Five-Ring Circus (18 page)

“I sometimes lie awake, but only because I wonder at the apathy of the voters. They get stirred up occasionally, like they did after the Port Arthur massacre, but do you think political skullbuggery keeps
them
awake at night?” He shook his head. “If it's not wearing football boots or cricket boots or basketball shoes, it ain't happening. I'll write a press release and the Old Man will go out there under the trees and after the TV cameramen have finished photographing each other, they'll turn the cameras on him and he'll make a fifteen-second soundbite and it'll be on TV tonight and that's when Mr. and Mrs. Sydney will go to the toilet or the fridge or the stove and the charade will be the same as last night and tomorrow night and every night till Parliament goes into recess. Ninety per cent of the voters will be in the toilet or at the fridge when it's announced that tomorrow is Judgement Day.”

Lisa looked out at the Domain. A few more people were appearing: the lunchtime netball players, half a dozen joggers, a street musician playing empty tunes to the empty air, the passers-by ignoring him as if he were no more than a treestump. At last she turned back to Ladbroke. “Do you think they'll tell the police to stop looking for the murderers?”

“I shouldn't be surprised. Not tell them to stop looking, just not to look so hard. The Old Man wouldn't know a javelin-thrower from a pole-vaulter, but he doesn't want his Olympics spoiled.”

“His
Olympics?”

Ladbroke smiled. “You don't think he's going to let the Lord Mayor or the IOC or the AOC or SOCOG claim the Games as theirs? He'll be eighty-four in Olympics year. If his prayers are answered, he'll drop dead in the VIP seats just as the Olympic flame is lit. He'll get a posthumous gold medal for timing.”

6

I

THE SUN
family had been visited by Phil Truach and Sheryl Dallen on Saturday morning; the two detectives had come back to report that the family, devastated by the tragedy, could offer no help at all. When Deng, the consul-general, had left, Malone called Gail Lee back into his office.

“We're going over to see the Sun family, Gail. I've looked up Phil's notes—there are two sons in the family about the same age as General Huang's son and daughter. Maybe the Sun boys knew them.”

“What about Camilla Feng? Maybe she knew them, too.”

“We'll try her, too. But first . . .”

“Phil showed me his notes. The two sons work in the father's office—it might be better to try there first.”

“Do you know where the office is?”
Why do I bother to ask?

She looked at her own notebook. “In the Optus building in North Sydney.”

“Gail, are Chinese women all as thorough as you?” He said it with a smile to make it politically correct.

“Of course. The most efficient rulers of China have always been women.”

“I thought you said those two women, Tzu and the other one, were cruel and brutal?”

“So?” she said with her own smile.

“I'm going to have to watch out for you.”

“No,” she said without a smile. “I have too much respect for you.”

He could accept praise and respect; he had just not expected her to offer it. “Thank you.”

On the way out of the main office he spoke to Sheryl Dallen. “Ask Immigration for a list of all
arrivals
in the past two weeks travelling on Chinese passports. Eliminate the women and old men. I'm guessing, but we're looking for a man in the twenty-five-to-forty-five age group. It's a long shot, but try it. How are we going on the mobile phone trace?”

“Nothing so far. The media may have stuffed it up for us. There's a piece in the paper this morning about how Telephone Intercepts was used to trace a rapist. If our missing guys read it, they could be shrewd enough to stay off their mobiles.”

He said nothing, frustration choking him.

He and Gail drove through the city and over the Harbour Bridge through a humid day that threatened a late afternoon storm. Haze hung like the thinnest of veils and already out west, towards the mountains, clouds were piling on top of each other like another, higher range. Up ahead an illuminated sign on top of an office building said the temperature was 34°C, but that was up where the pigeons flew. Down in the narrow streets of North Sydney Malone knew it would be much more uncomfortable.

North Sydney lies at the northern approach to the Bridge, no more than a couple of kilometres from the main city. It is a post-World War Two development, an inner suburb of terraced houses and a few mansions that was now a jumble of office high-rises. The jumble had sprouted before town planners had grown to have influence. Houses and small shops had been pulled down, high-rise buildings had gone up like controlled explosions. Belatedly there had been efforts to control planning and development, but the damage was done thirty or forty years ago. The largest open space is its busiest cross-intersection.

Gail parked the car in the Optus building underground car park and the two detectives rode up to a middle-level floor where the Sun family company had its offices. It was a modest establishment behind two large glass doors: an outer office and two inner offices. The gold letters on the glass doors said no more than
Sun Limited,
like a cautious weather forecast.

There were two girls at separate desks in the outer office, a bottle-blonde Caucasian and a blue-black Chinese. They had almost identical hairstyles and looked like a positive and negative image of the same girl.

Malone produced his badge. “We'd like to see Mr. Sun.”

“
Certainly, sir. Mr. Darren or Mr. Troy?”

I don't believe this: Chinese Rugby league players?
“Both.”

Both Sun sons were in the same inner office, at desks on opposite sides of the room. Through an open door there was a glimpse of a large corner office with a view down to the Bridge and across the water to the main city. Evidently it had not yet been decided which heir would move in there.

Darren was the taller and older of the two brothers, Troy the plumper. Both were without their jackets, wore uncrumpled white shirts with plain black ties, were stiff and formal: starched either with grief or at this intrusion on their grief.

“Has your father been buried yet?” Malone asked.

“Not yet. He is being cremated tomorrow.” Darren appeared to be the spokesman: Troy stood to one side, on the bench as it were. “I hope you have not been worrying our mother?”

“We try not to worry anyone, Mr. Sun, but we do have to ask questions if you want us to find the man who murdered your father.” It was an explanation cops had to make time and time again. It was extraordinary the number of people who seemed to believe that a murder could be investigated without any input from them, no matter how close they might be to the victim. “I'll be as brief as possible. Did your father confide much in you?”

The brothers glanced at each other; then Darren said, “Yes. We're partners—junior partners—in the family company.”

“The sign on the door,” said Gail Lee, “says Sun Limited. You're not a proprietary company?”

“We're a public company, but not a listed one. It was my father's whim—he wanted people to think the family company was publicly listed on the stock exchange.”

“Quite a whim,” said Gail. “Not Chinese at all.”

I'm glad you said it, thought Malone.

“It's the Australian in us,” said Darren. “Everything out in the open.”

“If you are partners,” said Malone, stepping into what looked like the beginning of a civil war, “you'll have some idea of what was going on at Olympic Tower?”

“
In what way?”

Uh-uh, we're suddenly Chinese now.
“Did your father know Mr. Shan's true identity? Did you?”

Again a glance between the brothers; then: “Our father knew who he was. He didn't tell us till about a month ago.”

“Why then?”

It suddenly appeared to dawn on the brothers that this questioning might go on; up till now they had remained on their feet and had not invited the two detectives to sit down. Now Troy said, “Perhaps we should go into the other room—it's more comfortable there.”

He led the way, waved Malone and Gail to two chairs, sat down beside the large carved teak table that served as a desk. Darren followed, sat down behind the desk. The heir had been decided.

“About a month ago,” said Darren, “Mr. Shan—General Huang, if you like—looked to be having money problems. The Bund Corporations progress payments on the construction weren't coming through on time. That was when our father explained General Huang's connections, when he suspected that the Bund set-up wasn't kosher.”

“Kosher?” Malone grinned.

The grin seemed to take some of the starch out of the brothers. “We have a Jewish accountant.”

“Chinese and Jewish?” said Gail. “You must be unbeatable.”

The brothers said nothing and the joke fell flat.
Back off, Gail:
Malone said, “Did the money situation improve?”

Both brothers had their eyes on Gail, as if trying to place why a half-Chinese woman detective should be here. Then Darren looked back at Malone. “Not immediately, no.”

“Was the Bund Corporation still behind on its payments when General Huang was killed?”

“Yes.”

“What about Madame Tzu? She's a director of Bund.”

“Madame Tzu came good, yes.” Darren looked at his brother: “How much?”

Troy felt obliged to explain himself: “I'm the finance officer. Madame Tzu came up with thirty
per
cent of the progress payment.”

“How much?” said Gail.

“Five million.”

“That leaves quite a lot short,” said Malone. “Did you know General Huang's son and daughter?”

The brothers seemed surprised at how much the detectives knew.

“We thought that had been kept very quiet,” said Troy. “We met them for the first time about two or three weeks ago. General Huang brought them to our parents' house.”

“Did you get to know them?”

“We took them out to dinner,” said Darren. “To the Golden Gate, as it happened. Just the once. They were not easy to know.”

“In what way?”

Another glance between the brothers, then Troy said, “We thought they were scared.”

“So they should've been,” said Malone. “They were sitting on the money that should've been going into Olympic Tower.”

A moment, then Troy said, “We know. Investigators from the government were here—they told us they were investigating infractions of the Cash Transactions Reporting Act.” He recited the title as if he were familiar with it and Malone wondered if Sun Limited had occasionally been guilty of an infraction or two. “There was money here in certain accounts that they thought might have been meant for Chinese investment in Sydney. We were on the list as possible targets. They didn't tell us how much money was involved, but they did tell us it was in two students' bank accounts. Dad and us, we put two and two together. We guessed who the students were.”

“The investigators didn't tell you how much was involved?” said Gail.

The Sun brothers shook their heads.

“Fifty-one million. US dollars.”

If Gail had expected any reaction from the brothers, she was disappointed; they were suddenly
inscrutable.
“Well!” said Darren, and that was the only reaction from either of them.

“Why were the two of them scared?” asked Malone.

“We don't know,” said Darren. He had a habit of wiping one hand across the other, as if washing his hands of something; now it looked to be more a hint of panicky nerves. “Maybe they were unused to such large amounts of money—”

“People do get afraid of large amounts of money,” said Troy, who looked as if it would take the national debt to frighten him. “That's why so many lottery and casino winners blow the lot, soon's they get it. They're scared of it.”

Malone, who never bought a lottery ticket or paid a bet, said nothing, just nodded to Darren to go on. Who did: “The other thing that may have scared them was because they suspected someone other than the government investigators knew about it.”

“Such as someone from China?” said Malone.

Both brothers nodded, Darren wiped his hands furiously, and Malone went on: “Are
you
scared?”

Darren looked down at the arms of the heavy teak chair in which he sat, as if he half-expected to see the ghostly hands of his father clutching at them. He's not sure he wants to sit in that chair, thought Malone.

Then Darren said, “Wouldn't you be scared?”

“Yes, I think I would be. It might be an idea if you hired a coupla security guards. You know that the son is dead. Li Ping, the daughter, is missing—she may be dead, too. The two Chinese engineers who were working on Olympic Tower—they're missing, too. Did you know them?”

Troy nodded. “Madame Tzu brought them to our house once. Nice guys, very clued up.”

“Clued up about what?”

Troy raised his shoulders, spread his hands. “Everything. These guys weren't
peasants.”

“Were they Communists?” asked Gail.

“I doubt it. I don't think any young people in China today are Communists, not the old-
fashioned
sort. These guys were into fashion—” He unexpectedly laughed, a pleasant sound. “Darren and I were square compared to them. They were into all the Italian gear. I didn't get any idea that they believed in spreading the wealth.”

“But well-dressed as they were,” said Malone, “you still got the idea they were scared?”

“Not them, no,” said Darren. “They acted as if they had the world made.”