The Bear Pit Read online

  There was silence in the car again till they reached the Harbour Bridge, where they were held up by a long bank-up of traffic.

  August looked out at the mass of cars and trucks, immobile as rocks.

  “Can you imagine what it’s gunna be like during the Olympics?”

  “I’m leaving town,” said Malone. “I’m going to Tibooburra.”

  “What about you, miss?” August could not be friendlier, more unworried.

  “I have seats for all the main events at the stadium.” Gail glanced at Malone in the rear-vision mirror. “My father bought them. He said we’re to be one hundred per cent, dinky-di Aussies for two weeks.”

  “I’m one of the fifty thousand volunteer helpers,” said August.

  “Doing what?” Shooting whoever is on the official dais on opening day? Malone, against reason, was becoming irritated by August’s apparent lack of concern.

  “Helping the disabled. Getting them seated, things like that. I like volunteer work. I do Meals on Wheels in my van once a week.”

  Are we bringing in the wrong bloke? But you had to start somewhere and this man was the only one with a record. Malone made no comment and they drove the rest of the way to Strawberry Hills in silence. As they rode up in the lift to Homicide’s offices August said, “You’re making a mistake, you know.”

  “We sometimes do, John. But once we’ve eliminated them, we usually come up with the right answer.”

  “Are there any reporters here?”

  “We don’t encourage them.”

  “Do me a favour? After I’ve convinced you I know nothing about all this, don’t let them know you’ve had me in here. I want to protect Lynne and her day-care centre.”

  Gail took August into one of the interview rooms and Malone went into his office to see what was on his desk. Clements followed him. “Why’d you bring him back here instead of taking him to Police Centre and the incident room?”

  “Because that’s where the media are hanging out. I don’t want them asking questions or guessing till we’ve got something definite.”

  “He admitted anything?”

  “Nothing. Anything further come in?”

  “We double-checked the Sewing Bee list, everyone on it has been interviewed. He’s the only one with form, if you exclude Charlie Hassett.”

  “He’s on the list?”

  “Three uniforms being let out at the seams. He’s already been on to me. If I let it slip to the media, he’s demoting me to probationary constable . . . There’s more come in from Victoria on August. One of those acquittals he got was for attempted murder—his first wife’s boyfriend. What’s he like?”

  “He’s a carpenter and handyman, that’s his trade. In his spare time he does Meals on Wheels.”

  “Holding a gun at their heads to make ‘em eat it?” Then he smiled sourly. “Why am I so cynical about reformed crims?”

  “Has anyone been down to Trades Congress headquarters?”

  “With the crowd we’ve got working on this, you can bet someone’s been down there. But nothing’s come through on the computer yet.”

  “Ring Greg Random, tell him to tell everyone to lay off. That is for you and me soon’s I finish with our friend inside.”

  He went out to the interview room. August sat comfortably on one side of the table and Gail sat opposite him. The room was sparsely furnished: table, four chairs and the video recorder. August gestured at it, casually:

  “You gunna turn that on?”

  “Not unless you want us to.” Malone sat down. “We’ll do that if we decide to charge you.”

  “What with?”

  “Murder of the Premier.”

  August looked around him, as if looking for an audience for this comedy. Then he sat forward, suddenly serious. A strand of the thinning hair had fallen forward and he pushed it back.

  “Inspector Malone, I’m not a murderer—”

  “You tried to murder your first wife’s boyfriend.”

  August waved a curt hand. “The jury didn’t think so. We had a stoush, a fight over a gun, his gun, not mine, and it went off.”

  Malone couldn’t contradict this; he hadn’t read the transcript of the trial. Perhaps he should have done a little more homework. “What did you feel when he got the bullet and you didn’t?”

  “Glad. What would you feel? The guy was sleeping with my wife . . . Let’s get down to why you think I murdered Mr. Vanderberg. Because I’ve got form? I’ve had none for the last nine years, I’m clean—” He folded his hands together, looked down at them. “I came up here, changed my name, made a new start. I met Lynne, we hit it off and I moved in with her . . . You’ve got nothing on me, Inspector, except my past.”

  “Where were you last night around eleven o’clock?” asked Gail.

  “Home.” Then he smiled wryly. “Alone. Lynne was at some parents’ meeting and didn’t get home till midnight. Earlier, I’d been up at Lane Cove town hall, a meeting on aged care. More volunteering . . .” He smiled again; he could not have been more relaxed. “I got home around ten, waited up for Lynne and we went to bed, I dunno, twelve-thirty, around then.”

  “What did you do between getting home at ten and Lynne’s arrival? Watch television?”

  He smiled again; he was not cocky, but there was a growing confidence. “You don’t catch me like that, Constable. No, I rarely watch TV after ten o’clock. I read, old crime thrillers—d’you read crime novels?”

  “No,” said Gail.

  “I do—occasionally,” said Malone. “What did you read last night?”

  “Elmore Leonard, one of his early ones.”

  “Which one?” asked Malone, who always read Leonard.

  “I can never remember titles.”

  “Try, John.”

  The smile now was fixed. “Switch, that was it. The one about the guy on the toilet that’s got a bomb attached to the seat—if he stands up, he’s a goner. Very funny. Embarrassing, too.”

  “That was Freaky Deaky. I’d have thought you’d remember a title like that.”

  “I told you, I’m no good at titles. For years I thought I’d read The Maltese Pigeon.”

  “Nice joke, John, but let’s be serious. We’d like a look at your bank account and Mrs. Masson’s.”

  “Why?”

  “The price for knocking off the Premier wouldn’t have been small change. The hitman might’ve been paid in cash, people don’t write cheques for those sort of jobs. The hitman would have to deposit it somewhere. He wouldn’t cart fifty thousand around in a brown paper-bag—”

  “Fifty thousand?” He seemed genuinely interested in the amount. “You think that’s what he got?”

  “Maybe more. I don’t know the price for political assassination—it may be more, much more. Do you need money, John?”

  “Who doesn’t? But I wouldn’t kill anyone for it.” He was still calm, still unoffended.

  Malone so far had no doubts; but he had no conviction, either. An open mind did not mean it was non-adhesive: fragments occasionally stuck that gave a hint of a recognizable picture. At the moment it was like trying to paint a picture on water.

  “Why would I kill Hans Vanderberg? I voted for him in the last election. I’d do the same at the next. He was sly and conniving and half the time you didn’t believe what he said, but he got things done.”

  “Who’d you vote as? John June?” asked Gail.

  “Yes. The Electoral Commission can’t always check on whether you are who say you are. They were satisfied I was an honest citizen—which I am.”

  “But John August, the real you, might not care one way or the other?”

  August just looked at her, the mere shadow of a smile on his lips, and Malone said, “Detective Lee has a point. Which bank do you and Mrs. Masson use? We can get a court order—”

  “There’ll be no need for that.” This time his voice was snappy. “I’ll give you permission to look at mine. But you’ll have to ask Lynne about hers—”

  �
�We’ll do that. We also want a release from you in the name of John August. Just in case you have two bank accounts.”

  August shook his head; the lock of hair fell down again and he pushed it back. He seemed now to be losing patience; or confidence. “You’re wasting your time. But okay, I’ll sign a release in my real name. Or what was my real name.” He looked down at his hands, stared at them, then at last looked up. Both detectives were surprised at the sadness in his eyes: “How much are you gunna tell Lynne? About my past, my record?”

  “If we find you’re in the clear,” said Malone quietly, “we’ll tell her nothing. That’s up to you . . . Why did you shoot him, John?”

  But that didn’t catch August off-balance: “Try someone else, Inspector. It wasn’t me who shot him. I’ve read what’s been going on lately. He has enough enemies to kill him from a dozen sides.”

  Malone stared at him, then looked at Gail Lee: “Any more questions?”

  “Just a couple . . . How much do you know about guns, Mr. August?”

  “Not much.”

  “But you knew where to buy a gun? You used a gun in that job you did time for, the armed robbery one.”

  “That was Melbourne. I’ve forgotten where I got it.”

  “So a gun’s an everyday item with you? You buy one and forget where?”

  “It was twelve years ago, for Crissakes!” For a moment the calm demeanour was gone; then he put it on again like a mask: “Sorry. I’ll remember and let you know. Can you remember what you were doing twelve years ago?”

  “I was about to start Year 10 at high school. I wasn’t buying a gun.”

  His look was almost admiring. Then he said, “It’s different these days, in high school, I mean.”

  “Knives, Mr. August, not guns. Not yet.” Then she said, “Where do you live?”

  He gave an address in Lane Cove. “It’s a flat, in Lynne’s name. Why?”

  “We’ll get a warrant to search it. Just routine.”

  The mask dropped. “Christ, how do I explain that to Lynne?”

  “Maybe you’d better tell her the truth about yourself.” Malone stood up. “Righto, John, you can go. Detective Lee and one of my men will drive you back to Longueville. But if you want to keep your secret from Lynne, maybe you’d like to wait while Detective Lee gets the search warrant. Then we can search your flat and maybe Lynne won’t need to know.”

  “I’ll wait. I’m not gunna hurt Lynne, if it can be avoided.”

  II

  “Do you think the hit was meant for one of us?” asked Aldwych.

  “No,” said Jack Junior. “All the union trouble is over. They’ve moved on to fight other developers.”

  “I still don’t trust our Chinese partners. I don’t mean Les—he’s one of us. Nor the Feng family—even that girl Camilla isn’t gunna make waves.”

  The original consortium of partners had been a mixture that at times had had Aldwych thinking he was a foreigner in his own country. Besides Leslie Chung there had been two local Chinese families; there were also Madame Tzu, representing herself, and General Wang-Te, the director from a Shanghai corporation whose connections were as murky as the Whangpoo River. Sometimes Aldwych wondered what had happened to the White Australia policy of his youth. There were more bloody foreigners in the country now than kangaroos.

  “I still wouldn’t trust Madame Tzu as far as the other side of the street. As for the General—”

  “You’re too suspicious,” said Juliet, a foreigner.

  “I thought you Roumanians loved suspicion? You and the Hungarians invented the revolving door, didn’t you, so’s you could watch each other’s back?”

  “I love you, Papa.” She knew he liked being called Papa. Once distant from each other, they were now friends. “You’d have made a wonderful dictator.”

  “Better than some you’ve had. That bloke Ceausescu . . . he got what he deserved. The Dutchman was a dictator, but he didn’t deserve to be shot.”

  They were having breakfast on the terrace of the junior Aldwychs’ apartment on the tip of Point Piper. The point was almost sunk by the wealth on it; land here was valued by the cupful. Aldwych, instead of going home to his own big house at Harbord, on the northern side of the harbour, had driven out here with his son and daughter-in-law and stayed the night. He enjoyed Juliet’s company and her looks, but, as with Madame Tzu, he would not have trusted her as far as the other side of the street. He had never trusted any woman but his dead wife Shirl. Beautiful women were even more suspect than others: they knew the value of their looks. Jack Junior, on the other hand, had never fallen for any but good-looking women.

  The apartment was sumptuous, an estate agent could have found no other word for it; but it was not like a House & Garden illustration, it was lived in. Juliet could spend money like an IMF grantee, but Jack Junior begrudged her nothing. Aldwych Senior, sometimes to his own surprise, no longer mentally reproached Juliet for her extravagance. This apartment was a contrast to his own house, where he lived amongst Laura Ashley prints and Dresden figurines, none of which he would ever replace because they had been Shirl’s choice. Shirl had died before Juliet came along and sometimes he wondered how the two women would have got along. He had had reservations about Juliet, but she had proved him wrong. The marriage was now six years old and there appeared to be no cracks in it. Juliet was extravagant, but she didn’t have to be Roumanian to be that; half the country lived on credit beyond its ability to pay and half the country didn’t have multi-millionaire husbands. She had proved a better wife than some of Jack Junior’s other women would have been. There were no children and no talk of any, but that didn’t worry Aldwych. He had little faith that the next forty or fifty years of the new millennium was going to be a cakewalk for the young. He was long past optimism.

  Now, looking at a Manly ferry taking commuters to the city, he was pensive, a symptom of his ageing. “If the hit wasn’t meant for either of us—”

  “Dad, keep me out of it. If it was meant for either of us, it would’ve been you. Some of your old mates may have wanted a last crack at you.”

  “All my old mates are dead, including the ones who were not my mates. Lenny McPherson is gone, all the old mugs who had it in for me.” In his memory was a gallery of enemies. He had consorted, as the cops called it, with other crims, but he had always been his own man. Or, to a certain extent and which he would not have admitted to anyone, he had been part Shirl’s man. “Is this upsetting you, Juliet?”

  “Not at all. As you said, I’m Roumanian.” Sometimes one’s national bad characteristics can be indulged in.

  He smiled at her approvingly. “You’ll do me, love . . .” He hadn’t called anyone love since Shirl had died. “Well, like I was saying—if it wasn’t meant for either of us, then maybe we’ve got problems.”

  “Don’t ask,” said Jack Junior as Juliet looked puzzled.

  “Of course I’m going to ask. Why will you have problems, Papa?”

  “We want to build a small casino up at Coffs Harbour.” A resort and retirement town halfway between Sydney and Brisbane. “Hans Vanderberg was in favour of it. He wasn’t a gambler, but anything that brought in more taxes was right up his street. The Pope would bless gambling if it brought in more revenue—”

  Juliet blessed herself. She never went near a church except at Christmas, but the nuns from her old school still whispered in her ear.

  Aldwych smiled at the gesture, but went on: “We dunno about Billy Eustace, if he takes over—he says he’s anti-gambling, but they all say that till Treasury talks to ‘em. If the Coalition wins the election, we dunno about them, either. They’ve got some wowsers amongst them, especially if they’re from the bush.”

  “Wowsers?” Juliet had been only a child when she had come to Australia, but she still had difficulty with some of the language, especially slang that was older even than her father-in-law.

  “Killjoys,” said Jack Junior. “Gambling is a social evil.”

  She had bee
n a gambler all her life, but rarely a loser. “How quaint.”

  She had a touch of larceny to her that Aldwych liked. Shirl had never had it. She had known of his trade, but as long as he never brought it into her home, her retreat, she had said nothing. He was not given to fantasy, but once or twice he had thought of her as an angel married to a demon. He had taken to reading late in life, but he really would have to give up reading some of the books on the shelves in the Harbord house.

  “We’ll have to start smoodging, leaving some money lying around.”

  “We’ll have to be careful,” said Jack Junior. He was a plotter, like his father, but in business, not bank robbery, and therefore more skilled. “Too many of them are more moral these days.”

  “How quaint,” said Juliet.

  Out on the harbour two youths on jet skis cut across the bow of a small yacht. The yacht had to tack abruptly, its sails quivering with indignation. Aldwych watched it, came as close to a snarl as he got these days: “He should of run ‘em down.”

  “Who?”

  Aldwych turned his head from watching the harbour. “The Dutchman should of got them before they got him.”

  He knew all about survival.

  III

  “Do you think he’s the one?” asked Clements.

  “I dunno. Who else have we got? He’s the only one on that Sewing Bee list who’s got a record. We just keep tabs on him. We’ll get the task force to put him under 24-hour surveillance—we don’t want him shooting through, changing his name again. The one good thing I could say for him—he’s going to protect Mrs. Masson, the woman he’s living with.”

  “Unless—”

  “Unless she knows what he did—if he did do it.” Malone shook his head. “No, I don’t think so . . . Now you and I are going down to Sussex Street, but first we’re going to look in on Roger Ladbroke. He knows more about who works what and how in the Labor Party than anyone except his late boss.”

  “You vote Labor, don’t you?” Despite their long association they had never admitted how each of them had voted. There is a majority amongst the natives whose vote is as secret as whether they believe or not in God.