Dilemma. Jon Cleary
in half an hour. Don’t worry about it. I’m not.’
Malone had faced confidence before, but he was impressed, though not believing, by Gibson’s show of it. ‘Inspector, would you have someone book me two seats on the seven o’clock plane?’
Gombrich chewed a lip, then nodded. ‘I’ll do that. I’ll bill your unit.’
‘Of course. Now may we use your interview room? There’s a recorder there?’
‘Yes, but no video. We don’t run to that on our budget.’
‘What happens to the tape when this turns out to be a farce?’ asked Gibson.
‘We sell it to Comedy Commercials.’ Malone was growing tired of Gibson; he wanted to nail him to the wall as Glaze in the shortest possible time. ‘You want to sit in with me, Inspector?’
‘No,’ said Gombrich, already in retreat but doing his best to hide it. ‘Constable Mungle will assist.’
Malone looked at Mungle, who nodded. ‘Glad to.’ Then he looked at Gibson and said, ‘Nothing personal, Roger.’
‘Of course not,’ said Gibson and gave him a wide smile, as if he were selling him a liquidambar. Or a low-mileage Holden Caprice driven only by an old lady.
The interview room was small; the crime waves in Collamundra were small. Gibson settled into a chair, looked around him. ‘It’s just like in The Bill, isn’t it? Not crummy, like the room in NYPD Blue.’
‘We’re not on TV, Ron—’
‘Roger.’
‘Except you were on TV last night,’ said Wally Mungle, setting up the tape recorder.
‘What have you got against me, Wally?’ Gibson was not aggressive; he genuinely wanted to know. ‘I’m not anti-Abo, you know that Darren, works for me, he’s part-Abo – or should I say half-indigenous?’
‘Lay off, Roger. I’ve got nothing against you personally – I’m just doing my job.’
Gibson considered that; then, salesman-like, said, ‘Make me a better offer.’
Then Roma Gibson arrived with Trevor Waring. The latter had changed since Malone had seen him last. He was in his early fifties and middle-age spread had wrapped itself round him; he was at least 15 kilos heavier, most of it round his middle. He had lost hair and volume of voice: Malone remembered a voice that had been middling loud. Now it was thin, as if middle-age spread was choking it in his throat.
‘Hullo, Scobie.’ He put out a plump hand. ‘A nice surprise.’
‘A surprise, Trevor, but it may not be nice. Would you mind waiting outside, Mrs Gibson? It’s pretty crowded—’
‘Yes, I would mind. I want to be here to hear whatever ridiculous things you are going to say to Roger.’
Malone hated being crowded; the room was far too small. ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Gibson—’
‘Get Inspector Gombrich, Wally,’ she said.
Mungle stood his ground. ‘I can’t do that. This is Inspector Malone’s case.’
She then looked at Waring, who shrugged. ‘That’s the way it is, Roma. I’ll take care of it. Roger will be out of here in no time.’
For a moment it seemed she would not budge; then she leaned towards Gibson and kissed him on the cheek. ‘I’ll be waiting, love.’
When the door closed behind her, Waring sat down, as if standing tired him, and looked up at Malone. ‘How serious is it, Scobie?’
‘Very.’ Gibson had got to his feet when his partner had come in; he was still standing. ‘Sit down, Mr Glaze—’
‘Gibson.’ He wasn’t yielding an inch or a name.
‘Have it your way. Trevor, this is what happened four years ago—’
He gave a quick summary, moving his gaze from one man to the other, watching their reactions. There was none from Gibson, but Waring a couple of times frowned, though he said nothing. Malone opened the office wallet and took out three large photos.
‘That’s your client, taken five or six years ago. Less weight, more hair—’
‘The reverse of me,’ said Waring, but it didn’t sound like a joke.
‘Now you mention it—’ Then Malone laid out the second photo. ‘This is Norma Glaze, taken about the same time – when they were happily married.’ He glanced at Gibson, but there was no reaction. ‘A good-looking woman. Don’t you think so?’ He swung the photo round, so that it was directly in front of Gibson. ‘You remember her, Ron?’
Gibson glanced at the photo, then lifted his gaze directly back at Malone. ‘How can I? I’ve never seen her before.’
Lying is part of salesmanship: Malone had been sold too many lies not to be cynical. Gibson, or Glaze, would sell the lie right down till the customer walked out of the yard.
‘Then maybe you remember this?’
It was a close-up of Norma Glaze in death. The bruise on her jaw, the fingermarks on her throat, dark smudges that made her only a distant twin of the woman in the other photo. Gibson continued to stare at the detectives, first at Mungle, then at Malone. It was a long beat before he turned his gaze downwards. His big hands were on the table and there was no mistaking the sudden tightening of the fingers. It was the only giveaway. When he lifted his head and looked back at Malone his face was composed, his voice steady. ‘Poor woman.’
‘Yes,’ said Malone.
‘Scobie—’ Waring shifted his bulk in his chair; he seemed to have trouble with his weight, as if it were new to him. ‘Those photos prove nothing.’
‘They will, Trev … Righto, let’s go back to the beginning. What was your history before you came to Collamundra, Roger? I’ll call you Roger for the time being, but don’t read too much into it.’
‘I won’t.’ Gibson leaned back in his chair; all at once he looked the most comfortable of all four men. ‘I was born in New Zealand, in Dunedin in the south. I went to England when I was twenty, came to Australia six years ago—’
‘How long were you in England?’
‘Nine, ten years.’
‘You don’t have a New Zealand accent or an English one. All that time before you came here and you have a dinky-di Aussie accent. What d’you reckon, Constable?’
‘Indigenous,’ said Mungle and for the first time all day gave a full-mouthed smile.
‘Are you an expert on accents, Scobie?’ said Waring.
‘Yes,’ lied Malone. ‘It’s a hobby I picked up from my wife Lisa. You remember her?’
‘Of course,’ said Waring and shifted again in his chair.
‘We’ll check with Dunedin, birth records, that sort of thing. You have a passport?’
Gibson was very still in his chair. ‘No. Someone stole it – I never bothered to apply for a new one.’
‘Never mind, the New Zealand passport office will have a record of it. We’ve used them before.’ Lying again. ‘What year did you first apply for it?’
‘I dunno. Around 1982, 83.’
He’s bluffing because he thinks I’m bluffing. He turned to Mungle. ‘Could you get me some fingerprint sheets, Wally?’
Mungle stood up, but Waring held up a restraining hand. ‘What do we need those for?’
‘We have prints of his from their house. In the kitchen, Roger, on the handle of the fridge door. On a Coke bottle and a glass. Was that before or after you’d killed