often the ones who drive their wives the hardest.’
‘When you’re out of hospital and cured, you want to join Homicide as a counsellor?’ He kissed her, patted her mount but went no further. ‘I’m just glad you never drove me.’
‘You never needed it. You just had to be steered, that was all.’
She knew his every weakness, including his overwhelming love for her.
4
Chief Superintendent Greg Random had come across to the morning conference from Police Centre. ‘President Clinton, him and everyone down as far as me, we’re all looking for a quick solution to the Brame case. I just thought you’d like to know.’
He never pressured any of the men under him; he had his own quiet way of ensuring efficiency. He had total confidence in Malone; he had been Malone’s boss in Homicide until he had been promoted to the desk job he hated. At the moment he was resisting a new directive that wanted all police to be shifted every three years from one division to another. The directive was aimed at stalling corruption, at breaking up any too-cosy relationship between police and their contacts, ignoring the fact that cops and crims were two sides of the same coin. Headquarters was evidently under the impression that informers stood on street corners, like hookers, waiting for cops with ready money. Ivory towers, Random had confided to Malone, were not confined just to academe.
‘The Commissioner tells me the FBI has offered to help and he’s expecting to hear from the CIA, the National Security Council, NASA and the Daughters of the American Revolution any minute now. Seven hundred and forty district attorneys have offered to prosecute and the US Supreme Court will take over if our judges find it’s too much for them. In other words, the bullshit has hit the fan. Excuse me, Detective Smith,’ he said, for the moment carried away by his sarcasm.
‘Can I get you some coffee, sir?’ Peta Smith half-rose from her chair.
‘Are you getting it for everyone?’ Random looked around the all-male-but-one conference.
‘No, sir. Just for you.’ With not a glance at any of the other men.
His lean, lined face eased itself into a slow paternal smile. ‘Better leave it, Peta. Otherwise this mob will think it’s favouritism … So what have you got, Scobie?’
‘Clarrie Binyan, over at Ballistics, called me. The bullet taken out of the security guard, Murray Rockman – it’s the same calibre as the one taken out of Orville Brame, a rare ’un, a nine-millimetre ultra. Clarrie says he’s making a guess, but he thinks there wouldn’t be too many guns in this country that take that sort of bullet. One of them is a Sig-Sauer, made for a Swiss company but manufactured in Germany. It will take a silencer, which Clarrie thinks would have been used, and it’s a pretty expensive piece, not the sort your ordinary hoodlum would use.’
‘He’s guessing?’
‘Of course. But that’s all any of us are doing at the moment. The point is, they’ve made their first mistake – they’ve made a connection for us.’
‘And what’s the connection?’
Malone grinned: to an outsider it might have looked like embarrassment. ‘That’s it. The bullet. We start from there.’
‘That’s not much to tell President Clinton.’
Malone suddenly realized that, for all his relaxed air, Greg Random was under pressure. Perhaps not from President Clinton, but the local political pressure would be just as heavy. In his mind’s eye he saw the weight, like heavy die-stamps, falling on Random’s neck: the Premier, the Minister, the Commissioner.
‘No, it’s not much. But why would the one gun be used, on separate nights, to kill a top American lawyer, here in Australia for the first time in thirty years, and a local security guard who’s got nothing but a clean record and, as far as we know, never met the lawyer? All we have to do is start at either end and work towards the middle.’
‘I’ll tell Bill Clinton that.’ Random rose to his feet. ‘Maybe it’s the solution to his national debt. Let me know when you’ve come up with your solution. Yesterday will be soon enough.’
He went his unhurried way out of the big room, leaving Homicide looking at their boss. Malone spread his hands. ‘Any suggestions?’
Two-thirds of those at the table rose from their chairs. ‘It’s all yours, Scobie. We’ve got the one out at Penshurst.’ And at Cronulla and Bondi and elsewhere: simple homicides, of plain people with no political pull.
Then Andy Graham, who had not been present at the conference, came in. ‘The Chief would like to see you outside, Scobie. He’s waiting on the front steps.’
Puzzled, Malone went out to the entrance. Random was there, his familiar pipe, always unlit, stuck between his teeth. ‘Walk up to the corner with me, Scobie.’
The sky was clear today, there was no wind and the sun, though not warm, was bright, throwing pale shadows. Up ahead, on the other side of the road, was the concrete fortress of Police Centre; Malone sometimes wondered if it had been built as the last bunker of a Police Service that appeared always to be defending itself. Random paused outside a deserted restaurant car park. It struck Malone that he had chosen a spot where whatever he had to say he would not be overheard.
‘Russ told me about your wife. I’m sorry to hear it. Cancer’s a real bugger. My wife had a breast removed six years ago.’
‘I didn’t know—’
‘Well, you don’t broadcast your worries … When’s she being operated on?’
‘Next Monday.’
‘Okay, take leave from Saturday night. Russ can take over from you.’ Then he took his pipe out of his mouth and looked at it as if wondering why he was holding it. ‘Unless you want to take leave now?’
‘No. Lisa insists I keep working. But I’ll go off Saturday night. Thanks, Greg.’ He sighed, feeling drained of energy. ‘I don’t like leaving this Brame case. Or the other one, the security guard. Are you getting pressure?’
‘Am I? Have you ever had the chain of command wrapped around your neck? You’d think the Pope’d been done in, not just a bloody lawyer. But never mind, do what you can up till the weekend. Then stay home with your wife. Give her my best. A nice woman.’
He abruptly left Malone, not rudely but because that was his way. Malone stood a moment, then jumped as a car, wanting to turn into the car park, tooted its horn. He walked back to the Hat Factory, apprehensive that one day he might be sitting in Random’s chair. The chain of command, when applied by political pressure, could be a garrotte.
Clements and Andy Graham were waiting for him in his office. ‘Andy’s heard from the FBI.’
‘They’re thorough,’ said Graham. ‘They’ve come up with nothing on our friend Murray Rockman.’
Malone dropped into his chair. ‘Sort that one out for me, Andy. They’re thorough and they’ve come up with nothing?’
Graham looked flustered, one of his usual expressions. ‘Yeah, I see what you mean. No, they’ve done their homework. They’ve been through all the records in Caswell, Ohio. Birth registration, high school, everything. They’ve checked the Marines, their enlistments, their service records. No Murray Rockman, ever. In either place, Caswell, Ohio, or the Marines. Nothing.’ He handed Malone the fax he held. ‘Our guy never existed before he came to Australia.’
1
The De Vries family had been lawyers for over three hundred years, ever since their arrival in New Amsterdam from Utrecht. Dutch Catholics, they had little to do with the predominant Dutch Calvinists and looked elsewhere for clients amongst the growing polyglot