.

III

Clements put every spare detective in Homicide on the Delia Jones murder. The media made a
party
of it, but Clements contributed only scraps. With Greg Random's approval he made himself the only spokesman and he was as close-mouthed as an Asian general after a coup. A TV reporter asked if there was any connection between this latest murder and those at the Southern Savoy hotel.

“None that we know of,” said Clements and closed the press conference.

Then he and Phil Truach interviewed Jack Brown, who was still being held in the cells at Surry Hills awaiting arraignment that morning.

“Did she get in touch with you after the line-up?” asked Clements.

Jack Brown (or Julian Baker) had never thought quicker: “Yes.” The police would go to Wharf West, ask questions of the reception desk. “She came to see me the day before yesterday. About an hour after I got back from the line-up.”

“Why'd she do that?” asked Truach.

“She said she didn't think I was the guy she saw that night at the Southern Savoy, but she wasn't sure. She thought she might have to come back to see you guys.”

“She was screwing you for money?” said Clements.

“That was what she was after. I gave her some travellers' cheques—a thousand bucks.”

Truach nodded. “We found 'em in her handbag, out at her house.”

“Why were you so generous, Jack?” said Clements.

Brown had been kept in a cell separate from other overnight detainees, but he had not slept well. He had not shaved and his clothes were rumpled. His descent had begun, but his mind was still sharp: “Look—I didn't feel sorry for her, nothing like that. I dunno, maybe she's got nothing, she's on her uppers, but I wasn't playing St. Vincent de Paul. I wanted her out of my hair. She asked for the money, I had it to spare and I gave it to her to get rid of her. If you hadn't picked me up last night, I'd have been gone. Out of the country before she went back to you and tried to screw you guys with her lies. She was a weirdo, I thought. I had nothing to do with her murder.” He held up his hands. “Nothing at all.”

The two detectives stared at him; he gazed back, not brazenly, just the steady stare of a man telling the truth. Then Clements pushed back his chair. “Okay, Jack. But what was the five thousand for,
the
cash you had when we picked you up? You weren't gunna send her that, were you?”

Brown managed an air of patience; he even sighed. “Look, I was on the train for Melbourne. What do you think I was going to do with it? Post it to her? Meet her down there, pay her some more? I told you last night, I borrowed the money from my sister, it was going to pay my way back home. I repeat, I had nothing to do with killing that woman. I saw her for twenty minutes, no more, but that was enough. She was a trouble-maker. Look for someone else. I'm clean.”