Babylon South (46 page)

Walter Springfellow said, “Are you going to kill me, Mr. Dural?”

Then the trembling stopped, his vision cleared. He looked down at the gun in his hand and was surprised to see how tightly he was grasping it. He put it down again on the bench, was all at once, and with relief, sane again. If he killed the judge, he might just as well go out and buy some bullets and kill himself. The screws at Parramatta wouldn't welcome him back.

“I was gunna ask for a ransom for you. I thought I might ask you to set the price.” He grinned, but it was lopsided on his face, as if he had no control over it.

“There'd be no point,” said Walter, dying gradually and not afraid.

“You mean your missus won't pay cash to get you back?” Dural made the instant coffee, handed
Walter
his cup and saucer and a small plate of sweet biscuits. He sat down opposite Walter, the gun on the bench beside him. “I dunno I'm even interested in the money any more. You're just a means to an end.” He was pleased with the phrase and hoped the educated joker opposite him appreciated it. He had always respected education: Heinie Odets had had it.

“What end is that?” Walter ate an Iced Vo-Vo: it was another step nearer home, a retreat from
apfel strudel
or
schnecken.

Dural took his time about answering that. Would this man, an ex-judge, understand his obsession? He took a risk, a small one; after all, his aim was to be caught eventually. “I done time in Parramatta, a long time—you helped with that. I got
used
to it, you know what I mean?”

Walter took his own time, sipping his coffee. After years of the best German coffee, the instant muck had nothing to recommend it; but he had always been well-mannered, at least in the smaller customs. At last he said, “Yes, I think I do know what you mean, Mr. Dural. I was in a sort of gaol for many years, though not in your sense. I grew accustomed to it. There was a sort of safety to it, is that what you mean?”

“You put your finger on it, Judge!” Chilla Dural leaned forward. “Now I could shoot you and give meself up and they'd chuck me back in quick as you like. But it wouldn't work. Villains who kill cops and judges don't have a good time of it in gaol. I wanna go back to what I was used to, comfort and security.”

Walter began to feel safe; he was not going to be murdered. “Well, we'll have to work something out, won't we? I think we both have a problem, Mr. Dural.”

“You, too? Yeah, of course, your daughter. More coffee?”

“No, thanks. Yes, I too. Perhaps we can help each other.” But he could think of nothing that would help either of them. Depression settled on him again, as it had while he had listened to the prosecution of his daughter. “You see, Mr. Dural, I'm dying.”

“I can't help you there,” said Chilla Dural, rearing back in shock. “I'm sorry to hear it. But don't ask me to kill you. I never done a mercy killing.”

IV

Malone and Clements drove straight from Channel 15 to Springfellow House at Circular Quay. It was dark now, light reflections trembling on the harbour waters like fish scales, the floodlit bridge looming like the grey-green skeleton of a monster wombat. Homeward-bound workers streamed towards the wharves and the ferries, cars crawled along the expressway above their heads, trains rumbled along the elevated tracks. Working Sydney was closing down till another day, its blood was draining out of it towards the suburbs.

The two detectives, still working, went up to the twenty-ninth floor, where they had interviewed Michael Broad at the beginning of their investigations into the murder of Emma Springfellow. It was the sort of floor that had become standard environment for top executives during the boom: spacious, thickly carpeted, expensively furnished, enough art on the walls to start a small gallery; it was commercial pomp. The colour scheme, of course, was pink and grey.

Broad's secretary, pink and blonde, was behind her grey word processor on her grey desk. She looked up with some disdain at the two detectives spoiling the colour scheme in their polyester blue. Reception desks have created a new class of snobbery.

“Mr. Broad is not in. He is upstairs with the chairwoman.”

“Good,” said Malone, thinking quickly. “Then I'll have a look in his office.”

“You will not!”

Malone looked at Clements. “Read the Riot Act to her, Russ. The bit about obstructing the police in the course of their duty.”

He opened the door to Broad's office and went in, closing it behind him. It was an office in which the word
success
was all but inscribed on the walls. Some shareholders had contributed, unwittingly, all their lifetime dividends to the furnishing of this room. Broad, with or without the chairwoman's consent, had surrounded himself with the trappings: appearances were everywhere, even when he was alone. The framed scrolls on the walls, between the paintings, told him what he already knew:
Businessman
of the Year, Corporation Man of the Year, Et Cetera of the Year . . . It would send him into a nervous breakdown to give up all this.

Malone went behind the big desk, remarking its neatness as he looked for what he wanted. He saw the gold pen and pencil set; the pen was missing, probably upstairs with Broad. Malone carefully took the pencil out of its holder, laid it on the leather top of the desk. Just as carefully he picked up the gold-embossed blotter, taking it by the blotter half-cylinder and not by the handle. He laid it beside the pencil, then added a leather spectacles case to the other two items. A large envelope full of papers was in the In basket; he emptied the papers from it and put the pencil, the blotter and the spectacles case in the envelope. Then he went back to the outer office.

He handed the envelope to Clements. “Ring Don Cheshire, tell him to stay at his office and you're on your way out there now. If he's already gone home, get him there and tell him to meet you at his office. I want a check on those prints within two hours. I'll be back at Homicide by then with you-know-who.”

“Have you been doing what I think you've been doing?”

Malone winked. “You've only got yourself to blame. You taught me.” Then he looked at the secretary. “Sorry, miss, for barging in like that.”

“Shouldn't you have a warrant or something?”

Malone clicked his fingers. “Damn! I left it back on my desk. I knew I'd forgotten something. It's been one of those days.”

The secretary's look told him she knew a liar when she heard one. “Shall I tell Mr. Broad you want to see him?”

She reached for her phone, but Clements already had his hand on it. “No, love, Inspector Malone will announce himself. He's good at that. Good luck, Scobie. I'll see you back at the office.”

Malone didn't bother to wait for the lifts, which had been commandeered by the workers on the lower floors on their way home. He went up the fire stairs two at a time. On the thirtieth floor the secretaries were still at their desks; up here you went home, if you were lucky, when the boss went home.
There
were two secretaries and they both stood up as Malone, a little abruptly, demanded to see Lady Springfellow.

“She's in conference—”

“Tell her I've got something to add to the conference. Come on, girls, don't muck around!” He was losing patience, one of his best assets. “I want to see her
now
!”

The secretaries looked at each other, then one of them went into the inner office. She was gone a full minute before she emerged; she came out just as Malone was on the point of bursting in. “Lady Springfellow says you may go in. But I warn you, she's not happy—”

“I'll make her happy,” said Malone.

He went into the chairwoman's office, closing the door behind him. He had not been in this room before; he was not surprised to find that it suited Venetia exactly. She sat behind her big desk and looked at him with all the hospitality of Elizabeth I greeting a Spanish messenger boy. Beside her desk Michael Broad sat like a chancellor, his chair pulled round to face the intruder.

“This had better be important, Inspector—”

“It is, Lady Springfellow. I've really come to see Mr. Broad, but I think you'll be interested in what I have to say.”

Broad had stiffened almost imperceptibly, but Malone had caught the clawing of the hand on the knee. “I think you'd better explain all that, Inspector.”

“I'd like you to come up to Homicide with me, Mr. Broad. I think you can help us with our enquiries into the murder of Emma Springfellow.”

“What enquiries? They're all finished! Dammit, is this some police joke?” Broad now had both hands on the arms of his chair; he seemed to be holding himself in. “Lady Springfellow doesn't want this sort of sick joke played on her—”

“Just a minute, Michael,” said Venetia. “It's not a joke, is it, Mr. Malone?”

“No, it isn't. I have to warn you, Mr. Broad, don't say anything till you have your lawyer with you. In the meantime it will save a lot of fuss and bother if you come quietly.”

Broad
still sat tensed in his chair, but he said nothing. His face had become a mask; almost, with his bald skull, a death-mask. Venetia turned towards him; for a moment she looked ugly. Then the expression was gone as quickly as it had come and she looked back at Malone. “Is this going to help Justine?”

“I don't know,” said Malone. “I hope so. But it will depend on how much we get out of Mr. Broad. Coming?”

For a moment it looked as if Broad was going to refuse; then he stood up, his legs unlocking like those of a mechanical man. “I'll be back, Venetia. This is all some stupid mistake—”

Then the phone rang. Venetia picked it up. “Yes, Edwin? Oh no—where can he—?” Then she collected herself, put her hand over the mouthpiece and looked at Malone. “I'm sorry, there's an emergency at home. Will you excuse me?”

Broad said, “Venetia, will you ring Brownlow and tell him I want him up at Homicide, wherever it is?”

Venetia looked directly at Broad with a stare that chilled even Malone: Christ, he thought, she's tough.

“No, Michael,” she said. “Get your own lawyer. Mr. Brownlow works for me and Justine.”

Malone saw the sudden look of hatred in Broad's face; or was it fear? He stared at Venetia, then abruptly he turned and went ahead of Malone out of the room. Malone paused a moment.

“I'll let you know how it goes. But don't build your hopes too high.”

“Thank you, Scobie.”

She waited till the door closed behind him, then she took her hand away from the phone's mouthpiece. “Edwin?”

“I'm sorry—I've interrupted you at something—”

“No, no. Something's happening, but I'll tell you when I come home . . . I'm worried about Walter. How could he disappear in a couple of blocks? I saw him leave the court. I hope, oh God, I hope he hasn't gone off again!”

“
Don't let's think the worst, not yet.” But Edwin sounded as if he had already begun to feel that way. “He may have just decided he wanted to be on his own to think. How was he at court today?”

“He
looked
all right. But how can I tell? Alice and I never speak to him there—we play at being strangers. Is Alice at the house?”

“Yes, I've spoken to her—I thought he might have called and left a message. But she hasn't heard from him. I'm stumped as to what we should do. If he doesn't turn up in the next hour or so, do we go to the police? Or to ASIO?”

“Edwin, we can't! Let's wait a while. I'll be home in an hour or so—I have things to tidy up here. You and Ruth go over to the house, stay with Alice, just in case he rings.”

“We'll do that.” Then he said solicitously, “Are you all right? You sound as if something had happened
before
I called . . .”

“I'll tell you when I come home.”

She hung up the phone. Though she had sounded reasonably calm, she was in absolute turmoil. She was still in shock from the revelation that Michael Broad might have murdered Emma, when Edwin hit her with the news that Walter had once more disappeared. She was accustomed to coping with crises; but the last five minutes had been too much. She began to shiver, then she burst into tears. She was weeping, crumpled in her chair, when one of her secretaries knocked on the door and came in.

Miss Misson was a practical, commonsensical girl. She had never seen her boss like this before, but she knew that everyone had some tears in them. She didn't ask what had brought on the tears, just said, “Tea or a drink?”

Venetia dried her eyes, sighed deeply to move the weight in her chest, “I think tea would be best, Kate. My mind's in a fog enough as it is.”

“A bad day at court?”

“Tomorrow may be better. But if it's not one thing, it's another.”

But already her spirit was reviving, even before the tea arrived. There is nothing to be done but to make the best of what cannot be helped: she had read that somewhere. She placed her faith in God, a
partner
she had never previously considered. God, somewhere, smiled in satisfaction, if a little surprised.

“I think I'll learn to pray again,” she said and Miss Misson, on her way out, stumbled on an invisible hump in the carpet.

V

Clements and Sergeant Cheshire arrived at Homicide an hour and a half after Malone had brought Michael Broad back there. When they had gone down in the lift at Springfellow House Malone had said, “I don't have a car. We've got the choice of yours or a taxi.”

There was no one else in the lift; the last of the workers had gone. “You mean I have to drive myself to my own arrest?”

“I thought that would appeal to your sense of style.”

As they drove up Macquarie Street in the Porsche, past The Vanderbilt looking solid and impregnable, the murder inside it those six months ago now swept into a cupboard and never mentioned, despite the current trial, Broad said, “You're making a great mistake.”