Autumn Maze. Jon Cleary
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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