Bear Pit. Jon Cleary
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have seats for all the main events at the stadium.’ Gail glanced at Malone in the rear-vision mirror. ‘My father bought them. He said we’re to be one hundred per cent, dinky-di Aussies for two weeks.’
‘I’m one of the fifty thousand volunteer helpers,’ said August.
‘Doing what?’ Shooting whoever is on the official dais on opening day? Malone, against reason, was becoming irritated by August’s apparent lack of concern.
‘Helping the disabled. Getting them seated, things like that. I like volunteer work. I do Meals on Wheels in my van once a week.’
Are we bringing in the wrong bloke? But you had to start somewhere and this man was the only one with a record. Malone made no comment and they drove the rest of the way to Strawberry Hills in silence. As they rode up in the lift to Homicide’s offices August said, ‘You’re making a mistake, you know.’
‘We sometimes do, John. But once we’ve eliminated them, we usually come up with the right answer.’
‘Are there any reporters here?’
‘We don’t encourage them.’
‘Do me a favour? After I’ve convinced you I know nothing about all this, don’t let them know you’ve had me in here. I want to protect Lynne and her day-care centre.’
Gail took August into one of the interview rooms and Malone went into his office to see what was on his desk. Clements followed him.’ Why’d you bring him back here instead of taking him to Police Centre and the incident room?’
‘Because that’s where the media are hanging out. I don’t want them asking questions or guessing till we’ve got something definite.’
‘He admitted anything?’
‘Nothing. Anything further come in?’
‘We double-checked the Sewing Bee list, everyone on it has been interviewed. He’s the only one with form, if you exclude Charlie Hassett.’
‘He’s on the list?’
“Three uniforms being let out at the seams. He’s already been on to me. If I let it slip to the media, he’s demoting me to probationary constable … There’s more come in from Victoria on August. One of those acquittals he got was for attempted murder – his first wife’s boyfriend. What’s he like?’
‘He’s a carpenter and handyman, that’s his trade. In his spare time he does Meals on Wheels.’
‘Holding a gun at their heads to make ’em eat it?’ Then he smiled sourly. ‘Why am I so cynical about reformed crims?’
‘Has anyone been down to Trades Congress headquarters?’
‘With the crowd we’ve got working on this, you can bet someone’s been down there. But nothing’s come through on the computer yet.’
‘Ring Greg Random, tell him to tell everyone to lay off. That is for you and me soon’s I finish with our friend inside.’
He went out to the interview room. August sat comfortably on one side of the table and Gail sat opposite him. The room was sparsely furnished: table, four chairs and the video recorder. August gestured at it, casually:
‘You gunna turn that on?’
‘Not unless you want us to.’ Malone sat down. ‘We’ll do that if we decide to charge you.’
‘What with?’
‘Murder of the Premier.’
August looked around him, as if looking for an audience for this comedy. Then he sat forward, suddenly serious. A strand of the thinning hair had fallen forward and he pushed it back.
‘Inspector Malone, I’m not a murderer –’
‘You tried to murder your first wife’s boyfriend.’
August waved a curt hand. ‘The jury didn’t think so. We had a stoush, a fight over a gun, his gun, not mine, and it went off.’
Malone couldn’t contradict this; he hadn’t read the transcript of the trial. Perhaps he should have done a little more homework. ‘What did you feel when he got the bullet and you didn’t?’
‘Glad. What would you feel? The guy was sleeping with my wife … Let’s get down to why you think I murdered Mr Vanderberg. Because I’ve got form? I’ve had none for the last nine years, I’m clean –’ He folded his hands together, looked down at them. ‘I came up here, changed my name, made a new start. I met Lynne, we hit it off and I moved in with her … You’ve got nothing on me, Inspector, except my past.’
‘Where were you last night around eleven o’clock?’ asked Gail.
‘Home.’ Then he smiled wryly. ‘Alone. Lynne was at some parents’ meeting and didn’t get home till midnight. Earlier, I’d been up at Lane Cove town hall, a meeting on aged care. More volunteering …’He smiled again; he could not have been more relaxed. ‘I got home around ten, waited up for Lynne and we went to bed, I dunno, twelve-thirty, around then.’
‘What did you do between getting home at ten and Lynne’s arrival? Watch television?’
He smiled again; he was not cocky, but there was a growing confidence. ‘You don’t catch me like that, Constable. No, I rarely watch TV after ten o’clock. I read, old crime thrillers – d’you read crime novels?’
‘No,’ said Gail.
‘I do – occasionally,’ said Malone. ‘What did you read last night?’
‘Elmore Leonard, one of his early ones.’
‘Which one?’ asked Malone, who always read Leonard.
‘I can never remember titles.’
‘Try, John.’
The smile now was fixed. ‘Switch, that was it. The one about the guy on the toilet that’s got a bomb attached to the seat – if he stands up, he’s a goner. Very funny. Embarrassing, too.’
‘That was Freaky Deaky. I’d have thought you’d remember a title like that.’
‘I told you, I’m no good at titles. For years I thought I’d read The Maltese Pigeon.’
‘Nice joke, John, but let’s be serious. We’d like a look at your bank account and Mrs Masson’s.’
‘Why?’
‘The price for knocking off the Premier wouldn’t have been small change. The hitman might’ve been paid in cash, people don’t write cheques for those sort of jobs. The hitman would have to deposit it somewhere. He wouldn’t cart fifty thousand around in a brown paper-bag –’
‘Fifty thousand?’ He seemed genuinely interested in the amount. ‘You think that’s what he got?’
‘Maybe more. I don’t know the price for political assassination – it may be more, much more. Do you need money, John?’
‘Who doesn’t? But I wouldn’t kill anyone for it.’ He was still calm, still unoffended.
Malone so far had no doubts; but he had no conviction, either. An open mind did not mean it was non-adhesive: fragments occasionally stuck that gave a hint of a recognizable picture. At the moment it was like trying to paint a picture on water.
‘Why would I kill Hans Vanderberg? I voted for him in the last election. I’d do the same at the next. He was sly and conniving and half the time you didn’t believe what he said, but he got things done.’
‘Who’d you vote as? John June?’ asked Gail.
‘Yes. The Electoral Commission can’t always check on whether you are who say you are. They were satisfied I was an honest citizen – which I am.’
‘But