Dilemma. Jon Cleary

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      ‘How long were you in England?’

      ‘Nine, ten years.’

      ‘You don’t have a New Zealand accent or an English one. All that time before you came here and you have a dinky-di Aussie accent. What d’you reckon, Constable?’

      ‘Indigenous,’ said Mungle and for the first time all day gave a full-mouthed smile.

      ‘Are you an expert on accents, Scobie?’ said Waring.

      ‘Yes,’ lied Malone. ‘It’s a hobby I picked up from my wife Lisa. You remember her?’

      ‘Of course,’ said Waring and shifted again in his chair.

      ‘We’ll check with Dunedin, birth records, that sort of thing. You have a passport?’

      Gibson was very still in his chair. ‘No. Someone stole it – I never bothered to apply for a new one.’

      ‘Never mind, the New Zealand passport office will have a record of it. We’ve used them before.’ Lying again. ‘What year did you first apply for it?’

      ‘I dunno. Around 1982, 83.’

      He’s bluffing because he thinks I’m bluffing. He turned to Mungle. ‘Could you get me some fingerprint sheets, Wally?’

      Mungle stood up, but Waring held up a restraining hand. ‘What do we need those for?’

      ‘We have prints of his from their house. In the kitchen, Roger, on the handle of the fridge door. On a Coke bottle and a glass. Was that before or after you’d killed her?’ He didn’t give Gibson time to reply, but nodded to Wally Mungle. ‘Get the sheets, bring in the dab pad.’

      Mungle went out of the room. Gibson and Waring looked at each other, but said nothing. Then Malone, casually, said, ‘When we get back to Sydney, Roger, we’ll have your mother and sister identify you. They’ll know you. They’re both still alive, I think.’

      There was a sudden silence, the sort of silence that one sometimes finds in music: not the end but the beginning of something. Malone waited: he had become an expert in silences, if not in accents.

      Then Gibson sighed, a shudder of sound that came up through his body. He leaned forward, said softly, ‘I didn’t kill her.’

      Malone felt relief course slowly through him; he had won. There was satisfaction, but it was not malicious. He didn’t believe Glaze’s claim, but the salesmanship was over. Glaze might go on lying, but he would be lying as his true self, not Roger Gibson. Gibson was dead, a shell discarded.

      ‘Roger—’ Waring was genuinely shocked; then he recovered. ‘Don’t say anything more—’

      ‘I have to, Trev. Okay, I’m Ron Glaze. That’s my wife—’ He gestured at the photos, but didn’t look at them. ‘But I did not kill her. I went back to our house that night – she was dead when I got there. Lying on the bed – naked … I sat there, I dunno how long, twenty minutes, half an hour, then I left—’

      ‘Why?’ said Malone. ‘Why didn’t you call the police?’

      ‘I did. I called ’em about daybreak, told ’em where she was … Then I took off. I panicked. We’d had an argument up at the club – people saw us, they knew we’d been living apart … I just wanted to get away. I sat in my car for, I dunno, two or three hours before I called the police. I just wanted to get away – what was there to stay for? She was dead—’

      ‘When you went back to the house, what were you going to do?’

      Glaze looked down at his clasped hands that appeared to be trying to strangle each other. ‘If she kicked me out again, I was going to kill her and then kill myself. That was why I got outa there. Someone else had done what I was gunna do if she’d said no. Only thing different was I’d have topped myself as well.’

      There was a downbeat silence this time; then Trevor Waring said, ‘I think that’s a reasonable explanation, don’t you, Scobie?’

      Nice try, Trev, but you ’re not as naïve as that.

      ‘No, Trev, I don’t … Ronald Glaze, I am arresting you for the murder of your wife Norma. Anything you may say …’

       4

      ‘I’d like to see Roma. Alone.’

      ‘Five minutes, Ron. Don’t try anything stupid.’

      ‘Such as?’

      Malone had seen average, placid men turn desperate; but he didn’t think Glaze would be like that. He was a born salesman: hope was his diet. ‘Five minutes. Leave the door open.’

      Now that he had admitted his true identity, Glaze appeared almost relaxed. But not quite; the big hands were still restless. He looked at Waring. ‘You disappointed, Trev?’

      ‘Only for you, Roger,’ said Waring and sounded sincere. ‘Let’s hope Roma can take it.’

      Malone went out, followed by Waring. He gestured towards the interrogation room and Roma Gibson looked at him enquiringly. ‘You’re letting him go? I told you—’

      ‘Roger has something to tell you, Roma,’ said Waring.

      She frowned, looked hard at the two of them, then went by them with a rush and into the interview room. Wally Mungle came back with sheets and a pad, pulled up sharply. ‘He’s confessed?’

      ‘That he’s Ron Glaze, yes. But not that he killed her.’

      They were in the area behind the front counter. Two uniformed men, a middle-aged sergeant and a younger man, looked up from their desks. They stared at Malone, Mungle and Waring, as alert as pointer dogs; then they turned their heads. Gombrich had come out of his office.

      ‘Well?’

      ‘He’s admitted he’s the man we’re after,’ said Malone. ‘He’s denying he killed his wife. I’m charging him, nonetheless. Can we get the preliminary paperwork done?’ He looked at his watch. ‘I want to catch that plane. Have we got two seats?’

      ‘You’re going to take him in as he is?’

      ‘No. If it’s okay with you Constable Mungle can go out with his wife and bring in some gear for him. We’ll hold him here till it’s time to go out to the airport.’

      ‘What if she wants to go down to Sydney with him?’

      ‘That’s okay, if there’s a spare seat on the plane.’

      ‘No, I got you the last two.’

      ‘Leave it like that. She can come down tomorrow.’

      The sergeant at his desk looked up at Mungle. ‘You were right, Wally. Pleased?’

      He was a bush cop, lean and hard and dry; his opinions would be the same. Mungle was not going to have an easy time of it; but he was not backing down. ‘No, СКАЧАТЬ