The Easy Sin (30 page)

“I'll call him now, get him up here. Stuffed or not.”

“Be my guest,” said Malone and went to look for Greg Random.

He found him in the Incident Room with Clements and the senior officer of the strike force, Inspector Garry Peeples. “Caradoc Evans is here.”

“We're beaten, licked,” said Random with mock gravity. “Welsh intelligence and philosophy. Unbeatable.”

“Balls,” said Malone. “Are you pessimistic or patriotic?”

“Both. It's being Welsh.”

Garry Peeples, like Malone, was an ex-fast bowler: a breed bred for hard work. He was taller than either Malone or Random, had the build of a weight-lifter and the look of a man who wondered why he bothered about public safety. “You think this—Briskin?—family, you think they did the killing and the kidnapping?”

“Sure of it, Garry. Whether they killed the maid—” Malone shrugged. “But the kidnapping—
yes.”

“Who else could have done it?” asked Random. “His girlfriend, Miss Doolan? The
yakuza
?”

“No,” said Malone, committing himself. “The Briskins did it, the kidnapping. But it's not going to be easy to get Mrs. Magee or Mrs. Briskin to admit it. It floored me for a moment when I found out Mrs. Magee was a Briskin. But then things began to fall into place. But first, we'll have to see what sort of advice they take from Doc Evans.”

“Jesus,” said Garry Peeples, looking as frustrated as a bowler who had just had three catches dropped off his bowling, “I remember when I first started on the beat, all we had to deal with was a pub brawl or a break-and-enter and the occasional wife-bashing. Life's getting too complicated.”

“Keep working your way up the ladder,” said Chief Superintendent Random. “Life at the top has no complications. So long as you keep three copies and bless the Commissioner's name . . . Ah, here's Mr. Evans, as honest as daylight saving. How are things, Caradoc?”

“Couldn't be better, Gregory. You saw last week's news? We beat the English 14-10! That'll settle the nabobs of Twickenham back on their smug arses. We're slowly working towards the Disunited Kingdom . . . My client, Mr. Magee, is on his way.”

“So who'll you be representing?” asked Malone. “Him or his wife and mother-in-law?”

“He'll be surprised when he finds out he has a mother-in-law. They are often surprised when you know about them.”

The three married men nodded in agreement.

“In the meantime,” said Evans, “I'm a touch judge, on the sidelines.”

Malone looked at Peeples. “These bloody rugby types. I've got a son who's infected. Thank Christ the Welsh don't play much cricket—they'd be singing bloody hymns at the tea interval.”

“The way you Aussies are playing in India, you could do with some hymns,” said Evans, enjoying himself immensely.

It was the sort of chat that keeps tradespeople, no matter what their trade, afloat. Without the diversion of it they would drown in responsibility or sometimes the horror of their trade.

Caroline
Magee and Shirlee Briskin were kept apart. They were taken into separate rooms and given coffee and biscuits. Both women were composed, seemingly at ease. Clements looked in occasionally on each of them as they sat with policewomen and came back to Malone shaking his head.

“It's not gunna be easy. They come out of the same mold—an earthquake wouldn't budge them.”

Then Errol Magee arrived. He was accompanied by Kylie Doolan, hanging on to him like an anchor that was losing its grip. With them, as security, was a young male officer Malone recognized from the strike force. He realized that he had, for the moment, forgotten about the
yakuza
threat to Magee.

“What the hell's going on?” Magee looked as if he had just got out of bed; which he had. “What's Caroline doing here? Where is she?”

“I told you—” said Kylie.

“Shut up,” he said, and took his arm out of hers.

“Don't talk to me like that!”

“Mr. Magee,” said Malone, taking Magee's other arm; the last thing he wanted was a domestic to upset the scene, “let's go in here. No, Miss Doolan, not you—”

He led Magee into a room off the Incident Room, followed by Evans, Random and Peeples. Kylie let out a gasp, but didn't attempt to move as Peeples closed the door in her face.

Magee pushed back his hair, which was not in a ponytail. He was in jeans, what looked like a pyjama-top, a suede jacket and Reeboks. He was in casual wear, but he looked anything but casual. The skeins of nightmare were still around him.

“I can't believe Caroline is involved in all this. We didn't get on, I mean while we were married, but Christ—
kidnapping
me?”

“We'll leave your wife out of the picture for the moment,” said Random; it was hard to tell whether he was sympathetic towards Magee or not. “We'd like you to look at her mother, Mrs. Briskin—”

“In a line-up, you mean? I told you, the mother, all of them, they all had blue hoods on all the time. I never saw their faces—”

“
You will have to put her in a line-up if you want her identified,” said Evans.

Random looked at him. “Are you representing her now?”

“No, I'm giving you free legal advice.”

“Errol,” said Malone, “would you recognize her voice?”

Magee looked dubious. “I might. But let me get one thing straight—are you telling me Caroline was in on all this?”

Malone went out on a limb, a not unfamiliar perch: “We think she might have organized the whole thing. What she didn't organize was the murder of your maid Juanita. That's when it became serious.”

“It was bloody serious being kidnapped! Jesus—”

“Sorry. Yeah, sure it was. But—” Malone gave him a rundown on the Briskin family. “They fit your description. A mother, a daughter, two sons. It was probably the sons who grabbed you and on their way out of your apartment ran into Juanita. Whoever, whatever, Juanita's dead.”

Magee considered a moment, then nodded. “Yeah, you're right. I'm sorry about that—her, I mean.” He didn't sound very sincere nor concerned, but Malone made no comment. “I don't know Caroline's family. When we were together, she'd get letters from them, but she never showed them to me. Then we split up—”

“She ever mention her father?”

“Not that I recall. Tell you the truth, I wasn't really interested. I'm not a family man. My own folks are dead.” He spoke as if he didn't miss them.

“Righto, we'll have you listen to Mrs. Briskin's voice.” Malone looked at Evans. “That okay, touch judge? You're not going to put your flag up?”

Caradoc Evans grinned. “I'm no longer on the sidelines. I'm Mr. Magee's legal counsel. You want to try and identify Mrs. Briskin's voice?”

“I'll try,” said Magee, but, to Malone's ear, all at once sounded reluctant.

Malone went out of the room, found Clements having coffee with Caroline Magee. “You two
getting
on well together?”

“Like old friends,” said Caroline. “He's been telling me about his young daughter.”

“He's a real family man. I see you a moment, Russ?”

Clements followed him out into the corridor. “She's not a bad sort when you talk to her—”

“Russ, pull your head in, or I'll tell Romy and your young daughter. I want you to take Mrs. Briskin into a room, there's one off the Incident Room. Have a little chat with her. I want our mate Errol to identify her voice.”

“Will that stand up in court?”

“Probably not. But have you got any other suggestions how we start nailing her and her family? It'll be something to kick off with. Then we start leaning on her.”

“If she's like her daughter, it'll be like leaning up against a stone wall. Okay, I'll try. What'll I talk about?”

“Tell her about your busted investments with I-Saw. Compare them with the ransom she and the family didn't get.”

“You're a real bastard, you know that?”

“I know. I enjoy it now and again. Chat her up, then when I knock on the door, bring her out. I'll have Magee there. Don't stop, just walk her past him and we'll see what reaction we get.”

Shirlee Briskin didn't object when Clements came into the room where she was having coffee with a young policewoman: “Come with you, Sergeant? Of course. I was just telling Roma here how good it is you're getting more women into the police force. About time—”

Clements led her gently into the room off the Incident Room. “What did you think about the Magee kidnapping? You read about it? Heard it on the radio?”

“Terrible! I agreed with all those talkers on radio—what do they call ‘em?”

“Shock jocks.”

“Do they? I think that's a bit unkind. But what they said is true, nobody's safe any more, are they? Am I being interrogated—is that the word?”

“
We never use it, Mrs. Briskin. Only shock jocks do that.” Clements was as friendly as an insurance salesman. “No, we'll be letting you go soon. What did you think of the ransom they were asking? Five million!”

“I know. Everything's going up—”

“And that was without GST.”

She laughed, comfortable and at ease; or so it looked. “They tax everything, don't they? But it was no joke, was it? I mean, for him.”

Out in the Incident Room Malone had brought Magee close to the slightly open door, but out of line of sight. Magee appeared to be listening intently; then he shook his head. Malone stared at him:
you sure
? Magee shook his head again and Malone gave up. He knocked on the door, moved himself and Magee back to join Random, Peeples and Evans.

Clements brought Shirlee Briskin out of the inner room, walked her towards the door into the corridor, still chatting to her. She glanced at Magee and the other four men, but didn't pause. At the door she said to Clements, “Is that him?” Then she was out in the corridor and gone from sight.

Malone looked at Magee. “Recognize her? Her walk, her figure, anything about her?”

“No,” said Magee.

You bastard, you're lying
. He had been reading faces, eyes, body language for twenty-five years. But all he said was, “Righto, now we're taking you out to Hurstville, to the Briskin house. You might identify something there.”

“Is all this necessary?” said Evans. “My client has said he doesn't recognize the woman.”

“Doc, we're just eliminating all the possibilities.” He was keeping control of his temper. Magee, for reasons he couldn't yet fathom, had screwed him. “It's an inconvenience for Mr. Magee, but we are trying to solve a murder. The murder of someone who worked for him, who made his bed, served him breakfast . . .” He was piling it on, looking at Magee, not at Evans. “I'm sure you feel you owe her something, Mr. Magee.”

Magee hesitated, then nodded. “Of course. But first, I'll have to get rid—I'll have to tell Kylie to
go
back to the apartment. And what about my wife?”

It was the first time he had referred to Caroline as his wife. As if a relationship had been renewed, even if involuntarily.

“You have a couple of problems there,” said Malone, trying to sound sympathetic; he wanted to keep Magee on side. “Sergeant Clements will look after them. We'll need to keep Caroline here till we get back, but Miss Doolan can go.”

“That won't be easy,” said Magee and for a moment showed a spark of wry humour.

“Chief Superintendent,” said Malone, “will you mind Mr. Magee while Inspector Peeples and I look for Mrs. Briskin?”

“Certainly, Inspector,” said Random, deadpan.

Malone grinned at him, trying to get his own mood up. Then he and Peeples went out to tell Mrs. Briskin that they were taking her back home.

“What if she demands a search warrant?” asked Peeples.

“We're not looking for anything, just doing a recce. If she asks for a warrant, that'll look pretty suspicious, won't it?”

“All women are born suspect,” said Peeples, another born chauvinist.

Malone let that pass, went looking for Clements and Shirlee Briskin. He found them in the room where they were having another cup of coffee. Shirlee looked at home, as if she might move in and tidy up the housekeeping. But she demurred when Malone told her what he wanted to do:

“I'm not gunna have the place over-run by cops,” she said, putting down her cup, putting down her foot. “What'll the neighbours think?”

Malone grinned again, trying to keep it friendly. He didn't want to have to go through the chore of getting a warrant, even if that would only confirm his suspicions about the Briskin family. “The woman next door? We'll go in an unmarked car. There'll be another unmarked car—Chief Superintendent Random and Mr. Magee.”

“You're wasting your time,” she said. “And his.”

“
He doesn't mind.”

She considered for a moment; then: “What about Chantelle? My daughter?”

“Mrs. Magee?” He was having trouble marrying Chantelle and Caroline. “She'll stay here. Sergeant Clements will look after her.”

“Are you charging her with anything? It's ridiculous, like I told you, saying she kidnapped her own husband.”

“There's no charge so far, Mrs. Briskin.”

“So far?”

“A figure of speech, Mrs. Briskin. Can we go? Inspector Peeples and I, two inspectors from Hurstville council.” He grinned again, the friendly man from the council, the ratepayers' mate. “We'll handle Mrs. What'shername. No gossip, no scandal.”

She looked them up and down, then picked up her handbag. “Be friendly with my daughter, Sergeant.”

“Like her own father,” said Clements.

“Not like him, anything but,” said Shirlee and led the way out of the room.

As they were heading down towards the underground garage of Police Centre, Malone saw Paula Decker. He stopped, telling Peeples he would catch up with him in a moment, and pulled Paula aside. “What are you doing up here?”