Autumn Maze (31 page)

“Sorry, sarge.” But she obviously wasn't. “You want the other prisoner brought up here?”

“Take her into the interviewing room.” He looked at Malone. “You know where it is, Inspector.
You
can start the tape?”

Malone nodded and led the way out of the charge-room. As they passed the woman and her child, Ophelia stopped. “Would you be offended if I gave you some money to go to a hotel? A nice place where you can have a comfortable night?”

The battered woman in her bloodstained dress looked up at the beautifully dressed older woman; the contrast, Malone thought, was cruel. Yet Ophelia looked genuinely concerned, she was not putting on a Mother Teresa act to impress anyone. The woman touched her own face. “I couldn't, not like this. Thanks, but.”

“What will you do?”

The woman shrugged helplessly, shook her head. “Go home, I suppose.”

Ophelia opened her handbag, took out some money; Malone couldn't see how much it was, but he caught a glimpse of a hundred-dollar note and a fifty. “Buy yourself a new dress. And something for your little girl.”

Then she followed the three men down the short hallway to the interviewing room. She caught the expression on Malone's face and she read his mind. “All right, so money may be insulting to her. But what else could one give her? Sympathy? That doesn't salve bruises, Inspector. A new dress may hide some of them. God, you men are brutes! No, not you three. Just men in general. Oh, is this her?”

She turned round as Kim Weetbix was brought into the small room. The young policewoman pushed the girl into a chair, then stood back by the closed door. The room was crowded, but Malone made no complaint; he wanted the Casements out of here as quickly as possible. Clements started up the video tape and Malone said, “Kim, I take it you've been warned anything you say et cetera . . .”

She looked up at him, her face too impassive to be even sullen; he wondered how a girl as good-looking as this one could have finished up a street-kid. “I've got nothing to say.”

“Do you recognize this gentleman?”

She flicked a glance at Casement, but said nothing.

Malone said, “Mr. Casement, do you recognize this girl?”

“
No,” said Casement calmly, not looking at the two detectives but directly at the girl. “The girl who attacked me had her face covered.”

“Darling!” Ophelia reared her head back in disbelief. “It has to be her!”

Casement was unmoved. “I don't recognize her.” Then he looked up at Malone, his gaze steady; he had, it seemed, abruptly regained his strength, had pushed back being old. “Sorry, Inspector.”

It is not easy for a Celt, when angry, to be impassive; but Malone was as Orientally blank-faced as Kim. “Thank you, Mr. Casement. That'll be all, then. Thank you for coming,”

Clements made a move to show the Casements out of the room, but Malone shook his head. The young policewoman opened the door and stood aside. It was impossible to catch any expression in Casement's eyes; a trick of light turned the panes of his glasses opaque. But there was fire in Ophelia's eyes, her whole body looked ready to erupt.

“That's all you have to say—thanks for coming? You drag us up here like—like—”

“Like ordinary citizens?” The tongue had slipped its leash again.

“The Minister will hear about this—I'll ring my brother-in-law as soon as we get home—”

“Darling.” Casement took his wife's arm, pushed her out the door. As they disappeared down the hallway, she still loudly complaining, those in the room could hear him saying, “Darling, let it lie—it'll be better—”

Malone looked at the young policewoman. “Christine, is it? Chris, don't take that as an example how to handle the public . . .”

“I thought you handled it perfectly, sir. I felt like kicking them both up the bum.”

“They're teaching you that at the Academy? Things never change.” Then he looked at Kim Weetbix. “Do you want us to kick you up the bum, Kim, or are you going to be sensible and tell us something?”

“Get fucked,” said Kim. “How's that?”

“It's a start.” Malone sat down, gestured for Clements to start up the video recorder again. “We're going to make a tape of this interview, Kim. We don't want to ask you anything about the theft
charge,
that's none of our concern. We just want some information on the briefcase you stole from Mr. Casement when you and your boyfriend attacked him.”

“You're wasting your time.” She was utterly relaxed; or looked it.

“Time costs nothing, Kim. We're public servants, it's only taxpayers like you who foot the bill. You pay tax?”

“You're kidding.” But she smiled, almost.

“Who'll bury you when the men who killed your boyfriend catch up with you? The taxpayers? Those fellers are looking for you, Kim. They're looking for the briefcase, too.”

“They've got—” She had become too relaxed; she bit her lip at her slip.

“They've got what? The briefcase?” She remained silent and Malone went on, “They took it after they'd killed Kelsey, is that it? But you must've opened it, looked to see what was inside? That's all we want to know, Kim. What was in the briefcase?”

Clements came in: “Kim, according to Mr. Casement, it was Kelsey who tried to burn him, not you.”

She was sharp enough to shake her head at that one: “He said he didn't recognize us.”

“No,” said Clements. “He said he didn't recognize
you
.”

Malone said, “He told us that Kelsey was the one who tried to burn him, not the girl. So we're not looking for you on that count.”

“How are your papers, Kim?” said Clements. “Are you an illegal? Would you like to go back to Vietnam or wherever you came from? We can arrange it, if that's what you want. Have you been in trouble here before? Tell us the truth, Kim. We can always look it up.”

“No, I've never been in trouble.” Only because she had been careful not to be caught; at least up till now. She gave him her honest look: “And I'm not an illegal.”

“Is Weetbix a Vietnamese name?”

“Only since the war in Vietnam.”

Malone grinned. “So you're a good citizen?”

Again
the half-smile. “Almost.”

“So tell us what was in the briefcase. Let's say it's a hypothetical case and you had a hypothetical peek inside it. You understand the word hypothetical?” She nodded. “What did you see, Kim?”

She pondered a while, her long fingers drumming noiselessly on the table in front of her. Then she looked up at him. “I can't get out of rolling the drunk, can I?”

“You'll be charged, Kim. But you may get off on a bond, as a first offender.” He nodded to Clements, who switched off the video recorder. “Tell us what was in the briefcase and we'll see what we can do to help you.”

“How?”

“The drunk got his money back, so maybe he can be talked into not laying any charges. The briefcase is more important, Kim.”

She stared at the two detectives, then at last she nodded. “Okay. We busted the locks on it and had a look inside. There was nothing worth taking, except a gold pen. Kel hung on to that. And there were some papers, business letters and—memorandises?”

“Memorandums. You remember anything from the letters or the memos?”

“There was a letter addressed to some company in Tokyo, Japan. I can't remember the name of the company, Something-or-Other Securities.”

“You're sure? In Tokyo?”

“Sure. The letter was marked Private and Confidential, I remember that. It was on a bank's notepaper.”

“Casement Trust Bank?”

She frowned. “Yeah, that was it. How'd you guess?”

“We're good at guessing. Can you remember what the letter and memos were about? Can you remember any names in them?”

She shook her head. “No, they didn't mean anything to me or Kel. All I remember was a figure, money, in one of the letters. Twenty-five million. Kel really went off his head about that. All we got outa
the
old guy was twenty dollars, two ten-dollar notes, not even a credit card, and here was a letter talking about twenty-five million.”

“What did it say?”

She shrugged. “I didn't take much notice. Money like that—can you get your mind around it?”

The two men smiled, shook their heads; Malone looked at the young policewoman. “You, Chris?”

“There's not that much money in the country, is there?”

“If there is, it's all debt . . . Righto, Kim. Is there anything else you can tell us?”

“No.” But there was. There were odd phrases in the bank's letter that floated loose in her mind, that, when she was calmer, she would put together in a pattern. She had no idea what the pattern would be worth, if anything, but you never knew. Never throw anything away, her mother had taught her, especially something you know about other people. Lily, her mother, had been not only a bar-girl but a blackmailer and a police informer. “No, that's all I know. Will you do what you can for me?”

“Sure,” Malone promised and meant it. “But I'll want to know where we can find you, Kim. We can't just let you disappear.”

She pondered that, disappointed, “I want to go back to Saigon.”

“Really?” He didn't believe her. “Why?”

“It—it'll be safer. And people don't call you names there, like slopehead and worse.”

“From what I hear, they'll call you other things. You're a half-and-half, Kim. Aussies aren't the only racists.”

“Then I'll go to Hong Kong. The rich men like Eurasians, the half-and-halfs.” She was not a romantic, she did not dream; but men, she had learned from her mother, liked to listen to pretty women. “I'll let you know where I am when I get to Hong Kong.”

Malone grinned, still not believing her. “You do that, Kim. In the meantime watch out for Kelsey's killers.”

III

Next morning Kim was taken down to Central Court, where, before she could be given a public defender, she was told there was no case against her. The drunk whose money she had attempted to steal did not put in an appearance; unbeknown to Kim and the police, his wife had caught up with him, thumped him, breaking his nose, and taken him and the money back to home and the kids. The case was dropped and Kim walked free.

She came out of the old Victorian courthouse, built like the temple of justice it aspired to be, and stood under one of the plane trees that fronted the building. A few leaves hung on the branches above her like yellow handkerchiefs; fallen leaves had been swept up into heaps ready to be collected. People stood about, swept into groups like the leaves, their faces autumnal with pessimism, as if they expected no joy when they were called into court. Kim looked for Inspector Malone or Sergeant Clements and was disappointed that there was no sign of them; they hadn't, despite their promise, appeared to help her out. A big young man lumbered up the steps from the street and almost ran into the courthouse; it was Detective Constable Andy Graham, but she had never seen him before and did not know that he was Malone's emissary. She stepped out from under the tree, suddenly feeling really
free
, and went down the steps into Liverpool Street.

As she came out of the gates the well-dressed young woman stepped forward. “Kim? Annie sent me to collect you.”

She was instantly suspicious. “Annie? Why would she send you? You're Filipino, right?” It was a wild guess. “What d'you want with me? Get away! I'll yell—”

“Don't do that,” warned Teresita Romero. “There's a car parked up the street with your friend Annie in it. She's with a friend of mine. If you don't behave, he's likely to hurt her. Let's go and join them, Kim. Be sensible and you'll be okay.”

Kim, afraid, certain she was halfway to being dead but also suddenly afraid for Annie, walked with the young woman up to the white Nissan parked at the kerb. As they approached a man leaned back from the front seat and opened the back door for them, giving Kim a welcoming smile. Teresita pushed
Kim
in, followed her and slammed the door shut.

“Let's go.”

The driver started up the car and eased it out into the traffic. Kim looked at the woman beside her.

“Where's Annie?”

“I'm an awful liar,” smiled Teresita. “She's probably at work at that crummy coffee place up the Cross.”

The driver looked over his shoulder at Kim. “Sorry about this.”

13

I

“I MISSED
her,” said Andy Graham. “I shouldn't have gone by car. We got held up in the traffic, there's a pile-up in Elizabeth Street, two cars and a bus. Sorry.”

Malone couldn't complain. Despite the State government's and the city council's much publicized efforts at traffic control, for every new rule announced a thousand more cars seemed to be spawned. The Harbour Tunnel had reduced traffic on the Harbour Bridge, only to spew out a gridlock in the inner city. Nobody was going to be denied the use of his car, or what was the point of getting into debt to pay for it? Armageddon would not be a battle but just one last huge traffic jam. Eternity, it seemed, would be history's biggest junkyard.

“Righto, Andy. Keep the ASM on her going, on the coach stations as well as the airports. I don't want her killed, that's all. We couldn't have held her, I just wanted to keep tabs on her. But if she's done a bunk . . .”

“Maybe she hasn't.” Andy Graham hadn't sat down; he never did, unless told to do so. Malone sometimes wondered if the big young detective had been born standing up, bouncing up and down between his mother's legs on his already ungainly big feet. “I checked if anyone had seen her come out of the court. One of the sheriff's men had. He'd come out for a smoke, he said, and saw her go down the steps to the street—he was looking after her, he said, because she was such a good sort. Some woman, another slopehead he thought, came up to her and said something. The last he saw of them they were walking up Liverpool Street. I must've passed her and didn't recognize her. I hadn't seen her before, you know,” he added defensively.