Murder Song. Jon Cleary
threw down the running sheets. ‘Well, what have you got?’
‘Ballistics. They match, all three bullets are from the same rifle. Jason James says they’re .243s, probably fired from a Winchester, but maybe a Tikka or one of the other European guns. He knows his guns, that kid.’
‘Interesting,’ said Malone. ‘But where does that leave us? Three people bumped off in three different locations by the same hitman. Did they know each other?’
‘I haven’t a clue.’ It was a cliché no policeman would ever repeat at a press conference.
‘Who would want to shoot a construction worker, a desk cop and a second-rate singer?’ Malone turned to look at the second map on his wall, one of metropolitan Sydney. ‘Those locations are all ten or twelve kilometres apart – Parramatta is more than that from Clarence Street. Where did the construction bloke live?’
‘I’m not sure. Somewhere down on the Illawarra line. We didn’t handle that one, the guys from Chatswood did it. We know where Terry Sugar and Mardi Jack lived. Can we tie O’Brien into that? I mean, say he was meant to be the target and not the girl?’
Malone shook his head. ‘That connection would be even further out than with the girl. If he was meant to be the target, how come the killer shot the girl by mistake? If he’s a pro, that is.’
‘I was at the flat before you, Scobie. The lights were still on. When the cleaning lady phoned in, they told her not to touch anything. She didn’t. There were two table lamps on, that was all – both against the inside wall. Mardi Jack was in pants and her hair was cut short – against the light she could have been mistaken for a man.’
‘Even through a ’scope?’
‘We don’t know the circumstances, maybe the guy thought he was gunna be disturbed and had to hurry things. There’s a security patrol checks all those buildings on that side of Kent Street every two hours.’
‘The roof-tops, too?’
‘No-o,’ Clements admitted grudgingly. ‘Look, I know I’m trying to drag O’Brien into this. I’d like to think he was the intended target. That’ll be a bloody sight easier than trying to nail him as the guy who hired the hitman to hurt Mardi Jack.’
‘You’re looking for an easy way out.’
Clements nodded. ‘It’s the weather. I’m sick of getting a wet arse. I’d just like to sit here and have the case come in and drop itself in my lap.’
Then Malone’s phone rang and he picked it up. It was Chief Superintendent Danforth. ‘Can you pop into my office, Scobie? I’d like to see you.’
‘Right now, Harry?’
‘Now, Scobie. I’ve got Sergeant Chew here with me from Northern Region and Sergeant Ludke from Parramatta.’
Malone hung up, cursing softly. Harry Danforth was one of the old-style cops who believed that the operative word in the phrase police force was the last word. He had been noted for his stand-over tactics; he never went in for strategy, because he didn’t know what it meant. Twice there had been departmental charges of corruption against him, but Internal Affairs had never been able to prove anything. He had remained under suspicion and had been offered the opportunity to resign on full pension, but he had refused. He was within a year now of the retiring age of sixty-five and the Department had, in its own fit of resignation, solved the problem of Harry Danforth by promoting him to chief superintendent and moving him upwards out of harm’s and the public’s way. He had an office in Police Centre and the title of Crime Co-ordinator, a caption no one quite understood but which was thought, in view of his past history, an apt description.
‘Danforth wants to see me. He’s got Jack Chew and Hans Ludke with him.’
Clements raised his eyebrows. ‘Maybe we’re gunna draw a prize. Maybe they’ve got some connection.’
‘Now all we have to do is link it with Mardi Jack. While I’m gone, send someone down to one of the newspapers and have them dig out a photo of Brian Boru. Then have them go back to The Warehouse and go through all the tenants there, the permanent residents and the companies that own flats there, and show ’em O’Brien’s picture. If he’s used that flat at all, he’d have to have met someone going up and down in the lift.’
‘You don’t believe he didn’t know Mardi Jack?’
‘No. Do you?’
‘No,’ said Clements. ‘I’d never back a horse on intuition. But I’d lay money my intuition is right about him. He’s a born liar. I’m never wrong, tipping them.’
‘I’ll take you any day over forensic evidence,’ said Malone and went out of his office.
Chief Superintendent Harry Danforth was a big man, but most of his muscle now was fat. He had a pink, mottled face and cunning rather than shrewd eyes; he had a short-back-and-sides haircut and a voice foggy with years of free whiskies and cartons of purloined cigarettes. He was the last of his kind, out of place in the bright clean clinic that was Police Centre. He still had the suggestion about him of dark walls and fly-spattered lights and grime of old police stations.
‘You know Jack Chew and Hans Ludke?’
Malone had met Ludke on only one or two occasions; he was German-born but looked Latin: tall and dark with a bony handsome face and thick finger-waved hair that Malone thought had gone out with the advent of unisex salons. He had the reputation of being a good honest cop and a hard worker.
Jack Chew was an Australian-born Chinese, compactly built and with a face that, Malone was sure, had an acquired Oriental inscrutability. Russ Clements had once worked on a case with him and had come back with a story of Chew’s approach. The suspect, a part-Aboriginal, had taken one look at Chew, but the Chinese had got in first: ‘No Charlie Chan jokes or I’ll run you in for obscene language.’
‘What fucking obscene language?’
‘That’ll do for starters,’ Chew had said and grinned at Clements. ‘They fall for it every time.’
Malone said hullo to the two detectives and sat down. ‘What’s on, Chief?’
There were times when Danforth liked to be reminded, and have others reminded, of his rank. He was not unaware of his low standing with younger officers, but he was too lazy to attempt any strict discipline. Malone knew that so long as one touched the forelock occasionally, Danforth could be handled.
‘The Assistant Commissioner, Crime, has put me in charge of these three murders. Two of the victims were hit by the same rifle.’
‘So was the third,’ said Malone. ‘I just got the results from Ballistics.’
Chew and Ludke looked at each other, then all three officers looked at Danforth. He ran a ham of a hand over his head; it was a habit, as if he were trying to push his thoughts into some sort of working order. ‘Well, it looks like we’ve got something, doesn’t it?’
What? Malone wanted to ask.
‘Now we might be able to get somewhere.’ Danforth leaned forward on his desk. ‘You men will work independently on your own cases, okay? But you’ll send me copies of your running sheets each day and I’ll have ’em co-ordinated.’
‘What have you fellers got so far?’ Malone asked.
‘Not much,’ said Ludke and handed Malone a copy of his running sheets. ‘Everything’s in there, Terry Sugar had had no threats. Matter of fact, he was probably the most popular cop in the district. He had no connection, as far as we can trace, with any crims, drug pushers, scum like that. His family life was happy – his wife says she’d have known if he was carrying on with any other woman. There’s no motive so far, none that we can see.’
Malone glanced at the brief history of the life and death of Terence Ronald Sugar. Born 16 January 1945, two years in a factory after leaving high school, enlisted