Babylon South (48 page)

“How would a million do?” Clements had another rich yuppie he could turn his attention to.

Malone grinned. “Try it. Then bring in Koster to identify Broad from those pictures we took of him last night. Fax a copy to Adelaide and get the fellers there to bring in the gun dealer and have him identify Broad. Have them get a statement from him.”

“He's a dangerous bugger, I think. We oughtn't to let him go at all.”

“
We can't hold him, not if he puts up the bail. You'd better warn the Crown Prosecutor, too, that the case against Justine may be going under.”

“They're gunna love that. Billy Wellbeck will tear his hair out, what's left of it.”

Malone left him and walked over to Police Headquarters. Commissioner Leeds was impatiently waiting for him.

“You took your time!”

“I'm sorry, sir. The traffic's pretty heavy . . . I was going to call you first thing this morning—”

“Scobie,” Leeds interrupted without preliminary, “Walter Springfellow is alive and back in Sydney. Or he was, up till yesterday afternoon.”

Malone sat down without asking if he might. He squinted at Leeds as if the latter had told him something in a foreign language. “Alive?”

“Lady Springfellow called me about seven o'clock last night. I went down to her office—I took a risk, I know, but I had to go, she sounded desperate. I thought it had something to do with Justine . . . Walter turned up out of the blue four days ago. He's been living in Germany for the past twenty-odd years, working for British Intelligence. Venetia doesn't know whether ASIO knew about it—maybe they did, maybe they didn't. They could have been stringing you along all this time.”

“I don't think so. I think Fortague was fair dinkum with me. Whose was the skeleton we found—the Russian's?”

Leeds nodded. “Venetia told me everything. Walter shot him. He was blackmailing both Walter and her.”

“Oh Christ.”

“Exactly,” said Leeds, who had never been known to be profane. “He came back when he read that Justine was going on trial. He's been in court these past three days—on his own, not with Venetia. His brother Edwin has been bringing him in each day, dropping him some distance away and picking him up again in the afternoon. He was to pick up Walter yesterday afternoon, but Walter didn't turn up. I called Venetia first thing this morning. They've had no phone calls from him, nothing. He's disappeared again.”

“
What do you want me to do?” He wanted to ask if John Leeds's wife knew anything of this, but that was none of his business. He wished that none of it was his business, but it was too late now.

“Find him.”

Malone tried to laugh, but it was just a dry cough of disbelief. “Just like that? What do I do with him when I find him? What if ASIO has got him? Christ Almighty, I came over here to give you some good news—”

“What good news?” Leeds looked as if he didn't believe such a possibility existed.

“We're charging Michael Broad with the murder of Emma.”

It was Leeds's turn to look as if he didn't understand what had been said. “Broad? The fellow who works for Venetia?”

“I think we have enough on him to make it stick. He's not going to offer any confession, not yet anyway. I tried for a verbal last night, but his lawyer was there. Still, I'm sure we can pin it on him.” He told Leeds what evidence they had.

“Why didn't you come up with all this before?” Leeds was angry.

“Because all the evidence against him has only come up in the past couple of days.”

“You were certain you had all the evidence you needed against Justine!” He was an angry father; or might-be father. “You've put us all through this—”

Malone, too, was suddenly angry; but he contained himself. “We did have evidence against her. The Crown Prosecutor thought it was enough, they were the ones who decided to go ahead. You've read the evidence so far—Jesus, you're a cop, the same as I am! You'd have gone on it, too—”

“You had your doubts—you blamed Russ Clements for pushing it—”

“In the end it was my decision and I went with it. Righto, I was wrong, but don't blame me for not doing my best—” Abruptly he shut up, tried to cool down. “I'm sorry, sir. I shouldn't have blown my top like that.”

Leeds, too, cooled down. “I apologize, Scobie. I think we've both been stretched too far. So you think they'll dismiss Justine?”

“
Once we've got the identification of Broad from the gun dealers, we'll put the case to the Crown Prosecutor. Russ Clements is warning them this morning. They'll probably ask for an adjournment today. She may even be free by this evening.”

“One Springfellow goes free and you bring in another one. If you can find him.”

“What frame of mind was he in? Was he likely to commit suicide?”

“I don't know. I didn't ask Venetia that—how could I? He is dying, though—he has terminal cancer. That was probably what prompted him to come home, to see Justine before he died. He certainly hasn't helped her by coming back from the dead.”

“If I find him, this is going to create a bigger sensation than Justine's case.”

“We know that. Venetia told me she thought long and hard before she called me. But she said she couldn't just let him disappear again—”

“Is she still in love with him?” What a question to ask your Commissioner, the man who himself had once been in love with the lady.
How did I get myself into this?
Tibooburra all at once began to look like Utopia.

“She told me no. I believe her. I think she fees—
sorry
for him. And guilty.”

So she should.
“What does he look like now?”

“He's aged, she says. He has a white beard, he wears steel-rimmed glasses—”

Malone had a sudden clear picture of the regulars in the spectators' gallery. “I saw him! But I didn't recognize him—I don't think anyone would, not unless they knew who he was—
”

“The question is, do you go to ASIO and ask them if they know anything about him being back here?”

“That's your decision, not mine. I've had enough.”

For a moment Leeds reverted to being the Commissioner; there was a flash of outrage in his face. Then he came back to the reality of the situation: there was no rank in this. He nodded reluctantly. “Yes, it is. I suppose we have to go to them—it's the obvious place to start.”

Malone stood up. “I'd prefer it if you came with me—sir.”

Leeds
remarked the note of respect; and respected Malone for it. The junior man had restored the equilibrium of their relationship. “Yes, I should. As you say, you've had enough. More than enough. But you'll stay with it?” It was a plea, not an order.

“I'll stay with it,” said Malone, but prayed for a quick and merciful end to it all. Though he had no real hope that there would be any mercy at all in the end. “We'll go in my car, it's over at Homicide. Do you want me to pick you up?”

Leeds had come to the office in mufti, almost as if he had expected this to be a day of clandestine meetings. He hated anything underhand, but the need for secrecy had trapped him. “I'll walk through the park to Elizabeth Street. Pick me up at the corner of Bathurst.”

Malone hesitated, then said, “Does Mr. Zanuch know anything about this?”

“Nothing. If it should ever get out how I've been involved in this, he'll be the next Commissioner. I'd have to recommend him.”

Malone dragged up a sour grin. “Then I think I might ask for an early retirement.”

He picked up Leeds on the other side of Hyde Park and they drove over to Kirribilli. “Should we have phoned ASIO and told them we were coming?” Leeds was a stickler for protocol.

“No. I think Fortague is on our side, but I don't want to give him the chance to put Springfellow away and hide him somewhere.”

“Maybe they've done that already. You never know what the spooks are going to do.”

Malone's ear, like the rest of him, was tired, but it sounded to him as if Leeds was hoping that ASIO would have solved the problem of Walter Springfellow. He glanced at the Commissioner and saw that he looked just as weary, though in a different way. There was a weariness of spirit there in the stern face.

When they were ushered into his office Fortague showed no surprise, not even at the presence of the Police Commissioner. “Hello, John. I didn't expect to see you. But in the circumstances . . .”

“You know why we're here?” said Leeds.

“I guessed it as soon as they told me who wanted to see me.”

“
Were you going to get in touch with us?” said Malone.

“No.” Fortague glanced at Malone, then back at Leeds. “John, I think Inspector Malone has some difficulty appreciating how restricted we are. I hope you appreciate it. Our work can't be as open as yours.”

Leeds said, “On this one, Guy, we've been as restricted as you.”

“Is your interest in this personal or official? Forgive me for asking that . . . I mean, we've known all along that you were Walter Springfellow's closest friend.”

“It's personal,” said Leeds and looked uncomfortable. “I take it you know he's back in Sydney?”

“Yes.” Fortague turned to Malone. “I haven't been leading you up the garden path, Scobie. Up till four days ago I didn't know he was still alive. Only the Director-General knew that.”

“Nobody else? The PM, for instance?”

“No, nobody, at least nobody in this country. When Harold Holt drowned, he was the last PM to know anything about Springfellow's disappearance. It was decided there was nobody with the need to know, outside of the Director-General. No succeeding PM was ever told and nothing had ever been put on paper to the PM's office while Harold Holt was there. I wasn't told anything up till four days ago. He's been working for the Brits in Germany the last twenty years. Or anyway up till they retired him four years ago.”

“We know all that,” said Leeds. “Do you know where he is now?”

“Yes. We've had him under surveillance since he got off the plane. He's been kidnapped, we think, and he's being held in a house in King's Cross.”

“Kidnapped?
And you've done nothing about it?”

“We're not sure whether it's an actual kidnapping or not. He seemed to go willingly enough with the man who's holding him. If he
is
holding him . . . While he's there, he's out of mischief, he can't get away from us. We thought we'd let him sit out his daughter's trial, that should be over early next week—”

“It'll be over today,” said Malone. “We're charging someone else with that murder.”

Fortague
raised a thick eyebrow. “That was unexpected, wasn't it?”

“So was Walter Springfellow coming back from the dead. Now I've got to pick him up for the murder of that Russian, Uritzsky.”

Fortague looked at Leeds, then both men looked at Malone. He waited, was not at all surprised when Fortague said, “We don't think that's necessary.”

“No, I had the feeling you wouldn't. Who's the man holding him? One of your ex-agents? Another Russian?”

“None of those. His name is Charles Dural, he's known as Chilla. We only got his name last night from one of his fellow-roomers, a Vietnamese. We're checking on him now.”

Malone was surprised this time; the unexpected was going off like firecrackers. “Chilla Dural! Christ, he's probably already done him in! He's an ex-con, Springfellow sent him up for life!”

At last the unexpected got some reaction from Fortague: he sat up straight, as did Leeds. “We'd better get him out of there at once! We'd even thought that Dural might be his old court tipstaff—”

Malone would have laughed at that, but he had no laughter left in him; but he would remember to tell it to Dural and then he might laugh. He stood up, not waiting for any order from his Commissioner.

“How do you want this done, sir? Do you want the works, the Tac Response team and all the rest of it? Or do we do it on the quiet?”

“On the quiet,” said Leeds, getting to his feet, almost painfully, it seemed. “You and I. And Mr. Fortague's men as back-up, if we need them.”

II

“They say that the end of man is knowledge,” said Walter Springfellow, “but we'll never really know, will we?”

It is possible to have a philosophical discussion with an uneducated, not-too-bright man. Long hours together and heightened circumstances meld minds if they are sympathetic to each other. Walter
and
Dural had been together for almost eighteen hours and the circumstances, though quiet, were certainly heightened.

When it had come time for them to sleep last night, Dural had still not made up his mind what he was going to do with Walter. The news that Walter was dying had unsettled him; he was accustomed to death, but he had never had to deal with it directly, except in murder. Dying from an illness was a different death. They had discussed that last night and it had left him depressed, abruptly aware of his own mortality.

He had given Walter his bed—“You're the sick one, mate,”—and had, apologetically, tied him to it with the cord of his dressing-gown. He had recognized that Walter had no strength to break the cord and he had not been disturbed by any fears that the older man might try to escape. He himself had gone to sleep in the room's one armchair and had slept fitfully, his mind more uncomfortable than his body. He had woken early, gone along to the bathroom at the end of the hallway while Walter still slept, showered and come back and dressed. He had just finished putting on a clean shirt when Walter woke. It was then that Walter, having dreamed of his own death, had made his remark.