Babylon South. Jon Cleary

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СКАЧАТЬ did you? Go near his wife?’

      ‘Not till the news came through that he was missing. The ASIO men came to see us, and some policemen—’

      ‘I was one of them,’ said Malone.

      ‘Really?’ She looked at him with sudden sharp interest. ‘And you never found anything?’

      ‘Nothing. We’re having to start all over again.’

      Edwin stood up. He had a certain dignity that was natural to him; old families sometimes bequeath other things besides money and a name. ‘I think that’s enough for today, Inspector. We are still upset by yesterday’s discovery. I should have been at my office if it weren’t for this …’

      ‘We haven’t finished—’

      ‘Yes, we have, Emma. The inspector will understand. Perhaps we’ll be in better shape to talk to you, Inspector, after the funeral. For the moment we’d rather be left alone.’

      Emma glared at him, then abruptly stood up and without a word stalked out of the room. Ruth, as dignified as her husband, said, ‘Please forgive her, Inspector. She and Walter were very close. Even after all these years she has never really reconciled herself to his disappearance. She has always believed he was still alive. And now …’

      Edwin took her hand and once again they were as still as statues. You will get no more out of us today, their stillness said. Malone, who knew when to wait for another day, said goodbye. Edwin, moving stiffly, showed the two detectives to the front door. When he closed the door behind them, Malone waited for the sound of bolts being shot; but there was none. The door, however, was as stout as a castle gate. Neither it nor the family behind it would be easy to break down.

      Going down the driveway Clements said, ‘Emma was in love with her brother.’

      Malone looked sideways at him: Clements was not usually given to such wild guessing. ‘You reckon? I didn’t think they went in for that sort of thing in Mosman.’

      ‘I don’t mean incest. But I saw it once before, when you were overseas on that High Commissioner case. Only it was the other way around, the brother was in love with the sister. He killed her because she married someone else.’

      Malone stopped at the front gates. ‘Are you saying Emma could have killed Walter?’

      ‘I don’t know,’ said Clements, chewing his lip. ‘I’ll give you half a dozen who could have killed him. Including ASIO.’

      ‘Keep your mouth shut on that one or you’re headed for Tibooburra.’ That was a one-pub town in the far north-west of the State, the NSW Police Force’s farthest outpost. ‘Just think it, don’t say it.’

      Clements grinned. ‘Let’s get at the truth, as Emma said.’

Chapter Three

      1

      The Springfellow Corporation was headquartered in a thirty-storey building overlooking Circular Quay. The first five floors were occupied by the Springfellow Bank; the next two by Springfellow and Company, stockbrokers; the next eighteen floors by outside tenants; and the top five floors by divisions, subsidiaries or affiliates of the Corporation. The very top floor was given up to the boardroom, a dividing office and reception lobby and the office of the Chief Executive Officer and Chairwoman of the Board. The Corporation’s PR chief, a woman versed in anti-sexist jargon, had tried to persuade her boss to call herself President and Chairperson, but Venetia had squashed her with, ‘President has come to mean someone who’s a figurehead – that’s not me. Chairperson is sexless – and that’s not me, either.’

      Venetia sat in her office gazing out of the large picture-window at the ferries creeping into the quay, seeing them but only as on a memory screen; this had been her view for five years, ever since she had built Springfellow House. She had come an hour ago from the inquest on Walter. She felt at a loss, though of what she was not sure. She had long ago got over the physical loss of Walter; her widow’s weeds had soon turned floral. In those days she had worn a variety of colours. There had been the shock two weeks ago of the discovery of Walter’s skeleton (thank God they had not asked her to identify his bones), but she had recovered from that. The inquest this morning had been short, almost cold-blooded, and it had not upset her; she had been more concerned for its effect on Justine, who had accompanied her and who several times had shivered as if she were suffering from a chill. Then the coroner had declared that the remains were those of Walter Springfellow and that the deceased had died from a gunshot wound inflicted by a person or persons unknown and that the remains should be released into the care of the next of kin, namely Lady Springfellow. Up till then she had been calm, all her resources gathered together in her usual way, life (and death) put together as if according to the strictest of management principles.

      Then, after dropping Justine off at her office on the floor below, she had come up here, come into this big room, closed the door and sat down and wept, something she had not done in more years than she could remember. She had at last dried her eyes, repaired her make-up and now sat staring out at a day she was blind to, wondering what was missing from her emotions. There was no grief, that had died long ago; no lost hope, for she had given up hope of Walter’s return years ago; no anger at his murder, for she could not, after all this time, whip up the urge for revenge against a person or persons unknown. Her eyes cleared, she saw the familiar scene beyond the window, and at that moment her mind cleared. She turned back to her desk, deciding that it was love that was missing. She had lost count of the men who had been her lovers; but Walter had been the one she had married and, until now, she had always told herself she had loved him. In her fashion, maybe; but it had been a deeper feeling than she had ever felt for any other man. With possibly one exception.

      There was a knock on the door and Michael Broad put his head in. He was, as usual, immaculate. A fashion dummy right out of the John Pardoe windows, Zegna all the way down to his socks, where the Gucci shoes stuck out like those of an intruder behind a curtain. Not a hair out of place, thought Venetia and, suddenly feeling better, smiled at his bald head.

      ‘I have Peter Polux here, Venetia. Perhaps we could have a word before this afternoon’s meeting.’

      He stood aside and Polux entered, his smile as usual chopping his red cheeks in half, his white shoes as bright as bandaged feet under his dark-blue suit. He must be the only white-shoe banker in the world, Venetia thought. She knew his history, as she knew the history of everyone who worked for her or with whom she did business. He had gone to Queensland twenty-five years ago from a small town in Victoria, and had made a fortune in real estate on the Gold Coast. Seven years ago he had gone into merchant banking and become one of banking’s high-flyers, taking risks declined by more staid bankers and bringing them off. He had been a founder member of the ‘white shoe brigade’, the new rich of the Gold Coast, and he had continued, as a thumb to the nose at the amused contempt of the supposed sophisticates of Sydney and Melbourne, to wear his white shoes on every occasion. He was a prominent Catholic, a papal knight, and he was famous for his gold rosary beads, which he often wore wrapped round his wrist like a holy bracelet. Venetia sometimes had the feeling that Polux looked upon the Catholic Church as a venture capital client: he certainly had a good deal of its business.

      ‘Venetia old girl—’ His wife had once told him he had no charm and now he was working on it; it was as heavy and rough-edged as a cannibal’s table manners. ‘Today’s the big day, eh?’

      When Venetia decided to buy out the Springfellow Corporation and СКАЧАТЬ