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men as well as women.”
    She was a slim, blond girl who looked even slimmer in the dark blue police blouson and slacks. She had been a ballet dancer and occasionally she had a slightly fey look to her, as if adrift on Swan Lake. But she could gather evidence like a suction pump and Malone knew that Sam Penfold prized her as one of his team.
    â€œI’ve come up with something on that window-sill, though. A distinctive print and Mrs. Rohani remembers the man it belongs to.” She led Malone to the window, pointed to the sill that had been powdered. “Four fingers, the tip of the third finger missing—he must of leaned on the sill as he looked out. Mrs. Rohani remembers him being interested in looking across at Olympic Tower, though she says he wasn’t the first and he probably won’t be the last.”
    Malone turned back to the owner. “What was he like? When did he come in?”
    â€œThree—no, four days ago. Man about forty, my height, on the stout side but not much. That was why he was here, wanted his pants taken out. Brought ‘em in last week—” She took a puffer out of her handbag, sucked on it. She was an asthmatic: the situation had taken the breath out of her. She put the puffer away, went on, “He came in four days ago to pick ‘em up. Both times he walked across to the window, said how much he admired Olympic Tower. Said he used to be an architect. If he was, he couldn’t of been too successful. His pants were fifty-five dollars off the rack at Gowings. People come in here, I know more about ‘em than the census-taker.”
    Malone wondered what she thought of him in the Fletcher Jones blazer and polyester-and-wool trousers bought at a sale, his usual shopping time, three hundred dollars the lot, free belt and socks. Did she guess he turned lights out when people were not using them, just lying there, thinking?
    â€œWe’ll need a list of all your clients for the past month,” said Clements.
    Mrs. Rohani looked dubious. “Ooh, I dunno. I’ve got some prominent people, they come in here, they don’t want it known they’re having alterations. You know, their hips have spread, the men’s bellies have got bigger—”
    â€œI’ll know where to come,” said Clements. “But in the meantime we need that list. We don’t put confidential information on the Internet—”
    â€œWomen as well as men clients?”
    â€œEveryone. Their names and addresses. Particularly that man with the fingerprints on the window-sill.”
    â€œHow long will it take you to trace him if he has form?” Malone asked Penfold.
    â€œOnce back at the computer, six minutes, anywhere in Australia.”
    Malone, a technological idiot, marvelled at the way the world was going. “Remember the old days?”
    Then his pager buzzed. “May I use your phone, Mrs. Rohani?”
    He crossed to the phone on a nearby desk, dialled Homicide. He listened to Andy Graham, the duty officer, then hung up and looked at Clements and the other two officers.
    â€œThe Premier’s dead. He died twenty minutes ago on the operating table.”
    Mrs. Rohani took out her puffer again, sucked hard on it. Malone had a sudden feeling that air had been sucked out of the city.

2
    I
    CLAIRE RANG next morning at 7.15. “I’ve just heard the news on the radio. The Premier—it’s unbelievable!”
    â€œIt’s a shock,” said Malone, but didn’t sound as if it was too much of a shock. He was not callous, but he had grown accustomed to murder and the circumstances of it. “It’s going to shake things up a bit.”
    â€œIs it what!” Then she said, and he caught the cautious note in her voice: “Are you on the case?”
    â€œYes. Why?” She said nothing and he got impatient with her: “Come on, Claire! Why are you asking?”
    â€œHaven’t I always asked?”
    Women