Babylon South (36 page)

He went home to Lisa, who had no venom, who would never succumb to masochism, not even if she were chained and whipped. He kissed her passionately, and the children, who had come silently (for a change) in the door, stood and looked at them.

“Terrific!” said Maureen. “Just like Kathleen Turner and William Hurt in
Body Heat.
It was on TV the other night.”

Malone and Lisa drew apart. Malone said, “How did you see that movie? You were supposed to
be
in bed.”

“We sat out in the hall,” said Claire, nudging her sister for giving the game away. “We kept very quiet and you didn't know.”

“I was asleep,” said Tom, hoping for some reward.

“Anyhow,” said Maureen, “what are you kissing Mum like that for?”

“Is there a law against it?”

“No-o. But it's not—
decent,
parents kissing like that.”

“Is that what the nuns teach you at Holy Spirit?” He looked at Lisa. “Take „em away from that school the end of the week. I don't want my married life ruined by celibate nuns.”

“What's celibate mean?” said Tom, who would be sure to ask one of the nuns tomorrow.

Claire, the sophisticate, said, “It means they don't—”

“Never mind what it means,” said Lisa. “Wash your hands for dinner. And no educational talks while you're in the bathroom, understand?”

“You're not a modern parent,” said Claire.

“And ain't you lucky I'm not. Now get!”

Oh, and ain't I lucky, thought Malone. He put his arm round Lisa's waist and followed her into the kitchen. “I think I'll retire. Just stay at home with you and be indecent.”

“Another bad day?” She recognized the signs.

“I had a peek into someone's private life today. I didn't enjoy it.”

“Want to tell me about it?”

“No, I want to forget it—at least till tomorrow. What's for supper?”

“Fish casserole. And trifle—it's Tom's favourite. I think he gets drunk on the spoonful of sherry in it.”

He kissed the back of her neck, not passionately but still lovingly. “How's your body heat tonight?”

“I've got a headache.” She smiled, kissed him in return. “You're out of luck. I've got my
period.”

“I'll see you at the weekend then. We'll send the kids to Tibooburra.”

IV

He rang Venetia at 7.45 the following morning, apologizing for the early call.

“Don't let it worry you, Inspector—and I'm sure it won't. You're lucky I'm an early riser. Why do you want to see me? Is it about my daughter?”

“No, it's about your husband.”

The line was silent for a long moment, then she said, “I think you'd better come here, instead of to my office.”

He drove over to Mosman, edging his way over the Cahill Expressway and across the Harbour Bridge in the peak-hour traffic, and by the time he pulled into Springfellow Avenue he was not in a good mood. He was not a man who was prone to bad moods, he was too even-tempered for those. But everyone has a liver and his, like everyone else's, sometimes took in the wrong juices.

The security guard let him in the gates and Mrs. Leyden let him in the front door. She had reverted to her original stony-faced self; he was the enemy again. She led him out to the sun-room beyond the drawing-room, where Venetia was waiting for him. He was glad to see that Justine was not present.

“My daughter has gone to report to the local police station. We'll be alone, Inspector. I take it that's what you wanted?”

She was not antagonistic this morning; she was wary but pleasant. She was dressed in her usual pink and grey, ready for the office. He wondered if, here at home, she ever changed into other colours.

He sat down facing her. They were both in deep lounge chairs in pastel floral covers, a glass coffee-table between them; facing south, the room did not get the morning sun, but out beyond the big picture window a bank of red azaleas glowed like a coke fire in the bright day. Mrs. Leyden brought them coffee. It was all very homey in a rich way that he could never afford.

Venetia crossed her Fogal-clad legs, the shimmering silk highlighting their graceful shape.
“
What do you want to know about my husband?”

He came straight to the point. Beating about the bush with women is profitless for men; women are mistresses of the art. “It's about you, Lady Springfellow, that I want to know.”

Her expression didn't change. “Go on.”

“A man came here, a young man with an accent, he came here on the Thursday before Sir Walter disappeared. Who was he?”

“You expect me to remember that?”

“Yes.” Bluntly.

Her expression still didn't change. “Do you mind telling me who told you the young man came here?”

For the moment he wanted to protect Mrs. Dyson; he didn't want her pension and her living in the retirement home suddenly taken away from her. “We've read Emma's diaries. She spoke to him out in the street before he came in here.”

Her expression did change now; she said sourly, “Emma never missed much.”

“No, it would seem so. She didn't miss the fact that when he came out of this house he was carrying a briefcase that he hadn't had when he came in. I presume you gave him the briefcase.” She nodded. “What was in it?”

“Emma didn't know that?” she said sarcastically.

“No. But I think I know. There was cash, quite a lot of it.”

She frowned, waited a moment before she said, “I think I can guess where you got that information. Why did you have to go worrying that old woman?”

“Because we were getting nowhere with you or the rest of the Springfellows. I hope you're not going to take it out on Mrs. Dyson?”

“I like to think I'm not vindictive, Inspector. No, Mrs. Dyson will still be all right. I have a debt to her, for my husband's sake, and I'll continue to pay it.”

He warmed to her a little for that thought. “I'm glad to hear it.”

“
I'll be better off than Mrs. Dyson, but I'm not looking forward to being old. Are you?”

“No.”

She had softened and he was looking at her now with a different eye. She was a remarkably good-looking woman and there was a sensuality about her that he hadn't noticed before. She was wearing some sort of knit dress that clung to every curve of her body; she still had the sort of body that could wear such a dress. He began to understand why she might have had so many lovers; it was not the scent of her money that drew so many men into her bed. He knew her age from her entry in
Who's Who:
she was forty-seven. Twenty years ago he would have thought of her as practically an old crone, dried out and way past sex. Now he remembered the title of an old book:
In Praise of Older Women . . .
He might delicately discuss the subject some time with Lisa. Then, on a quick second thought, he decided he had better not.

She was aware of his look and the hint of a smile turned up one corner of her mouth. “You look to me like the sort of man who will age gracefully, Mr. Malone. A lot of men don't.”

He grinned, unembarrassed, “lf I do, it'll be because of my wife's influence.”

“That's a charming thought.” Now it was her turn to look with a different eye. This policeman had more to him than his badge and the authority of the law.

Malone saw the conversation going down a side-track; he wrenched it back. “I think we had better get back to the young man. Who was he? Was he a Russian named Alexis Uritzsky?”

She was surprised at that. “How did you know?”

“I have a very patient young detective-constable working for me. Did you pay him any money?”

It was a moment before she said, “Yes.”

“How much?”

“Five thousand pounds.”

“That was a lot of money in those days. How did you give it to him?”

“As I remember, I'm not sure, it was in fifty-pound notes. I had them waiting for him in the briefcase.”

“Yours or your husband's?”

“
Mine.”

He was disappointed. “I thought it might have been the one we found, with your husband's initials on it. Did you give Uritzsky anything else?”

She was puzzled. “Anything else? Such as?”

“The Colt .45 that went missing from the gun cabinet at that time.”

Every muscle in her face and body seemed to stiffen. “Just what does that mean?”

Malone hesitated, aware that he was out on a limb. “I think I'd better warn you at this stage, Lady Springfellow. If you don't want to say any more without your lawyer being present, you're quite within your rights.”

“I know that.” Her voice harshened; it was her fighting voice. “I think it better that you and I settle this between us, Inspector.”

He paused, then shrugged. “Righto, we'll play it that way if you prefer. But I have warned you—I hope you'll remember that when the time comes.”

“When what time comes?”

“When I may have to charge you.” He knew he was on dangerous ground here; he could ruin everything by being impatient. Yet he felt he would get more out of her being alone with her than with a lawyer present. He began to suspect she had a certain honesty or frankness, call it what you like, that she couldn't deny.

She was looking at him now as an opponent. He became aware of a certain sexual tension between them; he knew it could happen. Danger could heighten the sex in some people; not everyone's blood ran cold with fear. “What will you charge me with?”

“Conspiracy to murder.”

She tilted her head at that, almost comically. “To murder my husband? You're out of your head!”

“Maybe. You still haven't told me why you paid Uritzsky five thousand pounds.”

She relaxed a little; or at least the stiffness seemed to go out of her body. “He was blackmailing
me.”

“What about?”

She said cautiously, “How much of this will go into your official report?”

“I'm promising nothing.” They had stopped calling each other by name: they had reached a degree of intimacy, almost that of lovers.

She looked out of the window, then she shrugged, as if she knew some things were unavoidable. “Things catch up with you, don't they?”

“You mean the past? Yes, it does.” Had she talked with John Leeds about this?

“Mr. Uritzsky had some photos of me. Not in bed with someone, but they were incriminating enough. I didn't want the other person hurt.”

“Mr. Leeds?”

She looked sharply at him; pain flashed across her face. “How did you know about him?”

“He's talked to me. I'm trying to protect him, too.” Then he wondered if he should have told her that.

She had folded her hands in her lap, a demure pose if one could think of her as demure. She looked down at them, then back up at him. “He was my husband's closest friend. Walter didn't have many friends, lots of acquaintances but few friends. John Leeds was the closest of them. Do you look at other women?”

The question was so sudden it caught him off-balance; but he recovered: “Yes. I guess every man does.”

“But you don't go any further?”

“No.”

She smiled, but not maliciously. “Most men would have said yes, even if they didn't—it's that stupid macho thing. Unfortunately—what's your first name?”

“Scobie.”

“Scobie. That's unusual. Unfortunately, Scobie, I'm not, never was, as decent as you. I was very
attracted
to John Leeds—I might have been in love with him, I'm not sure. My husband was away in Melbourne five days a week . . . No, I'm only making excuses.” She made a gesture with her hands, as if she were throwing something away. She looked directly at him, then said, “I like men, Scobie, that's the simple truth. I'm not a nympho, at least I don't think so. I liked John Leeds better than any of them.”

He had had women make confessions to him before; he had just not expected her to be so confiding. “Better than your husband?”

Her gaze didn't waver. “Yes.”

None of this can go into any report, he thought; not even to Lisa in the privacy of our bed. “When you gave Uritzsky the five thousand, what happened then? Did he give you the photos?”

“Yes. I burned them.”

“Did he give you any negatives?”

“I insisted on those. I burned them, too.”

“As far as you know, he hadn't been to see your husband?”

She hesitated, then said, “He'd been in touch with him. I don't know whether it was on the phone or whether they actually met. My husband brought up the subject when he came back from Melbourne on the Friday night. We had a dreadful row. He moved into another bedroom over that weekend.”

“He knew about John Leeds?”

Again she hesitated, as if the memory was painful. “No, fortunately.”

“What about the gun?”

“I don't know anything about it. I didn't even know it was missing till the ASIO men came here and started poking about.”

“They
did their own investigating? Not the Commonwealth Police or our own fellers? I came here with Inspector Zanuch—”

“Did you? You must have been very young—I don't remember you.” She smiled apologetically. “No, it was ASIO who went over everything. I suppose they thought it was their responsibility, with
Walter
being their boss. They asked me about the gun, but I couldn't tell them anything.” She looked directly at him again. She put her hands on the arms of her chair and leaned forward. “I'm telling you the truth, Scobie. I didn't murder my husband.”

He didn't move, not shortening the distance between them; he could smell her perfume, could still feel the sexual tension.
I look, but I don't go any further
. . . “Then Uritzsky must have killed him of his own accord. You may be lucky that he never came back for more money.”