Babylon South (34 page)

“Inspector Malone. Do you know him?”

Vanderberg nodded. “I know him, all right. He's a bugger for getting in other people's hair. Even mine, sometimes.” He ran his hand over his mottled bald head.

Another bald head, unmottled, appeared; light gleamed on the polished pates as from the women's jewels. Michael Broad said, “Mr. Premier, you look great! How do you manage to stay so healthy in that bear-pit you call Parliament?”

“Practice.” The Dutchman, who had arrived in Australia forty years ago, could not stand this other immigrant, who had been here only half that time. The newcomer had gone for the money, and Vanderberg, who knew more than any two other men in the State, knew that Broad had lost a packet in October. The Premier, for all his political vices, had one virtue: he was not a venal man. He sold favours, but never for money; when he retired there would be no apartment blocks around Sydney in his wife's name, no lush property in the country, no Swiss bank account. He was not against greed for power, he was guilty of that himself, but he had only contempt for those who were greedy for money alone. Like all devils, he was capable of moralizing. “You don't look so good, Mr. Broad. You're not one of them who lost on the stock exchange?”

“Not a penny,” said Broad, avoiding the gaze of the two women.

“Good for you,” said Vanderberg and the two liars smiled at each other. “Well, ladies, if that feller Malone keeps worrying you, let me know.”

He moved on and Broad said, “Malone? Who's he?”

“Inspector Malone,” said Alice. “He's been harassing Justine about Emma's murder. There should be a law against the police.”

“You know him, Michael,” said Justine sharply. “Why are you pretending you don't?”

“
Of course I know him. I meant, who does he think he is? He's got a cheek, harassing you. Venetia should have him pulled into line.”

The two women nodded and Alice said, “I saw her talking to the Police Commissioner a while ago. Maybe she was doing it then.”

“Let's hope so,” said Broad. “The police do tend to overstep themselves.”

Then Roger Dircks joined them. Alice Magee looked him up and down. “Why don't you relax, Roger? You always look so—so
starched.”

Dircks gave her a starched smile. Unlike her, he was still ill at ease in top circles. He had the rigid neck common to learner-drivers; the effect was heightened by the stiff collars and three-piece suits he wore. He was encased in his clothes, rather than wearing them; his wardrobe, it seemed, also straitjacketed his mind. He had a wife somewhere, but no one ever saw her: she was either more frightened than he of the upper social circles or she had the sense not to care about making the effort.

“I thought you might like to know it's going to be announced first thing tomorrow that Peter Polux has applied for bankruptcy. Our early-morning business programme has got a beat on it.” He could not keep the note of smug satisfaction out of his voice. He had the natural jealousy of any decent, ordinary Australian; there was no more satisfying feeling in the national psyche than to see a tall poppy, especially one taller than oneself, chopped down.

“My God, it'll kill him!” said Justine, who thought all deprivation was a mortal wound. “He'll commit suicide!”

“No,” said Alice. “He's shot himself in his white shoe. That is as far as he'll go. You're not going to shoot yourself, are you, Michael?”

“Why should I?” said Broad warily.

Alice tried to look innocent, but she missed by about seventy years, “I thought you were on the verge of bankruptcy.”

“Where on earth did you hear that?”

“Oh, I heard it.”

She
didn't look at Justine, but the latter gave herself away: she still suffered from innocence. Broad looked at her with a sudden hatred that shocked her.

Then Alice said, “We'd better move into the main gallery. It looks as if Phil Norval is ready to make one of his long, long speeches.”

As they moved as a group towards the congealing crowd in the main gallery, Dircks leaned down close to Alice's ear. “Everybody seems to be falling apart. What else can happen?”

“A lot,” said Alice. “Quite a lot, I'm afraid.”

V

“I wish it didn't have to be
so public,”
said Malone.

“It won't be that bad. It would've been worse if we'd pinched her at the coroner's inquest or at tomorrow's funeral. At least tonight all the TV cameras have gone home. It'll be in all the papers tomorrow, but nothing on TV.”

“That'll disappoint you, won't it?”

“You're still shitty. What's the matter with you, Scobie? If I'm doing something wrong, get it off your—There she is!”

The crowd had been leaking out of the Art Gallery for the past twenty minutes, flowing down the broad steps to their cars. Chauffeur-driven Rolls-Royces and Mercedes lined up for their owners; rented Mercedes and Fords edged forward, the drivers not sure that they would recognize those who had hired them for the evening. Several couples crossed to their BMWs and Jaguars: the men got in behind the wheels of those cars, proclaiming their skill; they were
drivers,
men who didn't need to be driven anywhere, except, perhaps, by their wives, whose driving sometimes was metaphorical. The grey Bentley drew up at the end of the waiting line.

Malone and Clements got out of the police car and crossed the road, Malone almost breaking into a trot to catch up with Clements. They reached the three Springfellow women as they were about to enter the big car.

“
Could we see you for a moment, Miss Springfellow?” Clements kept his voice low, bending his head close to Justine's like a lover arranging something for later in the night.

Venetia, about to enter first, turned back. She shot a quick glance at Justine, then looked at Clements. “Can't it wait till tomorrow?” Then she saw Malone. “Oh, it's you, Inspector. What the hell's going on?”

“Sergeant Clements will tell you,” said Malone evenly.

Clements frowned at him, then turned back to the women. “We'd like you to come with us, Miss Springfellow, for questioning.”

“You've asked her enough questions!” Venetia was beginning to stiffen with rage. “Mum, go and find John Leeds—”

“He's gone home,” said Alice. “I saw him leave before the PM made his speech. Can't this wait till tomorrow, Sergeant?” She was the calmest of the three women.

“No,” said Clements flatly. “I think it's better we do it tonight. We have our car over there. Don't make a fuss—it'll be better if you don't—”

“Where does she have to go?” said Venetia in a more controlled voice.

“To Homicide, up in Liverpool Street.”

“We'll follow you in our car. My daughter will ride with us. I'm not having her taken in in a police car.”

“Fair enough,” said Malone, deciding it was time he took charge again. Thank Christ, John Leeds had gone home, though he hadn't seen him come out of the Art Gallery. “I'll ride with the ladies, Russ. You bring our car in.”

Clements's look, even in the semi-dark, was full of suspicion. But all he said as he walked away was, “I'll be right behind you, Inspector.”

The three women got into the back of the Bentley and Malone got into the front seat beside Leyden, the chauffeur. The latter looked even more shocked than the women; or at least more shocked than two of them. Malone turned in the seat and looked back at Justine. She sat in the corner, hunched
in
on herself like a little girl, her full lips bitten into a straight line as if she were trying not to sob, her beautiful eyes staring at him as if they were sightless. He felt a sudden compassion for John Leeds: if this were my daughter, I'd be doing everything I could to protect her. Even if she was a murderess.

“You'd better get your lawyer,” he said to Venetia. “We're going to charge Justine with the murder of her aunt.”

The chauffeur's hands jerked on the wheel; the Bentley snaked along the road for a few yards. Venetia took her daughter's hand, held it tightly. She knew the dangers of maintaining a rage; anger and clear thinking did not mesh. “You're making a terrible mistake, Inspector.”

“It won't be the first time. But all we can do is go on the evidence. Justine will have her chance to defend herself.”

“What evidence have you got?” said Alice. Malone noticed that she was the most at ease with the police; her husband, whoever he was, must have exposed her to plenty of experience.

“We'll tell her lawyer that.” He turned back, said to the chauffeur, “Do you know where Homicide is?”

“No, sir,” said Leyden. “Why would I know that?”

VI

Chilla Dural had seen the Springfellow women come out of the Art Gallery and down the steps to their waiting Bentley. He was about to turn to hurry back to his own rented car when he saw the two vaguely familiar figures cross the road towards the Springfellow women. He stopped, then moved back towards the far end of the steps, watching the small group now gathered by the open door of the Bentley.

With a shock of disgust he recognized the two men with the women: the two bulls, Malone and the other guy—Clements? For a moment it looked as if an argument was going to develop between the women and the bulls. Then the women got into the Bentley and Malone got in beside the driver. The big guy almost ran back to his car on the opposite side of the road. A moment later the Bentley drove off, the unmarked police car doing a tyre-screeching U-turn and following it.

Dural
let out a curse that turned the heads of two couples passing him on their way to their cars. He had been thwarted once again; his aim was to fail, but how could you fail if you couldn't bloody well get started? He should have invested in the stock market; with his luck, the Crash would probably have made him a fortune. He cursed again and the two couples hurriedly fled to their cars, complaining to each other that crazies like the big thug back there should be locked up for life. The police, they said, were never around when you needed them.

10

I

THE SPRINGFELLOW
lawyer was a sensible man who knew from experience that battles with the law were more often won if concessions were made at the beginning. He conceded that the evidence Clements presented was strong, though, of course, he didn't believe it would be enough to
convict
Miss Springfellow.

“Convict me?”

Justine had recovered to some degree. She seemed to have drawn on some hidden steel within herself once her mother and grandmother had been excluded from the scene. Venetia and Alice had demanded that they be present while Justine was questioned, but Malone had firmly but adamantly told them to wait at the far end of the Bureau's big room. Brownlow, the Springfellow lawyer, had quietly supported Malone.

“I'm speaking purely hypothetically, Justine.”

“Don't you dare speak like that, even hypothetically! Jesus, Mr. Brownlow, don't you realize what these men are trying to do to me?” Her control was suddenly on the point of collapse, the steel had proved flawed.

“Of course I do.” Brownlow was a small man with a thick moustache that grew down round the ends of his small mouth, and a thick mop of dark hair; he wore unfashionably thick-rimmed glasses and one had the temptation to wrench him out from behind all the camouflage. He was not a criminal lawyer and in these murder waters he was treading carefully, looking for rocks to stand on. “But they are only doing their job.”

“I'm innocent, can't you understand that? I'm not a bloody murderer!” Suddenly she burst into
tears,
hunched her shoulders as if trying to curl herself into a ball.

Brownlow looked at Malone, then he leaned across and tentatively touched Justine's arm. “Tomorrow we'll call in a barrister who's experienced in matters like this. It may be that you'll have no case to answer. In the meantime, you won't object to bail, Inspector?”

“No,” said Malone. “We'll take her over to Police Centre, charge her and fingerprint her. We'll hold her overnight—”

Justine, face tear-streaked, all her beauty wrecked, looked up as if Malone had kicked her. “No! No, you're not going to lock me up—I won't go—”

Venetia came running down the room. She fell on her knees beside her daughter and gathered her to her. Alice Magee arrived a moment later, stood in front of Malone and glared at him.

“What are you doing to the girl?” Her voice was rough, like a smothered scream.

“We're charging her with the murder of her aunt,” said Clements before Malone could reply. “We don't want the onus of letting her go on bail, so we'll hold her overnight—”

When it got through to the distraught Venetia what the police were planning to do with her daughter, she almost blew the top off the Remington Rand building. The use of money can be an explosive charge; the use of a lot of money has ambitions to be nuclear. She made phone calls in all directions, lighting fuses, but they all spluttered out. Malone noted that one call she did not make, though he had expected it to be her first, was to John Leeds. It was comforting, somehow, to find that someone else was intent on keeping the Commissioner's name out of this. He was doing it out of respect; he wondered what prompted Venetia. Love? Everyone was capable of love: with some it just needed a major mining operation.

“Can't we come to some arrangement?” said Brownlow, blinking behind his glasses, twitching his moustache as if it had suddenly begun to itch. “Lady Springfellow will go surety for her daughter—you know the family's standing in the community—”

“No,” said Clements.

Jesus, thought Malone, come down off the barricades, Russ. There would never be a revolution
in
Australia; everyone would be at the beach or at the footy or on strike. Get used to the idea, Russ: the rich, like the poor, are always going to be with us.