9

I

AT SEVEN-THIRTY Malone, Clements and Chief Superintendent Random arrived simultaneously, as if on cue, outside the Garden Apartments. There were press cars and radio cars and TV vans and a horde of reporters; one might have thought a sporting hero had come back from the dead, instead of just another IT whiz. The three officers double-parked, gave their keys to one of the several uniformed men keeping the peace, and went into the lobby of the apartments.

A brown-uniformed concierge was already on duty, holding open a side door beside the revolving door through which the detectives had entered. A thin, prematurely grey-haired man in a track suit and trainers was pushing someone in a wheelchair out through the doorway. Malone had to look twice, discreetly, to tell whether the cerebral palsy victim in the wheelchair was a boy or a man. It was a boy, maybe twelve years old, who twisted his head and looked out at the packed pavement with fear. Then he and the man were gone, the crowd opening up to let them through, then closing behind them.

“They go out every morning,” said the concierge, recognizing Malone. “For their constitutional.”

Malone could only nod, silently blessing himself and Lisa for their luck. Some people were born, he thought, while God was looking the other way.

“Fantastic news, eh?” said the concierge, holding open the lift doors for them. “Mr. Magee being back.”

“Fantastic,” said Malone; then added to Random and Clements as the doors closed: “Basically, that is.”

Random looked at Clements. “Is he usually as shitty as this early in the morning?”

“No, usually at the end of the day,” said Clements and he and Malone shook hands on the cliché.

“I hope by the end of this day,” said Random, “all our troubles are over.”

“For you, maybe,” said Malone. “We still have to find who killed the maid. She keeps being overlooked.”

They rode up to Magee's floor, got out of the lift to be greeted by a young uniformed officer standing outside the apartment's closed front door.

“Anyone in there?” asked Random. “The strike force guys?”

“No, sir. They've come and gone. They were here at six. Mr. Magee didn't exactly welcome them.”

“Neither would I,” said Random. “But don't quote me.”

Magee, hair in a pony tail, dressed in pyjamas and a silk dressing-gown, was having breakfast with Kylie Doolan, Caroline Magee and Sheryl Dallen. The latter, fully dressed, rose as the senior detectives came into the apartment. She was in charge, but the other three were unaware of, or ignoring, the fact.

“Paula Decker has gone off, sir. Miss Doolan's sister and brother-in-law left half an hour ago.” She looked at Malone as if to tell him it was time she, too, left. She looked tired and fed up. “The strike force officers questioned Mr. Magee for almost an hour.”

“I've had questioning up to here,” said Magee without rising from the table.

“I'm sure you have,” said Random.

“Who are you, anyway?” Magee was making no effort to be polite. Malone felt Clements, beside him, stiffen and he waited for the big man to smear Magee's face with the poached eggs he was eating. Something he would have applauded.

“I'm Chief Superintendent Random, in charge of the force that's been trying to find you.”

“You weren't too successful, were you?”

“Pull your head in, Errol,” said Caroline.

On the surface Random looked unperturbed by Magee's rudeness. “The men who were here earlier would have questioned you about the kidnapping. Inspector Malone and Sergeant Clements are here to question you about the murder of your maid.”

“I know nothing about that! I told those other guys—”

“Take it easy,” said Caroline.

“Mind your own business!” snapped Kylie and in the background Sheryl rolled her eyes at Clements, who grinned.

“Mr. Magee,” said Random, “could we talk to you in another room? It won't take long.”

Magee looked as if he were about to refuse; he had a piece of toast halfway to his mouth, his fork sliced into the poached egg. Then he put down the toast and the fork and stood up. Kylie, too, stood up. “I'll come with you, darling—”

“No,” said Random and for the first time since coming into the apartment his voice had iron in it. “Sergeant Clements will talk to you ladies out here. Mr. Magee?”

Magee led them into a small study off the main bedroom. Through the open bedroom door Malone could see the rumpled bed and he wondered who had slept with Magee last night. Or maybe Magee, if he were sensible, had slept alone.

The room was too small; the three men were close together. Magee sat in a chair at the small desk against one wall; Random sat in the only other chair. Malone found a place for his bum on the desk, hard up against a computer. Which, he noted, now had a blank screen. Magee, it seemed, was not yet interested in the world he had once occupied, that cyberspace out there full of strangers you were asked to trust.

“Look, I was shocked when they told me last night about Juanita—”

“We accept that, Mr. Magee. But the people who kidnapped you—”

“Jesus, do I have to go through it all again?” There was no mistaking his fatigue.

“Inspector Malone would prefer it. Were the kidnappers vicious towards you? Did they threaten to kill you?”

“I don't know if they were threats, I mean real threats. I got on pretty well with the guy I saw most. Well, I didn't exactly see him. He wore a hood all the time, a blue hood. So did the other two, the two women. Yeah, and there was a second guy, I think. He sorta disappeared.”

“Two women?” said Malone.

“Yeah. They seemed to be mother and daughter. They called the older one Mum.” Malone tried to hide his grin, but Magee caught it. “Yeah, I know, that was what I thought. Kidnapped by a gang run by Mum.”

“There was a famous outlaw gang in America run by a mum, Ma Barker,” said Random. “The worst Mafia gang in Naples is run by a mum. It happens, Mr. Magee. Where did they hold you? You got any idea?”

Magee had had time to think about it; he was still tired, but his mind had begun to click like a computer. One that had a virus in it somewhere, but which still worked: “The first night and the second day we were in the bush somewhere. I don't know where, it sounded as if it was pretty isolated. Then when they moved me, I was in the boot of a car, I dunno, we must've travelled for about an hour. We stopped somewhere along the way and pulled off what sounded like a main highway. I was pretty groggy, I couldn't breathe in the hood they'd pulled over my head. I dimly remember being pulled out of the boot of the car and being dumped in another one. I must've passed out, because the next thing I remember, I was in a bedroom in a house in the suburbs, I'd say. I could hear the occasional car and every so often a plane would go over. So I couldn't have been too far from the airport.”

Malone was listening intently. “What happened last night?”

Magee was more cooperative now, his bad temper seemed to have evaporated. “They said they were going to let me go, that things had become too complicated. The old lady, Mum, she didn't seem to think it was a good idea. Letting me go, I mean. They put me into a car, they blindfolded and gagged me.” He felt around his mouth, which was still sore. “The guy who spent most of the time with me, he and the girl dropped me near some park, I think it could've been in Arncliffe, I dunno much about out there—”

Out there, thought Malone. Maybe ten kilometres from the heart of the city. He makes it sound like the Far West, out there where the rabbits and kangaroos roam. Just east of Tibooburra . . .

“I was in a main road when I got a cab—the driver said it was Rocky Point Road, I've never heard of it—”

Malone felt the computer against his back. Buried in its hard disk were roads and streets all over the world. But not Rocky Point Road . . .

“Did they ever mention the maid?” asked Random.

Magee shook his head. “Look, I don't think they could've been the ones who did it. The guy spent most of the time with me, we got on well. I mean, after a while I began to like him. The girl, too. I don't think they were killers.”

“Mr. Magee,” said Random, “killers come in all shapes and sizes and temperaments. Inspector Malone and I have had too much experience of them. You said they wore hoods all the time. You saw only half of what they might truly be like.”

“No.” Magee shook his head again. “I think—I'm sure I'm right about the guy and the girl. The other guy, the one who disappeared—I dunno about him. Or the mum. I just, y'know, I just don't believe they were killers.”

“Someone killed your maid,” said Malone.

“Yeah, I know.” He felt some guilt about that; or something. Juanita had been a stranger to him; not because of her, but because of him. The circle of which he was the centre had always been small; he had slept with women who had been strangers, even though they were on first-name terms. He would never have missed Juanita if she had suddenly departed, though he had not expected her to depart in the way she had. “Look, your guys who were here earlier, they mentioned the yakuza. Kylie told me about ‘em, too. Could they have killed Juanita?”

Random looked at Malone, who shrugged. “Maybe. But my money's on the kidnappers. Errol, what was the woman like, the mother?”

“Christ, I dunno. How do you describe a woman who's got a bag over her head all the time?”

“Don't tempt me,” said Random, and the three men laughed, allies for the moment, all blokey.

“I'd say she was maybe in her forties—I'm not good at women's ages.”

“Join the club,” said Malone, keeping Magee at ease, seeing he was now more ready to cooperate.

“Slim and—and brisk, I guess is the word. Organized. She ran the show. I remember thinking she'd have made a good office manager.”

“There was no older man? A father?”

“Never saw one. The young guy gave me a jersey to wear, a Souths' one. It's outside somewhere. He said his old man played for Souths years ago, but he could've been bullshitting me.”

“Did they talk to you about Kunishima Bank?” asked Random.

“They said they'd called the bank and got nowhere.” Magee made no attempt to hide his bitterness.

“We've had a negotiator sitting with them and one at I-Saw, but there were no more calls after we put them in place. Just the original two calls, the one to I-Saw and the one to the bank. I think your kidnappers were rank amateurs, Mr. Magee.”

Magee thought a moment, then nodded. “You could be right.”

“When they stopped calling was when things must've started going arse-up,” said Malone. “I wonder what went wrong and why?”

Magee shook his head. “I can't tell you. The guy used to talk to me, he, I dunno, he sounded depressed. I didn't think anything of it at the time—”

“I wonder,” said Random, “if the kidnappers found out the yakuza were looking for you?”

Random's tone, as usual was dry and soft. He shovels dust, thought Malone, better than anyone I know. You could be gasping for breath . . .

Magee was gasping. “Kylie told me—I thought the guy was, whoever he was—”

“Tajiri,” said Malone. “He told her his name was Ikura, but we know it was Tajiri. He works for Kunishima.”

“Jesus, I know him! Well, no, not know him—but I met him! A coupla times, no more. He just sat in on a conference with Okada, the Kunishima boss, and some other guy—”

“Nakasone.”

“Yeah. Yeah, Nakasone—” He took another deep breath. “They're really after me? To kill me?”

“I gather,” said Malone, soft and dry as Random. “Unless you tell ‘em where the forty million dollars are.”

“There's no forty million dollars missing! That's all bullshit—”

“Come on, Errol, we're not Fraud Squad or the Tax Office. We couldn't care less where the forty million is, could we, Superintendent?”

Random gave his dry smile, playing the friendly game. “Speak for yourself. But we'll forget it for the moment, Mr. Magee. Your main worry is the yakuza boys, with or without the missing money.”

“When your wife Caroline came out from London, did she know about the forty million?” asked Malone, still gentle.

“Of course she didn't!” Then he saw his mistake. He shrugged, no longer denying the missing dollars. “I didn't know she was coming. She just turned up a coupla weeks ago.”

“Were you glad to see her?”

Again the shrug. “I dunno. Yeah, I guess so. She understood me better than any of the others. We were married . . . You married?”

“Very much,” said Malone. “The Superintendent, too.”

“We separated, but I guess we always understood each other. You know what it's like.”

The other two married men nodded, then Malone said, “She wasn't coming out to help you with your problems?”

“How could she?” He was no longer defiant on the money question. “The shit was too deep. You know what it's been like. You pick up the papers every day and another two or three dotcoms have gone bust. I could've survived if the big overseas lawyers hadn't got smart. They saw all the IT companies going bust and they decided to set up their own service sites. I'm suing half a dozen of them, but whoever sued lawyers and won? Especially the American and European firms. I could cry,” he said, but didn't.

If he had, Malone might have belted him over the ear.

“What are you planning to do? Go back to I-Saw?”

“What's the point? It can't be saved. I'll look around for something else, another job. In the IT business they don't hold a failure against you. It's part of the game, like a knock-on in football.” He had chosen a sporting metaphor, but he didn't know why. “You play rugby or rugby league?”

“The Superintendent is Welsh,” said Malone. “Rugby is their religion. My son plays rugby.”

“Inspector Malone's game was cricket,” said Random. “They're very tough on failure there.”

“Till you make up your mind, Errol,” said Malone, “we're going to give you police protection. Free of charge.”

Magee looked as if he was about to protest; then he nodded. “Okay, I guess that's sensible. But shit—”

“Out of the frying pan,” said Random, “into the fire. An old Welsh cliché.”

“What's he on about?” Magee asked Malone.

“He's an old Welsh philosopher. The Welsh are good at that.”

“You should practise it, Mr. Magee,” said Random. “You may need it.”

Out in the living room Clements was at the table with the three women, drinking coffee poured for him by Sheryl. He was affability itself as he said, “Mrs. Magee, why did you tell us you had only just arrived back in Sydney? You've been back two weeks.”

Caroline was just as affable. “I didn't tell anyone I'd just arrived back. No one asked me when I'd arrived.”

“You let us think—” said Kylie.

Caroline cut her off as if she had picked up one of the breakfast knives and slid it across her throat: “Kylie dear—”

“I'm not your Kylie dear—”

“No. No, that's true. You're Kylie's dear, selfish as hell—”

“Ladies—” Clements held up a hand, looked at Sheryl for support.

The latter hid her disgust and her smile. She had found herself both liking and disliking Mrs. Magee, but the girlfriend was just a pain in the butt.

“We checked with Immigration, Caroline. It's standard procedure.” It wasn't, but lies are one way to the truth: standard police procedure. “It must of been our mistake, assuming you'd just arrived.”

“It was,” said Caroline, reaching to pour herself more coffee. “Errol knew when I arrived.”

“You'd seen him before the other night? Last night?” Sheryl was exhausted, it seemed she had been here in this apartment a week or more.

“Yes, when he told me I'd arrived too late.” She stood up. She was in a green silk dressing-gown; green, Sheryl noted, seemed to be her colour. She looked around her, then down at Kylie. “It's all over, Kylie dear. You'd better get used to it.”

Carrying the cup of coffee she turned to leave as Random, Malone and Magee came back into the room. Random said,

“We'll be giving Mr. Magee police protection. Are both you ladies staying on here?”

“Not me,” said Caroline. “I'm going back to my hotel now and I'll be flying out tomorrow, going back to London. I'll talk to you later, Errol.”

“No, you won't—” Kylie was throwing up barriers.

Magee looked at his two women; looked, thought Malone, as if he wanted neither of them. But he said nothing and Malone took over: “It will be easier to give you protection if you are all in the one place. It would be better if you moved in here till tomorrow, Mrs. Magee.”

“No!” Kylie was piling barricade upon barricade.

Magee said wearily, “Cut it out, Kylie. I won't be sleeping with her—”

“Thanks,” said Caroline and put down her coffee. She smiled wryly at Sheryl. “Isn't it nice to be wanted? . . . All right, Inspector. I'll stay here tonight. Will I need an escort to the airport tomorrow?”

“We'll see to that,” said Malone, then looked at Random: “Anything more, sir?”

“I think there's a lot more,” said Random. “We just have to see when it turns up.”

II

“You've heard the news,” said Nakasone. “He's back!”

“I don't want to know!” Okada threw up his hands as if he had been told General MacArthur had sailed back into Tokyo Bay. His father had been one of the junior officers on board the USS Missouri that soul-destroying day; his father had kept the memory alive in the family like an inherited disease. His father was dead now, beyond the knowledge of his son's involuntary involvement with gangsters. “The bank washes its hands of it!”

They were in Okada's office, the early-morning sun making the room more cheerful than the mood of its occupants. Nakasone sat down, not in the chair behind the big desk; but there was no doubt who was assuming charge. He, too, came of a family of tradition: his father and his grandfather before him had been yakuza. They had been rougher, but no tougher.

He looked at his nominal boss. Hauro Okada was that too-often impediment to progress, an honest man. “Hauro, we have to be sensible. Our patrons back in Osaka—”

“Yours, not mine.” Okada sat down behind his desk, but he knew the position meant nothing. He might as well have been sitting on a toilet seat.

“Ours,” said Nakasone. “Things are so bad back in Japan, we can't just turn a blind eye to what Magee has stolen. Our bank is like all the other banks—we were too trusting—”

Despite himself, Okada laughed. “Kenji, Kunishima wasn't trusting. It was like all the other banks—greedy. And now it's in a hole. Not as big as some, but a hole nonetheless.”

“You approved the original investment in I-Saw—”

“Only after you and Osaka had supposedly done due diligence. I'm not going to commit hara-kiri over this—”

Nakasone looked out the window behind Okada; gulls climbed up towards them on shafts of sunlight. “The means are behind you.”

“Don't talk to me about honour when it comes to money. Your bosses—”

“Our bosses.”

Okada continued as if there had been no interruption: “—are owed no giri by me. When we are this level—” He waved a hand behind him; a poor man's debts never flew at this height.

“Up here, money has no pride or shame. It's a commodity, Kenji, nothing more, nothing less. Mr. Magee is your problem, not mine. If your bosses want him attended to, then you and Tajiri have to do it. I'll be looking the other way—for the bank's good name.”

He smiled inwardly at the hypocrisy of what he had said. The bank, unlike the yakuza who financed it, had no tradition; it was a mere ten years old, a sucker-fish amongst the sharks. He himself was more honourable than Kunishima; he had a name. Which Nakasone and Tajiri did not. Up till a hundred and fifty years ago only noble families and samurai families had surnames. The Okadas had been samurai, going back five centuries, coming forward to his father on the deck of the USS Missouri and the ignomy. Now there was only himself, no samurai, just a banker. But, he was desperately trying to prove, an honourable one. Working for a bank whose profit-and-loss columns were its only bow to giri.

“Where is Tajiri?” he asked.

“On his way home,” said Nakasone. “He flew out yesterday to Perth, on a domestic flight. He is travelling on a second passport, under another name.” He didn't mention the name and Okada did not ask. “He flies out of Perth tonight for Singapore, then home to Osaka.”

Okada was almost afraid to ask the question: “What about Magee?”

Nakasone stood up. “I'll attend to him. He trusts me, he knows I was the one who took him to Osaka. He will tell us where the forty million dollars are.”

“Good luck,” said Okada and turned to stare out the window, looking north to Osaka, Japan and home. Where corruption and cronyism prevailed in politics and business, but where some pockets of honour still remained.

III

Back at Homicide Clements said, “What d'you reckon?”

“Let the strike force blokes look after Magee,” said Malone. “We go looking for the kidnappers—they were the ones who did in Juanita.”

“So where do we look?”

Then the phone, as if Malone had willed it, rang. It was Sheryl Dallen: “Boss, I've just talked to Immigration again. It didn't click with me the first time, I was checking when Mrs. Caroline Magee had arrived. I've just checked again, they've read off their computer particulars on her. Mrs. Caroline Magee, maiden name Briskin.”

Malone felt the lift in spirit that in him passed for excitement; nobody would have known. “She still at the apartment? You still there?”

“Still here, both of us. Till the strike force guys arrive to relieve me.”

“We're on our way, Sheryl. I love you, but only platonically.”

“Good enough,” she said and hung up.

“What's the love-in all about?” asked Clements.

Malone told him: “Caroline probably organized it. She bullshitted us about having only a brother, one she hadn't seen in years. She's got a mother and a sister and two brothers, all out at Hurstville.”

“So where do we go first—down to the Quay or out to Hurstville?”

“Get the locals to pick up the family—and the younger brother, he's in hospital, St. George. Tell ‘em they won't need the State Protection blokes—I don't think Mum Briskin is going to come out with guns blazing. But tell ‘em to send more than a couple of men. Bring ‘em back to Police Centre—we'll have Mrs. Magee there to front them. Here's the Hurstville address.”

Clements went out to phone the Hurstville commander and Malone picked up his own phone to ring Greg Random. The latter, as usual, was as excited as a drowsy owl. “Sooner or later things fall our way, Scobie.”

“It's a long way from over—”

“Don't sound so pessimistic—”

“I'm not,” said Malone and hung up, smiling, which is another expression of excitement.

He got up, pulled on his jacket, took his pork-pie hat and went out to Clements. Normally he would have taken a junior officer with him, but on this one, maybe his last Homicide case, he wanted Clements. It would be a ceremonial handing-over.

When Malone and Clements got to the bottom of Macquarie Street the media horde had thinned to a scribble. Mr. Magee, the word had come out, would not be making any statement at this point in time nor at the end of the day. The two detectives got out of their car and the first person Malone saw was Vassily Todorov, helmeted and geared for action, his bicycle held at the ready like a skeletal horse. He plunged at Malone.

“Tell Mr. Magee I must see him!”

“Mr. Todorov, we're here on police business—”

Several of the reporters had gathered around, notebooks ready, tapes held out like tidbits to be munched on. “What's going on, Inspector? Who's the guy on the bike? Is he the new Flying Squad?”

“Tell ‘em who you are, Vassily,” said Clements and pushed Malone ahead of him through the revolving door. “They might run your story.”

They went up to the Magee floor, knocked on the apartment door and it was opened by Caroline Magee, dressed in black slacks and cream shirt. She appeared unsurprised, unperturbed, to see them.

“Come in, Inspector. Good news?”

“It could be. Where's Mr. Magee?”

“He's asleep,” said Kylie, watcher of the bedroom. She and Sheryl Dallen were in the living room behind Caroline. “Why are you back again? Aren't you going to give him any rest?”

“I'd like a word with Detective Dallen,” said Malone and took Sheryl out on to the apartment's balcony. “You're sure Immigration's got everything right? I don't want her making a fool of us.”

“I got them to repeat it,” said Sheryl. “They don't have the maiden name of a woman on a passport any more—they said they stopped that back in 1984.”

“Germaine Greer arranged that?”

“None of your male chauvinism—sir. But today, when a passport is applied for, they put the lot, married name, maiden name, on the computer. Her passport was issued at Australia House in London in March 1993. Just after she married him, I guess.”

He looked out on the scene below them. The city, as always, was oblivious of its undercurrents. The ferries came into the wharves of the Quay without fuss, passengers ready to leap, running, towards whatever had brought them to town. On the other side of the water a cruise boat eased out towards the harbour to show tourists and day-trippers the better aspects of the city, the harbourside mansions of those who had made good, or bad, depending on how they had got their money. Over by the wharves a busker noiselessly tap-danced to the silent music of his banjo, like a puppet without strings. Immediately below, people meandered towards the Opera House, watched by diners in the cafés and restaurants along the colonnade, different levels of credit cards waving to each other. Errol Magee was yesterday's news and the public eye, seeking distraction, not disaster, was looking elsewhere. If Magee, or his wife Caroline, jumped off this balcony, then, ah then, they would stop to look, thankful that they had not been felled by a low-flying suicide.

“Righto, we take her in. Watch Miss Doolan's face when I tell Mrs. Magee where we're going.”

Caroline just raised an eyebrow when Malone told her he wanted her to accompany him and Sergeant Clements back to Police Centre. “You never let up, do you, Inspector?”

“We try not to,” he said amiably.

“Why are you taking her?” said Kylie, as if she had been excluded from something.

“Just for questioning.”

Kylie's expression changed: she had just won the lottery. “You think she had something to do with Errol's kidnapping? Oh, wait till I tell him!”

“Let's get out of here,” said Caroline abruptly and picked up a jacket and handbag. “She's going to have an orgasm.”

“Go home when the strike force fellers come back,” Malone told Sheryl. “You look wrung out.”

Sheryl's voice was just a murmur: “Wouldn't you be?”

As they went down in the lift Malone told Caroline, “There are reporters still outside. You may be in the news from now on.”

He had to admire her composure: “Any escape from Miss Doolan is welcome. Do I stop and give them a statement?”

“You do, and Sergeant Clements will knee-cap you.”

She smiled at both of them. “Are you two married?”

“Not to each other,” said Clements as the lift reached the lobby. “Okay, here we go. If I knock anyone over, don't stop to help him up.”

As they got out into the street Vassily Todorov led the charge, plumed head thrust forward. “Where's Mr. Magee?”

“Who's the woman?”

“It's his wife—”

But Malone and Caroline had jumped into the back seat of the unmarked car. Clements, behind the wheel, the ubiquitous parking ticket still behind the wipers, swung the car out into the traffic to a clamour of horns from others who thought they owned the road. He did a swift U-turn, turning Malone's stomach, and they were heading back uptown and out towards Surry Hills and Police Centre.

Caroline had sprawled against Malone in the back seat; she recovered her balance. “Does he always drive like this?”

Malone smiled at her admirably. “Do you ever lose your cool?”

“You'll find out,” she said and settled back in the seat, staring straight ahead.

“You may need a lawyer, Caroline. You want to contact one when we get to Police Centre?”

“I'll see,” she said, still staring straight ahead.

At Police Centre there were few officers in the Incident Room; they all looked up as Caroline Magee was brought in. Clements had called Greg Random on the car phone and he came into the room behind them:

“Mrs. Magee, thank you for coming.”

“No pleasure of mine,” she said and looked around at the four strike force officers, three men and a woman, who stood in the background like football replacements. “Do you all interrogate me?”

“No, just Inspector Malone and Sergeant Clements. Both very experienced and very hospitable.”

“I'll bet,” she said and followed Malone and Clements as they led her towards an interview room.

Once inside the room Clements turned on the video recorder and gave the usual warning. “You sure you don't want a lawyer here with you?”

“Not yet.” She settled herself in the chair across the table from them. She had put on her jacket, arranged the collar of her shirt over it. “I'll decide when I know what you're charging me with.”

“Caroline,” said Malone, determined to keep the interview on as even a keel as possible, “we're not charging you with anything at the moment. A lot will depend on how you answer our questions. Now, your maiden name was Briskin. You are related to Shirlee Briskin—she's your mother?”

“You'll have to ask her.”

He grinned. “Nice one, Caroline. We'll do that—they're bringing her in now.” He waited for a reaction, but there was none. He went on, “Her and your brother Corey. There's also another brother, right? Phoenix? He's in hospital. Anyone else? A sister, whose name we don't have yet . . .”

“Am I supposed to be helping you with a family history?”

“No,” said Clements, the support bowler, “no, Mrs. Magee, what you're doing is buggering us about.”

“Very hospitable,” she said, but her smile was friendly, she was still at ease. “Yes, that's my family.”

“And,” said Malone, “they were in the kidnapping of your husband? They were the ones who carried it out?”

“Inspector—” She took her time, looking directly at Malone; as if he were the more hospitable officer. “How can I be accused of kidnapping my husband? We're still legally married, not divorced.”

Malone wasn't sure of the answer to that one. “You, or your family, demanded ransom from Kunishima Bank.”

“Who told you that? Errol told us this morning that it employs Japanese gangsters, yakuza. You believe what the bank told you?”

“No,” said Clements, “we believe what we've found out.”

“And what's that?”

“That the kidnappers murdered your husband's maid, Juanita Marcos. That's why the inspector and I are on this case, Mrs. Magee. Because of the murder, not the kidnapping.”

Clements had turned the questioning at right angles; he had taken her round a corner and faced her with something she didn't want to know. For a moment she looked ugly, but she remained motionless. “I had nothing to do with that.”

“Not you, maybe. But maybe one of your brothers.”

Malone had learned enough about women to know their uses of silence. They use it with more finesse than men; they can use it cruelly or lovingly or as an invisible wall. Caroline Magee all at once was on the other side of a wall.

Malone waited, then at last said, “Well?”

No answer; she was another woman.

Clements also waited, then he switched off the recorder.

“I think you had better get a lawyer, Mrs. Magee.”

IV

Mobile phones have widened communication, thickening the herd instinct. Getaway drivers are now in instant touch with bank robbers to warn of danger. Unwanted lovers get the instant flick without having to wait for the two-day post. Funerals now can be arranged before the body is cold.

Shirlee Briskin had a built-in awareness of danger that would have made her an ideal presidential bodyguard. By accident, or because of her awareness, she was at the front window of her house when the four police cars came cruising down the street, looking for her house-number, and pulled up, like a white wedding procession come for the bride.

She had made two swift calls to Corey's and Darlene's mobiles, something she could not have done if she had had to go through their office switchboards, before she answered the ring-ring-ring at the front door.

She looked at the three police officers, two men and a woman, as if they were door-to-door salespeople. “Yes? What do you want?” She didn't turn her head, but out of the corner of her eye she saw the armed officers going up beside the house towards the rear. She also saw Mrs. Charlton already at the side fence on sentry duty. “What's wrong? Is my son Pheeny worse?”

“No, Mrs. Briskin. You are Mrs. Briskin, right?” She nodded. “We'd just like you to come with us for some questioning.”

“What about?”

“The kidnapping of Mr. Errol Magee.”

“Who?” Then light dawned; or so it seemed. Judi Dench, one of her favourites, couldn't have done better. “That businessman? You must be joking!”

“I'm afraid not,” said the sergeant in charge of the detail; he was showing a lot of patience. “Just come with us—”

“Am I being charged with anything?”

“Not yet. Please, Mrs. Briskin? No fuss.”

She considered, as if buying something they had offered. Then she nodded, “I'll get my coat and handbag.”

“I'll come with you,” said the policewoman.

Shirlee looked her up and down, as if deciding whether to trust her in the house, then she nodded and led the way towards the front bedroom.

“This is ridiculous,” she said as she pulled on her coat, looked in the wardrobe mirror to check that her hair was neat.

“Possibly,” said the policewoman; she was young and learning which ropes you used for hanging. “We'll bring you back if everything's okay.”

“They're not gunna turn over the house or anything, are they?” The blue hoods had been burned, along with the Versace dress and jacket, by Corey early this morning; the ashes were buried in the back garden. “I like everything to be neat.”

When she came out of the house, taking care to close the front door and lock it, and walked down towards the front gate surrounded by ten police officers, some still putting away their guns, Mrs. Charlton was out on the footpath, tongue at the ready:

“Something wrong, Shirlee? Pheeny's okay? You're not in trouble?”

“Just some speeding tickets, Daph. Corey's been booked.”

“All these cops for speeding tickets? With guns?”

“They're practising, Daph.”

She got into the back seat of the lead police car, said to no one in particular, “Bloody busybody.”

“Life's tough, Shirl,” said the sergeant in the front seat.

“Shir-lee,” said Shirlee and settled back for the ride. She hoped Corey and Darlene had taken her warning and fled. She was dead scared, but it didn't show. She was neat, steam-pressed for combat.

When she arrived at Police Centre the first person she saw was that inspector, Malone. The second person she saw was her elder daughter, sitting comfortably in a chair as if she came here regularly.

“Chantelle? What are you doing here?”

“Chantelle?” said Malone.

“It's a nickname,” said Caroline Magee. “A joke. Mum, they think we kidnapped Errol, my husband. That's another joke. She's never met him,” she told Malone.

“Of course it's a joke!” snapped Shirlee. “Her husband? How could we kidnap her husband? You kidnap strangers.”

“You've read up on kidnappers?” said Malone.

“Nice try, Inspector,” said Caroline and gave him a nice smile. “Just relax, Mum. Our lawyer will be here soon.”

“Our lawyer?” said Shirlee. “Mr. Bomaker?”

“Who's he?” said Caroline.

But then Caradoc Evans arrived before Mr. Bomaker had to be explained. He came in briskly, as he always did, as if he had a string of clients waiting and he was running down the line of them. He didn't look at the two women, but went straight to Malone.

“Scobie, what's going on? I'm Mr. Magee's lawyer, but I get a call his wife wants my appearance. His wife? I didn't know he had one.”

Caradoc Evans had come out of the Welsh coal valleys thirty years ago. There he had studied law and played rugby and got drunk, all with equal enthusiasm. He had poked fingers in eyes, bitten ears and twisted testicles as a rugby forward: all good preparation for a career in law. He had come to Australia, turning his back and lungs against coal dust and the drunken singing of hymns on Saturday nights, and established himself as a no-holds-barred defender of the criminal. Yet, Malone knew, he was not crooked and would have poked the eye and bitten the ear and twisted the testicles of any crim who had tried to bribe him. He loved the law because it was a worthy opponent.

Malone introduced him to Caroline Magee and Shirlee Briskin. Evans was impressed; he liked women, especially good-looking women. “I'll talk to Inspector Malone first, then come back to you. Do you want me to represent both of you?”

“Yes,” said Caroline. “My mother and I think the charge is ridiculous.”

Evans had heard that more times than a rugby referee's whistle. “We'll see. Excuse me.”

He went back to where Malone stood waiting for him. “What's the charge?”

“There's no charge so far,” said Malone and took Evans out into the corridor and explained the situation. “We think they were both involved in the kidnapping of your client.”

“Magee? And I'm here to defend them?” Evans shook his head, as if he had been stomped on. “What are you doing on a kidnapping case? Homicide?”

“There was a murder,” said Malone and gave more details. “This is turning into a circus, Doc, if Mrs. Magee wants you to represent her. You've never met her before?”

“Never. She's a nice-looking piece of goods. You think she had something to do with the murder?”

“Not directly, no. And maybe her mother didn't, either. There are a daughter and son missing and another son in hospital. It was a family party.”

“Where's Magee?”

“Back at his apartment, he's pretty well stuffed by the last couple of days. You'd better talk to him first before you start representing Mrs. Magee.”

Evans leaned against a wall. He was built like a boulder, even to his bald head; he would have been nominated at birth as a front-row forward. But in the chipped, blunt features there was shrewd intelligence; in court he was always one step ahead of the competition. He cocked a scarred eyebrow at Malone:

“I'll call him now, get him up here. Stuffed or not.”

“Be my guest,” said Malone and went to look for Greg Random.

He found him in the Incident Room with Clements and the senior officer of the strike force, Inspector Garry Peeples. “Caradoc Evans is here.”

“We're beaten, licked,” said Random with mock gravity. “Welsh intelligence and philosophy. Unbeatable.”

“Balls,” said Malone. “Are you pessimistic or patriotic?”

“Both. It's being Welsh.”

Garry Peeples, like Malone, was an ex-fast bowler: a breed bred for hard work. He was taller than either Malone or Random, had the build of a weight-lifter and the look of a man who wondered why he bothered about public safety. “You think this—Briskin?—family, you think they did the killing and the kidnapping?”

“Sure of it, Garry. Whether they killed the maid—” Malone shrugged. “But the kidnapping—yes.”

“Who else could have done it?” asked Random. “His girlfriend, Miss Doolan? The yakuza?”

“No,” said Malone, committing himself. “The Briskins did it, the kidnapping. But it's not going to be easy to get Mrs. Magee or Mrs. Briskin to admit it. It floored me for a moment when I found out Mrs. Magee was a Briskin. But then things began to fall into place. But first, we'll have to see what sort of advice they take from Doc Evans.”

“Jesus,” said Garry Peeples, looking as frustrated as a bowler who had just had three catches dropped off his bowling, “I remember when I first started on the beat, all we had to deal with was a pub brawl or a break-and-enter and the occasional wife-bashing. Life's getting too complicated.”

“Keep working your way up the ladder,” said Chief Superintendent Random. “Life at the top has no complications. So long as you keep three copies and bless the Commissioner's name . . . Ah, here's Mr. Evans, as honest as daylight saving. How are things, Caradoc?”

“Couldn't be better, Gregory. You saw last week's news? We beat the English 14-10! That'll settle the nabobs of Twickenham back on their smug arses. We're slowly working towards the Disunited Kingdom . . . My client, Mr. Magee, is on his way.”

“So who'll you be representing?” asked Malone. “Him or his wife and mother-in-law?”

“He'll be surprised when he finds out he has a mother-in-law. They are often surprised when you know about them.”

The three married men nodded in agreement.

“In the meantime,” said Evans, “I'm a touch judge, on the sidelines.”

Malone looked at Peeples. “These bloody rugby types. I've got a son who's infected. Thank Christ the Welsh don't play much cricket—they'd be singing bloody hymns at the tea interval.”

“The way you Aussies are playing in India, you could do with some hymns,” said Evans, enjoying himself immensely.

It was the sort of chat that keeps tradespeople, no matter what their trade, afloat. Without the diversion of it they would drown in responsibility or sometimes the horror of their trade.

Caroline Magee and Shirlee Briskin were kept apart. They were taken into separate rooms and given coffee and biscuits. Both women were composed, seemingly at ease. Clements looked in occasionally on each of them as they sat with policewomen and came back to Malone shaking his head.

“It's not gunna be easy. They come out of the same mold—an earthquake wouldn't budge them.”

Then Errol Magee arrived. He was accompanied by Kylie Doolan, hanging on to him like an anchor that was losing its grip. With them, as security, was a young male officer Malone recognized from the strike force. He realized that he had, for the moment, forgotten about the yakuza threat to Magee.

“What the hell's going on?” Magee looked as if he had just got out of bed; which he had. “What's Caroline doing here? Where is she?”

“I told you—” said Kylie.

“Shut up,” he said, and took his arm out of hers.

“Don't talk to me like that!”

“Mr. Magee,” said Malone, taking Magee's other arm; the last thing he wanted was a domestic to upset the scene, “let's go in here. No, Miss Doolan, not you—”

He led Magee into a room off the Incident Room, followed by Evans, Random and Peeples. Kylie let out a gasp, but didn't attempt to move as Peeples closed the door in her face.

Magee pushed back his hair, which was not in a ponytail. He was in jeans, what looked like a pyjama-top, a suede jacket and Reeboks. He was in casual wear, but he looked anything but casual. The skeins of nightmare were still around him.

“I can't believe Caroline is involved in all this. We didn't get on, I mean while we were married, but Christ—kidnapping me?”

“We'll leave your wife out of the picture for the moment,” said Random; it was hard to tell whether he was sympathetic towards Magee or not. “We'd like you to look at her mother, Mrs. Briskin—”

“In a line-up, you mean? I told you, the mother, all of them, they all had blue hoods on all the time. I never saw their faces—”

“You will have to put her in a line-up if you want her identified,” said Evans.

Random looked at him. “Are you representing her now?”

“No, I'm giving you free legal advice.”

“Errol,” said Malone, “would you recognize her voice?”

Magee looked dubious. “I might. But let me get one thing straight—are you telling me Caroline was in on all this?”

Malone went out on a limb, a not unfamiliar perch: “We think she might have organized the whole thing. What she didn't organize was the murder of your maid Juanita. That's when it became serious.”

“It was bloody serious being kidnapped! Jesus—”

“Sorry. Yeah, sure it was. But—” Malone gave him a rundown on the Briskin family. “They fit your description. A mother, a daughter, two sons. It was probably the sons who grabbed you and on their way out of your apartment ran into Juanita. Whoever, whatever, Juanita's dead.”

Magee considered a moment, then nodded. “Yeah, you're right. I'm sorry about that—her, I mean.” He didn't sound very sincere nor concerned, but Malone made no comment. “I don't know Caroline's family. When we were together, she'd get letters from them, but she never showed them to me. Then we split up—”

“She ever mention her father?”

“Not that I recall. Tell you the truth, I wasn't really interested. I'm not a family man. My own folks are dead.” He spoke as if he didn't miss them.

“Righto, we'll have you listen to Mrs. Briskin's voice.” Malone looked at Evans. “That okay, touch judge? You're not going to put your flag up?”

Caradoc Evans grinned. “I'm no longer on the sidelines. I'm Mr. Magee's legal counsel. You want to try and identify Mrs. Briskin's voice?”

“I'll try,” said Magee, but, to Malone's ear, all at once sounded reluctant.

Malone went out of the room, found Clements having coffee with Caroline Magee. “You two getting on well together?”

“Like old friends,” said Caroline. “He's been telling me about his young daughter.”

“He's a real family man. I see you a moment, Russ?”

Clements followed him out into the corridor. “She's not a bad sort when you talk to her—”

“Russ, pull your head in, or I'll tell Romy and your young daughter. I want you to take Mrs. Briskin into a room, there's one off the Incident Room. Have a little chat with her. I want our mate Errol to identify her voice.”

“Will that stand up in court?”

“Probably not. But have you got any other suggestions how we start nailing her and her family? It'll be something to kick off with. Then we start leaning on her.”

“If she's like her daughter, it'll be like leaning up against a stone wall. Okay, I'll try. What'll I talk about?”

“Tell her about your busted investments with I-Saw. Compare them with the ransom she and the family didn't get.”

“You're a real bastard, you know that?”

“I know. I enjoy it now and again. Chat her up, then when I knock on the door, bring her out. I'll have Magee there. Don't stop, just walk her past him and we'll see what reaction we get.”

Shirlee Briskin didn't object when Clements came into the room where she was having coffee with a young policewoman: “Come with you, Sergeant? Of course. I was just telling Roma here how good it is you're getting more women into the police force. About time—”

Clements led her gently into the room off the Incident Room. “What did you think about the Magee kidnapping? You read about it? Heard it on the radio?”

“Terrible! I agreed with all those talkers on radio—what do they call ‘em?”

“Shock jocks.”

“Do they? I think that's a bit unkind. But what they said is true, nobody's safe any more, are they? Am I being interrogated—is that the word?”

“We never use it, Mrs. Briskin. Only shock jocks do that.” Clements was as friendly as an insurance salesman. “No, we'll be letting you go soon. What did you think of the ransom they were asking? Five million!”

“I know. Everything's going up—”

“And that was without GST.”

She laughed, comfortable and at ease; or so it looked. “They tax everything, don't they? But it was no joke, was it? I mean, for him.”

Out in the Incident Room Malone had brought Magee close to the slightly open door, but out of line of sight. Magee appeared to be listening intently; then he shook his head. Malone stared at him: you sure? Magee shook his head again and Malone gave up. He knocked on the door, moved himself and Magee back to join Random, Peeples and Evans.

Clements brought Shirlee Briskin out of the inner room, walked her towards the door into the corridor, still chatting to her. She glanced at Magee and the other four men, but didn't pause. At the door she said to Clements, “Is that him?” Then she was out in the corridor and gone from sight.

Malone looked at Magee. “Recognize her? Her walk, her figure, anything about her?”

“No,” said Magee.

You bastard, you’re lying. He had been reading faces, eyes, body language for twenty-five years. But all he said was, “Righto, now we're taking you out to Hurstville, to the Briskin house. You might identify something there.”

“Is all this necessary?” said Evans. “My client has said he doesn't recognize the woman.”

“Doc, we're just eliminating all the possibilities.” He was keeping control of his temper. Magee, for reasons he couldn't yet fathom, had screwed him. “It's an inconvenience for Mr. Magee, but we are trying to solve a murder. The murder of someone who worked for him, who made his bed, served him breakfast . . .” He was piling it on, looking at Magee, not at Evans. “I'm sure you feel you owe her something, Mr. Magee.”

Magee hesitated, then nodded. “Of course. But first, I'll have to get rid—I'll have to tell Kylie to go back to the apartment. And what about my wife?”

It was the first time he had referred to Caroline as his wife. As if a relationship had been renewed, even if involuntarily.

“You have a couple of problems there,” said Malone, trying to sound sympathetic; he wanted to keep Magee on side. “Sergeant Clements will look after them. We'll need to keep Caroline here till we get back, but Miss Doolan can go.”

“That won't be easy,” said Magee and for a moment showed a spark of wry humour.

“Chief Superintendent,” said Malone, “will you mind Mr. Magee while Inspector Peeples and I look for Mrs. Briskin?”

“Certainly, Inspector,” said Random, deadpan.

Malone grinned at him, trying to get his own mood up. Then he and Peeples went out to tell Mrs. Briskin that they were taking her back home.

“What if she demands a search warrant?” asked Peeples.

“We're not looking for anything, just doing a recce. If she asks for a warrant, that'll look pretty suspicious, won't it?”

“All women are born suspect,” said Peeples, another born chauvinist.

Malone let that pass, went looking for Clements and Shirlee Briskin. He found them in the room where they were having another cup of coffee. Shirlee looked at home, as if she might move in and tidy up the housekeeping. But she demurred when Malone told her what he wanted to do:

“I'm not gunna have the place over-run by cops,” she said, putting down her cup, putting down her foot. “What'll the neighbours think?”

Malone grinned again, trying to keep it friendly. He didn't want to have to go through the chore of getting a warrant, even if that would only confirm his suspicions about the Briskin family. “The woman next door? We'll go in an unmarked car. There'll be another unmarked car—Chief Superintendent Random and Mr. Magee.”

“You're wasting your time,” she said. “And his.”

“He doesn't mind.”

She considered for a moment; then: “What about Chantelle? My daughter?”

“Mrs. Magee?” He was having trouble marrying Chantelle and Caroline. “She'll stay here. Sergeant Clements will look after her.”

“Are you charging her with anything? It's ridiculous, like I told you, saying she kidnapped her own husband.”

“There's no charge so far, Mrs. Briskin.”

“So far?”

“A figure of speech, Mrs. Briskin. Can we go? Inspector Peeples and I, two inspectors from Hurstville council.” He grinned again, the friendly man from the council, the ratepayers' mate. “We'll handle Mrs. What'shername. No gossip, no scandal.”

She looked them up and down, then picked up her handbag. “Be friendly with my daughter, Sergeant.”

“Like her own father,” said Clements.

“Not like him, anything but,” said Shirlee and led the way out of the room.

As they were heading down towards the underground garage of Police Centre, Malone saw Paula Decker. He stopped, telling Peeples he would catch up with him in a moment, and pulled Paula aside. “What are you doing up here?”

“I'm still attached to the strike force, sir. They called me in to help with the security on the two women, Mrs. Magee and Miss Doolan.”

“Forget Mrs. Magee, I think we'll be keeping her up here, charging her. You'll have your hands full with Kylie. How's she been?”

“Clinging to Magee like crazy. I think she's at last woken up to the fact that everything's gone down the gurgler. She's a greedy little bitch.”

“Get used to it, Paula. That's the way the world is going. Take care.”

“How's your luck holding, sir?”

“Just.”

Down in the garage Random was standing beside his own unmarked car with his driver and Errol Magee. “Garry has just told me we're all from Hurstville council. No fuss, no gossip.”

Malone looked at Magee. “You don't want Mr. Evans with you?”

Magee did not look comfortable, but there was no antagonism in him. “He won't be necessary. He's seeing what he can do for my wife.”

Malone didn't press the point. He just nodded and went across to Peeples' car. Peeples was behind the wheel and Malone got into the back seat beside Shirlee Briskin.

“Comfy, Mrs. Briskin?”

“No,” she said. “I'm never comfortable with a seat-belt.”

The two cars drove up out of the garage into the bright sunlight.