Silver

by Chris Hammer

  ‘He drugged you, Mandy. Garth McGrath drugged you.’

  She turns to look at him, recognition in her eyes, but says nothing.

  ‘Just as he drugged me. And Topaz Throssel.’

  She still says nothing.

  ‘Can you remember what happened? Or are bits blacked out?’ ‘How do you know that?’ she asks, her voice a whisper.

  ‘It’s one of the effects of the drug. Rohypnol. It’s what he used. The date rape drug.’

  ‘Jesus,’ she says, her eyes greener than the river water. But there is no relief in them. If she feels exonerated, she doesn’t look it. Quite the opposite. Instead, she’s unable to meet his gaze, appearing even more distressed. ‘I was reading the story yesterday, your story, keeping up to date on my laptop. And then the divers arrived. I tried ringing you, but your phone was off. Too busy reporting. So I stood and watched them, Liam and me. Then others came down from up there in dribs and drabs.’ She flicks her head towards the permanent residents. ‘They watched the divers too. And then they started watching me instead. By the end, none of them were watching the divers; they were only watching me. I couldn’t bear it. I took Liam and went driving. Way up Dunes Road, up to Treachery Bay.’

  ‘They found it,’ says Martin. ‘The divers found it.’

  ‘Found what?’

  ‘The knife.’

  She sighs. ‘Good. What happens now?’

  ‘It’s in Sydney. They’re running every possible test they can on it. Blood, DNA. Electron microscopes, the works. I’ve told Winifred.’

  She turns to him. ‘It wasn’t me, Martin. I didn’t do it.’

  ‘I never said you did.’

  ‘You don’t have to.’

  He doesn’t know how to respond to that, so he pushes on, says the words he can’t avoid saying. ‘Your hair: when did you dye it?’

  She looks at him curiously, perplexed by the gravity of his words. ‘Sunday night. To surprise you. Why?’

  ‘You did it yourself?’

  ‘Yes.’ She’s frowning now, unsure of herself. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘You did it in the townhouse? Upstairs in the bathroom? The night before Jasper was killed?’

  ‘Yes. Tell me. What is it?’

  ‘The knife. Montifore says the handle has a stain on it.’

  She says nothing, not responding, instead turning to look at the water.

  ‘I spoke to the police in Longton. They want to interview you again.’

  ‘I don’t have anything to do with that knife. I never saw it, I never touched it.’

  ‘I know. I believe you. I’m just the messenger.’

  Another wave of distress moves across her face. ‘Is that why you came here? Because the police told you to?’

  ‘No, Mandy. I’m here to be with you, to support you.’

  But her mind has leapt ahead. ‘The media. Are the reporters there, the photographers? Like in Riversend?’

  He hasn’t thought of that, but it’s true. They’ll be staking out the police station, awaiting Montifore’s doorstop on the deaths at Hummingbird. ‘Yeah, they’ll be there. But they don’t care about Jasper, they don’t care about the knife. All they care about are the deaths of Garth McGrath and the swami. Australia’s Jonestown. You’re not implicated in that.’

  Mandy doesn’t move. She’s still, her face like wax, perfect, a sculpture. Only the tears animate it, running from first one eye then the other, single tears, her gaze locked on Martin, as if she is struggling to understand what is happening between them.

  ‘I’ll call the police,’ he says. ‘See if we can meet somewhere else. A hotel or something. But if we don’t go up there, they might arrest you. Or issue a warrant. Or tip off the media pack. We have no choice; we have to go.’

  Still Mandy doesn’t move. When at last she speaks, her voice is low, almost a whisper. ‘You were gone too long. You should have been here.’

  There is something in her words, something low and fatalistic. The tone is not one of accusation, but of something more concerning. ‘Mandy?’

  And the dam breaks, she is overcome by sobbing, her body moving again, her face racked.

  He moves to her, takes her arms. ‘Mandy?’

  ‘You weren’t here. The story had taken you. I didn’t know if you were coming back. I was alone. Afraid.’

  And in that moment he fears he is losing her, he can feel it, her and her boy slipping away. But he can find no words to say, no comforting phrase. The writer of a million words, struck dumb.

  A cry cuts through the morning, shrill and static-laden. It’s the baby monitor, Liam imposing himself upon the stillness, the future attempting to assert its sovereignty over the past.

  chapter twenty-six

  They drive in silence, there is nothing to say, just plenty to think: ugly thoughts colonise his mind, toying with his emotions. Mandy is driving; he doesn’t even have that to distract him. What had he been thinking of, leaving her, abandoning her, while he wrote his precious book, winning his professional vindication, showing the naysayers even as he was losing her? A memory pierces him: he is in his Sydney flat, words pouring onto the page, and in the moments in between he’s thinking of her, relishing his new feelings of love, his knowledge that absence does indeed make the heart grow fonder. How cruel that memory is now, for while his heart had grown fonder, hers had drifted, blown by uncertainty and his apparent indifference. She’d feared he was just one among many, one more thief in the night.

  Another thought comes spearing in from some corner of his mind, skewering him. Jasper. His old friend, avid reader of his newspaper reports. He’d seen what was happening: Mandy, the partner of his old friend, beginning to drift, like a raft on the sea. They’d fought at the lifesavers, but why? Jasper seeing an opportunity to move in on Mandy, or angry at her for straying? Martin shakes his head, as if to rid himself of such speculation; these thoughts achieve nothing except torment.

  She sits next to him, close enough to touch yet unreachable, inches away yet distant, concentrating on driving, heading towards the high school and the childcare centre, down the palm-lined road. In the back seat, Liam babbles in his capsule, the sound of innocence, proto-words filling the silence. It breaks Martin’s heart. When Mandy takes her son into the centre Martin wonders if it will be the last time he will see the boy. He’d like to leap out, to hold him, to breathe in the wondrous smell of him. But when they arrive at the centre, he stays in his seat. If the police detain Mandy, then he’ll be the one picking up Liam. He almost wishes that they do hold her, just so he can spend some time with her son, bathe in his goodness, his simple joys, for a little longer. He watches as Mandy carries Liam towards the centre, not the front door but somewhere around the back. Of course, it’s Sunday. The owner is babysitting, a private arrangement.

  They’re almost to the base of the escarpment when her phone rings. She pulls off the road, crossing to the other side, where there’s a turn-off to the sugar mill. The same place he picked up Topaz and Royce almost a week ago. By the time she’s brought the car to a stop, the call has rung out. She calls the number back; he can hear her side of the conversation.

  ‘I see,’ and, ‘About twenty minutes,’ and, ‘Can we meet them somewhere else?’ and, ‘Why not?’ and, finally, ‘Yes. Thank you.’

  Martin waits a moment, hoping she might volunteer the information, but he’s forced to ask: ‘Not good news?’

  ‘It was Winifred. The police want to talk at the station.’

  ‘Really. Why?’

  ‘She doesn’t know. She’ll meet us there.’

  Again they fall into silence, their bond seeming more and more tenuous now that Liam is no longer with them. He tries again. ‘Mandy, you need to know, I’ve got your back on this. I’m with you.’

  At last she looks across at him. ‘Thanks, Martin. Let’s hope it’s not too late.’ But then she is concentrating on the narrow bends of the escarpment, her face troubled and her eyes apprehensive.

  As they fear
ed, the media are waiting outside the police station. Either his fellow journalists are being diligent, or they don’t know what else to do, or they’ve been tipped off by the police. The floor of his stomach is hollow, eaten out by the thoughts pouring from his mind. The police want this. They want her photographed. Even after their disgraceful treatment of her in Riversend, they’re doubling down. And then, worst of all: They must know something.

  ‘Fuck this,’ says Mandy. She drives straight up to the station, turns into the driveway beside it, past the twin signs saying POLICE VEHICLES ONLY PAST THIS POINT. She follows the drive around, pulling to a stop directly outside the back door, under another sign: STRICTLY NO PARKING. She’s out of the car, leaving the motor running, keys in the ignition, but the glass door to the station is locked. Then Martin too is out of the car, hitting the intercom button next to the door, hitting it again.

  ‘Who are you?’ says a disembodied voice. ‘You are not permitted to utilise that entry.’

  ‘It’s Martin Scarsden and Mandalay Blonde, here at the express demand of Detective Inspector Morris Montifore. Ms Blonde’s lawyer, Winifred Barbicombe, should already be there.’

  ‘One moment, please.’ And nothing.

  Mandy looks at him. ‘They’re doing it on purpose. They want me trapped out here.’

  Martin hits the intercom button again. ‘Open this door now, or we are leaving and it’s your responsibility.’

  There’s no reply.

  ‘Martin! Mandy!’

  They turn. It’s Baxter. Or not so much Baxter as the lens of his camera, the flare of his flash, rattling off a burst of shots. He lowers the camera, shrugs an apology, communicating that he’s only doing his job, even as he’s checking the screen on the back of the camera. Then he raises it again, fires off another staccato burst. Martin feels a surge of emotion: anger, frustration, betrayal.

  There is the sound of the lock disengaging and the door opens. It’s Winifred. ‘Inside,’ she says, voice calm. Then she looks at Martin. ‘Not you, just Mandalay.’

  Mandy exchanges a look with him, something of the old communication at last. And then she’s gone. The door closes, the electronic lock re-engaging noisily.

  ‘Martin!’

  He turns. It’s Doug Thunkleton, puffing and out of breath, followed by his camera crew.

  Martin is sorely tempted to say something cutting, something sarcastic, to curl his lip and vent his spleen into the camera lens. Instead he turns and climbs back into the Subaru, ignoring the pleas of Thunkleton to stop and talk. He drives out through the animated gauntlet of photographers and TV crews swarming along the side of the building, hungry for an image, even if they have no idea what it is and what it might mean.

  He gets clear of the throng, checking in his rear-view mirror that none of them are desperate enough to tail him. Only when he’s sure no one is following does he stop in the shade of a kerbside tree, double-checking he’s alone before screaming, unleashing a three-minute torrent of obscenities, yelling until he’s spent all his anger, all his frustration. Then he opens the windows, breathes deep. When he’s calm again, he readjusts the seat for his longer legs and the mirrors for his greater height. But he doesn’t know where to drive. He knows he has to do something, he’s just not sure what. He needs to be helping Mandy. Or even chasing a story. Something. Anything.

  His phone rings. It’s Bethanie. ‘Hi, Martin.’

  ‘Bethanie.’

  ‘Baxter showed me the photos.’

  ‘Will you run them?’

  There’s a pause. At least she pays him that small courtesy, thinking it through before answering. ‘Any reason why we shouldn’t?’

  ‘You have a story to go with them?’

  ‘Is it connected to Hummingbird?’ she asks.

  ‘No. It’s the other murder, the one at Mandy’s townhouse.’

  ‘Oh, right,’ says Bethanie. ‘They think the swami did it. Are you still doing that for tomorrow’s paper?’

  ‘Probably.’ He says nothing about Hawananda’s alibi and he says nothing about the knife.

  Bethanie hesitates, weighing the newsworthiness of the story. ‘You really don’t want to expose her to publicity, do you?’

  ‘No. Not after what happened down in the Riverina. Do you blame me?’

  ‘Of course not. But Baxter has filed the pictures independent of me. You know their workflow.’

  ‘Directly to the picture editor. Understood. Thanks, Bethanie.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Calling me. For not pushing it to them.’

  ‘Don’t thank me yet. We’ll see what happens.’ She ends the call.

  He sits there, wondering what it is he has just done. If Bethanie finds out about the knife, or Hawananda’s alibi, she’ll know he’s misled her. Christ. The police are questioning Mandy, the Herald has an exclusive photo, and he’s done his best to nobble the story. For a moment he considers his career, just how good it felt to be back in harness, working with Bethanie and Baxter, filing their scoop, breaking open the biggest story in the land. And he knows that, no matter how unspoken the ambition, his hopes of re-employment had been kindled. Now he realises he won’t be rehired, not when Terri learns of his subterfuge. And then he smiles. In the end, he didn’t have to choose between Mandy and the paper; the choice was made for him. He needs to help Mandy, he needs to clear her. Everything else is secondary. He starts the car and gets going. He has to work out what happened at Hummingbird, who killed Jasper Speight and how to win back Mandy’s trust. He turns the car around and drives towards Longton Base Hospital.

  Jay Jay Hayes is sitting up, staring out her bedside window, eyes unfocused.

  ‘Jay Jay?’

  Her eyes regain their focus. She turns her head, looks at Martin. ‘Oh. It’s you.’

  ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did you hear? The police arrested Topaz last night. They’re charging her with murder.’

  ‘I see.’ Her eyes return to whatever space she was regarding when he entered, the news eliciting little response. ‘So it was her.’

  Martin sits down in the chair beside her bed. ‘Swami Hawananda killed her sister. In Crete, eight years ago. An accident.’ He recounts the story as best as he can.

  Jay Jay shakes her head. ‘But why did she have to kill the others?’

  Martin takes the opportunity. ‘That’s what I want to talk to you about, Jay Jay. I’m like you; I can’t see why she would want the others dead. She’s confessed to the swami, but she denies the rest.’

  Jay Jay is frowning. ‘You mean she survived? I saw her drink the potion. She was the first to be sick.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘She started vomiting. Like really badly. That’s why I called the ambulance.’

  ‘You’re the one who called them?’

  ‘Yes. I was scared. I was suddenly feeling very ill, even though I just drank a token amount. Some of the others seemed fine, dancing and laughing like usual. But something was going wrong. She was vomiting and then …’ She closes her eyes for a moment. ‘And then Dev collapsed. That never happened before. So I called the ambulance. Then I was spewing myself. I couldn’t stop. I must have passed out.’

  ‘She planned to die,’ says Martin. ‘But she vomited up the poison before it could kill her.’

  ‘What was it?’

  ‘I still don’t know. She must have got it when I left her up here on Friday. The police scientists will have worked it out by now.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Jay Jay, how did it work? I was there on Thursday night. The swami was doling out drinks from a Coke bottle. Was it the same last Friday, the ceremony at the end of the intensive?’

  ‘No, more formal. He’d ladle the potion out of a ceremonial bowl. The disciples first, then anyone else who wanted some. He made sure no one got more than one cup. It was dressed up as ritual, but it was also a safety thing. Once everyone had some, he would drink a little himself. Then he would tip
any remainder into the sand. He was extremely careful about it.’

  ‘I thought it was just alcohol, fruit juices and spices.’

  ‘Yes, it was. Maybe after Greece, he was just being super careful.’

  ‘And that’s what happened on Friday, the same as usual?’

  Her forehead creases. ‘I guess so. I can’t be sure. Topaz was heaving up, I was starting to feel ill, Dev collapsed. I ran for the phone.’

  ‘And the swami? He always participated himself?’

  ‘Yes. He said it was a connection with the divine.’ She returns to staring out the window. ‘The divine,’ she whispers. And she just continues to stare, as if she has forgotten Martin is there.

  ‘Jay Jay? Is there something else, something you’re not telling me?’

  She looks at him. Her face seems calm, almost serene, but there is something deep in her eyes, he sees it now. ‘It’s back, Martin.’

  He says nothing, guessing at her meaning.

  ‘The cancer. It’s back.’

  Martin still says nothing. What can he say?

  ‘They were running tests, to make sure I was recovering. The blood markers are there. It didn’t show up on the X-rays; they’re not sensitive enough. I need to go to Sydney. Have an MRI and the rest.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Jay Jay.’

  ‘They searched every inch of my skin, even in my eyes, but they couldn’t see anything. It could be a false positive, that’s what they say. But I know it’s there, it’s melanoma. It’s come back to kill me.’

  Martin blinks. Late-stage melanoma. Until very recently, a death sentence. ‘I hear there are new drugs, amazing results.’

  ‘Yes. Perhaps.’ She doesn’t sound too confident in her luck. ‘But I think I deserve it.’

  ‘No one deserves cancer. You know that. It’s a lottery,’ he says, immediately regretting the analogy.