Endpeace

‘The body was discovered at seven o’clock this morning,’ said Kate Arletti. ‘The butler went up with his morning tea. What’s the matter?’

‘I shouldn’t be grinning. But all this sounds like something out of Agatha Christie. Butler, morning tea ... We don’t get many crime scenes like this, Kate. How did he die?’

‘A gunshot wound to the side of the head, left temple. It looks like death would have been instantaneous. Dr Clements will confirm that, I suppose.’

‘How are the family?’

‘Shattered, those I’ve met. All except the eldest son, Derek. He’s got some men from the Chronicle out in the garden room, he’s organizing how the homicide is to be reported. He strikes me as cold-blooded. Sorry, I shouldn’t be making comments like that so early in the piece.’

She was small and blonde, a little untidy in her dress but crisp in everything she did. She was dressed in a tan skirt and a brown cotton shirt; somewhere there would be a jacket and Malone would bet she had already forgotten where she had left it. She was pretty in an unremarkable way, her face not disfigured but lent character by the scar down her left jawline. When she had been a uniformed cop a junkie had tried to carve her up with a razor and she had retaliated by breaking his nose with the butt of her gun. Six months ago, when Malone had first met her, she had been in uniform, neat and tidy as a poster figure. Since coming into Homicide, into plainclothes, her natural untidiness had emerged. All that was still neat about her was her work. With a sartorial wreck like Russ Clements setting an example, Malone had never had the heart to ask her to do up a button or roll up a loose sleeve.

‘What about Lady Huxwood?’

She hesitated. ‘Composed, I guess would be the word. She’s pretty – formidable?’

‘That’s another good word. I was here for dinner last night, I’ll tell you why some other time. They’re a weird mob, Kate. Don’t entertain any preconceived notions about them. Take ’em bit by bit, inch by inch.’

‘It sounds as if you didn’t enjoy last night?’

‘I’m not going to enjoy this morning, either.’

They went out into the hallway, which was less crowded now. Clements came towards them, biting his lip, an old habit when his thoughts did not fit as they should. Whether it was because Romy had dressed him or he had known, subconsciously, that he would be coming to this elegant house, this morning he was not his usual rumpled self. He wore an olive-grey lightweight suit, a blue button-down shirt and a blue silk tie with club or regimental stripes; though he had not belonged to a club in fifteen years and never to a regiment. His broad face, just shy of being good-looking, had a harried look, an expression unusual for him.

‘I’ve had only a glance at the family so far – that’s enough. Listening to ’em ...’ He shook his head. ‘Keep an eye on ’em, Kate. We’re going upstairs.’

He and Malone climbed the curve of the stairs. Halfway up Malone paused and looked down: this was the spot where Lady Huxwood had told her children she should have aborted the lot of them. It was an elevation for delivering pronouncements; he wondered how many other insults and dismissals had been hurled from here. Then he went on after Clements, following him into a bedroom off the gallery.

It was a big room with old-fashioned furniture: a four-poster bed, a heavy wardrobe and a dressing-table that could have accommodated at least two people. A large television set, in an equally large cabinet, stood in one corner. On a table by the two tall windows was the only modern note, a computer.

Romy, in a white coat now, was drawing off a pair of rubber gloves. She gestured at the body on the bed and nodded to the two men from the funeral contractors. ‘You can take him to the morgue now. Tell them I’ll do the autopsy.’ Then she crossed to join Malone and Clements by the windows. ‘Time of death is always guess-work, but I’d say he’d been dead ten to twelve hours. I’ll take some fluid from his eyes when I get back to the morgue, check the amount of potassium in it. That gives a bit more precision in the timing, but don’t expect me to pinpoint it.’

‘Any sign of a struggle?’

‘None. He could have been asleep when he was shot, I don’t know. There are powder-marks on a pillow, looks as if whoever killed him used it to muffle the shot.’

Malone walked over to the bed to take a last look at Sir Harry before the contractors zipped him up in the body bag. The democracy of death had done nothing for Sir Harry’s arrogance; a last spasm of pain looked more like an expression of distaste at the world he had just left. Malone nodded to one of the men and the zip closed over Sir Harry Huxwood, like a blue pencil through one of the many editorials he had written.

‘There’s this –’ Romy pulled on one of the rubber gloves, took a small scrap of paper from the pocket of her white coat. ‘Looks like he had a cadaveric spasm. It happens – the muscles tighten like a vice. It’s usually the hand that spasms, but sometimes the whole body does, though that’s pretty rare.’

Malone held the piece of paper with the pair of hair-tweezers he always carried. Clements said, ‘It’s a torn scrap, looks like it’s been torn off the corner of a letter or a memo. Good quality paper. Evidently whoever did him in tried to take the whole paper, but he wouldn’t let go. If they shot him in the dark, maybe they didn’t know it was torn till they got outside.’

‘Why would he be holding a letter or a memo in the dark?’ Malone held up the fragment. ‘There’s one word on it in red pencil. No – N – O, exclamation mark. Got your French letter?’

Clements produced one of the small plastic envelopes he always had in his pockets, grinning at Romy as he did so. He slipped the scrap of paper into the envelope. ‘I’ve never used these as condoms, in case you’re wondering.’

‘I shouldn’t be surprised at anything he did before we met,’ she told Malone, taking off her white coat and folding it neatly. ‘I’ll see Ballistics gets the bullet when I’ve done the autopsy.’

‘How’s business? Can you do him this morning?’

‘They told me before I came out here there’d been six homicides last night, plus four dead in accidents. He may have to take his turn.’

‘He hasn’t been used to that. Put him at the head of the list.’

‘Inspector –’ All at once she was not Mrs Clements but the Deputy-Director of the Institute of Forensic Medicine. Her squarely beautiful face became squarer as she set her jaw; her dark eyes lost their gleam, seemed to become even darker. It was what Clements called her Teutonic look. ‘Nobody jumps the queue in our morgue. I’ll get to him when I get to him.’

Malone was glad the funeral contractors had already gone with the body; he did not like being ticked off in public. Clements looked embarrassed for him, but said nothing.

‘Romy, I’m not pandering to Sir Harry because of who he is. Or was. But with all due respect to the other five murder victims, the media aren’t going to be interested in them. They’re going to be on my back about this one. And so will my boss and the AC Crime and the Commissioner and the Premier and, for all I know, maybe God Himself.’

‘Tough titty, as you vulgarians say. I’ll do him when I do him. That all?’ She had packed her small bag, stood like a wife walking out on two husbands.

Malone recognized he was not going to get anywhere with her. He nodded at the door to an adjoining room. ‘Whose room is that?’

‘Lady Huxwood’s. I was told she wasn’t to be disturbed.’ Romy was still cool. ‘I’ll see you at home, Russ. Pick up the meat.’

Then she was gone and Clements said, ‘Don’t you know you don’t push a German around? You went about that in the wrong way, mate.’

‘Righto, you work on her, if you’re so bloody subtle.’

‘It’s not that I’m subtle. I’m married to her. You learn a few things. I thought you would have known that. The Dutch are as stubborn as the Germans, aren’t they?’

‘One thing I’ve learned, never bring up ethnic differences in a marriage. That’s a good way of starting World War Three ... All right, see what you can do with her. I don’t want to be carrying the can for the next week. Let’s go down and talk to the family.’

Down in the hallway one of the Rose Bay detectives, a middle-aged man named Akers, was waiting for them. He was a senior-constable and had the resigned look of a man who realized he might, just might, make sergeant before he retired. His hair was already grey and his plump face was pink with blood vessels close to the surface.

‘Some of the family are here, Scobie, some have gone home. You’ll want to talk to them?’

‘I’ll talk to those that are here.’ Malone looked up and around the high hallway. ‘What’s the set-up here? How many rooms?’

‘Fourteen in this house, not including the bathrooms but including three rooms for the staff. There’s a wing out the back for them, beside the garages. The butler and cook are husband and wife, name’s Krilich, they’re Yugoslavs. Outside there’s what they call Little House One and Little House Two –’ He made a face. ‘I think Enid Blyton or Beatrix Potter must of stayed here once.’

‘You’re well read, Jim.’

Akers grinned, relaxing; up till now he had been a bit stiff. Local Ds never did like Major Crime Squad men appearing on their turf. ‘My wife’s a schoolteacher ... Derek, the eldest son, and his family live in Little House One – it has eight rooms, I believe. Little House Two has six rooms and Sheila, the elder daughter, and her husband live there – they have a child, but she lives out.’

‘What about Nigel and his wife? And Linden and her husband?’

Akers looked surprised that Malone was so well acquainted, but he made no comment. ‘Nigel, the actor –’ He uttered ‘the actor’ as he might have said ‘the poofter’; the theatrical profession obviously got no rating with him. ‘He and his wife, she’s an actor too, I hear. Or was. They have a flat at Point Piper. He has two kids, a boy and a girl – he’s been married twice before. The kids are from different mothers. The younger sister – Linden, did you say? – she and her husband – actually, he’s her de facto – they live out in the country, somewhere south of Bowral. They have no kids, though she’s been married before. They stayed here last night. In the Big House,’ he said and just managed not to simper.

‘Nice rundown, Jim. You been here before?’

‘About two years ago. There was an attempted break and enter, but they were disturbed and got away.’

‘Righto, let’s go and talk to someone. Derek, the eldest, first.’

‘He’s in the garden room. Got three guys from the Chronicle with him. I’ll leave him to you and Russ. I’ve gotta report to my boss at Waverley.’

‘Tell him I’ll check with him later.’ It was the old territorial imperative, everybody protected his own little authority. ‘He didn’t put in an appearance?’

‘Superintendent Lozelle leaves the silvertails to us. I think he finds the riff-raff easier to deal with. Don’t quote me.’

Jim Akers, having had no rank for so long, had no respect for it. But he was not disrespectful of Malone and the latter let him get away with it. ‘Maybe he’s wiser than either of us. Give him my regards.’

Then he and Clements turned into the garden room, next door to the library. The entire wall that faced the harbour was one big bay window; the room was half-conservatory. Sections of the huge window were open, letting in some of the mild nor’easter, but the room was still warm. Derek and the three men with him were in their shirtsleeves. They stood as if lined up for a team photo, backed by a bank of palms in big brass-bound wooden tubs. There were no pictures decorating the walls, but flowers cried out for attention in a profusion of vases of all shapes and sizes. It was a room, Malone guessed, where the watering-can would be used more than tea- or coffee-pot.

Derek stepped forward, raised his hand as if to shake Malone’s, then thought better of it. He didn’t smile when he said, ‘So you’re here officially after all, Scobie.’

Malone kept it official: none of the old cricket mates’ act. ‘That’s how it is, Mr Huxwood. This is Detective-Sergeant Clements. Who are these gentlemen?’

Huxwood looked surprised, as if he had expected Malone to be less formal. Then: ‘Oh yes. This is Mr Gates, our managing editor –’ He seemed to emphasize the Mr. ‘Mr Shoemaker, the Chronicle’s editor. And Mr Van Dieman, of –’ He named one of the three top law firms in Sydney. ‘We’ve been deciding how to handle the story of – of what’s happened.’

‘How are you going to handle it?’

‘It’s difficult. My own impulse – a member of the family, all that – my own impulse would be to bury – no, that’s the wrong word –’ Despite what Kate Arletti had said, Derek did sound flappable, something Malone had not expected. ‘Put the story on one of the inside pages. But it’s Page One stuff, let’s face it. What the Herald and the Australian and the Telegraph-Mirror, especially them, will make of it, God only knows. And every other paper in the country.’

‘Not to mention radio and TV.’ Gates was a plump little man with soft brown, almost womanly eyes, a neat moustache above a neat mouth and an harassed air that did not appear to be habitual. Malone had no idea what a managing editor did, but Mr Gates was not managing too well at the moment. ‘Christ knows what rumours they’ll spout. I can hear them now ...’

Shoemaker couldn’t hear them; or if he could, he gave no sign. He was a tall, wide man with black kinked hair; he had fierce black eyebrows and a bulldozer jaw. Malone could imagine his scaring the pants off cadet reporters, boy and girl alike; but whatever his approach, it must have pleased the Huxwoods. He had been editor for ten years, a long time in modern Australian newspapers. ‘We’ll run the story straight, as if it was some other proprietor, not our own, who’d been murdered. Will you be in charge of the investigation, Inspector? Can I come to you for progress reports?’

‘I’ll let you know,’ said Malone. ‘For now it looks as if I’m in charge. But I could be out-ranked by lunchtime.’

Shoemaker grinned; or gave a grimace that might have been a grin. ‘I follow. It could be like our Olympic challenge, everyone jumping into the act. Well, I’d better be getting back to the Haymarket.’ Huxwood Press, its offices and printing press, was in an uptown area of the city, had been there for a hundred and fifty years. ‘Give my sympathy to the family, Derek. I’ll come back this afternoon, be more formal.’

‘I’ll come with you,’ said Gates and was gone out the door ahead of Shoemaker.

‘What does Mr Gates do?’ said Clements, who liked everyone labelled. ‘Managing editor?’

Derek looked at Van Dieman before he replied. ‘It’s a title we borrowed from the Americans and changed it a little. He sort of manages the editorial side.’

This, Malone realized, was office politics and he didn’t want to get into that, not now.

‘Do you mind if Alan stays?’ Derek gestured at Van Dieman. ‘Or will that look as if I’m preparing some sort of defence?’

‘Do you expect to be on the defensive?’ said Malone.

‘No.’ Derek sat down on a cushioned cane lounge, waved to the other three men to take seats. ‘But it is murder. Christ!’ He abruptly put a hand over his eyes, was silent a long moment. The others waited; then he withdrew his hand and blinked. But Malone could see no tears. ‘No one deserves to go out like that.’

‘We want no sensationalism,’ said Van Dieman.

Resentment shot up in Malone like a missile; but it was Clements who said, ‘The Police Service doesn’t go in for sensationalism, Mr Van Dieman. It’s the media does that.’

‘That’s what I mean,’ said the lawyer, but he sounded a little too hasty to convey that.

Though he was no more than forty, he was a grey man: grey-faced, grey-haired, grey-suited. The only spot of colour was his tie, but even that was plain purple rather than the strips of regurgitation that had been the fashion for the past couple of years. He had a soft voice, a grey voice, and a composure about him that hid his reputation. Malone had never met him, but knew that Van Dieman was considered the toughest corporation lawyer in town, if not the country.

Malone decided it was time to get down to cases. ‘It’s only a guess at the moment, but we think the murder occurred last night somewhere around midnight. Had the dinner party broken up by then?’

Derek nodded. ‘I think so. My wife and I were over in our house by eleven-thirty. The others who weren’t staying here had gone.’

‘Leaving who here?’

‘My sister Linden and her – her partner. They usually stay here when they come down from Sutton Forest. And Ivor and Beatrice Supple are staying here – or they were. We moved them out an hour ago, sent them into the Sheraton-on-the-Park. Sheila and her husband live over in the other house.’

‘Little House Two?’

‘You find that quaint? Or twee? Don’t look like that when you mention the houses in front of my mother. She thought she was being sarcastic when she named them, but everyone took the names seriously. If you can take names like that seriously ...’ Derek seemed to be talking too much.

‘How is your mother?’

‘Pretty shattered. She and Dad –’ He stopped, looked at Van Dieman as if for advice, then went on, ‘It’s hard to describe how close they were. People outside the family might have mistakenly thought they were always at odds with each other. They weren’t –’ He shook his head. ‘All our lives it was them against us. The children.’

‘Derek –’ said Van Dieman warningly.

‘Ah Christ, what’s it matter now, Alan? It’s all going to come out soon enough.’

There was silence in the big room but for the rustle of a sudden breeze amongst the potted palms. Out on the water someone in the photographers’ launch shouted something at one of the policemen on the shore; the policeman, risking being photographed in the act, gave the someone the finger. Then Malone said, ‘What’s going to come out? You mind telling us?’

A palm frond was brushing Derek’s shoulder; he raised a hand and absent-mindedly stroked it, as he might have a woman’s comforting fingers. He didn’t look at either of the detectives as he said, ‘There are certain members of the family want to sell the Press. Lock, stock and barrel, as they say.’

Malone looked at Clements, the business expert; the latter was frowning, not quite believing what he had heard. ‘Sell Huxwood Press? Everything?’

‘Everything. The papers, the magazines, the radio and TV stations in the other States ... Sounds crazy?’

‘But why? Huxwood is, I dunno, an empire. Its share price is higher than anyone else in its field, higher than News Corp. or Fairfax, your debt is nothing –’

Derek looked at Malone. ‘He’s a ring-in, isn’t he? He’s not with Homicide?’

Malone grinned. ‘Russ just does homicide as part-time ... Sorry, that’s tasteless, considering. No, he’s a punter. Used to be on the horses, now it’s on the stock exchange. He’s probably got shares in Huxwood.’

‘I have,’ said Clements. ‘But I won’t get a say, will I? Or any of the other public shareholders?’

‘Afraid not,’ said Derek Huxwood and made no attempt to sound less than privileged. He was part of the dynasty, for a moment he had the arrogance of his parents. ‘The family owns sixty per cent, we have the controlling interest.’

‘And who has the controlling interest in the family?’

Van Dieman said, ‘Is any of this really relevant at this stage?’

‘Yes,’ said Malone flatly. ‘Everything is relevant that will give us a lead on why Sir Harry was shot.’

‘Jesus!’ Derek snapped off a piece of the palm frond. ‘You’re saying one of us killed him?’

‘We’re not saying anything like that. Everyone working on a homicide has got his own way of doing it. Russ and I work from the outside inwards. It’s called elimination. You tell us everything about this house, the three houses, about the family, and we’ll do our own picking and choosing what to eliminate. So who has the controlling interest in Huxwood Press?’

Derek said nothing, looked at Van Dieman. It seemed that they had arrived rather late at the idea that this was a matter that was out of their hands, that could not be contained by a Chronicle editorial or a legal restraining order. The lawyer tapped his fingers on the arm of his chair, then he nodded:

‘Okay, the family shares are parked in a holding company which has no other assets. The shares will always be voted in one line to maintain control.’

‘So who decides how the holding company votes?’ Clements seemed to have taken on a whole new image, sounded smoother. He is turning into a lawyer or a banker before my very eyes, thought Malone, amused at the thought but backing Clements all the way.

‘Sir Harry has – had the shares which carried the whole of the voting power.’

‘What about Lady Huxwood?’

‘No, not in Sir Harry’s lifetime.’

‘But she does now?’

‘We-ell –’

‘Why are you hesitating?’ Clements persisted.

Van Dieman took his time, as if he expected to fob off the question with a brusque answer or two. He said almost haughtily, ‘I wasn’t hesitating –’

‘Okay, you were stalling, then. Keep going.’

Both Van Dieman and Derek Huxwood glanced at Malone: who’s the senior man here, you or him? But Malone just returned their gaze: ‘You’d better give us an answer, Mr Van Dieman. We cops always have more time than lawyers. That’s why we charge less for it.’

Van Dieman flushed and Derek Huxwood turned his head away in disgust: ‘Jesus!’

Malone relaxed his official (officious? he wondered) air for a moment. ‘Take it easy, Derek. We’re not here to kick the shit out of you, we’re trying to find out who killed your father. If you and Mr Van Dieman will stop fartarsing about and get down to cases, we can be out of here and get on to talking to other members of the family. Sooner or later someone is going to tell us the truth, give us the dirt, if you like, and I think it might be better if we got it from you. Okay?’

Derek stared at him; then abruptly there was the old whimsical smile: ‘If you’d been as shitty as this as a fast bowler, you’d have played for Australia. You never had the killer instinct.’

‘I’m older and wiser, Derek. And shiftier – sometimes ... Let’s hear what you were almost going to tell us, Mr Dieman.’

‘Van Dieman,’ said the lawyer, as if it were a legal point. ‘No, now Sir Harry is dead, the voting power drops off and passes to all the shareholders. Lady Huxwood has no more voting power than any of the others.’

‘How did that arrangement come about?’ said Clements.

‘My father insisted,’ said Derek. ‘He’d be regretting it now.’

‘Why?’ said Malone.

Derek and Van Dieman looked at each other; then the lawyer said, ‘There is – shall we say – dissension – in the family. For some time now some of the younger ones have been threatening to ask for a winding-up of the company and a distribution of the group shares.’

‘So the younger ones could then combine their shares and have some real clout?’ Clements sat back, was his old self: a rough-edged cynical detective with class prejudices. Just like my Old Man, thought Malone: Us and Them. ‘That right? All the yuppies suddenly turning greedy?’

‘I don’t know that they’d appreciate being called yuppies. These young people are not upwardly mobile, they don’t need to be. But yes, I suppose you could call them greedy?’ He looked at Derek.

‘Greedy as hell,’ said Derek. ‘Some of them.’

‘Who are the grandchildren?’ asked Malone.

Derek said, ‘There are my three – Alexandra, Colin and Ross. There are Sarah and Michael, Nigel’s two. And there’s Camilla, she’s Sheila’s.’

‘All of voting age?’

Derek nodded. ‘I don’t know that all of them would want to sell.’

Van Dieman contradicted him: ‘I’m not so sure, Derek. If they all combine their shares, it could be a stand-off. And that, I’m afraid –’ he looked at Malone, ‘is what’s happening. Or was happening up till – till last night.’