Yesterday's Shadow (32 page)

“I'll think about it, Dad. What I'd rather do, after the baby arrives, is come out and visit you
in
—is it Canberra?” He had not much knowledge of Australia, though he had heard there were some pretty gung-ho conservationists out there. None of whom, of course, his father would have met.

Stephen was pleased with the idea; but: “When I've got everything settled out there,” he said. “Leave it till then.”

“Sure,” said Will and looked as if he understood. “What are the cops like out there?”

“Understanding,” he said, but knew that events never paid heed to understanding men.

III

He was wan and tired after the long plane trip. Or was it fear of what he might be coming back to? “Have you had a tough time, Inspector?”

Malone read the second meaning in the question
: Is it going to be tough for me?
“Pretty tough, sir. If Agent Himes and I could see you alone?”

“Why is that necessary?” Roger Bodine's tone was sharp. He seemed to have lost weight since Malone saw him last, but maybe that was because today, except for a white shirt and a sober blue tie, he was dressed all in black. Offering not a cheerful note for his boss.

“Because what I want to discuss with the Ambassador is confidential police business. I have to keep it that way till we charge someone with Mrs. Pavane's murder.” He didn't know how much Bodine knew about police and legal matters, but he wasn't going to enlighten him. “I'm not meaning to be rude, Mr. Bodine—”

“Perhaps I can stay,” said Deputy Chief of Mission Kortright. For some reason he had shaved off his moustache and now looked totally anonymous. “I'm a lawyer—I was a lawyer—I can give the Ambassador advice if it's wanted—”

“No,” said Pavane; he looked weary, but not exhausted enough to be pushed around. “Excuse us, gentlemen.”

They were in the Consul-General's room, Pavane sitting behind the big desk and the others, the two law officers, the two embassy men and Bradley Avery sitting in chairs in front of him. Avery stood up,
suddenly
looking huge and authoritative. He went to the door and opened it.

“We'll be in Miz Caporetto's office, sir. Gentlemen?”

Kortright and Bodine said nothing, rose without grace and went out. Avery nodded to the Ambassador, then went out, closing the door behind him.

“A good man,” said Pavane.

Malone didn't ask which one, but knew. The Ambassador was not at ease with his two senior embassy men, they were too close to home. “I'm afraid what we have to tell you is not good news, sir. But first—we've discovered who your wife was originally. Where she came from—”

“How did you do that?”

“Her brother is here in Sydney. He's the manager of the hotel where—where
it
happened. The family name was Niven. They grew up together, there were only two siblings, on a farm in Western Australia. Their parents were killed in a car accident, as she told you, only not in Oregon.”

“What's the brother like? Is he likely to want to make something of all this?”

“You mean, is he anti-American? I don't think so. He had a lot of time for his sister, but they went their separate ways. He was an actor in England for some years—” He hesitated, careful of barbed wire that still existed with some: “He's gay.”

Pavane showed no reaction. “You can trust him not to want to make something out of this? Sell a story to the media?”

“I think so, sir. I think he has too much respect for Trish, as he calls her.”

“Trish?” As if she were someone he had never met; then, almost as if talking to himself: “We'll always be thinking about two different women. What else have you come up with?”

“I'll let Mr. Himes start off on that—”

“Thanks,” said Himes drily and looked as if he was not going to enjoy his role. “We've checked and doublechecked the Stateside record of Mrs. Pavane. We've come up with nothing new on what we told you before you left to go home. She was never what she told you she was, except for the job she had in San Francisco.”

Pavane
looked at them both. “If I hadn't got this ambassadorship, I'd have never known who she was and probably lived happy ever after.”

Malone nodded, but guessed that Pavane was only talking against the wind. “Unfortunately, sir, the rest of what we've managed to dig up here is dirt.”

Pavane winced, held up a hand as if warding off a blow. But it was just to ask for time and the two law officers sat there and waited while he picked up his shield. Then he said, “Do I need to hear it all?”

It was Malone's turn to take time; then he said, “Unfortunately, I think so. We have a suspect—”

“In custody?”

“No, not at the moment. He's under surveillance. We know—well, we're
sure
he committed the murder, but a prime witness let us down. He's our man, though. He was—” But you didn't tell a man:
he was once your wife's lover
. “He had a relationship with your wife when she was Patricia Norval, when they worked together here in Sydney. He was the man who had dinner with her the night of the murder and went back to the hotel with her.”

“I'm glad you sent the others out of the room,” said Pavane, sitting very still behind the desk. “Go on. You mentioned dirt.”

Malone went on, reluctantly: “There was some sort of scam in the stockbrokers' offices where they worked—our man and three others. We don't know if Mrs. Pavane was involved in the scam, but she must've known of it. There was a scandal that was hushed up—it was at the time of the stock market crash out here in 1987. They were lucky to get away with it, but they did. The firm made up some of the missing money and then the office was wound up. The scam men and Mrs. Pavane went their own ways. Mrs. Pavane to San Francisco, evidently.”

“Jesus!” If he were not so tired, Pavane might have handled the situation better. He was a diplomat, but not a career one; not one of those who could fly halfway across the world, get off the plane, spend three days deciding the fate of a nation, then fly back to his home desk. But then those
inexhaustible
career people did not carry, as he did, deep personal problems in their baggage. He stared at the two men, then spread both hands helplessly: “Do we have to pursue all this?”

Malone left it to Himes to answer that, retreating behind national boundaries like a true patriot, running up another flag.

“Sir,” said Himes, “we won't know that till we get this guy into court on the murder charge. Nobody ever knows what defence lawyers are gonna haul out—”

“Who is this guy?”

Does he really want to know? Malone wondered. “He's Australian, but he's been overseas for the past fourteen years. He's a banker now in Canada, in Toronto. He's married, has kids, is what I think they call a pillar of the community. He's well related here—his brother-in-law is one of our senior barristers. When we get him into the dock, a lot of innocent people are going to collapse around him—”

Pavane looked at him hard: “A point I was going to make.”

Malone couldn't resist his exasperation; the tongue got away from him again: “What do you expect us to do, sir?”

Himes glanced sharply at him, but said nothing.

For a moment it looked as if Pavane was about to pull rank on Malone. But one really decent man recognizes another; it is the code that has held back the corruption of utter bastards. It is becoming a rare gesture in business and politics, and diplomacy wouldn't give it a passing glance. Pavane stared at Malone, then he surrendered and nodded.

“How much have you got on him?”

Why did you have to ask that?
“We're putting it together.”

“You mean you're still collecting evidence?”

“Yes.”

“What else do you mean, Inspector?” If he continued his career as a diplomat Pavane would be a success; he was learning to read evasion. “What have you got or not got?”

Malone looked at Himes, but the FBI man seemed to have retreated to the other side of the
room
without moving.
It's your deal, Scobie
, Himes told him silently and shut up shop.

He looked back at the Ambassador. “I'm sorry I have to tell you this, sir . . . We're getting a court order to have this bloke take a DNA test.”

“Why?”

Malone made himself look directly into the eyes of Pavane, kept his voice as gentle as possible: “He left semen in Mrs. Pavane.”

Pavane shut his eyes and his face seemed to flatten as if he had been physically hit. He sat like that for a long moment, then he opened his eyes, the pain stark in them. “Jesus, you're really pouring it on, aren't you?”

“Not with any pleasure, sir. I just wish there was another way—”

“There isn't?”

“No, sir. If this witness we had hadn't let us down, there might not have been any need for the DNA test—”

“Who's the witness?”

“A woman. We had the suspect in a line-up and we were certain the woman would finger him. She didn't.” Pavane looked as if he was about to ask a question and Malone hurried on: “There was nothing we could do about it. We had to let him go. But we've got him under surveillance and we'll grab him as soon as we get the DNA order.”

Pavane sat a while, staring at what lay ahead; then he looked up and nodded. “Get your man, Inspector. Bring him to justice for murdering my wife.”

“We'll do that. You've come back to stay?”

“Yes. The President and the Secretary of State left it to me. I decided I should finish the job—” Then he smiled, but it was an effort. “I'd barely started.”

Malone stood up and Himes followed him. They were both experienced men, but they felt awkward. “Good luck, sir. And Mr. Himes and I promise—we'll do our best to keep the dirt out of this case.”

“
Thank you, both of you.” Pavane got up, came round the desk and shook their hands. “But I'm not hopeful. The world is hungry for dirt. We had it in our country just a few years ago. There's something in the Bible—Tell it not in Gath, publish it not in the streets of Askelon. No, but put it on the internet.”

The two lawmen were at the door when Pavane said, “You said a prime witness let you down. Why?”

Malone had wanted to get out of the room before the question was asked; but he felt he owed Pavane some truth: “She held a grudge, sir.”

“Against who? The suspect?”

“No, sir. Against me.”

Pavane waited, but Malone wasn't going to tell him any more. “It's something personal?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then you understand how I feel?” There was a bitterness in his voice, but Malone couldn't be sure that it was directed at him.

Outside the room, in the outer office, Himes stopped and looked at Malone. He kept his voice low, aware of the secretary sitting at her desk some feet away. “I'll have to talk to Kortright and Bodine. How much do I tell 'em about Mrs. Jones?”

“Do me a favour,” said Malone. “Tell 'em no more than I told the Ambassador.”

Himes chewed a lip, then shrugged. “It's your case, Scobie.”

“I wish it weren't.”

IV

“Nice place,” said Julian Baker.

“Thank you,” said Bruce Farro, cautious as a householder greeting a repossession man. “Things have improved since we last met.”

“Have they?”

Farro
ignored that. “Why here and not my office? You said you had something to discuss. Business?”

“In a way.”

Baker didn't like the apartment at all. His tastes were more traditional, he liked furniture that was comfortable and colours that soothed. He had been influenced by Lucille, who thought taste had gone out the window when French Regency fashion died. But he had wanted to start on a pleasant note, though it was evident at once that Farro was not going to be hospitable. His suspicion was as eye-catching as the scarlet sweater he was wearing, one that didn't fit his complexion.

“I talked with Wayne Jones the other day, though I don't think he recognized me. May I sit down? This may take a little time.” He took off his overcoat, put the small parcel he carried on top of the folded coat as he laid it on a couch. He dropped into a chair and after a pause Farro sat down opposite him. “You're in need of money, Bruce.”

Out beyond the closed glass doors the harbour was marked only by shore lights and the moving electric gulls of ferry lights. The night was cold, but there was no wind. The room was even colder, despite the fact that the heating was turned on. Farro sat stiffly in his chair, an iceman.

He said nothing and Baker went on, “Let's be honest, Bruce, you're in deep shit, right?”

Farro said nothing.

“How much do you need to get you out of the shit, Bruce?”

At last, as if only now trusting his voice and his temper, Farro said, “It's none of your fucking business!”

“True.” Baker nodded in agreement, trying to be fair. “But I don't want to see an old mate go down the toilet.”

“We were never mates.” Farro now had his voice under control. “Cut out the bullshit, Jack. You haven't come here to talk about my business. Which I can tell you, is perfectly okay.”

“Now
that's
bullshit, Bruce. I asked Wayne about investing in Finger Software and he told me to lock up my money. Then I rang another guy, Giuseppe Vokes—remember him? I didn't tell him who I
was,
just said I was in from the States looking into investment opportunities for clients. Said I had ten million as an initial investment and to test their advice, what did they think of Finger? You'd be surprised, Bruce—or maybe you wouldn't. You come in here with an American accent—actually, I don't have an American accent, but they can't tell the difference. You talk American and say you have money to invest and they'll always talk to you—up to a point. Giuseppe said Finger—well, he was pretty rude, Bruce, about where Finger might have been. He said he'd tell me more if I came in to see him. I said I'd do that.”