Yesterday’s Shadow. Jon Cleary

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СКАЧАТЬ women looked at the coat thrown over a nearby chair. Romy put out a hand to touch it, then realized she was wearing the plastic gloves. ‘I don’t think even hookers can afford them. Not in this town.’

      ‘This lady had money,’ said Norma Nickles.

      ‘What’s the rate here?’ Malone turned back to the manager.

      He had been looking down at the body; he jerked his head up as Malone spoke to him. ‘How much? A hundred dollars a night for a double with bath, like this front room. Less than that for group bookings.’

      Malone gazed down at the body now being zipped into a bag. The throat had a dark collar of bruising, the face was puffy and distorted, her mouth enlarged by the smeared lipstick. But it was evident that she had once been, only yesterday, a good-looking woman.

      ‘I’d say she was thirty-five, maybe forty, no more,’ said Romy, peeling off her plastic gloves. ‘She’s looked after herself – or been well looked after. She was what you men call well preserved.’

      ‘Was she American, do you think?’

      The question was addressed to the manager, who had shut his eyes for the moment as the bag was zipped up. Now he shrugged, spread his hands; the gesture was slightly effeminate. Pull your head in, Malone told himself, and your prejudices. He was not homophobic, but he came of a past generation that carried notions as dated as flares and sideburns. But then he had other prejudices: cricketers who patted each other on the bum (bonding, he was told they called it); the same cricketers who threw the ball high into the air when they took a catch (show-boating, he called it); footballers who hugged and kissed each other when a try or a goal was scored; mates who thought half a dozen beers was a blood bond (which made him un-Australian). He would get used to fluttery hands eventually.

      ‘Our reception clerk thought so,’ said the manager. ‘But so many these days try to sound American, don’t they? De-BREE for debris, stuff like that.’ His own accent was English and sounded genuine. Not gen-u-ine.

      ‘Anything in her handbag?’ Clements asked Norma Nickles.

      ‘Just the American Express card, her compact, a packet of condoms –’

      ‘Any used in the intercourse?’ asked Malone.

      Norma shook her head. ‘No.’

      ‘There’s semen in the vagina,’ said Romy.

      ‘Good. If we pick anyone up we can lecture him on the dangers of unsafe sex. He may not know what DNA can do to him. What else?’

      ‘Her watch, a Bulgari – like I said, this lady had money. A string of pearls – expensive, too.’

      ‘May I interrupt?’ said Romy. ‘We’re ready to take the body away.’

      ‘When will you do the p-m?’ asked Malone.

      ‘Not till tomorrow. I have four others lined up ahead of her, including the man they took out earlier. We’ll do them in turn.’ She looked at her husband: ‘No remarks about Teutonic thoroughness.’

      ‘Never entered my head,’ said Clements innocently.

      ‘You’re coming to dinner tomorrow night?’ she asked Malone.

      ‘We’ll be there,’ said Malone; then looked at the manager who had raised his eyebrows. ‘Life goes on, Deric. We’re not cold-blooded bastards.’

      ‘No. No, I guess not.’ But he didn’t look convinced.

      As the body was put on a stretcher to be taken away, Malone moved to the window and looked out. On the other side of the square the tall Italianate clock tower of the station reared like an unintended memorial above the dead in the old burying ground. Malone remembered reading somewhere that water from a creek that had run through the burial grounds had been used to make the best-tasting beer in the early days of the colony. Drinkers of it often finished up in the graves beside the creek, adding no advertisement for the beer. In the middle of the square, complementing none of the surrounding buildings, was a steel-and-glass construction that, for want of a better name, was called a bus shelter; those who stood under it said that the only thing it protected them from was the pigeon-shit of the birds that squatted on it. It looked as out of place as a glass condom on an altar, but that was the way the city was going. The dead in the burial grounds would, metaphorically, piss on it from a great height.

      Central Square was not Sydney’s most glittering scene and he wondered why a seemingly wealthy American woman would have come here to this hundred-dollar-a-night hotel when more expensive and luxurious hotels, with much better views, were available only ten-minute cab rides from here. Then he saw a man get off a bus lugging a heavy suitcase and he turned back to the manager.

      He waited while the body was taken away and Romy went out of the room, brushing her hand against Clements’ as she went. Then he said, ‘Where’s the lady’s luggage?’

      ‘There wasn’t any,’ said the manager.

      ‘You let people check in here without luggage?’

      Deric looked embarrassed; he moved his hands again. ‘Reception uses its discretion. My girl thought Mrs Paterson looked – well, okay. Not a hooker. But …’

      Malone waited, aware that everyone else in the room had paused.

      Deric said, ‘People check in here sometimes for meetings – they don’t want to meet in more conspicuous places –’

      ‘Inspector,’ said Shirer, ‘Norma mentioned what was in Mrs Paterson’s handbag. Expensive stuff, she said – the watch and the pearls. Yet she signed for a safe deposit box downstairs –’

      ‘Did you know that?’ Malone asked the manager.

      ‘No. They didn’t mention it down at the desk –’

      ‘We haven’t looked at it yet,’ said Shirer, ‘but why didn’t she put the watch and pearls in it? Or anyway, the pearls?’

      ‘What time did you come on duty, Deric?’

      ‘I got here at, I dunno, five-thirty, quarter to six. They called me as soon as they found Boris’ body –’

      ‘Boris?’

      ‘The cleaner,’ said Shirer. ‘Boris Jones.’

      ‘Boris Jones?’ Malone managed to remain expressionless. ‘Righto, Deric, let’s go down and have a look at what’s in the box. The key in her handbag, Norma?’

      Norma Nickles ferreted in the crocodile-skin handbag, held out a key. ‘That it?’

      ‘That’s it,’ said the manager and looked almost nervous as he took the key.

      Before he left the room Malone asked, ‘Any prints?’

      ‘We’re still dusting,’ said Norma. ‘The report will be on your desk this afternoon.’

      ‘Not mine,’ said Malone. ‘Russ’.’

      ‘Thanks,’ СКАЧАТЬ