Babylon South (39 page)

Malone hedged. “Russ, you haven't made any secret of it. I don't know where he got it . . . Anyway, the judge put a stopper on it.”

“Too late.” Clements was sour and angry. “I saw the jury, especially those two dark-haired blokes, the one with the beard and the guy behind him. They're on Justine's side.”

“They don't look like rich yuppies. They're both in sweaters with no ties. Unless they're cashmere sweaters. I'll try and brush up against them tomorrow, let you know.”

Clements grinned, but it was an effort. “I have the feeling you're still holding out on me.”

“Maybe I'll tell you when it's all over. Just hang in there till then.”

“If Albemarle keeps at me along the lines he's gone today, you're gunna have to go in the box. He can't accuse you of prejudice.”

He would, if he only knew.

VII

Venetia and Alice, having run the gauntlet of the media outside the courthouse, were driven
home
to Mosman by Leyden in the Bentley. Both women were unnaturally quiet, though Alice looked calmer and more composed that her daughter. She had had no more emotional crises in her life than had Venetia, but she had had them earlier. She was the original flint from which Venetia had been chipped.

“I thought Joe Albemarle did a good job today,” she said after ten minutes of silence.

Venetia had been looking out of the window at the early peak-hour traffic. Crowds stood on street corners waiting impatiently for the lights to change; a young couple stood with their arms round each other, looking sad, absolutely alone in the crowded city. She was not selfish enough to think that none of those out there on the pavements or in the other slowly-moving cars had any problems; but even if they had all worn signs with the nature of their problems round their necks, it would have done nothing to lessen her anguish. One of her secretaries had once put a small sign on her desk in the outer office: it had said,
I complained because I had no shoes till I met a man who had no feet.
She had asked the secretary to remove the sign. One never knew when a footless man might come into the office.

“Joe will do his best. It's the jury I'm worried about. Four of them have already made up their minds, I think. They'll convict Justine.”

“Which four?”

Venetia identified them: two men and two women. “They're the ones who are making no notes. They'll just go on emotion.”

“I think I might do the same,” said Alice. “That's why I'd hate jury duty. Can we go and visit Justine out at Mulawa?”

“Only at the weekend.” She looked out of the window again, but this time could see nothing for tears. “God Almighty, who did kill Emma? Why don't they confess?”

Alice said nothing, just reached for her hand, something she couldn't remember doing in years. They were still mother and daughter, still able to confide in each other up to a point, but the time had long gone when Venetia had needed Alice's support and comfort. Now the need had come back again and Alice recognized it. But she offered no guess as to who had murdered Emma.

The Bentley turned in the big gates, the security guard touching his cap in an unconscious
parody
of a salute as they went past him. They pulled up in the driveway behind the green Porsche. “What's Michael doing here?”

“I hope he hasn't come to be sympathetic,” said Venetia. “He tried to hold my hand in court this morning.”

“He's a smarmy bastard,” said Alice. “I'll leave you alone with him.”

They went into the house and she went straight upstairs to her bedroom. Venetia paused to speak to Mrs. Leyden, who had come into the hallway. The housekeeper looked as if she had spent part of the day crying.

“How did it go?”

Venetia shook her head. “There's a long way to go yet, Liz. But Justine didn't look well.”

“How could she, out there at that place? I've been reading about it. It's full of—”

“Don't tell me. Is Mr. Broad out in the sun-room? Bring us some tea, please.”

She went through to the sun-room. It was far from the biggest and certainly not the grandest room in the house, but it was her favourite, even more so than her bedroom. It was called the sun-room, but it actually did not get the sun till late afternoon. Its view of her own garden and of the harbour beyond gave it its appeal. Here, she always felt relaxed, able to collect her thoughts. She had decided, in one morose moment, that this was where she would like to be when she died.

Broad was standing at the big window looking out at the garden, a glass of Scotch in his hand. “I helped myself. I needed it. You want one, too?”

“I'm having tea. Why are you here, Michael? I really want to be on my own.”

“I can understand that. But I had to bring some papers you have to sign. Things haven't come to a standstill because Justine is in court.” She looked hard at him at that, a look that slashed his throat. “I'm sorry, that was too blunt. I'm as upset as you are.”

She sat down, not forgiving him. “All right, what are the papers?”

He opened his briefcase, a Louis Vuitton item: certain appearances were still being kept up. “I've taken over Justine's Department for the time being. Those girls she collected around her aren't
competent
enough to run things on their own. They're nothing more than jumped-up secretaries.”

“I always knew you were a male chauvinist. You've managed to hide it up till now.”

“That was out of deference to you.” He tried a tentative smile, but got none in return. “Anyhow, things have to be tidied up. Justine has let too many things slide.”

“She's had a lot on her mind these past months. A murder charge, for instance. How would you keep your mind on things if you'd been facing the same charge?”

He put down the papers on the coffee-table. “I would never have got myself into that situation.”

She should have been angry at that remark, but all of a sudden she was too tired for real anger. “You're probably right. You're too cold-blooded. You'd never murder anyone, Michael. You'd help them commit suicide.”

He picked up the papers, his expression not changing. “Here's how things stand. The television network is in a hole, a big one.”

“That happened suddenly, didn't it? Thank you, Liz.” Mrs. Leyden had come in with the tea-tray. She put it on the table and went out without a word or a glance at Broad. “What's gone wrong? Is it Justine's fault?”

Justine had run the television and radio division of the corporation.

“Partly. But it's mostly yours. You paid far too much for the Channel 15 network.”

“You advised me on it.”

“You ignored my advice, remember? The network isn't taking in nearly enough to service our debt on it. The advertising dollar has dropped off 15 per cent in the last six months. We're bottom of the ratings.
Sydney Beat
has flopped here, after all the money we spent on it, and this week the Fox network cancelled it in the States.”

She took in all the bad news without flinching; it was nothing to the possibility of losing Justine for God knew how many years.
I complained because I had no shoes . . .
She knew she had been losing her grip since the day after Justine's arrest, her fingers slipping almost imperceptibly, like those of a climber on a cliff face. The only one on the rope who could save her was Michael Broad; and looking at him, she
knew
that he knew it . . . “What are the papers for?”

“I'm firing Roger Dircks—this is his golden handshake. I'm putting in one of my own men, an accountant. He'll cut the fat out of the network—it's almost as bad as the ABC—and then we'll see what we can do about improving the ratings.”

“Does Roger know he's being fired?”

“I told him this morning before I came to the court. He wilted—all the starch went out of his collar.” He tried another smile, but again there was no return.

She had reached the bottom of the cliff face, it seemed; she was sliding off into the sea. “You've really taken over, haven't you? Everything, I mean.”

He pushed the papers towards her, offered her his gold pen. “Someone had to, Venetia. Like Justine, you've had your mind on other things.”

Then she did smile, cold and hard. “You bastard, Michael.” But she took the pen and signed Roger Dircks out of a job and, probably, out of the television industry. She knew he had lasted far longer than his small talent warranted. “Anything more to sign? What other divisions are you now running?”

He handed her more papers. “As you said,
everything.
You can always fire me if I'm not doing things the way you want.”

She knew it was a challenge, but she was too weary to take it up now. And she knew that he knew that, too. She signed the remaining papers and went to hand back his pen. Then she withdrew it.

“No, I'll keep this for future signings. You can have it back when I take over control again.” It was a token challenge, but it was all she could muster at the moment. “Don't come to the court tomorrow, Michael. Just stay in the office and run everything.”

He wasn't sure whether she was being sarcastic or not; he played it straight, “I'll do that tomorrow. But if the trial goes on, I'll drop in occasionally. Just to show you I'm not all bastard.”

When he had gone she sat on in the sun-room. The westering sun struck slantwise across the room, casting shadows that fractured its brightness. She held up her arm and saw its shadow on the back of the chair opposite. She waved her hand limply: she had slipped off the last rock into the sea, it looked
like
the last desperate appeal of someone drowning.

Then Mrs. Leyden came to the door that led into the drawing-room. Behind her was a man standing in the shadows of the other room.

Mrs. Leyden was pale, obviously shaken. “Someone to see you, Lady Springfellow.”

The man stepped forward. He was tall, with steel-rimmed glasses, thinning grey hair and a neatly trimmed white beard.

“Hello, Venetia,” said Walter Springfellow.

11

I

“YOU HAD
better begin at the beginning,” said Alice Magee.

She had come downstairs when she had heard Michael Broad's Porsche drive away and she had been in the kitchen when there had been the ring at the front doorbell and Mrs. Leyden had gone to answer it. She had come out to the sun-room only moments after Walter had first spoken to Venetia.

Venetia had stood up when the vaguely familiar man had stepped out into the sunlit room. It was the voice that she recognized before the features; Walter had always had a distinctive voice about which he had been rather vain. It had not lost its timbre, though it did sound softer than she had remembered it.

She could feel herself trembling, though it was not apparent to either Walter or Alice. Mrs. Leyden had retreated to the far door of the drawing-room and stood there, ready to run for the security guard if he were needed. Walter made no move at all after his initial step into the sunlight. He just stood looking at her, an old man who could have been asking for forgiveness or comfort, she wasn't sure which. She took two steps towards him and put her arms round him, was shocked that all she felt beneath the tweed jacket was bones. He held her to him, but there seemed no strength in his arms; she felt him kiss her hair, but he went no further than that. Then she stepped away from him and looked past him at her mother.

“Do you believe it's him?”

“Of course,” said Alice matter-of-factly. She put out her hand. “Welcome back, Walter. Where the hell have you been?”

He smiled. Venetia, scrutinizing her husband back from the dead, was noticing every small
detail
about him. She saw that his teeth now were false, that his own, of which he had been so proud, had gone. The more she looked, the more she noticed how much of the old Walter was gone. The years, whatever had occurred during them, had smudged him.

“I've been in Germany ever since I left here. May I sit down? I'm rather tired after the flight. I'm not as young as I used to be.”

Alice looked over her shoulder at Mrs. Leyden still standing at the far door of the drawing-room. “Liz, bring us some fresh tea, please. Do you want something to eat, Walter?”

“Just tea, thank you.” He looked at the two women as they sat down opposite him. Alice was the least awkward of the three of them; but then she was not the deserted wife. Venetia had taken the chair next to Walter's; she was close enough to reach out for his hand, but she didn't. There was a huge gap between them that could not be closed in a hurry with a show of affection. Love, they both knew, had died long ago.

“I read about Justine's arrest. I saw it in
The Times
and the London
Daily Telegraph—I
used to get them every day in the small town in Germany where I lived. English newspapers only run the more sensational Australian news. As soon as I read it, I knew I'd have to come home sooner or later. I've never seen her, you know.”

Venetia, close by Walter, was now seeing beneath the surface of him. He looked ill, drained of substance; he who had once been so strong and healthy looked now as if he could be snapped in half. But then she felt that way herself, and she was not ill. It had taken some time for the reaction to his appearance to hit her; all at once she felt hollow, weightless, as if she were in a dream which neither frightened her nor made her happy. Walter had disappeared from her life all those years ago; months ago she had buried his bones. Now here he was, the bones and the flesh, frail though it was, sitting beside her, giving her a shadow of the once familiar smile that could appear so unexpectedly on that stern, handsome face. She had the bizarre feeling that her whole married life was about to be re-run and she knew she would not have the strength to sit it out.