Autumn Maze (10 page)

Going back to Falkender's office Malone said, “Thanks for that bit about my usual discretion.”

Falkender grinned, his face relaxing for the first time. “Don't make a liar of me. What d'you reckon?” He jerked his head back towards the Minister's suite. “Is he just a father doing the usual, protecting his son's good name?”

Malone lowered his voice; no one knew where the ears were in an empty stairwell. “I think he knows a lot more than he's told us.”

Falkender nodded. “But be discreet, okay?”

III

In the Opposition Leader's suite in the annexe to Parliament House, Hans Vanderberg, The Dutchman, was seeking material for his last hurrah. He had been Premier of New South Wales for twelve years, running the State almost like an old-time American ward boss; his heroes had been Boss Tweed and Frank Hague and Jim Curley; he knew the names of all the political bosses but only three or four of the Presidents. He had discovered, only a year or two after he had landed in Australia from Holland back in 1948, that real political power does not work on the large stage. Being Prime Minister gave you pomp and ceremony and national headlines, but no PM ever had the power that a truly ambitious State Premier could achieve. The Dutchman had almost had a stroke when all his power had been taken away from him by a mere hundred votes in the last State elections.

“
What d'you know about this young Sweden case? They say it's murder.”

“It is.” Roger Ladbroke had been Vanderberg's press secretary for ten years. He had often thought of resigning, of going back to being a political columnist, but in the end always decided that he was a natural masochist and no editor would ever give him the exquisite pain The Dutchman could inflict. It was a consolation that the bruises never showed on him; he always just smiled when the State roundsmen asked him how he continued to put up with the abuse and insults to his education. Some day, when The Dutchman was dead, he would write a book and he possessed secrets that no roundsman could even guess at. “But as far as I can gather, they have no clue as to who did it or why.”

“His old man connected with it?” Vanderberg played with the quiff of hair that was the cartoonists' delight. He was an ugly little man, shrunk by age, his clothes hanging on him like a wet wash; he was loved only by his wife, but that was enough. “I tried to give him some sympathy this morning, but he just wiped me.”

The ex-Premier's sympathy was like strychnine: best in small doses.

“There's some skulbuggery in it, I can smell it. Keep sniffing around.” He had never believed that anything was crystal-clear, except his own perceptions.

“Hans, we can't make capital out of a family tragedy. The papers would be on to us like a load of shit.”

“We handle it delicately, son.”

Ladbroke shook his head invisibly at that. The Dutchman's idea of delicacy was how the Chinese had handled Tiananmen Square.

“Use your contacts, find out what's going on. Who's in charge of the case?”

“As far as I can gather, both Assistant Commissioners Falkender and Zanuch seem to have a hand in it.”

“That means they're trying to hide something.” The old man raised his nose, like a hound pointing.

“The man who's actually in charge of the case is that guy, Inspector Malone. You remember
him?”

“The honest one?” Vanderberg flattened his quiff. “He wouldn't tell you the time of Friday—” No one, not even Ladbroke, was ever sure that The Dutchman did not deliberately mangle everyday phrases. “We've got to upset the apples, son. Time's running out.”

“The government's got another three years to run.”

“I wasn't talking about them. I was talking about me. I'm getting on, Roger. If we wait for the full term to run, I'll be eighty by the next election. I want to toss out these bastards, get back in, set up things the way I want „em, put Denis Kipple in my place and then I'll retire. Gracefully.” The thought of his doing anything gracefully seemed to amuse even him: he gave a cackling laugh. “Get cracking, son. A stitch in time is worth the needling.”

Ladbroke couldn't wait for the graceful retirement. But he would miss the old sonofabitch.

5

I

IN A
waterfront apartment out at Point Piper, a narrow diamonds-and-pearls-encrusted finger jutting into the southern waters of the Harbour, another old man was having lunch with his son, his daughter-in-law and his daughter-in-law's father. This weekly lunch was a ritual with Jack Aldwych and he looked forward to it, though he could have done without today's extra guest, Adam Bruna.

“I
adore
this view!” Bruna clasped his manicured hands and gazed out at the Harbour. “Why don't you move over this side, Jack? Why do you have to live way out there in the Outback, Harbord or wherever it is?”

It amused Aldwych that he might have felt at home here on this tiny peninsula. It had been named after a colonial naval officer, a rake who laid women like stepping stones and who, when it came to making money, had as much dedication to principle as he had to celibacy. Aldwych had never been a womanizer, but he had had little regard for principle if it stood in his way.

“I couldn't afford to live over here.” He was one of the country's richest men, albeit one who never appeared in the rich lists. Wealth based upon prostitution, bank hold-ups, extortion and fraud was not publicly assessable, although in the Eighties fraud had been an almost acceptable method of becoming rich. Aldwych's wealth, thanks to Jack Junior's management, was now squeaky clean, but the smell of its origins still clung to it in certain quarters. “I could never afford an apartment like this.”

Jack Junior and Juliet had paid three million for the apartment, a price that had shocked Jack Senior almost as much as the day, long ago, a judge had given him five years for attempted murder when everyone knew it was no more than an attempt to teach a welsher a lesson. It had been Juliet who had spent the money, but Jack Senior had said nothing; if she, and what she did, made Jack Junior happy,
then
there was nothing to be said. At least for the time being.

“Oh, I don't mean you would have to buy something like
this
!” Bruna fluttered his hands. He was a handsome man, as good-looking as any of his daughters; small and compact in build, always beautifully dressed, if a trifle flamboyantly for Aldwych's tastes, he had sharp eyes and a smile that winked on and off as if on a rheostat. He was not homosexual, but he had exaggerated gestures and expressions that had at first confused Aldwych, a man of prejudice whose hands had the stillness of holstered guns. Bruna had once been a sculptor and still occasionally exhibited a piece or two, but his main source of income, apart from his daughters, was a gallery he owned in Woollahra. He had tried to sell Aldwych a small Giacometti, but the older man liked his statues, as he called them, rounded and in marble. The two fathers-in-law were not compatible, but so far not at war. “But this would be
nice.
I hope you'll leave it to your dear old dad, darling, if you go first. You and Jack,” he added with a smile towards Jack Junior.

“Don't let's talk of dying,” said Juliet. “Not this week.”

Aldwych looked at her across the table. They were lunching on the apartment's small terrace, sheltered from the unseasonal sun by a large umbrella; the Harbour was a silver glare, a black-clad windsurfer stuck in the middle of it like a table ornament. Aldwych was the only one not wearing dark glasses. Juliet's gold-framed glasses were flattering, but not revealing. “Have the police talked to you yet about Rob Sweden's murder?”

“Just the morning after it happened, not since then. Do you think they'll come to see me and Jack?”

“You can bet on it.” He ate some ocean trout; Juliet, a smart girl, knew what her father-in-law liked and did not like. “You remember who's in charge?”

“An Inspector Malone. A nice man, I thought.”

“He is.”

“Did you ever have anything to do with him, Jack?” Bruna had the Eastern European curiosity born in those who came from the crossroads of history. He knew Aldwych's history and was not embarrassed by it. In the art world you met all types, never questioned where their money came from,
otherwise
you would lose half your sales. He knew that many of his, paid for in cash, had been a means of laundering the client's money but, like many an art critic, he never looked behind the paint.

“Not officially,” said Aldwych, smiling to himself at how pious he sounded.

“There's no reason why he should trouble us.” Jack Junior had been quiet; he was the sort of diner who concentrated on his food. He was as tall and as well-built as his father, but he had a tendency to put on weight; Juliet now had him on a diet. They had been married twelve months and he was deeply in love with her, but lately the thought troubled him that she had taken over the running of his life. In the nicest possible and loving way, of course. “We had absolutely nothing to do with Rob and the way he lived.”

“That's not quite true, darling.” Juliet was dressed in lightweight cashmere today, with a little gold in the ears and on both wrists, nothing too eye-catching except to her father and other jewelry assayers. Aldwych was no expert, though in the past his hauls had frequently included gold and gems, but he was becoming adept at sizing up Juliet and the way she spent Jack Junior's money.
His
money, for he was still Chairman of the board, though none of the figurehead board members of Landfall Holdings knew that; they thought Jack Junior was the Chairman, just because he sat in the chair. Aldwych watched Juliet as she went on: “Rob often came to me and „Lind and „Phelia for advice. Social advice.”

“You mean advice on women?” said her father.

She smiled at him, as if he were the only one of the three men at the table who understood the relations between men and women. “Yes. He was juggling about six or seven girlfriends.” Or nine or ten, if one counted herself and her sisters. She did not regret going to bed with Rob, an affair for her was of no more consequence than a luncheon engagement, but Rob's death, and the manner of his dying, might prove that his ghost would be more trouble than his living self had been. “He looked upon us as women of the world.”

“Which you are, of course,” said her father, and his smile winked on again as he looked at the two Aldwych men. “When they were small girls, that was what I decided they would be. Women of the world. It just turned out to be a smaller world than I'd planned.”

“
Meaning Sydney?” said Aldwych, who loved his home town, even though he had robbed it blind. “Would Roumania have been a bigger, better world?”

“Touché.” Bruna smiled again, but it was more forced this time. It was forty years since the Brunas had escaped from Roumania, smuggled aboard a ship out of Constanta that had taken them down to Istanbul. After the fall of Ceausescu three years ago he had thought of paying a return visit, his roots stirring again, watered by memories, but in the end he had known there was nothing to go back for or to: the past of his own and Ileana's family was dead. “No, not Roumania, old chap. Europe, all of Europe.”

“Europe has nothing but trouble,” said Aldwych.

Then the cook-housekeeper, who had arrived from Roumania after the fall of Ceausescu and still couldn't believe her luck in getting out of Bucharest and falling into a job like this, came out on to the terrace. She looked frightened, as well she might, considering her previous experiences: “Two policemen. Secret ones.”

“Secret ones?” said Aldwych.

“She means they are not in uniform,” said Juliet. “They must be detectives.”

“Malone, I'll bet,” said Aldwych and looked with a certain pleasure as Malone and Clements were ushered out on to the terrace. “Scobie! We were just talking about you.”

“Have you had lunch yet?” said Juliet. “Won't you join us?”

“Thank you,” said Clements, who, always hungry, would have joined cannibals if invited.

The two detectives sat down and, over small talk, were served fish by the housekeeper, who looked as if she were being called upon to serve the Securitate. Malone was between Juliet and her father, Clements between the two Aldwych men. Clements took wine, but Malone asked for just water.

“You'll like that wine, Russ,” said Aldwych. “It's our own. We have a half-interest in a small vineyard up in the Hunter. That's our „86 semillon.”

Malone was savouring the ocean trout. “You seem to go in only for half-interests, Jack.”

“Keeps our name out of the papers,” said Jack Junior, and his father nodded in smiling agreement. “Why are you here, Inspector?”

Malo
ne cleared his mouth of fish. “We're finding out a few things about young Rob that worry us.”

All the forks at the table, except Clements', paused in midair. “Such as?” said Juliet.

“Seems he had sources of income outside of his salary and bonuses at Casement's.” He looked across the table at Jack Junior. “Did he ever do any moonlighting for you, Jack?”

Jack Junior put down his fork, aware of his father's watchful eye. Eighteen months ago, in his one venture outside the law, he had almost run afoul of Malone. He had been involved with another strong-minded girl then and it had been his father who had broken up the relationship and saved him from making a fool of himself and, probably, doing time behind bars, “I don't want to speak ill of the dead—”

“Why not?” Bruna's smile flashed around the table. “Isn't that the best and safest time?”

Jesus, thought the elder Aldwych, no wonder Roumania fell apart.

Jack Junior ignored the interruption: “I wouldn't have a bar of Rob, Inspector. Not in business.”