doubted it: somebodies didn’t have tattoos on their behinds.
“If she is, you still hush it up,” said Brigid Malone, her Irish logic breaking out like a rash tonight. “You hush up so many things. I don’t mean you. The police. You’ve never told us yet why you went to London that time.”
Malone felt Lisa look at him: he had never told her, either. “That was security business.”
“I don’t believe in security,” said Con Malone, a revolutionary from the age of ten. “In a real democracy there oughta be no secrecy.”
“In an Irish democracy there wouldn’t be,” said Malone, just beginning to be irritated. “Not with the Irish gabbiness.
Look, we’ll find out who this girl is. It may take us a while, but we’ll find out. And when we do, she won’t be pigeonholed. We’ll find out who killed her.”
Then the phone rang. Malone had had the phone put in when he had first joined the police force and when he left to live on his own he had insisted that it would remain in the house and he would continue to pay for it; it was another link with his parents and religiously he called them every day, as if to compensate for the disappointment he knew he had caused them when he had walked out to live alone. He got up now and went out into the narrow hallway in which the phone clamoured with what seemed twice the noise of phones elsewhere. When he lifted the phone, stilling the ringing, he noticed that the row next door had abruptly ceased. He could imagine the battling couple taking time out to press their ears against the wall.
Clements was on the other end of the line. “Scobie? We’re making a bit of progress. She was clean as far as we are concerned, nothing on her in the records. But that dry-cleaning tab, it belongs to a company that operates in the eastern suburbs, from Bondi back to the harbour. That should place where she lived.”
“Good,” said Malone, unimpressed. He had never yet met a case where some progress was not made, but that didn’t mean it would be solved. “What else?”
“Looks like she’s some sort of European, or she’s lived over there. Germany, the dentist thinks. The doc down at the morgue had a good look at her, then called in the dentist. She’s got what he called a jam-tin cap on one of her teeth. It’s a pretty cheap sort of cap and evidently they used it a lot in Europe up till a while ago.”
“What about her fingerprints?” Malone kept his voice to a whisper; he could almost hear the heavy breathing on the other side of the wall. “You get a good set?”
“Beaut,” said Clements. “Soon’s I heard the dentist say she
might be a European, I bunged a set off to Melbourne. They are already on the way to Interpol. Pity we gotta waste time routing the stuff through Melbourne, though.”
Malone clucked sympathetically, not being as parochial-minded as Clements. The Victorian Commissioner of Police was the Interpol representative in Australia and all other State forces had to work through him when requesting Interpol co-operation. It rankled with certain New South Wales men, who considered their own service far superior to that in any other State. Clements, in his own way, was as narrow-minded and bigoted as Con and Brigid Malone.
Malone said goodnight to Clements and hung up. He stared at the wall in front of him, then knocked loudly on it. “Righto! You can start fighting again!”
Then he thought, I’ll never leave here. No matter where I go, even if I finish up as Commissioner, there’ll still be a bit of Erskineville in me. And how will Lisa react to that? He stood a moment longer, regretting his shout of good-humoured abuse. He had felt no shame or embarrassment at bringing Lisa here to his old home; there had never been any snobbish awkwardness about his beginnings. Police work had taught him the impossibility of hiding your origins; the next few days would prove that when they learned where this morning’s dead girl had begun her life. But
“If she is, you still hush it up,” said Brigid Malone, her Irish logic breaking out like a rash tonight. “You hush up so many things. I don’t mean you. The police. You’ve never told us yet why you went to London that time.”
Malone felt Lisa look at him: he had never told her, either. “That was security business.”
“I don’t believe in security,” said Con Malone, a revolutionary from the age of ten. “In a real democracy there oughta be no secrecy.”
“In an Irish democracy there wouldn’t be,” said Malone, just beginning to be irritated. “Not with the Irish gabbiness.
Look, we’ll find out who this girl is. It may take us a while, but we’ll find out. And when we do, she won’t be pigeonholed. We’ll find out who killed her.”
Then the phone rang. Malone had had the phone put in when he had first joined the police force and when he left to live on his own he had insisted that it would remain in the house and he would continue to pay for it; it was another link with his parents and religiously he called them every day, as if to compensate for the disappointment he knew he had caused them when he had walked out to live alone. He got up now and went out into the narrow hallway in which the phone clamoured with what seemed twice the noise of phones elsewhere. When he lifted the phone, stilling the ringing, he noticed that the row next door had abruptly ceased. He could imagine the battling couple taking time out to press their ears against the wall.
Clements was on the other end of the line. “Scobie? We’re making a bit of progress. She was clean as far as we are concerned, nothing on her in the records. But that dry-cleaning tab, it belongs to a company that operates in the eastern suburbs, from Bondi back to the harbour. That should place where she lived.”
“Good,” said Malone, unimpressed. He had never yet met a case where some progress was not made, but that didn’t mean it would be solved. “What else?”
“Looks like she’s some sort of European, or she’s lived over there. Germany, the dentist thinks. The doc down at the morgue had a good look at her, then called in the dentist. She’s got what he called a jam-tin cap on one of her teeth. It’s a pretty cheap sort of cap and evidently they used it a lot in Europe up till a while ago.”
“What about her fingerprints?” Malone kept his voice to a whisper; he could almost hear the heavy breathing on the other side of the wall. “You get a good set?”
“Beaut,” said Clements. “Soon’s I heard the dentist say she
might be a European, I bunged a set off to Melbourne. They are already on the way to Interpol. Pity we gotta waste time routing the stuff through Melbourne, though.”
Malone clucked sympathetically, not being as parochial-minded as Clements. The Victorian Commissioner of Police was the Interpol representative in Australia and all other State forces had to work through him when requesting Interpol co-operation. It rankled with certain New South Wales men, who considered their own service far superior to that in any other State. Clements, in his own way, was as narrow-minded and bigoted as Con and Brigid Malone.
Malone said goodnight to Clements and hung up. He stared at the wall in front of him, then knocked loudly on it. “Righto! You can start fighting again!”
Then he thought, I’ll never leave here. No matter where I go, even if I finish up as Commissioner, there’ll still be a bit of Erskineville in me. And how will Lisa react to that? He stood a moment longer, regretting his shout of good-humoured abuse. He had felt no shame or embarrassment at bringing Lisa here to his old home; there had never been any snobbish awkwardness about his beginnings. Police work had taught him the impossibility of hiding your origins; the next few days would prove that when they learned where this morning’s dead girl had begun her life. But
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