The Easy Sin. Jon Cleary
‘Except his girlfriend. And his wife.’
‘He has a wife?’ Lisa looked up from her Hi-Bran.
‘What’s happened to the golden rule?’
‘Don’t beat about the bush. You made a mistake, mentioning a girlfriend and the wife in one breath.’
‘Never misses out on gossip,’ Malone told his son. ‘Righto, he has a wife no one suspected, least of all the girlfriend. She flew in yesterday from London. Mr Magee was expecting her, but forgot to tell the girlfriend.’
‘What’s she like?’ asked Lisa.
‘Who?’
‘Both of them.’
‘We’re breaking the golden rule,’ said Tom, grinning.
‘Shut up,’ said his mother. ‘What are they like?’
‘Good lookers, both of them.’ Then Malone took his time. A man should never rush into explaining other women to his wife. He would have to explain that to Tom at some later date. ‘They’re out of the same mould, I think. Both calculating, but the wife would have the edge. More experience.’
‘You must have spent some time sizing them up,’ said Lisa, like a wife.
‘Actually, I hardly looked at them. I made all that up.’ Then he looked at Tom: ‘What are the women like at the bank?’
‘Calculating,’ grinned Tom. ‘I’m still looking for a woman with some mystery to her, like you told me –’
‘He told you that?’ said Lisa.
‘You’re still a mystery to me,’ said Malone.
‘Glad to hear it. Hurry up with your breakfast. It’s wash day.’
Late last year she had given up her job as a public relations officer at Sydney’s Town Hall and since then worked three days a week as a volunteer with the Red Cross. Claire, their eldest, was now married with a baby son and Maureen was living with a girlfriend while she picked and chose her way through a battalion of boyfriends. Tom, devoted to his mother’s cooking, still lived at home, though there were nights when he didn’t come home and his parents asked no questions.
‘Find out what gossip you can about I-Saw,’ said Malone.
‘Am I on a retainer?’ Tom was fast becoming an economic rationalist, a bane of his father’s.
‘I’ll shout you a night out at Pizza Hut.’
‘Investment bankers don’t go to Pizza Hut.’
When Malone was leaving for the office Lisa followed him to the front door. ‘Any more on the promotion? You said nothing last night.’
‘It’s going through.’ He wasn’t enthusiastic about it. I got a hint I’ll be skipping a rank. How does Superintendent Malone strike you?’
‘I’ll get a new wardrobe.’
‘There’s a summer sale on at Best & Less.’
She kissed him tenderly. There are worse fates than a tight-fisted husband.
Malone drove into Strawberry Hills through an end-of-summer morning. The traffic was heavy, but road rage seemed to have been given a sedative. He was a careful driver and had never been a hurrier; he acknowledged the occasional but fading courtesy of other drivers and gave them his own. The day looked promising. He would turn the Juanita Marcos murder over to Russ Clements and relax behind his desk, mulling over the future.
He parked in the yard behind the building that housed the Homicide and Serial Offenders Unit and sat for a while in the car. In another month he would no longer be Inspector Malone, but Superintendent Malone. He would no longer be the co-ordinator of Homicide, but moved to a desk in Crime Agency at Police Central.
Strawberry Hills, named after the English estate of compulsive letter-writer Horace Walpole, though it had never looked English and had never grown strawberries, indeed had nothing to it but this large nondescript building in front of him, suddenly seemed like Home Sweet Home. In Homicide, whether here or in other locations – and the unit had been moved around like an unwanted bastard – he had spent most of his police life. It had not always been enjoyable; homicide officers were not sadists nor masochists. There had been times when he had wanted to turn away, sickened by what he had to investigate. But to balance that there had been the solving of the crimes, the bringing to justice those who had little or no regard for the lives of others. He hated murder and had never become casual about it. It was part of life and had to be accounted for.
As a superintendent in Crime Agency he would be at least one remove from it, maybe more.
He went up to the fourth floor, let himself in through the security door and was met by Russ Clements, who, he hoped, would succeed him. The big man, usually imperturbable, had something on his mind.
I see you, mate? Before the meeting?’
There was always a meeting each morning, to check on yesterday’s results, to assign new cases for today. ‘What’ve we got? Something serious?’
He led the way into his office and Clements followed him. The big man, instead of taking his usual relaxed place on the couch beneath the window, eased his bulk into the chair opposite
Malone’s desk. He looked uncomfortable, like a probationary constable who had made a wrong arrest.
There were two more homicides last night, one at Maroubra, the other at Chatswood. The locals don’t need us, they’ve got the suspects in custody. No, it’s something else.’
Malone waited. He had a sudden irritating feeling that Clements was going to tell him something personal he didn’t want to hear. That his marriage was breaking up?
‘The job down at the Quay,’ said Clements. The maid that was done in. Well, not her, exactly.’ He shifted in the chair.
Malone, studying him, this man with whom he had worked for twenty-two years, said, ‘What’s eating you? You got ants up your crack?’
‘No. Well, yes – in a way. The maid’s boss, the guy who’s disappeared, Errol Magee. We’ve got a problem.’
‘We?’ Still puzzled, he yet felt a certain relief that Clements’ problem was not a domestic one.
‘Well, me.’ He looked out at the bright day, then back at Malone. I invested in Magee’s company, I got in when it was floated.’
‘So?’
‘You’re not helping me, are you?’
‘I’m listening, but you’re taking a long time to get around to what’s worrying you.’
Clements looked out the window again. He was not a handsome man, but there was a certain strength to the set of his big face that, for the truly aware, was more reassuring than mere good looks. Right now, though, all the strength seemed to have drained out of him. He looked back at Malone. I invested sixty thousand dollars.’ Almost a year’s salary for a senior sergeant. ‘I’ve done the lot. The receivers are moving in on I-Saw, it’s gunna be announced today.’
Clements had always been a gambler, first on the horses, then, when he married, on the stock exchange. But he had never been a plunger. Or so Malone had always believed.
Malone shook his head. ‘Sixty thousand? You and Romy’ve got that much to spare?’
‘It’s not gunna bankrupt us. But no, we don’t have it to spare. Not for gambling – which, I guess, is what she calls it. I just got greedy. I thought things had settled down in the IT game, the mugs had been sorted out – you know what it was like a coupla years ago.’
‘Only what Tom told me. I was never into companies that weren’t going to show any profit for