Winter Chill. Jon Cleary

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      ‘Are they any good?’

      ‘Our Ballistics unit? They’re considered as good as any in the world.’

      De Vries then took a gulp of his drink and Joanna said, ‘I’m sure Mr De Vries didn’t mean to imply that they were not as good as—’

      ‘The FBI?’ Malone smiled, but with an effort. He hoped this was not going to develop into a battle of the flags. He was not particularly nationalistic, seeing nationalism only as an upmarket name for tribalism (and look at what that was doing in the rest of the world), but he did have pride in his own Service. ‘We hold our own, Mrs Brame … We’re now trying to find the connection between the two killings. We still don’t know who was the man who spent half an hour with your husband on Sunday night.’ He looked at De Vries, reluctantly. ‘Would Mr Brame have discussed with you meeting anyone in particular while he was out here? A client, maybe?’

      De Vries put down the glass, as if Joanna’s reproachful stare had taken all flavour out of his drink. ‘As far as I know, his only interest in coming here was as president of the Bar Association, that was all. I don’t believe he knew anyone here in Sydney.’

      ‘Except his brother.’

      ‘Well, yes, his brother.’

      ‘And he knew nobody else here? No local lawyers?’

      ‘Well, yes, I suppose so. We have association with—’ He named one of the biggest law firms in Sydney. ‘He could have met one of their partners.’

      ‘I’ll check on that,’ said Malone, but wondered why, if a partner from a top law firm had met with Brame on the night of his murder, he had not come forward. Lawyers might be obstructive in court, but they were usually not obstructive towards police work, especially murder.

      ‘There is something, Inspector—’ Joanna ignored De Vries’s warning look. ‘We think something has been stolen from here. My husband’s briefcase. Mr Tallis, you met him the other day, is checking if someone else has it. Mr Zoehrer, for instance.’

      ‘Do you know what was in it?’

      ‘None of us know, not even Mr Tallis.’

      She was sitting opposite Malone, the morning light striking across her face, almost sympathetically: it didn’t betray any lines of age. In an instant of sensation Malone felt he could be looking at Lisa in ten or twelve years’ time (he had no idea how old Joanna Brame was); or as he had always expected Lisa to look. He had never thought of Lisa’s dying; or if he had, he had closed down the thought at once. Now, looking at this composed, good-looking woman opposite him, he saw her turn her head towards De Vries, the lift of the chin exactly as Lisa’s lifted, and all at once he had to turn away. But she had caught the movement.

      ‘Are you all right, Inspector?’

      ‘What? Oh yes.’ He stood up and walked to the window and looked out. The monorail train glided past, packed with passengers, all of them safe from bullets of any calibre. ‘Were you going to tell us about the briefcase?’