The Silence

by Susan Allott

  “That’s a shame,” Joe says, looking from Isla to Louisa and back. “That scuppered your plan, didn’t it?”

  Isla rubs at her arms. Sensation is coming back to her fingertips, making them ache.

  “Why are you here, Louisa?” Joe pushes up his shirtsleeves.

  “I thought you’d want the watch back,” Louisa says. “I thought you’d be missing it.”

  “You waited till I got home.”

  “I wanted to see you.”

  “Why? Did you want to needle me?” Spittle flies from his mouth. “Did you want to provoke me? Is that it?”

  Louisa gets up and steps around the coffee table. “I have something to say to you.”

  “What’s that?”

  She stands square before him, chin up, shoulders back. “I loved you for a very long time.”

  He flinches, as if she had slapped him.

  “Decades of my life,” she says. “I gave up everything to come out here with you. I left and came back because you promised you’d change. You said you couldn’t live without me. Remember that? And that was a lie.”

  He draws breath to speak and she steps closer.

  “Don’t even think about denying it. Don’t you dare deny it now.”

  He rocks back onto his heels, away from her.

  “I want to hear you admit it!” Louisa shouts, pushing at his shoulder with the flat of her hand. “I know you aren’t going to tell me what you did to Mandy or where she is. But I want you to admit that you lied to get us back here. And you let me feel guilty for taking the money. For trying to save myself.”

  Joe runs his fingertips over the lines in his face, the grooves between his nose and mouth. He nods.

  “Say it!” Louisa screams at him, pushing at his chest.

  “It’s true,” he says, in a low voice.

  Louisa pushes him again, with both hands this time, and he staggers backward, falling into the armchair behind him. He looks up at her, sparrow-like.

  “It’s true,” he repeats.

  “You bastard.” Louisa kicks at his shins, arms outstretched.

  “Mum.” Isla gets up from the couch. She wants to scream but her lungs won’t fill. “Don’t!”

  Louisa turns and drops her arms. She is dry-eyed, her chest heaving.

  “Leave him alone,” Isla says. She has a loud ringing in her ears. She can barely hear herself. “I’m not going to stand here and watch you attack him.”

  Louisa smooths her dress down, catches her breath. “He’s a liar. Just remember that.” She points at the watch. “He’s been lying for thirty years.”

  Isla sways. Her limbs ache. “Leave him alone.”

  “Come with me,” Louisa says.

  “I think you should leave.”

  “What will it take, Isla? When will you stop defending him?”

  Isla sits again, before she falls. She doesn’t hear the front door click shut, or her mother’s car pull away from the front of the house.

  48

  Sydney, 1997

  Isla gets to Circular Quay as the Manly ferry is docking. She pushes through crowds of commuters, women with toddlers, day trippers. It’s cold and bright, and the water is lit up by the sun. The Opera House gleams on Bennelong Point. She turns her back on it, walks up Argyle Street, and stops on the corner of George Street outside the police station. Sydney’s skyscrapers stand tall before her.

  She pushes through the doors. At the front desk, a female cop has her arms wrapped around a stack of files. A couple of documents start to slide free and she bends her knees to catch them. The phone starts to ring beside her. “Can I help you?” she shouts.

  “I need to see Inspector Perry,” Isla says.

  “What’s it about?”

  “Amanda Mallory.”

  “Who?” She has neat red hair that curls under her chin. “Could you repeat that?”

  “Amanda—” The phone stops ringing and Isla finds she is shouting into a quiet waiting room. She lowers her voice. “It’s regarding Amanda Mallory. Can I speak to Inspector Perry, please?”

  The cop heaves the files back up her chest. “Hang on,” she says, and carries them through to a back office, leaving Isla alone in the waiting area. Through the door she’s left open Isla sees a bank of gray filing cabinets and a corkboard covered in notices. She smells cigarettes and reheated soup. She wants to retch.

  “Miss Green.” Inspector Perry stands before her with his radio hissing at his belt, his freshly clipped mustache. “How can I help you?”

  “I have a few questions,” she says. “Can we talk somewhere more private?”

  He lifts a side panel and nods for her to follow him. They pass more filing cabinets, boxes of paperwork, desks with files stacked across them. At least three telephones are ringing, each at a different pitch. He leads her into a large windowless office and shuts the door.

  “Please sit down,” he says, without looking at her.

  Isla sits down opposite Inspector Perry. His desk is wide and deep. Mahogany trimmed, with a leather inlay. At the far side of the desk is a large black telephone. At the other end, a mountain of paperwork divided by metal trays. His chair is higher than hers, she notes.

  “I wanted to ask about the body,” she says. “The body that was found on the beach here in Sydney thirty years ago.”

  “Yes.” He takes his glasses off and rests them on the table in front of him. “What about it?”

  “Was it Mandy? The body—was it her?”

  “No. The Maroubra body turned out not to be a match for Mrs. Mallory, after all,” he says, with an indifference that Isla does not believe. He returns his glasses to his face. “They were the same age, height, and so forth. But it seems the Maroubra woman had given birth.” He waves his finger at a nonexistent window, as if the beach at Maroubra might be visible beyond the wall. “Mrs. Mallory’s medical records showed she had no children.”

  “Why did you call my dad and tell him you’d found Mandy’s body?”

  “We believed at the time—”

  “You called him before you checked Mandy’s medical records.”

  “We may have been a little hasty.”

  She sits forward in the chair. “You were trying to scare him. You knew you didn’t have Mandy’s body, but you thought you could force a confession.”

  “That’s a strong accusation, Miss Green.” He tugs at his cuffs. “I can assure you that’s not the case.”

  The strip lighting flickers overhead.

  “Are you still searching for a body?”

  “None of the records in New South Wales were a match.”

  “What does that mean?”

  He smiles, as if she were a slow learner. “It means we’re closing the case.”

  She is briefly speechless. Inspector Perry sits back in his seat.

  “Aren’t you searching outside of New South Wales?”

  “No need.”

  “Doesn’t her family want the search to continue? Her husband?”

  “Mr. Mallory believes his wife is alive.”

  She laughs. She doesn’t know if she is relieved or shocked or something else. The case is closed. She can get on a plane, go back to her life.

  “Steve thinks Mandy’s alive?”

  “He made a statement to that effect.”

  “When?”

  “Few days back. He contacted the station with some new information. It seems Mrs. Mallory withdrew funds from a Sydney branch of the Commonwealth Bank early in 1968, shortly after their house was sold. She took a large sum out as a cash withdrawal. We checked the bank records. The amount matches.”

  “How do you know that was Mandy?”

  “Steve had moved away. He didn’t return to Sydney.”

  Isla thinks Inspector Perry is less bored than he appears. There is something sharp behind his weary disinterest. She thinks of Steve, close to tears that day in Ropes Crossing, saying he thought Mandy was dead.

  “Why didn’t Steve mention this before? He seems
to have changed his story.”

  “Miss Green, I’m not sure you understand.” He leans across his desk. “It’s over. Your father is in the clear. I’m grateful to your family for their cooperation. I know it hasn’t been easy.”

  The strip lighting ticks and buzzes. Isla stares at his tower of paperwork. The mahogany and leather of his desk.

  “It’s been a relief to Mrs. Mallory’s family. Her brothers. They’ve accepted that she chooses not to be found.” He spreads his hands out across the desk. “I’m sure your mother will find it a comfort. I heard she was distressed by the police inquiry.”

  “How did you know about that?”

  “Mr. Mallory contacted the station, like I said. He mentioned your visit to his place of work. He was sorry to learn of your mother’s distress.”

  “I see.”

  He smooths his mustache with his fingertips. “With the money she withdrew, Mrs. Mallory could have left the country.” He says it in a fresh tone, smiling, as if she had just walked into the room. “She could have settled overseas, changed her name. I’m sure she’s living life to the full, wherever she is.”

  Isla nods. It’s over. She feels waves rising up, covering her head.

  His radio bursts into life at his belt. “I’ll show you out, Miss Green.”

  Isla stands, pushing her chair away. The radio cuts out, leaving a sharpened quiet where the noise had been. “I’ll see myself out,” she says.

  49

  Sydney, 1997

  Andrea waves at Isla from the beach. She looks radiant, even from this distance, striding through the shallows in gum boots and cutoff jeans, her hair tied up. Her son runs alongside her in the wet sand. Isla waves back, shouts hello, although in honesty she’d been hoping to have the beach to herself. It’s too early for small talk, for the questions about Isla’s parents, the answers to which will be relayed back to Andrea’s parents. The details of Andrea’s perfect life. She wants to walk and think and enjoy the winter morning while the sun is low in the sky.

  “Didn’t know you were sticking around,” Andrea says, shouting over the wind.

  “I didn’t plan to.” Isla stands beside her and looks out to sea. “I’m leaving next week. Back to the grindstone. My boss has filled my diary already.”

  “You good with that?”

  “Don’t know.” She digs her heels into the sand. “Can’t put my life on hold forever, can I?”

  Andrea lets foam wash over her boots. “I was glad to hear Mrs. Mallory’s alive and well.”

  “I know. Such a relief.” Isla smiles. It calms her to breathe the salty air and to think maybe it is as simple as that. She’s alive and well. The questions in her head quiet.

  “I went straight down the station, once I heard the things people were saying,” Andrea says. “I said to Ray, I know I was only a kid, but I was out on my bike all the time, up and down the street. I noticed things, you know?”

  Isla turns to her. “Who’s Ray?”

  “Sorry, the cop. Ray Perry. Inspector Perry, these days.” She leans down and wipes her son’s nose with a balled-up tissue. “My parents know him from way back. He was the local cop when they first moved here.”

  “This is the same cop who’s dealing with Mandy’s case?”

  Andrea nods. “I know he was as shocked as the rest of us, to think something might have happened to her. That’s why he took the case. He wouldn’t normally do the legwork himself.”

  Isla stares back at Andrea. A gull calls out overhead. “Did he know the Mallorys back then?”

  “Ray was Steve’s boss,” Andrea says. “Steve’s been a mess since he left the force apparently. Had a nervous breakdown, spent a bit of time in a mental health unit in the seventies.” She pulls a long face. “Never got over the marriage breakup, Ray reckons.” She crouches down to take a chipped piece of abalone from her son. “That’s nice,” she tells him, turning it over to look at the colors on the inside. “That’s a beautiful shell, my love.”

  “What was it you noticed?” Isla says. She watches the boy run off down the beach, stiff-legged in his red gum boots. “You said you noticed things, when you were out on your bike. What did you notice? I can’t shift this feeling Mandy might be dead.”

  Andrea straightens up. “I saw Mandy leaving,” she says. “She left and started her life over. I saw her go.”

  “When was this?”

  “A few days before my birthday, in March. I remember it was early in the morning and I was out the front of the house by myself. I saw Mandy on the footpath. She waved at me.”

  “This was in ’67?”

  “That’s right. Not long after Steve Mallory buggered off in his big green truck and left his wife standing in the street. That was the talk of Agnes Bay for a while.”

  “But Mandy was leaving that day? You’re sure?”

  “Yep. She stood beside me on the footpath and we chatted while she waited for her taxi. She said she was going to Marlo.”

  “Marlo? Where’s that?”

  “No idea.” Andrea shrugs, pushing strands of hair out of her face. “She didn’t look so good, I remember that. And she was kind of sad, you know? But she said it would all be right when she got to Marlo.”

  “Marlo sounds familiar.” Isla looks out to sea. “Why does Marlo sound familiar?”

  “Probably because I named my cat Marlo. You remember, the ginger tom? We had him for years.”

  “Of course. That’s right.”

  “I got him for my birthday that year, when I turned ten. That’s why it always stayed with me, I guess.”

  “You’re sure the cops know about this?”

  “I went down the station to speak to Ray after your dad’s birthday party,” Andrea says. “There was a bit of gossip that day, once everyone was on the grog. I said to Ray, I was the last one to see Mrs. Mallory, not Joe Green.”

  Isla hunches her shoulders against the wind. “The cops treated my dad as a suspect for weeks after that.”

  “Did they?”

  “They didn’t say you’d seen Mandy leave.”

  “Maybe it’s because I was a kid back then, they think I got it wrong.”

  “Maybe.” A wave wets Isla’s feet and she steps back onto the dry sand. “Do you remember much about Steve Mallory?”

  “I was scared of him.”

  “Were you?”

  “All the kids were. Don’t you remember?” She looks away, distracted by her son and a wet springer spaniel.

  “Yes, I do,” Isla says. “Why d’you think we were scared?”

  “We all thought he was going to bundle us into his truck.” The spaniel runs to the far end of the bay, where its owner is walking toward them, waving a stick. “My mum used to say, he doesn’t take kids from nice families.”

  “Did she?” Isla thinks this might be funny if it were not so unspeakably sad.

  Andrea swoops and picks her child up from the sand, seconds before the spaniel returns, faster and wetter than before. “You can’t take your eyes off them, can you? Not for a minute.” The boy wails in Andrea’s arms.

  Isla smiles and kicks at the sand.

  “We should get back. Good luck in London if I don’t see you.” Andrea turns away, her son crying on her hip.

  Isla walks the full length of the bay, stands a while on the flat boulders at the base of the headland. Then she walks back against the wind, head down, hands deep in her pockets. She lets water soak into her boots. She feels sand and salt in her skin, in her hair. The sun rises in the sky.

  50

  Sydney, 1997

  “Inspector Perry can’t see you right now,” the female cop says, calling out across the waiting room. “Sorry about that.”

  “I can wait,” Isla says.

  “I think he’ll be a while.”

  “I’ve got all day. It’s important.”

  “Is it regarding Mrs. Mallory?” The phone rings on the desk beside her. She lifts the receiver and replaces it. “You were here about her case last w
eek.”

  “That’s right.” Isla recognizes her, bobbed red hair. A look of veiled exasperation.

  “The case is closed,” the cop says. “I was looking at it earlier. We’ve been transferring all our closed cases onto a computer database.”

  Isla holds out her hand. The cop hesitates. Her eyes glance over Isla’s windblown hair.

  “Isla Green,” Isla says, extending her arm across the desk.

  “Sergeant Karen Dent.” She shakes Isla’s hand. “I’m not sure I can help you.”

  “It’s all right. I think I can help you.”

  Sergeant Dent smiles. “How’s that?”

  “I don’t think Mrs. Mallory’s alive.”

  Her smile falters. “Why not?”

  “She followed her husband down south, a week or so after he left. To a town called Marlo, in Victoria. I spoke to my dad about it earlier. He remembers the Mallorys had a beach cabin down there.”

  “Does he?” The cop lifts her eyebrows. “Is he claiming to have witnessed Mrs. Mallory leaving?”

  “No. But my neighbor did. She spoke to Mandy as she waited for a taxi.”

  Sergeant Dent nods. “A woman called Andrea? Would have been nine or ten at the time?”

  “That’s right.”

  The cop breathes in, displaying great patience. “I don’t think she could recall the exact date she saw Mrs. Mallory.”

  “It was a few days before her tenth birthday. Doesn’t that narrow it down?”

  “Do you remember the days running up to your tenth birthday?”

  Isla leans forward across the desk to relieve the ache in her limbs. Her toes sink into her wet boots. “Mandy told Andrea she was going to Marlo. Andrea got a kitten for her tenth birthday a few days later and named it Marlo. She must have had that cat for twenty years.”

  “I don’t think there’s a mention of her cat in the case notes.”

  Isla looks pointedly at Sergeant Dent until she stops smiling. “So you’re not accepting Andrea’s evidence?”

  “We have evidence Mrs. Mallory is alive. Whether she went to Marlo or somewhere else is irrelevant.”