id="u15aa0dfd-9ec7-5ac8-9ef1-1d0c656e1087">
For
Natascia and Vanessa
Benjamin and Isabel
* family *
Contents
1
Malone felt distinctly uncomfortable at this big table in this big house, but no one would have known it; he had the relaxed air of a veteran police officer on the take. Of the eighteen people at dinner ten were family; the Huxwood family in itself was enough to intimidate any outsider. Added to them were the State Premier and his wife; a business tycoon and his wife; and the guests of honour, the British cabinet minister and his wife. Plus Malone himself and, the light at the far end of the table, his wife Lisa.
The cabinet minister’s wife, a large, good-looking woman who had once played goalkeeper or front row for Roedean, whatever that was and she hadn’t bothered to explain, was seated next to Malone. ‘My husband has never forgiven you for what you did to him all those years ago.’ She had a large voice which turned heads all the way down the table in her direction; it was said that she was the only woman in Britain who had been able to stop Baroness Thatcher when the latter was in full flow. ‘Isn’t that so, Ivor?’
Before Ivor could reply, Lady Huxwood looked at Malone; up till now she had virtually ignored him. ‘You arrested Mr Supple?’
‘No,’ said Supple hastily, before another scandal could be added to the long list of British cabinet indiscretions. ‘My wife exaggerates, Scobie. I only felt like that till I retired from cricket.’
‘Twelve years,’ said his wife. ‘A long time to be unforgiving.’
‘Not in this country,’ said the Premier, who had the scars in his back to prove it.
At the far end of the table, seated next to Lisa, Derek Huxwood was grinning evilly. ‘Twenty-two years ago,’ he explained to the other guests, ‘Ivor was one of the stars of the English Test team when they came out here on tour. In the match against New South Wales Scobie clean-bowled him for a duck first ball in each innings. The one and only time in his life that Ivor ever got a pair.’
Phillipa Huxwood favoured Malone with another look. ‘Now I understand why Derek invited you, Mr Malone. I had no idea who you were.’
Derek’s mother was in her seventies and from infancy had been treading on other people’s feelings. Bone-thin, her once-patrician looks had deteriorated into gauntness, but there were hints, like the odd leaves on a dying tree, of the beauty she had once been. Short-sighted but too vain to wear glasses and unable to tolerate contact lenses, she leaned close to everyone she spoke to, so that her unwitting insults had an extra impact. She was now examining Malone closely and he returned her gaze. He had been examined and insulted by the best of lawyers and criminals.
‘Are you still cricketing? You look much too old for that.’
‘I retired years ago. I’m a police officer, a detective-inspector in Homicide.’
Nigel Huxwood, seated halfway down the table, put his head forward, said in his English voice, ‘Homicide, really? In the UK I played detectives in several films, half a dozen times on television. Producers thought I had that unflappable look. I’m just as flappable in real life as the rest of us. Except Derek, of course,’ he said and looked sideways across the table at his brother, a theatrical look that convinced Malone that Nigel must have been a bad actor. Or a bad detective.
At the head of the table Sir Harry, all famous distinction and charm, smiled at Lisa. ‘What’s it like being married to a policeman, Mrs Malone?’
Lisa had been asked that question so many times, but she paused now as if hearing it for the first time. ‘Boring. And worrying. But it’s what my husband wants to do ...’ She smiled down the table at Malone, telling him, Let’s go home before I commit homicide on this crowd. They could read each other’s eyes where others saw only blank stares. ‘Does Lady Huxwood enjoy your being a newspaper publisher?’
‘I’ve never asked her,’ he said, still smiling; he was a constantly good-humoured man, or gave the impression of being one. He raised his voice, repeating the question to his distant wife.
‘Of course!’ She sounded indignant at being asked. ‘All wives should enjoy what their husbands do. I’m no damned feminist!’ She glared around the table, daring any feminist to speak up; but there were no takers. ‘What about you, Enid? Do you enjoy being the Premier’s wife?’
Mrs Bigelow jumped, surprised that her opinion might count; she was a tiny blonde with a lovely smile that she seemed afraid to display. She smiled now, weakly: ‘I’m just background. It’s where I like to be.’ Then her smile brightened as she turned it on her husband, but he just scowled.
‘What about you, Beatrice? You enjoy politics, don’t you?’
Beatrice Supple, whether she enjoyed politics or not, knew how to handle dragons like Lady Huxwood; Britain, or anyway England, had its share