Autumn Maze. Jon Cleary

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СКАЧАТЬ that he knew the chain of command. ‘In the meantime, no press conferences on this, not till you have solid evidence. If the media want to hear about my son I’ll get Rufus Tucker to arrange it and I’ll do the talking.’

      Falkender stood up. From long experience of politicians, he recognized a brick wall when it was being built. ‘Inspector Malone will handle this with his usual discretion, Minister. You’ll get a daily report on how he is progressing.’

      Going back to Falkender’s office Malone said, ‘Thanks for that bit about my usual discretion.’

      Falkender grinned, his face relaxing for the first time. ‘Don’t make a liar of me. What d’you reckon?’ He jerked his head back towards the Minister’s suite. ‘Is he just a father doing the usual, protecting his son’s good name?’

      Malone lowered his voice; no one knew where the ears were in an empty stairwell. ‘I think he knows a lot more than he’s told us.’

      Falkender nodded. ‘But be discreet, okay?’

      3

      In the Opposition Leader’s suite in the annexe to Parliament House, Hans Vanderberg, The Dutchman, was seeking material for his last hurrah. He had been Premier of New South Wales for twelve years, running the State almost like an old-time American ward boss; his heroes had been Boss Tweed and Frank Hague and Jim Curley; he knew the names of all the political bosses but only three or four of the Presidents. He had discovered, only a year or two after he had landed in Australia from Holland back in 1948, that real political power does not work on the large stage. Being Prime Minister gave you pomp and ceremony and national headlines, but no PM ever had the power that a truly ambitious State Premier could achieve. The Dutchman had almost had a stroke when all his power had been taken away from him by a mere hundred votes in the last State elections.

      ‘What d’you know about this young Sweden case? They say it’s murder.’

      ‘It is.’ Roger Ladbroke had been Vanderberg’s press secretary for ten years. He had often thought of resigning, of going back to being a political columnist, but in the end always decided that he was a natural masochist and no editor would ever give him the exquisite pain The Dutchman could inflict. It was a consolation that the bruises never showed on him; he always just smiled when the State roundsmen asked him how he continued to put up with the abuse and insults to his education. Some day, when The Dutchman was dead, he would write a book and he possessed secrets that no roundsman could even guess at. ‘But as far as I can gather, they have no clue as to who did it or why.’

      ‘His old man connected with it?’ Vanderberg played with the quiff of hair that was the cartoonists’ delight. He was an ugly little man, shrunk by age, his clothes hanging on him like a wet wash; he was loved only by his wife, but that was enough. ‘I tried to give him some sympathy this morning, but he just wiped me.’

      The ex-Premier’s sympathy was like strychnine: best in small doses.

      ‘There’s some skulbuggery in it, I can smell it. Keep sniffing around.’ He had never believed that anything was crystal-clear, except his own perceptions.

      ‘Hans, we can’t make capital out of a family tragedy. The papers would be on to us like a load of shit.’

      ‘We handle it delicately, son.’

      Ladbroke shook his head invisibly at that. The Dutchman’s idea of delicacy was how the Chinese had handled Tiananmen Square.

      ‘Use your contacts, find out what’s going on. Who’s in charge of the case?’

      ‘As far as I can gather, both Assistant Commissioners Falkender and Zanuch seem to have a hand in it.’

      ‘That means they’re trying to hide something.’ The old man raised his nose, like a hound pointing.

      ‘The man who’s actually in charge of the case is that guy, Inspector Malone. You remember him?’

      ‘The honest one?’ Vanderberg flattened his quiff. ‘He wouldn’t tell you the time of Friday—’ No one, not even Lad-broke, was ever sure that The Dutchman did not deliberately mangle everyday phrases. ‘We’ve got to upset the apples, son. Time’s running out.’

      ‘The government’s got another three years to run.’

      ‘I wasn’t talking about them. I was talking about me. I’m getting on, Roger. If we wait for the full term to run, I’ll be eighty by the next election. I want to toss out these bastards, get back in, set up things the way I want ’em, put Denis Kipple in my place and then I’ll retire. Gracefully.’ The thought of his doing anything gracefully seemed to amuse even him: he gave a cackling laugh. ‘Get cracking, son. A stitch in time is worth the needling.’

      Ladbroke couldn’t wait for the graceful retirement. But he would miss the old sonofabitch.

Chapter Five

      1

      In a waterfront apartment out at Point Piper, a narrow diamonds-and-pearls-encrusted finger jutting into the southern waters of the Harbour, another old man was having lunch with his son, his daughter-in-law and his daughter-in-law’s father. This weekly lunch was a ritual with Jack Aldwych and he looked forward to it, though he could have done without today’s extra guest, Adam Bruna.

      ‘I adore this view!’ Bruna clasped his manicured hands and gazed out at the Harbour. ‘Why don’t you move over this side, Jack? Why do you have to live way out there in the Outback, Harbord or wherever it is?’

      It amused Aldwych that he might have felt at home here on this tiny peninsula. It had been named after a colonial naval officer, a rake who laid women like stepping stones and who, when it came to making money, had as much dedication to principle as he had to celibacy. Aldwych had never been a womanizer, but he had had little regard for principle if it stood in his way.

      ‘I couldn’t afford to live over here.’ He was one of the country’s richest men, albeit one who never appeared in the rich lists. Wealth based upon prostitution, bank hold-ups, extortion and fraud was not publicly assessable, although in the Eighties fraud had been an almost acceptable method of becoming rich. Aldwych’s wealth, thanks to Jack Junior’s management, was now squeaky clean, but the smell of its origins still clung to it in certain quarters. ‘I could never afford an apartment like this.’

      Jack Junior and Juliet had paid three million for the apartment, a price that had shocked Jack Senior almost as much as the day, long ago, a judge had given him five years for attempted murder when everyone knew it was no more than an attempt to teach a welsher a lesson. It had been Juliet who had spent the money, but Jack Senior had said nothing; if she, and what she did, made Jack Junior happy, then there was nothing to be said. At least for the time being.

      ‘Oh, I don’t mean you would have to buy something like this!’ Bruna fluttered his hands. He was a handsome man, as good-looking as any of his daughters; small and compact in build, always beautifully dressed, if a trifle flamboyantly for Aldwych’s tastes, he had sharp eyes and a smile that winked on and off as if on a rheostat. He was not homosexual, but he had exaggerated gestures and expressions that had at first confused Aldwych, a man of prejudice whose hands had the stillness of holstered guns. Bruna had once been a sculptor and still occasionally exhibited a piece or two, but his main source of income, apart from his daughters, was a gallery he owned in Woollahra. He had tried to sell Aldwych a small Giacometti, but the older man liked his statues, СКАЧАТЬ