Free Autumn Maze by Jon Cleary Page B

here at Homicide. “You must have expected me.”
    â€œIt crossed my mind,” said Malone. “Who suggested it? AC Zanuch? Or the Minister?”
    â€œIt was my own idea. Get on with it.”
    There were six Homicide staff at the conference, plus two detectives from The Rocks and two from Campsie. Malone introduced the outsiders to Random, then nodded to Clements to open the meeting.
    â€œSo far we haven’t got out of the barrier,” said the big man. “The missing corpse has turned up, or part of it. But we still dunno who he is or where he came from.”
    â€œThere’s nothing in Missing Persons,” said Peta Smith. She was sitting with her knees together, her longish skirt covering them, giving the newcomers from The Rocks and Campsie no opportunity to appreciate her good legs. “It’s early days yet. Maybe so far nobody’s missed him. Andy Graham is keeping an eye out.”
    â€œSomeone, somewhere, is going to miss him soon,” said Malone. “You think he came from your area, Mick?”
    Mick Griffin was one of the Campsie detectives, a young redheaded giant who on Saturday afternoons, when he wasn’t throwing his weight at crims, threw the discus in inter-district athletic meetings. “I don’t think he came from around our way, Inspector. We’ve been to all the pubs and clubs and showed the photos of him taken when he was found by the river. Nobody could tell us anything. We’ve talked to the girls on the beat on Canterbury Road, we thought he might of been an outsider trying to muscle in on the pimps there, but they told us there’s been no trouble for months.”
    â€œHe doesn’t have to have had a record,” said John Kagal.
    â€œNo,” said Malone, “but I’ll bet Sydney to a brick that whoever did him and young Sweden in has a record. Or if he hasn’t, he’s building up to one. This isn’t a domestic, these two were killed by a pro. Have you dug up anything in young Sweden’s flat?”
    â€œI went out to Edgecliff yesterday afternoon,” said Kagal. “His flat is in one of the older blocks out there, but nicely furnished. Looks like he went for the good things. His car is a BMW 525, we found it yesterday morning still down in the garage of The Wharf.”
    â€œWhat did you find at his flat?”
    â€œThese.” Kagal emptied a large plastic envelope on to the table round which they sat. “There was a lot of the usual stuff in the closets and drawers—there were ten suits, for instance. All imported stuff, Italian.” Kagal sounded envious. “Zegna, Armani.”
    â€œThey’re expensive, right?” Malone bought his home-grown wardrobe off the rack at Fletcher Jones or Gowings, usually at sale time.
    â€œEven I know that,” said Clements, another poor fashion-plate.
    â€œCould we get off the style notes?” said Random. “What you’re saying, John, is this man lived above his means?”
    â€œNot necessarily,” said Malone, getting in first. “He made sixty thousand a year, plus bonuses. He could’ve spent every cent of it. Young fellers do.”
    The young fellers around the table shifted uneasily. Kagal went on, “He must have liked the ladies—his bedside drawer had enough condoms in it to cover every cock in the eastern suburbs. Sorry, Peta.”
    She said nothing, but Malone said, “Nicely put, John. Just don’t put it on the computer. Go on.”
    â€œThere are these American Express card account statements. He made a trip to Manila last month, stayed at the Manila Plaza, that’s a five-star hotel.”
    â€œHe could’ve gone there for his firm.”
    â€œYes, except I checked the dates. He flew out on the Friday night, came back on the Sunday. I rang Casement’s, they said they’d never sent him overseas on business.”
    â€œCould he have gone on one of those sex