Autumn Maze

‘You’re sure?’

‘Yes, sir.’

They were stopped from further discussion as Derek Sweden came down the room towards them. Malone and Clements had never previously met the Police Minister; their political bosses came and went like seasonal viruses. Sweden was in his mid-fifties, bony-faced, bald and as elegantly dressed as Zanuch, but not in uniform. He had been in politics for twenty years without ever achieving his party’s leadership; he had at the same time managed to make money in property. The son of a political father and a mother who voted as she was told, it was said that he had shaken every hand in the State, including that of the head chimpanzee at Taronga Park. He had always been a State politician, but with the stunning defeat of his party in the Federal election two weeks ago, which had left party members on a merry-go-round, with each man stabbing the back of the man in front of him, it was rumoured that Sweden had set his sights on Canberra and the national playing field.

He shook hands with the two detectives, voters both.

‘I’m sorry we have to be here, sir,’ said Malone. ‘Our sympathy on your son’s death.’

‘Thank you. From Homicide? What is this, Bill?’ He looked at Zanuch. ‘I thought we’d decided it was an accident. What’s going on?’

‘When Detective Kagal said that, I think he was trying not to make waves in front of the womenfolk.’ Zanuch might well have been a diplomat as well as a banker or a dozen other professionals. Sometimes he wondered why he had chosen to be a policeman. ‘Tell the Minister and me what you know, Inspector.’

‘Not that much, sir—’ Then Malone went on to explain what Romy had told him and Clements, though he did not mention the stolen corpse and the suspected similarity of its death to that of Robert Sweden. ‘Your son could’ve been dead before he was tossed off the balcony.’

‘Tossed off?’ Sweden looked at Zanuch as if to say, What have we got here?

‘Sorry. Thrown off.’ Malone could have chewed on his tongue; it had a habit of getting away from him, like a snapping dog, every time he came up against authority. He saw the look of irritation on Zanuch’s face and knew another black mark had been posted against him.

‘So what are you proposing?’ said Sweden.

‘We’d like to look around, with your permission. The PE team will have done its job, but I just like to look over things myself. Then we’d like to ask a few questions?’ He glanced at Zanuch.

The Assistant Commissioner did not interfere in public; but he was visibly annoyed. ‘If you must.’

‘Dammit,’ said Sweden, even more annoyed, ‘I don’t want anyone questioned! Not now, not today. Christ, we’re still getting over what’s happened—’

Zanuch looked at Malone. ‘Can’t it wait?’

‘I suppose so, sir. But the more time we waste, our chances of catching the killer get slimmer.’ You know that, even if you’ve never worked in Homicide.

For a moment the Minister might just as well have been at the other end of the room with the still-watching group: the AC and his junior officer were locked in their own small tussle. Clements stood silent and aside, his face blank.

Sweden interrupted: ‘Killer?’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Malone.

Sweden, it seemed, was having difficulty coming to terms with the mere fact that his son was dead; that he had been murdered was piling too great a weight on his emotion. He looked blankly at Zanuch.

The Assistant Commissioner, contrary to the national habit, took the long view: the way this present government shuffled its cabinet, this current Minister might not be in power when the Commissioner’s post became vacant. ‘I think Inspector Malone should do it his way.’

Sweden shook his head, seemed about to make an angry retort, then changed his mind. ‘Go ahead, Inspector. Ask your questions.’

‘Where is Sergeant Greenup?’ Malone asked Zanuch.

‘In the kitchen, I think. He’s not a detective.’

‘No, sir. But he’s had thirty years’ experience. I’ll talk to him first. I’ll talk to Detective Kagal, too.’

‘You’re going to keep us waiting?’ Sweden was incredulous; he might just have been told that he had been dumped for pre-selection for the seat he had held so long.

‘I’m afraid so, sir. Until the two men out in the kitchen put me in the picture, I won’t know what questions to ask.’

Sweden looked at Zanuch, then back at Malone. ‘Do you vote Labor?’

Malone grinned. ‘Mr Zanuch thinks I’m a communist.’

The AC’s smile was like that of a baby with wind. ‘Better get cracking, Inspector.’

Malone and Clements left them and went through an archway into the other half of the apartment. As they did so, Clements muttered, ‘Are you trying to get us sent to Tibooburra? You go there on your own, mate.’

Tibooburra, in the far north-west of the State, was the city policeman’s equivalent of Elba or St Helena. ‘If this case gets any muddier, I think I’d rather be out there. Hello, Jack. John. What d’you know?’

The uniformed sergeant and the young detective were in the kitchen. It was a good-sized room and looked as if nothing more than a slice of toast had ever been cooked in it, as if it were waiting for the photographer from Good Living to arrive. It was all stainless steel and white Formica, the only colour in the copper bottoms of the pots and pans hung like native artefacts above the central work-island.

‘G’day, Scobie. Russ.’ Jack Greenup was in his fifties, grey-haired and overweight, a cop from the old school. He had played rugby league when he was young and still believed in the direct approach; he had never tried to sidestep, to run around a man in his life, not even when his own life depended on it. ‘We haven’t talked to the silvertails inside. John and I had a few words with the maid.’

‘Where’s she?’

‘In her room, right at the back.’ John Kagal was the youngest and second newest member of Homicide, its only university graduate. He was good-looking, dark-haired and aerobics-trim, always impeccably turned out. Malone knew, with resigned amusement, that the young man would some day be Commissioner, possibly succeeding Zanuch. By then Malone hoped he would be in retirement. Or Tibooburra. ‘There are four bedrooms and three bathrooms on this side of the apartment. Oh, and this kitchen and a pantry in there.’ He nodded to a side door. ‘There’s a rear door in through the pantry from the service lift.’

‘It’s bloody big.’ Jack Greenup had been born in and still lived in a two-bedroomed cottage out in Tempe where big was anything that had a second storey.

‘What did the maid have to say?’

‘I talked to her. She’s a Filipina. She said young Sweden came here last night, his parents were out at the opera, and he told Luisa, that’s her name, Luisa – you’re not gunna believe this – Luisa Marcos, he told her she could have the night off. He gave her fifty bucks to go to the movies.’

‘Fifty bucks,’ said Greenup. ‘He was telling her to get lost, looks like.’

‘So he was expecting someone here?’

‘I’d say so,’ said Kagal.

‘Did you ask the parents about that?’

Kagal shook his head. ‘I got the feeling that the AC didn’t want any questions asked. That’s between you and me.’

‘Of course.’ Don’t tell me how to run the squad, son. You’ll get your turn after I’ve gone. The night doorman, Kinley, did he say anything about letting anyone in?’

‘No. We’ve got a list of last night’s visitors to the building. Not all their names, but who they were visiting. Here it is.’ He tore a page out of his notebook and handed it to Clements. ‘I’d like it back, Russ.’

‘Sure,’ said Clements, who didn’t like being told the obvious by a junior officer. ‘Any signs of a struggle?’

‘None out in the living room. He was tossed off—’

‘Thrown,’ said Malone and grinned as Kagal looked blank. ‘I’ve just been ticked off for saying he was tossed off. You’ve been warned.’

Kagal nodded. ‘Okay, he was thrown off, there’s a small balcony at the back, off the main bedroom. It overlooks the side street where he was found.’