Autumn Maze. Jon Cleary
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He led Clements back into the other half of the apartment. The silvertails, some seated, some still standing, all turned at once, all, it seemed to Malone, on the defensive. Zanuch’s face was the only one that showed neutral.
The two detectives were introduced by the AC; there was a formality about it, almost as if this were some sort of social gathering. ‘I don’t think you two ladies need to be interviewed. This is Mrs Casement and Mrs Aldwych, they are Mrs Sweden’s sisters.’
‘We’ll stay.’ Ophelia Casement was familiar to Malone now that he saw her close-up. His two daughters, Claire and Maureen, made a mockery each week of the social pages of the Sunday newspapers; they would measure the amount of dental display at functions, supposedly sane people grinning like idiots at the camera, and occasionally would show him the results. Mrs Casement, it seemed, was a standard feature in the makeup of every social page. But even at a glance Malone knew she was no idiot. ‘Rosalind needs us here.’
‘Of course,’ said Rosalind Sweden from where she sat on a long couch.
‘We’ve always supported each other,’ said Juliet Aldwych.
Ophelia, Rosalind, Juliet: Malone hadn’t read Shakespeare since he had left school, but he remembered the names. Once, aged thirteen and going to an all-boys’ school, he had been forced to play Ophelia in a school production; his voice had been breaking then and he had alternated between an alto and baritone rendering of her speeches. As he dimly remembered it, at least two of the Shakespeare girls had been hard done by; none of these three looked the worse for wear. Ophelia, he guessed, was the eldest, in her mid-forties, still beautiful and aware of it. Rosalind would be the middle one, four or five years younger, bearing a remarkable resemblance to her elder sister. Juliet was the youngest, in her mid-thirties perhaps, dark-haired where her sisters were blonde. They were a very handsome trio, as sure of themselves as money and beauty could make them. He wondered what lay behind the facades, behind the years past.
‘How are we going to do this, Inspector?’ That was Rufus Tucker, the Minister’s press secretary. Malone had known him when he had been a scruffy young crime reporter; now he was twenty kilos heavier, he had groomed himself just as minders groomed their rough-edged masters, he was a smooth-whistling whale in a three-piece suit. He had the reputation of slapping down smaller fish who tried to bait his master. ‘I think it would be best if you just spoke to the Minister alone.’
From the moment he had entered the apartment Malone had been manipulated. Ordinarily he would have spoken to each person alone, but the old perversity took hold: ‘No, we’ll take everybody together.’ He had to shut his mouth before the runaway tongue added, The more the merrier. Thinking like the fast bowler he had once been, he bowled a bean ball, no fooling around looking for a length: ‘Did your son mention to you that he was having trouble with anyone, Mr Sweden?’
Sweden had composed himself, almost as if he were facing a television camera; he was a regular guest on 7.30 Report, where politicians came and went like store dummies, on exhibition but never saying anything. He had been in politics long enough to appreciate that, when faced with the inevitable, you took the shortest course home, even if it was crooked. ‘No, not at all. He was, I think anyone will tell you, a very popular, hard-working young man.’ He appealed to his wife and sisters and the three women nodded like a wordless Greek chorus. Though, of course, these were three girls who had risen out of the chorus. ‘If my son was murdered, as you seem to suspect, I have no idea who would have done it. None at all.’
‘Unless it was someone who broke in?’ said Rosalind. ‘It’s happening all the time these days.’
Malone glanced at Clements. It was an old ploy: keep changing the bowling, keep the batsman off balance. He still thought in cricket terms, though he no longer played the game. Clements said, ‘There’s no sign of forced entry, Mrs Sweden.’
‘Rob could have opened the door, expecting someone else.’
‘They still would’ve had to get in through the security door downstairs. The night doorman doesn’t mention any visitor for your stepson.’ Clements looked at the list Kagal had given him. ‘There was a visitor for you, Mrs Casement. You live here?’
‘We have the penthouse,’ said Ophelia Casement, making it sound as if she and her husband lived above the clouds, up where the hoi polloi never reached; Malone saw a slight smile on the face of Juliet, the youngest sister. ‘We may have had a visitor, I’m not sure. I was out, but my husband was home. People from his office often drop by at odd hours. It’s just across the road there.’
She nodded west, towards the end of the long curved glass wall; the vertical edge of the tall Casement building showed there like a sun-reflecting border. A jigsaw was falling into place in Malone’s mind. He was not ignorant of the men and money that ran this city, but homicide detectives rarely, if ever, had to sort out the skeins of power.
‘Rob liked girls.’ Juliet had a throaty voice. To Clements, a late-night movie fan, she sounded like the crop of actresses out of old British movies, when they all tried to sound like Joan Greenwood. To Malone, a man with a biased ear, she sounded phoney. ‘Perhaps one of them came here and brought someone? A boyfriend followed her?’
Rob was told he was never to bring girls unless we were here.’ Rosalind sounded like a headmistress.
‘I’m sorry, Inspector—’ Juliet made a poor attempt at looking innocent. ‘I’m playing detective. Forgive me?’
‘The doorman says he didn’t let in any visitors for Mr Sweden. But we think Mr Sweden must’ve been expecting someone.’
‘What makes you think that?’ The Minister’s voice was sharp.
‘Detective Kagal has interviewed your maid. She says your son gave her fifty dollars to go to the movies. We think he wanted her out of the way.’
‘Fifty dollars to go to the movies?’ Ophelia made it sound as if, up in the penthouse, she added up the housekeeping money every night.
‘Rob was generous, you know that,’ said Rob’s father, his voice still sharp. ‘Money didn’t mean anything to him, easy come, easy go.’
‘He was generous to a fault,’ said Rob’s stepmother, the sound of violins in her voice, and Malone waited for honey to run down the walls. It struck him that though Derek Sweden was upset by his son’s death, the three women and Rufus Tucker appeared to be labouring to show any real grief.
‘What did your son do, Mr Sweden?’
‘He was a broker on the Futures Exchange – or he was up till a few weeks ago. He worked for a brokerage office owned by my brother-in-law, Mr Casement. A few weeks ago he transferred to Casement Trust, the merchant bank side of the corporation.’
Malone nodded as if he understood; but he would have to ask Russ Clements, the human data bank, to explain what futures brokers did. Russ, he knew, would also almost certainly know what Cormac Casement did. ‘Mrs Aldwych mentioned that he liked girls. Did he have a regular girlfriend?’
‘No,’ said the stepmother. Rosalind was as composed as her two sisters, but whereas the other two were relaxed in their chairs, she sat stiffly, even primly, on the long couch. She wore a simple black woollen dress, as if already prepared for the funeral, but the double strand of pearls lying on her full bosom suggested she might also be prepared for lunching out. ‘He preferred to play the field. He had no difficulty in getting girls to go out with him. He was a very handsome boy.’ She looked at her husband, then suddenly smiled; it was so unexpected, Malone wondered if what had gone before was no more than an act. ‘Your looks, darling.’
Her two sisters nodded in agreement; Sweden looked unembarrassed. Then Tucker glanced at his watch, a large old-fashioned gold hunter that he had taken from his waistcoat pocket. ‘Minister, I think we’d better be going—’
Sweden looked distracted; there was no doubt his shock and grief were genuine. But he would never let himself fall apart; he was not called The Armadillo as a joke, his crust could