Читать книгу Yesterday’s Shadow - Jon Cleary, Jon Cleary - Страница 10

On his way out Malone looked in on Consul-General Avery. ‘We’ve started, sir. But there’s a long way to go.’

‘I once played in a Rose Bowl game. We were behind thirty-eight to nil at the end of the second quarter.’

‘Did you win?’

‘No, but we gave UCLA a helluva fright.’

Malone shook his head. ‘I’ve spent all my police career trying to give crims a fright. It never works, not with the pros. This feller who killed Mrs Pavane, he’s way ahead at the moment.’

‘You sound pessimistic.’

‘No, just realistic. It’s a cop’s philosophy.’

Ms Caporetto rode down in the lift with him. She was wearing a thick brown coat and the sort of tea-cosy hat that he thought was worn only by seven-year-olds with fashion-conscious mothers. She did not look demure, nor as innocent as a seven-year-old, but the body was not visible to be whistled at.

‘I’m on my way to see your Premier.’

‘Is he getting into the act?’

‘I don’t think so. It’s a courtesy call on our part. We want to ask if everything can be played down, if and when the questions come up in Parliament.’

‘Not if. When. Another twenty-four hours and the Opposition will be asking why we police haven’t wrapped it up. It’s par for the course. Never be constructive when in Opposition.’

‘I love working here. You’re such a primitive lot.’ But as she stepped out of the lift she gave him a smile that said it was a compliment.

He drove back to Police Centre and Delia Jones. The day had turned grey, but the clouds were still high, scarred by wind. Down at street level another wind chased paper down the gutters, straightened people into mannikins as they turned corners into it. A day for a grey mood.

He first went into the Incident Room, where Gail Lee and Sheryl Dallen had finished the display board. There was not much: a few photos, names, diagrams. There would have been less if the coverage had been of only a single murder.

‘Not much, is there?’

‘Did you get anything new from the Ambassador?’ asked Gail Lee.

‘Just that Mrs Pavane has a murky past. No,’ he said as both women raised their eyebrows. ‘Nothing dirty. It’s just that even Mr Pavane can’t tell us much about his wife before he married her.’

Then he looked at the photo of the dead Boris Jones. Even in death there was a look of cruelty in the broad Slav face; or was that his own imagination, a desire, too late, to protect Delia? ‘What would you say of a bloke like that?’

‘A bastard,’ said Sheryl. ‘But some women would find him attractive.’

‘Mrs Jones must have. How is she?’

‘A bit edgy,’ said Sheryl, ‘but nothing much. She’s more worried about her kids than about what she’s done.’

‘Her lawyer turned up yet?’

‘Mrs Quantock’s brought in a solicitor from out their way, Balmain. She and Mrs Jones have been arguing about who’ll pay – evidently Mrs Jones has got nothing. It looks like it might be a Legal Aid job.’

Legal Aid did its best but it could never afford the talent that could turn a no-win case into an acquittal. ‘Righto, I’d better see her. You come with me, Gail.’

‘Do we keep both murders on the one board?’ asked Sheryl.

‘I hope not.’ He would like the Jones murder dropped off the board altogether. ‘We’ll see what she has to tell us.’

‘Not us,’ said Gail. ‘You.’

‘Don’t remind me.’ He looked at both of them. ‘You know I’d rather walk right away from this?’

‘Of course,’ said Sheryl and he saw at once that their support was genuine. And it was more acceptable because they were women. This was not blokey mateship.

He took Gail into the interview room with him. He was annoyed but not surprised when he saw Mrs Quantock sitting to one side of Delia and the woman solicitor. Rosie Quantock sensed his annoyance for she said at once, ‘I’m here for Delia to lean on.’

‘That’s okay, Mrs Quantock, but don’t interrupt when I’m questioning Delia.’ He sat down, looked at the solicitor across the table. ‘G’day, Pam. Are you taking Delia’s case or are you here just for now? I understand she has asked for Legal Aid.’

‘I’m here for the whole term.’ Pamela Morrow was an old foe, but a friendly one. She and Malone had met years ago when she had been a law student leading demonstrations against this, that and everything and he had been a new police recruit trying to handle gently a woman trying to kick him in the balls. She was a short dumpling of a woman with red hair cut in a bob with bangs and with bright blue eyes that, he knew, could be as challenging as Rosie Quantock’s. ‘I’m on the board of the Women’s Protection League. We’re taking Mrs Jones’ case. Right through from now to acquittal.’

He grinned. ‘You haven’t changed, Pam.’ Only then did he look at Delia. ‘Pam and I are old mates.’

‘Old Home Week,’ said Delia and smiled as if she were here on no more than a traffic charge. He caught a glimpse of the girl he had once been in love with. She had been a pretty girl rather than beautiful; chocolate-boxy, his mother had called her. Prettiness, he knew, faded quicker than beauty; but the years had been too cruel to her. ‘We’re not going to be any trouble, Scobie.’

‘Tell us what happened.’ Not me: us. He had to keep Gail in the frame to protect himself.

‘Tell him everything,’ said Rosie Quantock. ‘How he’s been belting you for years –’

Malone looked at Pam Morrow, who looked at Rosie Quantock. ‘Please –’

‘Sorry,’ said Rosie, but you knew it was just an empty word. ‘But she’s gotta tell him everything –’

‘I will,’ said Delia, hands folded together on the table, steady as two interlocked rocks. She nodded at the recorder: ‘Is that on?’

‘Yes,’ said Gail. ‘Everything you say –’

‘I know.’ The composure was so complete; Malone had to admire her. ‘Well – where do I begin?’

‘At the beginning,’ said Malone, knowing he was making a concession.

‘Well, Boris and I have been married fourteen years. He’s from Leningrad – or what do they call it now?’

‘St Petersburg,’ said Gail.

Delia didn’t look at her; her gaze was solely on Malone. ‘Yes, there. He was a merchant seaman – he came to Australia twice on a ship. I met him, I liked him, he liked me –’ She stopped for just a moment, her gaze still focused on Malone; then she went on, ‘The third trip he jumped ship and stayed on.’

‘He was an illegal immigrant?’ asked Malone.

‘I guess so. They never came looking for him – he got papers, I dunno how. We were happy –’ She stopped again. She’s making points, Malone thought; but ignored them, just looked back at her. She went on again, ‘I had the children and then things started to go wrong –’

‘I’ll say they did,’ said Rosie Quantock. ‘Ten bloody years –’

‘Mrs Quantock,’ said Pam Morrow warningly.

‘Sorry.’

Delia continued: ‘He wouldn’t let Melissa near the house – she was my daughter from my first husband.’ Again the look; again he made no comment. ‘Then the – the belting started. I ran away, twice, with the children. But he came after me each time –’

‘Why did you go back to him?’ asked Gail.

Delia shrugged. ‘Ask any battered wife why –’ For a moment she looked at Gail; then she turned her gaze back to Malone. For the first time there was a plea in her voice: ‘That’s what I’ve been, Scobie. A battered wife.’

He wanted to reach across and press her hand, but refrained. ‘Go on. Tell us about last night. Did you go in to the hotel with the intention of killing him?’

‘That’s a leading question,’ snapped Pam Morrow. ‘Try another one, Inspector –’

‘No, it’s all right,’ said Delia. ‘Yes. I took the children to my mother’s, told her I was going in to tell Boris I was leaving him for good. I wanted him dead, but I don’t think I intended killing him.’

‘Where did you get the knife?’ Malone was wishing he were out of here.

‘I dunno. It was there in the room – I just picked it up –’

Malone said nothing further; it was Gail who asked, ‘Why? Why did you pick it up?’

‘Careful, Delia,’ warned Pam Morrow. ‘You have to be exact about this. It was after Boris hit you, wasn’t it?’

‘You’re advising your client,’ said Gail.

Lay off, Gail! Malone almost shouted.

‘That’s why I’m here,’ said Pam Morrow. ‘To make sure she gives you the exact facts, the exact truth.’

Delia took her time, still looking at Malone as if there were just the two of them in the room. Then she said, ‘It was after he hit me – here and here –’ She pointed to the bruises on her face; still calm, as if they were no more than skin blemishes. ‘He gave me the black eye before he left home.’

‘Bastard!’ said Rosie Quantock.

‘There was a struggle?’ Malone was leaving the questioning to Gail.

But Delia was still speaking directly to him: ‘Oh yes, we fought. We knocked things over – I picked them up and put them back after I’d stabbed him –’ She smiled at him, like the old Delia of long ago; he was beginning to wonder if the composure was a pose. ‘Neat as usual, remember? But I was just trying to get myself together – I mean, I knew I’d killed him, he wasn’t moving –’

‘What did you do then?’

‘Just a minute –’ Malone said. ‘What time was this, Delia?’

‘Some time after midnight – he’ d broken my watch when we fought last night.’ She looked at it now on her wrist. ‘You gave it to me, remember?’

He didn’t remember and he wondered why she mentioned it.

‘That was eight-twenty last night. It’s stopped.’

Malone nodded to Gail, who went on, ‘So you tidied up the store room – what did you do with the knife?’

‘I dunno. I forget.’

‘How did you leave the hotel?’

‘I went out a side door into that alley, that lane, that’s there – I didn’t want to meet any of Boris’ mates. I waited for a taxi outside the hotel.’

Romy had said that Billie Pavane had died eight to ten hours before she was examined: that put that murder around 1 a.m.

Malone said, ‘While you were waiting for the taxi, did you see anyone come out of the hotel?’

If Delia was remembering anything it wasn’t what she saw outside the hotel last night; she had a faraway look, remembering the distant past. Remembering the bruising Malone had given her when he had jilted her? Then her gaze focused and she looked at Gail and said, ‘What?’

‘Inspector Malone asked you a question,’ said Gail.

‘Oh.’ Then she looked at him again, this time almost impersonally. He repeated his question and she said, ‘Yes, a man.’

‘Can you describe him?’

She shook her head. ‘Only vaguely. A taxi pulled up and he tried to grab it. But I got the door open first –’ Now she gave him a very personal look, leaning forward. ‘I wasn’t thinking too clearly, Scobie – you can understand that, can’t you? You must know how in shock I was?’

He didn’t ask how he was expected to know: he knew.

He said nothing, and she went on, ‘Why do you want to know about the man?’

‘The other murder?’ said Rosie Quantock, who had been silent too long.

‘Would you recognize him again if you saw him?’ Malone said.

‘Would it help you if I did?’

‘Hold on a minute,’ said Pam Morrow. ‘You’re not using Delia as a witness to that case while we’re still talking about her own case.’

‘No, I’d like to help,’ said Delia, looking directly at Malone as if they were alone in the room.

She’s too eager, he thought. But he said, ‘Go on.’

‘He was, I dunno, medium-sized. Not as tall as you, not as beefy –’

‘Thank you.’ He didn’t grin, but the four women did.

‘Well, you’re not beefy, I suppose. You haven’t changed much, really. Anyhow, he was slimmer than you. Or I think he was – he was wearing an overcoat, a dark one. And a hat.’

‘What sort of hat?’

‘I dunno. Just a hat. Not one of those broad-brimmed ones, the Akubras. I wasn’t looking at him to remember him –’ For the first time she sounded testy; he remembered she could get short-tempered about small things. But never the larger things, like being jilted … ‘I’ll remember him if I see him again.’

‘It could’ve been one of the hotel workers,’ said Gail. ‘Going off duty. Do you know any of them?’

Delia shook her head. ‘No. I’ve never been near the hotel till last night. Boris never wanted me anywhere near where he worked.’

‘Didn’t want his mates to see he was a wife-basher,’ said Rosie Quantock. ‘A real bastard. Bottom of the heap.’

‘How long had he been working at the hotel?’

‘Two – no, three months. He lost his last job – he worked for a bricklayer. They didn’t get on.’

‘He bashed him, too.’ Mrs Quantock couldn’t help being helpful.

‘I think this has gone on long enough,’ said Pam Morrow and snapped shut her briefcase as if to close all argument. ‘Are you going to charge my client?’

‘Yes,’ said Malone, not looking at Delia. ‘She’ll be held here overnight and arraigned tomorrow morning, probably down at Liverpool Street.’

‘What about bail?’

‘That’ll be up to the Crown Prosecutor. We won’t oppose it.’

‘Thanks, Scobie.’ Delia reached across and pressed his hand. He felt an inward flinch, but didn’t draw his hand away.

‘How’s she gunna raise bail?’ demanded Rosie Quantock. ‘She hasn’t got a cracker, nothing.’

‘Do you own your own house?’ asked Gail.

It was Mrs Quantock who answered, with a loud dry cackle. ‘She’s renting, for Crissake! She’d have trouble raising a hundred dollars –’

‘Rosie, please –’

‘No, love. This is no time for bloody embarrassment. That arsehole’s given you nothing –’

Malone turned to Pam Morrow. ‘Can the Women’s Protection League help?’

‘We’ll see. We’ll plead self-defence, so maybe the beak will be lenient. If he is, we can cover it.’

Malone stood up, switched off the recorder. ‘I’m sorry, Delia.’

She looked up at him. ‘For what?’

He left that unanswered.