Dragons at the Party. Jon Cleary

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СКАЧАТЬ home of the wool merchants. In the 1920s middle-class apartments had been built on the waterfront. After World War Two it had gone downhill till in the late sixties it had become a nest for hippies and junkies. Then real estate agents, those latterday pioneers, had rediscovered it. Now it provided pieds-à-terre for retired millionaires, luxury apartments for some prominent businessmen, small town houses for young executives and their families and, almost as a gesture of social conscience, two or three rooming houses for those who couldn’t afford the prices of the other accommodation. Kirribilli, an Aboriginal word meaning ‘a good place to fish’, also provided Sydney havens for the Governor-General, the Prime Minister and ASIO, the national intelligence organization. It was natural that the local elements, including those in the rooming houses, thought of themselves as exclusive.

      The dead end street leading to Kirribilli House was blocked off by police barriers. The television and radio trucks and cars were parked on the footpaths of the narrow street. The anti-Timori demonstrators were jammed solid against the barriers; there was a sprinkling of Asians amongst them, but the majority were the regulars that Malone recognized from other demonstrations; in the past twenty years protest had become a participation sport. Standing behind the demonstrators, as if separated by some invisible social barrier, was a curious crowd of locals, some of them looking disturbed, as if already worrying about falling real estate barriers. Murder and political demos did nothing for the exclusivity of an area.

      Standing just inside the gates of Kirribilli House was a group of thirty or forty Paluccans, men, women and children. They were all well dressed, some in Western clothes, others in Eastern; they looked nothing like the photos Malone had seen of those other refugees of recent years, the Vietnamese boat people. Yet for all their air of affluence they looked frightened and lost.

      ‘They’re probably the lot who came in with the Timoris on the RAAF planes,’ Clements said. ‘They’ve had them out at one of the migrant hostels.’

      ‘Better question them, find out if any of them were missing last night. Get Andy Graham and Joe Raudonikis to talk to them.’ Then Malone noticed the three Commonwealth cars parked in the driveway. ‘Someone’s here from Canberra.’

      Someone was: the Prime Minister himself. As Malone and Clements walked towards the house, Philip Norval, backed by half a dozen staff and security men, came out of the front door with Police Commissioner John Leeds.

      The Commissioner, as usual, was impeccably dressed; he was the neatest man Malone had ever met. He was not in uniform, probably as a concession to the holiday weekend, but was in a beautifully cut blazer, slacks, white shirt and police tie. Why do I always feel like a slob when I meet him? Malone thought. Then he looked out of the corner of his eye at Clements, a real slob, and felt better.

      ‘Ah, Inspector Malone.’ Leeds stopped with a friendly half-smile. He nodded at Clements, but he was not a man to go right down the ranks with his greetings. He turned to the Prime Minister. ‘Inspector Malone is in charge of the investigation, sir.’

      Philip Norval put out his hand, the famous TV smile flashing on like an arc-lamp. He gave his greetings to everyone, even those who didn’t vote for him. ‘Scobie Malone? I thought you’d be out at the Test.’

      ‘Maybe Monday, sir. If …’ Malone gestured towards the house. He had once played cricket for New South Wales as a fast bowler and might eventually have played for Australia; but he had enjoyed his cricket too much to be dedicated and ambitious and, though he never regretted it, had never gone on to realize his potential. In today’s sports world of ambition, motivational psychologists, slave-master coaches and business managers, he knew he would have been looked upon as a bludger, the equivalent of someone playing on welfare.

      Norval said, ‘I’m going out there later.’

      He would be, thought Malone. Though he had never shown any talent in any sport, Philip Norval never missed an opportunity to be seen at a major sporting event, preferably photographed with the winners. There had been one dreadful day at a croquet championship when, not understanding the game or the tally count, he had allowed himself to be photographed with the losers; in the end it hadn’t mattered since they had all turned out to be conservative voters. He occasionally was photographed at an art show or at the opera, but his political advisers always told him there were no votes in those camera opportunities.

      He was fifty but looked a youthful forty. Blond and handsome in the bland way that the electronic image had made international, he had been the country’s highest paid television and radio star for a decade, the blow-dried and pancaked tin god host of chat shows and talk-back sessions, with a mellifluous voice and no enemies but the more acidic and envious TV critics who, if they were lucky, earned one-fiftieth of what he was paid. A kitchen cabinet of rich industrialists and bankers, looking around for a PM they could manipulate into the correct right-wing attitudes, had taken him in hand and within six years put him in The Lodge, the Prime Minister’s residence in Canberra. He had been there five years now, was in his second term and, though known as the Golden Puppet, so far looked safe from any real opposition.

      ‘We have a problem here, Inspector.’ He was famous for his fatuities: it came of too many years of playing to the lowest common denominator.

      ‘Yes, sir.’ Malone looked at Leeds, his boss, who was entitled to know first. ‘We have a lead. We think the killer could be Miguel Seville.’

      ‘Seville?’ said Norval. ‘Who’s he? Some guy from Palucca?’

      ‘He’s an international terrorist, an Argentinian.’ Leeds was perturbed, looked searchingly at Malone. ‘You sure?’

      ‘It’s a guess, sir, but an educated one.’

      Norval looked at one of his aides for his own education: it was tough enough trying to keep up with the voters’ names, let alone those of terrorists. The aide nodded and Norval himself then nodded. ‘Oh sure, I’ve read about him. But how did he get into the act?’

      ‘I don’t know, sir,’ said Malone. ‘I’m just going in now to put some more questions to President Timori.’

      ‘Take it easy, Inspector,’ said Norval. ‘You’d better explain what we’ve decided, Commissioner. Keep in touch.’

      He shook hands with Leeds, Malone and even Clements, looked around to make sure he hadn’t missed an outstretched paw, then went up the driveway to the waiting cars. Just inside the gates he stopped and raised his arms in greeting to the crowd at the barriers. The demonstrators booed and jeered and suggested several unattractive destinations. He just gave them the famous smile, aware of the newsreel cameras advancing on him, then got into the lead car and the convoy moved off. The Golden Puppet might be manipulated in significant matters, but no one knew better than he how to juggle the superficial.

      ‘What’s been decided, sir?’ said Malone.

      ‘Would you leave us alone for five minutes, Sergeant?’ Leeds waited till Clements had moved away, then said, ‘The PM would like us to have hands-off as much as possible.’

      ‘What the hell does that mean?’

      ‘Don’t get testy with me, Inspector –’

      ‘Sorry, sir. But why?’

      ‘Politics. You and I have run up against them before. I understand the dead man, Masutir, had a bag of emeralds in his pocket, a pretty rich packet.’

      ‘I wouldn’t even guess – none of us knows anything about gems. I could ask Madame Timori. Sergeant СКАЧАТЬ