Endpeace

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Endpeace
Jon Cleary

ENDPEACE is a 1996 novel from award-winning Australian author Jon Cleary. It is the thirteenth book to feature Sydney detective, Scobie Malone. When Scobie attends a dinner party held by a publishing tycoon, he is called upon to find a killer when the tycoon is shot dead during the night.When wealthy newspaper magnate Sir Harry Huxwood is shot dead in his own bed, it is Inspector Scobie Malone’s job to pick up the pieces and name the killer. This means infiltrating the opulent Huxwood residence, Malmaison House, where Lady Phillipa presides over the sprawling Huxwood family and staff – and a veritable vipers’ nest.As Malone investigates he uncovers the stuff of headlines: a forgotten love affair; Fleet Street incomers versus an ex-crim on the make; a family dogfight over potential handouts of fifty million dollars apiece; a silence that has lasted twenty five years. And, making it smell sweeter on the surface, a rose garden to rival Empress Josephine’s.Amidst unwanted interference from his superiors and all the attention attracted by such a high profile case, the pressure is on Malone to come up with the true story, once and for all.

Dedication (#ulink_e772f628-95c7-5d0d-b5ee-801ac7644edc)

For

Natascia and Vanessa

Benjamin and Isabel

* family *

Contents

Cover (#u7c8d13ed-a2ae-586f-9c89-7aa6e3778cf1)

Title Page (#u0ccb016c-65e9-53c9-b052-890ec609adb6)

Dedication (#ulink_94ecca05-6937-5700-9bfb-e313d0f11c0a)

Chapter One (#ulink_fbb3d8d7-27c2-58f8-bedf-bc925f7a1cb3)

Chapter Two (#ulink_7543f5be-065c-56c7-8fe9-a6f44439337e)

Chapter Three (#ulink_21bb5382-a282-5345-8749-4e65f5e1553f)

Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Keep Reading (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)

Also by the Author (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter One (#ulink_9ae9ab6d-39f1-57ce-bef8-ccdd5b452c67)

1

Malone felt distinctly uncomfortable at this big table in this big house, but no one would have known it; he had the relaxed air of a veteran police officer on the take. Of the eighteen people at dinner ten were family; the Huxwood family in itself was enough to intimidate any outsider. Added to them were the State Premier and his wife; a business tycoon and his wife; and the guests of honour, the British cabinet minister and his wife. Plus Malone himself and, the light at the far end of the table, his wife Lisa.

The cabinet minister’s wife, a large, good-looking woman who had once played goalkeeper or front row for Roedean, whatever that was and she hadn’t bothered to explain, was seated next to Malone. ‘My husband has never forgiven you for what you did to him all those years ago.’ She had a large voice which turned heads all the way down the table in her direction; it was said that she was the only woman in Britain who had been able to stop Baroness Thatcher when the latter was in full flow. ‘Isn’t that so, Ivor?’

Before Ivor could reply, Lady Huxwood looked at Malone; up till now she had virtually ignored him. ‘You arrested Mr Supple?’

‘No,’ said Supple hastily, before another scandal could be added to the long list of British cabinet indiscretions. ‘My wife exaggerates, Scobie. I only felt like that till I retired from cricket.’

‘Twelve years,’ said his wife. ‘A long time to be unforgiving.’

‘Not in this country,’ said the Premier, who had the scars in his back to prove it.

At the far end of the table, seated next to Lisa, Derek Huxwood was grinning evilly. ‘Twenty-two years ago,’ he explained to the other guests, ‘Ivor was one of the stars of the English Test team when they came out here on tour. In the match against New South Wales Scobie clean-bowled him for a duck first ball in each innings. The one and only time in his life that Ivor ever got a pair.’

Phillipa Huxwood favoured Malone with another look. ‘Now I understand why Derek invited you, Mr Malone. I had no idea who you were.’

Derek’s mother was in her seventies and from infancy had been treading on other people’s feelings. Bone-thin, her once-patrician looks had deteriorated into gauntness, but there were hints, like the odd leaves on a dying tree, of the beauty she had once been. Short-sighted but too vain to wear glasses and unable to tolerate contact lenses, she leaned close to everyone she spoke to, so that her unwitting insults had an extra impact. She was now examining Malone closely and he returned her gaze. He had been examined and insulted by the best of lawyers and criminals.

‘Are you still cricketing? You look much too old for that.’

‘I retired years ago. I’m a police officer, a detective-inspector in Homicide.’

Nigel Huxwood, seated halfway down the table, put his head forward, said in his English voice, ‘Homicide, really? In the UK I played detectives in several films, half a dozen times on television. Producers thought I had that unflappable look. I’m just as flappable in real life as the rest of us. Except Derek, of course,’ he said and looked sideways across the table at his brother, a theatrical look that convinced Malone that Nigel must have been a bad actor. Or a bad detective.

At the head of the table Sir Harry, all famous distinction and charm, smiled at Lisa. ‘What’s it like being married to a policeman, Mrs Malone?’

Lisa had been asked that question so many times, but she paused now as if hearing it for the first time. ‘Boring. And worrying. But it’s what my husband wants to do ...’ She smiled down the table at Malone, telling him, Let’s go home before I commit homicide on this crowd. They could read each other’s eyes where others saw only blank stares. ‘Does Lady Huxwood enjoy your being a newspaper publisher?’

‘I’ve never asked her,’ he said, still smiling; he was a constantly good-humoured man, or gave the impression of being one. He raised his voice, repeating the question to his distant wife.

‘Of course!’ She sounded indignant at being asked. ‘All wives should enjoy what their husbands do. I’m no damned feminist!’ She glared around the table, daring any feminist to speak up; but there were no takers. ‘What about you, Enid? Do you enjoy being the Premier’s wife?’

Mrs Bigelow jumped, surprised that her opinion might count; she was a tiny blonde with a lovely smile that she seemed afraid to display. She smiled now, weakly: ‘I’m just background. It’s where I like to be.’ Then her smile brightened as she turned it on her husband, but he just scowled.

‘What about you, Beatrice? You enjoy politics, don’t you?’

Beatrice Supple, whether she enjoyed politics or not, knew how to handle dragons like Lady Huxwood; Britain, or anyway England, had its share of them. ‘Ivor and I agree to disagree. He belongs to the MCC, I campaign against it because it treats women as third-class citizens. He’s RC, I’m Anglican –’

‘Is there any difference these days?’ said Derek.

The talk went on through the remaining courses. Malone, no stranger to a good meal under Lisa’s care, was still impressed by what was put in front of him by the butler and the single waiter. There had been six courses and four wines before Lady Huxwood rose and announced, ‘We ladies will have coffee in the drawing-room.’

Malone’s look of astonishment must have been conspicuous, or perhaps Lisa was the only one who saw it. She smiled at him from faraway and disappeared with the ladies.

Then he was aware of Derek Huxwood standing above him. ‘Don’t mind my dear old mum, Scobie. She hasn’t turned a page on a calendar since 1900. She’s hoping the death of Queen Victoria is just a rumour.’

Malone, a man not given to team reunions, had caught only glimpses of Huxwood over the last twenty years. Huxwood was six years older than Malone, had been the State captain and Malone’s mentor; he had been handsome and lissom and elegant to watch at bat. Now he had put on weight and the once-sharp and jovial eyes had dulled. The black mane of hair was now iron-grey and was cut short in what used to be called a crew-cut but was now, at least by the homophobes in the police service, called a queer-cut. The years had given Derek Huxwood no credit, he looked already on the far cusp of middle age. Only the mouth had not changed: there was still the whimsical smile that was only just short of a sneer.

‘You want one of these?’ He offered a box of cigars. ‘I seem to remember you never smoked?’

‘Still don’t. Why did you invite me tonight, Derek?’

‘Mischief.’ He smiled, then shook his head. He lit his cigar, then went on, ‘No, that’s not true. I think I was looking for a memory of the good old days. Don’t you feel like that occasionally? Lost youth, all that?’

Before Malone could answer, they were joined by the Premier. Bevan Bigelow was a short square man with a blond cowlick always falling down over one eye; it gave him a boyish look, which fooled some voters into thinking he might have more than the usual politician’s quota of principles. Unfortunately his principles were as pliable as a licorice-stick in hot weather; he was all ears to all men and was known in the press gallery as Bev the Obvious. Three years before he had been chosen by the conservative Coalition government as its stop-gap leader and was still leader only because better men were still cutting each other’s throats in their efforts to replace him. There was an election in six days’ time and if the Coalition lost he was gone.

‘I hear you’ve got trouble, Derek. Anything I can do to help?’

Huxwood half-shut one eye, but Malone was sure it was not due to the smoke from his cigar. ‘No broadcasting, Bevan old chap. Okay?’

Bigelow appeared to recognize he had been perhaps too obvious. He looked at Malone as if the latter might be enemy: a newspaperman, for instance. But he knew that Malone was police: they could be just as bad. ‘What do you know, Inspector?’

‘Nothing,’ said Malone and looked at Huxwood for enlightenment, but got none.

Then Ivor Supple came down to Malone’s end of the table and drew him aside, pulling out a chair and sitting down so that they faced each other. ‘I couldn’t have been more pleased when I saw you here tonight, Scobie. I mean that.’

‘Lost youth, all that?’ Then he grinned. ‘Derek has just been telling me that’s why I was invited. It’s all behind us, Ivor. My thirteen-year-old son tries to get me to talk about it, but, I dunno, it’s like trying to catch smoke. What you’re doing now must be more interesting?’

Supple shrugged. ‘Maybe more interesting but not as pleasurable. Sometimes I doze off in the Commons and wonder why I ever got into politics. You’re right about the lost youth and all that. In retrospect all those seasons seem to have been one long golden summer. They like that for you?’

Malone nodded. ‘They weren’t, of course. Why are you out here now? Talking to them down in Canberra?’

‘Only informally. My wife is here on business and I’m just tagging along. The baggage man.’

‘I didn’t know she was a businesswoman. Sorry, I shouldn’t sound surprised –’

‘Don’t worry, old chap. Our generation didn’t know what a businesswoman was. I didn’t know what a woman politician was till I stood up against Boadicea Thatcher. She skittled me first ball, just like you did.’

Supple was tall and thin with an almost ingenuous smile. Malone was not sure what post he had in the new British cabinet, but he was certain that Supple would be popular with both voters and party members. He was equally certain that Supple would never be Prime Minister: nice guys who dozed off in the Commons dreaming of long-ago summers never made it to the top. Supple had been like that as a batsman: one minute thrashing the bowlers to all corners of the field, the next dreamily losing concentration and getting out to a ball that really hadn’t challenged him.

‘What does your wife do?’

Supple looked up as Derek Huxwood put his hand on his shoulder. ‘I see you for a moment, Ivor? Excuse us, Scobie.’

It was polite, yet Malone abruptly felt shut out. His temper rose and for a moment he was tempted to go looking for Lisa and walk out. Then Supple’s vacated chair was taken by a florid-faced man who had arrived at the dinner table just as the party sat down.

‘I’m Ned Custer, one of the sons-in-law. Sheila’s husband. You’re the outsider, right?’

Where did this family learn all its insults? ‘You could say that. I feel like a Jew at a Muslim picnic.’

Custer’s laugh was full-bodied, genuine. He was not quite as tall as Malone and much thicker; what had once been muscle had softened into fat. Malone recognized him now: a corporation lawyer who had once been a prominent rugby forward. Twenty years ago he had led death-or-glory charges that had earned him the nickname Rhino. He had thinning hair that, perhaps influenced by his cheeks and scalp, looked pink; small, very bright blue eyes; and a wide hard mouth that didn’t look as if it should emit such a jolly laugh. He appeared friendly, however, and Malone relaxed back in his chair, took a sip of the port that he had poured for himself.

‘The Huxwoods have always been like that. I was an outsider right up till the day I married Sheila.’ He seemed remarkably confidential for a lawyer, thought Malone; but maybe that was a policeman’s suspicion. ‘In a country as young as ours, they rank as Old Society. They didn’t get here with the First Fleet, but the way they tell it, they were standing on the quay when the ships sailed.’

‘You don’t like them, do you?’ Malone said it carelessly, as if it were a joke.

‘I’ve never understood them, that’s the truth. Not even after three years in the bosom ... I’m Sheila’s second husband ... Ah, here’s my friend Enrico. The other – what do you register as, Enrico? The de facto in-law? The partner-in-law?’

Only then did Malone recognize that Custer was more than half-drunk.

Enrico Quental was a short, handsome man who, Malone immediately decided, was another outsider. When introduced to him earlier, he had assumed that Quental was the husband of Linden, the younger of the Huxwood daughters; whatever he was, he was quiet, withdrawn yet dignified. Malone could not remember hearing him utter a word during dinner. He had applied himself to what was placed before him with all the concentration of a food critic and Malone wondered if that was what he was. Sydney, Lisa had told him, now had more food critics than restaurants.

‘Partner is the word, Ned. It covers a multitude of sins.’ He had a slight accent, but his English sounded excellent. He smiled at Malone. ‘Are you here in an official capacity, Inspector?’

‘I hope not. I’m in Homicide.’

‘Oh, there’s murder all the time around here,’ said Custer, downing his port in one gulp and reaching for the decanter. ‘Verbal homicide. Am I right, Enrico?’

Malone wondered why a police officer, from any squad, should be expected here at the Huxwoods’. But there were currents in this big house swirling beneath the surface; he was suddenly aware of them as if his feet were being swept from beneath him.

Then Derek Huxwood reappeared and Malone had an abrupt image: he’s riding herd on me. ‘Time we went in to join the ladies, chaps.’

‘A little soon, isn’t it?’ Custer held up his newly-filled glass. ‘I’m still to starboard of the port.’

‘Save it for next time, Ned. Tell the Old Man, Enrico, that we’re going in. He’s likely to sit there all night talking to Bev. He thinks politicians are interesting.’

‘Can I be trusted to deliver the message?’ But Quental smiled as he moved away towards Sir Harry.

Derek took Malone’s arm as they moved towards the door of the dining-room. ‘In-laws,’ he said. ‘They can be a problem.’

Malone’s tongue, always straining at its leash, loosened now by four glasses of wine and the glass of port, was blunt: ‘Am I a problem, Derek? I’ve got the feeling you made a mistake inviting us tonight.’

Derek squeezed the elbow. ‘Yes, I did. That’s not meant to be personal. I seem to have made a lot of mistakes lately.’

He glanced sideways at Malone and the latter wondered at the pain in the once-bright eyes.

2

‘We had a dinner party last week at Parliament House,’ said Enid Bigelow. ‘Only when we sat down did I realize all the ladies were members of Alliance Française. So we spoke French all evening. It was fun.’

‘Oh merde,’ said Lady Huxwood, who thought obscenities excusable if in a foreign language. ‘Not for the husbands, I’ll bet. Australian men must be the worst linguists in the world, after the Eskimos. Do police officers these days have to have a second language, Mrs Malone? All this multiculturism.’

‘Only foul language,’ said Lisa. ‘Especially when dealing with the young. I’ve tried to teach my husband Dutch, I’m Dutch-born, but he doesn’t have the ear for it.’

‘Do you speak any other languages?’ Linden seemed the friendliest of the women present; or at least the most relaxed.

‘French and German. And a little Indonesian.’ Lisa was surprised at herself; it was as if she was trying to establish her identity amongst these women. Yet she could not have cared less what they thought of her. ‘I worked on the diplomatic circuit for four years before I met my husband. And I had two years at finishing school in Switzerland.’ She was tempted to say something in French, but it would be a cheap score on the poor Premier’s wife. ‘But the languages I learned there are really not of much value to my children. They’re learning Japanese and Indonesian.’