11

I

INDIA HAD exploded its nuclear devices and Pakistan had replied with six of its own; it was like a children’s game except that the world was in danger. Five thousand Afghan villagers died in an earthquake and 101 middle-class and wealthy Germans died in a train wreck; in Sydney churches prayers were said for the latter; God couldn’t be asked to work overtime, not on a holiday weekend. A Federal election was in the air, like pollution; politicians were coughing abuse at each other and election promises at the voters. Beyond the law courts the world spun on its axis, spinning off earthquakes, tornadoes, famine. Murder was a page 4 or 5 item.

The Vanheusen arraignment was in a Downing Centre court before a magistrate, a sour-looking man whose heart might have been a lemon. He was notorious for handing down severe and lengthy sentences, which the Appeals Court, a softer-hearted bunch, invariably revoked. But the voters were starting to talk in flattering terms of the new Judge Jeffreys. That seventeenth-century hanging justice would have been welcomed back with open arms and a choice of nooses by a growing section of the voters. Things did not look good for Evangelina Vanheusen.

The courtroom was crowded, though this was not a trial. The media, from newspapers, television and radio, were out in force; there was no jury, so they were accommodated in the jury-box, which suited their image of themselves. The public section was also crowded; everyone wore black, not in mourning but because current fashion dictated it. All the major magazines were there, indignant at being excluded from the more comfortable seats in the jury-box. Lina’s parents and a brother and sister were there. Malone, sitting in the police-box, was surprised when Sheryl Dallen pointed them out to him; he had somehow never imagined Lina as having family. Damien Vanheusen was also there and Lady Derry, sitting together. Missing were Mrs. Certain and Justin Belgrave.

When the magistrate entered the court Sheryl stood up and left. She and Chris Gallup were to deliver the evidence, Malone having nominated her, and she would remain outside till called. Malone was saving himself, though he did not tell himself that, for the Glaze trial. His mind was slowing, as his bowling arm once had; or so he thought. He no longer cared about Lina Vanheusen, but did care about Ron Glaze.

Pierpont was on his feet presenting the Crown case. He looked towards Lina in the dock; she was dressed in a simple black dress with long sleeves that covered her wrists. She was thinner than ever, looked uninterested in where she was or what was going on. Malone had noticed that when she came into the dock she had looked towards her family, but had neither smiled nor even nodded. She was alone, resigned.

“We are not prepared to accept the defence’s plea—” said Pierpont.

“What plea is that, Mr. Marble?” asked the magistrate.

Henry Marble, in his university days, had been a rugby forward He had twisted testicles, chewed ears, gouged eyes; he knew the boundaries of sanity that sport allowed. He rose now, taking his time. He was thick-set, looking thicker still in his robe; he had a pugnacious face, like a bunch of knuckles; his wig rested on his mop of black hair like an abandoned nest. He was an actor and today he was going to pull out all the stops. Malone had seen it all before and knew how good Marble could be. Ham is a delectable dish, even if some religions and drama critics frown on it.

“Your worship, my client has been under great strain for months past. Prior, much prior—” he made it sound like fifty years ago—“to the event that has brought us here today . . . We shall produce medical evidence—”

“As to what, Mr. Marble?” The magistrate’s expression seemed to be getting sourer.

“Her state of mind prior to the tragedy—”

“Mr. Marble—” the magistrate was an impatient man. Given a free hand he could have cleared the crowded court lists in a month—“how does your client plead?”

Marble didn’t like being hurried. He took his time again, looking at the papers on the table in front of him as if he had not seen them before. At five thousand dollars a day, the minutes didn’t count for much. At last he looked up at the bench. “Not guilty, your worship.”

Biddle, the magistrate, looked down at Pierpont. “You contest that, Mr. Crown?”

“Yes, your worship. There has been no submission as to fitness to be tried. I’m not sure whether my learned friend is asking, if the accused goes to trial, that she should be considered as mentally ill at the time of the alleged crime.”

Biddle looked at Marble. “Is that what you are asking, Mr. Marble?”

“The Crown has stolen my thunder—”

“I haven’t heard any loud clap.”

All the lawyers and court officials laughed politely; like a good audience they knew who the star was. Magistrates might only be supporting players to judges, but while in the spotlight they ran the show.

“It was just beyond the horizon of the court, your worship.” He was Marble by name and marble by nature: everything bounced off him like tennis balls.

Another giggle from the lawyers and the officials. They live in their own little world, thought Malone with a cop’s cynical eye. But he noticed that Pierpont had neither laughed nor giggled.

Marble went on: “My learned friend from the Crown is correct when he says there was no submission as to fitness to be tried. However—” again the long pause. However, practised by lawyers, is a word that trails a pause like a comet’s train—“there is a question as to the fitness of my client’s mind at the time of the alleged offence.”

The magistrate looked down at Pierpont. “Do you have any objection, Mr. Crown?”

“No, your worship,” said Pierpont and looked and sounded weary.

Malone left the police-box; argument might go on for another half-hour. Out in the main lobby, threading his way through the throng waiting to be called to the other courts on this level, he suddenly found himself in front of Sharon Garibaldi. Or rather, she was in front of him.

“I saw you in the police-box, Inspector. You landed her at last.”

“Are we talking fish? That’s not the way I work, Sharon.”

She was not ungracious; she had a lot to learn but she was willing. “Sorry. But it’s been a dirty case—” He made no comment, showed no expression, and she went on: “Are you still on the Glaze case?”

“We’re always on a case till it comes to trial.”

People milled around them, but no one was listening to them. Everyone here had his own case: defendants, lawyers, witnesses, litigants. The law, and the breaking of it, is a current that never stops.

“Will you be calling Mrs. Colnby as a witness?”

Careful herey Malone. She’s still hoping to get to Charlene. “The police don’t call anyone, Sharon. You know that. You’d better ask the Crown Prosecutor.” And knew at once he had said the wrong thing.

“I’ll do that. Who’s it going to be?”

“I haven’t a clue.”

She smiled: it looked genuine rather than a TV baring of the perfectly capped teeth. “Why do policemen always say, I haven’t a clue?”

“I haven’t a clue,” he said and gave her a genuine smile and left.

That afternoon he rang Pierpont. Sheryl Dallen had already come back to Homicide and reported to him, but he wanted an excuse to talk to Pierpont. “How’d it go?”

“I noticed you left early.”

“You didn’t need me, Tim.”

“No. They’re going to plead diminished responsibility at the time of the crime. They’re calling in the psychiatrists.”

“How do you rate her chances?”

“Fifty-fifty.” He sounded tired. “I’m surprised at myself, but I’m beginning to feel sorry for her.”

“You’re probably surprised at yourself for other reasons, too.” He waited for an answer to that, trying his own use of a pause; but Pierpont didn’t bite. He went on: “A reporter from Channel 15, Sharon Garibaldi, will be looking to talk to you about Mrs. Colnby at the Glaze trial. I’d be careful of her, Tim.”

“I never talk to reporters, never ever. Are you feeling sorry for me, Scobie?”

“Actually, I am. For myself, too.”

II

Ronald Glaze went to trial on Monday, August 3.

“Are you going to court today?” Lisa asked.

“Not today. I’m not wanted till tomorrow—most of today will be spent challenging the jury and swearing them in. Thrump will try to choose as few women as he can and Pierpont—” he shrugged. “I’ve given up on him. I dunno what he’s going to do.”

“Why doesn’t he retire himself from the case? Get the ‘flu or something, there’s enough of it around. If he murdered Mrs. Glaze, he can’t really want the husband to go to gaol.”

They were in the Fairlane on their way to Town Hall. Lisa had already become only part-time owner of the Laser; Claire had it this morning. The traffic was as thick as ever, drivers wore road rage like make-up. Malone kept to the middle lane, which was where he hoped to stay in the Glaze case.

“If he’s not in court, he can’t control the way things go.”

“You think that’s what he’s got in mind—to control everything?”

“I don’t know.” He used a hundred-metre pause, pulled up at the traffic red: “I should’ve gone to Dave Winkler, the DPP, at the start, let him work it out.”

She thought about that till Malone pulled the car into the side entrance of Town Hall. She undid her seat belt, leaned across and kissed him. “You know that would never have worked. Nobody in the whole system checks evidence like the DPP.”

“Where did you learn so much about evidence?”

“I’m married to a cop.” She got out of the car, leaned in again and nodded over her shoulder at her work-place. “You should come in here for a week or two. We take no notice of evidence. If you scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours. It’s the bottom line.”

“Get outa here,” he said with love.

He drove back through the city to Strawberry Hills, where there are no hills and no strawberries have ever grown. It was an odd address for Homicide and first-time crims had often been misled when invited to Strawberry Hills. It was a joke the detectives loved to play.

As he did at the beginning of every week he checked on Lina Vanheusen. She was still being held in Mulawa on remand while psychiatrists searched for her state of mind on the night of Lucybelle’s murder. Lina, it was reported, was doing nothing to help them or herself. She had closed her mind and herself, she was in retreat and no one, it seemed, could prise open the door. Malone was neither sorry nor angry to hear it. He had stepped out of Lina’s life, had one foot in the door of another’s. For the next week or two he would be walking on a floor as brittle as gelatine.

Tuesday he went up to Darlinghurst, to Court 7 in the Criminal Courts complex. It was a small court, the media and the public gallery regulars had better offerings in other courts; the Glaze case was four and a half years old, it would get maybe six column-inches on an inside page and nothing on tonight’s TV news. If they only knew, thought Malone as he waited outside to be called . . .

The judge was not a character, as some tried to be. Cayley J. was a mild-mannered man, plump-faced and bespectacled under his wig; he looked like an aunt in a nineteenth-century cartoon. He wielded a loose rein and appreciated the wit of barristers because he had little of his own; but, and nobody knew how, his court was always run to his timing and his temperament. There would be no fireworks.

Malone took his place in the witness-box, took the oath and settled himself in his chair as Pierpont rose to question him. Malone had been in this situation more times than he bothered to count, but he never found it routine. The man, or woman, in the dock saw to that. Homicide, more than any other crime, produces a greater variety of characters.

“You took charge of this case—” Pierpont began. “Why?”

What sort of question is that? “Homicide, my section, was called in by the local detectives—they were under-staffed and at the time could not have done the investigation justice.”

Pierpont nodded. “And you pursued the case over the next four years till you finally apprehended the accused living under an assumed name at—” he looked at his papers, though Malone guessed he was word-perfect in every detail—“at Collamundra?”

“Yes.”

“Admirable work, Inspector.”

“Thank you.” What’s the bugger getting at?

“Now could you run through the details that started you in pursuit of the accused?”

Malone took out the notes he had made from his old notebook of four and more years ago. “Fingerprints, to begin with . . .”

Once or twice he lifted his eyes from the notes and looked across the court at Ron Glaze. The latter sat leaning forward in the dock; one could see the tension in him. He was tanned and healthy, probably fitter than he had been in twenty years. He looked ready for the biggest sale of his life, himself.

“All solid evidence,” said Pierpont, “but the bird had flown?”

“May we dispense with the avian references, Mr. Crown?” said the judge, surprising everyone with his attempt at wit, so much so that everyone forgot to laugh. He looked disappointed.

“Of course, your honour . . . When you finally caught up with the accused, Inspector, what happened?”

Malone described the day at Collamundra and the interview with—“He was calling himself Roger Gibson. Then—”

“Then?”

“He admitted he was Ronald Glaze.”

“He also made another admission, didn’t he?”

“Objection.” Billy Thrump came up out of his chair at the Bar table like a bird that had not flown in quite a while; his gown flew out at the back and his wig wobbled. “My learned friend is leading the witness—”

“I withdraw the question,” said Pierpont. “Inspector, did the accused say anything to you at the interview in Collamundra?”

“Objection!”

Judge Cayley looked down over his spectacles, looking more than ever like a period maiden aunt. “Mr. Thrump, it is going to be a long day. I’ll allow the Crown to ask the question.”

“Inspector, could you tell us what was said by the accused?”

Malone knew what Pierpont was referring to: “He said that when he came back to his house early that morning he was going to ask his wife for a reconciliation. If she refused, he was going to kill her, then kill himself.”

“Did you believe him?”

What sort of question is that? Malone waited for another objection from Thrump, but the defence counsel was leaning forward, head cocked as if looking for a second meaning behind the question. Malone hedged: “At that point in an investigation I’m still gathering evidence.”

It was an evasive answer. Malone flicked a glance sideways at the jury-box. There were eight men and four women there; the men didn’t move but two of the women scribbled a note on their pads. Then he looked across at Glaze, who stared at him a moment, then nodded. He’s beginning to realize I’m no longer the enemy.

Pierpont was the enemy, in a double role. He wondered how much Glaze believed Charlene Colnby’s suspicion and when he would burst out with his own accusation. Glaze was watching Pierpont closely, but so far he had masked his feelings.

“That is all for the moment, your honour,” said Pierpont unexpectedly and sat down.

Thrump was on his feet at once; pauses weren’t in his vocabulary. “The accused’s wife was already dead when he came to the house at—he thinks it was between two and three o’clock in the morning. Is that correct, Inspector?”

“That was what he claimed.”

“The body was discovered next morning at eight fifteen when one of Mrs. Glaze’s assistants called at her house—I understand Mrs. Glaze always gave her a lift to work—and when the medical examiner arrived at nine o’clock, his guess was that Mrs. Glaze had been dead approximately eight or nine hours.”

“That’s all it would be—a guess. As I understand it, the timing of a death can never be exact.”

Thrump had seen his mistake too late; he hurried on, covering Malone’s last words: “The estimate would not be two hours out. At midnight my client was seen in the Penrith mall by three separate witnesses. At two o’clock a neighbour saw my client arrive at his home.” He looked at the jury. The two women note-takers made another note. They’re on Glaze’s side, Malone thought, and felt a measure of relief. So far the other jury members, especially the men, looked either bored or as if they could have been listening to weather reports. Thrump looked at his own notes: “Inspector, the fingerprints. The evidence states that my client’s prints were on the fridge in the kitchen and on a Coca-Cola bottle. But in the bedroom, the scene of the crime, there were no prints at all—the room had been wiped clean. Same with the deceased’s Volvo car—not a print anywhere in the front section of the car. Wiped clean.” He allowed himself a joke at his client’s expense: “Now we know my client was a car sales representative, but don’t you think that was taking his trade to unusual lengths?”

Malone didn’t laugh; nor did Glaze. “Yes, we thought so.”

“All that wiping clean—what might it have suggested to you, Inspector? Perhaps the murderer knew what police would look for? Someone with a previous record, who knew the way police worked?”

We’re getting into dangerous territory here. Malone looked for Charlene Colnby, was relieved she wasn’t in court. “No, that possibility didn’t suggest itself to us.”

“But Mrs. Glaze could have had another visitor that night?”

Malone avoided looking at Pierpont, but was aware of the latter looking at him. “It’s possible, yes.”

“But right from the start of the investigation you never considered that other possibility?”

“No.”

Thrump looked triumphantly at the jury; he was not one to hide his triumphs, no matter how small. The reaction, though dim and fleeting, was enough for Thrump to retire for the moment: “That will be all, Inspector.”

“Mr. Crown?” The judge looked down at Pierpont.

“No further questions, your honour.”

Malone left the witness box and moved across to the police box. The medical examiner and the fingerprints expert had preceded Malone; he was followed by Andy Graham and Wally Mungle. Thrump asked no questions of Graham but he wanted to question Mungle.

“Detective Constable, you knew of my client all the time he was in Collamundra—what sort of citizen was he?” He did allow himself a pause this time: “From a policeman’s point of view?”

“We had no complaints,” said Wally Mungle.

“No complaints? That was the extent of your impression of him? A member of Rotary, on the committee of the local golf club, a leading businessman in the town and all you can say about him was that you had no complaints?”

Mungle shifted uncomfortably. Don’t start playing the poor Abo down from the bush, thought Malone, watching him closely. Thrump’s tone had been superior when he asked the question, but that was endemic with lawyers in court. It had nothing to do with race superiority, it was a virus of education and profession.

“You did ask from a policeman’s point of view,” said Mungle at last.

Malone almost gave him a fist of approval. Good on you, son.

“So I did—” Thrump retreated, without moving. “Well, let’s change the point of view. As a member of the Collamundra community, how did you see my client?”

You don’t know Collamundra, Malone thought. He’s not a full member.

But Mungle was at ease now; he had come through the barbed wire. “He was okay.”

“That all? Just okay.”

“We’re more laconic in the bush. What d’you want me to say? He was fantastic?”

Watch it, Wally.

Judge Cayley said quietly, almost gently, “No, Constable, we don’t want you to exaggerate, though that’s the modern fashion. Here in the city,” he added and smiled at Mungle.

The latter suddenly seemed to realize he had a friend in court He smiled back at the judge, then turned back to Thrump. “Mr. Glaze was what I suppose you’d call a pillar of the community.”

Thrump nodded approvingly. “He never showed any violence towards anyone?”

“No.”

“You had the opportunity to observe him over the extended period he was in Collamundra. Would you have taken him for a violent man, one capable of the crime he’s been accused of?”

“No-o.”

Hul-lo, thought Malone. Wally, too, now has his doubts.

“Thank you, Detective Constable. That will be all.”

At the midday adjournment Malone went out to the front of the courthouse. A small group of women stood to one side of the path, almost like a prayer group. Malone recognized Glaze’s mother and sister and Charlene Colnby; it took him a moment or two longer to recognize Roma Gibson. The mane of golden hair had been cut short; she looked thinner, less lusty-figured. She turned her head and stared at him, but didn’t smile or nod. For her he was still the enemy.

Then Charlene Colnby broke away from the group and came towards him. She had a quick walk, like a hen on its way to be fed; but he would feed her nothing. Not out here in the open.

“I haven’t been in court, I’m being called as a witness.”

“Who by? The defence?”

She shook her head. She was wearing a brown woollen coat and a matching cap against the coldness of the day; she looked even smaller than when he had last seen her. “No, that friend of yours.”

“Charlene—” He took her arm and led her aside, away from those still coming out of the courtroom. The other three women watched them, a prayer group putting a hex on him. He saw Sharon Garibaldi, but there was no sign of a television camera; she looked incomplete, he thought, like his mother without her handbag.

“Charlene, he’s not my friend. He’s the Crown Prosecutor. When you get into the box, that’s all you have to remember.”

“Will you be going back into the box?” She made it sound like a coffin.

“No, I’m not expecting to be called again.”

“How’s it going for Ron? His mum and his sister and that Mrs. Gibson, they’re not happy.”

“It’s going all right for him. It’s a long way from over.”

She looked at him with a barmaid’s eye, than which there is nothing shrewder. “You know something, don’t you?”

“No, Charlene, I don’t. I’ve got my fingers crossed, that’s all.”

“No, you know Ron didn’t murder Norma.”

“No, all I know is I don’t know who did.”

“You’re a liar, Mr. Malone. But in a good cause. We’re gunna get Ron off.”

Then Wally Mungle came out and Malone was glad to escape. He took Wally to lunch at a local cafe. “What sort of food do you like?”

“You mean do I like bush tucker? Grilled wombat, something like that?”

“Pull your head in, Wally, or I’ll pull rank. Just because one or two of the questions you got were city slicker ones . . .” He relaxed. “Come on, Wally. Around this part of town you can have everything from Mexican to Yugoslav, but no steak and eggs or saveloys.”

“I like Thai. There’s one opened up in Collamundra, the locals are rushing it. Even the Kooris.” He grinned and everything was all right between them.

The café was crowded, but no one from the court was present. The talk over their meal was roundabout and each of them seemed to know it. Mungle accepted that there was no rank at their table. He was relaxed, though here in the main stem of the gay belt he seemed to be having trouble from raising his eyebrows at some of those around him. Out in Collamundra men didn’t hold hands across the table, unless in an arm-wrestle. It even occurred to Malone that they were possibly the only two straights in the café, but it didn’t worry him. Two or three years ago it might have made him uncomfortable.

“Relax, Wally. This isn’t Collamundra. How’re things out there? I saw Mrs. Gibson outside the court.”

“My wife says that women’s talk is that she’ll take Ron back if he’s acquitted.”

“What about Amanda Hardstaff?”

“She’s back at Noongulli since the rains came. Roma Gibson has just stopped supplying her with liquidambars or whatever it was she used to buy from Ron.”

Malone sipped his light beer, said casually, “Do you think he’ll be coming back to Collamundra?”

Wally toyed with his food, took his time: he, too, was learning the uses of pauses. “Do you mean do I think he didn’t do it? The murder?”

“Yes, I think that’s what I mean.”

There was another long pause; then: “I don’t think he did it, even if you can’t find another suspect.”

“How will you feel if he does go down?”

“Lousy. If I hadn’t been such a bloody eager beaver and called you—”

“Wally—” Malone put down his beer—“Wally, we all make mistakes. There isn’t a cop with ten years’ experience who hasn’t made one major mistake. We’re not bloody geniuses or miracle workers.”

“Do you think you’ve made a mistake this time?”

Malone took his own pause while he made sure he did not give too much away: “Yes, I do.”

Wally Mungle considered that, then nodded understandingly. “We may be lucky—and Ron, too. The Crown guy seems half-hearted about it.”

Oh, you’re wasted out at Collamundra, Wally. But why would a bush cop be any less shrewd than a city one? Especially this one “Well, he’s Ron’s only hope. You want dessert?”

Wally Mungle left to catch a train back to Collamundra; police expenses as a witness did not run to plane fare. He would go home, sitting up all the way in second class; he had come down overnight. His visit to the city had been to spend two hours in a courtroom and an hour in a gay café. It wouldn’t be much to talk about when he got back to Collamundra, not in the culture of the town’s police station.

Malone went back to the court. Ron Glaze came back into the dock, smiled and gave a small wave to his mother and sister and Roma Gibson. He looked cheerful if not confident, as if he were waving to customers looking for a new car, ones who weren’t sure if they had enough money to buy what they wanted.

Charlene Colnby was called as a witness in mid-afternoon. She was wearing her big coat, but had taken off the matching cap. Her hair, newly blonded, was worn in a style that Malone hadn’t seen on her before. This was an occasion for her: for her or Ron? Malone wondered. As she sat down in the box she peered short-sightedly around her, then opened her handbag and put on her glasses. She wasn’t nervous, she was taking her time: all the men could wait. She had dealt with drunks, she could deal with lawyers.

Judge Cayley, smiling slightly, looked down at her. “Ready, Mrs. Colnby?”

“Yes, your honour.” Then she looked at Pierpont as if to say, I’m ready for you, too.

“You were on duty at the Golden West on the night of the murder of Mrs. Glaze? You work behind the bar there?”

“Yes, I’m the senior barmaid.” As if drawing a class distinction.

Pierpont caught it and smiled. “I’m sure you got that position on experience. And that experience would have made you very observant, am I correct in saying that?”

“I don’t miss much.” Staring straight at him as if there was no one else in the court.

Pierpont stared back. “Tell us what you observed of Mr. and Mrs. Glaze that evening.”

Charlene Colnby adjusted her glasses, took her time: another user of pauses. “Mrs. Glaze was obviously unhappy—”

“Unhappy? How could you tell that? Did she confide in you?”

Another pause, lips tight: “Women can tell when another woman is unhappy. Men can’t.”

Pierpont looked at the judge, but the latter only nodded, gave another small smile. “The witness is probably right, Mr. Crown. But don’t let’s get into gender warfare.”

Cayley J. was excelling himself. The lawyers sat up, polishing their giggles.

“Proceed, Mrs. Colnby,” said Pierpont.

“She had several drinks. Over the month or two before that night, she’d come to the club two or three nights a week, never stay long—”

“Would she join other members? Was her husband there those nights?”

“No, not that I remember. They had broken up and were keeping the break-up to themselves.”

“Who told you that?”

“Ron—Mr. Glaze.” There was a single giggle from the Bar table, but Charlene Colnby cut it short with a glare. “I never talked much with Norma—Mrs. Glaze. We didn’t get on—I dunno why—”

Of course you do, thought Malone. You’d had it off with Ron and she knew about it.

“She was drinking more than she used to before the break-up. One night we had to call a cab to take her home. She came in the next day and apologized. We didn’t get on, but she was polite and she paid her debts—better than some men.” The men in court stared back at her, undented. “She give me the money for the cab fare.”

“On the night of the murder, did you see the accused arrive?”

“Yes, I did. He said hullo to some people, to me too, then he went and sat down with his wife. But you could see there wasn’t much going on between them—”

Malone, after many years and long experience, was still impressed by the memories of some witnesses. Or the manufactured memory . . .

“They weren’t arguing, but—well, you know—”

“I’m sure we all do, Mrs. Colnby, but tell us.”

“Well, it was—chilly between them. Then he got up and walked out, not looking at anyone—”

Pierpont looked at the paper in his hand. “In your statement to Inspector Malone next morning you said the accused looked cold-blooded when he walked out. That’s the word you used—cold-blooded?”

“I suppose so. I don’t remember everything I said that morning—” the convenient memory at work—“I was still in shock at what had happened.”

“You did say it, Mrs. Colnby. He looked cold-blooded—” Pierpont read from his paper; then he looked up: “And on the strength of the way you thought he looked, you instantly jumped to the conclusion that he had murdered his wife?”

Hold on, that’s the sort of question the defence should ask. Malone sat up, looked up at the judge. Cayley J. leaned forward as if to question Pierpont, changed his mind and sat back. Malone glanced at the Bar table: everyone there was very still. Miriam Zigler was frowning, but not looking at Pierpont. In the jury-box one of the women was scribbling on her note-pad.

Charlene Colnby had been absorbing the question in her own way; she straightened her glasses again, ran her lips up and down over her teeth. Then she said slowly, as if she wanted every word perfectly understood: “No, I didn’t. I never for a moment believed he had killed her.”

Pierpont looked again at the paper in his hand, chewed his lip, then nodded. “Thank you, Mrs. Colnby,” he said and sat down.

Thrump this time took longer to rise; he had been caught off-guard. At last he was on his feet, gathering his robe round him like a fusspot matron from a BBC period drama. He was equally theatrical: “Splendid, Mrs. Colnby! An unbiased view—” He glanced towards the jury, most of whom took no notice of him. This was their third day of duty, they had become inured to theatrics from the Bar table. They all had their eyes on Charlene Colnby who, for the moment at least, was the star. “You have known my client for how many years?”

“Up till now, including the time he was missing?”

“Up till now.”

“Nine or ten years, maybe longer. Ever since he joined the club.”

“And have you ever known him to show any violence towards anyone?”

Charlene shook her head. “Never.”

“Did you ever hear his wife mention any violence towards her?”

“Never.”

Malone had remarked it before: women can say never with more emphasis, with more honest effect, than men. But why would Norma Glaze, who had never been close to Charlene, have confided such a personal matter? He looked towards the Bar to see if Pierpont had made a note, but the prosecutor was just sitting back in his chair, seemingly uninterested. Then Malone let the suspicion that had been rustling in his mind turn into conviction. Pierpont was trying to lose the case.

When Thrump was finished with Charlene, the prosecutor did not rise to cross-examine further. Malone saw Miriam Zigler, at the table, lean towards him and say something, but Pierpont just shook his head.

Two more witnesses were called, but the case was over; the feeling in the court was palpable. The judge left the bench, the jury filed out and the courtroom slowly emptied. Malone sat on in the police box, staring across at Pierpont, who was slowly gathering up his papers, nodding as if not hearing a word of the many Miriam Zigler was spitting at him.

Her voice rose for a moment: “For Crissakes, Tim, what’s the matter with you?”

Pierpont looked across the court at Malone. The two men’s gaze was like a handshake; Malone recognized it as such. Then Pierpont turned abruptly and went out of the court, walking quickly, snatching off his wig as if he might throw it away. Miriam Zigler looked after him, picked up her own papers, then waited for Malone as the latter stood up slowly and came out of the police box.

“We’ve lost it, you know. Tim’s let it go down the gurgler.”

All he could say was, “You win some, you lose some.”

III

He did not go to the court next morning. At eleven thirty Andy Graham, whom he had sent, phoned him. “The jury’s just come back. Not guilty.”

Malone put down the phone, beckoned to Clements through the glass wall of his office. The big man came in, stood in the doorway. “The jury’s back in court?”

“Not guilty. Our problem’s over.”

Clements heaved a sigh of relief, dropped down on the couch. “So what do you do with Pierpont? Let up on him?”

“We’ve got Ron Glaze off.”

“Don’t dodge the issue, mate. Ron Glaze’s wife is still dead.”

Malone threw up his hands in exasperation. “What’ s the matter with you? A week ago you were playing devil’s advocate, asking me how much evidence I had, what jury would listen to me. I think this devil’s advocate bit has gone to your head.”

“I’m only asking the question you’ll be asking yourself in bed tonight. Or that Lisa will be asking you.”

Men will tell you that women are unpredictable; but not always. That night in bed Lisa asked the question Clements had said she would: “Are you going to let up on Tim Pierpont?”

“Don’t ask.”

She dug him in the ribs. “Don’t play smarty with me. What are you going to do?”

He rolled over on his back, stared up at the dark ceiling. “I don’t know.”

“I’ve been thinking since you told us about today’s verdict.” The family had accepted the verdict without much comment; perhaps they had noticed his quiet mood. “Mrs. Glaze has been dead—what?—four and a half years. I know crimes should be paid for. But what about Ginny Pierpont and his little girl and the baby when it comes?”

“Do you think I haven’t been thinking about that?”

Then he held her close to him. Wondered if in another bed Tim Pierpont was holding his wife just as closely.

Next morning he sat in his office and thought about Pierpont. Should he call him or not? What was there to say—Congratulations! Would Pierpont respond gracefully or tell him to get stuffed?

At last, because it was not in his nature to leave strings untied, he picked up the phone and called the DPP offices. Miriam Zigler came on to Pierpont’s phone. “He’s not in this morning, Scobie. He went home yesterday right after the verdict was brought in. I don’t know what was the matter with him during the trial—he wasn’t with it. What did you think of the verdict?”

He hesitated. “It was always going to be fifty-fifty.”

“I was more optimistic than that. We stuffed it.” It was her turn to hesitate: “I’m worried about Tim. I’ll tell him you called.” She sounded sour, let down, and he couldn’t blame her.

He put down the phone, reached for the L-Z phone book and got Pierpont’s home number. Even then he sat for another five minutes wary of the disquiet he felt. Then he rang the Turramurra number.

Ginny Pierpont answered. “No, Tim’s not here, Inspector—or do I call you Scobie?”

“Scobie will do. How is he? His office said he wasn’t well.”

There was silence for a while; then: “I’m worried, Scobie. He hasn’t been himself these past few weeks. I’ve been trying to tell him to take time off. He’s taken the Discovery and gone up to the Mountains to have another look at that development. He said he wanted to sit there and think. He loves the view from there.”

“Does he have a mobile?”

“Yes, he does. But he’s forgotten it—he’s left it here beside the phone.”

He didn’t want to worry her: “Righto, I’ll call him tomorrow. You okay?”

“Just some morning sickness. Give my regards to Mrs. Malone. Lisa.”

Malone put down the phone, let the disquiet bubble up in him. Then he got up, took his hat and jacket and went out to Clements.

“I’m going up to Springwood. But keep it to yourself.”

“I’ll ride down in the lift with you.”

Out in the car park Clements said, “What are you expecting him to do?”

“I dunno. Maybe he’s just gone up there to think things out. Or—”

“Or to top himself? Don’t use the siren or the red light getting there, mate. Don’t kill yourself for him. Ring me when you get there and find him.”

IV

He sat on the rock and looked out at the distant city. There had been overnight rain and the winter’s day was as clear as French glass; he could have seen forever but for the tears in his eyes. He held his hands out in front of him and looked at them, the damaged one and the one that had done the damage. He tried to remember what had possessed him that terrible night four and a half years ago, but couldn’t. He had been sitting here an hour, going through the dusty drawers of his mind, but it had been like sorting shredded papers.

He dropped his hands, automatically put the withered hand back in the pocket of his jacket. He was wearing his oldest jacket and a pair of faded jeans: he would die neither in style not in fashion.

He stood up. He knew from experience in court that any death within twelve months of an insurance policy being taken out would be investigated painstakingly by the insurance company. He also knew from experience the contradictions in staging an accident. He would have to be careful in his apparent carelessness; there would be deliberation about what looked like desperation. He made slip-marks with his shoes right to the edge of the cliff; he went down on his knees in the mud, ran his fingers, even the claw, through it. Then he tore off a slim branch from the log resting on the edge of the cliff.

He took a deep breath, said a prayer. Then, clutching the branch, he went backwards off the cliff and down to the rocks far below. He was weeping with rage at himself, dying with anger.

Malone was half an hour too late. When he drove on to the edge of the clearing, two police officers stopped him. He showed them his badge and asked what had happened.

“An accident, sir. He went over the edge—some of our guys and the ambulance blokes are down below with the body. They’re gunna take it out from there, not bring it back up here. You mind me asking, sir—were you supposed to meet him here?”

“He was trying to get me to join his conservation group. I was to meet him here, then we were going on up to Katoomba to look at what the government’s proposing with the new national park.”

“Well, he’s past all that now.” Then the officer gestured awkwardly. “Sorry, sir, that sounded a bit callous—I didn’t mean it like that.”

“No, you’re right. He doesn’t have to conserve anything any more.”

“They phoned up to say they’d found identification on him.” The officer tapped his mobile. “Will you tell his wife? If he has one?”

“Yes, he’s married, has a child and a pregnant wife—”

“Jesus!”

“I think it better if someone from his local station does that—he lived at Turramurra. I really don’t know the wife, we weren’t exactly friends. Just acquaintances.” He was cutting himself adrift, running away.

“Sure, we understand. We can get in touch with you if we need you?”

“Homicide will find me.”

He went back to Strawberry Hills, driving carefully, like a man finding his way out of territory where the maps had been unreliable.