The Bear Pit by Jon Cleary

that may turn up something. A man who was in the shop from where the shot was fired, he was there twice this past week admiring the view from the window. We’re trying to trace him. I expect to hear from Fingerprints this morning if he’s got any record.”
    â€œHave you started questioning anyone yet?”
    A few loose words slipped out: “Macquarie Street, sir? Sussex Street?”
    â€œOh Gawd,” said Charlie Hassett and six other Assistant Commissioners gave him silent echo.
    Commissioner Zanuch was not entirely humourless. “Inspector Malone, let us fear not to tread, but nonetheless, let us tread. Carefully, if you can.”
    â€œYes, sir.” Malone felt every eye in the room was on him. “I think I’d rather be in Tibooburra.” The back of beyond in the Service.
    â€œWouldn’t we all.”
    The Commissioner was enjoying the situation; over the next few days his Police Service would be the power in the land. The Government would be fighting its war of succession; the Opposition, seeking backs to stab, suddenly looked up and saw opportunity on the other side of the Assembly. Murder creates a vacuum, no matter how small and for how short a time. The vacuum now was large and Commissioner Zanuch stepped into it, secure that he was the tenant by right.
    â€œStrike force will be set up, unlimited personnel. Call in all the men you want,” he told Hassett.
    â€œWhat about us?” asked the Assistant Commissioner, Commander Administration, and all his colleagues nodded.
    â€œ We’re united on this,” said Zanuch. “A team. This is political—or it’s going to be. I presume you’ve all got your political contacts?”
    All the Assistant Commissioners looked at each other before they all nodded. None of them had achieved his rank by virgin birth. The net of political contacts in the room could have strangled a purer democracy than that of the State in which they served. They were honest men but they knew from long experience that honesty was a workable policy, not necessarily the best.
    â€œWork those contacts. If you come up with anything, pass it on to Charlie. What shall we call the task force? We have to give it a name for the media—they love labels. They don’t know how to handle anything that’s anonymous.”
    â€œHow about Gold Medal?” The Assistant Commissioner, VIP Security Services, was a humourist, sour as a lemon. With VIPs, a breed that never diminished, it was difficult to be good-humoured.
    â€œThat will only rile the Opposition,” said the Assistant Commissioner, Internal Affairs. “They could be our bosses in two months.”
    â€œLet’s be brutal,” said the Commissioner. “We’ll call it Nemesis.”
    â€œThe TV reporters will ask us what that means.”
    â€œTell ‘em it means their channel bosses,” said Charlie Hassett and everyone laughed.
    The meeting rolled on and at last Random and Malone were released. They said nothing to each other as they went down in the lift, but as they walked out into the glare of the January day Random said sombrely and unexpectedly, “We’ll miss The Dutchman.”
    Malone looked across the street to Hyde Park, where old men played chess and draughts on tables beneath trees. Kibitzers stood behind them, offering advice, like retired minders. Hans Vanderberg had gone before retirement had consigned him to a bench somewhere, playing old games in his mind, surrounded by ghosts he had defeated with every move.
    â€œWhere will you set up the Incident Room?”
    â€œAt Police Centre. I’ll move in there, you report to me direct. Where are you going to start?”
    â€œ I don’t know, depends what they have for me when I get back to the office.” He sighed. “Wouldn’t it be nice to be on holiday right now? Walking the streets of Helsinki.”
    â€œWhy Helsinki?”
    â€œCan you