Bear Pit. Jon Cleary
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lobby Malone said, ‘Let’s go across the road and look at that place – the Sewing Bee?’
They crossed the road with the traffic lights. Traffic was six deep across the roadway stretching back several hundred metres; a drive-by, random shooting in this congestion was not even a theory. They walked up to the row of shops opposite the huge block of Olympic Tower. The footpath still had its late-night crowd, mostly young; groups moving slowly with arrogance and loud voices, challenging with their shoulders, high on group courage. One of them shouldered Clements, an oldie, and the big man grabbed him and swung him round.
He shoved his badge in the youth’s face. ‘You wanna try that again, son? Just you and me, not your army?’
The youth was as tall as Clements, but half his weight. He wore a baseball cap, peak backwards: it seemed to accentuate the blankness of his face. He had stubbled cheeks and chin and a mouth hanging open with shock. His big eyes flicked right and left, but he was getting no support from his six companions. They had no respect for the police badge, but Clements, despite his age (Jesus, he must be middle-aged!), looked big and dangerous.
At last the youth said, ‘Sorry, mate. I slipped.’
‘We all do that occasionally,’ said Malone. ‘Let him go, Assistant Commissioner. He’s only young and not very bright.’
Clements let go the youth and walked on beside Malone. ‘Assistant Commissioner?’
‘You think kids are impressed by a senior sergeant? He’ll live for a week on how he tried to push an assistant commissioner out of the way.’
‘I hope none of the seven Assistant Commissioners get to hear of it.’
The entrance to the rooms above the shops was between a pinball parlour and a shabby coffee lounge. They climbed the narrow stairs and came to a long lighted corridor that ran along the back of the half a dozen offices. They passed the Quick Printery; R. Heiden, Watch & Jewelry Repairs; and Internet Sexual Therapy. They came to the open door of the Sewing Bee.
The alterations centre had two rooms side by side, both with windows opening on to George Street. Sam Penfold and Norma Nickles were in the main room with a woman with close-cropped hair and a belligerent expression, as if she blamed the police for breaking into her establishment.
‘This is Mrs Rohani, the owner,’ said Penfold. ‘We called her and she’s come in from Kensington.’
‘Anything stolen?’ Malone asked.
‘Yes!’ Mrs Rohani had a softer voice than Malone had expected; breathy, as if every word had to be forced out. ‘He took my strongbox, twelve hundred dollars. Out of my desk. He forced the drawer open.’
Malone scanned the room. Clothes hung on long racks, queues from which the flesh-and-blood had been squeezed; dresses, jackets and trousers waiting to see The Invisible Man. There were four sewing machines, all with that abandoned look that equipment gets when its operators have gone home. On a wall was a big blow-up of a Vogue cover, circa 1925, like a faded icon.
Malone looked back at Penfold. ‘Any prints on the desk?’
Penfold in turn looked at Norma Nickles, who said, ‘There are prints everywhere, but I dunno whether they are his. Mrs Rohani has four girls working here and clients come in all day, men as well as women.’
She was a slim, blond girl who looked even slimmer in the dark blue police blouson and slacks. She had been a ballet dancer and occasionally she had a slightly fey look to her, as if adrift on Swan Lake. But she could gather evidence like a suction pump and Malone knew that Sam Penfold prized her as one of his team.
‘I’ve come up with something on that window-sill, though. A distinctive print and Mrs Rohani remembers the man it belongs to.’ She led Malone to the window, pointed to the sill that had been powdered. ‘Four fingers, the tip of the third finger missing – he must of leaned on the sill as he looked out. Mrs Rohani remembers him being interested in looking across at Olympic Tower, though she says he wasn’t the first and he probably won’t be the last.’
Malone turned back to the owner. ‘What was he like? When did he come in?’
“Three – no, four days ago. Man about forty, my height, on the stout side but not much. That was why he was here, wanted his pants taken out. Brought ’em in last week—’ She took a puffer out of her handbag, sucked on it. She was an asthmatic: the situation had taken the breath out of her. She put the puffer away, went on, ‘He came in four days ago to pick ’em up. Both times he walked across to the window, said how much he admired Olympic Tower. Said he used to be an architect. If he was, he couldn’t of been too successful. His pants were fifty-five dollars off the rack at Gowings. People come in here, I know more about ’em than the census-taker.’
Malone wondered what she thought of him in the Fletcher Jones blazer and polyester-and-wool trousers bought at a sale, his usual shopping time, three hundred dollars the lot, free belt and socks. Did she guess he turned lights out when people were not using them, just lying there, thinking?
‘We’ll need a list of all your clients for the past month,’ said Clements.
Mrs Rohani looked dubious. ‘Ooh, I dunno. I’ve got some prominent people, they come in here, they don’t want it known they’re having alterations. You know, their hips have spread, the men’s bellies have got bigger –’
‘I’ll know where to come,’ said Clements. ‘But in the meantime we need that list. We don’t put confidential information on the Internet –’
‘Women as well as men clients?’
‘Everyone. Their names and addresses. Particularly that man with the fingerprints on the window-sill.’
‘How long will it take you to trace him if he has form?’ Malone asked Penfold.
‘Once back at the computer, six minutes, anywhere in Australia.’
Malone, a technological idiot, marvelled at the way the world was going. ‘Remember the old days?’
Then his pager buzzed. ‘May I use your phone, Mrs Rohani?’
He crossed to the phone on a nearby desk, dialled Homicide. He listened to Andy Graham, the duty officer, then hung up and looked at Clements and the other two officers.
‘The Premier’s dead. He died twenty minutes ago on the operating table.’
Mrs Rohani took out her puffer again, sucked hard on it. Malone had a sudden feeling that air had been sucked out of the city.
1
Claire rang next morning at 7.15. ‘I’ve just heard the news on the radio. The Premier – it’s unbelievable!’
‘It’s a shock,’ said Malone, but didn’t sound as if it was too much of a shock. He was not callous, but he had grown accustomed to murder and the circumstances of it. ‘It’s going to shake things up a bit.’
‘Is it what!’ Then she said, and he caught the cautious note in her voice: ‘Are you on the case?’
‘Yes. Why?’ She said nothing and he got impatient with her: ‘Come on, Claire! Why are you asking?’
‘Haven’t I always asked?’
Women! Daughters and wives in particular: ‘Don’t start sounding like your mother –’
Lisa came down the hallway, paused and gave him the look that only wives and long-time lovers can conjure up. He put his hand over the mouthpiece.
‘It’s your daughter –’
‘I gathered that. Why is she sounding like me?’
He waved her on; not dismissively,