he was the one told me I had the job. But the Old Lady – I mean Lady Huxwood, I think she had a say in it –’ He gave another smile, an old lady’s favourite.
‘Righto, Dwayne. Can we have your home address, just in case?’
‘I have that,’ said Kate Arletti.
Harod looked at her in surprise, then said, ‘I might be moving from there soon, now I’ve got a job. Is that all you want?’
Malone told him that was all they wanted for the time being and he and Kate walked away, going round the northern corner and coming out on the wide lawn that ran down to the water’s edge. There were no cruising cameramen today, the invasion had been put on hold.
‘What d’you think, Kate?’
‘He’s pretty cheerful, isn’t he?’
‘That’s what I thought. He said the news of the murder when he heard it on the radio floored him, but he seems to have picked up pretty quick. He’s got over his virus, too.’
‘He didn’t mention the murder again. He also didn’t mention Sir Harry once by name.’
Malone nodded. The girl was learning to develop a police ear, to hear what was unsaid as much as what was said. ‘Don’t cross him off our list, we’ll get back to him. Now who’s next?’
‘If you want to see the grandkids, there’s probably only one of them home – he’s a uni student. All the others have jobs.’
‘In the company?’
‘Only three of them. The youngest, Ross, Derek’s son, is doing economics at Sydney. He’s one of the rebels, a real tearaway, I’m told.’
Malone sighed. ‘I love tearaways. They’re a real pain in the butt. Righto, let’s see if he’s home.’
Ross Huxwood was home, sunning himself on the terrace of Little House One with his mother Cordelia. He was a big lad, taller than Malone and bulkier, most of it muscle though there was a hint of beer fat round his middle; Malone had seen scores like him around the rugby clubs and the better watering holes, the elite of ockerism. He was blond and good-looking in a beefy way, his cheeks and jaw too heavy, his wide mouth sullen. But he had been taught to be polite: he stood up as Malone and Kate Arletti came up on to the terrace.
‘Ah, the lady detective! Mum –’
Cordelia must have been dozing behind her dark glasses. Her head jerked and she sat up on the lounge where she had been stretched out. She was in a sleeveless yellow sun-dress and her son was in a tight pair of blue shorts. So far, it seemed, the mourning weeds were still in the wardrobe.
‘Oh Scobie! Or do I have to call you Inspector? Do sit down. You too, Miss – ?’
‘Detective-Constable Arletti.’ Kate’s voice was chill.
Cordelia lowered her dark glasses to look at Kate over the top of them; but she said nothing. The two detectives sat down at a wrought-iron table under a blue umbrella. Ross, at his mother’s command, went away to get coffee and Malone said, ‘I think we’d better keep it on an official basis, Mrs Huxwood.’
Cordelia looked disappointed; Malone wondered now if that was her normal expression. ‘Well, I suppose it’s to be expected ... Have you come up with anything? I don’t know how the police work – how would I? – but have you made any progress?’
‘Very little.’ He paused before he went on, ‘Except that we’ve heard there is a lot of tension in the family about the sell-off.’
‘Where did you hear that?’ she said sharply. ‘Over there?’ She nodded across the lawn towards the hedges that half-hid Little House Two.
He didn’t answer that directly: don’t point the finger. ‘We’ve had detectives here for the past twenty-four hours. Including Detective Arletti. How many people have you interviewed, Kate?’
‘At least a dozen, sir.’
‘So you see, Mrs Huxwood, the word is around about the sell-off.’
She said nothing, waited while her son came back, followed by the housekeeper with a tray. The housekeeper put the tray on the table between Malone and Kate, ignored them and spoke over their heads to Cordelia.
‘Will that be all, señora?’
She had a strong voice, thick with accent. She was middle-aged, big and square in build and face, dark-haired and with unflinching eyes. And self-contained: very self-contained, thought Malone. He and Kate Arletti might have been down at the water’s edge for all the notice she took of them.
‘That will be all, Luisa. Thank you.’
Still without a glance at the two detectives, the housekeeper returned to the house, her broad back dismissing them as of no account.
Malone looked at Kate. ‘Did you interview her?’
‘Yes. She doesn’t like police.’
‘Is she from the Big House?’ Malone asked the Huxwoods.
‘No.’ Ross was seated again in the sun, dark glasses on. Both he and his mother shone with sun-cream; streaks of light moved on him like silver worms. ‘She’s ours. She’s Spanish, she’s been with us since I was a kid.’
‘You didn’t get anything out of her?’ Cordelia looked at Kate, a hint of malice in her sweet voice.
‘I got enough,’ said Kate, tapping her notebook. ‘She’s in here. Even if she doesn’t like the police.’
‘Who does?’ said Ross, expressionless behind the shades.
‘That’s enough,’ said Cordelia, but her voice was as expressionless as his had been.
‘You have something against cops?’ said Malone.
The boy shrugged, the silver worms slid along his broad shoulders.
‘Did you like your grandfather?’
A bean-ball, but the boy didn’t flinch. ‘No.’
‘Did you dislike him enough to want him dead?’
‘Stop this!’ Cordelia snatched off her glasses, leaned forward as if she might strike Malone. Beside him Malone felt Kate Arletti tense and he wondered what she would do if Cordelia actually attacked him.
Malone ignored the mother, kept his eyes on the son. ‘Where were you the night before last, Ross?’
‘He was here, at home,’ said Cordelia.
But the boy proved to be the rebel Kate had said he was: ‘No, I wasn’t. Let’s stick to the truth, Mum. I spent the night at my girl friend’s.’
Cordelia turned her head away, looked for a moment as if she might get up and stalk away into the house. Malone said, ‘Her name?’
‘She’s Rosie Gilligan.’
Malone looked blank, but Kate, it seemed, was au fait with a wider world. ‘The fashion editor of the Chronicle?’
‘Yeah,’ said Ross and his mother turned back to give him a glare that was apparent even through the dark glasses.
‘How do you get on with your cousins, Ross?’
The boy shrugged again. Malone wondered what he himself had been like at twenty, though he didn’t think he could have been as ungracious and surly as this kid. But behaviour, like tastes, always looked different from another generation.
‘And with your brother and sister?’ Malone glanced at his notebook. ‘Colin and Alexandra?’
‘We’re a happy family,’ said Cordelia.
‘I was talking to your son, Mrs Huxwood ... Do you ever get together, Ross, you and your brother and sister and your cousins,