Autumn Maze Read online

  AUTUMN MAZE

  The Scobie Malone Series

  Jon Cleary

  TO LARRY HUGHES, A DECKCHAIR CHUM FROM THE TITANIC

  Copyright © 1995 by Jon Cleary

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission in writing from the publisher.

  First ebook edition 2013 by AudioGO. All Rights Reserved.

  Trade ISBN 978-1-62064-803-2

  Library ISBN 978-1-62460-124-8

  Cover photo © TK/iStock.com.

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  MORE JON CLEARY EBOOKS

  AUTUMN MAZE

  1

  I

  THE HEADLINE next day said, DEATH BY DEFENESTRATION. It was written by a veteran sub-editor who had cut his teeth on alliteration, an old tabloid habit. Strictly speaking, however, Robert Sweden did not die by defenestration, a custom made popular by Italians in the early 17th century: though there was an open window nearby, he was tossed off a balcony. Whatever the exit, the effect would have been the same. A fall from twenty storeys up, though the quickest, is not the best way of reaching the ground.

  Rob Sweden was charming, seemingly generous and gregarious; on the surface he had everything that was needed to hide the fact that, underneath, he was an unmitigated jerk, a sonofabitch and a scoundrel. Only a few people, however, knew this about him: including, presumably, the person who killed him.

  His watch, an expensive item that gave the date as well as the hour and was guaranteed to function at forty fathoms, a comfort to drowning swimmers still concerned about punctuality, was smashed to smithereens when he landed. His time of arrival, 9.27 p.m., was given to the police by a passing taxi driver cruising for a fare, though not from above.

  II

  At 1.05 a.m. that same night the duty mortuary assistant at the City Morgue was in the body storage room, checking the Completed Bodies list for the past twenty-four hours. Normally he did the check around 11 p.m., but with the arrival of Robert Sweden’s body and another two bodies, he had been busy and two hours had passed before the police had done their paperwork and departed.

  Frank Minto was a cheerful man in his late twenties, a half-blood Maori who spent his Saturday afternoons on the rugby field trying to add to the week’s roster of corpses. He had arrived in Sydney two years before and soon found work at the morgue; as he said, it was just like Sunday in Christchurch. Working alone at night he joked with his silent audience and would have been insulted if anyone had suggested his humour was macabre. He would have explained that the dead, rather than being offended by his jokes, laughed silently, knowing that their worries, unlike those of the rest of us, were over and done with. He was a fatalist, though he would be surprised when death came to him.

  He was joking with a middle-aged corpse, asking if it was comfortable, as he examined it. The corpse had been brought in just after Sweden’s body had arrived and he had made only a perfunctory examination of it. It was not his job to do a detailed report, but since he had started work at the morgue he had begun to dream of becoming a pathologist, of getting some professional standing. He was scribbling a note on the tiny wound he had found at the base of the dead man’s skull, when he heard the buzzer that told him there was someone at the big door to the morgue’s garage and loading dock.

  “I’ll be back, Jack. Don’t go away.”

  Whistling a Billy Ray Cyrus tune, he left the body storage room, closing the heavy door to keep in the chilled air, and went out to the big loading dock. It was empty except for his own battered Toyota. Through the grille of the wide, shuttered door he could see the dark panel van outside. He could also see the dim shape of a man standing by the recently installed intercom.

  “We have a body. A woman from a car accident.” The man had an accent, but that was not unusual these days. Aussies told him even New Zealanders had an accent, an insult if ever there was one.

  “Nobody told me to expect it.”

  “The police were supposed to tell you we were coming. Anyhow, here she is. Let us in, please.”

  Strapped for money by a succession of State governments that, unlike certain electorates overseas, could see no votes in the dead, the morgue’s security had for a long time been a staff joke. Only two months ago three men had walked in, as into an all-night delicatessen, and, after showing him a gun, had asked to see a particular body which had been brought in earlier in the evening. Satisfying themselves that the two bullets in the man’s head had indeed killed him, they had thanked Frank, given him twenty dollars, and departed. It turned out later that the dead man had been the victim of a gangland shooting and the three men were just checking the job had been done properly, conducting due diligence before they paid off the hit man.

  “Okay, bring her in. Are the cops on their way?” He pressed the switch that opened the big door.

  “We thought they’d be here by now.”

  Frank Minto went back up onto the loading dock and through to the receiving room where an empty stainless-steel trolley was always kept in readiness. He dropped his clipboard on the trolley, then wheeled the trolley out on to the dock. The panel van had been driven in to the foot of the dock and three men stood beside it, all of them in grey dustcoats, all of them wearing black hoods with eyeholes in them.

  The shortest of the three men came up on to the dock, took a gun with a silencer attached from under his dustcoat, said, “Sorry about this,” and shot Frank Minto twice in the chest.

  “Jesus!” said Frank Minto, though he wasn’t a Christian; and died.

  The other two men clambered up on to the dock and helped the man with the gun lift Frank Minto on to the trolley. Then they wheeled the trolley back into the receiving room.

  The killer unscrewed the silencer and put it and the gun back into the pocket of his dustcoat, doing it unhurriedly and with a tradesman’s skill. Then he neatly arranged the trolley beneath the camera fitted to the ceiling in the centre of the room. “They video all the bodies here before they put them in the body storage room.”

  “You’re not gunna fucking video him, are you?” Both of the other men, taller and heavier than the man with the gun, were visibly on edge, even though they still wore their hoods.

  “Of course not. But I think he’d like to be waiting in the proper place for his colleagues in the morning, don’t you?” He lifted Frank Minto’s feet and picked up the clipboard holding the Completed Bodies list. He ran a slim brown finger down the columns. “Here he is.”

  The entry showed: 7—E.50710—M—U/K—Canterbury—29/3—HOLD.

  “He’s on trolley number seven, he’s tagged E.50710. He’s down as “Unknown”, so that’s good. They’ve got him marked Hold, so that means they don’t know the cause of death yet, that would be done by the forensic people in the morning. Get him. The body storage room is through that door and the first door on the right.”

  “Aren’t you coming with us?”

  “I have to find the records and destroy them, I told you that.” The leader sounded irritated. “Now go get him!”

  The other two hoods looked at each other, then one of the men shrugged and the two of them went out of the receiving room. The leader, left alone, went to work with the ease of a man familiar with his surroundings. He turned to the small rack of shelves against one wall, flipped through the videotapes stacked there, found
the one he wanted and put it in a pocket of his dustcoat. Then he went out to the adjoining office. Here, too, he worked with the ease of experience, as if certain that everything would be where he expected to find it. He found the register book where all details were entered by the police who brought in the bodies; he tore out the page with the details on the Unknown Male, E.50710, found at Canterbury. He crossed to another desk, searched through a hardboard folder marked CORONER and found what he was looking for: a Form P79A with the same details on E.50710. He put the form and the torn sheet from the register into the pocket with the videotape. Finally, he sat down before the computer which was on a bench against the wall, switched it on and then destroyed all data for the previous twenty-four hours. He sat back for a moment like a man well pleased with what he had done, though the hood showed no hint of what expression lay beneath its silk. For he wore silk, while the other two men wore black calico.

  He stood up, looked around him as if making sure he had forgotten nothing, then he went back to the receiving room and through to the corridor that led to the body storage room. The other two men were just coming out, pushing a trolley on which was a body in an unzipped green plastic bag.

  “Holy shit, it’s freezing in there!”

  “You’d be complaining more if it was heated in there. You should smell the bodies where I come from, the ones they leave lying out in the open because there’s no room for them.” The other two said nothing: killers both, they knew he had probably seen more death than they ever would. “Let’s have a look at him.”

  He merely glanced at the grey waxen face of the middle-aged dead man; after all, he had never seen him before he had killed him. He lifted the thick black hair and looked at the back of the scalp. “Good. They haven’t even started an autopsy.”

  “How d’you know? They might of opened him up from the back.” The man had no idea how an autopsy was done and didn’t want to know; he was squeamish about what was done to the dead.

  “They’d have taken the brain-pan out.” The leader gestured at the stack of lidded white-plastic buckets along the corridor wall. “What do you think is in those buckets? Brains.”

  The man lifted a lid, then slapped it back on a bucket, his hood fluttering over his face. “Christ Almighty! That’s fucking disgusting!”

  “They have to wait to examine a brain. They keep it in formalin for six weeks.”

  “Six weeks? Jesus, why so long?”

  “They have to wait till it stops thinking.” Silk hood waited for the calico hoods to ripple with laughter, but nothing happened; he went on, “Usually they never let the relatives know what they’ve done. Some people, particularly the Christian fundamentalists, get very upset at the idea.”

  “So would I. Jesus, fancy having that done to you after you’re dead. Okay, what we gunna do with this guy?” He nudged the bagged body.

  “Feed him to the sharks.”

  III

  Tom’s school had a holiday; teachers throughout the State had taken a day off to commiserate with each other on the toughness of their lot. Malone had therefore taken a day off to take Tom, aged ten, to the Vintage and Veteran Car Show at Darling Harbour. The fifty-hectare exhibition and convention centre had, on its opening five years ago, been hailed as a white elephant of the future; instead, it had gradually assumed a promising shade of pale, if metaphorical, grey. Malone was a reluctant admirer of it and an even more reluctant visitor to it. It seemed that each time he brought one or all of his children here it cost him a fortune. His hands were bleeding from reaching into his pockets, where the fish-hooks did their best to help him protect his money.

  “Oh, come on, mate! You’ve just had three Cokes and three bags of chips.”

  “The chips make me thirsty. Geez, you’re a drag, Dad. Why does it hurt you so much to spend money?”

  “When I’m old and broke and I come to you for a loan, I’ll be asking you the same question. Being thrifty runs in the Malone blood.”

  “Garn, Mum’s always saying how generous I am.”

  “Yeah, with my money.”

  The banter between them was almost man-to-man; Malone did not believe in talking down to his children. They had stopped in front of a gleaming red machine, a 1904 Type 7 Peerless. Malone, a man for whom a car was something that had four wheels and a baffling source of power under the bonnet that made it go, looked at the car more with nostalgia than admiration or desire to own it; it symbolized the past, simpler and more innocent days. This car belonged to the times of his grandfathers and though he had never known those Irishmen, he knew in his heart he would have been happy sharing their days with them. Still deeper in his heart he knew he was fooling himself. No era had ever gleamed like this car, history had never been as uncomplicated as its workings.

  Tom was unburdened with nostalgia. He said to the beautiful blonde model in the blue period dress that complemented the red car, “How much?”

  The blonde looked at Tom’s father. “Does he mean me or the car?”

  Malone recognized her. She worked as a casual for Tilly Mosman, who ran Sydney’s leading brothel, the Quality Couch. “Hello, Sheryl. I almost didn’t recognize you. You look—vintage?”

  “Thanks,” she said drily, and looked down at Tom. “It’s not for sale, honey. It’s like me, priceless.”

  “How come my father knows you? Are you undercover?”

  “Occasionally.” She smiled at Malone. “Is he going to be a cop, too?”

  “I’m trying to talk him out of it. Tom, this is Miss Brown. She’s modelled for the police bulletin.”

  Tom, young as he was, could be gallant: “If all policewomen looked like you, I don’t think Mum would let Dad come to work.”

  “If all policemen were as nice as you, Tom, I’d join the force.”

  Then Malone’s pager beeped. He cursed silently; he had warned Russ Clements that he wanted a totally free day.

  “Sorry, Sheryl, we have to go. Come on, Tom, I’ve got to find a phone.”

  “Bye-bye, Tom. If the car comes up for sale, I’ll let you know.”

  As they walked away, Tom said, “Geez, what a nice lady. Does Mum know about her?”

  “Not unless you tell her.”

  Malone found a phone, then had to borrow small change from Tom to make the call. “You owe me, Dad, don’t forget.”

  Clements was at Homicide. “This had better be important, Russ, or Tom’s going to have your head.”

  At the other end of the line Sergeant Clements sounded truly contrite; he loved the Malone children as if they were his own. “Scobie, tell Tom I’ll buy him a Harley-Davidson for his birthday.”

  “Like hell you will. What’s the trouble?”

  “You heard about that dive off a balcony down at the Quay? John Kagal and Peta Smith’ve been handling it, but I think you and I’d better come in on it. Romy’s just been on to me. She’s done the autopsy and she thinks the guy was dead before he went for the dive. She’s found a puncture at the base of the skull, it’s a neat way of killing someone, looks like it was done with a long needle or a hatpin or something.”

  “Who wears hatpins these days? Can’t you handle it till I come in tomorrow?”

  “There’s something else. The mortuary assistant out at the morgue, you remember him, guy named Frank Minto, they found him this morning, laid out on a trolley, with two bullets in him.”

  Malone looked out at the narrow waters of Darling Harbour. It was still warm for early autumn, summer hanging on like a spurned lover; bright sunlight flickered on the water, turned the sail of a passing yacht into a triangular glare. A good day to be spending with one’s son. “Go on,” he said resignedly.

  “There’s more.”

  “I’m not surprised.”

  The glass walls of the huge exhibition centre suddenly blazed, as if the sun had slipped in the sky. From across the water, in the amusement park, there was a gasp of raucous music; it was abruptly cut off, as if someone had pulled the plug. Tom looked morosely up at him;
he knew already that their day together was finished.

  “Someone,” said Clements, “evidently whoever killed Frank Minto, has pinched a corpse from the morgue. I’ll wait for you out there. Give my apologies to Tom.”

  Malone hung up, looked down at his son. Despite the difference in age, there was a distinct resemblance between father and son. There was the same dark hair, growing the same way, back from the widow’s peak; the dark blue eyes that did not try to hide amusement; the straight thick brows. Tom’s cheeks were still round and soft, but beneath them was the hint of the bonework in his father’s face. Missing was the frown that sometimes appeared between his father’s eyes, that marked Malone with the aches and pains, blood and death, of the world in which he worked. A detective inspector in charge of Homicide could never pass for one of the world’s innocents.

  “Russ sends his apologies. I’ve got to go to work.”

  Tom sighed, but he was used to sharing his father’s time with the bloody Police Service. It was the price he paid for having a father who was a cop: Dad could have been an accountant or, for God’s sake, a women’s hairdresser. “It’s okay. Can I go with you? Other kids’ fathers take „em to work, sometimes.”

  “I’ve got to go out to the morgue. You wouldn’t want to go there.”

  “Why not?” He had a ferret’s curiosity.

  “Because it’s full of dead people and dead people don’t like kids staring at them.”

  “How would they know?”

  Malone clipped his son under the ear, put his arm round his shoulders. “There’s plenty of time for you to meet the dead. Don’t rush it, mate.”

  Half an hour later, having taken Tom home to Randwick and delivered him to Lisa’s disapproving stare, he drew up outside the morgue in Glebe, one of the city’s inner areas. The entrance was in a quiet side street; he wondered what the residents thought of having so many dead neighbours, transients though they all were. He went in the front door, was recognized at once by the man behind the counter.