4

I

QUEEN VICTORIA, a lady not renowned for taste, would possibly have been proud of Sydney’s Town Hall. Located in the heart of the city it is built on a graveyard; it could be mistaken for the outsize mausoleum of some mad emperor. It has all the style of Victorian bad taste, carbuncled and columned till one’s eyes cross in reluctant admiration of the architectural excesses. Its tower rises like a stone wedding cake; one would not be surprised to see stone kewpies of a mayoral couple at the very top. Only the clock in the tower has managed to escape ornamentation: someone appreciated the simplicity of Time.

Its interior, however, has some dignity, even if heavy. Decorative tiled floors, vaulted ceilings, magnificent panelling: Lisa enjoyed wandering through the building in her spare moments. In an odd way it brought back memories of her days on the diplomatic circuit in London, where the interiors of many buildings had been better than the exteriors.

Though she had been working at Town Hall a month this was only the second committee meeting she had attended. She was still getting to know the councillors and their affiliations: the Labor councillors, the left-of-centre Democrats, the Reform conservatives, the green-hued Independents. Though she had been only twenty-one she had spent enough time on the diplomatic circuit to appreciate that politics, at whatever level, was a swamp where webbed feet were essential. She had been the High Commissioner’s private secretary, despite her youth; she had been resented by older public servants, but she had managed to stay afloat. Public service was often politics at its lowest level.

“We’ve got to do something about the poor bloody battlers down in South Ward. We’re always hearing about the poor bloody battlers out west, but we’ve got our own right here on our doorstep.” He was a thin intense man with a beard; someone had once told him he looked Christlike and he’d been striving ever since for the image. He wore his sympathies like a hair shirt, one that scratched and irritated his fellow Democrats.

“The battlers, the poor bloody battlers,” said the Deputy Lord Mayor and made it sound like his daily mantra; with the talent of the truly hypocritical, he even made it sound sincere. “The Bible says they’re always with us.”

“They’re a fucking nuisance,” said the chairman of the works committee, a Reform councillor. “Our job would be much easier if everyone was rich.”

“Like you,” said an Independent, a grey-haired, blunt-faced man who had travelled the spectrum of politics and finished up adrift.

Lisa sometimes marvelled at the gems of wit and wisdom that dropped on the table at the two meetings she had attended. The public was not admitted to these gatherings, as it was to general council meetings; here behaviour was unrestrained, knives flashed, abuse smoked like fuses that never actually set off an explosion. Labor, the Democrats and the Reform party had an equal number of councillors; the balance of power was held by three Independents, all independent of each other and all as unpredictable in their flights of fancy as blind birds. Lisa had come to wonder how the city survived its council.

“Let’s get down to business,” said the Deputy Lord Mayor. He had all the usual authority of a compromise candidate; he looked for friends, for supporters, in a wilderness of his own making. He was big and fat and could convince himself that a slush fund was an environment contribution towards protecting a wetland; bribes were alms offering by concerned developers. Those citizens who knew him hoped he would be gone before the Olympics year. “What’s on the agenda?”

“It’s not on the agenda,” said a Democrat, a once sensible and honest man worn down by disillusion, “but these murders of top businessmen don’t say much for our image. I believe you were there, Mrs. Malone, when it was all happening, as the cricket commentators say.”

“Yes,” said Lisa. “But the last thing on my mind was the city’s image.”

“But we must think of it,” said the Deputy Lord Mayor, concerned for image, since he had none of his own.

“Your husband is handling the case?” That was the chairman of the works committee.

“Yes, Mr. Brode.”

“How’s it going? Any suspects?”

“I couldn’t say. We don’t exchange views on our respective jobs.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” Brode was a large fair man who would run to fat when he slowed down. He had thinning wavy hair, a large nose and a mouth in which the lips were constantly moving, as if practising what he was about to say next. Despite his fairness he had very dark brown eyes that, like his lips, were never still. Lisa knew that nobody at Town Hall liked him, but popularity, it seemed, was never one of his ambitions.

“Why has that project always been such a bloody headache?” asked another councillor, an Independent who always wore green shirts as a token of his leanings. “We should’ve put a park there.”

“Grow up,” said Brode. “Parks never brought in revenue.”

“Money. That’s all you think of.”

“I’ve been looking into who’s building Olympic Tower,” said a second Independent, a middle- aged woman with a shark’s smile and a talent for tearing budgets to shreds. “Two men with criminal records are linked with the two Australian companies and God knows what sort of record the Chinese company has. Who okayed the project?”

Lisa saw all heads turn towards Brode. He ignored the stares, gave his flinty attention to Mrs. Harrity, the Independent. “I did. What of it?”

She looked at the notebook in front of her; she carried it everywhere with her, like a weapon. “You were on the council several years ago when the original project was okayed. Did you have anything to do with that one?”

“Yes. What’s all this leading to?”

“My notes say that you were a director of the company that did the feasibility study on the project. You were on the town planning committee at the same time.”

“I stood aside from the committee so there’d be no conflict of interest.”

“I’m sure you did.” The shark’s smile had all the good humour of a set of butcher’s knives. “I just happen to believe that ‘conflict of interest’ is as empty a phrase as ‘see you later.’ Which one invariably does. Did you stand aside when it was decided that the present project could increase its height by four levels?”

“Hold on a minute,” said the Deputy Lord Mayor, whose name was Goodenough, one that fell short of his aspirations. “What extra four levels?”

“I’m going on Mrs. Malone’s report—”

The atmosphere in the committee room, never warm, had abruptly chilled. Lisa felt a certain amount of the chill directed towards her.

“My report was not meant to be a critical one—I just assumed the extra four levels had been approved. I was asked to give the latest assessment on hotel accommodation, present and future—” She was not flustered, but she was suddenly aware that she had been left holding someone else’s can. “The extra four levels in the hotel section of Olympic Tower will give another sixty rooms.”

“Well, well,” said Goodenough. “Looks like you have some explaining to do, Raymond, old chap.”

“Who gets the extra revenue this time?” said Yagovitch in the green shirt. “You should’ve let it be a park, mate.”

“I’m not your fucking mate,” said Brode. “This was decided down in the planning department.”

“It may well have been,” said Mrs. Harrity, “but nobody on committee appears to have heard of it. If it hadn’t been for Mrs. Malone’s diligence—”

“Thank you,” said Lisa, “but don’t blame me.”

“I’m not, my dear—we’re grateful to you.” Due to an unfortunate array of dental work Mrs. Harrity was unable to give a warm smile; but she tried. “Something smells. I think we should have the head of the planning department up here, maybe he can enlighten us.”

There were seven councillors present; no final decisions were made here but went before the full council. The seventh member, Brode’s fellow Reform councillor, at last spoke up. He was a squat portly man with a florid face and a bouffant crop of white hair; his name was Pascal, he was the head of the biggest legal firm in the city and he had been a city councillor for fifteen years. He could smell scandal at a hundred paces.

“Don’t let’s open doors till we are sure what’s on the other side. I think we should have a closed discussion on this—and I mean closed. Would you ladies mind leaving us?”

A secretary and Lisa were the only two non-committee members present. They both stood up and without a word went out of the big room, closing the door behind them.

“That’s the last we’ll hear of that.” The secretary was a slim woman in her mid-thirties with enough hair to have got a starring role in The Bold and the Beautiful, unlike the players in that soap opera she never let any crisis trouble her. “We can close our notebooks.”

“What do you mean?”

There were half a dozen people in the hallway, sitting on chairs as they waited to be called to report to the committee. The secretary, whom Lisa knew only as Rosalie, as if secretaries didn’t have surnames, jerked her head and led Lisa along the hall and out into the main vestibule. Here there was traffic, but no one, as in the hallway, had their ears cocked.

“Look, Lisa, you’re on the Olympic advisory staff, right? From now on that’s all this council is going to think about—the Olympics.” She took out a compact, made sure her auburn mane had not blown away. “I dunno what went on down at Olympic Tower, but whatever it was, that lot back in that room aren’t going to broadcast it. Not even Mr. Yagovitch to his Greenie mates. Someone obviously copped a handout—”

“Mr. Brode?”

“No names, Lisa, please. I’ve kept this job for seventeen years by never hearing or mentioning a name, okay? Sydney is the squeaky clean city for the next eighteen months and nobody is going to be allowed to rub any dirt into it. You, me, Mrs. Harrity, Mr. Yagovitch, anybody. You better believe it. Mr. Pascal will give them legal advice, for which he’ll charge the council, or his firm will, and we’ll go back in there and it will be ‘any further business?’”

Lisa smiled. “You know, I worked on the diplomatic circuit in London when I was young—I keep hearing echoes.”

“Was it much different?”

“Only the language. Foreign ministers and ambassadors didn’t use four-letter words—not to each other. In private, probably.”

“It’d be different if we women ran the world.” Rosalie put away her compact, hair still intact. “But then, who am I kidding?”

II

“I only met Tong and Guo once,” said Jack Aldwych. “Les Chung gave a reception on the day we started the job. They’d just arrived from China. They were supposed to be Shan’s protégés, but they were a coupla uppity young bastards. Like Blackie here used to be.”

Blackie Ovens grinned, his face crumbling like a soft muffin; all the hard-baked toughness of his earlier days had gone. “You’d of done me, I ever got uppity with you.”

“How were they with Madame Tzu?” asked Malone.

“You’ve met her? Stainless steel right through, eh? I never saw ‘em with her, but they wouldn’t of got uppity with her. Not her.”

Blackie had found coffee, biscuits and some fresh milk in the kitchen and now the four of them were sitting out on the balcony, as relaxed as tenants. Below them the Monday leisure class dotted the beach: waiters, drug couriers, retirees, young mothers and hookers. A dozen or more bosoms were bared to the sun, nipples on their way to melanoma; bare buttocks invited the sun to zero in on twin targets. Sun cancers were what happened to other people.

“What brought you here?” said Malone. “Did you think Tong or Guo might be the feller in the stocking mask on Friday night?”

“It’s a thought.” Aldwych this morning wore a blue linen shirt and slacks, a light blue cardigan and a panama hat. He had been a rough-and-ready dresser in his early days, but Shirl, over the years, had groomed him. Left to his own taste he would have reverted to those early days, but Blackie, an unlikely valet who had revered the late Mrs. Aldwych, saw to it that standards were kept up. “If Tong had been here, Blackie was gunna ask him a question or two. He’d of soon told us if he’d been there Friday night.”

“Jack, I asked you to leave this to us—”

“So you did. I must of forgot.” Aldwych smiled above his coffee.

“You’re never going to impress young cops like Gail if you keep going back on your word. Stay out of it, Jack . . . Who brought the original capital for the Bund Corporation into Australia? Mr. Shan or Madame Tzu?”

“Either. We weren’t able to check on that. The money was already here when they came to us.”

“Were you and the other locals asking for another injection of capital?”

“Why?”

“There’s fifty-one million frozen in the accounts of two Chinese students brought in through a Hong Kong bank. One of the students lived over there—” Malone nodded inland. “He was murdered Friday night or Saturday morning, early.”

“Same gun?” Aldwych never missed a trick in the murder game.

“No-o.”

“So where’s the connection?”

“The other student was a girl who lived out in Cronulla with Mr. Guo. She and Guo and Tong have disappeared. Do you know anything about the fifty-one million? You or Jack Junior?”

Blackie Ovens had screwed up his eyes at the sum mentioned, as if trying to count it up in his mind; but Aldwych had remained impassive: “No, we know nothing. Go on. Thanks, Miss Lee,” as Gail offered him more coffee.

“If Les Chung had copped it on Friday night along with Mr. Feng and Mr. Sun, who’d take over Lotus Corporation?”

“The families, I guess. Les and I never discussed it.”

“How much would it take to buy out Lotus?”

“I see what you’re getting at. More than fifty million. The stage we’ve got to now, nobody would sell out under a hundred million. More—two hundred and fifty.”

“What would you do if you found the Bund Corporation was your only partner?”

“I’d be very careful. I might send Blackie to do some due diligence.”

Blackie shook his head. “I’m too old, boss, to take on any big stuff.”

“You’d need more than an iron bar and a couple of heavies, Jack,” said Malone. He looked at Gail. “Go and knock on a few doors, see what you can find out about Mr. Tong.”

As Gail disappeared into the flat Aldwych looked after her. “Is she any help, being Chinese?”

“Half-Chinese, Jack. She’s a mongrel, as one of our enlightened mayors over in South Australia once called them. But anyone will tell you, mongrels are tougher than pure breds.”

“Oh, I dunno,” said Aldwych with a grin. “Blackie and me are pure breds. That true-blue Aussie mayor would of been proud of us.”

Malone turned to look out at the beach, not seeing the bare bosoms, just the waves rolling in with the inevitability of government interference. At last he said, “Jack, the government is going to poke its nose into this sooner or later. It’s been flat out for overseas investors—selling off the farm hasn’t worried them. I dunno that it wanted Chinese investment, but it’s got it and it hasn’t squawked. Civil rights, all that sort of stuff, never worries a government when you wave money at it.”

“It didn’t worry me, either,” said Aldwych, honesty glimmering out of him like a flickering candle. “If that’s what you’re getting at?”

“Jack, I’d never accuse you of being a civil rights militant.”

“You had me worried for a minute.”

“I’m worried. If I don’t get on top of this pretty soon, Homicide is going to be in a bigger hole than the one you took over when you started this project. We have eight unsolved murders on our books—the Opposition was asking questions about us last week in parliament. Not us specifically, but the Service in general. Now that we’ve rooted out most of the corruption, they want to know if we’re now playing Boy Scouts. It’s all political bullshit, but the media make the most of it. And sooner or later the government— in particular the Premier and our Police Minister, The Dutchman—will respond to it, as they always do, and we’ll be booted up the arse. Now what I’m getting at, Jack, is this—”

“I thought we were getting to something,” said Aldwych, but offering no encouragement.

“You know more than you’ve told me. Right?”

Aldwych considered for a long moment. Then he said, “Scobie, if you mean do I know who the killer is—no. I dunno any more than you do. But if you mean do I know what I’m gunna do from now on—yes, I do.”

“Are you going to tell me?”

“Not unless it pays me to tell you. I once told you I wasn’t reformed, I’m just retired. I might come outa retirement, I dunno. If I do, you and me mightn’t be friends any more. We’d be back on opposite sides of the fence again.”

The two men stared at each other; then Malone said quietly, “I’d be sorry if it happened, Jack.”

“So would I.” The old crim sounded sincere. “But nobody’s ever taken anything away from me and I’m not gunna let it happen now.”

Malone looked at Blackie Ovens. “What about you, Blackie? You going to come out of retirement?”

“Whatever the boss says,” said Blackie.

Malone sat back and sighed, stared out at the beach in silence. A breeze blew in from across the water; a thin curtain in the balcony doors shivered. A gull flew past, mewing like a lost child. Blackie gathered up the coffee cups and went back inside.

Then Gail came back. “The only one home was the woman two doors along. She had nothing but good to say about Mr. Tong. Friendly, helpful—a good neighbour, she said. Went to dinner a couple of times in her flat, had her and her husband in here for drinks. I just checked—there’s good stuff in the drinks cabinet. Scotch, vodka, Aussie champagne. But—”

“But?” said Malone.

“About a week ago he suddenly changed. Passed her on the stairs, just nodded. She bailed him up eventually, she’s the sort who would, and asked him what was the matter. He was pretty short with her, but he said he would probably have to go back to China. She got the idea that didn’t appeal to him at all.”

“Did he ever have any visitors?”

“Yes, a young Chinese couple used to come here—that could have been Guo and the Cronulla girl. And once or twice a middle-aged Chinese lady—very much the lady, the woman said. From the description, I’d say it was Madame Tzu. She was here Friday night, the last time the neighbour saw Mr. Tong.”

III

The Chinese vice-consul did not appear to welcome Malone and Gail Lee. He was a tall thin young man, his mouth a hyphen between the parentheses of his hollow cheeks. He did not offer to shake hands, just stood behind his desk and said, “Yes? You are police?”

Malone wondered how welcome police were in China. “We’d like to ask some questions about some recent arrivals from your country.”

“People claiming to be political refugees?”

He knows bloody well that’s not why we’re here; State Police had nothing to do with political refugees. “No. We’re investigating murders, Mr. Chen, not politics.”

Chen relaxed almost visibly. “Sit down, sit down.” His thin narrow mouth had some difficulty in getting out the words; they came out as if he were blowing bubbles. “Oh yes, we’ve read about those. Most regrettable. One doesn’t expect that sort of thing in such a wonderful city as Sydney.”

Why not? Malone wanted to ask him.

“Do students who come in here,” said Gail, “do they have to register with the consulate?”

“Of course. They like to keep in touch. You are referring to the unfortunate student Zhang?”

“He and another student named Li Ping.”

Chen opened his narrow eyes. “She has been also murdered?”

“We don’t know,” said Malone. “She has disappeared, along with two other people, not students. Mr. Tong and Mr. Guo—are they registered with the consulate?”

“Yes.” He appeared to have a computer list in his head. Or perhaps the names were in the papers on his cluttered desk. “They have disappeared also? That is very disturbing.”

“Yes, you could say that.”

Chen unexpectedly smiled, an unexpectedly sweet smile. “We are not reluctant to co-operate, Inspector. But it is not in our character to fling the door wide open as soon as you knock.” Then somehow the small mouth widened further. “You expect us to talk in aphorisms, don’t you?”

Malone was aware that Gail, sitting beside him, was sharing Chen’s smile. “I have to tell you, Mr. Chen, I am still working on Constable Lee’s character.”

The Chinese consulate was in Woollahra, a habitat for consuls who had a yen for tree-lined streets, trendy cafés and smart restaurants; one worked better for one’s country if one could leave the visas and go out and flash a Visa. The Chinese consulate had moved here after the taking over of Hong Kong, into a small mansion where the red flag hung from a flagpole in the garden like something that had blown in from another era.

Driving back from Bondi Gail had suggested dropping in at the consulate, which was on the way back to Strawberry Hills. Normally, when working on a case, she had a cool detachment; on this one there was an involvement, a determination, that he had not remarked before. As if she had stepped into an examination she had to pass.

“Persistence,” she said now to the two men, “it’s the secret of every woman’s character.”

Chen and Malone exchanged male smiles; then Chen said, “To be serious, we are very much disturbed about the young people you have mentioned.” Though he had to be less than thirty, he spoke as if the missing student and engineers were mere children. “The Fraud Squad have already been to interview us about those extraordinary amounts in Zhang’s and Li Ping’s bank accounts.” Now that he was relaxed his words came out less explosively. “That sort of thing is a great embarrassment.”

Malone had not expected such an admission. “Can you explain how such an embarrassment was allowed to happen?”

“Mr. Deng, our consul-general, is down in Canberra—”

“Deng?” said Gail. “As in Deng Xiaoping?”

Again the sweet smile. “No relation.”

“That must be fortunate for you. No nepotism so far south. My father told me nepotism rules the roost in China.”

“Where does he come from?”

“Oh, he was born here. But my grandparents came from Hunan.”

“Whereabouts?”

“Changsha.”

The smile widened, was almost joyous. “Where I come from! How remarkable!”

Nice work, Gail, thought Malone. She had Mr. Chen completely relaxed.

“Does Mr. Deng work out of Canberra?” asked Malone.

“Oh no, he is down there at a conference at the embassy. That is why I am holding the fort.”

Malone wondered if Deng would be as expansive as Chen now appeared to be. “A conference on the murders we are investigating? On Mr. Shan in particular?”

“We now have problems, just as you did in the 1980s. Entrepreneurs—” He shook his head.

“What do you do with them?”

Chen smiled again, less sweetly this time. “We don’t let them flee to Spain or Poland. We keep an eye on them, but they are slippery customers.”

“Was Mr. Shan a slippery customer?” said Gail. “He seemed to have an awful lot of money at his call.”

Suddenly the mouth was a hyphen again. “Mr. Shan was not who he claimed to be.”

“Who was he then?”

A moment’s hesitation; but he was still relatively relaxed: “He was General Huang Piao. Ex- general, I should say.”

“Then he never worked for the Central China Department of Trade?” said Gail.

“Not as far as we know. He was retired from the army five years ago—”

“Retired?” said Malone. “Or sacked?”

Chen shrugged. “He had an honourable record. But—” Then he stopped: he had said too much. “Go on, Mr. Chen.”

“No, I think it best that I wait till Mr. Deng comes back from Canberra.”

“I’m an ordinary Australian voter, Mr. Chen—we take everything that comes out of Canberra with a grain of salt. Whether from our government or foreign embassies. Reality never bites down there.”

“You can be so free with your opinions of your government.” Chen sounded almost wistful. “Do you think Mr. Deng will not come back with the truth?”

“Oh, I’m sure he’ll come back with the truth. Whether he’ll pass it on to us—well, what d’you think?”

He was no longer smiling. “As soon as Mr. Deng returns I shall call you.”

“Before we go,” said Malone, “what do you know about a woman named Tzu Chao? Madame Tzu, as she likes to be called.”

“I think Mr. Deng should answer that.” He had retreated behind his own Great Wall. “I shall call you as soon as he returns.”

Outside in the street Gail Lee said, “Where to now?”

“I think we’d better go and see Madame Tzu before she bolts.”

IV

The Vanderbilt was one of the oldest apartment blocks in the central business district, built right after World War One. There were few Australian millionaires then, so such style and luxury had to be named after the American super-rich; the American invasion has been around much longer than the cap-on-backwards, basketballing, guys-and-gals generation know. Nobody bought off the plan; that sort of gamble came later. But as soon as the building was finished, buyers fell over each other to be amongst the chosen few. For the next seventy-five years living in the Vanderbilt retained its cachet. It was in Macquarie Street, the finest street in the city. It rose twelve storeys above the Botanical Gardens and was halfway between the Opera House and Parliament House, equidistant from harmony and discord.

The concierge was missing from his cubicle and Malone and Gail Lee walked straight through the foyer to the lifts. The timber panelling of the lift looked as if it was polished every week; the button-panel was a brass mirror.

“I like luxury,” said Gail. “This old-fashioned kind.”

“Notice how slowly the lift travels? Nobody in this building has to rush to earn a dollar.”

“I wonder how the other tenants feel about having Communists as neighbours?”

“Rich Communists—there’s a difference. Anyhow, do you think Madame Tzu is a Communist?”

The Bund apartment took in all the tenth floor. It was expensively furnished, with only the occasional Oriental piece, as if the interior decorator had been given a nudge. The big living room did have a large silk rug laid over the plain white carpet. The pictures on the walls were Oriental scenes, but none of them suggested anything that might remotely resemble Chairman Mao’s philosophy. The Great Leader had faded from the scene, at least here.

Madame Tzu hadn’t bolted. She received Malone and Gail Lee with the impeccable charm of a professional hostess. The smile, perhaps, was put on like make-up; she showed them to chairs as if seating them at ringside. If she was wary of them she gave no sign of it. She was absolutely at home in the Vanderbilt.

Malone, as soon as he had stepped into the apartment, had a feeling of familiarity. He must have betrayed it in some way because Madame Tzu said, “You are looking for something, Inspector?”

“No,” he said, suddenly remembering, “I was here in this apartment eight or nine years ago. “The woman who owned it was murdered.”

She showed no shock, gave no shudder. “How interesting. I haven’t noticed any ghost. Were you expecting to see one?”

“Homicide detectives never look for ghosts. We’d never sleep if we did.”

She offered them tea, rang a bell on a side table and an elderly woman in a blue smock appeared from a rear door. Madame Tzu said something in Chinese and the woman disappeared. Then she sat down, arranging herself in a gilt-armed chair as if granting them an audience. She was wearing a grey silk dress and a single strand of black pearls. This morning she was not wearing sunglasses and Malone, for the first time, saw the calculation in her eyes. Ghosts would never disturb her.

“So how can I help you?”

Malone plunged straight in: “Madame Tzu, on Saturday you told us that you and Mr. Shan had known each other since student days. You also told us you had once worked together in the Central China Department of Trade. Would you care to alter your story?”

There was a sudden remoteness in the dark eyes. “In what way?”

“Well, for one thing, Madame Tzu, Mr. Shan never worked in the Department of Trade. For another, I doubt if you were ever students together. He must have been older than we thought—when he was retired from the army five years ago, he was a general—General Huang Piao. You knew that, of course?”

She sat very still, saying nothing.

Malone went on, “Even in the Chinese army I don’t think they have generals who are barely middle-aged.”

Her smile was white lacquer. “You are guessing at my age again.”

She’s playing for time. “We’re guessing at a lot of things.”

They were interrupted by the maid bringing in a tray; Malone wondered if a kettle was kept on constant boil out in the kitchen. Tea was poured from a china pot into thin china cups: it was pale tea with a slice of lemon, take it or leave it. But the biscuits offered with it were Aussie icons: Monte Carlos.

“Do I have to answer your questions, Inspector?” Madame Tzu sipped her tea, nodded her approval at the maid, who slipped out of sight again. “Perhaps I should have a lawyer here with me? I seem to be under suspicion of some sort. You like your tea?”

“It’s fine, thanks. You can have a lawyer, if you wish, but I think you can handle our questions without any outside help.”

Madame Tzu looked at Gail. “Is he flattering me?”

“I’ve never known him to do it before,” said Gail, not looking at her boss.

Madame Tzu seemed to be searching for answers in her tea leaves; then she said, “Yes, Mr. Shan was an army general. But we did know each other as students—he came to Oxford to study History. History as the West has written it, that is.”

“He was older than you?”

“Yes, he was a colonel at the time. A mature student, I think they are called these days.”

“Did you ever work for the Department of Trade?”

“Yes, I did. So did Mr. Shan after he left the army—he was an outside consultant. I take it you think I lied to you?”

“I think you believe all truth is relative.”

Madame Tzu looked at Gail again. “You have taught him Taoism?”

“He’s a quick learner,” said Gail.

Malone said, “Madame Tzu, let’s cut out the—”

“Bullshit?” The word hung on her lips like a cold sore.

“That wasn’t the word I was going to use, but okay, it’ll do. I take it you knew the two young engineers who worked at Olympic Tower? Tong and Guo?”

“Worked? They still do, as far as I know.”

“I don’t think so. They didn’t report in this morning and we’ve been to their flats. They’re both gone.”

She took refuge in her teacup again, considered, then said, “Yes, I know them. I have no idea why they have disappeared.”

“A student named Zhang and a girl student Li Ping—did you know them?”

“No.”

But she had hesitated. “You’re sure? We asked you about Zhang on Saturday morning—you didn’t appear surprised that he had been murdered.”

“If I didn’t know him, why should I be surprised? You are a homicide detective—are you surprised by murder?”

“It’s our trade.”

“Inspector, I’m old enough to have seen a thousand murders. My country went through a terrible period . . .” She put down her cup; there was just the slightest agitation in her hand. “No, I am not surprised by murder.”

“Not Mr. Shan’s?” said Gail.

The older woman looked at her. “You are one of the lucky ones. You have our heritage but none of our tragedy. Don’t start judging what you’ve never experienced.”

“Were you a Red Guard?”

“No, I was not!” All the composure was gone; she was consumed with hatred, anger that made her ugly. But not at us, thought Malone: “Those idiot fanatics murdered my parents and my brother!”

Thirty years on was a little too late to offer sympathy; both detectives remained silent. Madame Tzu faced away from them for a long moment; then she slowly turned back. Her face was expressionless; it was as if nothing had happened. “Do you have any more questions?”

“Not at the moment,” said Malone, rising. He was no fisherman, but he had learned the value of a long line. “But I’m sure there’ll be more questions. Thank you for the tea.”

At the door he turned back. “Do you have any contact with the media, Madame?”

“None at all. I’ve never found them necessary.”

Oh, if only we could have that attitude. “Keep it that way. As a favour.”

“Tell me when you’re coming next time,” she said, “and we’ll do it with a little more ceremony.”

“That’ll be nice,” he said. “Why did you visit Mr. Tong on Friday night?”

He had jerked on the line: she stiffened. “I thought you said Tong had disappeared?”

“He has. But someone saw you at the door of his flat on Friday night. They described you to a T, Madame Tzu.” A little exaggeration never got in the way when questioning. “Was he still alive then?”

Her mouth was tight, she looked as if she would refuse to answer; then: “Yes, he was alive. He gave me no hint that he was going to—to disappear. We talked about how Olympic Tower was coming along, then I left. I wasn’t there more than half an hour.”

She’s too glib. “Was anyone else there? Mr. Guo?”

“No. I got there at eighty-thirty and left at nine.” Precisely: he waited for her to show a timesheet.

“Well, thank you. We had to ask.”

“Of course. You wouldn’t be doing your job if you didn’t. I hope you find Tong and Guo.”

Malone opened the door, ushered Gail out ahead of him. “Oh, we’ll find them. We always do. Dead or alive.”

She didn’t blink, showed no expression at all; just said, “You mentioned that the woman who owned this apartment was murdered. By her husband or a lover?”

“No, by a business partner.”

V

“Something is rotten in the State of Denmark.”

When Lisa got pompous, which was rarely, Malone knew they were in for serious discussion. Monday night, now that television was in the non-ratings seasons, was a poor night for entertainment. Maureen had gone out to a girl friend’s, Tom was in his room weaving strings on the Internet, and Claire and her parents were in the living room, each with a book.

Malone put down his book, a paperback by Carl Hiassen. He rarely read crime novels, most of which seemed to him to be written by the Muscle Beach school of writing; but Hiassen and Elmore Leonard made him laugh at the crims they invented. Lately he had found that, more and more, he was looking for humour in his reading. He had recently discovered Gwyn Thomas, a dead dyspeptic Welsh humorist, who, as far as he could gather, no one else in Australia had read. Thomas’ sour humour had begun to appeal to him.

Lisa had closed her own book, a history of the Olympic Games. It was her homework, but she had confessed it was boring her; when she had applied for the job at Town Hall no one had thought to ask her if she was interested in sport. Claire closed her book, a David Malouf paperback. None of them would have remarked it, but three books open in the same room at the same time was an oasis in a gradually growing desert.

“I’m talking about the Town Hall,” said Lisa, “I was at a meeting today. Something came up about Olympic Tower and suddenly I and the secretary, Rosalie, were asked to leave.”

Malone knew about exclusion from committees; corrupt cops, especially senior ones, had never wanted an honest one in attendance. “Go on.”

“Raymond Brode was going to be asked some questions that outsiders, like Rosalie and me, weren’t supposed to hear. There was a hint there might have been a handout, a bribe. There are four more floors due on Olympic Tower that none of the works and planning committees knew about.”

“What would happen,” said Malone, “when the tower is finished and someone looks up and starts counting?”

“That would depend, according to Rosalie, who seems to know about these things. Probably nothing, unless some architects or builders who missed out on the job decided to get nasty and ask questions.”

“How did they find out?” asked Claire.

“Through me. I put in a report that gave the game away.” Lisa explained what had happened.

“You should follow it up,” said Claire, already half a lawyer.

“No,” said Malone. “Let it lie. This Olympic Tower business looks dirty.”

“But how can they get away with it? What if the building is unsafe with the extra floors on it? I mean, surely someone can spill the beans?”

“Self-protection,” said Malone with the weariness of long experience. “It’s the skin on every committee. If someone does add up the new level and compares it with the original plans and then asks questions, the committee will say the extra floors were approved. They are not going to admit they were asleep or hadn’t been near the site since the plans were first approved. It’s called survival of the slickest.”

“Oh my God, how can you be so cynical?”

“You’ll learn, when you become a lawyer.”

“Rosalie explained it all,” said Lisa. “From now till the Olympics we’re the squeaky clean city. No scandal, nothing.”

She was not naïve. She knew that corruption was part of the body politic, that in most of the world it was the aspirin that kept the circulation going. She had been isolated in a happy marriage, where there was only the sweet corruption of love. It was not enough just to read about venality, as one did almost every day. In newsprint one did not get the smell.

“You still haven’t said whether it will make the building unsafe.” Claire had a lawyer’s persistence: in another year or two, thought Malone, she’s going to be a real pain in the arse.

“I don’t know,” said Lisa. “I could ask one of the council engineers—”

“Stay out of it.” Malone was adamant, “I told you, this could be a really dirty business.”

“Explain yourself,” said the trainee lawyer.

“Pull your head in,” said her father. “I’m not in court. Just accept what I’m saying—it’s going to get dirty. There have been four murders so far, three people are missing—” He saw the shine in Claire’s eyes, a sort of madness that he had seen grip young legal eagles; eventually, as cynicism set in, the infection would subside. “Calm down. You’ve got a long way to go before you’re a Crown prosecutor.”

“Well, someone should find out if the building’s going to be safe. Sydney won’t be squeaky clean if a five-star hotel collapses and kills a load of tourists.”

“I’ll talk to someone. In the meantime, don’t you talk to any of your mates at law school—”

“As if I would—”

“As if you wouldn’t. Women were the first gossips, lawyers were the second—”

Both women threw their books at him. The Olympic Games history, a hardback, hurt the most.