Murder Song (13 page)

The Dutchman was Hans Vanderberg, the State Premier and Police Minister. He was Labour to the core of his heart, though certain research hospitals were said to have already volunteered their autopsy services when he died in the hope that it could be established that he actually had a heart. He was incorruptible but he was ruthless. Malone wondered what he would say if he knew that Arnold Debbs, a Federal Labour member, was a client, perhaps even a friend of Brian Boru O'Brien. But The Dutchman probably already knew and the knowledge would be filed away for future use in the numbers game at national conferences.

“I think we've got to give them some sort of protection, Harry. If you give it to me and not to them and the papers get on to it, there'll be a real stink. Derryn Hinch would make a meal of it on his TV programme.”

“I tell you we can't do it if it's gunna cost money. You know what government policy is like, they only spend money on law and order after the crime's been committed,” he said with unintended humour.

Malone considered for a few moments, wondering how he was going to break the news to Lisa
that
the family's home life was going to be disrupted for—how long? Claire would never forgive him for having her first skiing holiday postponed; the season was coming to an end and she would have to wait till next year. Lisa would fight the suggestion at first, but, with her Dutch commonsense, would agree in the end. Maureen and Tom would not carp against anything that allowed them to miss school for a few weeks.

At last he said, “I'll send my family away. My wife's parents will probably take them somewhere.” Jan and Elisabeth Pretorius, retired and comfortably well-off, would jump at the chance of having the family to themselves, of being able to spend money on them without Malone's disapproval. “Then I'll move in somewhere with O'Brien and Waldorf.”

“What if they don't want anything like that?”

“Then we'll get it in writing from them and then, bugger „em, let „em look after themselves.” But he knew he would never let that happen; he knew, from experience, that half the elements of the civilized world, and probably the uncivilized, had to be protected despite themselves. Hospitals and graveyards were full of people who had insisted they had known how to look after themselves.

“Well, I'll put it to Fred Falkender,” said Danforth doubtfully. “But I don't like the idea of you getting too close to this bloke O'Brien. He's a crook.”

“Harry, you and I have been close to crooks all our lives.”
You more than me and much closer.
“I'll handle it. The tough part will be shacking up with Waldorf. Opera singers are supposed to practise four hours a day.”

“I once went to the opera with the wife and her sister. It was bloody murder.”

An hour later, when Malone was back in his office, Danforth rang him. “Fred Falkender's okayed it. Make your own arrangements, then let me know. We'll have one of the special units standing by, just in case. They'll be on call and they'll be wherever you need „em within ten minutes. Also, a plainclothesman will move in with you, three of „em, each on an eight-hour shift. Where are you thinking of holing up?”

“That's all fixed. I've been in touch with O'Brien. He's not keen on the idea, but he sees the point. I'm moving into his suite at the Hotel Congress. I don't know if there'll be room for Waldorf
and
a
stand-
by man. You'd better put our feller in one of the rooms on the same floor.”

“How much will that cost?”

“O'Brien will probably be able to get us corporate rates. Say two-fifty a night.”

“Two
hundred
and fifty?” Malone could imagine Danforth going purple. “Forget it! He stays with you, even if he's gotta share a bed.”

“Harry, relax. I've talked with O'Brien about the need for protection. He's moving his own security men in next door to the suite. There won't be any need for our fellers.” He paused, then said, “Harry, this doesn't mean I'm stopping work on these murders. I'm still in charge.”

There was silence at the other end of the line. Then: “They wanna put Greg Random in charge.”

Malone could see Greg Random jumping at the chance to be back in harness. Since the regional reorganization he would not have been remotely connected with a homicide. Once the new territories had been created, the old territorial imperative syndrome had surfaced. The local Indians did not want another chief from outside, they already had enough of their own. Malone all at once was defending his own territory.

“Harry, I'd like to front the AC on this. These are
my
cases.”

“Scobie, don't be bloody difficult. You'd be so one-eyed about nailing this bloke Blizzard—”

It was exactly what he had said last night about Jim Knoble's being allowed to pursue the drug-pushers who had contributed to his son's OD-ing. But that, of course, had been different. It always was when your point of view shifted. “Righto, Harry. I'll put Russ Clements in charge, he can prepare everything for an indictment when we get Blizzard—”

“He'll only do whatever you tell him—”

Malone was glad they weren't face to face; he could not have hidden his smile. “Don't you trust me, Harry?”

“No.” He wondered if Danforth was smiling. Then: “Okay, Scobie. I'll tell Fred Falkender that Russ Clements will be handling the day-to-day stuff and I'll be in direct control. That satisfy you?”

Not
really; but it was the best he could hope for. “Thanks. We'll clean this up between us. I hope before another one of us gets it.”

II

“Making love with some men is like arm-wrestling,” said Joanna Dempster. “Floyd is like that. He always wants to be the winner.”

Joanna was Anita Norval's sister, younger by ten years. She was blonde where Anita was dark, was taller and had to watch her weight; up till now she was voluptuous, but a matronly figure was just round the curve of her. She was amoral but honest; and frank, sometimes to the point of embarrassment. She was on her third husband and she gave Anita balls-by-balls descriptions of their accomplishments and shortcomings. Her first husband, a New Zealand banker, had had a very short penis; her second, a Chilean interior decorator, had had a very long one. It had opened up a whole complex of new positions, she had told Anita, who hadn't wanted to know but couldn't resist listening; for the first twelve months of that marriage, she had confided, she had suffered from a series of sprains and strains. She was possibly the only woman who had accomplished an orgasm with a pulled Achilles tendon, a gymnastic accident she had somehow refrained from describing to her doctor, her physiotherapist and her instructor at her aerobics class.

They were having lunch in her town house in Double Bay. Ever since she had left Killara and home she had insisted on living in the eastern suburbs. It was an area where affairs could be conducted without the local citizens hanging out placards against sin; perhaps the tolerance was due to the large middle-class community of immigrants who had settled there. Of course there was promiscuity in other areas of Sydney, but it was kept under wraps as if it were some sort of infectious disease. Joanna's affair with her present husband, an American oil executive, had been started while she was married to the Chilean. She had, she said, been looking for someone less an athlete, but had, it seemed, drawn a quarterback.

Anita began to wonder why she had come here to confide in Joanna. But she had to confide in
someone;
and Joanna, for all her loose morals, had never had a loose tongue when it came to sisterly secrets. “Brian is nothing like that. With me, he's just so gentle. Almost too gentle, as if he thinks I'm fragile.”

“I've seen him occasionally at do's. He's not brash like some of our tycoons, but he always struck me as if he could be ruthless. Floyd says he would never want to deal with him.”

“Is Floyd implying he's shonky?”

Joanna fiddled with the cottage cheese on her plate. “You read the papers. Only the libel laws stop them from coming right out with it.”

“I know.” Anita nodded morosely. Sometimes she wondered if she loved Brian more for his faults than his good qualities, as if love were some sort of mercy mission. She tried to smile: “Maybe he just needs a good woman.”

“Good at what? Look, darling, I'm not criticizing him for what he's like in business. You fall in love with a man for God knows what reasons, not because he's a pillar of honesty and respectability. Look at all the male saints the nuns told us about when we were at Loreto. If women fell in love with saintly qualities, do you think all those guys could have escaped as bachelors? The women would have had them at the altar before they could get up off their knees. St. Francis of Assisi wouldn't have had time to get rid of a handful of birdseed.”

In spite of herself, Anita smiled. “You're a tonic, Jo. You may not be good for me in the long run, but you make me feel better for the moment.”

“What's an errant sister for but to make a good sister feel better?” But she said it without any rancour; there was genuine love between them. “How does all this affect you with Phil?”

“He doesn't suspect.”

“He wouldn't. With half the dumb woman of Australia in love with him, why should he worry about whether his wife is still in love with him? Serves him right if you're finding some happiness now. But there's no future in it, you know,” she said, suddenly serious.

“I know.” Anita toyed with the salad in front of her; then she said, still looking at her plate,
“
There's something else. One of Brian's ex-girl-friends was murdered at the weekend in the flat where we've been meeting. You probably read about her. The singer Mardi Jack.”

Joanna put down her fork and stared at her sister. Then she took the wine bottle from its cooler and refilled her glass; she raised the bottle enquiringly, but Anita shook her head. She returned the bottle to the cooler, then drank slowly from her glass. It was the first time Anita had ever seen her sister consciously taking control of herself and it looked so out of character.

At last Joanna said, “Are you involved?”

“No. I didn't even know about her till he talked to me yesterday. I'm sure she didn't know about me. Oh, I knew he'd had two wives and there'd been dozens of girls, but I didn't want to know about any of them and he kept them to himself.”

“You're lucky. All my men carry their score-cards with them, like bedroom golfers. I read about this girl. Does he know who shot her?”

“No.”

“Have the police been to see him?”

“Yes.”

“Do they know about you?”

“I don't think so. God, I hope not!”

“Go back to Canberra then. Forget all about Mr. O'Brien for a while. Be the PM's wife, go and open some fêtes or an art gallery or something. Preferably over in Perth or up in Darwin. As far away from Sydney as you can get.”

Anita pushed her plate away; she had eaten virtually nothing. “I can't, Jo. I can't leave him to face all this on his own. The NCSC are after him, and now
this
. . . I
love
him, Jo.”

“You just agreed with me there's no future in it with him. Phil would never agree to a divorce—it would dent his image too much. And Brian Boru—where on earth did he get that name?—he's probably going to finish up in jail for business fraud, at least that's what Floyd thinks. Now's as good a time as any to end it all. Don't even kiss him goodbye.”

Anita
shook her head. “I can't. Even if I do break it off, I'll have to see him. I can't just break it off with a note or a phone call. I'm not a coward.”

“You're a fool if you do it any other way.” But Joanna said it kindly; she had been a fool in love too many times herself. “All right, but do it quick. Don't put it off.”

“I have to go to a reception this evening at the Town Hall—Phil is coming up from Canberra for it. We'll stay at Kirribilli tonight. I'll let Phil go back on his own in the morning and I'll see Brian then.”

“Where? Do you want to see him here? I'll go out and you can have the house for as long as you like.” Then she slapped her cheek. “Oh God, no! Mother's coming. She's bringing some of her committee mates for morning coffee. They want to see how her wayward daughter lives. They think I've decorated the place like a brothel.”

Anita had never been in a brothel, but she was sure that none would ever be as elegant as this house of her sister's. She searched for a word that would describe it and decided the word was
creamy;
somehow, it also described Joanna herself. The colour scheme, even the shape of the furniture, was designed to engulf one in softness; just like Joanna. The pictures on the walls, all originals, were of soft lush women: lying on creamy beds, on creamy beaches: well, maybe
they
were what one might find in a brothel. She knew that she would love to have had a couple of hours here with Brian. Better to lie in cream than in sleaze.

“Never mind, I'll find some way of seeing him.”

“Be careful, darling. I'd hate to see you splashed all over the front page of the
Mirror.
It would kill Mother and Dad. It might even floor Phil for a minute or two.”

Anita loved her sister and all at once envied her her amorality and contempt for public opinion.

III

Just as he had expected, Lisa rebelled when Malone told her of the protection policy. “No! I stay with you—the kids can go with Mother and Dad, but I stay with you!”

It is natural for animals to feel that their home, their cave, burrow or house, is a safe place.
Now,
all at once, the Malones knew that was no longer the case. The thought sickened them both.