Babylon South (2 page)

Zanuch
wasn't impressed. He was scanning the imposing houses on either side of them. It was not a policeman's look; it was that of a social climber. Anyone who lived hereabouts would be in his good books.

“Do you come from this side, Sarge?” Malone said innocently as they got out of the car.

Zanuch gave him a look that should have reduced him to a cadet. “No,” he said shortly and Malone wondered if he, too, came from Central Africa or its equivalent.

The Springfellow house and grounds were the most imposing in the street. The housekeeper who opened the big front door was just as impressive. Starched and polished, she carried herself with all the confidence of someone who knew that, below her, all the voters, including policemen, ran down to the bottom of the heap.

“I shall see if Lady Springfellow will see you.” She went away as if to consult with the Queen of Australia.

But Zanuch was still impressed. “You can now see how the other half lives. Constable. It may give you some ambition.”

“On my pay?” But he had the sense to grin as he said it and Zanuch, after a moment, found a smile that didn't hurt him too much.

The housekeeper came back and ushered them into the house. Malone, in those days, had little sense of surroundings. Erskineville, where he had grown up, with its tenement terraces and small factories, had never been a major subscription area for
House and Garden.
Now, as the starched Grenadier Guard took them towards the back of the house, he was aware only that this was a large place with large rooms where shadows and dark panelling seemed to dominate. But the young woman who came into the big drawing-room suggested all lightness and brightness, even though she was not smiling.

“I'm Lady Springfellow,” she said, then gestured at the slightly older woman of darker mood who had followed her into the room. “This is my husband's sister, Miss Emma Springfellow.”

Zanuch introduced himself and then, as an afterthought, Malone. He shot his cuffs and was all police department charm, something Malone had never experienced before. “. . . If you could just dig into
your
memory, Lady Springfellow, give us some hint that your husband may have let drop in the past week or two, something that was worrying him . . .”

Venetia Springfellow shook her golden head. She was Venetia Magee to a million television viewers; but that was another territory, there she was another person. Malone had seen her occasionally on television, but he was not enthusiastic about daytime TV, unless it was a cricket telecast, and hers was a midday chat show. She was undeniably good-looking, but it seemed to him that she had looked better on TV. Still, with the simple candid curiosity of the young, he wondered what a good sort like her had seen in a man twenty-five years her senior.

“Nothing, he told me nothing about ASIO business.” She had a throaty voice that was not quite natural; the vowels had been worked on, were plummy ripe. “His only regret was that we were separated for five days each week, he with his job in Melbourne and I with mine in Sydney. But we were going to change that—we were going to live in Melbourne when I had my baby.” For the first time Malone noticed the swelling under the well-cut silk suit with its long jacket.

“You didn't tell me—” said Emma Springfellow; then stopped. She could have been a beautiful woman if she had had more vanity; beside the beautifully groomed Venetia she looked like someone who never glanced in a mirror. “But then . . .”

“But what?” said Zanuch.

“Nothing.” She seemed to hesitate for a moment, then was steelily at ease.

“Do you live here, Miss Springfellow?”

“No. I used to, until my brother married.” She had half-turned away, as if she were trying to distance herself from her sister-in-law, “I live across the street with my brother Edwin and his wife. This house used to be the family home.”

It still was, to her; but she had been exiled.

There was an awkward moment of frozen silence. Then Zanuch turned back to Venetia Springfellow. “I apologize for asking this—but was there any disagreement between you and your husband? Could he have just gone away for a few days to think over something that had happened between you?”

Her
gaze was steady, she looked unoffended by the question. “No. We have never had a cross word in all the time we've been married.”

Zanuch looked at Emma Springfellow. She had been gazing out the window, as if she no longer had any interest in what was being said. She seemed to start when she became aware that Zanuch was waiting for her to comment. “Am I supposed to say something? To contradict my sister-in-law?”

“Not at all,” said Zanuch. “Did he have any disagreement with you? Or any other member of the family? You have only the one other brother, haven't you?”

“Yes. No, we had no disagreement. We were always a very close family.” But her tone said that no longer held true. Malone saw Venetia flinch and he sensed that the gap between the two women was much wider than the four or five feet of carpet that separated them. Emma said, “You're wasting your time, Sergeant, with that line.”

“We have to try every line,” said Zanuch. Malone had the feeling that he was now less impressed with Mosman. “I'm sure your brother, running ASIO, would appreciate that.”

“I'm sure he would,” said Venetia Springfellow, not looking at her sister-in-law.

“Did your husband draw any money out of his bank account?” Malone was learning from Zanuch: the senior man knew how to change his line abruptly.

“Not that I know of. We're not the sort who have joint accounts.” There was just a note of snobbery in the answer: Venetia Springfellow, or Magee, wherever she had come from, had also learned.

“Where did Sir Walter bank?”

“The Bank of New South Wales. Their head office.”

“Were you the last to speak to him, other than the driver who took him to the airport?”

“I think so. No—” She hesitated.

“Go on,” said Zanuch carefully.

Venetia glanced at Emma, “I was at the front door—my sister-in-law ran across the street to say something to my husband.”

Zanuch waited for Emma Springfellow to volunteer something. Malone, callow in the ways of
woman
against woman, yet knew that he and Zanuch were on the outskirts of a female war. On the beat, as a probationary constable in Newtown, he had seen women fight like men, with fists, or anyway claws, and language that had had a nice medieval ring to it. This, however, was different, somehow more deadly. Knives would be used here, with good manners and kid gloves and decorous malice.

“It was private,” Emma said at last. “Nothing important.”

“Nothing that would have upset him?”

“I told you—it was unimportant.”

The two policemen stayed only another few minutes, getting nowhere. Venetia Springfellow took them to the front door, thanking them for coming; she could have been ushering out two guests from her chat show. “Do call me, Sergeant, if you have any more questions. We want my husband back home as soon as possible . . .” Then she glanced over her shoulder at Emma standing in the shadows of the big hallway like a bit-part player whom the cameraman had missed. “All the family does.”

In the car as they drove away Zanuch said, “Well, what do you think?”

“If I was the Director-General, I'd have run away from the sister, not the wife.”

“Don't put that opinion in the running sheet. No, I don't think this is a domestic.” Domestic situations were the bane of a cop's life. You might fight with your own wife, but that was no training for interfering in a battle between another warring couple; nine times out of ten both husband and wife told you to go to hell and mind your own business. Except, of course, in Mosman, where the domestic battles would always be fought in whispers and the police would never be called. “ASIO are probably right, it's some activist group. If it is, that'll be a Commonwealth job, we'll let them worry about it. Keep an eye on it and let me know what you're up to. Check Sir Walter's account at his bank. I'll tell Sergeant Danforth you're to be kept on it for a month.”

“I'm taking a week's leave this Friday, Sarge. I'm going to Hong Kong to play cricket.” That past summer he had played his first season in the State team. “Australia's most promising fast bowler,” a cricket writer had called him after Malone had bought him three beers. “The Department thinks it's good PR, a cop who's a State fast bowler.”

“
What would they think if he was a slow bowler?” Zanuch's Latvian parents had brought him to Australia when he was one year old; thirty-four years later there were still certain Australian customs he didn't understand or want to. Sometimes the original white Australians were as puzzling and annoying as the more original Aborigines. “Have you got your priorities right? We're supposed to be looking for the country's top spy, for Chrissakes!”

Malone said meekly, “I'll check the bank account.”

Which he did, that afternoon. No money had been drawn from Sir Walter Springfellow's account. “But I believe he had—has—an account with our Melbourne main branch,” said the bank's manager.

Malone called Melbourne. There was some hesitation at the other end, then the manager there said, “I'm sorry, officer, we can't give out that information. I suggest you contact ASIO.”

Malone hung up, sat frowning till Sergeant Danforth came lumbering across the room towards him. “What's the matter, son?”

Malone explained the unexpected blank wall he had run into. “Do I call ASIO or pass it on to Sergeant Zanuch to handle?”

Danforth dropped heavily into a chair; he had never been known to remain standing for longer than ten seconds. He was a tall, heavily built man, old-fashioned in dress, haircut and manner; he looked like someone who had been left over from the 1940s and wished he were still back in those days. He was only fifteen or so years older than Malone, but two generations could have separated them. “Ring ASIO. If you don't get anywhere with them, let it slide. We won't wanna get ourselves caught up in any politics.” That was laziness, not wisdom, speaking. “You know what politics is like, son.”

At that stage of his career Malone knew nothing about politics; but he was prepared to take Danforth's advice. He rang Melbourne and after some interruptions and hesitations was put through to the Deputy Director-General. “Ah yes, Constable—Malone, is it? Yes, we have asked the bank to put a stop on any enquiries about Sir Walter's personal affairs. We have looked into it and there is nothing there.”

“Then why stop any enquiries, sir?” Malone was on his way to making his later fame, the asking
of
undiplomatic questions of higher authority.

“I'm afraid that's classified, constable. Good day.”

The phone went dead in Malone's ear. He hung up and looked at Danforth, still lolling in the chair opposite him. “They told us to get lost, Sarge.”

“You see, son? Politics.”

So Malone went to Hong Kong to play cricket in front of the English expatriates who murmured “Good shot!” and “Well caught, sir!” while the other 99 per cent of the colony shuffled by and inscrutably scrutinized the white flannelled fools who played this foolish game while the end of the world, 1997, was only thirty-one years away. Malone, who took fourteen wickets in the two matches played and, every decent fast bowler's dream, retired two batsmen hurt, was as short-sighted and oblivious as any of the other fools. They all had their priorities right.

When he came back Sir Walter Springfellow was still missing and ASIO and the Commonwealth Police had taken the case unto themselves. Detective-Sergeant Zanuch had gone from Special Branch to the Fraud Squad and Malone himself was transferred from Missing Persons to the Pillage Squad on the wharves.

On Sunday July 17, four months after her father had disappeared, Justine Springfellow was born. By then the file on Sir Walter Springfellow had been put away in the back of a Missing Persons cabinet drawer and Sergeant Danforth, soon to be told to get to his feet and join the Vice Squad, conveniently forgot about it.

Sir Walter's disappearance would remain a mystery for another twenty-one years.

1

I

BY SHEER
coincidence, without which no successful policeman could function, Detective-Inspector Scobie Malone was, indirectly, working for Venetia Springfellow when the skeleton of a middle-aged man was found in some scrub in the mountains west of Sydney.

“Up near Blackheath. I thought you might like to talk to the lady,” said Sergeant Russ Clements, calling from Homicide. “It looks as if it might be her late hubby, Sir Walter. They tell me she's out there at the studio.”

“Are they sure it's him?”

“Pretty sure. The upper and lower jaws are missing, so they can't check on the teeth. It looks as if the whole lower part of the face was blasted away.”

“How did we get into it?” Meaning Homicide.

“There's no weapon, no gun, nothing. The detectives up at Blackheath have ruled out suicide—for the moment, anyway. Unless someone found the body, didn't report it but pinched the gun.”

“What's the identification then?”

“There's a signet ring on one of the fingers—it has his initials on it. There's also a briefcase with his initials on it.”

“Anything in the briefcase?”

“Empty. That's why the Blackheath boys think it's murder—if someone had stolen the gun, supposing he'd suicided, they'd have taken the ring and the briefcase, too. It's him, all right. You want to prepare her for the bad news? They'll come out later to tell her officially, get her to identify the ring and the briefcase.”

“
Are we on the job—officially?”