“I know that, sir. I have no hard evidence, but I’m sure I’m right.”
“Then you can’t prove it?” Norval sounded relieved. “Why bring it up then?”
“You asked me, sir. I thought you might take it as a warning.”
“What do you mean by that?” The PM’s voice was sharp. The Dutchman, slipper on again, looked up, eyes unblinking. Even the Commissioner looked perturbed, as if his man had gone too far.
Malone was surprised at the reaction; he had not meant to imply any under-meaning. “Politically, sir. It won’t look good, will it, if one of the government’s guests turns out to be a murderer?”
“
It’s ridiculous,” said Norval and tried to look convincing; but he had begun to think that Delvina was capable of anything. “It’s someone from Palucca, I’m sure.”
“She’s from Palucca,” said the Premier, all at once wide awake. “Or her money is.”
Norval shook his head, but there was no emphasis to it.
“Have you faced her with the charge?” said Leeds.
“No, sir. I’d like more hard evidence before I do that. I thought I was on the way to getting it from Sun Lee.”
“I want it stopped,” said Norval, suddenly decisive. “Everything. Call off the whole investigation. I’ll try Washington again, we’ll get rid of them.”
“What if Timori dies?” said Vanderberg. “The Yanks won’t want her, not if we let ‘em know she paid to do him in. Fegan only likes little old ladies with blue hair.”
“I don’t know. We may have to let her stay, if he dies. Neil Kissing tells me she’s kept her Australian passport. She has dual nationality.”
“Is that allowable?” said Leeds.
“Would you question the wife of a President about her passport?”
“Inspector Malone wants to question her about being a murderess,” said Vanderberg.
“There’s such a thing as protocol,” said Norval, sounding as pompous as his absent political adviser.
“Ah, we never worry about that at State level,” said the Premier and grinned. “Well, I think you and I had better do some talking, Phil. Good night, John, thanks for coming in. “Night, Inspector. You’ll keep your trap shut, won’t you? No leaks about this.”
“Are you talking to me or Inspector Malone?” Leeds was indignant at his abrupt dismissal, but it only showed in his cold demeanour.
Vanderberg saw his mistake. “Sorry, John. No, I was talking to the Inspector.” He didn’t apologize to Malone; magnanimity hurt him if he was too liberal with it. “Keep it to yourself, right? If I read about it in the
National Times
, I’ll know where it came from.”
As
Malone went out the door with Leeds he heard the Premier say, “Okay, Phil, let’s you and me get down to a little skulbuggery.”
In the outer office Leeds said, “I’m sorry I had to put you through that, Scobie.”
“You get used to it, sir,” said Malone, knowing the Commissioner would remember two other cases when they had been caught up in politics.
“One shouldn’t have to. You’re sure about Madame Timori?”
“As sure as I can be without proof. Another twenty-four hours with Sun Lee and I think I could have got the proof. He’s worried about his own skin.”
“Does he know about the tapes?”
“No.”
“Were they illegal tapes?”
“I don’t know. Probably.”
“Then I don’t want to know about them, either. Can I give you a lift home?”
“Thanks, but I’ve got my car. I’m going back to Homicide—Russ Clements is still there. I’ll have a kip on the floor. If I went home now, my wife wouldn’t let me into bed.”
Leeds smiled. “My wife would understand how she feels. Good night, Scobie. Let’s hope you collar Seville. You’ll need some satisfaction out of this.”
Malone went back to Homicide and woke up Clements, who was asleep with his head resting on his arms on his desk. He told him what had been said in the Premier’s office and Clements, another veteran of political interference, just smiled. “So we keep our traps shut?”
“The Dutchman’s very words.”
“You going home now?”
“No, I’ll take a kip here. I’ll go home at six, when Lisa will be awake.”
They both settled down, heads down on their desks. Malone kicked off what Claire called his party shoes and took off his dinner jacket. Five minutes later, sound asleep at his desk, he could have been mistaken for an all-night reveller who had been brought in drunk and had passed out before he could be
hauled
off to the nearest cells up at Darlinghurst.
His phone rang at 6.15, but it was Clements, already awake, who picked it up. He listened, massaging his stiff neck while he did so, then he put down the phone after saying, “Okay, thanks for the info.”
Malone, awake now, looked up. “What was that?”
“Seville’s been sighted. He’s kidnapped Dallas Pinjarri.”
10
I
SEVILLE WAS
fumbling with the ignition wires, trying to start the motor, when Pinjarri loomed up beside the open window. He was dressed in a checked shirt and jeans, but his face was painted so that he looked wild and fearsome.
“Where you going, Mick? I wanna talk to you—”
Seville connected the wires, got the car started. Then he looked at the dark, striped face close to his own and knew he was not going to get rid of Pinjarri without trouble. He looked down the long line of parked cars, their occupants getting out of them with the stiffness of people who had slept in spaces too small for them, and saw the burly policeman from last night standing there with a loud-hailer projecting from his face like a yellow snout.
“What’s he saying?”
“There’s been some sorta balls-up. He’s telling everyone they gotta move their cars. Fuck him. What about you and me, Mick? You still owe me four thousand dollars.”
The policeman had begun to walk along the line of cars; his words were clearer now. In a minute or two there would be confusion as the angry motorists, who had thought they would be allowed to stay here for this Day of Days, began to drive their cars away to look for another parking space. Seville felt the canvas bag on the seat beside him. He pushed it on to the floor in front of the passenger’s seat and slid across the seat.
“Get in, Dallas, if you want to talk.”
Pinjarri, unsuspicious, opened the driver’s door and slid in behind the wheel. Seville reached down, took Malone’s Smith and Wesson from the bag and said, “You drive, Dallas. Hurry.”
Pinjarri
looked shocked; the white markings on his dark face seemed to stretch. But he didn’t argue. He put the car in gear and carefully took it out from the kerb.
“Do a U-turn,” said Seville. “Away from the policeman.”
Pinjarri did so, not very skilfully; a man in a parked car yelled for him to be careful. Then they were heading back under the bridge. Out of the corner of his eye Seville caught a glimpse of the Aborigines, all with painted faces, running down the slope through the crowd. “Speed up!” he said. “Faster!”
They went under the bridge, leaving the Aborigines, led by the young boy, standing in the middle of the road shouting. “Put your seat-belt on,” said Seville, and Pinjarri did so, fumbling with it as he drove one-handed past the wharves and up into the city.
“Where are we going?”
Seville hadn’t put on his own seat-belt; he didn’t want to be constricted if Pinjarri decided to fight. “Out of the city. Head west.” He had no idea where west was or what was there.
“Parramatta?”
“What?”
“Do you want me to drive to Parramatta?”
“Yes.” Wherever or whatever Parramatta was. The Aboriginal names confused him, as if they had some secret meaning that he, a foreigner and a white one, could never fathom.
Pinjarri drove in silence for a while, then said, “You didn’t finish him off.”
“Timori? No.” He now accepted the fact that he had failed again. He would make no further attempts, he would fly out of here some time today, go straight to Damascus and hole up there till he had recovered. He felt as wounded as Timori. “I’ll send you the money I owe you, Dallas.”
“Like fucking hell you will.”
Seville lifted the gun; he was losing patience with Pinjarri, with everything in this godforsaken country. “Moderate your language, Dallas. You’re with a gentleman.”
“You—a fucking murderer?” Pinjarri laughed; then saw that Seville was serious. “Okay, okay.
How
long am I gunna have to wait for the money? We could of done with it today. We could of staged a decent fuck—a decent demo.”
“You’d be wasting your money. That war paint, or whatever it is, won’t frighten them.” He had seen enough of the country, or at least its attitudes, to know who were the inevitable winners. “I should tell you about the Indians in my own country.” He said something in Guaraní.
“What’s that mean?”
“It’s something I once heard an Indian say. A revolution does not guarantee freedom.” The Indian had probably heard it from a white man; they weren’t natural political philosophers.
“We don’t want a revolution—we’re not stupid. We want ‘em to just hand back what’s ours.”
“The land? All of it?” Seville laughed. “They’d give you freedom before they’d give you land. Freedom doesn’t cost them anything.”
“We’ve got that.” Then Pinjarri saw the argument and nodded bitterly. He drove in silence for some miles, then he said, “We’re coming into Parramatta,”
It was another city, once a suburb of the capital city; now they merged, like lakes joined by a permanent flood of red-roofed houses and iron-roofed factories. Seville saw an arrowed sign:
Katoomba
; and said, “Keep going. We’ll go to Katoomba. I’ll let you go there. You can be free.” He smiled, but Pinjarri didn’t smile back. “Where’s the nearest airport?”
“We’re going the wrong way if you’re looking for an airport. The nearest one this way would be, I dunno, Bathurst, I guess.”
“How far is that?”
“I dunno. A hundred and twenty, a hundred and fifty ks. Maybe more.”
“Ks?”
“Kilometres.”
Seville was dismayed. He had expected Sydney, a city of more than three million people, to be surrounded by small airports. He had been deceived by the superficial resemblance of life here to American life: the used car lots with their twinkling bunting, like a whore’s come-on; the fast-food outlets
spreading
like an international attack of indigestion; the brashness of the people who were not always as friendly as they first appeared. In California or Texas and on the East Coast it had seemed there was an airport of some sort, public or private, every thirty or forty miles. Now he was going to have to drive 150 ks to Bathurst, wherever that was.
“Where is it?”
“Over the mountains, the Blue Mountains. The road may be closed if the bushfires are still burning.”
“We’ll take another road.”
“There’s only the one road.”
God, he thought, and they boast of their standard of living! It was like Syria. Or Argentina, where the airlines never ran to time and the roads petered out into nowhere, like tracks into a vast swamp. He had forgotten too much of where he had come from.
“Why do you want me? Let me out, Mick. Forget about the money, just let me out.”
They had pulled up at a traffic light. A car, with four youths in it, pulled up beside them, and the driver, skin and bones held together by a T-shirt, looked across at Pinjarri, saw the painted face and laughed.
“G’day, darky! On your way to a corroboree? Who’s your mate—Crocodile Dundee?”
All four youths hooted with laughter and Seville said quietly to Pinjarri, “Shall I shoot them?”
“Christ, no!”
“You see, Dallas? You’ll never beat them.”
The light turned green and Pinjarri drove on, ignoring the challenge from the other driver to race him. “Let me go, Mick.”
Seville shook his head. “Ah no, Dallas. You’d tell the police where they could pick me up, at Bathurst. There must be a reward out for me, trying to kill a President. You’d make more than four thousand dollars.”
“They haven’t said anything about a reward. Me go to the pigs? Jesus, Mick, that’s fucking
insulting
—”
“Drive on, Dallas.”
They skirted Parramatta and soon were on a long straight freeway that ran between rolling fields where isolated housing developments stood out like herds of giant box-like cattle. The grass fields in between were all black, smoke rising in some places like steam from a dark thermal swamp. They passed a big amusement park on their left, the Big Dipper rising above it like the skeleton of some ancient Loch Ness monster brought here for display. The fires seemed to have skirted the park, saving it for another day.
Up ahead smoke was billowing thickly into the sky, turning it yellow. They came down a long incline at speed, slowed to a crawl as they came to a T-junction and Pinjarri turned right. Seville looked out and up at the escarpment of mountains ahead of them. And saw the police helicopter overshoot them.
II
Clements had said, “A young Abo kid told the constable on duty down at the bridge what happened. He got on to Police Centre right away and they’ve got an alert out. The car is a brown Mazda, number-plate HBT-651. They’ve got the chopper airborne and the SWOS guys are standing by.”
Five minutes later the phone rang again. Clements took the call, said, “Thanks,” and hung up. “The Mazda’s been spotted. At Leichhardt, on Parramatta Road, heading west. The chopper will pick it up.”
On their way out they picked up Andy Graham coming on early morning duty. Somehow he produced a marked car with a driver. “We can move faster in this, Inspector. The siren and the blue light—”
“Right,” said Malone and grinned at Clements. Despite his tiredness he felt better this morning than when he had gone to sleep. Hope is a good pick-me-up.
Now they were coming out of Parramatta on to the Great Western Highway, the siren screaming and the blue light flashing. Two Highway Patrol cars joined them and Malone knew that the
SWOS
wagons could not be far behind. The young driver was handling the car beautifully, but Malone, a bad passenger at the best of times and the slowest of speeds, sat nervously hunched in the back seat. It didn’t help to see Andy Graham, up front, grinning like an 18-year-old let loose in his first sports car.