Autumn Maze. Jon Cleary

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СКАЧАТЬ He was a young man, young enough to be the son of his fellow worker, who looked as if he had been sweeping the streets all his life. ‘This job is shitty enough, without having to clean up something like this.’

      Malone looked up at the stack of balconies above them. ‘They must’ve tossed him out wide so he wouldn’t hit the lower balconies.’

      ‘It was a neat throw,’ said Clements. ‘Three feet further out and he’d of landed on any car parked here.’

      The young cleaner was still leaning on his broom, an occupational habit. ‘Are you guys always so clinical about something like this?’

      Malone wanted to tell him how they felt when they investigated the murder of a child or a woman, but all he said was, it’s like you and your street sweeping, it’s a job.’

      ‘You put your finger on it, mate.’ The older worker had stopped sweeping, leaned on his broom with the ease of long practice. ‘I keep telling him, don’t ever look too hard at what your broom picks up. Right?’

      ‘Right,’ said Clements, and he and Malone grinned at each other and walked back down the short hill.

      ‘Where to now?’

      Malone paused on the corner, looked along Circular Quay and up at the tall tower of the Casement building. ‘While we’re down here, why don’t we drop in on Mr Casement? Young Sweden worked for him.’

      They crossed the road, stopping to allow a group of Japanese tourists, herded together by their guides as if the local natives were expected to attack at any moment, to make their way towards a waiting cruise ferry at one of the wharves. Clements, a man who couldn’t help his prejudices, shook his head but said nothing to Malone. The latter, who fought his inherited prejudices and usually won, just smiled at the Japanese and was rewarded by the bobbing of several heads.

      ‘Our salvation,’ he said.

      ‘Japs?’

      ‘Tourists.’

      The Casement building, like The Wharf, had been built in the boom of the early Eighties. There were fifty storeys, seven of them occupied by Casement Trust, the merchant bank, and Casement and Co., the stockbrokers. In the big entrance lobby there was enough Italian marble to re-fill the Carrara quarries; thick columns soared three storeys, like branchless marble trees. An overalled cleaner with a toy broom and a tiny scoop shuffled about the lobby keeping the marble dirt-free and butt-free. Visitors were welcome, but expected to be impressed or else.

      A uniformed security guard asked the two detectives if he might help them. ‘We’d like to see Mr Casement?’

      ‘You have an appointment?’ The guard looked at a book on his counter. ‘Nobody is allowed on the fiftieth floor without an appointment.’

      Malone produced his badge. ‘Is that a good enough reference?’

      ‘It’s good enough for me. I’ll see if it’s good enough for Mr Casement’s secretary. She’s the Wicked Witch. Don’t quote me.’

      There was a short conversation with the Wicked Witch, a wait, then the guard put down the phone. ‘It’s okay. Ask for Mrs Pallister. It’s about the ugly business over the road, right?’

      Malone just nodded, then led Clements along to the private lift pointed out to them by the guard. They rode to the fiftieth floor in ten feet square of luxury: no marble, but top quality leather for which any craftsman would have given his awl. The carpet on the floor looked as if it were newly laid each morning, fresh from the merino’s back. Clements looked around admiringly.

      ‘I think I’ve got a split personality. I get into something like this and I hate the bastards it’s made for, yet I like it.’

      When they stepped out of the lift they were in a reception area that suggested luxury was the norm on the fiftieth floor. A dark-haired receptionist turned from her word processor and gave them a pleasant smile. ‘Mrs Pallister is expecting you.’ Not Mr Casement is expecting you: everybody these days had minders. The receptionist stood up, opened a door in the oak-lined wall behind her. ‘The police.’

      The police went through into an inner office, three walls oak-lined and the fourth a floor-to-ceiling window that looked out on to the harbour. A blonde woman sat with her back to the view, a paper-strewn desk in front of her. The mess on her desk contrasted sharply with her too-neat appearance. She rose as the two men came into her office, but that was her only hint of politeness.

      ‘Gentlemen.’ Her vowels came from eastern-suburbs’ private schools, but there was an edge to her voice that suggested it could cut throats if needs be. ‘I think it would have been better if you had telephoned so that I could have fitted you into Mr Casement’s schedule. He can give you only ten minutes.’

      ‘We’ll keep that in mind,’ said Malone, instantly forgetting it.

      Mrs Pallister was middle-aged and would have been attractive if she had not frozen her face ten years before. Divorce had turned her 180 degrees; her career had become her life. She made forty-five thousand dollars a year, ten thousand a year less than Malone made as an inspector, but she had the air of an assistant commissioner. ‘Mr Casement is a busy man.’

      ‘Aren’t we all?’ said Malone.

      She looked at him down her nose, which, snub as it was, rather destroyed the effect intended. She led them through into an office that surprised Malone with its lack of size; he had expected to be led into a luxurious auditorium. But this room was not much bigger than the Wicked Witch’s, though there was no denying the luxury of it. Even to Malone’s inexpert eye, the paintings on two of the walls were worth a fortune: a Streeton, a Bunny, a Renoir and a Monet. The mix showed that the man who worked in this office did not want to be disturbed by any angst-spattered artwork. The furniture was equally comforting, rich in leather and timber. This was a man’s room, but Malone, who was learning to be more observant about surroundings, guessed it had been furnished by a woman.

      ‘Inspector Malone?’ Cormac Casement stood up from behind the large desk that was almost a barricade. ‘This is about poor Rob Sweden’s death? A dreadful accident.’

      He was twenty-five years older than his second wife, but, as the old shoe-polish advertisement said, though he was well-worn he had worn well. He was shorter than Malone had expected from the photos he had seen of the older man, just medium height and barrel-shaped. He had thin iron-grey hair, a square face that sagged under the chin, and he wore designer glasses that looked out of place on him, much too young for him, as if he were wearing Reeboks on his small dainty feet. The eyes behind the glasses, however, suggested they could open a steel safe without any twirling of a combination lock. His wife was wrong when she claimed she could read him like a book. There were some pages of him still uncut and only he knew what, if anything, was written there.

      ‘Not an accident, Mr Casement. It was murder. We’ve just come from giving Mr and Mrs Sweden the bad news.’

      ‘Murder?’ Casement did not look surprised; which surprised Malone. ‘Really? Oh well …’ He sat down again, waved to the two detectives to take the chairs opposite him. ‘You never can tell what’s going to happen with today’s youth, can you?’

      ‘Do you know much about today’s youth, Mr Casement?’

      ‘Only what I read in the newspapers.’ The old eyes were steady behind СКАЧАТЬ