Yesterday’s Shadow. Jon Cleary

said nothing, and she went on, ‘Why do you want to know about the man?’

      ‘The other murder?’ said Rosie Quantock, who had been silent too long.

      ‘Would you recognize him again if you saw him?’ Malone said.

      ‘Would it help you if I did?’

      ‘Hold on a minute,’ said Pam Morrow. ‘You’re not using Delia as a witness to that case while we’re still talking about her own case.’

      ‘No, I’d like to help,’ said Delia, looking directly at Malone as if they were alone in the room.

      She’s too eager, he thought. But he said, ‘Go on.’

      ‘He was, I dunno, medium-sized. Not as tall as you, not as beefy –’

      ‘Thank you.’ He didn’t grin, but the four women did.

      ‘Well, you’re not beefy, I suppose. You haven’t changed much, really. Anyhow, he was slimmer than you. Or I think he was – he was wearing an overcoat, a dark one. And a hat.’

      ‘What sort of hat?’

      ‘I dunno. Just a hat. Not one of those broad-brimmed ones, the Akubras. I wasn’t looking at him to remember him –’ For the first time she sounded testy; he remembered she could get short-tempered about small things. But never the larger things, like being jilted … ‘I’ll remember him if I see him again.’

      ‘It could’ve been one of the hotel workers,’ said Gail. ‘Going off duty. Do you know any of them?’

      Delia shook her head. ‘No. I’ve never been near the hotel till last night. Boris never wanted me anywhere near where he worked.’

      ‘Didn’t want his mates to see he was a wife-basher,’ said Rosie Quantock. ‘A real bastard. Bottom of the heap.’

      ‘How long had he been working at the hotel?’

      ‘Two – no, three months. He lost his last job – he worked for a bricklayer. They didn’t get on.’

      ‘He bashed him, too.’ Mrs Quantock couldn’t help being helpful.

      ‘I think this has gone on long enough,’ said Pam Morrow and snapped shut her briefcase as if to close all argument. ‘Are you going to charge my client?’

      ‘Yes,’ said Malone, not looking at Delia. ‘She’ll be held here overnight and arraigned tomorrow morning, probably down at Liverpool Street.’

      ‘What about bail?’

      ‘That’ll be up to the Crown Prosecutor. We won’t oppose it.’

      ‘Thanks, Scobie.’ Delia reached across and pressed his hand. He felt an inward flinch, but didn’t draw his hand away.

      ‘How’s she gunna raise bail?’ demanded Rosie Quantock. ‘She hasn’t got a cracker, nothing.’

      ‘Do you own your own house?’ asked Gail.

      It was Mrs Quantock who answered, with a loud dry cackle. ‘She’s renting, for Crissake! She’d have trouble raising a hundred dollars –’

      ‘Rosie, please –’

      ‘No, love. This is no time for bloody embarrassment. That arsehole’s given you nothing –’

      Malone turned to Pam Morrow. ‘Can the Women’s Protection League help?’

      ‘We’ll see. We’ll plead self-defence, so maybe the beak will be lenient. If he is, we can cover it.’

      Malone stood up, switched off the recorder. ‘I’m sorry, Delia.’

      She looked up at him. ‘For what?’

      He left that unanswered.

      4

      He went home in gathering darkness that suited his mood. He always looked forward to coming home to the house in Randwick; he valued home, like a comforting mental condition. It wasn’t just the love he found there under the Federation gables but the normality; when he stepped in the front door and closed it behind him he was shutting out Crime, with a capital C. Not that Crime in today’s world was abnormal. It was just that, most days, he didn’t have to bring it home with him.

      ‘Another bad day?’ said Lisa as he kissed her cheek.

      Women, he was convinced, were born with antennae hidden somewhere in their secret skulls. ‘What about you?’

      She had worked for the past three years as a public relations officer at Town Hall. Her original assignment had been with the Olympics, but that long headache was now past; the Olympics had been a success, two weeks of excitement and euphoria, and now the city was slowly and reluctantly adjusting to the downturn in the boom. Like the post-coital blues, she had described it to him, though she had never put that in one of her press releases.

      She was at the fridge, taking out the beef burgundy she had prepared last night. ‘Half an hour to dinner. I just have to heat everything. Open the wine.’

      They were alone in the kitchen. This was family night. Claire and her husband Jason, Maureen and Tom would all be here for dinner. Claire had been married a year; Maureen had moved out to live with two girlfriends earlier this year; Tom, who loved a new girl every week but loved his mother’s cooking more, was still living at home. Malone knew how fortunate he was to have a family that was not dysfunctional.

      ‘Nobody’s here yet?’

      ‘No. You want to shower before they arrive? Tom rang to say he’s on his way.’ Tom was in his last year of Economics at university. ‘He had a date with his tutor.’

      ‘A date with his tutor?’

      ‘She’s twenty-eight and a dish, he says. I don’t think he’s doing market research with her. Or maybe he is. Move over.’

      He shifted along the kitchen bench to make room as she put vegetables into a pot. He picked up one of the two bottles of red wine, then put it down, folded his arms and leaned back against the bench. At ease – like hell: ‘I met an old girlfriend today.’

      ‘Which one?’ Sounding as if he had told her he had met an old pet dog. Or bitch.

      ‘Delia Bates.’

      Then she looked at him, her hands about to open a bag of rice. ‘Ah.’

      ‘That all you have to say?’

      ‘Till I hear what else you’re going to say.’

      Women: they could weave barbed wire out of words. ‘We’re holding her for homicide. She stabbed her husband this morning.’

      She cut the bag of rice, with a knife. ‘Will she get off?’

      ‘I dunno. They’re pleading self-defence.’

      ‘How did she feel? I mean, you arresting her?’

      ‘I didn’t take her in. Phil Truach did that. I interviewed her. She won’t talk to anyone but me.’

      ‘That must have been nice.’ She poured the rice into a dry saucepan, white B-B bullets that hit the metal with a clatter. She put down the knife, a long-bladed kitchen knife with blood on it. ‘Or was it uncomfortable? I would have been if I’d been there.’

      ‘You weren’t there! I’m more uncomfortable right now. Christ, darl, imagine how I felt –’

      ‘I am.’ She put the saucepan down on the bench, gave him her full attention. ‘She was in love with you, once.’

      ‘Christ, what a memory!’ Foolishly, he was getting angry. ‘Twenty-five years ago.’

      Delia had