Yesterday’s Shadow. Jon Cleary

she said at once, ‘I’m here for Delia to lean on.’

      ‘That’s okay, Mrs Quantock, but don’t interrupt when I’m questioning Delia.’ He sat down, looked at the solicitor across the table. ‘G’day, Pam. Are you taking Delia’s case or are you here just for now? I understand she has asked for Legal Aid.’

      ‘I’m here for the whole term.’ Pamela Morrow was an old foe, but a friendly one. She and Malone had met years ago when she had been a law student leading demonstrations against this, that and everything and he had been a new police recruit trying to handle gently a woman trying to kick him in the balls. She was a short dumpling of a woman with red hair cut in a bob with bangs and with bright blue eyes that, he knew, could be as challenging as Rosie Quantock’s. ‘I’m on the board of the Women’s Protection League. We’re taking Mrs Jones’ case. Right through from now to acquittal.’

      He grinned. ‘You haven’t changed, Pam.’ Only then did he look at Delia. ‘Pam and I are old mates.’

      ‘Old Home Week,’ said Delia and smiled as if she were here on no more than a traffic charge. He caught a glimpse of the girl he had once been in love with. She had been a pretty girl rather than beautiful; chocolate-boxy, his mother had called her. Prettiness, he knew, faded quicker than beauty; but the years had been too cruel to her. ‘We’re not going to be any trouble, Scobie.’

      ‘Tell us what happened.’ Not me: us. He had to keep Gail in the frame to protect himself.

      ‘Tell him everything,’ said Rosie Quantock. ‘How he’s been belting you for years –’

      Malone looked at Pam Morrow, who looked at Rosie Quantock. ‘Please –’

      ‘Sorry,’ said Rosie, but you knew it was just an empty word. ‘But she’s gotta tell him everything –’

      ‘I will,’ said Delia, hands folded together on the table, steady as two interlocked rocks. She nodded at the recorder: ‘Is that on?’

      ‘Yes,’ said Gail. ‘Everything you say –’

      ‘I know.’ The composure was so complete; Malone had to admire her. ‘Well – where do I begin?’

      ‘At the beginning,’ said Malone, knowing he was making a concession.

      ‘Well, Boris and I have been married fourteen years. He’s from Leningrad – or what do they call it now?’

      ‘St Petersburg,’ said Gail.

      Delia didn’t look at her; her gaze was solely on Malone. ‘Yes, there. He was a merchant seaman – he came to Australia twice on a ship. I met him, I liked him, he liked me –’ She stopped for just a moment, her gaze still focused on Malone; then she went on, ‘The third trip he jumped ship and stayed on.’

      ‘He was an illegal immigrant?’ asked Malone.

      ‘I guess so. They never came looking for him – he got papers, I dunno how. We were happy –’ She stopped again. She’s making points, Malone thought; but ignored them, just looked back at her. She went on again, ‘I had the children and then things started to go wrong –’

      ‘I’ll say they did,’ said Rosie Quantock. ‘Ten bloody years –’

      ‘Mrs Quantock,’ said Pam Morrow warningly.

      ‘Sorry.’

      Delia continued: ‘He wouldn’t let Melissa near the house – she was my daughter from my first husband.’ Again the look; again he made no comment. ‘Then the – the belting started. I ran away, twice, with the children. But he came after me each time –’

      ‘Why did you go back to him?’ asked Gail.

      Delia shrugged. ‘Ask any battered wife why –’ For a moment she looked at Gail; then she turned her gaze back to Malone. For the first time there was a plea in her voice: ‘That’s what I’ve been, Scobie. A battered wife.’

      He wanted to reach across and press her hand, but refrained. ‘Go on. Tell us about last night. Did you go in to the hotel with the intention of killing him?’

      ‘That’s a leading question,’ snapped Pam Morrow. ‘Try another one, Inspector –’

      ‘No, it’s all right,’ said Delia. ‘Yes. I took the children to my mother’s, told her I was going in to tell Boris I was leaving him for good. I wanted him dead, but I don’t think I intended killing him.’

      ‘Where did you get the knife?’ Malone was wishing he were out of here.

      ‘I dunno. It was there in the room – I just picked it up –’

      Malone said nothing further; it was Gail who asked, ‘Why? Why did you pick it up?’

      ‘Careful, Delia,’ warned Pam Morrow. ‘You have to be exact about this. It was after Boris hit you, wasn’t it?’

      ‘You’re advising your client,’ said Gail.

      Lay off, Gail! Malone almost shouted.

      ‘That’s why I’m here,’ said Pam Morrow. ‘To make sure she gives you the exact facts, the exact truth.’

      Delia took her time, still looking at Malone as if there were just the two of them in the room. Then she said, ‘It was after he hit me – here and here –’ She pointed to the bruises on her face; still calm, as if they were no more than skin blemishes. ‘He gave me the black eye before he left home.’

      ‘Bastard!’ said Rosie Quantock.

      ‘There was a struggle?’ Malone was leaving the questioning to Gail.

      But Delia was still speaking directly to him: ‘Oh yes, we fought. We knocked things over – I picked them up and put them back after I’d stabbed him –’ She smiled at him, like the old Delia of long ago; he was beginning to wonder if the composure was a pose. ‘Neat as usual, remember? But I was just trying to get myself together – I mean, I knew I’d killed him, he wasn’t moving –’

      ‘What did you do then?’

      ‘Just a minute –’ Malone said. ‘What time was this, Delia?’

      ‘Some time after midnight – he’ d broken my watch when we fought last night.’ She looked at it now on her wrist. ‘You gave it to me, remember?’

      He didn’t remember and he wondered why she mentioned it.

      ‘That was eight-twenty last night. It’s stopped.’

      Malone nodded to Gail, who went on, ‘So you tidied up the store room – what did you do with the knife?’

      ‘I dunno. I forget.’

      ‘How did you leave the hotel?’

      ‘I went out a side door into that alley, that lane, that’s there – I didn’t want to meet any of Boris’ mates. I waited for a taxi outside the hotel.’

      Romy had said that Billie Pavane had died eight to ten hours before she was examined: that put that murder around 1 a.m.

      Malone said, ‘While you were waiting for the taxi, did you see anyone come out of the hotel?’

      If Delia was remembering anything it wasn’t what she saw outside the hotel last night; she had a faraway look, remembering the distant past. Remembering the bruising Malone had given her when he had jilted her? Then her gaze focused and she looked at Gail and said, ‘What?’

      ‘Inspector Malone asked you a question,’ said Gail.

      ‘Oh.’ Then she looked at him again, this time almost impersonally. He repeated his question and she said, ‘Yes, a man.’

      ‘Can you describe him?’

      She shook her head. ‘Only