Dilemma. Jon Cleary

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СКАЧАТЬ said Malone as he and Mungle led Gibson towards the police car. ‘That where you live now? Lucky you.’

      It was a cheap shot, but he couldn’t help it. He saw Wally Mungle glance at him; even Gibson turned his head. He ignored them both, opened the rear door of the car.

      ‘Don’t put your hand on top of my head and push me in,’ said Gibson. ‘I’ve seen it on TV – that’s what you do to crims.’

      ‘After you, Ron,’ said Malone and stood back.

      He got in beside Gibson. As the car drove away he looked back at Amanda Hardstaff some fifty yards away; in her yellow dress she seemed to shimmer in the glare, a fading memory from the past. He would take Gibson, or Glaze, out of Collamundra this evening and hoped he would never come back.

       3

      ‘This was not my idea, Roger,’ said Inspector Gombrich.

      ‘I know that, Sam. It’ll all be over in half an hour. Don’t worry about it. I’m not.’

      Malone had faced confidence before, but he was impressed, though not believing, by Gibson’s show of it. ‘Inspector, would you have someone book me two seats on the seven o’clock plane?’

      Gombrich chewed a lip, then nodded. ‘I’ll do that. I’ll bill your unit.’

      ‘Of course. Now may we use your interview room? There’s a recorder there?’

      ‘Yes, but no video. We don’t run to that on our budget.’

      ‘What happens to the tape when this turns out to be a farce?’ asked Gibson.

      ‘We sell it to Comedy Commercials.’ Malone was growing tired of Gibson; he wanted to nail him to the wall as Glaze in the shortest possible time. ‘You want to sit in with me, Inspector?’

      ‘No,’ said Gombrich, already in retreat but doing his best to hide it. ‘Constable Mungle will assist.’

      Malone looked at Mungle, who nodded. ‘Glad to.’ Then he looked at Gibson and said, ‘Nothing personal, Roger.’

      ‘Of course not,’ said Gibson and gave him a wide smile, as if he were selling him a liquidambar. Or a low-mileage Holden Caprice driven only by an old lady.

      The interview room was small; the crime waves in Collamundra were small. Gibson settled into a chair, looked around him. ‘It’s just like in The Bill, isn’t it? Not crummy, like the room in NYPD Blue.’

      ‘We’re not on TV, Ron—’

      ‘Roger.’

      ‘Except you were on TV last night,’ said Wally Mungle, setting up the tape recorder.

      ‘What have you got against me, Wally?’ Gibson was not aggressive; he genuinely wanted to know. ‘I’m not anti-Abo, you know that Darren, works for me, he’s part-Abo – or should I say half-indigenous?’

      ‘Lay off, Roger. I’ve got nothing against you personally – I’m just doing my job.’

      Gibson considered that; then, salesman-like, said, ‘Make me a better offer.’

      Then Roma Gibson arrived with Trevor Waring. The latter had changed since Malone had seen him last. He was in his early fifties and middle-age spread had wrapped itself round him; he was at least 15 kilos heavier, most of it round his middle. He had lost hair and volume of voice: Malone remembered a voice that had been middling loud. Now it was thin, as if middle-age spread was choking it in his throat.

      ‘Hullo, Scobie.’ He put out a plump hand. ‘A nice surprise.’

      ‘A surprise, Trevor, but it may not be nice. Would you mind waiting outside, Mrs Gibson? It’s pretty crowded—’

      ‘Yes, I would mind. I want to be here to hear whatever ridiculous things you are going to say to Roger.’

      Malone hated being crowded; the room was far too small. ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Gibson—’

      ‘Get Inspector Gombrich, Wally,’ she said.

      Mungle stood his ground. ‘I can’t do that. This is Inspector Malone’s case.’

      She then looked at Waring, who shrugged. ‘That’s the way it is, Roma. I’ll take care of it. Roger will be out of here in no time.’

      For a moment it seemed she would not budge; then she leaned towards Gibson and kissed him on the cheek. ‘I’ll be waiting, love.’

      When the door closed behind her, Waring sat down, as if standing tired him, and looked up at Malone. ‘How serious is it, Scobie?’

      ‘Very.’ Gibson had got to his feet when his partner had come in; he was still standing. ‘Sit down, Mr Glaze—’

      ‘Gibson.’ He wasn’t yielding an inch or a name.

      ‘Have it your way. Trevor, this is what happened four years ago—’

      He gave a quick summary, moving his gaze from one man to the other, watching their reactions. There was none from Gibson, but Waring a couple of times frowned, though he said nothing. Malone opened the office wallet and took out three large photos.

      ‘That’s your client, taken five or six years ago. Less weight, more hair—’

      ‘The reverse of me,’ said Waring, but it didn’t sound like a joke.

      ‘Now you mention it—’ Then Malone laid out the second photo. ‘This is Norma Glaze, taken about the same time – when they were happily married.’ He glanced at Gibson, but there was no reaction. ‘A good-looking woman. Don’t you think so?’ He swung the photo round, so that it was directly in front of Gibson. ‘You remember her, Ron?’

      Gibson glanced at the photo, then lifted his gaze directly back at Malone. ‘How can I? I’ve never seen her before.’

      Lying is part of salesmanship: Malone had been sold too many lies not to be cynical. Gibson, or Glaze, would sell the lie right down till the customer walked out of the yard.

      ‘Then maybe you remember this?’

      It was a close-up of Norma Glaze in death. The bruise on her jaw, the fingermarks on her throat, dark smudges that made her only a distant twin of the woman in the other photo. Gibson continued to stare at the detectives, first at Mungle, then at Malone. It was a long beat before he turned his gaze downwards. His big hands were on the table and there was no mistaking the sudden tightening of the fingers. It was the only giveaway. When he lifted his head and looked back at Malone his face was composed, his voice steady. ‘Poor woman.’

      ‘Yes,’ said Malone.

      ‘Scobie—’ Waring shifted his bulk in his chair; he seemed to have trouble with his weight, as if it were new to him. ‘Those photos prove nothing.’

      ‘They will, Trev … Righto, let’s go back to the beginning. What was your history before you came to Collamundra, Roger? I’ll call you Roger for the time being, СКАЧАТЬ