The Easy Sin (17 page)

“Miss Doolan had it,” said Caroline. “It apparently didn't help.”

Malone smiled at her; or grimaced. “Miss Doolan was a smartarse, Mrs. Magee. Most people, when we're protecting them, try to cooperate with us. She slipped away while our backs were turned. If we give you protection, I hope
you'll
cooperate.”

“Me, too?” said Cragg.

“You feel you're in danger, Mr. Cragg?”

Today he was more formally dressed than yesterday: a collar-and-tie job, suit trousers instead of jeans. Maybe, Malone thought, one dressed formally for the final rites of receivership. He wondered where
Joe
Smith, of Ballantine, Ballantine and Kowinsky was. Downstairs laying out the corpse?

“No,” said Cragg, tightening the yellow tie that lay like spilled egg against his blue shirt. “No, I'll be okay. I'm walking out of here today and Errol can take care of himself.”

“And Miss Doolan, too?”

“She was never part of I-Saw. She's his responsibility.”

“And what about these three ladies?”

“I've just told them, they look after themselves.”

He didn't look at the three women and they ignored him. Malone had read about the mass sackings in the IT game over the past year and he wondered if they had all been as heartless as Cragg made it sound. There was one thing about the public service: when it came to sacking, downsizing, whatever one called it, you never met the real axeman. He was somewhere out there in the fog of bureaucracy.

“We'll look after ourselves,” said Daniela. “You'd better believe it, Jared.”

“What does Errol owe you three ladies?” asked Malone.

“Worthless stock options,” said Daniela, as if reading from a list. This morning there was no sign of last night's amateur coquette; she was all business. “Superannuation, sick leave, last month's pay.”

“The same,” said Louise, when Malone looked at her.

Then he turned to Caroline, who stood apart from the other two women. That's how she would be, he thought, always standing apart. Daniela and Louise were in casual clothes this morning, slacks and shirts; but Caroline was in a suit, ear-rings and necklace in place, handbag at the ready. It suddenly occurred to him that she was the only one of the four here around the desk who showed no sign of wreckage. It was there in the faces of the other three but not in hers.

“Errol owes me nothing,” she said, “except my wasted time.”

“Lucky you,” said Daniela, but Caroline ignored her.

Malone changed tack, said to Cragg, “The woman didn't ring back yesterday at five as she promised. The woman asking for the ransom.”

“No-o. How did you know that?”

“
We got a warrant to have I-Saw's phones tapped. I must've forgotten to tell you,” he said with no hint of apology. He was becoming tired of these people. “She called the Kunishima Bank, asked them for the
five
million.”

“What did the bank say?” It was Daniela who asked the question. She was the one who was doing most of the talking. Louise stood silent, as if she were no more than an office junior. Caroline still stood apart. Like a partner in Ballantine, Ballantine and Kowinsky? Malone wondered. But she had already declared she was no longer interested in I-Saw or Errol Magee.

“They told her, whoever she was, to get lost,” said Malone. “But politely—they're Japanese. Errol's name stinks with them, Daniela. He's stolen forty million dollars from them and salted it away somewhere overseas.”

“Holy shit!” said Cragg; and Daniela and Louise looked as if they were silently echoing him. “Jesus, that could've saved us!”

“You hadn't told them?” Malone looked at Caroline Magee.

“No.” Her tone was flat.

“What a bastard!” Daniela at last found her voice again. “Why can't he pay his own ransom? And pay us?”

“I could cut his throat,” said Louise and for a moment looked a different, dangerous woman.

Malone's worst feelings were getting the better of him. Malice is there in everyone; even St. Francis, when people weren't looking, had thrown stones at the birds of Assisi that shat on him. “Maybe we should turn him over to you when we find him.”

Cragg, Daniela and Louise nodded; but Caroline Magee shook her head. “You can have him. I'm going back to London.”

“When?” said Malone.

“I'm booked out on Friday.”

“What if we find him and he's dead?”

It was brutal, but Caroline didn't flinch. “Then I'll say a prayer for him. In London.”

Malone
felt he was getting nowhere. He had come over here to talk to Daniela, to get more background on Errol Magee and who else might be involved with him. But the three women, together, even if unwillingly, were behind a barricade. He would have to take them away separately, subject them to hard interrogation. And he couldn't do that without having lawyers brought in and he was in no mood for that sort of obstruction.

He changed tack again: “Mr. Cragg, may I see you alone? Excuse us, ladies.”

The three ladies were impassive; it was as if two territories of gender had been staked out. Malone took Cragg back through the desert of work-stations to the front desk. “Jared—” Be matey: first rule of police interrogation. “That woman who rang the other day—did you recognize her voice?”

“You had a bloody hide tapping our phones without telling me!”

“I wasn't the one who authorized it. Take it up with our strike force commander . . . Did you recognize the voice? You didn't seem surprised when you got the call.”

“You don't miss much, do you?”

“I try not to. How d'you reckon I'd go in IT?”

Cragg shook his head. “The game's full of fucking blind men you'd eat ‘em.”

“But not you? Weren't you blind to Errol and what he was up to?”

Cragg nodded, glum at his own blindness. “Yeah . . . About that girl. Yeah, I thought the voice was familiar, but I couldn't place it. Still can't—I'm not an expert on women's voices.” He would never listen to them, Malone thought; Cragg would make some of the chauvinists in Homicide look like handmaidens to feminism. “It might've been one of Errors girlfriends. Yes?” He was looking over Malone's shoulder.

Malone turned. Vassily Todorov stood there, dressed for battle in the city streets. He wore black training shoes, black socks, tight black shorts, a green polo shirt with FOLEY'S FLYERS across the front of it in white, and a green-and-white cyclist's helmet shaped like a plume. He wore black gloves and there was a green haversack on his back. He looks bloody ridiculous, thought Malone.

“Mr. Todorov! You delivering something for Mr. Cragg?”

“
Who's he?” asked Cragg. “A police courier?”

“Mr. Todorov's girlfriend worked for Mr. Magee. She was the maid who was murdered.”

“Terrible,” said Todorov and the plumed helmet shook from side to side. “In the prime of her life.”

“Do you have something for me?” said Cragg.

“Only a question, sir.” Todorov was not aggressive, but with every muscle exposed in his tight gear, the plumed helmet on the rock of his head, there was a suggestion he was ready for aggression. “Miss Marcos, God rest her soul—she was a Catholic,” he explained; communism still clung to him, like another polo shirt. “She was employed by I-Saw. Her pay cheques were drawn on I-Saw. Signed by Mr. Magee. I think I-Saw owes her superannuation, sick pay and holiday pay. I have added it up. Three thousand, seven hundred and twenty dollars. I am her next-of-kin.”

“Mr. Todorov, you are just her boyfriend,” said Malone.

“Inspector, I am her
de facto
. I have studied the law. I-Saw owes me three thousand, seven hundred and twenty dollars. I will take a cheque.”

“Mr.—Todorov?” said Cragg. “Go down to the floor below and ask for Mr. Smith. He's in charge of I-Saw now. Tell him what you want and he will put you on his list of creditors. I wouldn't build my hopes, if I were you.”

Todorov looked at Malone, who said, “They're bankrupt, Vassily. I think you'll be lucky if you get five cents. I wouldn't leave Foley's Flyers if I were you.”

“I am no fool, Inspector.” Todorov seemed to grow another inch or two; Malone looked to see if he was standing on his toes. He wasn't. “Bulgarians are born looking four ways at once—history is our godfather. I did not come to Australia to be a bicycle courier for the rest of my life. I am pedalling for higher things.”

This bloke's having me on
. But perhaps he wasn't. Multi-culturism had been in this country for fifty years, but the weave was still as loose as a shark net. Understanding slipped through every day. He knew he would have trouble placing Bulgaria on the map. Somewhere at the arse-end of Europe, bum-
wiped
by history.

“He's all yours,” said Cragg bluntly and walked away towards a door that led to stairs, going down to the laying out of the corpse of I-Saw.

“They don't care, do they?” said Todorov, looking after him.

“He has things on his mind.”
Why am I defending Cragg? Of course he doesn't care
. But then Todorov himself had given the impression that he didn't care, not about Juanita; only about what was owed to her, down to the last dollar.

“I saw the news—Mr. Magee's girlfriend has been kidnapped. It is like Moscow.”

Malone had to smile. “Not quite, Vassily.”

“I hate the Russians. They ruined communism.”

Malone wasn't going to defend Russians or communism. “How did Miss Doolan and Juanita get on?”

“Not very well.” Todorov was not hesitant about his opinion. “Miss Doolan was rude. Australian women are not good with servants. They are either rude or too friendly.”

Ask a Bulgarian communist, a Foley's Flyer, for a considered opinion on Australian women as domestic bosses and don't complain if you get a considered answer. He would have to ask Lisa's opinion tonight. “How did Mr. Magee get on with Juanita?”

“He hardly spoke to her. Except once.”

Maybe Australian men were just as bad with domestic help. Had Errol put the hard word on the maid, as happened in Britain and Europe, according to the movies he saw on SBS? “When did he speak to her? About what?”

“Two weeks ago. Juanita told me about it, she was so surprised.”

“Why?”

“Mr. Magee asked her to keep a secret.”

“What secret?”

Todorov took off his plumed helmet; he looked more human. “A woman came to see him.
They
seemed to know each other—Juanita thought it might be someone who worked here.” He gestured about him: a little scornfully, as if they stood in the middle of a rubbish dump. Which I-Saw might soon prove to be. “They talked to each other, Juanita thought for about an hour. She was out in the kitchen most of the time. When the woman left, Mr. Magee kissed her.”

“That doesn't prove anything. Mr. Magee seems to have kissed a lot of women. What did he say to Juanita?”

“He came out to the kitchen, she said, and asked her not to tell Miss Doolan the woman had been there. He said he was planning a business surprise for Miss Doolan.”

Mr. Magee had done that, all right. “Did Juanita say what the woman looked like? Describe her? Blonde, brunette, redhead?”

“Women never describe other women's hair.” He was an expert on women, too. Foley's Flyers should be paying him a bonus. “Juanita just said she was smart, in the way she was dressed. But so many of them are these days, aren't they? Power women. Even in Bulgaria.”

“Did Juanita mention the woman to Miss Doolan?”

Todorov shrugged. “Who knows what women mention to each other? I don't think so. Juanita and Miss Doolan were never friendly.”

The question came without thought, the tongue finding its own way: “Do you ever deliver anything to the Kunishima Bank?”

Todorov raised an eyebrow. “Yes. Why do you ask?”

“What do you hear about them?”

“What does one ever hear about banks, except complaints? But not the Kunishima. One never hears anything about them—even the Aussies who work there never gossip. So I'm told.”

“So you're told?”

“Bicycle couriers gossip. You see them sitting around together, what do you think they talk about? Places they have to deliver to, little managers who are rude. Where the good women are on the reception desks.”

“
Good women?” Virginal receptionists?

Berlitz had let him down. “Good—sorts? Yes, good sorts.”

Then Caroline Magee came down the long room, moving gracefully, calm as a nun on a sea of charity. “Goodbye, Inspector,” she said as she went by. “Good luck.”

“You'll still be at the Ritz-Carlton?”

“Till Friday,” she said over her shoulder and was gone.

“Who was that?” asked Todorov.

“Mrs. Magee. His wife. Or used to be.”

“His wife?” Todorov's mind slipped back into gear on the bicycle of his greed: “Perhaps she would pay Juanita's superannuation?”

“Mrs. Magee wouldn't pay the Virgin Mary's superannuation.”

Todorov strapped on the plumed helmet again. “I shall not give up.”

“Nor I, Vassily,” said Malone, but felt he was on a treadmill.

II

Briskin brother and sister had walked away from the police car. “God, Corey, what else can go wrong?”

“I dunno.” He leaned against a tree for support; he felt sick, but hollow sick, nothing to come up. “How we gunna tell Mum? How's she taking what happened to Pheeny?”

“Okay. She's making a deal with an ambulance-chaser. We're going to sue the woman who knocked Pheeny over.”

Corey was unimpressed. “Big deal . . . I wanna call it a day, Sis, turn our mate loose and call off the whole fucking thing. I'll go up to Queensland—”

“Where is he?”

Corey nodded across at the police car. “In the boot. I put one of the hoods on him, so he wouldn't know where he is.”