Читать книгу Autumn Maze - Jon Cleary, Jon Cleary - Страница 8

1

That evening Malone took Lisa and the three children to the Golden Gate, a restaurant in Chinatown. Lisa recognized the outing for what it was, a penance for sins of omission, but she said nothing. Any sense of guilt that could make him spend money on the children was all right by her. She was not extravagant and ran their home with old-time Dutch thrift, but at times Scobie’s attachment to a dollar, as if it were an organ of his body, upset her. Money was to be saved, sure, but it was also to be spent.

The restaurant manager knew Malone, though the latter was not a regular customer here; the manager knew every police officer in the central business district. With an illegal gambling club on an upper floor of the building, it was politic to recognize the enemy, declared or otherwise.

The manager came back to their booth after he had taken the Malones’ orders. ‘Inspector, Mr Aldwych’s compliments and he would like you and your family to be our guests.’

Malone looked towards the back of the restaurant, saw Jack Aldwych seated alone in a booth. The silver-haired old man nodded and raised a hand in salute. Malone nodded, then turned back to the manager. ‘Thank Mr Aldwych, but no. He’ll understand.’

The manager smiled, a Chinese smile that gave nothing away. ‘Of course, Inspector. Enjoy your meal when it comes.’

When the manager had gone Claire said, ‘Why did you do that, Dad? That was rude.’

‘I’m supposed to be the rude one in the family,’ said Maureen.

‘You are,’ said Tom.

Malone looked at his three. Claire, almost seventeen, beautiful (in his eyes) and (also in his eyes) about to be ravished by sex-mad thugs masquerading as ordinary decent young Australian men. Maureen, going on fifteen but already with one foot in the doorway of adulthood, pretty but unconscious of it, both eyes wide open, but not with innocence, to the world. And Tom, who at ten was beginning to realize that being a cop’s son was not all fun.

‘The man who offered to pay for us is part-owner of this restaurant, but he was once the biggest criminal in the country. A cop can’t take favours from a man like that.’

Maureen had raised herself in her seat, taken a polite look at Jack Aldwych, who gave her a small wave. She sank back. ‘I read about him in the papers. He’s retired, it said.’

‘People would still look at it the wrong way.’ Especially now. This very week two senior police officers were being investigated for having lunched with two top crims.

Claire gave him a smile and patted his hand. ‘Well, it’s nice to know you’re not bent.’

‘Thanks,’ he said and looked at Lisa. ‘What more can kids say about their father than that? Now, when dinner comes, eat everything, since I’m paying.’

‘We knew you’d say that,’ said Maureen and produced a plastic bag. ‘So I brought a doggy-bag, just in case.’

They had almost finished dinner when Jack Aldwych, tall and well-dressed, looking more like a slightly battered banker, of whom there were many these days, than a man who had murdered and ordered murders, came past their booth. Lisa put out a hand.

‘Mr Aldwych, we haven’t met. I’m Lisa Malone and these are our children. We’d like to thank you for your offer of dinner. It wasn’t meant to be a rude refusal.’

Aldwych smiled at her. He liked good-looking women and this was a good-looking woman: blonde, well-figured, quietly dressed, with a frank but intelligent face. There had been a time when, intent only on the male enemy, cops and other crims, he had made little attempt to understand women. Except, of course, Shirl, the wife, whom he had understood and loved.

‘Mrs Malone, it’s a pleasure to meet you. And you, too.’ He looked around the booth at the three children; then at Malone: ‘Scobie, I understand. I wasn’t offended -I read the papers. It’s just a pity a simple gesture is suspected. I don’t mean you, you know who I mean.’

‘Sure, Jack. You well?’

‘Hoping to live till I’m a hundred. I’ll buy you all dinner on the day. By then I should be respectable.’ He smiled again at the children, then at Lisa. ‘Goodnight, Mrs Malone. The children are a credit to you. So is he.’

He winked at Malone and passed on. Claire said, ‘What a nice old man! It’s hard to believe—’

‘Believe it,’ said Malone, ‘whatever it is. Why did you do that, darl? Stop him?’

‘It was spur of the moment,’ said Lisa. ‘I’ve been hearing about him off and on, bits and pieces, for – what? – three years now. A wife gets curious, whether she is married to a policeman or not. I just wanted to see if he was real.’

‘Is he?’ said Tom.

‘Yes, he is. Very real.’ And she looked across the table at Malone. Somehow, he thought, she had seen inside Jack Aldwych, seen the ruthlessness, dormant now maybe, that had been his nature for so long. ‘But why did you bring us here?’

‘Because it’s the best restaurant in Chinatown. I’d just forgotten he’s a part-owner. Righto, now here’s the worst part of the evening. The bill.’

Going through their usual mockery of him, the two girls opened their purses and Tom put his hand in his pocket. Their mother said, ‘Put your money away. If he doesn’t pay, we’re all leaving home.’

Malone grinned and even left a tip, a bounty that left the Chinese waiters unimpressed. It was only five per cent, but it was almost a mortal wound to the donor.

2

Next morning Chief Superintendent Greg Random, Commander of the Regional Crime Squad, came across from Police Centre to the Hat Factory. Malone had just called the morning conference when Random walked in.

‘Don’t look at me like that,’ he said. Tall, lean and grey-haired, laconic as a recorded weather report, he had once been in charge here at Homicide. ‘You must have expected me.’

‘It crossed my mind,’ said Malone. ‘Who suggested it? AC Zanuch? Or the Minister?’

‘It was my own idea. Get on with it.’

There were six Homicide staff at the conference, plus two detectives from The Rocks and two from Campsie. Malone introduced the outsiders to Random, then nodded to Clements to open the meeting.

‘So far we haven’t got out of the barrier,’ said the big man. ‘The missing corpse has turned up, or part of it. But we still dunno who he is or where he came from.’

‘There’s nothing in Missing Persons,’ said Peta Smith. She was sitting with her knees together, her longish skirt covering them, giving the newcomers from The Rocks and Campsie no opportunity to appreciate her good legs. ‘It’s early days yet. Maybe so far nobody’s missed him. Andy Graham is keeping an eye out.’

‘Someone, somewhere, is going to miss him soon,’ said Malone. ‘You think he came from your area, Mick?’

Mick Griffin was one of the Campsie detectives, a young redheaded giant who on Saturday afternoons, when he wasn’t throwing his weight at crims, threw the discus in inter-district athletic meetings. ‘I don’t think he came from around our way, Inspector. We’ve been to all the pubs and clubs and showed the photos of him taken when he was found by the river. Nobody could tell us anything. We’ve talked to the girls on the beat on Canterbury Road, we thought he might of been an outsider trying to muscle in on the pimps there, but they told us there’s been no trouble for months.’

‘He doesn’t have to have had a record,’ said John Kagal.

‘No,’ said Malone, ‘but I’ll bet Sydney to a brick that whoever did him and young Sweden in has a record. Or if he hasn’t, he’s building up to one. This isn’t a domestic, these two were killed by a pro. Have you dug up anything in young Sweden’s flat?’

‘I went out to Edgecliff yesterday afternoon,’ said Kagal. ‘His flat is in one of the older blocks out there, but nicely furnished. Looks like he went for the good things. His car is a BMW 525, we found it yesterday morning still down in the garage of The Wharf.’

‘What did you find at his flat?’

‘These.’ Kagal emptied a large plastic envelope on to the table round which they sat. ‘There was a lot of the usual stuff in the closets and drawers – there were ten suits, for instance. All imported stuff, Italian.’ Kagal sounded envious. ‘Zegna, Armani.’

‘They’re expensive, right?’ Malone bought his home-grown wardrobe off the rack at Fletcher Jones or Gowings, usually at sale time.

‘Even I know that,’ said Clements, another poor fashion-plate.

‘Could we get off the style notes?’ said Random. ‘What you’re saying, John, is this man lived above his means?’

‘Not necessarily,’ said Malone, getting in first. ‘He made sixty thousand a year, plus bonuses. He could’ve spent every cent of it. Young fellers do.’

The young fellers around the table shifted uneasily. Kagal went on, ‘He must have liked the ladies – his bedside drawer had enough condoms in it to cover every cock in the eastern suburbs. Sorry, Peta.’

She said nothing, but Malone said, ‘Nicely put, John. Just don’t put it on the computer. Go on.’

‘There are these American Express card account statements. He made a trip to Manila last month, stayed at the Manila Plaza, that’s a five-star hotel.’

‘He could’ve gone there for his firm.’

‘Yes, except I checked the dates. He flew out on the Friday night, came back on the Sunday. I rang Casement’s, they said they’d never sent him overseas on business.’

‘Could he have gone on one of those sex tours?’ asked one of the men from The Rocks.

Kagal shook his head. ‘I don’t think so, not when he was getting so much here at home.’

‘Anything else?’ said Malone.

‘There’s this.’ Kagal pushed a cheque-book and bank statement across the table. ‘There are deposits every fortnight. The same amount, obviously his salary cheques. But look at the other deposits. Where did that money come from?’

Malone looked at the statement: there were three deposits, each of five thousand dollars. ‘Bonuses?’

‘I checked with his office. The bonus is paid once a year, in June, just before the end of the financial year. He hadn’t received this year’s yet.’

‘Could it be money he made trading on the side?’ said Random.

Malone shook his head. ‘That’s not allowed and, as far as we know, young Sweden never tried it.’

‘Could it be gambling winnings?’ said Peta Smith.

Clements, the gambling man, said, ‘Five thousand each time? Your winnings are never as regular as that.’

‘You’re listening to the expert,’ Malone explained to the others. ‘Anything else, John?’

Kagal produced another envelope, dropped one item on the table, a second cheque-book. He did it with some flair, like a magician producing a second rabbit from a small hat. You show-off young bastard, Malone thought; and out of the corner of his eye waited for some reaction from Greg Random. But the older man’s lean, gullied face showed nothing.

‘That account’s in another name. Raymond Sexton. R.S. Same initials. It’s supposed to be difficult to open a bank account now without proper identification, but it can be done. Look at the deposits. Eight thousand, nine thousand five hundred, eight thousand again, seven thousand eight hundred. There’s just over seventy-two thousand dollars deposited in that account in the past three months, all in amounts under ten thousand dollars. That way the bank doesn’t have to inform the tax people.’

Malone picked up the cheque-book, glanced at the name of the bank. Then he looked at Clements. ‘Well, waddiaknow! Our old mates down at Shahriver Credit International.’

‘They’re in our territory, aren’t they?’ Terry Leboy, from The Rocks, was a young blond-headed man almost as well-dressed as Kagal.

Malone nodded. ‘We had something to do with them a coupla years ago. They’re shonky – plenty of capital, but they don’t care particularly who their clients are. So far they haven’t been closed down. Maybe they’ve been keeping their noses clean. Except—’ He tapped the cheque-book on the table. ‘Young Sweden was up to something. Try the bank. Find out if the deposits there by Mr Sexton were in cheques or cash. These statements don’t show.’

‘Do we tell ’em we think Sexton and Sweden are the same man?’

‘Sure, why not? If they’re trying to keep their noses clean, they’ll lean over backwards to be co-operative. Be polite.’

Malone gave out instructions to the other detectives and everyone left the table but Malone, Clements and Random. There were other Homicide men working on other cases in the big room. Random rose, jerked his head and led the way back into Malone’s small office.

‘Close the door.’

Malone did so. ‘We’re in trouble, right?’

‘Not yet.’ Random took a pipe from his jacket pocket and put it between his teeth. Malone, in all the years he had known Random, had never seen him light it. He had begun to suspect that the older man, the least actorish of men, used it as a prop. ‘The Minister is making noises.’

‘What sort of noises? Does he want us to call off the investigation?’

‘I’m not sure.’ Random sucked on his pipe. ‘There are waves coming down from above, from Bill Zanuch, even from the Commissioner, that I can’t fathom. The government’s got a majority of two, it’s had a few messy cock-ups the past couple of months, it doesn’t want its boat rocked again. If the Minister’s son was involved in something shonky, if the Minister knew of it—’

‘Do you think he did?’

Random shrugged, sucked on the pipe again. ‘Your guess is as good as mine.’

Malone and Clements looked at each other. They had been this route before, with a Labor government, with past and present Conservative coalition governments. In any democratic State, politics is always ready to interfere; that, Malone was convinced, was what democracy was about. Power had to be protected, to a political party it was as precious as motherhood. So long, that is, as the mothers voted the right way.

‘Greg,’ said Clements, ‘we can’t just let this lay. We’ve got another four unsolved murders out there, ones that have got nothing to do with the Sweden case.’ He nodded through the half-glass wall to the big room. ‘If we drop another one in the Too Hard basket, the media will be on us like a ton of bricks. They’re ready to pile the shit. There’s those four young coppers accused of stealing drugs, there’s the suspected cover-up by our two senior blokes—’ He bit his lip. ‘Nothing may come of those, we dunno. But I’d rather protect the service than take care of the Minister. Four Corners is just itching to make another TV documentary that makes us look fools. If the media starts querying why we’re back-pedalling on the Sweden case, we might as well pack up, take our superannuation and go fishing.’

Random looked at Malone, held up a finger. ‘My finger in the wind tells me you feel the same way?’

Malone nodded. ‘Let’s do it our way, Greg. If the boat has to be rocked, too bad.’ He sighed, leaned back in his chair, stretched his legs; he was not relaxing, just trying to ease the sudden tension that had taken hold of his limbs. ‘I’ve reached a point where I don’t care a stuff about politics. I think I might welcome being shifted out to Tibooburra.’

‘Don’t write it off as a possibility.’ Random stood up, put his pipe back in his pocket. ‘Okay, go ahead. But keep me informed all along the way, everything you come up with, including stuff you won’t put in the briefs. I’ll make the decisions, understand?’

‘You don’t think I want to make ’em, do you?’ Malone grinned, but there was stiffness in his facial muscles, too.

As soon as Random had gone, Malone tried some politics of his own. He rang Fred Falkender, AC, Crime. ‘Sir, I’d like to come over to Headquarters and talk to the Minister. I thought I’d better tell you first.’

‘Does Chief Super Random know?’

‘He’s told me to pursue the Sweden case my own way,’ Malone half-lied.

‘You mean you haven’t told him you’re coming over here? Scobie, you really are a pain in the arse.’ Falkender had worked his way up from the ranks; there wasn’t a trick he did not know. Still, he laughed. He was always laughing, but the unsuspecting had too often found it was just a smokescreen. The Assistant Commissioner was too experienced to believe that all was laughter in the human comedy. ‘Okay, come over. See me first, I’ll find out if the Minister wants to see you.’

When Malone reached Administration Headquarters several blocks away, Falkender was coming down the corridor from another of the offices occupied by the seven assistant commissioners. ‘I’ve just been talking to AC Zanuch.’

Malone looked warily at him. ‘Yes?’

‘Don’t worry, I’m running you, no one else.’ Falkender was built like a bowling ball and as hard; he had skittled more opponents and competitors than he had bothered to count. He presented a jovial face to the world, but he was as shrewd as any long-time politician and he knew more about the law than anyone else in the service. ‘You want to tell me why you want to see the Minister?’

He had led Malone into his office, but both men remained standing. Malone knew at once that there was no guarantee Falkender would allow him to see Derek Sweden. ‘We’ve dug up something on his son that doesn’t look too good.’ He went on to explain all the new details that had been added, or were about to be added, to the running sheet on the Sweden case. ‘The son wasn’t murdered by some break-and-enter stranger. He was murdered by someone he knew and for a reason. There’s also this corpse that was stolen from the morgue. Looks like he was killed by the same method, a needle or a scalpel or something in the back of the neck. There could be a connection.’

Falkender was usually an almost non-stop talker; but he had listened patiently while Malone gave him the facts. Now he folded his plump hands in front of him and rolled his thumbs. He was silent a moment, no joviality at all in his bright blue eyes. Then, ‘If that’s the way it is, you have to see the Minister,’ he said, abruptly taciturn for a change. ‘Okay, let’s go.’

They went up to the Minister’s office, a large suite that fitted the ministerial ego. Up till a few years ago, Police Ministers had been well removed from their department; when one of Sweden’s predecessors had insisted on moving into the building, he had been as welcome as one of the city’s top crims. The situation had settled down somewhat since then, but there was still a suspicion that, with their boss virtually sitting on top of them, the service could become politicized. Malone and Falkender walked into Sweden’s office prepared for the worst.

Sweden was a coat-off, shirtsleeves Minister; it was not a pose for media cameras, he was a genuine worker. He waved Falkender and Malone to chairs, offered them coffee, then sat back. I’m as busy as a girl when the Yank fleet’s in and I’m about as stuffed. I hope you have some good news, Inspector.’

Malone looked at Falkender, who nodded; he noted that the AC had not laughed or even smiled since they had met downstairs in the corridor. ‘Well, Minister, it’s like this—’ He went on to tell Sweden what he had told Falkender. ‘It’s not good news, I’m afraid.’

Sweden’s desk was the sort that Malone always thought of as being furnished by a woman. There was the gold desk set, the gold-embossed leather barrel for pencils, the gold-embossed leather writing pad, the blotting-roller, the address book, the diary; the desk looked like a Dunhill show-case, stacked with paraphernalia that few men ever bought for themselves. Sweden picked up a gold-plated letter-opener, a business stiletto.

‘You’re accusing my son of being some sort of criminal, is that what you’re saying?’

‘I’m not accusing him of anything so far.’ Malone’s tone was as sharp as Sweden’s; he couldn’t help it. He glanced at Falkender, expecting some sort of rebuke, but the big round face was impassive. ‘All I’m giving you, Minister, are facts that are real. I hope we can give you more when our men have come back from the bank I mentioned. You don’t know anything about Shahriver, do you?’

Sweden’s dark narrow eyes seemed to darken even further; then he put down the letter-opener and leaned forward. ‘Yes, I know about it, we’ve discussed it in Cabinet a couple of times. The Minister for Finance has his eye on it. That’s all I know about it. I certainly would never have suggested to my son that he do business with it. You still have to convince me that the bank statement in that name – Sexton? – that it’s actually a statement of my son’s account with the bank. I hope you’re not going to let something like this out to the media, Fred?’

Malone waited for Falkender to back down; but the AC, Crime, bent his knee to no one. ‘Inspector Malone is not out to make political capital of this.’

Sweden banged his desk; his bony face abruptly looked ugly. ‘Jesus Christ, I’m not talking politics! We’re talking about my son! Is that all you think I’m capable of, worrying about the fucking politics of it?’

‘I’m sorry.’ Falkender at least sounded genuinely contrite.

There was a knock at the door and Tucker, the minder, the guardian of the gate, was there, though a little late. ‘Minister, I would’ve been here if I’d known—’

‘Beat it, Rufus.’ Sweden waved a rude hand, hardly glancing at the press secretary. ‘I’m okay. I’ll let you know when I want you.’ He waved the hand again and Tucker, red in the face, disappeared, shutting the door with some force. ‘Bloody minders, they think you can’t survive without them. All right, Fred, I’m sorry I flew off the handle. But, Jesus, I’m still in shock—’ He looked at Malone. ‘You’re used to murder, I suppose? I’m not.’

Malone had learned to cope with murder, but he hoped he would never become used to it; that way lay barbarism. ‘Did your son ever give any hint of being in trouble?’ He was quiet but persistent, certain now that Falkender was not going to obstruct him in the interests of harmony here at Headquarters. AC Zanuch, he was equally certain, would now have been on his feet leading the way out of the Minister’s suite. ‘Did he ever make any unexplained trips anywhere?’

Sweden picked up the stiletto again; it was, Malone remarked, an ideal weapon for puncturing the base of a man’s skull. ‘Rob was always going away on unexplained trips, usually with a girl. They were unexplained because I never asked about them. I did the same sort of thing when I was young. Didn’t you?’

‘I couldn’t afford it, not on a constable’s pay.’ There was the tongue again; he smiled to take the edge off it. ‘Rob made a quick trip to Manila last month, a weekend trip. Would you know why?’

‘No.’ The stiletto was steady, its point pressed against one palm.

‘This isn’t a smart-arse remark, Minister, but your son wouldn’t have gone there on one of those quick sex tours. He went there, I think, on business. His own business, not his firm’s. They’ve said they never sent him overseas, he wasn’t experienced enough.’

Sweden looked at the stiletto, then carefully set it back on the desk, as if he had just realized it was a weapon. He leaned forward again, finger pointing. This was how he attacked the opposition in the Bear Pit, the State Parliament: Malone had seen clips of him on television. ‘Inspector, I am not going to help you besmirch my son’s name. All I want from you is to find his murderer.’

Malone’s tone was measured: ‘That’s what we’re trying to do, Minister. Murder, unfortunately, is rarely a nice clean job, there’s always dirt around the edges. Mr Falkender will back me up there.’

Falkender, rather than acting as if he had been put on the spot, as indeed he had, spoke up. ‘That’s true, Minister. We’ll do our best not to spread any dirt. But we think your son’s murder is connected to another on the same night.’

‘Whose?’

‘We don’t know,’ said Malone. ‘The body was stolen from the morgue. It’s been in the papers.’

‘I haven’t had time to look at the papers today. Or yesterday’s. It’s probably there in that file of clippings. A corpse stolen from the morgue? Christ, what next?’

Malone wondered why the Police Minister’s press secretary didn’t insist his master look at all crime reports as soon as they appeared. So he told Sweden what he knew of the missing corpse and why they thought its murder was linked to Rob Sweden’s.

‘That’s bloody ridiculous! You’re linking Rob to some stranger—’

‘He’s a stranger to us, Minister, but he may not have been to your son.’

Sweden looked at Falkender; the top of his bald head was glistening, though there was no sweat on his face. But he was angry, ready to boil: ‘I hope these sort of insinuations are not going to be broadcast?’

‘We don’t work that way,’ said Falkender in a voice that suggested he was giving a lecture to a Minister still new to the job.

‘Okay, I’ll see the Commissioner.’ Sweden’s own tone suggested that he knew the chain of command. ‘In the meantime, no press conferences on this, not till you have solid evidence. If the media want to hear about my son I’ll get Rufus Tucker to arrange it and I’ll do the talking.’

Falkender stood up. From long experience of politicians, he recognized a brick wall when it was being built. ‘Inspector Malone will handle this with his usual discretion, Minister. You’ll get a daily report on how he is progressing.’

Going back to Falkender’s office Malone said, ‘Thanks for that bit about my usual discretion.’

Falkender grinned, his face relaxing for the first time. ‘Don’t make a liar of me. What d’you reckon?’ He jerked his head back towards the Minister’s suite. ‘Is he just a father doing the usual, protecting his son’s good name?’

Malone lowered his voice; no one knew where the ears were in an empty stairwell. ‘I think he knows a lot more than he’s told us.’

Falkender nodded. ‘But be discreet, okay?’

3

In the Opposition Leader’s suite in the annexe to Parliament House, Hans Vanderberg, The Dutchman, was seeking material for his last hurrah. He had been Premier of New South Wales for twelve years, running the State almost like an old-time American ward boss; his heroes had been Boss Tweed and Frank Hague and Jim Curley; he knew the names of all the political bosses but only three or four of the Presidents. He had discovered, only a year or two after he had landed in Australia from Holland back in 1948, that real political power does not work on the large stage. Being Prime Minister gave you pomp and ceremony and national headlines, but no PM ever had the power that a truly ambitious State Premier could achieve. The Dutchman had almost had a stroke when all his power had been taken away from him by a mere hundred votes in the last State elections.

‘What d’you know about this young Sweden case? They say it’s murder.’

‘It is.’ Roger Ladbroke had been Vanderberg’s press secretary for ten years. He had often thought of resigning, of going back to being a political columnist, but in the end always decided that he was a natural masochist and no editor would ever give him the exquisite pain The Dutchman could inflict. It was a consolation that the bruises never showed on him; he always just smiled when the State roundsmen asked him how he continued to put up with the abuse and insults to his education. Some day, when The Dutchman was dead, he would write a book and he possessed secrets that no roundsman could even guess at. ‘But as far as I can gather, they have no clue as to who did it or why.’

‘His old man connected with it?’ Vanderberg played with the quiff of hair that was the cartoonists’ delight. He was an ugly little man, shrunk by age, his clothes hanging on him like a wet wash; he was loved only by his wife, but that was enough. ‘I tried to give him some sympathy this morning, but he just wiped me.’

The ex-Premier’s sympathy was like strychnine: best in small doses.

‘There’s some skulbuggery in it, I can smell it. Keep sniffing around.’ He had never believed that anything was crystal-clear, except his own perceptions.

‘Hans, we can’t make capital out of a family tragedy. The papers would be on to us like a load of shit.’

‘We handle it delicately, son.’

Ladbroke shook his head invisibly at that. The Dutchman’s idea of delicacy was how the Chinese had handled Tiananmen Square.

‘Use your contacts, find out what’s going on. Who’s in charge of the case?’

‘As far as I can gather, both Assistant Commissioners Falkender and Zanuch seem to have a hand in it.’

‘That means they’re trying to hide something.’ The old man raised his nose, like a hound pointing.

‘The man who’s actually in charge of the case is that guy, Inspector Malone. You remember him?’

‘The honest one?’ Vanderberg flattened his quiff. ‘He wouldn’t tell you the time of Friday—’ No one, not even Lad-broke, was ever sure that The Dutchman did not deliberately mangle everyday phrases. ‘We’ve got to upset the apples, son. Time’s running out.’

‘The government’s got another three years to run.’

‘I wasn’t talking about them. I was talking about me. I’m getting on, Roger. If we wait for the full term to run, I’ll be eighty by the next election. I want to toss out these bastards, get back in, set up things the way I want ’em, put Denis Kipple in my place and then I’ll retire. Gracefully.’ The thought of his doing anything gracefully seemed to amuse even him: he gave a cackling laugh. ‘Get cracking, son. A stitch in time is worth the needling.’

Ladbroke couldn’t wait for the graceful retirement. But he would miss the old sonofabitch.