Babylon South. Jon Cleary

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СКАЧАТЬ All the older men nodded: they had a common disrespect for politicians. Only Malone, who had never met one, kept his head still. ‘What’s your opinion on this, Bill?’

      Senior Detective-Sergeant Zanuch, of the NSW Police Special Branch, had been seconded to this case by one of the Assistant Commissioners. Ordinary voters who disappeared could be left to a lazy sergeant and a few junior constables in Missing Persons; a senior public servant, a knight and an ex-judge at that, had to be given better treatment. Zanuch, the best-dressed man in the room by far, shot his cuffs, a sartorial trick none of the others, especially Malone, would ever master. ‘Will our intelligence system suffer if we, h’m, don’t get him back?’

      The four ASIO men looked at each other, none of them wanting to be responsible for that sort of intelligence. At last the senior man from Melbourne said, ‘We haven’t even entertained that possibility.’

      Malone sensed that Zanuch was less than impressed by that answer; he got the feeling that the ASIO men, especially the two from Melbourne, resented having to call in outsiders. It was their job to find spies and now they couldn’t find even their own boss.

      Zanuch’s voice was suddenly a little sour: ‘I take it you’ve seen Lady Springfellow? Good. But I think Constable Malone and I will go over and have a word with her. We can’t rule out the possibility of personal problems.’

      ‘The Director-General?’ said one of the ex-military men, a happily married man whose wife knew when to stand to attention. ‘Ridiculous!’

      Malone wanted to ask why it should be ridiculous, but he was too junior and, anyhow, what did he know about life and marriage? At that time he was on a merry-go-round with three different girls, jumping on and off to run for his life before one of them could tempt him into a commitment. The two men from Melbourne, as if reading the question in his mind, glowered at him. The two university men from Sydney knew enough about life not to argue with the men from headquarters, especially ex-military types.

      ‘Do you vet each other’s personal relationships?’ said Zanuch.

      Again all four ASIO men looked at each other, then the senior man answered, ‘That’s classified.’

      ‘Of course,’ said Zanuch, but frowned when Malone made the mistake of smiling. ‘Well, we’ll go over and see what Lady Springfellow has to say.’

      ‘We’ll come with you,’ said the senior man from headquarters.

      ‘No,’ said Zanuch. ‘Our investigations are always classified.’

      He and Malone drove over to Mosman, with Malone at the wheel. ‘Do you know this part of the world, Constable?’

      Malone had never met Zanuch before today; but he had been warned of the senior man’s regard for rank. He was known to be ambitious and had used the heads of junior men as stepping stones on his way up. His one handicap, in the police force of those days, was that he was totally honest, a character fault that didn’t endear him to certain of his seniors.

      ‘No, Sarge, I come from the south side of the harbour. I’ve played cricket at Mosman Oval, but that’s all. I was born in Erskineville and so far I’ve only worked at Newtown and in the Bureau.’ Even in his own ears it all at once sounded as if he came from Central Africa or some other remote region.

      ‘You’ll notice the difference here in Mosman. They invented respectability — they think they have the copyright on it. The Springfellows more than any of them.’ Then he looked sideways at Malone. ‘If you’re going to work with me, Constable, could you smarten yourself up a little? Where did you get that bloody awful tie?’

      ‘My mother. She’s Irish, she thinks green goes with anything.’

      ‘That’s not just green, it’s bilious. I’m sure your mother is a wonderful old biddy, but she’s colour blind.’

      So was Malone, or almost; but he was not blind to snobbery. Zanuch was out to impress whoever lay ahead of them. As the unmarked police car turned into the short dead-end street, Zanuch looked out at the sign. ‘Spring-fellow Avenue. That’s something, to have your own street.’

      ‘My mum tells me there’s a Malone Street in Dublin.’

      Zanuch wasn’t impressed. He was scanning the imposing houses on either side of them. It was not a policeman’s look; it was that of a social climber. Anyone who lived hereabouts would be in his good books.

      ‘Do you come from this side, Sarge?’ Malone said innocently as they got out of the car.

      Zanuch gave him a look that should have reduced him to a cadet. ‘No,’ he said shortly and Malone wondered if he, too, came from Central Africa or its equivalent.

      The Springfellow house and grounds were the most imposing in the street. The housekeeper who opened the big front door was just as impressive. Starched and polished, she carried herself with all the confidence of someone who knew that, below her, all the voters, including policemen, ran down to the bottom of the heap.

      ‘I shall see if Lady Springfellow will see you.’ She went away as if to consult with the Queen of Australia.

      But Zanuch was still impressed. ‘You can now see how the other half lives, Constable. It may give you some ambition.’

      ‘On my pay?’ But he had the sense to grin as he said it and Zanuch, after a moment, found a smile that didn’t hurt him too much.

      The housekeeper came back and ushered them into the house. Malone, in those days, had little sense of surroundings. Erskineville, where he had grown up, with its tenement terraces and small factories, had never been a major subscription area for House and Garden. Now, as the starched Grenadier Guard took them towards the back of the house, he was aware only that this was a large place with large rooms where shadows and dark panelling seemed to dominate. But the young woman who came into the big drawing-room suggested all lightness and brightness, even though she was not smiling.

      ‘I’m Lady Springfellow,’ she said, then gestured at the slightly older woman of darker mood who had followed her into the room. ‘This is my husband’s sister, Miss Emma Springfellow.’

      Zanuch introduced himself and then, as an afterthought, Malone. He shot his cuffs and was all police department charm, something Malone had never experienced before. ‘… If you could just dig into your memory, Lady Springfellow, give us some hint that your husband may have let drop in the past week or two, something that was worrying him …’

      Venetia Springfellow shook her golden head. She was Venetia Magee to a million television viewers; but that was another territory, there she was another person. Malone had seen her occasionally on television, but he was not enthusiastic about daytime TV, unless it was a cricket telecast, and hers was a midday chat show. She was undeniably good-looking, but it seemed to him that she had looked better on TV. Still, with the simple candid curiosity of the young, he wondered what a good sort like her had seen in a man twenty-five years her senior.

      ‘Nothing, he told me nothing about ASIO business.’ She had a throaty voice that was not quite natural; the vowels had been worked on, were plummy ripe. ‘His only regret was that we were separated for five days each week, he with his job in Melbourne and I with mine in Sydney. But we were going to change that – we were going to live in Melbourne when I had my baby.’ For the first time Malone noticed the swelling under the well-cut silk suit with its long jacket.

      ‘You СКАЧАТЬ