Dragons at the Party. Jon Cleary
don’t want to take your President away from you. This is the biggest weekend of the year, maybe in Australia’s history, and I was looking forward to spending it with my wife and kids. So let’s co-operate, okay?’
Kenthurst nodded and looked around to see if anyone had overheard the exchange. But Malone did not tick a man off in front of his own men. He had his own diplomacy, of a sort.
Malone looked down at the sheet-covered body. The police photographer had taken his shots and the body was ready for disposal; Malone could hear the siren of the approaching ambulance. ‘Masutir – what was his first name?’
‘Mohammed. He was a Muslim, same as the President. He was a kind of second secretary, a pretty innocuous sort of guy as far as I can tell.’
‘Poor bugger.’ Malone looked around the grounds of the old house. All the lights were on, but there were big patches of black shadow under the trees. The grounds sloped down steeply to the waterfront and just below them a ferry, lights ablaze, drifted in towards the Kirribilli wharf. Once upon a time, before he and Lisa had started their family, they had lived just up the ridge from this house and he had caught that ferry to work. ‘Looks like the shot could have come from that block of flats.’
Kenthurst looked towards the block of flats just showing above the trees on the street side of the house. ‘It would have to’ve been from the top floor. I think the local boys are over there now.’
‘What was Timori doing out here?’
‘I gather he always liked to go for a walk after dinner – he wanted to go up the street, round the block, but we put the kybosh on that. He was famous for it back home in Palucca. No matter where he was, he always went for a walk after dinner. Just like President Truman used to, only he used to go for his walk before breakfast. Timori is a great admirer of Harry Truman, though I don’t know Truman would have liked that.’
It was Malone’s turn to blink, but he made no comment. Kenthurst might turn out to be a mine of inconsequential information; but Malone knew from experience how sometimes a nugget could be found amongst all the fools’ gold. ‘What happened when this feller went down? Did anyone hear the shot?’
‘No. Those galahs outside were chanting their usual stuff. Go home, Timori, all that crap.’
‘How has Timori been taking the demos?’
‘He just smiles – I guess he’s used to it. I gather the Paluccans were a bloody sight more vocal and violent than our galahs. He’d given up taking his walks the last couple of months in Bunda.’
‘What about Madame Timori – did she scream or faint or anything?’
‘Nothing. She just got angry, started swearing – she knows a lot of words besides merde. She’s a real tough cookie.’
Kenthurst was about the same age as Malone, forty-two, but Malone guessed they looked at different television programmes. Kenthurst, a smart dresser, looked as if he might be a fan of Miami Vice, where all the girls were tough cookies. But he had said ‘galahs’, so he wasn’t entirely Americanized. Malone was glad of that. He himself wasn’t anti-American, but he had grown tired of the standards for his own work being set by Hill Street Blues and Miami Vice. Police work, 99 per cent of the time, was plod, plod, plod and the music was slower than an undertaker’s jingle. The New South Wales Police Force had its critics, but it wasn’t the worst police force in the world, far from it.
‘Why are the Timoris here at Kirribilli House?’
‘It’s only temporary. The PM wanted them taken to Canberra, kept on the RAAF base there or even at Duntroon, so we could keep tight security on them. Madame Timori wouldn’t have a bar of that. Sydney or nothing, she told them. So they shoved them in here till they find a place for them. It’s been a bloody headache.’ He gestured at the sheet-covered corpse. ‘Maybe they’ll be glad to move now.’
‘Let’s go in and talk to them.’
They walked up the gravelled path to the steeply-gabled stone house. It had been built just over a hundred years ago by a rich merchant with the commercial-sounding name of Feez and in time it had been acquired by the Federal Government as a residence for visiting VIPs. Then a certain Prime Minister, chafing that such a charming house in such a beautiful situation right on Sydney Harbour should be wasted on visitors, some of them unwelcome, had commandeered it as his official Sydney residence. The present Prime Minister, who hated The Lodge, the main official residence in Canberra, spent as much time here as he could, being a Sydney man. Malone wondered how Phil Norval, the PM, felt about these unwelcome guests.
The Timoris were in the drawing-room. They were a handsome couple in the way that the ultra-rich often are; money had bought the extras to the looks they had been born with. Only when one looked closer did one see that Abdul Timori’s looks had begun to crumble; his bloodshot eyes looked half-asleep in the dark hammocks beneath them and his jowls had loosened. Delvina Timori, however, looked better than when Malone had last seen her close-up, ten or twelve years ago; she had never been strictly beautiful, but she had a dancer’s arrogance and grace and there was a sexuality to her that fogged-up most men’s view of her. Only their womenfolk looked at her cold-eyed.
‘Scobie Malone, isn’t it?’ she said in the husky voice that sounded phoney to women and like a siren’s song to their tone-deaf escorts. ‘I remember you! Darling, this is Mr Malone. He used to be in the Vice Squad when I was with the dance company. He thought all we dancers were part-time whores.’ She gave Malone a bright smile that said, You never proved it. ‘I hope you’ve changed your mind about dancers, Mr Malone. Especially since Australia is now so cultured.’
Outside, on the other side of the harbour, the fireworks had begun. The sky was an explosion of illumination. The city turned red, white and blue, the colours of the British, the founding fathers; someone had forgotten to light the green and gold rockets and local patriotism, as so often, remained in the dark. The citizens were still getting used to the idea that their nation was two hundred years old this week, not sure whether it was a good or a bad thing.
The ambulance had just come in the gates and in a moment or two Mohammed Masutir, the dead man, would be lifted into it and carted away to the morgue; but as far as Malone could see, Madame Timori had already forgotten him, had put his murder out of her mind.
‘I’d like to ask some questions, Mr President.’
‘The President is too upset at the moment to answer questions,’ said the President’s wife and, belatedly, made her own effort to look upset. She dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief; Malone noticed it came away unmarked by any of the thick mascara she wore. ‘Poor Mr Masutir.’
‘Yes.’ Malone noticed that she, notorious for her jewels, wore none tonight. She was crying poor mouth, silently. But there were the emeralds that had been taken from Masutir’s pocket. He said bluntly, ‘The bullet was meant for the President – we can be pretty sure of that. Do you know of any organized opposition group here in Australia that would be likely to try and kill you, sir?’
‘Start asking that trash in the street outside –’
Timori raised a tired hand, silencing his wife. He took a sip of Scotch from the glass in his other hand; he was one of those Muslims, Malone guessed, who bent his religion to his own tastes. Malone, a Catholic, knew the feeling.
‘Mr Malone, I have enemies everywhere. Tell me a ruler who does not. The President of the United States, your Prime Minister –’
‘I don’t think Philip Norval thinks of himself as a ruler, darling,’ said Madame Timori. ‘Does he rule you, Mr Malone?’
Malone gave her a smile and looked at Kenthurst. ‘Sergeant Kenthurst could answer that better than I can. He’s from Canberra, where everyone rules. Yes, Sergeant?’
Clements had knocked on the door and put his tousled head into the room. ‘Can I see you a moment, Inspector?’
Malone