Endpeace. Jon Cleary

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      ‘I’m not going to enjoy this morning, either.’

      They went out into the hallway, which was less crowded now. Clements came towards them, biting his lip, an old habit when his thoughts did not fit as they should. Whether it was because Romy had dressed him or he had known, subconsciously, that he would be coming to this elegant house, this morning he was not his usual rumpled self. He wore an olive-grey lightweight suit, a blue button-down shirt and a blue silk tie with club or regimental stripes; though he had not belonged to a club in fifteen years and never to a regiment. His broad face, just shy of being good-looking, had a harried look, an expression unusual for him.

      ‘I’ve had only a glance at the family so far – that’s enough. Listening to ’em ...’ He shook his head. ‘Keep an eye on ’em, Kate. We’re going upstairs.’

      He and Malone climbed the curve of the stairs. Halfway up Malone paused and looked down: this was the spot where Lady Huxwood had told her children she should have aborted the lot of them. It was an elevation for delivering pronouncements; he wondered how many other insults and dismissals had been hurled from here. Then he went on after Clements, following him into a bedroom off the gallery.

      It was a big room with old-fashioned furniture: a four-poster bed, a heavy wardrobe and a dressing-table that could have accommodated at least two people. A large television set, in an equally large cabinet, stood in one corner. On a table by the two tall windows was the only modern note, a computer.

      Romy, in a white coat now, was drawing off a pair of rubber gloves. She gestured at the body on the bed and nodded to the two men from the funeral contractors. ‘You can take him to the morgue now. Tell them I’ll do the autopsy.’ Then she crossed to join Malone and Clements by the windows. ‘Time of death is always guess-work, but I’d say he’d been dead ten to twelve hours. I’ll take some fluid from his eyes when I get back to the morgue, check the amount of potassium in it. That gives a bit more precision in the timing, but don’t expect me to pinpoint it.’

      ‘Any sign of a struggle?’

      ‘None. He could have been asleep when he was shot, I don’t know. There are powder-marks on a pillow, looks as if whoever killed him used it to muffle the shot.’

      Malone walked over to the bed to take a last look at Sir Harry before the contractors zipped him up in the body bag. The democracy of death had done nothing for Sir Harry’s arrogance; a last spasm of pain looked more like an expression of distaste at the world he had just left. Malone nodded to one of the men and the zip closed over Sir Harry Huxwood, like a blue pencil through one of the many editorials he had written.

      ‘There’s this –’ Romy pulled on one of the rubber gloves, took a small scrap of paper from the pocket of her white coat. ‘Looks like he had a cadaveric spasm. It happens – the muscles tighten like a vice. It’s usually the hand that spasms, but sometimes the whole body does, though that’s pretty rare.’

      Malone held the piece of paper with the pair of hair-tweezers he always carried. Clements said, ‘It’s a torn scrap, looks like it’s been torn off the corner of a letter or a memo. Good quality paper. Evidently whoever did him in tried to take the whole paper, but he wouldn’t let go. If they shot him in the dark, maybe they didn’t know it was torn till they got outside.’

      ‘Why would he be holding a letter or a memo in the dark?’ Malone held up the fragment. ‘There’s one word on it in red pencil. No – N – O, exclamation mark. Got your French letter?’

      Clements produced one of the small plastic envelopes he always had in his pockets, grinning at Romy as he did so. He slipped the scrap of paper into the envelope. ‘I’ve never used these as condoms, in case you’re wondering.’

      ‘I shouldn’t be surprised at anything he did before we met,’ she told Malone, taking off her white coat and folding it neatly. ‘I’ll see Ballistics gets the bullet when I’ve done the autopsy.’

      ‘How’s business? Can you do him this morning?’

      ‘They told me before I came out here there’d been six homicides last night, plus four dead in accidents. He may have to take his turn.’

      ‘He hasn’t been used to that. Put him at the head of the list.’

      ‘Inspector –’ All at once she was not Mrs Clements but the Deputy-Director of the Institute of Forensic Medicine. Her squarely beautiful face became squarer as she set her jaw; her dark eyes lost their gleam, seemed to become even darker. It was what Clements called her Teutonic look. ‘Nobody jumps the queue in our morgue. I’ll get to him when I get to him.’

      Malone was glad the funeral contractors had already gone with the body; he did not like being ticked off in public. Clements looked embarrassed for him, but said nothing.

      ‘Romy, I’m not pandering to Sir Harry because of who he is. Or was. But with all due respect to the other five murder victims, the media aren’t going to be interested in them. They’re going to be on my back about this one. And so will my boss and the AC Crime and the Commissioner and the Premier and, for all I know, maybe God Himself.’

      ‘Tough titty, as you vulgarians say. I’ll do him when I do him. That all?’ She had packed her small bag, stood like a wife walking out on two husbands.

      Malone recognized he was not going to get anywhere with her. He nodded at the door to an adjoining room. ‘Whose room is that?’

      ‘Lady Huxwood’s. I was told she wasn’t to be disturbed.’ Romy was still cool. ‘I’ll see you at home, Russ. Pick up the meat.’

      Then she was gone and Clements said, ‘Don’t you know you don’t push a German around? You went about that in the wrong way, mate.’

      ‘Righto, you work on her, if you’re so bloody subtle.’

      ‘It’s not that I’m subtle. I’m married to her. You learn a few things. I thought you would have known that. The Dutch are as stubborn as the Germans, aren’t they?’

      ‘One thing I’ve learned, never bring up ethnic differences in a marriage. That’s a good way of starting World War Three ... All right, see what you can do with her. I don’t want to be carrying the can for the next week. Let’s go down and talk to the family.’

      Down in the hallway one of the Rose Bay detectives, a middle-aged man named Akers, was waiting for them. He was a senior-constable and had the resigned look of a man who realized he might, just might, make sergeant before he retired. His hair was already grey and his plump face was pink with blood vessels close to the surface.

      ‘Some of the family are here, Scobie, some have gone home. You’ll want to talk to them?’

      ‘I’ll talk to those that are here.’ Malone looked up and around the high hallway. ‘What’s the set-up here? How many rooms?’

      ‘Fourteen in this house, not including the bathrooms but including three rooms for the staff. There’s a wing out the back for them, beside the garages. The butler and cook are husband and wife, name’s Krilich, they’re Yugoslavs. Outside there’s what they call Little House One and Little House Two –’ He made a face. ‘I think Enid Blyton or Beatrix Potter must of stayed here once.’

      ‘You’re well read, Jim.’

      Akers grinned, relaxing; СКАЧАТЬ