Autumn Maze. Jon Cleary

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СКАЧАТЬ you ever read Women’s Weekly? The Bruna sisters are our equivalent of the Gabor sisters, Zsa Zsa, Eva and the other one—’

      ‘You mean you don’t know the other one’s name? It’s Charlene.’ Malone was heading the Commodore downtown.

      ‘These three sisters came originally from Roumania, I think it was, when they were kids. They all married money. Several times, with each sister. They’re good-lookers, they’re rich and if any of them are there at the apartments, I don’t think they’ll give you and me the time of day.’

      ‘How are you so well informed on them? Do you have a gig on the Women’s Weekly’? Malone had his own gigs, informers, but none on a women’s magazine.

      ‘I started taking an interest in them when I found out who they were married to. There’s this one whose place we’re going to, she’s married to our Minister – he’s her second or third husband, I forget which. Then there’s one married to Cormac Casement – his money’s so old it’s mouldy. She’s his second wife and he’s her third husband. And then there’s the youngest, she’s married, her third husband, to Jack Aldwych Junior. Yeah, I thought that’d make you sit up.’

      Malone nodded, trying to picture Jack Aldwych, once Sydney’s top crime boss, on the verge of the local social scene. Then he dropped the image from his mind, turned to getting the next few hours, maybe weeks, into step in his mind. They passed the University of Technology, a tall grey building that could not have generated much optimism in the hearts of those who entered it. Malone had to slow as a group of students, ignoring the traffic, crossed the wide main street at their leisure, jerking their fingers at those motorists who had the hide to honk at them. A larger group was gathered in front of the university’s entrance, massing for another demonstration. Demos were becoming frequent again: against further cuts in student grants, against undeclared wars, against the recession. Rent-a-Crowd, Malone guessed, was doing business as good as it had done back in the Sixties and Seventies. He slowed the Commodore down to walking pace as a student, flat-topped, wearing jeans and a sweater three times too large for him, crossed in front of the car, daring the driver to run him down.

      ‘If he knew we were cops,’ said Clements, ‘he’d of laid down in front of us.’

      Malone ignored the student, waited till he had passed and then drove on. The student had his troubles; there was probably no one of his age who didn’t. But Malone had his own: ‘The Police Minister’s son, the son of our best-known crim, a missing stranger who died the same way as Sweden’s son – you got any more you want to throw in the pot with that stew?’

      ‘Not at the moment,’ said Clements.

      ‘These – Bruna? – sisters. Is there anything dirty against them?’

      ‘Only that they marry for money. I don’t think that’s a crime, not out in the eastern suburbs.’ Clements came originally from Rockdale, an area that those in the east would have trouble finding on a map. Australian cities are no different from those overseas: they condense the national prejudices, their suburbs tribal grounds of contempt and dislike for each other. ‘I don’t think we have to worry too much about Aldwych Junior, either. As far as I know, he’s got a clean nose.’

      ‘He was mixed up in that case with Romy’s father. We never pinned anything on him, but I’m sure he wasn’t clean.’

      ‘Well, he is as far as the record goes. Don’t start complicating things. We’ve got enough to worry about.’

      The Wharf had been built during the Eighties, in the boom times when people thought the money-tree would fruit forever. It was a circular glass- and granite-faced tower, twenty-four storeys high that, though towered over by the office buildings along Circular Quay, gave the impression it was the only one where you would find quality inside its walls. The marble foyer inside the brass-and-glass front doors suggested you were entering a bank, a small exclusive one where no deposits under a million were accepted and then only as a favour.

      The doorman, releasing the security lock to let them in, recognized Malone and Clements; they had been here before to interview a suspect in another case. ‘Remember me? Col Crittle. We been over-run with police this morning. You’d be the umpteenth.’ He was a burly man with a head of thick grey hair combed flat and an easy smile, the sort of doorman elderly widows could feel secure with. At least a quarter of the owners were elderly widows, the sort who never had to cut dead branches off the money-tree. ‘You want the twentieth floor. It’s all one apartment, Mr and Mrs Sweden’s.’

      ‘Were you on duty last night when the accident happened?’

      ‘They tell me it wasn’t an accident. No, thank God I wasn’t here. It was the night feller, Stan Kinley.’

      ‘He still works here?’ Names stuck in Clements’ memory as much as events; Malone had told him that on Judgement Day he would be asked to call the roll. He caught Malone’s eye and said, ‘He was the guy we saw when we came here to see Justine Springfellow. She still here?’

      The doorman shook his head. ‘She moved out a coupla years ago.’

      ‘Where did Mr Sweden, the young one, fall?’

      ‘Around in the side street. Your fellers’ve got it cordoned off with tapes. I’m waiting for them to tell me when the council blokes can scrub out the stain. He made a real mess.’

      As soon as they stepped into the glass-and-brass lift Malone had a feeling of déjà vu. Last time, they had come to interview Justine Springfellow who had turned out to be not guilty of the murder they had been certain she had committed. Let’s have better luck this time. The lift stopped at the twentieth floor and they stepped out into a small lobby. In front of them were double doors of thick dark walnut, each with a lion’s head in brass in the middle of it. A young uniformed policeman stood beside the doors, his authority somehow diminished by their solidity.

      He nodded at the two detectives, went to open the doors. ‘Hold it a moment,’ said Malone. ‘Who’s in there?’

      ‘The Physical Evidence team have gone, sir. There’s one of your men from Homicide – Kagal? – and Sergeant Greenup.’

      ‘No media?’

      ‘They came last night, after it happened. A couple came back this morning, trying for an interview with the Minister, but Sergeant Greenup told ’em to get lost.’

      ‘Good old Jack. He got his sledgehammer with him?’

      The young officer grinned; he knew the reputation of his sergeant. Clements said, ‘Who else is in there?’

      ‘Mr and Mrs Sweden. Mrs Sweden’s sisters – I dunno their names.’ Like Malone, the young officer evidently did not read the Women’s Weekly. ‘And one of the Minister’s minders, his press secretary, I think.’

      ‘Quite a crowd.’

      ‘It’s a big apartment, sir. Oh, there’s someone else. Assistant Commissioner Zanuch.’

      Malone wondered why a junior officer should almost forget the Assistant Commissioner, Administration, but he made no comment. He himself did his best to forget Zanuch and usually succeeded. One’s mind worked better when the AC was not occupying even the remotest corner of it.

      Malone and Clements went in through the big doors, pulling up instinctively as soon as they were inside the apartment. They СКАЧАТЬ