Chapter Ten

1

Will Lazarus arrived at the offices in Martin Place ten minutes after Channing. Separated from his wife and young daughter, he lived in a flat overlooking Elizabeth Bay, a few minutes’ drive from the heart of the city. He drove a Porsche, black of course, and lived a life that Channing secretly envied.

This morning he was dressed in dark grey slacks, a black turtleneck sweater, a black roll-collar cardigan and a black corduroy cap. Beside him Channing all at once felt like a peacock, one with its tail drooping between its legs.

‘I hope this isn’t going to take long,’ Lazarus said. ‘I have to pick up a bird, then we’re going out to Coogee to see Randwick play Easts.’

Bird: it was the slang they had used when they had been at university together. So long ago, mused Channing: he thought of the birds he had missed, the opportunities lost. There had been singers and bands then like Alvin Stardust and Paper Lace, gone even from memory, or anyway his memory till this odd moment. He had met and fallen in love with Ruth back then. Now, over the past two years, he had fallen out of love with her, though he couldn’t see himself ever asking her for a divorce. Unlike Lazarus he would always stay married for the sake of the children. He would never put them through what he had suffered from his own parents.

‘I rang Dick De Vries, he’ll be here soon.’

Lazarus took off his cap, ran a hand through his thick black hair, adjusting the elastic band that held his eye-patch in place, it’s as bad as that, we need him? Fill me in before he gets here.’

But before Channing could do so, De Vries arrived. He was dressed for the weekend, less colourfully than Channing, less sombrely than Lazarus. ‘The convention ended last night. We go our own way from today. Most people are heading home. I wish I were.’ He sounded and looked worried. ‘What’s happened?’

Channing told them: ‘I don’t think my mother had anything to do with getting in touch with New York, but she’s backing Mrs Brame all the way. They’ve gone to the police.’

‘Fucking women!’ De Vries couldn’t contain his anger. ‘Why do they have to interfere?’ Then he belatedly realized whom he was talking about. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to criticize your mother, Rod. It’s that fucking Joanna – she still thinks she has a proprietary interest in our firm—’

‘She does, doesn’t she?’ said Lazarus quietly. His own temper could be volatile, but the eye-patch never made him one-eyed. ‘She’s protecting Orville’s interest.’

‘I thought he was bullshitting me when he came to see me last Sunday.’ Channing was pulling nervously at his moustache. ‘About Exxon going to Washington and the Securities and Exchange Commission. I’ve tried to get in touch with Federal,’ he told De Vries, ‘but their manager here, Dourane, wouldn’t give me his number. I spoke to his wife and she said they’d call Federal and then get back to us. What gets me,’ he said plaintively, ‘is what have we done wrong?’

‘That’s what I tried to argue with Orville,’ said De Vries. ‘Christ, if you look into the money that’s invested in American companies, legitimate investment, you’ll find billions coming from the Mafia, the Japanese yakuza, Chinese Triads, Colombian drug cartels … A lot of people know where the money comes from, but nothing can be proved. So nothing is done. This money is cleaner than any of that …’ He had not sat down since he had entered Channing’s office, but now he dropped on to the green leather couch. He had been wearing a floppy tweed hat and he was crumpling it between his nervous hands as if looking for a loose thread to pull it apart. ‘Or I thought the money was clean till – till the murders. Then …’

‘We had nothing to do with the murders,’ said Lazarus.

‘Who did then – this guy Federal? Is that really his name? I’ve never met him, you know. He never came to the States, they had a different director who talked with Orville. And me,’ he added, as if not wanting to sound like the junior partner. ‘Smooth as silk, a guy named Walter Bosch, said he was Swiss-German. Polite, smooth like I said, but a real Nazi, I’d say.’

‘I met him in Zurich last week,’ said Lazarus. ‘Smooth as silk, as you say. But Federal is pretty smooth, too. He just happens to be a killer, that’s all.’

‘Jesus,’ said Channing, ‘how can you be so matter-of-fact!’

‘Because that’s the only way to be.’ Lazarus sat down in Channing’s own chair; the latter was still on his feet, pacing up and down by the window. From the wall the spurious Channing looked down; a trick of light gave the painting a wry smile. ‘We don’t know that he won’t murder one of us. Or all of us.’

‘Why, for Chrissakes?’ De Vries dropped his hat on the couch beside him as if giving up any idea of tearing it to pieces.

‘Because who else knows as much as we do? Orville was the one who found out the truth and look at what happened to him. And he told you two and you told me.’ He put a hand on the desk and looked at it, at the faint tremble in the fingers. ‘I’m matter-of-fact, but I’m scared shitless, too.’

2

Bob Anders, Kagal’s mate from the Securities Commission, was a tall languid man in his mid-forties, with close-cropped thin dark hair, a full moustache, an ear-ring and, as Kagal said, lived in Paddington. Malone was just glad that Russ Clements was off-duty and for the first time he could recall he looked at Kagal with suspicion.

They were in Malone’s office, just the three of them. ‘It’s only been in our lap, Inspector, just over a week. Three days before Orville Brame was murdered, to be exact.’ His voice was not languid at all, at least not while talking business; it was crisp and deep. ‘The SEC in Washington got in touch with us, although we’d been looking at the BHP and Ampolex buying for a couple of weeks before that.’

‘You hadn’t made any move?’

Anders spread a well-manicured hand, displaying a bracelet. But he was not limp-wristed: this man was as fitness-conscious as Dicey Kilmer. ‘The buying was perfectly legitimate and above board. Then two days ago ASIO heard about our enquiries and came to us—’

Malone tried to contain his anger. ‘You had word from the Yanks ten days ago and our spy spooks came to you two days ago and you still didn’t bother to get in touch with us? Didn’t you connect Brame’s murder with all this?’

‘Washington never mentioned Brame to us, they didn’t tell us his firm were the legal advisers for the American end—’

Malone came off the boil, shook his head at the labyrinthine ways of bureaucracy. ‘Would the FBI know anything of this?’

‘Probably, by now.’

‘A pity they didn’t know four or five days ago, when we asked them to check on Rockman, the guard who was murdered. And before one of our officers was also murdered.’ He couldn’t keep the bitterness from his voice. ‘Why did ASIO come in on this? Has it got something to do with national security?’

‘Evidently. The Yanks think so, too.’

Malone looked at Kagal. ‘That means we can expect the bloody Feds to be on our doorstep, next.’

Kagal nodded sympathetically. ‘We’ll keep ’em out as long as we can. Too many cooks spoil the broth,’ he told Anders.

Malone stood up. ‘Well, national security’s got nothing to do with Homicide. I’m now going out to put Mrs Brame in the picture. I think she’s entitled to know why her husband was murdered.’

‘Do you think we could have prevented any of these murders, Inspector?’

Malone sighed, surrendered. ‘No, probably not. But you don’t expect me not to be upset, do you?’

‘No,’ said Anders. ‘I’m sorry we didn’t move faster. But …’ He spread his hands again, the bracelet glinting on his wrist. ‘Despite the so-called information highway, Inspector, a lot of things still move at their own pace. Computers will never beat human nature.’

Malone liked the man; he smiled: ‘You’re philosophers in Securities?’

‘We have to be.’

‘Join the club.’

They walked back down the hall to the interview room where Joanna Brame and Milly Channing, drinking coffee from the office mugs and munching on Iced Vo-vos, the office biscuit, sat waiting with impatience neither of them tried to hide. Joanna was not accustomed to being kept waiting and Milly, no matter what chair she sat on, would forever be tilting towards the edge of it.

‘This is Mr Anders, ladies. He will explain the background to why Mr Brame was murdered.’

The two women looked at the tall man who, finding no chair vacant, had to stand against the wall in the small room. Malone remarked Joanna Brame’s glance at the ear-ring and the faint twitch of the patrician nose, but Milly Channing seemed to notice neither it nor the bracelet.

‘Inspector Malone tells me you know about the buying up of shares in those companies in oil search. The money, which has come out of Switzerland, we are now almost certain is Russian money.’

‘Russian?’ said Joanna. ‘Communist money?’

It had the same sound as if she had said blood money. She had been only a child when John Foster Dulles had tried to run the world like a Presbyterian parish, when Joe McCarthy had been allowed to run amok, but her father had believed in both men and not even Orville, a fair man, had ever been able to convince her that not all Communists were evil.

Anders nodded. ‘Communist Party money. We know—’ He did not look at Malone and Kagal when he said we. It had not been the Securities Commission but the security organization ASIO that had divulged the information on the Russians; but bureaucracies, like politicians, generals and boxing promoters, never give credit where credit is due. It goes against the grain, is human nature as the philosophers would say. ‘We know that for years, right from the start of the so-called Cold War—’

‘It was a war,’ said Joanna. ‘Cold or otherwise.’

‘Of course,’ said Anders, recognizing a warning sign. ‘Well, way back then the Party invested in companies outside the USSR. Perhaps it was just looking to the future, to the possible collapse of Communism – some shrewdies are always prepared for the worst. It happened in Germany in Hitler’s time – IG Farben, the big chemical company, bought into American companies. It took years after the war before that one was straightened out by the US Justice Department—’

Skip the history lesson, Malone silently told him; and Joanna said, ‘Please get on with it, Mr Anders.’

Anders recognized another warning sign. ‘Well, in some cases, the Russians actually controlled the companies they invested in. Just as the Germans did,’ he said, getting in his last lick.

‘Then that’s what Orville meant when he said, Look to the past.’ Joanna looked at Malone and he nodded.

‘The money came out of Russia,’ said Milly, ‘and nobody knew? I mean, all you experts?’

Anders fingered the ear-ring for a moment, looked uncomfortable. ‘I think you’d have to ask the experts about that, Mrs Channing. I wasn’t with them back then.’ He smiled and Milly returned it, but Joanna remained stiff-faced. ‘The money didn’t actually come out of Russia, not directly, that is. It had been deposited in Swiss banks, in holding companies there, and in France—’

‘France?’ said Malone.

‘Don’t ask me why, except that for years the French Communist Party was the biggest in Europe, it or the Italians. The Russians were rumoured to have seven thousand bank accounts in France alone, most of them in small banks in ports. Marseille, Le Havre, places like that.’

‘How much money?’ said Joanna, who was not astonished by large sums.

‘All the figures are only guesses,’ said Anders, ‘but the biggest estimate was that the Party had one hundred billion dollars in assets overseas.’

Joanna was astonished; Milly was breathless: ‘How much?’

‘One hundred billion?’ said Joanna, recovering. ‘So what they have been investing in Exxon and the others is almost small change?’

The three men managed to keep straight faces as the loose change in their pockets froze. Anders said, ‘Not exactly, Mrs Brame. They’ve invested enough, not to get a corner on the oil market but to give them a big stake in oil profits.’

‘But why?’ said Malone. ‘The Communist Party in Russia is kaput. Finished.’

‘It can always make a comeback under another name. It’s just happened in Hungary, they don’t give up that easily. There were fourteen million members in the USSR Party in its heyday. Let’s say three-quarters of them were members in name only, trying to keep a job. That still leaves enough true believers to form a fair-sized rump Party. How many are in the Liberal Party here? Or in the Republican Party in America?’ he asked Joanna.

‘Enough,’ she said, but her tone told him he should not have asked the question. ‘So you are saying my husband found out all about this?’

‘It would seem so, from what Inspector Malone thinks. I don’t know, Mrs Channing, if your son Rod knew any of it, that the money was Russian money—’

‘But why?’ said Milly. ‘Why kill Orville?’

Anders looked at Malone, leaving it to him, the expert in murder. But that didn’t make him an expert in motives, only in methods. ‘I don’t think we’ll know that till we catch whoever killed him. Maybe the Russians are fighting amongst themselves, each trying to get a share of the loot they’ve stashed abroad. Maybe they think Communism is going to be revived in Russia and they are prepared to eliminate anyone who upsets the apple-cart. They were secretive about what they were doing and they wanted it to remain secret. What we may never know, Mrs Brame, is how your husband found out.’

‘I won’t be satisfied with that,’ said Joanna.

Malone recognized the symptoms: the bereaved partner who had to sieve every grain of every sod that covered the dead one. He had seen it countless times and none had ever got the complete answer.

Then Russ Clements knocked on the door and opened it. He was in a grey open-necked shirt and a pink pullover. ‘I’ve just got in. There’s a call on your phone, Inspector.’

Malone jumped out of his chair, followed Clements down the hall. ‘I like the sweater. You look sweet.’

‘You think it’d look better with an ear-ring?’ Clements had missed nothing in his five-second glance around the interview room.

‘Lay off. He knows his job … Who is it?’

‘The guys on the Douranes’ tail.’

Jim Creek was holding the phone and Malone took it. ‘Constable De Groot, where are you?’

‘We’re heading towards town, sir.’ Malone could hear the peripheral sound on the car phone. ‘Mr and Mrs Dourane are up ahead of us. I’m with Detective-Constable Powell, from Rockdale. We’re coming down Rocky Point Road, they’re moving pretty fast. She’s driving, she’s a real Speedy Gonzales.’

De Groot must be elderly: Speedy Gonzales had been dead for years. ‘Stay with them. I can’t get another car out there now to take over from you, so make sure they don’t spot you. We’ll keep this line clear, report in every five minutes or as soon as you get an idea where they’re heading.’

He handed the phone back to Creek, went out into the main room with Clements. ‘This is the picture now—’ he said and went on to fill it in for the big man.

Clements nodded. ‘It fits. What do we do – ask for back-up?’

Malone was suddenly worried; the adrenalin had wiped out the local aspect of the picture. ‘I dunno. We don’t know where they’re going to meet. If it’s in some crowded place, we don’t want armed cops running around. Federal, or Ballinger, whatever he calls himself, he’s already killed Peta in a public place, even knowing she was a cop. Because she was a cop. He’s not going to stop at killing another of us. And if we start shooting back …’

Clements nodded. ‘Someone’s bound to get hurt. There’s always some idiot who’ll pop his head up to see what’s going on and get it blown off … Okay, no back-up. Who’ve we got?’

‘You and me. John Kagal and the two fellers doing the tail, De Groot and the other one. That’s enough. Any more and we’re going to look like a convention.’

The next call from De Groot said, ‘We’re in King Street, Newtown. The Dourane car is three cars ahead of us – it’s a blue Saab, incidentally. We’re being held up by the traffic, this must be the worst bottleneck in the whole of the State.’

‘What’s the licence?’ Malone remembered the car, but there was more than one blue Saab in Sydney.

‘I got that earlier. Would you believe Hot Tip. Yeah, H-O-T T-I-P.’

‘That’d be the wife’s choice. Righto, don’t lose them. Even if you have to go through traffic lights. You’ve got my okay to do that if it’s necessary.’

He told Clements to stay with Creek and he went back to the interview room. ‘We may have to leave before my men come back with Rod and Mr Lazarus. You can stay or you can leave, it’s up to you, ladies.’

‘What’s happening?’ said Joanna.

He hesitated; but he knew better than to offer false hope. ‘I can’t tell you that at the moment, Mrs Brame. But if I’m called away, you’re welcome to stay till I get back. Unless you don’t want to face Rod and Mr Lazarus?’

‘Why should I not want to face them?’

‘Yes, why not?’ said Milly.

These women, he decided, had found strength in each other. Or, at worst, Milly Channing had found her own strength in Joanna Brame. ‘I’m short on staff, we may have to leave you alone—’

‘I’ll stay with the ladies, if they don’t mind,’ said Anders. ‘I have an interest in what happens, Inspector—’

The Securities man and the two women now appeared to be at ease with each other. Anders, indeed, seemed to be gently considerate of them, as if only now had he come close to the personal tragedy of what he had been investigating. Malone left the three of them and went back to Clements and Creek.

‘They’re down in George Street now,’ said Clements, ear to the phone. He put his hand over the mouthpiece. ‘De Groot says they’re going down into the car park under the Queen Victoria Building.’

‘Of course!’ Malone snapped his fingers, picturing in his mind the huge old building that had been converted into a swish shopping complex. ‘The QVB has galleries, three or four of ’em. Not art galleries, walk galleries. Crumbs, they’ll be packed on a Saturday—’

Clements held up a hand for quiet. ‘I’m getting static … Come on, De Groot, for Chrissake!’ He gestured in frustration. ‘We’ve lost him!’

‘Keep it open … Jim, rustle up three mobiles for Russ, John and me. When we move out, you stay here on the line in case I have to call for back-up. Though I hope to Christ that won’t be on … What’s happening?’

Clements had held up his hand again. ‘He’s back on the air … Mr and Mrs Dourane are up on the main level of the QVB. They’re looking in shops, window-shopping, he says.’

‘They’re checking they’re not being followed,’ said Malone. ‘These people must be professionals. I hope De Groot and his mate are not standing out in the middle of the floor with the bloody phone stuck to his ear. Are they heading for one of the galleries?’ He was trying to remember the elegant galleries that tiered the big building, most of them fronted by boutiques that catered for every want so long as it wasn’t serious. He felt the frustration that must grip a blind man in an emergency; De Groot was his seeing-eye dog.

Clements held up a hand again: ‘Shit! … They’re separating. Mrs Dourane’s leaving the QVB.’

‘What’s Dourane doing?’

Clements repeated the question into the phone, got an answer. ‘He’s sitting on a bench on the main floor. He’s looking around, but it doesn’t appear he’s looking for anyone in particular.’

Malone made a snap decision: ‘Tell De Groot to follow Mrs Dourane. Tell what’s-his-name, Powell, to stay with Dourane … John, get down there now, keep Powell company—’

‘What does he look like? Powell?’

Frustration did blind Malone for a moment. ‘Jesus, I dunno what either of them look like! Ask De Groot—’

‘He’s gone,’ said Clements, putting down the phone.

‘You know Dourane,’ said Malone to Kagal, ‘you saw him when we brought him in here on Thursday. Big feller, dark hair, looks like Wasim Akram—’

‘Who?’ said Kagal, who wouldn’t have known Don Bradman from Joe DiMaggio; he followed basketball.

‘The Pakistani fast – forget it. Get down there, take your mobile. Keep in touch either here or with me on—’ He looked at the number on the cellular phone Creek had just brought him, gave it to Kagal. ‘If Mr Federal turns up at the QVB—’

‘What does he look like?’

‘John, are you trying to be—’ Then he shook his head. ‘No, we’re all dense on this one. We don’t know what he looks like, except that he’s anonymous-looking and wears thick-rimmed specs. But if he sits down next to Dourane or Dourane gets up and follows him and speaks to him, that’ll be him. Don’t be heroic, be careful. If he turns up, Russ and I’ll be there in five minutes. If Mrs Dourane has gone to meet him, then we’ll be on her tail – if De Groot gets back to us. Righto, go!’

Kagal left on the run and Malone, Clements and Creek stood looking at the silent phone. Then it rang and Malone grabbed it. It was Greg Random: ‘Just checking, Scobie—’

‘Get off the line, Greg! I’ll explain later—’ He hung up in the ear of the Chief Superintendent, looked at Clements. ‘Just as well it wasn’t the Commissioner.’

The phone rang again; this time it was De Groot. ‘I’m in a cab following Mrs Dourane. She caught a cab outside the QVB and I had to knock an old lady down to get one right behind her. We’re going down George Street, turning now into Hunter – you getting me, Inspector?’

‘A bit staticky—’

‘We’re at the top of Hunter, turning right into Macquarie—’ There was faint static on the line, then: ‘We’re going round into the Domain – she’s heading for the Art Gallery! That’s it – all along it was an art gallery!’

‘We’ll be there in five minutes! I’ll – wait a minute. What do you look like, De Groot? I’ve never seen you—’

‘Eh? Oh, what do I look like? I’m a hundred-ninety tall, weigh eighty kilos—’ Malone cursed the metric system. ‘I’m wearing a navy-blue blouson, jeans, Reeboks, a Yankee baseball cap—’

Malone suddenly longed for the cop in the suit and the pork-pie hat, such as he and Clements had once been. Were he and Russ the last of the fashion plates? ‘What’s Mrs Dourane wearing?’

‘A yellow topcoat is all I can see—’

‘Righto, don’t lose her. We’re on our way.’

They raced out of the office, Malone pulling on the Burberry, Clements dragging on a golf jacket over his pink sweater. They used the siren till they were in College Street and about to turn into the road that led to the Domain, the city’s main park, and the Art Gallery of New South Wales. Clements drove down with the tree-bordered park on their left and pulled into a No Parking zone in front of the gallery. They got out of the car and looked around for someone who might resemble De Groot’s description of himself, but saw no one remotely like him. A few people stood under the portico at the top of the broad steps, apparently waiting for friends; a bus had just drawn up and was unloading a group of Japanese tourists; another bus was disgorging a group who sounded as if they might be a party of the American lawyers. Immediately in front of Malone and Clements sat a wino with a full bottle of plonk in one hand and a mobile phone in the other: the economy had indeed turned the corner, if seeing was believing. Then a parking patrol officer appeared out of nowhere, as they invariably do.

‘Move it!’ She was talking to the illegally parked motorists, not the wino. ‘You can see that sign.’

Malone produced his badge. ‘Book us and I’ll have you for obstructing the course of justice, law and order and the well-being of the public, not to mention half a dozen other things.’

She smiled, authority falling from her like a snake’s skin. ‘You wouldn’t, would you? You here to pick him up?’ She nodded at the derelict, who, without having dialled, was holding the mobile phone to his ear as if expecting messages on the ether.

‘No, he’s not ours. You see two taxis draw up here in the last five minutes? A woman in a yellow topcoat got out of one of them?’

‘Sure. She went into the gallery. A young guy followed her, he was in the second taxi. Looked like he was her boyfriend chasing her.’

‘That’s them. Keep an eye on our car, will you?’

‘You’re kidding.’ She smiled again, showing a blatantly honest set of false teeth. ‘I’m behind on today’s quota.’

Malone and Clements left her, ran up into the column-fronted sandstone pile that looked as if it had been designed to protect the State’s bullion hoard rather than its art treasures. Once inside they separated, Malone going right off the main lobby, Clements turning left.

Malone came here to the gallery only occasionally and always at the urging of Lisa. He was not an art enthusiast, but he had an eye that was better than he gave it credit. He had come here to the French Impressionists exhibition and admired everything he saw; he had come to last year’s Bienniale and made no attempt to understand the artists’ pretensions. The gallery was between exhibitions and, thank God, it was too early for the Saturday afternoon crowd. Nonetheless there was a sprinkling of people everywhere, their voices magnified in the high reaches of the various halls. He walked slowly down the nineteenth-century Australian gallery. Above him was the high curved glass ceiling letting in natural light; on either side of him were the teal-blue walls, split by off-white columns. The wooden floors click-clacked under the high heels of some of the women visitors. He walked slowly, keeping an eye out for De Groot or the yellow topcoated figure of Mrs Dourane; he passed the standard Australian landscapes, dusty leaves and peeling bark suggesting the forests were about to die in yet another drought or fire. Which they never did: he had seen the evidence only this morning.

He paused in front of a painting, trying to look as if he were interested in what was before him. It was a Gruner, of several cows silhouetted against the misty morning light of another age. Still no sign of De Groot or the yellow topcoat. He turned into a side gallery: this was the nineteenth-century European hall. Cherry-red walls, gold-leaf frames, Leighton, Watts, Burne-Jones, Wilson Steer with his portraits of women in yards (not metres) of silk and satin. A tall young man stood in front of Waterhouse’s Job: he – the young man, not Job – was wearing the blue blouson, jeans and trainers, baseball cap in hand. Malone approached him. ‘De Groot?’

The young man looked at him blankly. ‘De what?’

Oh Jesus, thought Malone: he thinks I’m trying to pick him up. Then he was tapped on the shoulder. ‘Mr Malone?’

A second young man in blue blouson etc. stood behind him. ‘De Groot?’

‘Yes, sir. Mrs Dourane is in that side gallery there.’

‘Anyone with her?’

The first young man had moved on after a curious glance at the two of them, leaving them standing in front of Job, who looked at the end of his mythical patience. Behind them on the other side of the gallery, a group of American women were being lectured on the run by a bearded young man who looked as impatient as Job. A few couples, with the natives’ penchant for free-loading, were attaching themselves to the paying group.

‘No, sir, nobody there yet. She’s sitting on one of the benches, obviously waiting for someone. She’s not interested in any of the paintings.’

‘What makes you think that?’

‘She walked straight through this gallery and into that side one without even a glance at anything on the walls.’

‘Are you interested in art?’ He was making conversation, pretending interest in the painting in front of them, in case they were being observed by someone further down the long hall.

‘I did two years at East Sydney before I found out I had no real talent.’ He was broad-cheeked and heavy-jawed, with intelligent blue eyes: intelligent enough to size up his own talent or lack of it.

‘What’s your first name?’

‘Hans. My parents are Dutch.’

‘So’s my—’

Then a man in a covert topcoat, carrying a hat in his hand, went by them and into the side gallery. Malone caught only a glimpse of him, not enough to identify him. But then how was he going to identify Federal anyway? Only by seeing him meet Mrs Dourane.

‘Stay here. Don’t let anyone come into that side gallery. If any shooting starts, get everyone out of the way.’ He took his gun out of its holster, put it in his raincoat pocket. ‘I hope to Christ Mr Federal is going to be sensible.’

The adrenalin was pumping away like a burst artery; he paused before leaving De Groot to steady himself. He was apprehensive; he was not reckless. Reckless cops got themselves killed; or got other people killed. Hand on the gun in his pocket, he walked slowly into the side gallery. This room was almost a retreat: one or two busts on pedestals, some small paintings on the beige-yellow walls, a place to pause and think. There were only three people in it: Mrs Dourane in her yellow topcoat and a black beret, the man in the covert topcoat and an elderly man in a red knitted beanie and a dufflecoat standing in a corner in front of a small painting and studying it through a large magnifying glass. Mrs Dourane and Federal, if it was he, were seated side by side on the backless bench in the middle of the room.

Malone walked up to them from the rear, not hurrying, and stood above them. Mrs Dourane looked up and her eyes widened, the pouted lips opened. The man turned his head quickly when he saw the expression on Mrs Dourane’s face, but Malone had taken his gun from his pocket.

‘Don’t do anything stupid, Mr Federal. Or is it Mr Ballinger? No, sit still, Mrs Dourane! The game’s over, I’m afraid. I’m arresting you sir, for the murder of Detective-Constable Peta Smith. Anything et cetera, et cetera …’

‘You can’t hold me—’ Mrs Dourane made as if to stand up, then changed her mind when Malone turned the gun on her. She bit her lips, smearing her teeth so that they looked as if they had drawn blood. ‘I had nothing to do with—’

‘Be quiet, Mrs Dourane.’ Federal had not moved, but sat, turned awkwardly to look up at Malone. There was no expression on his thin bony face, nothing in the dark eyes behind the horn-rimmed glasses. Malone, staring hard at him, thought, Christ, he is anonymous. A face easily forgotten.

The old man in the corner had turned round and was looking at them in puzzlement; then he raised the magnifying glass and studied them as he had studied the painting. Malone put two fingers in his mouth and whistled; both the old man and Mrs Dourane jumped, but Federal just twisted his lips in what could have been a smile. De Groot appeared instantly in the wide doorway.

‘Search him, Hans. Sit still, Mrs Dourane!’ He spoke over his shoulder to the old man. ‘Would you mind leaving, sir? This is police business.’

The doorway now was crowded with spectators more interested in drama than in art. There were gasps as De Groot took a gun from the pocket of the covert topcoat, then produced handcuffs and snapped them on Federal. The old man had not moved, was either bemused or had not heard Malone tell him this was police business. He just stood shaking his head in wonder at what one found these days in art galleries.

‘Is this what they call performance art?’ He had a thin reedy voice.

‘If you like, sir,’ said Malone. ‘Shall we go, Mr Federal? Mrs Dourane?’

Halfway down the main gallery, flanked on either side by a growing crowd of spectators, they met Clements. ‘I heard that whistle—’ He looked at Federal. ‘Is this the bastard?’

‘It’s him,’ said Malone.

3

‘If you are going to believe in capitalism, you have to be a success in it. The same when we believed in Communism. How many idealists survived under our old system? Do you think Stalin and Brezhnev were idealists?’

Federal lounged in his chair in the second interview room, separate from where Joanna Brame and Milly Channing were. Homicide was crowded with visitors. The two women in one room; Federal here with Malone, Clements and Anders; Channing, Lazarus and De Vries in Malone’s office with Kagal and Truach and Creek. The two Douranes were in the big main room with De Groot, Powell and a young uniformed policewoman Malone had asked to be sent across from Police Centre.

Federal did not appear disturbed that he was here on a murder charge. ‘We have done nothing wrong, just invested our money in perfectly respectable companies.’

‘Oil companies,’ said Anders.

‘Okay, oil companies.’ His English was excellent, there was virtually no trace of accent that Malone could pick up. It was an anonymous voice, he decided, one that could be used effectively wherever Federal happened to be. Malone, like most of the natives a poor linguist, felt a grudging admiration.

‘Whose money?’ Malone asked. ‘You said our money.’

For the first time Federal shifted uncomfortably in his chair. ‘I thought you knew?’

‘We do,’ lied Malone, ‘but we want you to confirm it for this.’ He tapped the video recorder.

Federal looked around the small bare room, then he looked back at the two detectives and the Securities investigator. He smiled, the smile of a co-conspirator, one who knew all the tricks. ‘Force of habit. No bugs?’

‘Why force of habit with the bugs?’ Malone tapped the video recorder again.

‘You know I’m Russian?’

‘Yes,’ said Malone, though it had only been an educated guess.

‘I worked for fifteen years for the Committee for State Security. The KGB.’

‘Not now?’ said Clements, who had been silent up till now. He was showing more open resentment of the Russian than Malone or Anders.

The Russian smiled again, shrugged. ‘It’s finished. Spineless. What sort of deal will you give me for what I tell you?’

‘No deal at all,’ said Malone. ‘We can’t offer you anything. If the government intervenes …’

Federal smiled again; he seemed to be all smiles. Malone knew little of Russian history or the Russian character, but he had read of Russian fatalism, bred of centuries of oppression under both Tsarist and Communist rule. Federal seemed to be true to type, though more good-humoured than dour.

‘Governments! They’re always willing to make deals, don’t you think? You buy this from us, we’ll buy that from you, you give us this spy, we’ll give you that one …’

‘Are you still a spy?’ said Clements.

‘What future would there be in it? No.’

‘But does someone still control you?’ said Anders.

It seemed that Federal had not yet made up his mind about Anders; he kept looking at him curiously before he answered any of the Securities man’s questions. ‘Our holding company in Zurich is controlled by the Party – or what remains of it. The Old Guard, as the newspapers call them.’

‘People like this Zhirinovsky?’ said Anders.

The smile widened, he shook his head. ‘A nut case. A ratbag, as you Australians say. No, not him. Men you’ve possibly never heard of.’

Malone was studying the Russian. He was affable, relaxed, seemed totally unconcerned that he was in the company of men whose woman colleague he had killed in cold blood. What makes the bastard tick? But it was a question Malone had asked on other occasions about other killers and, despite what criminal psychologists might tell him, he had never found a true answer.

‘When Kruchina committed suicide three years ago—’

‘Who?’

‘Nikolai Kruchina, controller of the Party’s monies – when he committed suicide some of us knew that was the end and something had to be done about all the money we had invested overseas.’

‘How much?’ said Anders.

Federal shrugged again. ‘Your guess is as good as mine. An awful lot. Our holding company has access to twenty-eight billion dollars.’ If he was expecting a reaction from the three men he was disappointed; partly because that sum was beyond their comprehension, or at least that of Malone and Clements. ‘The source of our money has nothing to do with the West, it’s honest money – or so we think. The Mafia, the Colombian drug cartels—’

‘We’ve heard that argument.’ Malone for the first time sounded testy; the Russian’s composure, quietly arrogant, was getting to him. ‘What’s the purpose? To control the oil market if the Party makes a comeback? If Russia starts another Cold War?’

‘Do you really think it will, Inspector?’ He shook his head. ‘I don’t think so, nor do my fellow directors. Mr Brame and the Americans obviously thought so, but certain Americans are lost without Russia as an enemy. We should have to have another revolution and it’s too soon for that, our people don’t have the energy, not now. Maybe in the future …’ He took off the horn-rimmed glasses, wiped them with a handkerchief; without the glasses he looked even more anonymous. ‘No, we were investing for profit, not control. A perfectly respectable capitalist ploy, wouldn’t you say?’

‘Why didn’t you turn the money around?’ said Anders. ‘Invest it in the new Russia? It’s crying out for money.’

‘You must be joking. Can’t you see all the new republics crying out for their share? Would you pour champagne down a drain?’

‘Did Channing and Lazarus know what you were up to?’ asked Clements.

‘Not at first, no. They never asked questions, I think they were blinded by the prospect of the fees they would earn. They are what I think you Australians call greedy buggers. The world is full of greedy buggers. I’m one.’ Once more the smile.

‘Who told them who you really were?’

‘The American, Mr Brame.’

‘Did you ever meet him?’

‘Just the once. I had a drink with him last Sunday night at his hotel, in the coffee lounge. He wouldn’t listen to my argument. He was very strait-laced, for a lawyer. It was like talking to the Pope.’

Malone was about to ask, Was that why you killed him? But Anders was pursuing his own line, the money line: ‘How did you come to choose Channing and Lazarus, and then Mr Brame’s firm? Or was it vice versa? Did you know Channing and Brame were brothers?’

‘Of course.’ Federal seemed to have accepted that, if nothing else, Anders knew his job. ‘But I’m not going to tell you the sequence of whom we chose first and why. What I’ve already told you we’d guessed would come out eventually. But if I tell you too many secrets, my life wouldn’t be worth a current rouble.’

‘About two cents,’ Anders told the two detectives.

‘If you expected yourselves to be exposed, why did you kill Brame?’ said Malone.

‘It was too soon, we hadn’t completed our plan. Personally, I think the killing of Mr Brame was a mistake.’

‘If it was a mistake, why did you do it?’

‘Why did I do it?’ He was still holding his glasses in his hand; his eyes were exposed but they told Malone nothing. ‘I didn’t kill him. Or Murray Rockman.’

‘Who was Rockman?’

Federal shrugged. ‘It doesn’t matter now if you know. The KGB planted him here twelve years ago. He was here as an industrial spy. What better cover, what better opportunities, than as a security guard? His mother was a Chechen, you would have to know them to appreciate how dreadful they are. They still think they are at war with us Russians, after over a hundred years.’

‘Who killed him, then?’

‘I don’t know.’ He put the glasses back on.

He’s lying now, thought Malone. ‘Do you know why he was killed?’

‘I suspect because he was taking something that didn’t belong to him. I told you, he was half-Chechen, they will steal anything. There were seventy thousand BHP share certificates missing.’

‘There were only ten thousand in his safe deposit box.’

‘He must have had another box in another name.’ Then he seemed to lose interest in Rockman. ‘He really was a nuisance at times.’

Then Clements leaned forward. ‘You did kill Detective Peta Smith?’

Federal remained steady in his chair; he didn’t lean back away from Clements. ‘Yes, I admit that. By then things had started to get out of hand with the other two killings. It was beginning to look like the Mafia—’

Malone could see that Clements was ready to explode; he intervened: ‘When you killed her, why didn’t you leave the country? We expected you to.’

‘I knew that. I guessed you would have Immigration waiting for me.’

‘Where did you go? We traced you to your hotel.’

‘To a motel, a cheap one. It was like being back in the KGB. They always wanted us to do things on the cheap, if you were low down on the totem pole. We used to envy the CIA, they liked to do everything first class. Especially when Reagan was President.’

‘You’re a cold-blooded sonofabitch, you know that?’ said Clements. ‘That girl was just doing her duty, bringing you in here for questioning—’

‘You think I don’t know what duty is? I apologize for shooting her—’

‘You fucking apologize! Christ, I’ll—’

Clements made a lunge towards the Russian, but Malone pushed him back into his chair. ‘Mr Federal – is that your real name? Or is it Ballinger?’

The Russian pushed his chair back, as if afraid that Clements might make another lunge at him. ‘It’s Viktor Belinkov, ex-Major Belinkov.’

‘Righto, Mr Belinkov, if you didn’t kill Orville Brame and Murray Rockman, who did?’

‘I don’t think I have to answer any more questions,’ said Belinkov and leaned back in his chair, one eye on Clements.

4

Though it disappointed him, for every cop loves nothing more than a case with all the ribbons tied, Malone had believed the Russian when the latter had said he had not murdered Brame and Rockman. Belinkov had had the air of a man who had the confidence of truth, a truth that could be proved, though it still had to be proven.

‘You have an alibi?’ Malone had said.

‘Of course. I spent Sunday night at the Touch of Class. You can check with the madam or the girl I spent the night with, Dawn.’

Malone knew Tilly Mosman, the madam who ran the city’s classiest brothel. She was a typical brothel-keeper, with a heart of gold which she kept in a bank vault, but she always told the truth to the police, within reason.

‘I was there from midnight till seven in the morning. A charming house, better than most I’ve known. But Mrs Mosman has a quaint house rule that everyone must be off the premises by seven a.m. In Moscow they used to serve breakfasts.’

‘There were brothels in Moscow?’ said Anders. ‘In the old days?’

Belinkov had smiled at such naïveté. ‘I’m sure there are brothels in Vatican City, Mr Anders. Why do the Swiss Guards always look so satisfied?’

Clements had looked at Malone, the Catholic, but the latter was not going to get into a defence of the Vatican, another bureaucracy.

Malone checked by phone with Tilly Mosman: a Mr Hammer, answering to Belinkov’s description, had indeed spent the night with Dawn. ‘You remember her, Inspector? You questioned her once before, when we had that nun dumped on her doorstep?’

He had a clear memory of the case, but only a vague memory of the girl. ‘Is she there? Put her on.’

Dawn came on the line. ‘Hello, Inspector.’

‘You’re on the day shift?’

‘Around the clock. All these American lawyers in town, most of ’em haven’t got their wives. They’ve heard of us. One guy was from Oshkosh, Indiana, he said they’d heard of us there.’

‘I’m pleased to hear it, Dawn. The Tourist Board must be proud of you. Was Mr Hammer with you all night Sunday?’

‘Yes, Inspector. Quite nice, really, very Continental, if you know what I mean.’

‘I don’t, actually. Describe him.’

‘Well, he was – I dunno, you know, anonymous-looking. You see a hundred guys like him. Thin-faced, horn-rimmed glasses – oh, he had a nasty scar on his belly, just above his dick. All shrivelled up. The scar, not his dick.’

‘I’m sure that wasn’t, Dawn, not with you.’ He remembered her now, a beautiful girl of half a dozen mixed bloods, who had had her ambition. ‘You any closer to getting your own establishment?’

He could almost imagine her wry smile. ‘No, Inspector. I’ll send you an invite when I do.’

He had hung up and told Belinkov to take down his trousers. The Russian did so without embarrassment, as if this had been part of the KGB training. There was an ugly wrinkled scar on his lower belly. ‘I got that in Mexico in 1987.’

‘A brothel?’

‘No, the Mexican police. They thought I was a double agent.’

‘Who for?’

‘The CIA. Who else?’

He’s not telling the truth this time, Malone thought. He’s decided to joke. Malone had seen it before, the surrender to the inevitable, the laugh that was a nervous reflex. He had to be joking when he said, ‘May I have my lawyers in here? Mr Channing and Mr Lazarus.’

‘Not yet, Mr Belinkov. They are suspects too, you know.’

There was no reaction other than a nod. ‘Of course. In the KGB we always had an advantage. There were never any suspects, just people who had to prove they were not guilty. It’s a better system, saves an awful lot of time. We learned it from the Spanish Inquisition. They were always inventive, the Catholics.’

He’s baiting me. Malone had had enough of the man’s cynicism. He wanted to lean across the table, grab him and belt him one, just as Clements had wanted to do. But all he did was to say, ‘You’ll be held over at Police Centre, Mr Belinkov. Arrange it, will you, Russ?’

He left the room while his temper was still in check and went out to the main office. Weariness was starting to cloud his mind like a drug. The Douranes sat there in the room, the husband dejected, the wife nonchalant, legs crossed provocatively. The pouted lips had been repaired, the eyelashes touched up: she would go down, if she went down at all, in full battle kit. The two young Rockdale detectives and the young policewoman stood up as Malone came in. He motioned for them to resume their seats and pulled up a chair for himself.

‘You’re in trouble, Mr and Mrs Dourane. Accessories to murder—’ It was a bluff, but bluffing was not a crime.

Mrs Dourane looked at her husband, but he had decided to remain silent. He was obviously afraid of what might happen to them, but there was a dignity to his silence; he would not beg to be understood, he was no camel driver. Mrs Dourane was more pragmatic: ‘Bullshit. We know nothing about the murders. They were stupid, we dunno what got into Mr Federal—’

‘His name’s Belinkov, for the record. And he says he committed only one of the murders, that of my colleague, Detective Smith.’ At once he was aware of the stiffening in the three young police officers; nothing physical happened, but it was almost as if one could hear their minds set. ‘He denies knowing anything about the other two murders. You knew Rockman, the security guard, didn’t you?’

‘Never heard of him.’

Malone looked at her husband. ‘You’d heard of him, hadn’t you, Mr Dourane? We suspect he may have murdered the owners of two firms, one out at Carlingford, the other at Homebush, two firms that you bought up for Bern Investments and Alps Securities. Two of the firms that have been buying shares in BHP and Ampolex, the dealing that started these three latest murders. You knew him, didn’t you?’ He was leaning forward, his face only inches from Dourane’s.

‘Bullshit,’ said Mrs Dourane again.

‘Or camelshit or whatever you like,’ said Malone. ‘It doesn’t alter the question I’ve put to your husband. Mr Dourane?’

Dourane ran his hand through his thick hair, nodded dejectedly. ‘Yes, I knew him. He was the one who first came to me, I had no idea he was just a security guard, he looked like a businessman. He offered me the job as manager of the holding company for those two firms and some others.’

‘When did you find out he was just a security guard?’

‘He came to the office one day in uniform, just after we’d opened—’

‘And you had no doubts about him? A security guard and he’d offered you a job like that?’

‘Don’t you know who he really was?’

‘Yes, we do. A KGB agent. Did you know?’

Dourane hesitated, looked at his wife, who turned her back on him. Then he looked back at Malone. ‘He told me who he was, the second time he came to see me, told me why I’d been chosen for the job. The word had come from Moscow, I had friends there.’

‘You had friends in Moscow? You weren’t in the KGB too, for Chrissakes?’ He was tired of holding all the strings.

‘No, no—’

‘Be quiet,’ said his wife, back still turned.

‘What’s the use?’ he asked her, but, getting no answer, he looked back at Malone. ‘I was a member of the government in Kabul, back in the days when Moscow ran it. I was the Under-Secretary for Finance, I’m a graduate of the LSE – the London School of Economics. When the Russians withdrew, I knew it was the end, it was too dangerous to stay on, the mujaheddin had me on their list …’

Malone remembered the days when the local crims had had only locals to fear, when crime had been a parish affair. Now there were fugitives from the mujaheddin, the yakuza, the Triads, Mafia … God bless multiculturalism.

‘I had to leave. So I – I emigrated.’

‘Are you a Marxist, too, Mrs Dourane?’ He kept a straight face.

The pouted lips sneered. ‘I’m not anything, I wouldn’t give my vote to Jesus Christ. I had nothing to do with all this—’

‘Then why were you the one who went to meet Belinkov?’

‘That was purely accidental. I’m an art lover—’

Malone sighed, stood up, grinned at her. ‘Camelshit, Mrs Dourane. Excuse me—’ he said to the young policewoman, who smiled her forgiveness. ‘Detectives De Groot and Powell have had your phone tapped for two days—’

She turned her head sharply towards the two officers. ‘You bastards! That’s against the law—’

‘Not when you have a warrant,’ said Malone, laughing; she really was a trier, this one, a battler for any fortune that offered itself. One could almost see her hand out, clutching for money going down the drain. ‘You and Mr Dourane have a little think about what you want to tell us. The truth, that is. When you’ve made up your minds, Detectives De Groot and Powell will take down your statements. Will you come with me, Constable?’

The young policewoman got up and followed him out into the hallway. She was small and neat, with long blond hair drawn back in a chignon (just like my wife’s, he wanted to tell her, but refrained).

‘What’s your name?’

‘Kate Arletti, sir.’

‘Italian? You don’t look it.’

‘My parents were from northern Italy, the Val d’Aosta.’

‘How’d you get that scar?’ There was a scar, partly hidden by make-up, running down her left jawline.

‘A junkie tried to carve me with a razor.’

So she had been around. ‘What happened to him?’

‘I broke his nose with my gun. He’s doing three years now.’

‘Good for you. Righto, go back and get onside with Mrs Dourane. Don’t interrogate her, just get her to loosen up. Her husband’s not the dangerous one, she is. She was in all this just for what she could get out of it. I don’t know whether she would have killed to get what she wanted, but she might have.’

‘How many suspects do you have, sir?’

He pondered a moment before answering: ‘Three, including her.’

And so the afternoon wore on. The questioning continued. That was the basis of detection: questions, questions, questions. Nothing ever fell out of the sky, although occasionally a psycho wandered in with all the questions answered before they had been asked. Except perhaps the main one: what had driven him?

In his own office Malone was questioning Channing and Lazarus. ‘When did Zurich Private Holdings come to you to represent them?’

The two men exchanged glances. They and De Vries all gave the impression that they resented being held here, especially the American. But they all knew enough about the law to recognize that a certain amount of co-operation was required. It was Channing who answered, ‘About two years ago.’

‘Who recommended you to them?’

‘No one, as far as I know.’

‘You mean they just stuck a pin in the phonebook? Come on, Rod.’

‘I tell you, Mr Dourane just presented himself, asked us if we’d represent them.’

‘Did you know Belinkov – Mr Federal to you – and Murray Rockman, the security guard, were ex-KGB? And Mr Dourane once had friends in Moscow? Were you two Marxists when you were at uni? It wouldn’t have been unfashionable in your time.’

The two partners were shocked; so, too, was De Vries. Channing almost spat with indignation: ‘I was president of the Young Libs! Jesus – a Marxist? Will and I—’ He shook his head, aghast at the thought of being a Marxist. ‘You’re trying to say the KGB – the KGB?’ Again the shake of the head. ‘They had some sort of tick against us? No way, no way in the world.’

Malone changed tack: ‘Mr De Vries, when did ZPH come to your firm?’

‘I don’t rightly know. They’d been with us some time before Orville Brame mentioned them to me. Look, Inspector, I’m not wanted here—’

‘In a moment, Mr De Vries. You were going to say something, Mr Channing?’

Channing seemed to have recovered a little from what he had been told about the KGB. ‘Let’s cut this short, Inspector. I – well, it was us, Will and I, who recommended them to Orville. They wanted an American firm, a New York one, and I thought my brother’s firm would be the answer.’

‘Your brother and you had become reconciled?’

‘Well, no. When I wrote him, it was the first time in – well, years.’

‘Why choose his firm then?’

Channing sat back in his chair, refusing to say any more. Malone didn’t press him, made his guess. The younger brother had wanted to impress the elder, introducing a client who wanted to spend millions. Look, you’re not the only success in the family … It was only a guess, but Malone was sure he wasn’t wide of the mark.

He turned to Lazarus. ‘I take it you weren’t in Sydney last Sunday night or Monday morning?’

The one-eyed man, it seemed, had retreated behind his eye-patch. He had sat saying nothing, the visible eye sliding back and forth like an abacus bead. ‘I was on a flight between Zurich and Bangkok. You can check—’ He gave the Thai Airlines flight number and his first-class seat number; his pedantry was arrogant. ‘If you are thinking I had anything to do with the murder of Mr Brame, you’re dead wrong.’

‘We often are, Mr Lazarus. But occasionally we’re dead right. We only get to be right by asking the obvious and some of the not-so obvious questions. You can go, Mr Lazarus, but we’ll keep in touch. If you’re going to make any more sudden overseas flights – like to Zurich – let us know.’

‘You’ll have a check on me at the airport?’

Malone didn’t answer, just smiled. Lazarus hesitated, then got to his feet. Channing also stood up, but Malone waved a hand at him. ‘Sit down, Mr Channing.’

‘Look—’

‘Siddown!’ The two of them stared at each other, then Channing sank back on to his chair.

Lazarus looked as surprised as Channing, then he said, ‘I’ll be at the office, Rod,’ and left. Malone looked at De Vries. ‘You’re eliminated, too, as a suspect, Mr De Vries.’

‘Thank you.’ His voice rasped. ‘As I said before, you have a talent for insults.’

Malone shrugged. ‘That sounds good coming from a lawyer.’

‘Another insult. I’ll wait outside for Mrs Brame.’

That left Malone and Channing together. The lawyer had seemingly lost all his bearings. He looked around Malone’s office as if seeing it for the first time, though he had been here almost an hour. ‘Comparing it with your own office?’ said Malone.

‘What?’ Channing was puzzled.

‘Nothing.’ I should pack up and go home. I’m not looking at any of these people objectively. ‘Rod, I don’t know why we haven’t asked you this question before. Where were you Sunday night?’

‘Sunday night?’ Channing frowned; then the point of the question seemed to stick into him like a poniard: ‘Oh, come off it, for Chrissake! Are you asking did I kill my brother? Jesus, that’s the end! Why would I kill him?’

‘He was trying to stuff up a deal that was going to make you and your partner a fortune in fees.’

Channing moved his head around as if trying to get out of an armlock. ‘No, no!’

‘You’re the logical suspect. Where were you Sunday night?’

‘I was home, in bed! Ask my wife—’

Malone looked at him with mock pity. ‘Rod, you’re a lawyer. You know as well as I do that a wife’s testimony isn’t worth a pinch of the proverbial. If she’s a loving, loyal wife, she’ll lie for her husband. If she hates his guts, she’ll just as likely also lie to convict him.’ Lisa would tear strips off him if she could hear this. ‘You’ll need better corroboration than that.’

‘My kids?’

‘Did any of them get up during the night and see you asleep in your bed?’

‘How would I know, if I was asleep? Come on, Malone – I didn’t kill my brother! Okay, I was pissed off with him for wanting to – to expose the share dealing. But Jesus – kill him?’ He shook his head again at the thought.

Malone stood up and went out into the hallway room as Clements came in. The big man, in his pink sweater, was the only bright note in the place; or perhaps Malone’s gloom made everything seem duller than it was. ‘You get Belinkov locked up?’

‘He didn’t put up any sorta protest. He must be a fatalist or something.’

‘Maybe it’s the Russian in him. You and I should practise it. I’ve got Channing in my office. He’s got to be one of those who could’ve killed Brame, but I don’t know that I can hold him just on suspicion. Put a tail on him. Ask Chatswood if they can spare anyone, he lives in their area.’

‘You said he’s gotta be one who might of. Who’re the others?’

‘Mrs Dourane.’

Clements nodded. ‘And?’

‘Channing’s mother.’

Clements sat down on the edge of a table. In a far corner of the room Dourane sat sullenly with De Groot and Powell, the two detectives drinking coffee, the Afghan staring out the window at the slanting rain. Clements bit his lip, his old habit. ‘You’re stretching it, mate. Why would she kill her own son, one she hadn’t seen in thirty years?’

‘That could be the reason. He comes home after thirty years to bugger up a scheme that was going to make her other son rich, the son who’d stuck by her.’

Clements considered this, then nodded. ‘Okay, that’s a reason. But she wouldn’t have done in Murray Rockman, too.’

‘One at a time.’

‘All the killings are still connected.’

‘Sure. But as I said, let’s do ’em one at a time. I’m going to talk to Milly Channing, after I’ve got rid of Mrs Brame.’

He went along the hallway to the interrogation room where the two women still sat with Anders. The three of them were chatting, Anders telling the two women how he had been an organizer of the Gay and Lesbian Mardi Gras this year; Milly was nodding her head, full of interest, and Joanna sat listening with a quiet fascination, like a latecomer to the facts of life. Anders stood up as Malone came in. ‘The ladies were wondering, Inspector, how long they were going to be kept—’

Malone explained the delay. ‘We’ve charged a Mr Belinkov, a Russian, with the murder of Detective Smith.’

‘And my husband’s murder?’

Malone looked at Joanna. ‘I’m afraid he’s not our man, Mrs Brame, not for that murder. Mr De Vries is waiting outside for you, he’ll take you back to your hotel.’

There was just the slightest twitch of her nose. ‘But I’ll leave tomorrow and still not know who killed Orville?’

Out of the corner of his eye Malone was watching Milly Channing, who was the only one who had remained seated. It struck him that she had the prim look of someone who was completely organized; she held her handbag as if it contained the elements of her life, her hands grasping it were steady, no white knuckles showing. Another image formed in his mind, subliminally: his mother sitting just like that, handbag held just like that, secrets in it that he could only guess at. Such as what had really happened in Ballyreagh long ago.

‘Anything could happen between now and tomorrow, Mrs Brame. We’re not going to stop trying just because we’ve cleared up one murder.’

His tone had been gentle, but she recognized it for a rebuke. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Malone. I—’ For once she was at a loss for words; it had been a long long day. ‘Will you mind if I call you tomorrow before I leave?’

‘I’ll come to the airport,’ he said on the spur of the moment, his tongue this time on his side.

She gave him her hand, taking off her glove to do so. ‘You have been very kind, Mr Malone. Thank you.’

She said goodbye to Milly Channing, who also rose to leave but stopped when Malone waved her down. Anders took Joanna out of the room and Malone closed the door.

‘You and I have to talk, Mrs Channing—’

‘About Rod? Or about Orville?’

‘About you.’ He sat down opposite her.

She stared at him, then nodded at the video recorder. ‘Are you going to turn that on?’

‘Not yet. It depends on what you tell me. I’ve asked everyone else this question, Mrs Channing – where were you Sunday night?’

She frowned, not as if trying to remember where she had been Sunday night but at the question itself. ‘Am I some sort of suspect or something?’

He nodded. ‘Among others. The way we work, Mrs Channing, is we start with a crowd and work our way inwards.’

‘And now you’ve got to me?’ She was still holding the handbag, but not: clutching it, the knuckles still not white. She wore a brown wool topcoat and a paisley scarf which had covered her head but was now draped round her neck. She pulled the ends of the scarf together, but that was the only sign that she might be feeling nervous. ‘You think I might have killed Orville?’

‘He came to see you?’

‘Yes, last Sunday morning, before he saw Rod. It was awkward, I have to admit that. After thirty years, what was I supposed to be? The loving mother, all forgiveness? It doesn’t work like that, Mr Malone, not immediately. Given time …’

Malone could not argue against that. It occurred to him that the only serious forgiveness he had ever had to offer had been to criminals; and there had been no reconciliation with any of them. ‘Where were you Sunday night? Monday morning early?’

‘I was home, alone. Like a lot of women my age,’ she said tartly. She was sitting on the edge of her chair now, leaning forward against the table. ‘Why would I kill my son?’

Facing her, he hesitated; then he told her what he had told Clements.

She looked at him almost with pity. ‘Do you think I’m a madwoman or something?’

He stood up, exhaustion crippling him again. ‘You can go, Mrs Channing.’

She tied the scarf under her chin; her hair hidden, she suddenly looked pinched and aged. ‘I’m disappointed in you, Mr Malone.’

He nodded. ‘That’s a policeman’s lot, Mrs Channing. I’ll have someone take you home.’

‘Never mind,’ she snapped and stalked out on legs surprisingly steady for a woman of her years.

Malone, suddenly feeling his own years, sat on the edge of the table. He looked at the video recorder and, for some reason he was too weary to examine, was glad that he had not turned it on. Then Clements came to the door. ‘So?’

‘So I could be wrong. But you nominate someone else.’ Clements shook his head and Malone went on, ‘Put a tail on her, too. One of ours.’

‘We’re running out of bodies—’ Then he shook his head; he, too, looked tired. ‘No, we’ve got enough bloody bodies. I mean personnel. I’ll find someone.’

‘See if we can borrow that girl outside, Kate Arletti. Put her in plainclothes.’

‘You really think Milly Channing might of murdered Orville and she’ll try to do a bunk?’

‘I don’t know what I think—’ He ran a hand over his brow, wiping away sweat that wasn’t there. ‘She wouldn’t have shot Murray Rockman, Christ knows who did that. We may never know and frankly, between you and me, I don’t care very much. But yes, she could have done Brame …’

‘Okay, I’ll have her tailed. You going home now?’

‘Russ, my eyes are crossed, I’m bitched, buggered and bewildered. What are we going to do with Dourane?’

‘I don’t think he’s gunna go anywhere. He’s besotted with that wife of his, he’s not gunna piss off and leave her. She’s still in with Kate Arletti.’

‘Righto, take her across to Police Centre, charge her with being an accessory, helping Belinkov evade arrest, you know the drill. If she can get bail, okay, so long as she reports to Rockdale once or twice a day. I’m going home.’

Clements looked at him solicitously. ‘Drum up a smile before you go in the house. You’ve got no right to take a face like that home to Lisa.’