The Silence

by Susan Allott

  “You’re prepared to accept Mandy withdrew that cash from the Commonwealth Bank in ’68?”

  “I have no reason to question that.”

  “Did you check it out yourself?”

  “No.” Sergeant Dent shifts her weight from one foot to the other.

  “Mandy didn’t withdraw that money.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “She didn’t have a job. She had no money of her own. It’s unlikely she had joint access to her husband’s bank account.” Isla straightens up. She thinks of her mother, standing in the rain. “I think Steve Mallory’s lying.”

  “The case is closed.” There is hesitation in her voice. A chime of doubt.

  “I’m sure your case notes are very thorough,” Isla says. “I’m sure there’s a record of that withdrawal. And a confirmation from the bank that it was a joint account.”

  Sergeant Dent presses her lips together. The telephone rings in the office behind her. Someone laughs.

  “Shall I tell you something I found interesting in Mrs. Mallory’s case notes?” She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “I typed up an interview with your father that took place a couple of weeks ago, after a body was found that appeared to match Mrs. Mallory’s profile.”

  “It didn’t match her profile,” Isla says.

  “But you’re aware of the interview that took place?”

  “Sure.”

  “Are you aware your father stated, before his lawyer intervened, that he had some memory loss around the time of Mrs. Mallory’s disappearance due to his alcoholism? He isn’t sure, on reflection, that Mrs. Mallory went down to Victoria with her husband.”

  Isla nods. She feels a rush of fear.

  “He has some recollection of being with Mrs. Mallory in her home after her husband left. He admits he didn’t take it well when she lost interest in him. And he admits he had a spare key that he used to access her home uninvited.”

  Isla steps back from the desk. She runs her hands through the gritty roots of her hair.

  “I imagine your father didn’t mention that to you.”

  Isla shakes her head.

  “His lawyer stopped him, of course. We didn’t get a confession. And without a body it might be difficult to convict.” She tilts her head. “Are you all right, Miss Green?”

  Isla feels the movement of waves, lifting her up and pulling her under. She needs to lie down.

  “Can I get you a glass of water?”

  “No, thanks.” She waits for the room to realign itself. She puts her palms down flat on the desk. “I think you should reopen the case.”

  “Your father would remain a suspect if we did that.”

  “I’m not here because I think my dad’s innocent,” Isla says. “I’m here because a woman is dead.”

  Sergeant Dent frowns at her. Isla rocks in her damp boots. She feels a little better.

  “We need to think of our resources,” the cop says. “We’d need to reallocate personnel.”

  “Maybe you could find someone who isn’t an old mate of Steve Mallory to lead on the case.”

  The cop’s skin flares red at her neck. “What did you say?”

  “I think you heard me.”

  The blush spreads across her face. “I’m afraid I have to get back to work.”

  “Are you going to reopen the case?”

  “Unlikely.” She steps back from the desk. “Maybe it’s time you moved on from this, Miss Green. Better all ’round.”

  Isla lets the door slam shut as she leaves. She walks out onto George Street and heads toward the city, with the Harbour Bridge behind her. Australia Square is set back from the street, its concourse busy with office workers and shoppers, tourists, residents of the luxury apartments above the retail space. From the apartments at the top you can see across the whole city, an unbroken view, her dad told her, back when he was the construction manager in charge of the site and this was the tallest building in Sydney. Isla remembers the opening ceremony: her dad picked her up from school and she stood beside him on the new concourse in the shadow of the tower. The mayor cut a ribbon and talked about the Eora people who once lived here, before there were buildings and streets and traffic. Only a small number survived, he said. It caused a murmur among the crowd, an uncomfortable pause. She doesn’t know why it has stayed with her.

  She passes tables with wide umbrellas above them, people eating sushi and calamari, drinking cold white wine, laughing. She keeps walking.

  51

  Victoria, 1967

  He wished he hadn’t let Mandy hold the boy. She wouldn’t let up sobbing and howling, slapping her hand against the timber floor where she sat with William’s body lain out across her lap. Steve felt nothing. It should have been a comfort to find her at the door, but her presence was more of an irritant. He wished to God she would shut up.

  “I should have come sooner.” She lifted her knees and brought William’s small body to her chest. “There’s three buses a week. I should have left Tuesday. I don’t know why I waited.”

  Steve lifted the curtain and looked out. The waves were dark and low, coming in from the southwest. They’d have a pull on them, he knew. The river was fighting with the current not far from the shore. No surfers risking their necks out there.

  “Tuesday was when he got sick,” he said.

  “Was it?”

  “Same day the police turned up.”

  She sniffed and wiped her face with her sleeve. “What?”

  “You heard me.” He let the curtain drop.

  She sniffed again, and her voice was high. “When did it happen? When did he—?”

  “He was breathing fine when I went to bed last night.” He didn’t look at her. “I always check him when I go to bed.”

  “I know you do.”

  He forced the words out. “He must have died in the night. In the early hours.”

  She got herself to her feet and laid the boy down on the bed. “I wanted to hold him again. I wanted to ask you to forgive me and let me stay.”

  He shook his head at her. “Cover him up.”

  She hesitated, brought her hands to her face. Then she pulled the sheet over William, smoothed it down, stroking the small mound of his head. “What have we done?” She turned to face him. “Steve, what have we done? We were meant to give him a good life.”

  “Don’t!” He shouted it. “Don’t say that! He’d be alive if it weren’t for you.”

  She wiped her face. “What did you say?”

  “I said he’d be alive if it weren’t for you. If you hadn’t gone to the police, I’d have been able to get him to a doctor.”

  Sea spray hit the window behind him. He stepped closer to her.

  “Steve. I didn’t go to the police.”

  “Don’t lie to me.”

  “I’m not lying!”

  He hated the sight of her, wide-eyed and mocking, like he was a fool. “A copper turned up here.” He gestured to the door. “He wanted to take him there and then. He told me”—he saw her flinch as his voice rose—“they got a call from Sydney. Someone called from Sydney and let the police down here know exactly where we were.”

  “It wasn’t me.”

  “Nobody else knew we were here, Mandy. It’s not like this is the first place you’d look, is it?”

  Her eyes changed. “Oh Jesus,” she said.

  “What is it?”

  She looked at her feet. “Oh God.”

  “What?”

  She turned from him and sat down beside William’s body.

  “Did you tell the police, Amanda?”

  “No. But I might have told—”

  “Who?”

  “Nobody.” She covered her face with her hands. “Nobody. I got confused.”

  He stood behind her. She was lying again. He reached out and grabbed a fistful of her hair, jerked her head back so he could see her face. “Who did you tell?”

  “You’re hurting me.” She tried to twist out of his grip. “Le
t go of me, Steve. What are you doing?”

  “Answer my question.”

  She stood up and faced him, gripping his wrist where he had a hold of her hair. “I’ll answer your question when you let go of me,” she said, through her teeth. “And not before.”

  He gave her hair another tug before he let go. Rage surged in him. He stepped closer to her and she backed away. Every fiber of him was ready to blow if she said that name.

  “I think I mentioned it.” She looked at him defiantly, without apology. “I think I might have told Joe.”

  He’d seen that look on her face before, in his own kitchen. A look of remorseless betrayal. He should have dealt with it then. He hit her hard, his fist meeting her face. Harder than he’d hit anyone in his life. Her head flew back and she hit the wall with a thud.

  “Get up,” he said. He stood over her as she slumped to the floor. “I said, get up.”

  She moaned, something low and angry. Still she did not sound sorry. She opened her eyes.

  “Get up, Mandy.”

  She got to her knees. Blood ran from her nose. “You know what, Steve?” She stood and pushed her hair from her face. “You were right. You’re not the good guy.”

  He hit her again with all his strength and she landed hard, cracking her head against the beam. She tried to stand. For a second she stared at him, furious and unrepentant. Then she lost her footing, staggered sideways, and fell to the ground. He stood over her.

  “You have no right speaking to me that way!” He roared into her face as all his rage rose up, years of it, flooding his head, his body. “What makes you think you can speak to me like that?”

  She let out a moan.

  “Are you listening to me, Amanda?” He kicked at her chest, because she always did this. She left him alone when he wanted to talk to her, when he needed her to listen. He never could get through to her. “Will you listen to me, for God’s sake?”

  She did not respond. He kicked her harder, again and again. He wasn’t going to let this drop, not this time. He wanted to fight with her, to finish what they’d started.

  “Mandy?” She was silent and still. He straightened up and caught his breath. The cabin was very quiet. He did not want quiet. He looked down at her and bellowed loud enough to kill the moment, to stop this from being the end.

  “Mandy?”

  He knelt beside her, pushed her hair away from her face. The anger dropped clean out of him, leaving fear in its place, cold and sickening. Her eyes were half open, her lips parted. He held his ear close to her mouth. She might be unconscious, he thought. She might be breathing still.

  “Mand?” He spoke softly, gave her a gentle shake. Blood ran from her ear, down her neck.

  Steve stood, turned away from her, walked the length of the cabin and back. He didn’t want to look at her, lying there with her head slumped forward, her body twisted. He was cold, sweating. He faced the wall and shouted aloud that she shouldn’t have looked at him like that. She should have shown some respect. She had pushed him too far; she had taunted him.

  But the rage had gone. He could no longer recall what she’d said.

  He lay down beside her. It was Joe Green who’d caused this. He should have known. It had been a shock, hearing his name, hearing her say it. It had made him do this terrible thing.

  He held her hand as her blood spilled out across the floor. He closed his eyes.

  The sky was darkening over the ocean. He stood in the sand with William’s body in his arms. Sea spray flew into his face. He’d known, before Mandy turned up, that this was what he would do. The thought had come to him, clear and undeniable, puncturing his grief. He walked out to the rocks where the water was deep and the current turned beneath the surface, kissed the boy, lowered him into the water, and let him go.

  He did not howl at the dark shape of William’s body before it was swept away. He turned his back on the ocean and held on to the horror, pushed it down, because he was not done yet. The rocks were slippery under his boots and he fell, picked himself up, and kept moving, ignoring the pain. There was a job to be done and it was best to get on with it. Get the job done, Steve. It’s not meant to be easy. Who had said that? He reached the sand and a wave hit him from the side, sucking at the shingle as he moved across it. It would be hard to carry her body back up this way, to haul her onto the rocks and let the current take her. To see her pulled under. She never liked the water.

  The wind took his scream away and he leaned into it, kept walking, unsure if he was screaming still. The hardest part of it was that he knew he could do it. The job would be done. He ran the length of the beach and went inside the cabin for his wife.

  52

  New South Wales, 1997

  Isla stops the taxi on the street outside Scott’s double-fronted garage. It’s seven-thirty in the morning and the neighborhood is quiet. Palm trees and ornate gateposts. Not a sound. She’s been awake since five, waiting for the right moment to arrive, to catch him before he leaves but not so early as to irritate. She has rehearsed what she will say and how she will say it. Her heart gallops with nerves and caffeine.

  “Nice place,” the driver says.

  Isla counts bills into his hand, then smiles and nods. Scott’s house is not the grandest in Bellevue Hill, but anyone familiar with the suburb could figure that from his second-floor veranda he has a panoramic view of Rose Bay. They might assume he has a pool at the back of the house and possibly a tennis court. And they would be right.

  She climbs the steps to his front door and rings the bell. For a minute there is no response and then a window above her slides open. From the balcony she hears her name.

  “Isla? What happened?” Scott leans over the steel railing, his shirt open at the chest, holding a glass of orange juice.

  “I’m all right,” she says.

  “Hold on. I’m coming down.”

  She steps inside when he opens the door. The entrance area is twice the footprint of her London apartment, with white marble flooring and an open staircase that curves toward the upper floors. The entire rear wall is floor-to-ceiling windows, looking out over the pool.

  “I’m all right,” she says again. “Everything’s okay. Really.”

  He looks at her doubtfully. His face shines from his morning shave.

  “Sorry it’s so early,” she says.

  “Come in. Join us for breakfast. Ruby’s in Singapore but Mum’s home.”

  “I’d rather not.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “I need to go back to Ropes Crossing.”

  He looks up at the ceiling. “What for?”

  “I need to speak to Steve Mallory again.”

  “I thought that was over with. I thought we could all move on.”

  “It’s not over with.”

  He shuts his eyes, breathes very deeply. “Mum called that cop yesterday. She spoke to him and he said the case was closed. They think she’s alive.” He rubs his thumb and forefinger, reaching for her name. “Mandy. She’s alive.”

  “I heard that too,” she says. “It’s bullshit.”

  “For God’s sake, Isla.” He crosses to the staircase, shirtsleeves flapping. “Look, I can’t take you out there, if that’s what you’re hoping.”

  “I can’t stop thinking about it.” She follows him to the foot of the stairs. “I think they closed the case to protect Steve.”

  He looks at her like she’s unhinged. “Why don’t you leave it? Dad’s off the hook. Things are better left as they are.”

  “I don’t think so.” She stands beside him. He smells of soap, deodorant, shampoo. “I’m going back to London next week and Dad’s drinking himself into a hole. Mum’s left him. A woman I cared about as a kid is dead.”

  “None of that is your fault.” His face softens. “You look like shit. Let me get you some breakfast, would you?”

  “I don’t want breakfast.”

  “Have you been drinking?”

  “No.” She shakes her head and th
e ringing in her left ear stops. “I’m sober. I swear to God.”

  He puts one socked foot on the stair above. “I’m sorry, but I can’t help you. I need the car. I have a business to run. People who rely on me.”

  Behind him, Isla sees her mother through the ceiling-height windows, walking toward the pool in cream silk pajamas and a matching dressing gown. She’s holding a mug of coffee, treading slowly, her feet bare.

  “Why don’t you hire a car?” He stops to button his shirt. “I can drop you at the rental place in town.”

  Isla watches her mother walk around the pool, pausing to look up at the house. She had hoped Scott wouldn’t make this suggestion.

  “I can’t hire a car,” she says.

  “Why not?”

  “I lost my license a while back.” She says it in the level voice she has rehearsed all morning.

  “You lost—?”

  “Don’t lecture me.”

  “Were you over the limit?”

  She looks down at the gray swirl through the white marble floor and nods.

  “When was this?”

  “Six months ago. No one was hurt. But I wrote off the car.”

  He is quiet until she looks at him. “You could have killed someone. Or yourself.”

  “I know, Scott. I’m so ashamed about it.”

  “I should hope you are.”

  She feels his disgust. She doesn’t have the guts to hold his eye. She is grubby and useless in his bright, clean house.

  “I need to get to work,” he says, climbing the stairs. “I can’t help you, Isla.”

  “You can’t or you won’t?”

  “Both,” he says, without turning around.

  “Ask Mum!” she shouts after him, standing at the foot of his staircase. “Ask Mum if she believes it.”

  No reply. From the first-floor landing she hears a door close.

  “Thanks a bunch!” She shouts it across the expanse of marble, into the domed cavity of the roof.

  Sydney’s well-groomed business class is waking up. Isla walks through the streets as they leave their houses, back their sleek cars out of gravel drives, and head for the city. They eye her curiously: a black-clad woman with outgrown hair, lace-up boots, nowhere to go. She glares at them, hot and angry, a misfit, a black sheep. She is lost, which is just as well. She’d be in a bottle shop if she knew where to find one.