Autumn Maze. Jon Cleary
‘Not yet.’ Random took a pipe from his jacket pocket and put it between his teeth. Malone, in all the years he had known Random, had never seen him light it. He had begun to suspect that the older man, the least actorish of men, used it as a prop. ‘The Minister is making noises.’
‘What sort of noises? Does he want us to call off the investigation?’
‘I’m not sure.’ Random sucked on his pipe. ‘There are waves coming down from above, from Bill Zanuch, even from the Commissioner, that I can’t fathom. The government’s got a majority of two, it’s had a few messy cock-ups the past couple of months, it doesn’t want its boat rocked again. If the Minister’s son was involved in something shonky, if the Minister knew of it—’
‘Do you think he did?’
Random shrugged, sucked on the pipe again. ‘Your guess is as good as mine.’
Malone and Clements looked at each other. They had been this route before, with a Labor government, with past and present Conservative coalition governments. In any democratic State, politics is always ready to interfere; that, Malone was convinced, was what democracy was about. Power had to be protected, to a political party it was as precious as motherhood. So long, that is, as the mothers voted the right way.
‘Greg,’ said Clements, ‘we can’t just let this lay. We’ve got another four unsolved murders out there, ones that have got nothing to do with the Sweden case.’ He nodded through the half-glass wall to the big room. ‘If we drop another one in the Too Hard basket, the media will be on us like a ton of bricks. They’re ready to pile the shit. There’s those four young coppers accused of stealing drugs, there’s the suspected cover-up by our two senior blokes—’ He bit his lip. ‘Nothing may come of those, we dunno. But I’d rather protect the service than take care of the Minister. Four Corners is just itching to make another TV documentary that makes us look fools. If the media starts querying why we’re back-pedalling on the Sweden case, we might as well pack up, take our superannuation and go fishing.’
Random looked at Malone, held up a finger. ‘My finger in the wind tells me you feel the same way?’
Malone nodded. ‘Let’s do it our way, Greg. If the boat has to be rocked, too bad.’ He sighed, leaned back in his chair, stretched his legs; he was not relaxing, just trying to ease the sudden tension that had taken hold of his limbs. ‘I’ve reached a point where I don’t care a stuff about politics. I think I might welcome being shifted out to Tibooburra.’
‘Don’t write it off as a possibility.’ Random stood up, put his pipe back in his pocket. ‘Okay, go ahead. But keep me informed all along the way, everything you come up with, including stuff you won’t put in the briefs. I’ll make the decisions, understand?’
‘You don’t think I want to make ’em, do you?’ Malone grinned, but there was stiffness in his facial muscles, too.
As soon as Random had gone, Malone tried some politics of his own. He rang Fred Falkender, AC, Crime. ‘Sir, I’d like to come over to Headquarters and talk to the Minister. I thought I’d better tell you first.’
‘Does Chief Super Random know?’
‘He’s told me to pursue the Sweden case my own way,’ Malone half-lied.
‘You mean you haven’t told him you’re coming over here? Scobie, you really are a pain in the arse.’ Falkender had worked his way up from the ranks; there wasn’t a trick he did not know. Still, he laughed. He was always laughing, but the unsuspecting had too often found it was just a smokescreen. The Assistant Commissioner was too experienced to believe that all was laughter in the human comedy. ‘Okay, come over. See me first, I’ll find out if the Minister wants to see you.’
When Malone reached Administration Headquarters several blocks away, Falkender was coming down the corridor from another of the offices occupied by the seven assistant commissioners. ‘I’ve just been talking to AC Zanuch.’
Malone looked warily at him. ‘Yes?’
‘Don’t worry, I’m running you, no one else.’ Falkender was built like a bowling ball and as hard; he had skittled more opponents and competitors than he had bothered to count. He presented a jovial face to the world, but he was as shrewd as any long-time politician and he knew more about the law than anyone else in the service. ‘You want to tell me why you want to see the Minister?’
He had led Malone into his office, but both men remained standing. Malone knew at once that there was no guarantee Falkender would allow him to see Derek Sweden. ‘We’ve dug up something on his son that doesn’t look too good.’ He went on to explain all the new details that had been added, or were about to be added, to the running sheet on the Sweden case. ‘The son wasn’t murdered by some break-and-enter stranger. He was murdered by someone he knew and for a reason. There’s also this corpse that was stolen from the morgue. Looks like he was killed by the same method, a needle or a scalpel or something in the back of the neck. There could be a connection.’
Falkender was usually an almost non-stop talker; but he had listened patiently while Malone gave him the facts. Now he folded his plump hands in front of him and rolled his thumbs. He was silent a moment, no joviality at all in his bright blue eyes. Then, ‘If that’s the way it is, you have to see the Minister,’ he said, abruptly taciturn for a change. ‘Okay, let’s go.’
They went up to the Minister’s office, a large suite that fitted the ministerial ego. Up till a few years ago, Police Ministers had been well removed from their department; when one of Sweden’s predecessors had insisted on moving into the building, he had been as welcome as one of the city’s top crims. The situation had settled down somewhat since then, but there was still a suspicion that, with their boss virtually sitting on top of them, the service could become politicized. Malone and Falkender walked into Sweden’s office prepared for the worst.
Sweden was a coat-off, shirtsleeves Minister; it was not a pose for media cameras, he was a genuine worker. He waved Falkender and Malone to chairs, offered them coffee, then sat back. I’m as busy as a girl when the Yank fleet’s in and I’m about as stuffed. I hope you have some good news, Inspector.’
Malone looked at Falkender, who nodded; he noted that the AC had not laughed or even smiled since they had met downstairs in the corridor. ‘Well, Minister, it’s like this—’ He went on to tell Sweden what he had told Falkender. ‘It’s not good news, I’m afraid.’
Sweden’s desk was the sort that Malone always thought of as being furnished by a woman. There was the gold desk set, the gold-embossed leather barrel for pencils, the gold-embossed leather writing pad, the blotting-roller, the address book, the diary; the desk looked like a Dunhill show-case, stacked with paraphernalia that few men ever bought for themselves. Sweden picked up a gold-plated letter-opener, a business stiletto.
‘You’re accusing my son of being some sort of criminal, is that what you’re saying?’
‘I’m not accusing him of anything so far.’ Malone’s tone was as sharp as Sweden’s; he couldn’t help it. He glanced at Falkender, expecting some sort of rebuke, but the big round face was impassive. ‘All I’m giving you, Minister, are facts that are real. I hope we can give you more when our men have come back from the bank I mentioned. You don’t know anything about Shahriver, do you?’
Sweden’s dark narrow eyes seemed to darken even further; then he put down the letter-opener and leaned forward. ‘Yes, I know about it, we’ve discussed it in Cabinet a couple of times. The Minister for Finance has his eye on it. That’s all I know about it. I certainly would never have suggested to my son that he do business with it. You still have to convince me that the bank statement in that name – Sexton? – that it’s actually a statement of my son’s account with the bank. I hope you’re not going to let something like this out to the media, Fred?’
Malone waited for Falkender to back down; but the AC, Crime, bent his knee to no one. ‘Inspector Malone is not out to make political capital of this.’
Sweden