Yesterday's Shadow (7 page)

Himes was seated in the chair behind the desk, the
presiding
chair.
Pull your head in, Malone, he's not taking over
. “I never worry about destiny. That's for judges and juries.”

Malone grinned: he was going to like this man. “Righto—”

“Righto? I thought only upper-class Englishmen said that. You know—'Righto, old chap.'”

“If I'd been born an upper-class Englishman, my dad would've strangled me at birth. He's never been near Ireland, but he's an Irish patriot—more so than my mother, who was born there. No, righto has just stuck to my tongue since I was a kid.”

“What do you say when things are okay?”

“Okay.”

Himes gazed at Malone and after a long pause said, “I think you and I are gonna get along, Scobie.”

“I hope so, Joe. We're going to need help—a lot of it.” He sat down, then told Himes of the intimate personal side of the Pavane murder. “We're not putting out anything about that—our media would make a meal of it.”

“Not just yours. Ours, too.”

“There's something else besides the sex bit. Mrs. Pavane has some mystery about her, something that seems to puzzle even the Ambassador. Does the FBI have a bureau in Oregon?”

Himes smiled; he had big white teeth that seemed to alter the whole set of his face. Almost impish, like a boy of long ago suddenly appearing in the man he had become. “We've got 'em all over. The local cops think we're a pain in the ass.”

Malone returned the smile. “We think the same about our Feds here. Anyhow, can you have them trace—” He looked at his notebook again. “Mrs. Pavane's maiden name was Wilhelmina Page, but
she
was known as Billie. She also used an American Express card under the name of Mrs. Belinda Paterson. Home address, Corvallis. Her parents, who were killed in a car accident, lived there—roughly, I guess, in the late seventies. Her father had some sort of job at the State College, a groundsman or something.”

“I'll get on to that pronto.” He looked at his watch. “Unless they're having an early night.”

“The FBI sleeps?”

Again the smile. “Not as much as the CIA.”

In heaven the seraphim criticize the cherubim, who look down on the thrones: the original bureaucracy.

“Anything else?”

“Mrs. Pavane told Miss Caporetto, one day at lunch, that she'd made a quick business trip to Sydney some years ago. The Ambassador says that can't be right. But at the lunch some feller came up, tried to speak to Mrs. Pavane, but she just wiped him. Is there any way you can trace if a Miss Page or a Mrs. Paterson came to Sydney eight or nine years ago? We'll check with our Immigration.”

Himes made a note. “I'm told there was another homicide at the same hotel. Any connection?”

“We don't think so. It's a domestic. I'm on my way now to question the wife.”

“I don't envy you. In my job I never got caught up in domestics, not like local cops. This one—” He shook his head as if in disbelief. “This one's the closest I've ever been to a domestic.”

“Joe, a domestic for us is when the husband kills the wife or vice versa.”

“I know. But from what you've told me, this isn't the usual security thing. Terrorists, someone with a grudge against the US—it looks like nothing more than plain murder. To which Mrs. Pavane might've contributed by being where she was in that flea-bag.”

“It's not a flea-bag, Joe. It's just a hotel where the rate is about three or four hundred dollars a night less than she'd be used to paying. What do you know about her?”

“You couldn't meet a nicer woman. She had—what do they call it?—the common touch. I know no more about her than what I saw down in Canberra—the embassy staff love her. She'd have been
checked
by the FBI back home before she and the Ambassador got the appointment—it's standard procedure—”

“They missed somewhere along the line. They didn't link her with Mrs. Belinda Paterson.”

“The FBI is thorough—”

“Joe, I'm not criticizing. I'm stating a fact, that's all. Mrs. Pavane apparently has had three names—I'd like to find out which was her real one. Then, maybe, we can start tracing her killer.”

“You think it was someone from her past who killed her?”

“I haven't a clue, Joe. But it would be better if it were, wouldn't it?”

Himes stood up, looking weary. “I dunno, Scobie. There are no good aspects to murder, are there?”

“I'm not sure of that, either. I've seen some bastards who were better dead than alive.” He, too, stood up. They both looked weary enough to be at the end of a case rather than the beginning of it. “What if the bloke who killed her didn't know who she really was? She had all her valuables up in the room with her. Only her passport was in the safe deposit box. Didn't she want him to know who she was?”

“I hate the thought she might just have been there as a pick-up. Are you gonna ask the Ambassador what their sex life was like?”

Malone grinned without humour. “I think I'll leave that to Foreign Affairs.”

III

On his way out Malone looked in on Consul-General Avery. “We've started, sir. But there's a long way to go.”

“I once played in a Rose Bowl game. We were behind thirty-eight to nil at the end of the second quarter.”

“Did you win?”

“No, but we gave UCLA a helluva fright.”

Malone shook his head. “I've spent all my police career trying to give crims a fright. It never
works,
not with the pros. This feller who killed Mrs. Pavane, he's way ahead at the moment.”

“You sound pessimistic.”

“No, just realistic. It's a cop's philosophy.”

Ms Caporetto rode down in the lift with him. She was wearing a thick brown coat and the sort of tea-cosy hat that he thought was worn only by seven-year-olds with fashion-conscious mothers. She did not look demure, nor as innocent as a seven-year-old, but the body was not visible to be whistled at.

“I'm on my way to see your Premier.”

“Is he getting into the act?”

“I don't think so. It's a courtesy call on our part. We want to ask if everything can be played down, if and when the questions come up in Parliament.”

“Not
if. When
. Another twenty-four hours and the Opposition will be asking why we police haven't wrapped it up. It's par for the course. Never be constructive when in Opposition.”

“I love working here. You're such a primitive lot.” But as she stepped out of the lift she gave him a smile that said it was a compliment.

He drove back to Police Centre and Delia Jones. The day had turned grey, but the clouds were still high, scarred by wind. Down at street level another wind chased paper down the gutters, straightened people into mannikins as they turned corners into it. A day for a grey mood.

He first went into the Incident Room, where Gail Lee and Sheryl Dallen had finished the display board. There was not much: a few photos, names, diagrams. There would have been less if the coverage had been of only a single murder.

“Not much, is there?”

“Did you get anything new from the Ambassador?” asked Gail Lee.

“Just that Mrs. Pavane has a murky past. No,” he said as both women raised their eyebrows. “Nothing dirty. It's just that even Mr. Pavane can't tell us much about his wife before he married her.”

Then he looked at the photo of the dead Boris Jones. Even in death there was a look of cruelty in the broad Slav face; or was that his own imagination, a desire, too late, to protect Delia? “What would
you
say of a bloke like that?”

“A bastard,” said Sheryl. “But some women would find him attractive.”

“Mrs. Jones must have. How is she?”

“A bit edgy,” said Sheryl, “but nothing much. She's more worried about her kids than about what she's done.”

“Her lawyer turned up yet?”

“Mrs. Quantock's brought in a solicitor from out their way, Balmain. She and Mrs. Jones have been arguing about who'll pay—evidently Mrs. Jones has got nothing. It looks like it might be a Legal Aid job.”

Legal Aid did its best but it could never afford the talent that could turn a no-win case into an acquittal. “Righto, I'd better see her. You come with me, Gail.”

“Do we keep both murders on the one board?” asked Sheryl.

“I hope not.” He would like the Jones murder dropped off the board altogether. “We'll see what she has to tell us.”

“Not us,” said Gail. “You.”

“Don't remind me.” He looked at both of them. “You know I'd rather walk right away from this?”

“Of course,” said Sheryl and he saw at once that their support was genuine. And it was more acceptable because they were women. This was not blokey mateship.

He took Gail into the interview room with him. He was annoyed but not surprised when he saw Mrs. Quantock sitting to one side of Delia and the woman solicitor. Rosie Quantock sensed his annoyance for she said at once, “I'm here for Delia to lean on.”

“That's okay, Mrs. Quantock, but don't interrupt when I'm questioning Delia.” He sat down, looked at the solicitor across the table. “G'day, Pam. Are you taking Delia's case or are you here just for now? I understand she has asked for Legal Aid.”

“I'm here for the whole term.” Pamela Morrow was an old foe, but a friendly one. She and
Malone
had met years ago when she had been a law student leading demonstrations against this, that and everything and he had been a new police recruit trying to handle gently a woman trying to kick him in the balls. She was a short dumpling of a woman with red hair cut in a bob with bangs and with bright blue eyes that, he knew, could be as challenging as Rosie Quantock's. “I'm on the board of the Women's Protection League. We're taking Mrs. Jones' case. Right through from now to acquittal.”

He grinned. “You haven't changed, Pam.” Only then did he look at Delia. “Pam and I are old mates.”

“Old Home Week,” said Delia and smiled as if she were here on no more than a traffic charge. He caught a glimpse of the girl he had once been in love with. She had been a pretty girl rather than beautiful; chocolate-boxy, his mother had called her. Prettiness, he knew, faded quicker than beauty; but the years had been too cruel to her. “We're not going to be any trouble, Scobie.”

“Tell us what happened.” Not
me
:
us
. He had to keep Gail in the frame to protect himself.

“Tell him everything,” said Rosie Quantock. “How he's been belting you for years—”

Malone looked at Pam Morrow, who looked at Rosie Quantock. “Please—”

“Sorry,” said Rosie, but you knew it was just an empty word. “But she's gotta tell him everything—”

“I will,” said Delia, hands folded together on the table, steady as two interlocked rocks. She nodded at the recorder: “Is that on?”

“Yes,” said Gail. “Everything you say—”

“I know.” The composure was so complete; Malone had to admire her. “Well—where do I begin?”

“At the beginning,” said Malone, knowing he was making a concession.

“Well, Boris and I have been married fourteen years. He's from Leningrad—or what do they call it now?”

“St. Petersburg,” said Gail.

Delia didn't look at her; her gaze was solely on Malone. “Yes, there. He was a merchant
seaman
—he came to Australia twice on a ship. I met him, I liked him, he liked me—” She stopped for just a moment, her gaze still focused on Malone; then she went on, “The third trip he jumped ship and stayed on.”

“He was an illegal immigrant?” asked Malone.

“I guess so. They never came looking for him—he got papers, I dunno how. We were happy—” She stopped again. She's making points, Malone thought; but ignored them, just looked back at her. She went on again, “I had the children and then things started to go wrong—”

“I'll say they did,” said Rosie Quantock. “Ten bloody years—”

“Mrs. Quantock,” said Pam Morrow warningly.

“Sorry.”

Delia continued: “He wouldn't let Melissa near the house—she was my daughter from my first husband.” Again the look; again he made no comment. “Then the—the belting started. I ran away, twice, with the children. But he came after me each time—”

“Why did you go back to him?” asked Gail.

Delia shrugged. “Ask any battered wife why—” For a moment she looked at Gail; then she turned her gaze back to Malone. For the first time there was a plea in her voice: “That's what I've been, Scobie. A battered wife.”

He wanted to reach across and press her hand, but refrained. “Go on. Tell us about last night. Did you go in to the hotel with the intention of killing him?”

“That's a leading question,” snapped Pam Morrow. Try another one, Inspector—”

“No, it's all right,” said Delia. “Yes. I took the children to my mother's, told her I was going in to tell Boris I was leaving him for good. I wanted him dead, but I don't think I intended killing him.”

“Where did you get the knife?” Malone was wishing he were out of here.

“I dunno. It was there in the room—I just picked it up—”

Malone said nothing further; it was Gail who asked, “Why? Why did you pick it up?”

“Careful, Delia,” warned Pam Morrow. “You have to be exact about this. It was after Boris hit
you,
wasn't it?”

“You're advising your client,” said Gail.

Lay off, Gail! Malone almost shouted.

“That's why I'm here,” said Pam Morrow. “To make sure she gives you the exact facts, the exact truth.”

Delia took her time, still looking at Malone as if there were just the two of them in the room. Then she said, “It was after he hit me—here and here—” She pointed to the bruises on her face; still calm, as if they were no more than skin blemishes. “He gave me the black eye before he left home.”