The Bear Pit (19 page)

At the top of the escalators a young man, too slim to be a security guard, joined them and rode down with them. “Constable Gregan, Inspector. I'm keeping tabs on Miss Everitt, we're working shifts. You're not taking her in?”

“Not yet. Get back up there and don't let her out of your sight. Bring her over to Homicide when she comes off work. Has she cottoned on to you?”

“No, sir.” He was small, barely medium height; he had blond hair and a cheerful freckled face. “I've been playing the pokies, had a coupla games at the tables. Looking like I'm here for the fun.”

“Who's financing you? Office petty cash? You must be made of money over at Surry Hills.”

“No, my own cash, sir. I like a flutter now and again.”

“Righto, flutter back up there again and keep an eye on her. Don't get glassy-eyed in front of a poker machine.”

“No, sir,” said the young officer and looked at Clements as if to say,
Is he a Jehovah's witness
?

As they walked across to their car Clements said, “You were a bit rough on him.”

“Yeah, I know. I thought I'd forgotten all about Janis, but I haven't. She still gets up my nose. That young bloke was just unlucky I got narky on him and not her.”

The parking valet dropped the red rope to let Clements take the Holden out from between the Ferrari and the Bentley. “No luck, sir?”

“We'll be back,” said Clements. “Keep our spot.”

II

Detective Constable Gregan and another young officer introduced as Detective Constable Styron brought Joanna Everitt to Homicide at 4.45. She came into the big room, smiled at the half a dozen detectives there as if they were casino clients and strolled into Malone's office. He asked her to sit
down,
then went out to the two young officers from Surry Hills.

“Go down and wait for her, but keep out of sight. I'll send her back home in one of our cars—I still want you to keep tabs on her. Where does she live?”

“She has a flat in Neutral Bay, not a cheap block,” said Gregan. “She's renting at the moment, but she's trying to buy it.”

“You've done your homework. How much?”

“She's paying six hundred a week, furnished. The guy who owns it wants five thousand a week during the Olympics. She's either got to buy it from him or move during the Olympics.”

“How much does he want?”

“Eight-fifty thousand, the agent says.”

“Has she got that sort of money?”

“We dunno. Our ticket wasn't to look into her bank balance.”

There was just a little cheek in his answer, but Malone let it pass. His own tongue had not always trodden the straight and narrow. “Righto, keep up the surveillance on her. She thinks you were just detailed to bring her in, nothing else?”

“No, sir. I chatted her up on the way in, she thinks we were on routine stuff around the casino when we got the word to escort her in here. She's very pleasant.”

“Yeah,” said Malone.

“Is she the one, sir?” Styron was an overweight young man with a bushy black moustache and bushy hair. His voice, however, was soft, as if he would rather reason with crims than bounce them. “Paid the hitman?”

“We're working on it. But your guess is as good as ours at the moment.” It was a concession to the two young men to state that, but they were the ones who had found her. “We'll see what we can get out of her.”

When he went back into his own office, Clements had already joined Joanna. “I've offered her coffee, but she says she only drinks tea. But she's like you, she won't take tea-bags.”

Malone
sat down. “You've got taste, Janis. Sorry, Joanna.”

“I always have had.”

She had changed out of her casino uniform and now wore a beige suit with a green silk shirt. Her auburn hair had been let down and contrasted well with the shirt; it also softened her face. She had tan shoes, a tan handbag and a thick gold bracelet that winked just below the cuff of the shirt like a hint of hidden wealth. She looked rich enough to be a high roller. She certainly did not look like someone who had recently spent nine years in jail. Unless it was rehabilitation taken beyond Corrective Services' aim.

“Well, Joanna—”

“Miss Everitt. I don't like strangers calling me by my first name—you sound like those familiar types on office switchboards.”

“I didn't think we were strangers.”

“You're not friends. And I'm no longer Janis. It's Joanna.”

“I like that,” said Clements.

She looked sideways at him on the couch, as if the lower orders had spoken. “Thank you, Sergeant. I don't think my mother had you in mind when she chose it.”

Both men laughed, settled back. Malone, because of the three women in his house, enjoyed an intelligent woman. Which was not to say that he wanted to enjoy Joanna Everitt for too long. “How are you fixed for money, Miss Everitt?”

“Asking a question like that proves we're not friends. I'm comfortable.”

“You'd saved something from your drug sales before you were arrested?”

There was a pause before she answered and her eyes hardened for a moment; then, without heat, she said, “No. My mother died while I was in Mulawa and I sold our house. I bought shares with the money and doubled it. Commonwealth Serum Laboratories. Drugs again.”

Malone looked at Clements, the stock market punter, who said, “CSL. They've gone up six or seven hundred per cent since they were floated. Honest drugs for honestly sick people.”

“
Thank you,” said Janis/Joanna.

“Would you object if we asked to look at your bank account?” said Malone.

“Yes, I would. Why do you want to look at it?”

“To see if there have been any large withdrawals lately. Say fifty to a hundred thousand dollars. Or maybe less, maybe twenty thousand. Shooting one of the Aldwyches would cost less than a hit on the Premier. Unless you're a Coalition voter?”

“Of course I am, I'm a conservative through and through. But there are other ways of getting rid of politicians than by shooting them. Voting against them, for instance. I'll admit I wouldn't have wept at all if either Jack or his father had been hit, but I didn't pay anyone to do it.”

“We can get a court order to look at your account. Or accounts.”

She considered for a long moment; she was never going to be hurried. Malone wondered if she paused as long as this before she dealt the cards in blackjack. “All right, I'll sign permission.”

“Which bank?”

“The Commonwealth, in Martin Place. Will they charge me for letting you look at it? They charge for everything else. Things were cheaper in jail.”

Maione nodded agreement. “The Colombians are on their way here. They've heard banking is more lucrative than drug-running.”

She smiled. “I should have gone into banking. I might've stayed out of Mulawa.”

The mood now was easier. “The account—what name? Jam's Eden or Joanna Everitt?”

“Joanna Everitt.”

“Do you have one somewhere else in the name of Janis?”

The smile had gone. “No. Janis is dead. I've got a new life.”

“But you still remember Jack Junior?”

She was very still; even her lips didn't appear to move. “Yes.”

“Have you been near him, gone to his office or his home?”

“No. He's married now and I have no fight with his wife. I'm not a home-wrecker.” She
sounded
almost prim; buttery words wouldn't melt in her mouth. Then she changed the tack of the questioning, asked one of her own: “How did you find me?”

“I haven't checked yet. Maybe the hitman told them where you could be found, that you'd changed your name.”

She smiled again, but this time it looked an effort. “You never give up, do you?”

“Never. You'll always be Janis with us.” He stood up. “I'll have a car take you home or wherever you want to go.”

“New York?”

“Don't try it. Not till we've cleared you. Thanks for coming in.”

Clements escorted her out, turned her over to Gail Lee to take her home. Malone sat on in his office. An Indian mynah walked up and down the sill outside the window, chirping at its reflection in the glass like a busker telling a competitor to get lost.

Then Phil Truach came in, plumped himself down in the chair Joanna Everitt had just vacated. He looked in need of a cigarette or two. “Are you in a good mood or have you got shit on the liver?”

“You've got bad news?”

“It could be. For you. Your two daughters are in a legal stoush. Claire has just issued a writ, on behalf of Clizbe and Balmoral at the Trades Congress, against Channel 15 and Maureen in particular. Evidently they put out something on the midday news.”

III

“You should settle out of court,” said Tom, “if you want an economist's opinion. It's always cheaper, out of court. The lawyers don't like it—”

“Shut up, smartarse,” snapped Maureen.

“The damage is done,” said Claire. “They have to pay for it. Plenty.”

“Pull your heads in, all of you,” said Malone. “I—”

“Pull
your
head in,” said Lisa, “I'm in the chair and we're going to discuss this without getting at
each
other's throats.”

Malone had called Claire and Maureen and told them he wanted to see them at home this evening, no matter what arrangements they had made. “You'll come or I'll bring both of you in here to Homicide and question you as to what you know.”

“That's an empty threat and you know it,” Claire had said.

“Try me.”

Now they were sitting in the living room at Randwick, surrounded by home; but the atmosphere was anything but homelike. Dinner had been eaten in threadbare silence, Lisa vetoing any discussion or argument while they were eating. True to form, she insisted the girls clear the table and stack the dishwasher. Dutch order was being forced on the evening. Malone had no idea how Dutch parliaments were run, but he knew they would not be of the order, or disorder, of Italian, Japanese and New South Wales parliaments.

Lisa went on, “Why did you have to do that midday piece, Mo?”

“It was what we came up with. Balmoral, backed by Clizbe and the Allied Trades union and two or three other unions, is flat out to take over Boolagong. They're holding a gun at Labor Party headquarters on the pre-selection issue.”

“That's where you made your first mistake,” said Malone. “Using that phrase—holding a gun at their heads.”

“I got carried away—it wasn't in the script—” She had inherited the Malone tongue that slipped its leash too often.

“If it wasn't in the script, then you'll be carrying the can,” said Tom. “Channel 15 will just wash its hands of you.”

“Oh shit!” Maureen was all at once deflated, slumped in her chair.

“Who's the lawyer here?” asked Claire. “The piece was filmed at 11.45, it went out at 12.05. The editors could have cut it if they'd wanted to. We're suing the channel, not Mo. She has no money.”

“Now you're talking like an economic rationalist,” said Tom admiringly.

“
Shut up,” said his mother. “What we have to discuss is if it goes to court. Once the Malone name is bandied about it could mean Dad being taken off the case.”

“No complaints,” said Malone, but they all looked at him, telling him they didn't believe him.

“It'll go to court,” said Claire. “Balmoral and Clizbe have already asked us to hire senior counsel. My boss says he'll handle it as instructing solicitor. I'm to be the dogsbody, so maybe I shan't be noticed.”

“Not much,” said Tom. “Can you get out of it, Mo? Let Channel 15 carry the can.”

“No, she can't,” said Claire. “I'm sorry, Mo. I'm only doing my job.”

“So was I.” But Maureen was still low, still angry with herself. “If I hadn't shot my mouth off . . . Why did I inherit your tongue, Dad?”

“Ask Grandpa. He gave it to me.”

“Would they have sued if I hadn't said the bit about holding the gun at the Labor Party?”

“Yes,” said Claire. “The complaint is against the general statement. The inference is that Balmoral—and Clizbe, too—have gone to any lengths to take over Boolagong. Even to getting rid of the Premier—”

“Oh, come
on
!” Maureen sat up. “There was nothing like that in our piece—”

“Mo—” Lisa put her hand gently on her daughter's arm—“when you were doing Communications at university, they should have taught you to read between and write between the lines. I've learned that at Town Hall, writing press releases. There are a dozen different ways of reading anything you see in the press or hear on radio and television. That's why politicians are always ambiguous, even when wishing the voters Merry Christmas. They know there are going to be a dozen different ways of its being interpreted. Your producer should have double-checked what you were going to say, even before you shoved in your own little piece. Litigation is a way of life these days. Ask any doctor.”

Tom opened his mouth and Malone said, “Shut it! We're getting nowhere right now. The case will go ahead?” Claire nodded. “Righto, it'll be in the lists. It'll be 2002 before it'll be heard, maybe longer. By then I'll be long off the case, we'll have found out who shot the Premier and you two will
probably
be in other jobs elsewhere. Crowded court lists have their advantages. But for the time being, Mo—watch yourself. There are some nasty bastards in this whole set-up and you're too young and pretty to be bashed up. Or worse.”

They all looked at him; then Lisa said, “Your father's right. You too, Claire, be careful.”

“Maybe I should say some Hail Marys that nasty bastards don't beat up economists,” said Tom.