The Holiday Murders (18 page)

‘Do you keep in touch with any of your university friends?’

‘No, I don’t.’

‘When you were reading
The Publicist
, were any of your friends reading it as well?’

‘Yes, I suppose so. Well, I know so, yes.’

‘Were these people reading Xavier Herbert’s articles?’

‘Yes. We discussed them.’

‘Were they reading the rest of the magazine as well?’

‘Possibly. Occasionally there’d be a piece of art criticism that we’d argue about.’

‘Did any of them remain interested in
The Publicist
after you lost interest?’

‘I wouldn’t know.’ He paused. ‘That’s not quite true. There were two blokes I was aware of at university who were keen on the way that Germany was rebuilding. They weren’t among my friends in Classics. I knew of them, as opposed to actually knowing them. I don’t recall their names, although I’d probably remember their faces. They used to sell
The Publicist
, or try to. One of them got very badly beaten up. No one was ever charged. Everyone knew who did it, though.’

‘Oh?’

‘It was one of the Bolsheviks. There were a few of them about back in ’38. That was the year I left the university, after which I’m afraid I lost touch with everyone. I did hear on the grapevine that one of the Bolshies was found dead in the Yarra River — the chief suspect was the bloke they’d beaten up, but nothing was ever proven. By then I was at Oxford, completing a degree that would equip me perfectly for making sure that the Air Force has enough underpants to go around.’

As Tom was talking, Joe was reminding himself that, at this moment, Intelligence was more his master than Homicide was. Tom Mackenzie would be of little help in the murder investigation, but he might be of great help to Joe in getting somewhere with the brief from Intelligence. Joe had been given instructions to use whatever means necessary to get close to Magill and his followers — and here was one way to do that, close at hand. Tom Mackenzie clearly had some knowledge of
The Publicist
and its contributors, or some of them. If Tom was willing to play along and go with him to Candlebark Hill, his presence would corroborate Joe’s claim in the Liberty Bell that he had friends sympathetic to Magill’s cause. He might also recognise someone there as one of the ex-students he’d mentioned. That might be very useful indeed. Joe knew that this was a risky strategy, especially because he knew nothing about Mackenzie beyond his relationship with Inspector Lambert. With a suddenness that was uncharacteristic — he’d never been impulsive — he decided that now was the time to take a chance.

‘How would you like a small break from the desk job, Tom?’ Joe asked.

‘I’m listening.’

‘How do you feel about nudists?’

If the police
commissioner were ever to discover that Maude Lambert was regularly being given access to material that wasn’t for public consumption, Titus would lose his job. Even so, it was a risk he was prepared to take. He didn’t think of it as
his
job — it was
their
job.

Titus left Maude alone in his office with Martin Serong’s ghastly photographs, and then sat at Joe Sable’s desk and waited. He hadn’t yet summoned Constable Lord from her usual post downstairs, so there was no risk that Maude would be interrupted. Not surprisingly, she didn’t linger over the photographs. When she emerged, her face was drained of colour.

‘You have to catch this monster,’ was all she said.

Titus nodded.

‘I knew the photographs would be terrible, Titus, but I had no idea how terrible. It’s hard to believe that one human being could do that to another human being.’

‘What comes across most strongly, do you think?’

‘I don’t believe these killings have very much to do with revenge. I think the motive is pleasure, and I’m worried now that you’ll only catch him by accident, or by good luck.’

‘You think Australia First is a red herring?’

‘I do. You think so, too, don’t you?’

‘Yes, but I know I’m missing something. You’re right about the pleasure taken by the killer, and I can’t make that fit with a political motive.’

‘Unless he’s a psychopath for hire, but there was something in the photograph of Xavier Quinn that makes me wonder about that. Who was he looking at?’

Titus’s face showed undisguised admiration for his wife.

‘Helen Lord asked me the same question. She’s certain there was a second person in the room.’

‘I agree with her, but would a hired killer bring a friend along? I imagine paying two people would increase the risk of discovery, wouldn’t it? Of course, an accomplice could always be disposed of.’

Maude let that observation sit for the moment it took Titus to catch up with her.

‘Sheila Draper?’ he asked.

‘These are outlandish crimes. Shouldn’t we entertain even the most outlandish possibilities? Did she have a motive for wanting to hurt the Quinns?’

‘John Quinn was good to her, especially financially.’

‘In small ways, maybe. Perhaps resentment about her circumstances outweighed her gratitude. Or perhaps there was a price to pay for John Quinn’s generosity. She could have hired someone who then didn’t trust her to keep quiet about it.’

‘You have a devious mind, Maude. I have to confess that that awful possibility hadn’t even occurred to me.’

‘I’m always happy to complicate things, Titus. And now I’m ready for lunch.’

There was a
cafeteria in Russell Street, not far from police headquarters, that Titus frequented — not because it was any good, but because it was close. The owner was an Italian, and he and his wife had given up trying to convince their customers that Italian food, however remotely connected to the real thing, was edible. Economics had forced them to reproduce the dull, bland food that tasted familiar on the palates of their clientele. Shortages and rationing hadn’t improved matters at the Apollo.

Helen, Maude, and Titus took the last available table. Giorgio, the owner, came to them immediately. He looked harried. The last time Titus had eaten here, Giorgio had mentioned that he and his wife had been spat at in the street. There’d been a recent campaign demanding that all Italians be interned, and that their shops and businesses be turned over to decent Australians. There’d even been furious correspondence in the newspapers about ‘dagoes’ getting rich while Australian businesses struggled without their menfolk to run them. According to these patriots, buying anything from a dago was the same as buying something from the enemy. Part of the reason Titus came to the Apollo was to quietly reassure Giorgio and his wife that the police didn’t share the sentiments that had resulted in more than one broken window in Italian houses and businesses. He knew that Giorgio would never be entirely convinced that the police could be relied upon. In 1940, a baying mob had gathered in Exhibition Street and invaded shops and cafés, and smashed them up. The police had done little to prevent the vandalism or to prosecute the offenders.

Having spoken briefly to Giorgio, Titus did an appalling impression of someone who’d just remembered a prior engagement. He apologised to Giorgio, and to Maude and Helen, and left. The women ordered a pot of tea, and then vegetable soup. The vegetables, Giorgio said, were from his own garden.

‘Your husband is a very bad actor,’ Helen said.

Maude laughed. ‘Right now, he’ll be congratulating himself on a seamless exit.’

‘Is it normal practice for the inspector’s wife to interview members of his staff, Mrs Lambert?’

Maude wasn’t fazed by the sudden sharpness in Helen’s tone.

‘Has what is normal practice in the police force done you very many favours so far, Helen? And please, call me Maude. Mrs Lambert makes me feel very old.’

‘I’m not sure I like being auditioned in this way.’

‘You’re not being auditioned. You’ve already got the role.’

‘So why have we been so clumsily thrown together?’

Maude realised that anything other than the truth wouldn’t go down well with Helen. There was a risk that she’d bridle at any attempt to discuss her private life, but Maude was prepared to accept her response, whatever it was.

‘Titus knows next to nothing about you, apart from the fact that you’re a bloody good, instinctive detective. You should know, having been brought into Homicide, that he isn’t much interested in normal practice. He is, however, old-fashioned about some things, and he doesn’t feel comfortable asking you personal questions. I, on the other hand, am quite comfortable with invading people’s privacy — it’s not one of my best qualities, and it has got me into trouble in the past. Of course, you’re not obliged to answer any of my questions, which I’d originally intended to weave cleverly into our conversation.’

The soup arrived, and neither woman spoke as Giorgio fussed with the cutlery.

‘Vegetable soup,’ he said.

‘Minestrone,’ said Maude.

‘If I called it that,
signora
, no one would eat it.’

‘It smells delicious. Thank you.’

Giorgio withdrew.

‘Do you disapprove of a woman working in Homicide, Mrs Lam … Maude? Or of a woman being in the police force?’

‘The answer is “No” to both questions. Quite the contrary.’

‘And Inspector Lambert?’

‘That’s a strange question, considering that he took you into Homicide. Titus likes people who are good at what they do. A person’s sex doesn’t determine a person’s competence, but I know you’re surrounded by people in your line of work who think that it does. My husband isn’t one of those people. He didn’t ask you to join the investigation because he’d reached the bottom of the barrel.’

‘All right, I’ll put all my suspicions about this on hold. What’s your first question?’

‘What makes someone like you take a job and stick at it when every day she’s treated like dirt by oafs with half her intelligence?’

Helen looked up from her soup at Maude, and, to Maude’s relief, she smiled.

‘I was expecting something like, “Where were you born?” to start with.’

‘That’s probably on a file that Titus can read. This isn’t an interview you can fail. You’ve already succeeded. Why did you join the police force?’

‘I grew up in a police station, or next to one. My father was one of the local coppers in Broome. He was a good copper, but there were others there who weren’t. Even as a child, I knew that — I used to hear him and Mum talking. He died when I was fourteen. He drowned at Cable Beach. There wasn’t anything suspicious about it, although, God knows, I’d love to blame the bastards he worked with. He was swimming with some mates. Mum and I were on the beach, but he went under before anyone realised he was in trouble. When they brought him back to the beach, he was covered in welts, and there were still some jellyfish tentacles sticking to him. The coroner said later that the poison must have been too much for him. He had a heart attack, and then he drowned.’

‘I’m so sorry. Were there just you and your mother?’

‘Yes. She took me to Perth, but she couldn’t find any work there, so we came here, to her brother’s house. He’s much older, and he lived on his own in a house that was much too big for one person. Mum became his housekeeper and general dogsbody, and he paid to send me to a decent school. I’m twenty-eight years old, and I still live with my mum and my uncle, who has never been anything but kind to me; I’m not married, and I joined the police force four years ago. I can’t say I’ve enjoyed it, because mostly I’ve been seen as little more than a secretary. Russell Street makes no distinction between fully sworn female officers and auxiliary staff. I’ve stuck at it because I see no reason why my uncle should have to go on supporting me when I’m perfectly capable of supporting myself.’

She paused. ‘Now my soup is cold.’

Clarry Brown hadn’t
slept well — not because he felt any guilt about what he’d done, but because his body was alive with adrenalin. This feeling of elation lasted until well into the following morning. When he arrived at the café, he decided to spruce it up a little. He swept the floor, and was even cleaning the windows when Ptolemy Jones came in. He hadn’t spoken to Fred, and he wanted to know what had happened at the Jews’ house. Clarry was careful not to exaggerate his role or his actions — Jones would check his account against Fred’s anyway. He gave Fred full credit for directing things, and he admitted to having been afraid at first. He told Jones that it had felt good to swing the fence paling, and that afterwards he was proud of himself, and he was sure that he could do it again if necessary. Jones nodded solemnly and said, ‘Good, good,’ and Clarry felt absurdly happy.

‘There’ll be no meeting tonight, Clarry. Fred and I are going to Daylesford for a couple of days. There are people up there who could be useful to us.’

Clarry made a small noise to indicate his agreement, as if he were already one of Jones’s intimates. It had been a long time since he’d felt this good about himself.

The next day, he served two customers before 10.00am — an unheard-of rush. He’d seen neither man before, so they might or might not have been directed to the café by Jones. They ate his greasy mutton sandwiches without complaint, and didn’t speak any further to him. In fact, they barely spoke to each other.