by Chris Hammer
Nick turns to him. ‘There is one thing. I tried telling you on Friday, after the police quizzed you about the knife, but you ran off in a hurry. It probably doesn’t matter now.’
‘What is it?’
‘You asked me to check with Westpac, to see if anyone had made an approach to buy the cheese factory site. Remember?’
Martin shrugs. ‘Yeah. Doesn’t seem too important now.’
‘Probably not. But there were approaches. Recently.’
‘Approaches? Plural?’
‘Tyson St Clair.’
‘I guess that comes as no surprise.’
‘And then Denise Speight. She came in over the top.’
‘What does that mean? Over the top?’
‘She’s signed a memorandum of undertaking to buy the land.’
Martin smiles. ‘St Clair won’t be happy. I didn’t realise she was such a player.’
‘I wonder if she’ll still want it,’ says Nick. ‘Now that Jasper has gone.’
Outside again and Martin feels worse, regretting the quiche. His mind is still jangling with the unholy mixture of too much caffeine and too little sleep. The world has a washed-out quality to it, grainy and cinematic, the light too bright. He feels troubled by the unexpected link between the grifters and Jasper Speight, and surprised that Denise Speight has convinced Westpac to give her the rights to buy the cheese factory. But none of it’s important; perhaps some background colour if he turns it all into a book. Still, it makes him think. Jasper Speight paying Topaz and Royce to film St Clair; Denise Speight gazumping St Clair on the cheese factory. Seems like Jasper and his mother may have been working together to best St Clair. So why was Jasper coming to see Martin with the postcard of St Myron the Wonderworker? Civic duty; wanting Martin to expose the swami as an imposter? Or to eliminate a rival and manipulate Martin? Royce’s allegations have shaken Martin’s view of his old school friend: honey traps, secret cameras and blackmail. As a teenager, Jasper was at times reckless, at times thoughtless, but never manipulative, never scheming. What had changed? Had his mother changed him, or had the lure of land and money, the whisper of silver, corrupted him? Maybe Jasper was at Hummingbird as a proxy for his mother; maybe the swami was there as a minion for St Clair. Martin recalls St Clair and the swami having coffee together in Longton. So exposing the swami would be in the interest of Jasper and Denise, removing the influence of the holy man and, through him, St Clair. The quiche sits uncomfortably in Martin’s stomach, like a piece of lead. Something is wrong.
Denise Speight and Tyson St Clair are competitors, rivals. What had George said at the fish-and-chip shop? That the landholders of Nobb Hill behaved like they were in Game of Thrones? St Clair had his plans for the swamp, the cheese factory and the riverfront; Jasper had plans to subdivide the clifftops. But Denise had gazumped St Clair on the cheese factory, going direct to Westpac, while her son Jasper had hired Topaz and Royce to film compromising footage of St Clair. What a rat’s nest.
Martin checks the time. Still early. But fishermen are always up early. He rings Vern.
‘Martin. G’day. Bit early in the day for journos, isn’t it?’
‘Are you at home, Vern? I need to speak to Josie.’
‘No, mate. Already on the boat. I’ll text you through her contacts.’
‘Thanks.’
‘No worries. Great reporting, by the way. Scooped the pool again. But are you okay? You sound anxious.’
‘Sure. Fine.’
‘Glad to hear it.’ His uncle ends the call.
Can he? Hear the anxiety? No matter; his phone vibrates, Josie’s contacts arriving. He rings her.
‘Hello? Josie here.’ Her voice is uncertain, not recognising Martin’s number.
‘Hi, Josie, it’s Martin Scarsden. I hope I haven’t woken you.’
She laughs at that. ‘Not with this many kids. How can I help?’
‘I’m just wondering about the native title claim on Mackenzie’s Swamp. Has anyone tried to buy you out? Offer a deal?’
‘Why do you want to know?’
‘To be honest, I’m not sure. But something’s not right.’
‘Yeah. We’ve had some offers just in the last few months, out of the blue. Tyson St Clair and Denise Speight are both after it.’
‘Right. Is there a frontrunner?’
‘Not at this stage. It’s our land. We’d like to keep it ourselves.’
‘So there’s no chance of you selling?’
There’s a short pause, and then there’s a sigh. ‘It’s not as simple as that. There’s no guarantee our claim will be successful, and it’ll probably take years to determine. This would be money upfront.’
‘But you’d lose your land. It’d be turned into a marina and a golf course.’
‘Only if St Clair got it.’
‘Why? What does Denise Speight want to do with it?’
‘Nothing. She says she wants to turn the cheese factory into an eco-resort, but will make sure the wetlands are preserved.’
‘That’s what she told you?’
‘Yeah. She and Jasper.’
‘Jasper?’
‘That’s right. He was always opposed to the golf course. We told you that.’
‘So you might sell to Denise?’
‘It’s possible. If she’s still interested, now that Jasper is dead. But it’s not up to me. It would have to be a community decision.’
‘Thanks, Josie. Thanks a lot.’
‘Sure. Any time.’
He sits on the protruding ledge of a shop window. It’s covered in dust, blown east from the drought-stricken interior, but he doesn’t care. He’s trying to remember what Denise Speight told him that morning he spoke with her, the day after her son’s murder. He’d thought she was in shock, close to inconsolable. Yet she’d been quick to tell him of Tyson St Clair’s plans to develop his marina and golf course, quick to tell him of Jasper’s opposition. He had asked her what she wanted to happen to the swamp and she’d replied along the lines that she would like to see it developed, provided the Gooris received fair compensation and the promise of employment. He’s sure that’s what she said, or words to that effect. She had said nothing of her own interest, though. Why?
His phone rings, startling him. An unidentified caller. Jack Goffing, he presumes. But it’s not Goffing.
‘Martin? Martin, is that you? It’s Wellington Smith.’ The voice is assertive, edgy.
‘Yeah, it’s me,’ replies Martin.
‘What the fuck, Martin? That’s all I have to say: what the fuck?’
This is all he needs. Wellington Smith, publisher of This Week, soon-to-be publisher of his true-crime book on the deaths in western New South Wales. Wellington Smith, the man who threw him a journalistic lifeline after the Sydney Morning Herald sacked him. ‘Wellington, I haven’t forgotten you. This story has it all: sex, drugs, murder. There’s another book in it. It’s a guaranteed bestseller.’
‘I know that, Martin. I’m not a complete moron. So why the fuck are you publishing it all over the Fairfax websites? They boned you, remember?’
‘I had no choice. The police are going to charge Topaz Throssel by lunchtime. The Herald will have to pull it all down. No one will be able to go there until after the trial, including us. Think of it as publicity. And when the case is over, we can have the book ready to go.’
That seems to calm the publisher down. Martin can hear him breathing heavily at the end of the phone, gathering his thoughts. ‘So we’re good for a magazine feature? And another book?’
‘I would think so.’
‘Good man, I’ll hold you to that. Good man.’ And he’s gone, hanging up without another word.
The very idea of writing another book exhausts Martin; he longs for sleep. But first he decides to go to the police station to check for updates. He’s just started walking when he sees an SUV, a television news car, circling like a shark. It pulls up next to him, tinted window descending.
‘Martin fucking Scar
sden! What a ball-tearer.’ It’s Doug Thunkleton, his voice too loud for the morning.
‘Doug. Fancy seeing you.’
‘Do you know when they’re going to formally charge Topaz Throssel?’
‘Not until lunchtime or so.’
‘Excellent!’ says Thunkleton. ‘Thanks for that. I’ve got to go do a live eye. See you round.’ The news car starts moving off.
‘Doug! Hang on a moment.’ The car stops, and Martin walks up to the open window. ‘You back on news full-time?’
‘Not yet. Might never go back. I’ll wrap this up, then get back to the true crime.’
‘So you’re still going ahead with that?’
‘Are you shitting me? It’s a cracker. Walkley Award written all over it. You wouldn’t believe the stuff we’ve got. You won’t be the only one writing books.’
‘Really? That good? That’s fantastic. So you’ve worked out the identity of the killer?’
‘Getting close.’
‘Just one thing, Doug—it was Tyson St Clair who tipped you off to the story, wasn’t it? Not Jasper Speight?’
‘Yeah, that’s right: St Clair. Why?’
‘Nothing. Thanks for that.’
He walks through the slowly waking town, trying to think through the fate of the cheese factory and Mackenzie’s Swamp. Tyson St Clair had tipped off Doug Thunkleton about the rumoured whereabouts of Amory Ashton’s body, yet Denise Speight has managed to out-manoeuvre him; she’ll most likely buy the land from Westpac as soon as Ashton’s body is found. Martin is wondering if St Clair knows he’s been gazumped.
He arrives at the police station, another fortress of a building, less concrete and more brick than in Port Silver, but imposing nevertheless. Must be in the same marginal seat. The old equation: law + order + pork barrelling = votes. He stands outside looking at it, indecision gripping him. If it holds any answers, it’s not revealing them to him.
He’s still there when the glass doors glide open and Morris Montifore walks out. The policeman looks like he’s had no more sleep than Martin; his face is gaunt, his eyes bleary.
‘Morning, Martin. I saw your reports.’
‘And?’
Montifore shrugs, his voice deadpan. ‘Nice photos. Got my good side for once.’ He isn’t smiling. Perhaps he’s too tired.
‘Morris, can I tell you something? I have no idea what it means or whether it’s useful or not. I just can’t tell you my source.’
Another shrug. ‘Sure.’ Any exhilaration the policeman may have garnered from the arrest of Topaz Throssel seems long gone.
‘Ask Topaz why she and Royce came to Port Silver, if it’s connected to Jasper Speight.’
This time Montifore does smile, a wan effort. ‘You’ve been speaking to Royce.’
‘I didn’t say that.’
‘Guess I’ll never know then.’ The detective grows serious. ‘But thanks, Martin. She already told us, but thanks anyway.’
It’s Martin’s turn to shrug. ‘You still not planning to charge her until lunchtime?’
‘That’s the agreement. That suit you?’
‘Yeah. Thanks. We’ll have some more stuff up online any moment. The Herald has commissioned a stringer to write up all the events from Greece.’
Montifore nods. Having the backstory aired in public will do the prosecution no harm. ‘She’s made a full confession. I don’t think it’s going to be much of a trial. The way things are heading, she’ll plead guilty.’
‘To all seven deaths or just the swami’s?’
Montifore sighs. ‘You’re right. She’s admitted to poisoning the swami and herself, that’s all. Be sure to make that distinction in anything you write. She’s claiming anything else was an accident. Who knows? Maybe we’ll have to split the trials.’
‘The poison—did she put it in the swami’s bowl?’
Montifore shakes his head. ‘I can’t tell you that.’
‘Please, it’s important. I won’t publish, not until you give me the all-clear.’
Montifore looks beyond caring. ‘Okay, absolutely not for publication. She says she put it in the bowl right at the end, when only herself and the guru were left.’
Martin nods. He knows Topaz has no reason to lie; nor does Montifore. ‘Will you do a press conference?’
‘Yeah. Not that I want to, but Sydney wants it out there. Here, in about an hour, a short on-camera statement, no questions. A doorstop.’
‘I might try and get some sleep then. Thanks, Morris.’
‘Martin?’
‘Yes?’
‘You should know: we found the knife. The divers found it in the river yesterday afternoon. It’s already in Sydney.’
‘I see. Washed clean by the river, I’m guessing.’
The detective sighs. ‘More than that. Scrubbed with bleach before it went in.’
‘Well, that fucks that then.’
Montifore looks him in the eye. ‘I guess so. Although those technical bods, they know their stuff. Amazing what they can come up with when they try.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘It might be a good idea for you to get down to Port Silver. Be with that girlfriend of yours.’
Martin blinks, the import of the words unmistakable. ‘Why? You know who killed Jasper and why. It was Hawananda.’
‘No. That’s what we thought too. But he couldn’t have killed Jasper Speight. He has an alibi.’
‘He’s dead. How can he have an alibi?’
‘On Monday he was leading an intensive. All morning. There were twelve witnesses. Ten of them are still alive.’
Martin just stares. For a long moment he doesn’t know what to say. And then he does. ‘You’ve already interviewed Mandy twice. What more could you possibly think you could get from her?’
The detective sighs again, as if the weight of the world is upon him. ‘It’s the knife. The handle is covered in a brown stain. It’s the same colour as her hair.’
Martin is speechless. He remembers the stain upstairs in the townhouse, all around the bathroom basin.
Montifore might look more sympathetic if he didn’t look so tired. ‘Drive her up here, will you? Get her to walk in by herself. If we have to bring her in, no one wins.’
Martin has left his car in Port Silver, so Baxter drives him down the escarpment, passing a steady stream of media heading in the opposite direction, alerted to Montifore’s doorstop. The further down the hill they get, the heavier the air becomes, warm and humid, desperately in need of a cleansing sea breeze. Martin tries ringing Mandy and tries again, but she doesn’t answer. He calls Winifred Barbicombe. He leaves a voicemail; she calls him back. He explains the knife; she says she’ll head up to Longton, that Martin should drive Mandy up.
The knife. It has to be a plant. Clyde Mackie has already discredited the anonymous claim that Mandy threw it in the river at sunset on Tuesday. But does that matter? If the knife has retained forensic evidence, that would trump Mackie. DNA beats everything, the smoking gun of the twenty-first century. But this can’t be DNA. The bleach and a couple of days at the bottom of the Argyle would eliminate that. It’s just the hair dye. Is that enough to condemn her? His mind, deprived of sleep, is restless and ill-disciplined. Only sleep will sedate it. That and the identity of Jasper Speight’s killer.
Baxter drops him at his car, still parked outside the surf club. It has a single parking ticket. Hell, since when did council start charging for parking? He starts the engine, gives it a good revving, the noise from the muffler bouncing back and forth between the yet-to-open stores of The Boulevarde.
At the caravan park, he finds Mandy sitting alone by the river.
‘Hi,’ he says.
‘Hi,’ she replies. ‘I wondered if you might turn up.’ There is no anger in her voice; if anything, it is shaded by something suggestive of regret.
‘Where’s Liam?’
‘Still sleeping.’ She holds up a baby monitor.
Martin sits next to her so they are both look
ing out over the water. ‘Sorry, I couldn’t get away earlier. We worked most of the night.’
‘I know. I saw it online. That woman. Topaz.’ There is no rancour in her words, no accusation. ‘Seven dead. All to avenge her sister.’
‘The swami was her target, the rest were unintentional, six innocents in the wrong place at the wrong time. I don’t know their names. Just the swami and McGrath.’ For some reason, this bothers him. He still doesn’t know their names.
She shakes her head, a line of concern on her forehead. ‘It’s terrible. Unbelievable.’
Martin reaches into his pocket, retrieves her necklace. ‘I found this.’
She looks at it as he pours it into her hand. She says nothing.
‘I found it at Hummingbird. In his cabin. McGrath’s.’
There’s silence. She looks across the water. He waits. Seconds pass as if they are centuries.
Eventually she speaks, voice soft. ‘I couldn’t tell you. I was too ashamed.’
‘What happened?’
‘I went up there. I was interested. I heard the beach was beautiful.’ She pauses. ‘No, it wasn’t that. Not just that. I was lonely. Stuck in that townhouse with only Liam for company. Day after day, night after night. I started to think you weren’t coming, that you’d stay in Sydney. That you didn’t want me.’
‘I will always want you,’ he says, taking her hand.
But she pulls it away. When she speaks again it’s with sadness, not bitterness. ‘You came to Riversend with all those grand gestures and big words. All that love. A better man than Byron Swift and all the others. And then you left again to write your book. You didn’t even help me move here. The book was always more important to you than me and Liam. I didn’t know if you were coming or not.’
‘I was always coming. The book’s finished. I’m here now.’
‘Are you? You weren’t here yesterday. The divers were, the police were, the gawkers were. All day yesterday, they were here and you weren’t.’ There are tears in her eyes. ‘You were with the story. She’s your real mistress.’
How can he respond to that? It’s true, he’d concentrated on the Riversend book to the exclusion of everything else, written it in four weeks flat, seventy thousand words, pushing himself day and night. Wellington Smith had set an impossible deadline and he’d beaten it by five days just so he could get here, get back to her. But how can he say that? She’ll just believe he worked nonstop because that’s what he loves, his obsession. And in a way he knows that’s true.
