Silver

by Chris Hammer

  ‘You make her sound like a slumlord.’

  ‘Well, she’s tough, put it that way. But she’s also as honest as the day is long. You don’t need a contract with her, a handshake is plenty. And we shook hands on the sale of the Breakwater. I was buying it and nobody else even knew it was for sale. Nobody but my accountant. And my lawyer.’

  ‘Harrold Drake.’

  ‘Yes. Harrold fucking Drake. Who I’d been propping up ever since Amory Ashton took him for a ride and ran off with all his money. The same Harrold Drake who then sold me down the river. Mrs Tomakis confirmed it all. She was mortified. Drake, presenting himself as my lawyer, had informed her that I was no longer interested in buying. But that Denise Speight was. And for what did he doublecross me? His thirty pieces of silver? For a slightly higher commission and ten per cent ownership of the Breakwater.’

  A flash of lightning spears down from the clouds; it strikes the water, kilometres from shore, where shadows are beginning to assert themselves on the glowing sea. ‘So this whole charade, it’s just so you can wreak revenge on Harrold Drake and Denise Speight?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Is Harrold acting for Denise?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But no longer for you?’

  ‘Of course not. And not for Mrs Tomakis either. Not anymore.’

  ‘So he’s in deep financial strife?’

  ‘Fuck, I hope so, the conniving shit. With a bit of luck, this will finish him.’

  Martin looks down at his glass, which has somehow reappeared in his hand, then out to sea, then back to St Clair, remembering George’s distaste for Nobb Hill. ‘Just how desperate do you think Harrold Drake is right now?’

  ‘If you ask me, I’d say very fucking desperate.’

  ‘You need to tell the police what you know about him.’

  ‘I’m intending to. I just needed to see something else through first.’ And St Clair cracks another of his lupine grins. ‘But you haven’t told me. Do you like my whisky?’

  The change of direction stumps Martin; one moment they’re talking revenge, financial treachery and motives for murder, the next the millionaire is fishing for compliments. ‘Of course. It tastes wonderful.’

  ‘So it should. Each bottle is worth several thousands of dollars. You’ve probably got a thousand bucks’ worth in your glass right there. Drink up.’

  Martin frowns. Surely St Clair isn’t trying to make him feel in his debt? ‘What’s your point?’

  ‘It was a gift from the French. Very generous of them.’

  Martin is speechless. He looks at his glass, then back to St Clair. ‘The French?’

  ‘Yes. The development is going ahead. Longitudes. We signed the deal this morning in Brisbane.’

  ‘But Jay Jay isn’t selling. You said so yourself.’

  ‘No. Not at Hummingbird Beach. Five Mile Beach. The entire southern end. It will be huge. A brilliant, exclusive, world-class resort. With a golf course and a gated community, the beach on one side, an expansive nature reserve on the other. Swamplands to us, wetlands to the French, everglades in their brochures. It will be beautiful and it will be grand and it will be the making of Port Silver.’ St Clair beams at Martin, gesturing with his whisky. ‘And every morning, as Denise Speight walks out her front door, she will see it, dominating her view.’ And Tyson St Clair bares his teeth in a grin that could strip meat from a bone.

  ‘Who owned the land?’

  ‘Until yesterday, I did. Through a front company. I bought it a few years ago—from Harrold Drake. He was short of money. I thought I was doing him a favour.’

  ‘You want me to put this in the Herald, don’t you?’

  ‘It will be the first five pages of the Longton Observer on Wednesday.’

  Martin places his glass gently down on the table in front of him, still almost full. ‘Jesus. You must really hate them.’

  ‘Oh, I do. I do.’

  A massive bolt of lightning goes careering across the sky.

  chapter thirty

  The Port Silver police station is all but deserted. Everyone has left for the evening except the constable on the counter and Morris Montifore, who comes to fetch Martin, looking increasingly bedraggled.

  ‘Jesus, what happened to you?’ he asks, letting Martin in through the security door. ‘You all right?’

  Martin is sodden, dripping all over the floor. ‘Got caught in the storm.’

  ‘Well, I have good news for you.’

  ‘The knife stain?’

  ‘Yes. It matches the swami’s dye. You were right.’

  The sense of relief is almost physical. ‘So Mandy’s in the clear?’

  ‘Yes. You can report she is no longer a suspect.’

  Martin looks at his watch. Five-thirty. He’s done it. ‘Where is she?’

  ‘You just missed her. She’s gone to pick up your son.’

  ‘Right,’ says Martin, stumbling slightly as they walk together.

  ‘You sure you’re okay?’ asks Montifore.

  ‘Fine. A little tipsy, but fine. You?’

  Montifore gives him a quizzical look. ‘I’ve been better. It’s Sunday night. I should be home with the wife and kids. Instead I’m stuck up here, running in ever-diminishing circles.’

  The realisation that Montifore has a family and a home life comes as a surprise to Martin. He can’t imagine the policeman ever having downtime, ever taking off his over-worked suit. In Martin’s imagination, the inspector would sleep in it.

  They reach the detective’s makeshift operations room. ‘Just a moment,’ says Martin. He rings Terri Preswell, tells her Mandy is free, that the police say there is no longer any substantive evidence against her.

  ‘Okay, thanks,’ says the editor. ‘But listen, I want to run her photo. Page three. Say she’s been cleared.’

  ‘Are you asking permission?’

  ‘Of course not. Just telling you.’

  ‘Thanks, Terri. Mandy will appreciate it. I appreciate it.’

  He rings Bethanie.

  ‘Shit, Martin, could you have left it any later?’ There’s a pause. Martin can hear voices, people laughing. It sounds like a bar. ‘All right. I’ll get on to it.’ Another pause. ‘And well done. Thank you.’

  ‘Thanks, Bethanie, I owe you one.’

  ‘Several, I’d say.’

  Montifore has been listening with interest. ‘All clear?’

  ‘All clear.’ Martin feels a wash of relief. Mandy is free, cleared of suspicion, and his old paper will tell the world. He feels a swell of elation, of pride. He smiles at Montifore, but the detective doesn’t reciprocate. ‘You don’t seem too happy,’ Martin observes.

  ‘Not really,’ says Montifore. ‘Mandalay Blonde is in the clear, so now I have to start chasing the real killer. And Hummingbird is still unresolved. I had to ring the wife and tell her I’ll be up here for another week at least.’

  ‘She’s not happy?’

  ‘Our boy’s birthday is on Tuesday.’

  ‘Right. Sorry to hear it.’

  Montifore casts his eyes around the office, as if seeking a reason to still be here.

  ‘The knife,’ says Martin, trying to get the policeman to focus. ‘Is there any doubt it was the weapon that killed Jasper?’

  ‘None. Forensics are sure on that score, at least. Length of blade, width of blade and curve of blade. It has a kink, apparently.’

  ‘So someone kills Jasper. Afterwards, they stain the handle with the bindi dye, intending to frame the swami. But then, when they realise he has an iron-clad alibi, they try to shift the blame towards Mandy. Is that right?’

  ‘Yes. I’d say so.’

  ‘So how did they know that the swami was no longer in the frame?’

  Montifore doesn’t answer. He still looks like he no longer wants to be there. In fact, he looks like he’d rather be anywhere else.

  ‘And what’s happening with Hummingbird? Why isn’t it straightforward?’

  Montifore sighs, an
expression of weariness. ‘You were right. Again. There was more than one poison—and Topaz Throssel is adamant she only used one.’

  ‘And she doesn’t have any reason to lie.’

  ‘Not a lot.’

  Martin gazes around the room, taking in the empty chairs, the desks, deciding how to proceed. He’s starting to feel a little vague, the delayed effect of Tyson St Clair’s whisky reinforcing the hunger and fatigue of the day. Tyson St Clair. How had the developer known so quickly that the forensic technicians were investigating the knife stain? How was he always so well informed? An idea comes to him. Martin leans back, reaching onto the desk used by Ivan Lucic, picking up a pen and a piece of paper. ‘Morris, I think I might have something. The murder of Jasper Speight and the second poison. How it all fits together.’

  Montifore says nothing, just looks at him, barely breathing.

  Martin writes on the piece of paper and hands it to the detective. ‘But let’s make sure,’ he says.

  There is a mood of jubilation at the Breakwater Hotel. For a Sunday night, the bar is pumping, thanks to the influx of journalists and their expense accounts, the atmosphere heightened by the rain pummelling down outside. There is Doug Thunkleton, holding court; there is Bethanie Glass, feigning interest; there is Baxter James, already getting the staggers. Here they gather, the cream of Australia’s press corps, or so they tell themselves, drinking to their own success, undeterred by the sticky carpet and the dilapidated bar stools: another day done, another story put to rest. So they laugh and they drink, knowing that tomorrow they’ll do it all again. And again. And again. And in a corner are Mandalay Blonde, holding her wide-eyed son Liam, and the two lawyers, Winifred Barbicombe and Nick Poulos. Here too is Martin Scarsden, stuffing his face with fish and chips, unmindful of his still-damp clothes. Mandy and Winifred are drinking champagne, Nick Poulos accepting half a glass to participate in a toast, while Martin is sticking to water, claiming Tyson St Clair’s whisky is enough to carry him for the moment. This is neither the time nor the place to explain his aversion to champagne. So while the others toast Mandy’s freedom, he concentrates on his food; not as good as Theo’s, but his hunger is telling him it’s good enough.

  Winifred raises her glass again. If the alcohol is having any effect on her, Martin can’t detect it. ‘And here’s to Martin,’ she proclaims. ‘He has cleared Mandy once and for all. The case is closed.’

  They clink glasses, toasting Martin, but Mandy is frowning. ‘How do you mean the case is closed? We still don’t know who killed Jasper Speight.’

  Winifred smiles indulgently. ‘It doesn’t matter, dear. You’re in the clear. You can get on with your life, I can get back to Melbourne.’

  ‘No,’ says Mandy, suddenly serious, almost angry. ‘I can’t get on with my life. How can I? As long as the killer walks free, I will be forever under suspicion. After what happened down in Riversend, after what happened in my townhouse, no one in Port Silver will want anything to do with me; no mother will welcome Liam into their playgroup.’

  Liam pouts, unsettled by his mother’s change of mood.

  Winifred stops smiling, realising her error. ‘Yes, of course. How foolish of me. I was looking through a legal prism. I’m sorry.’

  The group grows quiet, its silence emphasised by the continuing uproar from the bar and the sound of teeming rain. Martin finishes the last of his chips, wipes some errant grease from his mouth. ‘The police are on to it. New leads. They may be able to wrap it up in the next day or two.’

  Mandy looks at Martin with rare intensity, her green eyes focused. ‘Who? Who do they suspect?’

  ‘I’m meeting Montifore again in an hour. He’s upstairs now, making arrangements, flying specialists in from Sydney.’

  ‘Specialists?’ asks Nick.

  ‘What’s happened? Tell us what you know,’ says Winifred.

  And so Martin does. He leans into the table, voice soft amid the bar’s booming voices and clinking glasses, careful not to be overheard. Quietly, without embellishment, he explains what he thinks might have happened, and how the police might proceed.

  By the end Mandy is nodding. ‘Motive. Opportunity. But is it enough? Can the police start making arrests?’

  ‘Eventually. But right now the only evidence is circumstantial.’

  ‘That sounds about right,’ says Nick Poulos. ‘It’s a strong circumstantial case, but I’m not confident the DPP would prosecute. There’s no physical evidence, there are no witnesses.’

  ‘So they can get away with it?’ says Mandy. ‘That’s bullshit.’

  Nick shakes his head. ‘No, I’m not saying that. The police will pursue it. With eight people dead, they won’t let it slide. And now they have some firm suspects, they’ll concentrate all their efforts there. But it could take them weeks, maybe months. You should be prepared for that. I’m sorry.’

  ‘No,’ says Mandy, anger flaring. ‘We can’t just sit here, pretend all is well while the police sharpen their pencils and fill in their forms. There must be something we can do.’

  The champagne is forgotten, the celebratory bubble deflates, no one speaks. Outside, the rain is easing, the storm moving on. And now, at the bar, as if to emphasise the hush engulfing Martin’s group, there is a mighty explosion of laughter. Doug Thunkleton has said something so witty, or so stupid, that all his colleagues are laughing uproariously. Baxter James laughs so hard he topples off his bar stool and lies floundering on the floor, inciting another maelstrom of hilarity.

  Martin watches for a moment and then turns back to the others. ‘I have an idea,’ he says. ‘Let me go and talk to Montifore.’

  chapter thirty-one

  Morris Montifore is preparing to begin his press conference on the front steps of the Port Silver police station just after noon, flanked by Sergeant Johnson Pear and his two constables. The day is cloudy, wind easing in off the sea, keeping the temperatures moderate. Even so, the detective inspector is looking none too comfortable as the media jockey for position below him. In fact, he looks to be sweating. Martin Scarsden and Mandalay Blonde stand at the back of the pack, having already been comprehensively photographed by Martin’s former colleagues. The signal comes through from the ABC and Sky News teams—Morris Montifore is live to air, nationwide.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for coming. I’ll be brief, but I wanted to bring you up to date with the latest developments in ongoing homicide investigations here in Port Silver. I’ll make a brief statement and then answer questions.

  ‘The first point I want to make is in reference to a young woman who has been helping us with our inquiries, Mandalay Blonde. I want to thank her for her assistance, and I want to make it crystal clear—crystal clear—that she is not a police suspect and has been cleared of any possible involvement in the death of local man Jasper Speight. As you will be aware, Mr Speight died—was murdered—in premises rented by Ms Blonde. However, I repeat: Ms Blonde has been categorically ruled out as a suspect in the murder.’

  Martin glances at Mandy. Her expression is set, resolute, prepared to stare down all comers. He turns back, looking not at Montifore but at the police flanking him. The faces of the two constables are stern but unremarkable. It’s the shifting emotions on the face of Johnson Pear that interest him.

  Montifore continues. ‘I can confirm we are making considerable progress with the investigation of Jasper Speight’s death. We have now recovered the murder weapon, a filleting knife. Our forensic team in Sydney has thoroughly examined the weapon using new, ground-breaking technologies, and the knife has surrendered possibly critical information. We have ruled out a number of early suspects and are following a number of strong leads. We are hopeful an arrest or arrests will be made in the near future.

  ‘In regards to the seven deaths at Hummingbird Beach on Friday night, you will be aware that we have charged a dual Australian-American citizen, Topaz Marie Throssel, with the murder of Myron Florakis, also known as Swami Dev Hawananda. Investigations are continuing
and, again, we are confident we will soon be laying charges in relation to the other six deaths.’

  Montifore pauses to draw breath but, before he can resume, the foghorn voice of Doug Thunkleton comes crashing up the steps like a rogue wave. ‘Detective Inspector, can you confirm that, before his death, Jasper Speight posted a letter detailing serious allegations of wrongdoing at Hummingbird Beach?’

  Montifore is shaking his head, a bewildered look on his face. ‘No. I’m not able to …’

  ‘What was contained in that letter?’

  ‘Where did you get this information?’ demands Montifore.

  ‘To whom was the letter addressed, Inspector?’

  Montifore’s lips are sealed. He’s shaking his head vehemently. ‘Thank you all for coming. I really can’t comment further.’

  But as he is turning to walk back into the station, another voice cuts through the throng. ‘Inspector. Inspector! On another matter.’ It’s Bethanie Glass.

  ‘Another matter?’ says Montifore. He sighs. ‘All right.’

  ‘Inspector, can you confirm that there were not one but two poisons administered at Hummingbird Beach, and that there was more than one perpetrator?’

  But Montifore has had enough. He turns, and strides towards the safety of the police station. Only as he reaches the doors does Martin see him round on Johnson Pear and hiss, ‘How the fuck did any of that get out?’

  Ten minutes later, Martin is in the Breakwater Hotel, knocking on the door of Winifred Barbicombe’s suite. The door opens. Winifred is not there, but Ivan Lucic is, together with two technicians. The techs are wearing headphones, sitting at what was Winifred’s writing table, now covered in an array of laptops and technical equipment.

  ‘Anything?’ asks Martin.

  ‘Yeah, Johnson Pear,’ says Lucic, walking over to the writing desk. ‘This first. Johnson Pear to Tyson St Clair.’ Lucic taps a key on one of the laptops.