in. That official dais is going to be so crowded –’
‘I can’t look that far ahead.’
He kept his place in the middle lane of traffic; road rage was replacing wife-beating as an expression. A young driver in a BMW coupé shouted at him; a girl in a Mazda on his other side yelled something at Lisa. She turned her head and gave the girl a wide smile and what her children called her royal wave, a turning of the hand just from the wrist. The girl replied with a non-royal middle finger.
‘Ignore them,’ said Malone.
‘Who? The drivers?’
‘No, the politicians. Whatever you put in your release, don’t mention anyone in Macquarie Street. Put your Dutch finger in the dyke and hold it there.’
He dropped her at Town Hall, then drove up to College Street and Police Headquarters. As he entered the lobby he was met by Greg Random, his immediate boss. ‘We sit and just listen, Scobie. No comment unless asked.’
Chief Superintendent Greg Random had never been guilty of a loose word, unlike Malone. He was tall and lean and as weather-beaten as if he had just come in from the western plains. He was part-Welsh and though he couldn’t sing and had never played rugby nor been down a coal mine, he was fond of reciting the melancholy of Welsh poets.
As they rode up in the lift Malone asked, ‘Why here and not Police Centre?’
There was no one else in the lift, so it was safe to be frank and subversive. “This is His Nibs’ castle. Does the Pope go to the Coliseum to declare his encyclicals?’
‘We’re going to get an encyclical today?’
‘You can bet on it.’
The big conference room was full of uniforms and silver braid. Both Random and Malone were in plainclothes, the only ones, and seated in the comer of the room they looked like suspects about to be questioned.
The Deputy Commissioner and all seven Assistant Commissioners were in the room, plus half a dozen Chief Superintendents and five Superintendents. Malone had never seen so much brass since his graduation from the Police Academy. Then Commissioner Zanuch made his entrance.
He never came into a room; he entered. He was a handsome man, something he admitted without embarrassment; there was no point in denying the truth of the mirror. He was vain and an ambitious climber amongst the social alps; he was beginning to see himself as a public monument. He was also highly intelligent, remarkably efficient and no one questioned that he was the best man for the position. Commissioner of Police in the State of New South Wales was not for the unconfident. He would always have enemies on both sides of the law.
He sat down at the top of the long table. ‘You’ve read the papers, heard the news, gentlemen. The talk-back hosts have told us how we should conduct the case and they’ll get louder as the week goes by. We have never been faced with a case as serious and wide-reaching as this one.’
‘We’ve decided it’s political?’ Assistant Commissioner Hassett was Commander, Crime Agencies. He came from the old school, the sledgehammer on the door, the boot up the bum, but he was shrewd and he ran his command with a loose rein and a ready whip.
‘No, we haven’t, Charlie, not yet.’ He looked across the room at Random and Malone. ‘What have you got so far, Chief Superintendent?’
‘Very little, sir. Perhaps Inspector Malone can fill you in.’
Thanks, mate. ‘We have a couple of slim leads, sir. A handprint that may turn up something. A man who was in the shop from where the shot was fired, he was there twice this past week admiring the view from the window. We’re trying to trace him. I expect to hear from Fingerprints this morning if he’s got any record.’
‘Have you started questioning anyone yet?’
A few loose words slipped out: ‘Macquarie Street, sir? Sussex Street?’
‘Oh Gawd,’ said Charlie Hassett and six other Assistant Commissioners gave him silent echo.
Commissioner Zanuch was not entirely humourless. ‘Inspector Malone, let us fear not to tread, but nonetheless, let us tread. Carefully, if you can.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Malone felt every eye in the room was on him. ‘I think I’d rather be in Tibooburra.’ The back of beyond in the Service.
‘Wouldn’t we all.’
The Commissioner was enjoying the situation; over the next few days his Police Service would be the power in the land. The Government would be fighting its war of succession; the Opposition, seeking backs to stab, suddenly looked up and saw opportunity on the other side of the Assembly. Murder creates a vacuum, no matter how small and for how short a time. The vacuum now was large and Commissioner Zanuch stepped into it, secure that he was the tenant by right.
‘Strike force will be set up, unlimited personnel. Call in all the men you want,’ he told Hassett.
‘What about us?’ asked the Assistant Commissioner, Commander Administration, and all his colleagues nodded.
‘We’re united on this,’ said Zanuch. ‘A team. This is political – or it’s going to be. I presume you’ve all got your political contacts?’
All the Assistant Commissioners looked at each other before they all nodded. None of them had achieved his rank by virgin birth. The net of political contacts in the room could have strangled a purer democracy than that of the State in which they served. They were honest men but they knew from long experience that honesty was a workable policy, not necessarily the best.
‘Work those contacts. If you come up with anything, pass it on to Charlie. What shall we call the task force? We have to give it a name for the media – they love labels. They don’t know how to handle anything that’s anonymous.’
‘How about Gold Medal?’ The Assistant Commissioner, VIP Security Services, was a humourist, sour as a lemon. With VIPs, a breed that never diminished, it was difficult to be good-humoured.
‘That will only rile the Opposition,’ said the Assistant Commissioner, Internal Affairs. ‘They could be our bosses in two months.’
‘Let’s be brutal,’ said the Commissioner. ‘We’ll call it Nemesis.’
‘The TV reporters will ask us what that means.’
‘Tell ’em it means their channel bosses,’ said Charlie Hassett and everyone laughed.
The meeting rolled on and at last Random and Malone were released. They said nothing to each other as they went down in the lift, but as they walked out into the glare of the January day Random said sombrely and unexpectedly, ‘We’ll miss The Dutchman.’
Malone looked across the street to Hyde Park, where old men played chess and draughts on tables beneath trees. Kibitzers stood behind them, offering advice, like retired minders. Hans Vanderberg had gone before retirement had consigned him to a bench somewhere, playing old games in his mind, surrounded by ghosts he had defeated with every move.
‘Where will you set up the Incident Room?’
‘At Police Centre. I’ll move in there, you report to me direct. Where are you going to start?’
‘I don’t know, depends what they have for me when I get back to the office.’ He sighed. ‘Wouldn’t it be nice to be on holiday right now? Walking the streets of Helsinki.’
‘Why Helsinki?’
‘Can you think of anywhere that’s further away and still has decent hotels?’
Malone went back to Strawberry Hills, to Homicide’s offices. The area had been named after the English estate of Horace Walpole, near-silent member of parliament but compulsive correspondent; he wrote mailbags of letters and Malone sometimes wondered how he would have reacted to the cornucopia of the internet. The offices were spacious and always neat and clean, a tribute to Clements, an untidy man with