Autumn Maze (2 page)

“How d'you know? They might of opened him up from the back.” The man had no idea how an autopsy was done and didn't want to know; he was squeamish about what was done to the dead.

“They'd have taken the brain-pan out.” The leader gestured at the stack of lidded white-plastic buckets along the corridor wall. “What do you think is in those buckets? Brains.”

The man lifted a lid, then slapped it back on a bucket, his hood fluttering over his face. “Christ Almighty! That's fucking disgusting!”

“They have to wait to examine a brain. They keep it in formalin for six weeks.”

“Six weeks? Jesus, why so long?”

“They have to wait till it stops thinking.” Silk hood waited for the calico hoods to ripple with laughter, but nothing happened; he went on, “Usually they never let the relatives know what they've done. Some people, particularly the Christian fundamentalists, get very upset at the idea.”

“So would I. Jesus, fancy having that done to you after you're dead. Okay, what we gunna do with this guy?” He nudged the bagged body.

“Feed him to the sharks.”

III

Tom's school had a holiday; teachers throughout the State had taken a day off to commiserate with each other on the toughness of their lot. Malone had therefore taken a day off to take Tom, aged ten, to the Vintage and Veteran Car Show at Darling Harbour. The fifty-hectare exhibition and convention
centre
had, on its opening five years ago, been hailed as a white elephant of the future; instead, it had gradually assumed a promising shade of pale, if metaphorical, grey. Malone was a reluctant admirer of it and an even more reluctant visitor to it. It seemed that each time he brought one or all of his children here it cost him a fortune. His hands were bleeding from reaching into his pockets, where the fish-hooks did their best to help him protect his money.

“Oh, come on, mate! You've just had three Cokes and three bags of chips.”

“The chips make me thirsty. Geez, you're a drag, Dad. Why does it hurt you so much to spend money?”

“When I'm old and broke and I come to you for a loan, I'll be asking you the same question. Being thrifty runs in the Malone blood.”

“Garn, Mum's always saying how generous I am.”

“Yeah, with my money.”

The banter between them was almost man-to-man; Malone did not believe in talking down to his children. They had stopped in front of a gleaming red machine, a 1904 Type 7 Peerless. Malone, a man for whom a car was something that had four wheels and a baffling source of power under the bonnet that made it go, looked at the car more with nostalgia than admiration or desire to own it; it symbolized the past, simpler and more innocent days. This car belonged to the times of his grandfathers and though he had never known those Irishmen, he knew in his heart he would have been happy sharing their days with them. Still deeper in his heart he knew he was fooling himself. No era had ever gleamed like this car, history had never been as uncomplicated as its workings.

Tom was unburdened with nostalgia. He said to the beautiful blonde model in the blue period dress that complemented the red car, “How much?”

The blonde looked at Tom's father. “Does he mean me or the car?”

Malone recognized her. She worked as a casual for Tilly Mosman, who ran Sydney's leading brothel, the Quality Couch. “Hello, Sheryl. I almost didn't recognize you. You look—vintage?”

“Thanks,” she said drily, and looked down at Tom. “It's not for sale, honey. It's like me,
priceless.”

“How come my father knows you? Are you undercover?”

“Occasionally.” She smiled at Malone. “Is he going to be a cop, too?”

“I'm trying to talk him out of it. Tom, this is Miss Brown. She's modelled for the police bulletin.”

Tom, young as he was, could be gallant: “If all policewomen looked like you, I don't think Mum would let Dad come to work.”

“If all policemen were as nice as you, Tom, I'd join the force.”

Then Malone's pager beeped. He cursed silently; he had warned Russ Clements that he wanted a totally free day.

“Sorry, Sheryl, we have to go. Come on, Tom, I've got to find a phone.”

“Bye-bye, Tom. If the car comes up for sale, I'll let you know.”

As they walked away, Tom said, “Geez, what a nice lady. Does Mum know about her?”

“Not unless you tell her.”

Malone found a phone, then had to borrow small change from Tom to make the call. “You owe me, Dad, don't forget.”

Clements was at Homicide. “This had better be important, Russ, or Tom's going to have your head.”

At the other end of the line Sergeant Clements sounded truly contrite; he loved the Malone children as if they were his own. “Scobie, tell Tom I'll buy him a Harley-Davidson for his birthday.”

“Like hell you will. What's the trouble?”

“You heard about that dive off a balcony down at the Quay? John Kagal and Peta Smith've been handling it, but I think you and I'd better come in on it. Romy's just been on to me. She's done the autopsy and she thinks the guy was dead before he went for the dive. She's found a puncture at the base of the skull, it's a neat way of killing someone, looks like it was done with a long needle or a hatpin or something.”

“
Who wears hatpins these days? Can't you handle it till I come in tomorrow?”

“There's something else. The mortuary assistant out at the morgue, you remember him, guy named Frank Minto, they found him this morning, laid out on a trolley, with two bullets in him.”

Malone looked out at the narrow waters of Darling Harbour. It was still warm for early autumn, summer hanging on like a spurned lover; bright sunlight flickered on the water, turned the sail of a passing yacht into a triangular glare. A good day to be spending with one's son. “Go on,” he said resignedly.

“There's more.”

“I'm not surprised.”

The glass walls of the huge exhibition centre suddenly blazed, as if the sun had slipped in the sky. From across the water, in the amusement park, there was a gasp of raucous music; it was abruptly cut off, as if someone had pulled the plug. Tom looked morosely up at him; he knew already that their day together was finished.

“Someone,” said Clements, “evidently whoever killed Frank Minto, has pinched a corpse from the morgue. I'll wait for you out there. Give my apologies to Tom.”

Malone hung up, looked down at his son. Despite the difference in age, there was a distinct resemblance between father and son. There was the same dark hair, growing the same way, back from the widow's peak; the dark blue eyes that did not try to hide amusement; the straight thick brows. Tom's cheeks were still round and soft, but beneath them was the hint of the bonework in his father's face. Missing was the frown that sometimes appeared between his father's eyes, that marked Malone with the aches and pains, blood and death, of the world in which he worked. A detective inspector in charge of Homicide could never pass for one of the world's innocents.

“Russ sends his apologies. I've got to go to work.”

Tom sighed, but he was used to sharing his father's time with the bloody Police Service. It was the price he paid for having a father who was a cop: Dad could have been an accountant or, for God's sake, a women's hairdresser. “It's okay. Can I go with you? Other kids' fathers take „em to work,
sometimes.”

“I've got to go out to the morgue. You wouldn't want to go there.”

“Why not?” He had a ferret's curiosity.

“Because it's full of dead people and dead people don't like kids staring at them.”

“How would they know?”

Malone clipped his son under the ear, put his arm round his shoulders. “There's plenty of time for you to meet the dead. Don't rush it, mate.”

Half an hour later, having taken Tom home to Randwick and delivered him to Lisa's disapproving stare, he drew up outside the morgue in Glebe, one of the city's inner areas. The entrance was in a quiet side street; he wondered what the residents thought of having so many dead neighbours, transients though they all were. He went in the front door, was recognized at once by the man behind the counter.

“G'day, Inspector. You heard about Frank Minto? Geez, it makes you wonder. You'd think you'd be safe in a place like this, wouldn't you?”

Russ Clements was in Romy Keller's office, neither of them acting like the lovers they were. Romy was German-born, dark-haired and, in both Clements' and Malone's eyes, beautiful. Clements was big and untidy, like a bag of clothing on its way to the dry cleaners, unhandsome but with a big pleasant face that appealed to a lot of women old enough to need a little tenderness. Which was what Romy saw in him, and more.

Romy kissed Malone on the cheek, then went round behind her desk and sat down. Two years ago her father had proved to be a murderer; with Clements' help she had weathered the blow. She had been on the verge of leaving the morgue's staff, but had been persuaded to stay on in the State Health Department and was now deputy director of the Institute of Forensic Medicine. Her eyes, when gay, were resplendent; but here at work she toned down the light in them. She was a woman used to men, alive and dead: they had few secrets for her.

“Seems we have something of a mess here, Scobie. Poor Frank Minto—why would anyone want
to
kill him? If they wanted to steal a body, for God knows what reason, they could have just tied him up.”

“Maybe he tried to stop them?”

She shook her head. “After those thugs came in some months ago and showed Frank a gun and demanded to see a body, we had a meeting and decided that if anything like that happened again, nobody was to stand in the way. Frank was a sensible man, he wouldn't have put any value on a corpse, not to the extent of trying to hang on to it. No, whoever it was shot him in cold blood. They didn't put any value on a living body.”

“They must've put some value on the corpse they stole?” Up till now Clements had sat silent; sometimes Malone had the feeling that the big man saw Romy as his superior. Which was wrong: in his own way Russ Clements was as competent, or more than that, as Romy.

“We won't know till we find out who they stole.”

Malone raised an eyebrow. “You don't know?”

“It was a male, unknown,” said Romy. “Middle-aged, Mediterranean look, no identification at all on him. He'd worn two rings, one on his left wedding finger, the other on his right little finger. They'd been pulled off, the skin was scraped on the little finger. His clothes are in a bag outside, but I gather they'll tell you nothing.”

“All good stuff,” said Clements, “but off the rack. It could of been bought anywhere.”

“Where was the body found?”

“In a park by Cook's River, out at Canterbury. Some kid and his girlfriend found him last night, about eight p.m. They called the locals, the Campsie D's are in charge of it.”

“So why are we in on it? Have they asked for us?” Local police protected their turf jealously.

“Not so far. But whoever took the body, took all the records of it.”

“They even wiped out all our data on the computer,” said Romy. “Whoever it was knew their way around a morgue. But they forgot one thing. The cops who picked up the body still have their notes. I called them earlier.”

“Could it have been an inside job?”

Romy
shrugged. “Maybe. But I don't think anyone here would have killed Frank Minto.”

Malone looked at Clements. The big man was still uncharacteristically quiet, his attention more on Romy than on Malone. Had they had a row, were together now only because of their work? “Russ? Russ?”

Clements gathered himself together. “I'll start questioning the staff, but like Romy says, I don't think it's an inside job. Too obvious. You asked me why we're in on this. Tell him, hon.”

Romy smiled at him, as if she enjoyed being called
hon
, even on duty. But there was something wrong with the smile, a wryness that took the affection out of it. Then she looked back at Malone.

“There was a note in Frank's pocket, a scribble addressed to me. Frank took his job more seriously than it looked—he was thinking of studying pathology, though I don't think he really had the education for it. Anyhow, he would often do a more thorough examination of a body than just checking it in.”

“What did his note say?”

“He found a puncture at the base of the skull of the body that's missing. This morning I did an autopsy, a preliminary one, on a body that came in last night about two hours before the other was brought in. He was supposed to have jumped or been pushed off a balcony twenty storeys up—the body was a mess. But I think he was dead before they tossed him off the balcony. There was a puncture at the base of his skull, too. It's a subtle way of killing, but it would have to be done by someone who had some medical knowledge. You flex the head forward as far as it will go, then you push a broad needle or a thin scalpel into what we call the atlas, the first cervical vertebra. That's what they did to Mr. Sweden and, from Frank's note, I'd say the same was done to our unknown male from Canterbury.”

“Who is Mr. Sweden?” Malone asked Clements, all at once wondering if the big man and Romy were playing some sick joke on him. “Not our—”

“
That's
why I called you in. No, he's not our new Police Minister. He's Derek's son.”

Malone swore under his breath; he belonged to a dying school that didn't swear in front of women. Even some of the hookers he knew respected him for it, since they met few gentlemen in bed or
the
back seat of a car, even a Mercedes.

“I think I'll go on sick leave.”

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