Babylon South (27 page)

Malone nodded, taking the ball away from Clements again. “You mentioned a young man coming to see Lady Springfellow. Who was he?”

“I don't know. We didn't have a security man in those days. The family was well off, but nothing like she is today. It was different then—people were
safe.”
Again she stopped and closed her eyes. The two detectives waited patiently. Then she opened her eyes and went on, “He just came to the front door that morning—I think it was the Thursday, I'm not sure, but—and he said she was expecting him. She must have been, because she came into the hall before I could go and tell her and said to let him in.”

“You'd never seen him before?”

“No. He was a foreigner, I think, he had an accent. But that's no help, is it? The place is full of foreigners these days. We even have them in here.”

Con Malone would make a good neighbour for her, battling the invaders. All at once Malone wondered what would happen to his parents when they became too old to fend for themselves.

“Can you remember what sort of accent?”

She shook her head. “How can I remember something like that? You young people don't know what it's like to be losing your memory. I'm only remembering this because I had to remember it once
before,
when that spy lot—ASIO, is that it?—came to ask me questions.”

Malone and Clements exchanged glances, then Clements said, “So you don't know why he came to see her?”

She shook her head again. “All I remember is, I went in to see if she—” It was
she
all the time now, never Lady Springfellow “—if she wanted me to serve tea or coffee. She was giving him money, quite a lot of it, in bundles. Like, you know, the way they have it in banks. She got angry with me for coming into the room. In front of him, too—ladies didn't do that in my day, tick off their help in front of guests. I remember
that
distinctly—it's why I remember seeing all the money she was giving him. He was putting it in a briefcase.”

“Did she say anything to you after the young man had gone?”

“She apologized to me for getting angry. But the damage had been done.” And persisted to this day.

“She didn't mention the money?”

“No.” All at once she looked tired: her memory might be dim, but parts of what she had left weighed heavily.

“We shan't keep you any longer, Mrs. Dyson. One last thing. Do you remember Sir Walter's gun collection?”

“Of course. I was always wanting to dust it, but he would never let me. He used to oil the guns himself.”

“The guns never frightened you?”

“I grew up in the bush, Inspector. My father always had a gun or two in the house. No, I was never frightened of them. But she was.”

“Can you remember one of the guns went missing about the time Sir Walter disappeared?”

“Yes. It was a pistol, the big one.”

“It was a Colt .45, an automatic,” said Clements.

“Do you know what happened to the gun, Mrs. Dyson? Did you mention it to Sir Walter?”

“
No, not that I remember. I think I only noticed it had gone
after
he disappeared.”

“Did you mention it to Lady Springfellow?”

“No, I don't think so.”

“To the Commonwealth police or the ASIO men?”

“I may have. I don't remember.” All at once she looked tired again; her memory had run more than its usual distance today. “I'm sorry, Inspector. It makes me sad to remember those days . . . I had a lot of time for Sir Walter.” But not for
her:
she would be a hostile witness there.

The two men stood up. “You've been a great help, Mrs. Dyson.”

“If you see Mr. Leeds, give him my regards. I think he might remember me. But it was all so long ago . . .”

They let themselves out of the tiny flat, leaving her sitting stiff-backed in her chair, unafraid while death lapped at her like a rising tide.

Outside, the elderly residents were now visible, moving through the heat in slow motion, like mirages, as they headed for the communal dining-room in the main building. Some of them smiled at Malone and Clements, glad to see new faces, especially younger ones. One or two couples had a buoyancy about them, but either the heat or the environment had got to most of them. They knew that, for all its pleasant surroundings, Pleasant Oaks was the end of the road.

“It makes you sad, doesn't it?” said Clements, chewing his bottom lip.

“No,” said Malone, remembering where his grandfather had lived his last years. “They'd be a bloody sight sadder living in one room in Redfern or the old blokes dossing down in the Matthew Talbot.”

“Why do you always look on the bright side?”

“It's the Irish in me.”

“Bullshit. The Irish can be the most mournful buggers on earth, especially when they're drunk.” They got into the car and Clements switched on the air-conditioning; it was working again. Then he said, “You've got something on your mind, haven't you?”

“
What about? The Irish?”

“Come on, Scobie, don't muck about. Yesterday when we were questioning Justine, you were holding back. The same today. Is it something to do with the Commissioner?”

“What gave you that idea?”

“Just the way you reacted when his name came up back there with the old lady.”

“She was gossiping.” He was treading carefully, not wanting to put himself too far offside with Clements. His loyalty should lie with Clements, his sidekick; but he could not break the confidence of John Leeds. “Yes, I've got something on my mind. I'm beginning to wonder if Lady Springfellow is a double murderer.”

It was fanciful, but he had to say something to throw Clements off the subject of John Leeds. But Clements said, “I'm thinking the same thing. Who was the guy she paid the money to? A hit man?”

II

“We're in a bad way,” said Venetia.

“We'll get out of it,” said Justine.

“Of course we shall. But it's not going to be easy. I had them do a quick check on where we stand. We've lost 170 million since the Crash. Most of it on paper, but not all of it. There's about 80 million we'll never get back. Then there's the servicing of our debt—that runs to 60 per cent of our cash flow. We're going to have to sell off some assets.”

“We've been cutting back on staff. I laid off another two girls from my Department today.”

“Darling, people aren't assets, not at that level. They're disposable. No matter how much we pay a man or woman to join us, when they leave us we don't get any transfer fee. Business isn't like football.”

Justine said nothing to that. Sometimes she was shocked at her mother's ruthlessness. She was further shocked that it might be in her own genes: she dreaded the day when she would control Springfellow's.

They were in Justine's apartment. Venetia, wanting a break, had come across from her office
when
all her personal staff had left for the day. She did not like the apartment's decor and never felt at ease in it; but she recognized it for what it was, a rebellious expression, and she never made any comment on it. She just made sure that Justine's decorator never got any work on any Springfellow project.

“I was going to say fire Michael—”

“He's told me his head is on the block,” said Justine.

“When did he start confiding in you?”

Oh God, she's not jealous of me, is she?
“He's not
confiding
in me. I went out with him the other night to a movie and some coffee afterwards.”

“I don't want anything starting up between you and him.”

“There's nothing like that. But don't tell me who I can go out with. I'm not sixteen any more.”

“What did he tell you?”

“It was this morning. He said you and he had had a run-in and he might get the chop. He didn't seem too worried. He's just so cocky, in his own quiet way. I don't really like him, yet I find him
interesting.”

“He's conceited, all right. But we need him—he's one asset we have to keep, for the time being, anyway. There isn't time to go shopping for someone else. Though Sydney at the moment looks like a game of musical chairs—I can't keep up with the hirings and firings. We'll keep him. We have to raise money again and he's the one who knows where it is. When he took you out the other night, did you go in his Aston-Martin?”

“Yes. Why?”

“He said he was going to have to sell it.”

“Oh God, that'll kill him!”

Venetia smiled. “Life has its small satisfactions.”

But Justine was too young for ironies. She had other worries besides those of the Springfellow business interests. “Changing the subject . . . Mother, I think Inspector Malone suspects me of having something to do with Emma's murder. I didn't want to worry you, but . . .”

“
How do these policemen get so out of hand? I'll get on to John Leeds.” So much could be done with a phone call, if one knew the right number. History is full of networks; all that differs is the scale and the instrument. Business leaders and bureaucrats have replaced kings and ambassadors, the phone has replaced the post-chaise and the king's messenger. “He'll call off Malone and that other one, the big slob, Sergeant What's-his-name.”

“Won't that make Malone more suspicious? I saw him the other night at the International at Double Bay. He was with someone, probably his wife. They were discussing me. Do you think cops tell their wives about their cases?”

“Probably. She's probably some dowdy little mum, it'd be the only excitement in her dull little life.”

“She's not dowdy. She's beautiful and very smart-looking.”

“How did he manage it? I'll have to have another look at him. He looked and sounded so
suburban.”
She was deliberately sounding casual, frivolously snobbish. Justine had to be protected; she recognized there was less steel in her daughter than in herself. “Don't worry. John will take care of it.”

“Mother, this is
murder
!” It's not a traffic ticket—I haven't been pulled up by the booze bus—Malone thinks I
killed
Emma!”

“Has he said so?”

“No-o. But I
know
what he's thinking. And so does Nana. You ask her. It all has something to do with me borrowing that gun, the Walther or whatever it was. I'm frightened, Mother.”

“Nothing will happen to you, I promise.”

“How can you be so sure?”

But Venetia couldn't answer that. She was standing on shifting sands, financially and emotionally. Life, all at once, was turning into a bad dream, though she had never been a dreamer but a doer.

She stood up, kissed Justine, then paused and looked out through the glass walls. Across the water, shining like the black glass here in the apartment, she could see the lights of Kirribilli nesting like
electric
gulls in the apartment-cliffs. “The harbour always looks so peaceful at night.”

“I sometimes sit here and look out at it and read Kenneth Slessor's
Five Bells.
It's not just about the harbour, it's about the death of a friend, but he gives me the picture.”

Venetia looked carefully at her. “I've never read it.”

“It goes:

“And tried to hear your voice, but all I heard

Was a boat's whistle, and the scraping squeal

Of seabirds' voices far away, and bells,

Five bells. Five bells coldly ringing out.”

She stopped, embarrassed; she had not recited poetry aloud since she had left school.

Venetia looked at this sudden stranger. “You read
poetry?
You never told me.”

“There's a lot I haven't told you. You never had time to listen.”

There was nothing to say to that, no defence except the retreat of, “Good-night, I'll see you tomorrow.”

She went down in the lift, looking in the mirrors for some recognition of herself. But there was a stranger there, too: she could not believe she knew the puzzled uncertain woman who looked back at her with her own eyes.

She got out of the lift and literally bumped into Peter Polux. Instinctively she looked down at his feet. He was wearing black shoes: he was still in mourning for his lost fortune.

“Venetia, old girl—” He sounded like a desperate salesman. “I've been ringing you at your office all this week—”

“I know, Mr. Polux. There's nothing we have to talk about. Save your money—you need it.”

She stepped past him before he could reply, and went out of the lobby. She had made a huge error of judgement with him and she did not like reminders of her mistakes.

As she came out of The Wharf and paused on the footpath before crossing the road to the Springfellow building, where Leyden and the Bentley would be waiting for her, a man all at once appeared beside her. He was a burly man, older than herself, with a battered face split by a mocking grin.

“
Night, missus. You wouldn't have a dollar for a cuppa coffee?”

“Don't bother me or I'll shout for a policeman.”

“Ain't none around here or I wouldn't of asked you.” The man looked round him, the mocking grin still on his face. “I'm not gunna rape you or anything, missus. All I asked for is a dollar. You look as if you could afford it.”

She hesitated, then she opened her wallet and gave him a two-dollar note. “Are you broke?”

“No,” said the man. “But this beats working. You'd be surprised how many kind-hearted people there are like you.”

“Balls,” she said and stepped off the kerb and began to cross the road.

“Thanks,” he called after her. “You're a real lady!”

“I know,” said Lady Springfellow.