Autumn Maze (32 page)

Malone threw down his pen; he had been making notes before feeding yesterday's report into
the
computer. “She could've gone off with anyone. One of the killers, a friend, anyone . . . Oh, hullo, Mr. Junor.”

Clements had appeared behind Andy Graham, escorting Harold Junor from Shahriver International Credit Bank. Graham excused himself and Malone waved Junor to a chair. “Thanks for coming in.”

“I had very little choice.” Junor looked at Clements, who had seated himself at the corner of Malone's desk; he did not seem to resent the big detective, seemed more resigned. “I've been left holding the bag, as they say.”

“Mr. Palady couldn't come?”

“Mr. Palady left this morning, our head office recalled him last night.”

“That was a bit sudden, wasn't it? As I remember it, your head office is in Abadan. Not a healthy place to be recalled to right now, is it?”

“Well, actually, no. He's gone to Hong Kong.”

“To look into this transfer of twenty-five million dollars stolen from Casement Trust?”

Though Junor had spent a good deal of his youth in the front row of a rugby scrum, not an intellectual haunt but a place where your opponents, when not trying to screw your genitals off, tried to mash your brains, he had not lost a talent for quick thinking. He was not fazed by Malone's question; he caught the ball on the full: “We had nothing to do with the theft, you know. We were merely the conduit, which is what banks are, mostly. I'm surprised you know about it. Casement's have kept it pretty quiet.”

Malone let that pass. “Are you going to return the money to them?”

“That's why Mr. Palady has gone to Hong Kong.”

“Casement's are under the impression that you'd like to hang on to it.”

Junor flushed at that, as if he had been uppercut in the scrum. “I don't know where they got that impression. Mr. Palady and I have talked about it, we've done our best to advise Hong Kong to play it straight and return the money as soon as possible. Head office, I gather, thinks the same way as we do.”

“Has Hong Kong got some sort of autonomy? Is that how your branches work?”

Junor
glanced from one detective to the other, grated his teeth together. He was not a born banker, but so few are; the talent has to be bred through generations. He had been recruited because, as a sporting hero in England, he had presented an image of bluff honesty; honesty, even bluff, always looks good in the doorway of any bank, especially one as questionable as Shahriver. He had learned to skirt the truth, if not to be exactly untruthful, but even reputable banks do that; truth is not only the first casualty of war but, too frequently, also of finance. He wanted to lie, but all at once saw the profit in truth.

“What I tell you is just between us?”

“You have no idea how many times we're asked that, Mr. Junor. But, righto, go ahead. It's off the record.”

“Well—” He sat back on his chair, took a deep breath. “Some of our branches have local equity.”

“Here in Sydney?”

“No, we're totally owned by head office. But Hong Kong—” He paused as if wondering if he was pursuing the right course. But he had been left holding the bag and the bag was proving to be heavy. Another deep breath: “Hong Kong doesn't really bear looking into. Shahriver owns only a third. The other two-thirds are owned by Chinese and Japanese interests.”

“Triads and
yakuza
?”

Caution fell on his face like a visor, as if he had abruptly realized he might be talking dangerously; he frowned, peering at Malone and Clements suspiciously. “Well, no, I didn't say that. Do you mean you know something?”

Malone went off at an angle: “When you were last in here, Mr. Junor, you told us that Rob Sweden had never transferred any money overseas, that he was a pretty small depositor by your standards. But he was the feller who transferred the twenty-five million.”

“We didn't know that, then. The money didn't pass through us, it went direct to Hong Kong and his name wouldn't have been on the transfer. We only learned of it two days ago, when Casement's started leaning on us out here.”

“
We know the money's gone to one of Mr. Kornsey's companies. Has Mrs. Kornsey been in touch with you?”

“Well, yes. Not her exactly—her solicitor. She's claiming everything in his name in our accounts.”

“Including the twenty-five million?”

“I don't think she knows of that.”

“Are you going to tell her?”

Junor looked surprised at the question. “Do you want me to?”

“I don't really care,” said Malone. “I care when someone is done out of a thousand bucks or ten thousand, especially when it means something to them. But twenty-five million?” He shook his head. “That's not money, Mr. Junor, not the way I understand it. That's just figures.”

There was a sudden silence, broken only by voices in the outer room and the ringing of a phone. Junor looked from one man to the other. He looked less flushed now, less worried. “So is there anything more?”

“I don't think so, unless Mr. Palady comes back with the money.”

“Or,” said Clements, who had been taking the occasional note, “unless someone from here in Sydney starts applying pressure on you.”

Junor frowned. “Such as?”

“Oh, half a dozen people. Casement, Mrs. Kornsey, your other clients Belgarda and Tajiri, Rob Sweden's father . . . We've got enough candidates lined up. If they do call on you, Mr. Junor, let us know. We don't want to be called in on your homicide. Come on, I'll show you out.”

“Thanks for coming,” said Malone.

Junor, on his feet, squeezed out a wry smile. “You've made my day, old chap.”

When Clements came back, Malone said, “I think we should pay Mrs. Kornsey another visit. She's shoving her neck out too far too soon.”

They drove out to Lugarno through a crisp day, the rain gone, the air positively shining under
the
slight wind coming up from the south-west. This autumn was proving variable, almost mocking.

The silver Mercedes was standing in the driveway and as soon as he saw it Malone had one of those moments when one's forgetfulness, incompetence, stupidity, call it what you will, hits one right between the eyes. “Bugger!”

Clements drew the unmarked police car into the kerb. “What's bitten you now?”

“When Kornsey went missing, did anyone ask Mrs. Kornsey how he left home? Why didn't he go wherever he was going in that Merc, or in his wife's car?”

Clements shrugged. “I can't tell you. There may have been something about it in the Missing Persons report, but I dunno.
You
were the one who talked to her.”

Malone, getting out of the car, looked back over his shoulder. “Are you accusing me of being slipshod?”

“Looks like it.” Clements got out, looked at Malone across the roof of the car. He could be irritatingly urbane at times, even though it was just a front. “It happens to all of us.”

They walked up the path to the front door. All the blooms had fallen from the tibouchina tree and had been swept up into a tapering heap that made them look like one huge bloom. The Welcome mat had disappeared from the front step; it had been replaced by a new coir mat with no message at all on it.

Mrs. Kornsey came to the door, peered short-sightedly at them through the screen of the security door. Then she put on the blue-framed glasses. “Oh it's you!” Her voice was like the mat on which Malone stood, blank of welcome. “Not more bad news, I hope?”

“No. May we come in?”

She seemed to remember her manners; all at once she was flustered. “Of course! What's the matter with me?” She opened the security door, ushered them into the house, led them through to the sun-room. “I've been—what's the word?—inundated with visitors since . . . A death brings you together, doesn't it?” She didn't say whom it had brought together. “Would you like some coffee? Come into the kitchen, I feel better there. It's the only room in the house where I can keep myself busy. I've made so
much
bloody jam, biscuits . . .”

Malone and Clements settled themselves on stools at the breakfast bar. At one end of the bar there were at least two dozen jars of marmalade, all of them topped with fancy cloth covers. Mrs. Kornsey busied herself putting on a percolator and setting out cups. She seemed thinner than Malone remembered her, but her hair was newly done, her sweater and skirt were more than just around-the-house gear and she was wearing costume jewelry, earrings and a bracelet. She would hold herself together from the outside in.

“Have you had any calls, Mrs. Bassano?”

She gave Malone a chiding look. “Mrs.
Kornsey
.”

“You know what I mean. From the man who called you, said he was sorry about what happened to Vince.”

“Terry,” she corrected automatically; it was as if she were protecting her own identity. “No, nobody's called. Why would they?”

“We understand you're enquiring into your husband's estate?”

“Bikkies? They're an American recipe, I make „em myself.” She put a plate of coconut biscuits in front of them. “Have you been stickybeaking into my affairs? You've got a hide!”

“We learned of it by accident. We don't like stickybeaking, we both
hate
it, in fact, but too often we have to do it. We only find killers by—well, stickybeaking. Did anyone suggest you try to trace Terry's estate?”

She looked at both men over her coffee cup, the hard look of a woman who had been hard done by by men. “Are you trying to make trouble for me?”

“We're here to help you,” said Clements. “Nice cookies. I have another?”

“Help yourself. How do you mean—help me?”

“We still haven't found the killers,” said Malone. “We don't want them coming here, paying you a visit. Has your solicitor told you how much is in the estate?”

“Not exactly, he's still trying to add it all up. He's found another bank that Terry had money in, Shahriver International.”

“
What's your solicitor's name?”

“Fairbanks, Douglas Fairbanks.”

“Senior or Junior?” Clements, choking on a biscuit, barely got out the question.

She smiled, the first time since they had entered the house. “I know, it sounds like a joke, but it's his real name. He's just not—dashing? He's as dull as dishwater. He was Terry's solicitor, though I didn't know it till he got in touch with me. His offices are up in Hurstville, next door to the Treasury bank. The only bank I thought Terry had,” she added and for a moment there was a sour, almost spiteful note in her voice. “More coffee?”

“Terry never discussed his affairs with you at all? Gave you a hint of where his money was?”

“Never. I suppose I was stupid not to ask, but I just—well, I just trusted him, the way you do with someone you love. Or do only women do that?” But she didn't wait for either of the men to answer and she went on, “He used to get the
Financial Review
every morning, but he said it was just a hobby with him, following the stock exchange.”

“He never mentioned the futures exchange?” said Clements, on his third biscuit.

She frowned. “Funny you should say that. Only a coupla weeks ago he said something like, There's a future in futures. I thought it was just one of those, you know, smarty remarks you men make to dumb women.”

“You're not dumb, Mrs. Kornsey.” Malone got up and looked out through the bars that protected the wide kitchen window. “I notice that every window I've seen in the house has bars on it. Inside there, there's a sliding security grille across the sun-room's doors. Did Terry ever explain to you why all that security was necessary?”

“He was paranoid about people breaking in. Not for himself, he said, but for me. Whenever someone broke into a house and raped a woman or killed her, he'd throw the newspaper at me and say, See?”

“When were the bars put on, and the grille?”

“I dunno. Three months ago, maybe more.”

“
Up till then he hadn't been worried?”

“Well, no. But the last twelve months there's been a lot of rape and murder of housewives.
You'd
know that.”

Malone nodded, still looking out the window. “Your land runs right down to the river?”

“Yes, we have a jetty down there and a small runabout. Terry'd sometimes go out fishing.”

Some trees fringed the rear of the garden beyond the pool. Someone could come up from the river without being seen from the house. “Are you still living here alone? No friend or relative has come to stay with you?”

“My niece wanted to, but I said no. I'm all right, aren't I? I mean I'm safe enough, right?” She took off her glasses. “I am, aren't I?”

“Mrs. Kornsey,” he said gently, “I think it'd be an idea if you went and stayed with someone. Just till this is over, till we get Terry's killer. It's a precaution, that's all.”

She thought about it, then nodded. “Okay, I'll go to my sister's. In the morning.”

“Why not tonight? Now?”

“She talked to me this morning, she called me. Her and her husband have had a donnybrook, they aren't speaking—it gets a bit tense over there sometimes. I don't wanna walk into her house with things like that between „em. I'll ring and ask if I can come tomorrow and that'll give „em time to patch things up.”

Other people, other wars: they went on all the time. Malone nodded. “Righto. In the meantime get your niece over here to stay the night.”

She lifted her head to peer up at him. “Jesus, you sound just like Terry! Is someone really gunna try and hurt me? For what? For just being married to him?”

“At the moment, Mrs. Kornsey, we don't know why they killed him. We don't think it was the Mafia, after all. It was someone else, we're not sure who. Until we find out, Sergeant Clements and I would feel better if we knew you were safe. We can get you police protection—”