Yesterday's Shadow (6 page)

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.

“It's your turf, Superintendent.” Himes understood the term; he also obviously understood the territorial imperative. Malone abruptly remembered movies where American local officers resented the intrusion of the FBI. Himes might, just might, be easy to work with.

He was a thickset, black-haired man with a husky voice and eyes that once might have been fearless but had learned caution. “I'll help all I can—when asked.”

“Same here,” said Bodine, the RSO. He looked as if, like Avery, he had been a football player; but not a quarterback, not by at least two halves. He was b-i-i-i-g; and fat. The diplomatic party circuit had got to him, his security was ungirdled. He had a voice that went with his build, like an internal landslide.

“What's the media situation?” Kortright was a soft-featured man with thinning blond hair and an almost incongruously dark moustache, like a military character struggling to get out of an appeaser. His question had little bite to it.

“So far,” said Malone, “they only know Mrs. Pavane under the name she registered at the hotel. Mrs. Belinda Paterson.”

“Who?” Pavane was puzzled.

Malone looked at Random, who nodded; then he said to the Ambassador, “Mr. Pavane, could I see you alone?”

Now there was puzzlement on the faces of Kortright and Bodine. Himes was blank-faced and Malone recognized a law officer who had been in a similar situation, telling secrets best left unrevealed.

Pavane looked at the Consul-General, who said, “Use Miz Caporetto's office.”

Malone
and the Ambassador went out and crossed to the press secretary's office. Malone closed the door, turned to find the Ambassador had sat down heavily in one of the chairs in front of the desk. The coffee-pot was on the hot-plate, but this was no time for offering coffee. Something stronger might be better, but there was nothing in sight in the room. Malone sat down in the other chair and waited till the older man at last looked across at him.

“Sorry, Inspector. I'm still coming to terms—”

Malone decided to ease his way into the situation: “Did your wife tell you where she was going in Sydney? Why she was up here?”

“She was going shopping. And to the Art Gallery. She phoned me, but I was out and my secretary spoke to her—”

“When was this?”

“I think she said two-thirty. My wife said to tell me she'd be back on a later plane than the five o'clock one. That was all.” He was looking at Malone, but his gaze was almost blank. “I just don't understand—” Then he made a helpless gesture with a big hand. “It's just not like her—”

Malone said gently, “I'm afraid I'm going to tell you something that will further upset you. That's why I asked could I see you alone—”

Pavane waited, a hand tightening on the arm of his chair.

Malone always hated this intrusion into another man or woman's personal life: “There had been intercourse before your wife was murdered—”

The hand tightened even more: “She'd been raped?”

“No, sir. The Medical Examiner said there was no evidence of that—rape always shows. Bruises, marks, things like that.”

The hand fell loose. “Jesus Christ, you know what you're saying?”

Husband to husband, not cop to diplomat: “Yes, sir. And I hate telling you this. But it may be our only clue to who killed her. They are taking semen samples, there'll be DNA tests when we have a suspect—”

Pavane
waved a hand, not wanting to hear any more. He looked older, but age is a ghost that comes and goes till finally it settles. At last he said, “You know what you're saying? You are accusing my wife—”

“Sir, please—” Malone held up his own hand. “I'm not accusing your wife of anything. I hate scandal and I'm not interested in it. All I want is to find out who killed her.” He was about to add:
and why
. But now was not the moment.

Pavane sat silent and at last Malone said, “You were surprised when I said she was registered as Mrs. Belinda Paterson. Was that her name before you were married?”

“No.”

Again a long silence, then Malone said, “What was her name?”

A deep sigh; then Pavane's gaze focused again. He frowned, drew in a deep breath: “Page, Wilhelmina Page. But she was always called Billie.”

“You never heard her mention the name Paterson?”

“Never.”

“She had a credit card in that name.”

“I never saw it. She had an American Express card as my wife, Mrs. Billie Pavane, but I never checked her account. She was a good businesswoman, she was experienced.”

“Tell me something about her.” Still gently.

Pavane took his time, as if he had been asked to open a very personal diary. “We've been married two years—very happily married. My first wife died six years ago and I thought I'd never marry again. Then . . .” He turned a direct gaze on Malone. “Are you married?”

“Yes. Very happily. I have two daughters and a son, all grown.”

“I have a son by my first marriage. He disappeared after his mother died. We never got on—” He stopped. “Do you want to hear all this?”

“I want to hear about your second wife. Had you known her long?”

“No, not that long. She came to Kansas City—that's my home town—about four years ago. She
was
a business consultant with our largest bank—handled public relations, things like that. I met her through politics—we were both raising funds for a local senator.”

“You said she came to Kansas City—where did she come from? Her credit card gave an address in Oregon.” He took out his notebook, checked. “Corvallis. Is it a big town? Was she a business consultant there?”

“It's not large. The State College is there. She was born there, her father worked for the college—not an academic, he was just some worker around the grounds.”

“She went to college? Graduated there?”

“No. Her parents were killed in an auto accident when she was—I'm a bit hazy here—seventeen or eighteen. She was an only child. She left Corvallis and went out to San Francisco. Look, why all the background?”

“Mr. Pavane, we're puzzled why she booked into a hundred-dollar-a-night hotel, under an assumed name. I take it that isn't the usual sort of hotel she'd stay at?”

“No-o. I'm just as puzzled as you are. We've never been short of money. I'm comfortable—” Meaning he was wealthy; or, in Australian terms, rich. “Billie liked the best—she was frank about that and I didn't mind. My first wife was the same. Women are like that.”

He wasn't entirely a diplomat: the three Malone women would have had reservations about him after that remark. But Malone was diplomatic: “Yes, I guess they are. Had your wife been married before? She was what—in her late thirties?”

“Thirty-eight. No, she hadn't been married. She'd had boyfriends, but she had never settled for a husband. She was too busy making her career, she said. I—well, I accepted that. I didn't talk about my first wife and she didn't talk about her ex-boyfriends. You're a married man, you know how it is.”

Not yet: I haven't been home so far
. “You said you met in politics. Did she have political ambitions?”

“No, not at all. Not as far as running for office. We were working together on last year's presidential campaign—there were hints of an ambassadorship for me and that excited her. We thought of
one
of the smaller countries in Europe. Denmark, maybe—I'd been to Copenhagen when I was at university in England and I'd liked it. Then the President named Australia—he thought I had certain talents, connections, that would work out here.”

“And your wife liked that? I understand she'd been out here.”

Pavane looked puzzled again. “Who told you that?”

“Miss Caporetto. She went to lunch with your wife and your wife told her she'd been here on a quick business trip some years ago.”

Pavane shook his head emphatically. “Miss Caporetto must've got it wrong. My wife didn't want to come here.”

“Why not?”

Pavane almost smiled, took his time. “Do you want me to be frank or diplomatic, Inspector?”

“Frank, sir. I'm not so nationalistic that I think this is Utopia. One of our Prime Ministers once said not to forget we were at the arse-end of the world. Or words to that effect.”

The Ambassador did smile this time, though it was an effort. “Those were the words my wife used. Though she pronounced it ass-end.”

“In the end she changed her mind?”

“It took a lot of persuasion on my part.” He was silent a long moment and Malone let him take his time. Then: “How much do we have to tell the media?”

“Just the facts, sir. How she was murdered, who she is. Nothing more than that. We don't have to tell them what happened beforehand.”

Pavane was grateful: “You're an understanding man, Inspector.”

Malone nodded in acknowledgement. “Why did she come to Sydney on this particular trip?”

“She wanted to go to the New South Wales Art Gallery. There's an exhibition on there—the best of Australian art. Back home in Kansas City she's on the board of the Nelson Gallery—that's our main gallery. My father bought and donated paintings to it. She's on leave of absence, but she'd told the board she would look at this collection—we don't see much Australian art in our Mid-West.”

“
Righto, sir. We'll see if she ever got to the gallery. As for what I've told you about last night, we'll keep a lid on it as much as possible.”

“Is there likely to be a leak from—well, the morgue staff?”

“The DDFM—”He grinned, trying to lighten the mood. “The Deputy Director of Forensic Medicine, she did the post-mortem—”

“I met her at the morgue.”

“She's a close personal friend of me and my wife and she's the wife of my second-in-command at Homicide. She would sack anyone who talked out of turn to the media.”

“Good enough. I apologize for questioning them. Will you tell Joe Himes?”

“I'm afraid I'll have to, sir, if he's to work with us. But no one else.” He stood up, put out his hand as the other man rose. “I'm sorry, sir. I'll do everything I can to keep the dirt out of this. It's not going to be a tabloid carnival.”

“I'm going back to Canberra this afternoon. I want the body of my wife shipped back to Kansas City—I'll go with her. Dr Clements, your friend, said they would release her within the next day or two, soon as the post-mortem is finished. There'll be a press release put out from the embassy when I get back this afternoon. It will say as little as possible.”

“We'll try to do the same at this end, sir. You'll be coming back from Kansas City?”

Pavane hesitated. “I'll think about it. I really loved my wife, Mr. Malone—we were very happy together. I have to get used to the idea that she is gone.” Just before he opened the door to go out he turned. “Thanks, Mr. Malone.”

Malone could only nod.

II

The Consul-General's office was a bustle of departure. Random left at the same time as the Ambassador, DCM Kortright and RSO Bodine. Malone and Himes borrowed Ms Caporetto's office again. Malone stood at the window gazing down on Martin Place at the ants coming back from lunch.
There
had been the usual lunchtime concert in the small amphitheatre in the middle of the tree-lined plaza and the musicians were packing their gear and moving on to—what? And what were all the human ants scurrying to? From here on the 59th level destiny was a distant prospect. He turned back to Himes: “Joe, what are your feelings on destiny?”