Babylon South (44 page)

“Right,” said Graham and led the charge out of the office.

The three of them were back before three o'clock. Malone, in the meantime, had got out his notes and the running sheet on the Emma Springfellow murder, had gone back over everything to see what he and Clements had missed in their investigation. Clements had been particularly thorough: he seemed to have questioned everyone who would have been even remotely connected with Justine. Most of them, unable to believe that Justine would commit murder, had been totally nonplussed by the questioning; one or two, including Michael Broad, had been hostile in their defence of Justine. Several others, who had obviously felt the sting of the Springfellow women, had been slyly malicious in their answers; one of them had been Roger Dircks. Yet as Malone laid down his notes and the running sheet he was convinced they had missed nothing. Then Andy Graham came back, followed a few minutes later by the other two detectives, Truach and Kagal.

“Nothing,” said Graham. Malone was not sure whether he sounded disappointed or not. Then he added, “If this was meant to save Justine, it isn't going to work.”

“I'm not interested in saving Justine,” Malone snapped; but he knew in his heart that he was. “I just don't want us out on a limb when the appeal comes up. And you can bet your bottom dollar Albemarle will appeal if the case goes against her.”

Then Truach and Kagal came in. “I got nothing,” said Kagal, a good-looking young man who had come into plainclothes at the same time as Graham, who had the same enthusiasm but managed to control it more than Graham. “I think they were playing square. As soon's I mentioned Clarrie Binyan, they opened up. But my two guys knew nothing.”

Truach
was older than the other two, a senior constable who would plod his way up the promotion ladder. “I drew a blank with the first guy. But the second, Joe Koster, he lives up the Cross, he remembers a guy coming to him some time last October, wanting to buy a silencer.”

“Why didn't Koster sell him one?”

“He said he didn't trust the guy. I asked for a description, but all he could remember was that he was tallish and wore dark glasses and a hat. If someone came to me dressed like that, I'd be suspicious, too. Koster was frank, he thought the guy might be an undercover man we'd planted. He seemed hurt we'd stoop to something underhand like that. You remember, we were having a crack-down on guns about then—we had that gun amnesty for anyone with an unlicensed weapon.”

“What did Koster tell him?”

“He said he didn't have any silencers in stock, but if the guy wanted to, he could go to Adelaide and buy one across the counter.”

“Righto,” said Malone, acting swiftly; whatever decisions he made in the next few days, they had to be either totally wrong or totally right. At least, when it was all over, no one would be able to say he hadn't tried. “Here's a list of gun-shops in Adelaide. When you get there, check in with Police Headquarters and tell „em what you're after. They may be able to help. I'll get Greg Random to authorize your travel. Go home, pack an overnight bag and be back here to pick up your ticket and catch whatever plane we can get you on tonight.”

Truach went off, followed by Kagal, and Malone looked at the obviously disappointed Graham. “You wondering why I'm not sending you?”

“Well, I
have
been on the case since the jump—”

“And you're no longer objective about it, Andy. You're convinced Justine did the murder and you don't want all your work wasted. You may be right. But if we've fouled up somewhere and the case goes to appeal, you aren't going to be the one to carry the can. I'll be the bunny. You'd have got the trip to Adelaide if you'd been open-minded that someone else may be involved in this. But you're not.”

But even as he ticked off Andy Graham, he could taste hypocrisy on his tongue. If he himself
was
open-minded, the entrance was only through a revolving door. Then his phone rang.

It was Constable James. “I used the endoscope on the silencer. There's a burring on the thread. I can't guarantee it matches that on the Walther barrel, not without having another look at the gun. But I'd like to take a bet on it.”

“Good, Jason. Send over the silencer. I'll be back to you when I need you. You may have to go back into the box.”

“Does this mean Justine mightn't have done it?” It was a hesitant question.

“Have you fallen for a pretty face?”

“Well, no-o . . .”

Malone hung up, smiling sourly. Justine, unknowingly, was gathering backers; but she was a long way from being out of the woods. He looked at Graham, who, so far, seemed to have no doubts about her.

“You wouldn't fall for a pretty face, would you?”

“No,” said Graham doggedly. “We've worked our guts out on this one. I don't think we've made any mistakes—”

“Our one mistake might be the big one. Sending her to gaol when she didn't commit the murder.”

Truach got back from Adelaide the following afternoon. He rang Malone from Adelaide airport and the latter stayed at Homicide to wait for him. Clements was with him, as morose as yesterday, feeling his case slipping away from him.

Truach came in, unhurried, unexcited, phlegmatic as an old bloodhound familiar with old scents. He sat down opposite Malone and said flatly, “Bingo.”

“Good,” said Malone, containing his impatience. “What's the prize?”

“The Adelaide fellers were on our side right from the jump. They sent me to several dealers—the first four, I drew nothing. Then the fifth guy came up with what we wanted.” He paused and lit a cigarette. “I been dying for a smoke. I couldn't smoke on the plane and then, bugger me, I copped a taxi driver who
wouldn'
t allow smoking in his cab.”

“If you don't get a move on,” said Malone, “you're going to find
this
is a no-smoking zone.”

Truach grinned, nodded and stubbed out the cigarette on the floor. “This guy has a small gun-shop. I've got his name if we have to bring him over to give evidence, though he wasn't too happy when I suggested it. You know what they're like, gun dealers.”

“Yes,” said Malone, still patient but only just.

“Anyhow, he said yeah, he'd had a guy come in last October to buy a silencer. He sold him a Gold Spot. Then the guy produced this Walther, a PPK .380, and asked the dealer to fit the silencer to it.”

“The dealer asked no questions? No registration of the gun?”

“He was covering up, Scobie. I didn't press him on it, I figured that was something for the Adelaide police. All we wanted was information.”

“Fair enough. Did he ask the cove why he wanted the silencer?”

“Yeah. The guy gave the name of—” Truach looked at his notes. “Yeah, here it is. Roger Hart. He said the gun and the silencer were needed for a TV fillum they were shooting and they needed it in a hurry, something about the gun not being in the original script.”

“Did the dealer fit the silencer?”

“Yeah. The guy went away while it was done, then come back and paid cash.”

“Any description of him?”

“Tallish, wore a hat and dark glasses, the sort that get darker when you go out in the sunlight. It fits the description of the feller here in Sydney.”

“Did he buy any ammunition?”

“Only a box of blanks—he said that was all they needed for the TV fillum. He could have bought live ammo at another gun-shop.”

Malone looked at Clements. “At best, it looks like Justine had an accomplice.”

“And at worst?”

“The worst for us? It looks like this cove did it on his own.”

“
You got a suspect?”

“Who do you think? Who do we know who'd know something about making TV films?”

“Can I go now?” said Truach. “I'm dying for a smoke.”

“Go and get lung cancer,” said Malone, but he was smiling. “Thanks, Phil. Nice work.”

When Truach, already lighting a cigarette, had gone, Malone looked at his watch. “What time do TV executives knock off?”

“Who cares?” said Clements. “If he's not at the studio, we'll go to his home.”

“This may mean upsetting the whole bloody apple-cart. You don't mind?”

“I'd be a lying bastard if I said I didn't mind—I thought we had all this sewn up. But like I said, I've never sent the wrong person to gaol yet.”

They drove out to Channel 15 through a clear autumn day, the air sparkling almost as if it were spring. The jacaranda trees were still thick, the green fronds only just streaked with brown needles. As Clements turned the Holden into the parking lot, Malone saw some of the crew and cast of
Sydney Beat
coming out to get into their cars. They were quiet and looked depressed, as if they had just filmed an episode in which the heroes had been beaten to a pulp.

Debby, the assistant floor manager, was about to get into her battered old Honda Civic when Malone got out of the police car right beside her.

“G'day, Debby. How are the dynamics today?”'

“Full of shit.” Then she recognized him; he noticed now that her eyes were full of tears. “Oh, hello, Scobie. We've all just been fired. They're stopping production. The ratings are lousy. But . . .”

“Tough luck.” He couldn't crow, not over someone who had just lost her job. “Try to get into the soaps. That's what everyone watches. Misery is the recipe.”

“Oh, you got no idea how fucking miserable I am!”

Then he found himself in the parking lot of Channel 15 holding a young foul-mouthed girl while she cried her heart out against his shirt and bawled obscenities for which, in his more strait-laced days, he'd have booked her. Clements stood in the background, grinning with delight. He had hated
Sydney
Beat
as much as Malone.

Malone detached himself from Debby. “Who did the firing? Mr. Dircks?”

“No, it came from the fucking Springfellow office—they own us, you know.” She dried her eyes on the sleeve of her bulky sweater, hitched up her jeans. She had dreamed of being another Gillian Armstrong or even a Lina Wertmüller, but some bastard had just removed all the bottom rungs of the ladder. “What are you doing here, anyway?”

“Getting my own back,” said Malone; then grinned. “No, it's just public relations.”

He and Clements went on into the administration building, to the receptionist sitting beneath the big pink-and-grey logo.

“Oh, Inspector Malone, you're not back for
Sydney Beat,
are you?”

“I'm told we're a little late for that. Can we see Mr. Dircks?”

The girl looked doubtful. “I gather he's not seeing anyone right now. He's leaving, you know.”

“No, I didn't know. Where's he going?”

The girl shrugged. “I only work here. Nobody tells me anything.”

“Where's his office? Still on the same floor? Thanks, Sally.”

“Inspector, you can't—!”

But Malone and Clements were already on their way up to the first floor. They strode down the long corridor past the big portraits of stars who were no longer stars;
Sydney Beat
would be off the walls tomorrow, flops had to be erased from memory as quickly as possible. The Singapore Chinese secretary was at her desk, still minding the gates, her sword already half out of its scabbard as soon as she recognized Malone.

“Mr. Dircks is not seeing anyone—”

“Wrong, Miss Wong. He's seeing us. Excuse me, please.” She stood up in front of him, but he took her gently by the elbows and lifted her aside. “I admire your sense of duty, love, but you're in the way.”

All at once she seemed to sense that this intrusion was something serious. “He'll kill me for
letting
you go in—”

“I don't think he's going to be around much longer,” said Malone. “You'll be safe.”

He and Clements stepped round her, opened the door behind her and went into the pink-and-grey executive office. Roger Dircks, looking not at all pink but only grey, was standing at his desk shoving papers into his briefcases. On the floor beside the desk were two large cartons crammed with books, framed prints and a brass desk lamp. It looked as if Dircks, before he fled, was taking looter's privileges. Malone had heard the gossip on the studio floor that it was the custom at top level in the television industry, except at the ABC, where there was nothing to loot.

“Going somewhere, Mr. Dircks?”

“Christ Almighty, how did you get in here? Rose, what the hell—?”

“Don't blame her,” said Clements, closing the door. “She tried to stop us.”

“What the hell do you want? I've got enough to fucking worry about—”

“First,” said Malone, “I'd better give you the usual warning. You've heard it often enough in
Sydney Beat,
though your actors always seemed to get it wrong. Anything you may say, et cetera . . .”

Dircks's small mouth fell open. “Anything I may say? Christ, what is this?”

“Mr. Dircks, did you go to Adelaide last October?”

“How the fuck do I know? You'd have to ask Rose to look up my diary.” Dircks was in shirt-sleeves, his tie off; he looked unstarched, wilted. With his anger he had regained some colour in his face, he was pink and grey again. “What is this, for Chrissakes? I got all the bad news I can handle, then you come busting in here—”

“Last October, Mr. Dircks—did you go to Adelaide and purchase a silencer for a gun at a dealer's named—” Malone named the Adelaide gun dealer.

Dircks shook his head in wonder. “Why would I want to do that?”

“You told the dealer you wanted it for a TV film you were shooting.”

“You're crazy, man. We've never shot anything in Adelaide—Christ,
nobody
shoots anything in Adelaide. It's a cemetery.” There was only one city in Australia, right here where he worked and lived; he
was
not honorary television adviser to the Sydney Chamber of Commerce for nothing. “The only time I go there is every three months for a board meeting at our network station there. Yeah, I remember—I did go to Adelaide in October, the last week of October. It was a special meeting, it had to do with what was going to happen after the stock market crash and the takeover bid. I spent the whole of my time with the local executives. They were worried about their jobs. I spent all my time reassuring them.” He made a noise that sounded like an attempt at a laugh, but which got caught in his throat. “Jesus!”