Silver

by Chris Hammer

  Alone in the car once again, he doesn’t start the engine straight away. He can feel the warm breeze on his face, the touch of it unchanged in two decades, warm and moist and gentle, so different from the parched gusts of the interior, or the gritty second-hand air of Sydney. Below him, on the beach, more backpackers loll in the sun, chatting in groups or playing soccer. He feels a pang of envy: he’d never gone with the flow, lived for the day, romanced a pretty girl in the islands of Indonesia. There had been no gap year, no floating through Asia, no great Australian road trip. Adolescence was something to be endured; why extend it? It was straight to uni and, before he had even finished his degree, straight into the newspaper. His travelling had been different: sweating over laptops in war zones instead of smoking reefers in Bali; interviewing self-important men in suits instead of serving eccentric locals in an English pub; sleeping with affection-starved strangers instead of falling in love. Maybe now it will be different, living here with Mandalay and her son Liam; now he has this chance to start life over. Not going with the flow, but his big chance, an opportunity to catch up with life and embrace it before it heads over the horizon and leaves him stranded for good. He decides the hitchhikers have done him a favour. He turns from the beach, starts the engine. Port Silver isn’t about the past, he tells himself, it’s about the future. About making a future, shaping it. And the future looks bright and welcoming. Mandy is here, waiting for him, the single mum he met and fell for out on the edge of nowhere. Surely that has its own romance, as good as Goa or Lombok. He feels a surge of optimism and longing; for a fleeting moment, as he puts the car into gear, the world seems to be spinning back towards equilibrium. He can’t wait to see her, to begin this new life.

  There is blood everywhere. He pushes the door open and there is blood everywhere. The door is ajar, keys in the lock, so he pushes it open, a greeting forming on his lips, and there is blood everywhere. He has located the townhouse, parked the car, found the door. The door is ajar. Now there is blood. Everywhere. Splattered on the hallway wall, a scarlet handprint like a child’s stencil, red drips on the cream-tiled floor as if left by a careless painter. He can smell it, its metallic odour engulfing him, penetrating his pores. And amid the blood, a body. Lifeless legs protrude from an archway off the passage, legs dressed in beige chinos, brown shoes with translucent rubber soles, the colour of dull amber. Men’s shoes. The body, torso unseen, is lying face down. And blood is still flowing out, advancing, pooling on the tiles. Everywhere. The sight stops Martin in his stride, mouth still open, her name on his lips, unuttered, horror invading his mind, flooding in through his eyes. He feels confusion, then panic.

  ‘Mandy!’ he yells. ‘Mandy?!’

  He stops. Listens. Nothing. The pool of blood, glistening, still silently expanding. Is the person alive?

  ‘Mandy!’ he calls again, voice edged with fear. Is she in here? Is she close? Is she hurt?

  He inches forward. Now he can see the full body, legs stretching from the passage, the torso in the living room, a scarlet circle between the man’s shoulder blades, like a target painted on his linen shirt with a gaping bullseye, flesh parted and blood-filled. On the floor, the pooling flow is so very red against the cream tiles. Martin needs to get past it, past the body and its glistening moat. He backs up, runs, leaps the enamel pool where it has spread across the passage and reached the wall, landing beyond it at the bottom of some stairs. The man is unmoving. Martin can’t see the face, but the body is thickset with dark hair, first signs of grey at the temples, well groomed, the patch of blood sticking his white linen shirt to the wound in his back.

  A killer. There’s a killer. Is the attacker still here? ‘Mandy!’ his voice flares again.

  His mind starts working, thoughts emerging from beneath the panic, the adrenaline and the shock. He squats at the edge of the blood, convincing himself to become perfectly still. He watches, listens, but he can detect no sign of life. He reaches out, supporting himself with one hand on the doorjamb, below another red handprint, using the other hand to feel for a pulse in the man’s neck, detecting nothing. The flesh is warm, giving; the man has only just died. There is blood on Martin’s hand.

  There is something in the man’s left hand, held firm in his dead fingers. A postcard; it looks like a postcard, blood pooling around its edges. Martin leans close, stretched above the body, still supporting himself with one arm on the doorjamb. The card is obscured by the dead man’s hand and his creeping blood, but it looks religious, a depiction of Christ or a saint, with a golden halo.

  A sound. And it’s now that he sees her, through the archway, sitting motionless on a couch in the living room, hands bloodied, staring at the dead man. It’s as if she can’t see Martin kneeling there, just the body next to him. Her hair is different, reddish brown instead of blonde, but that’s not what draws his eyes. Hands bloodied. A trail, drops of blood spattered on the tiles, link her to the body.

  ‘Mandy?’ There is blood on her clothes as well. His voice is urgent, but there’s no response. ‘Mandalay!’

  She looks at him, dazed. She shakes her head ever so slightly, perhaps a gesture of disbelief, perhaps a sign that he shouldn’t be here.

  Martin thinks of her ten-month-old son, his heart pounding out his concern. ‘Mandy, where’s Liam? Where is he?’

  But she can only shake her head. He’s not sure what the gesture signifies.

  Martin pulls out his phone, half expecting there to be no signal, not in this alternative reality. But the signal is strong. Five bars. He dials triple zero, asks for the ambulance. And then for police.

  He’s lost Mandy’s attention; she’s staring at the body once more. The dead man is sprawled through the archway, but the blood has not yet extended all the way across the entrance to the lounge room. And yet Martin doesn’t move, he doesn’t go to her. Instead he returns to his phone, finds the number of a Melbourne law firm, Wright, Douglas and Fenning. Mandy’s solicitor: Winifred Barbicombe. She’s going to need Winifred more than she needs him.

  chapter two

  There is something reptilian about the police sergeant, something predatory. His eyes are hooded, his lips thin, his skin scarred by acne. There is a greyness to his complexion that doesn’t belong in a beach town. He stares at Martin for a full minute, until Martin can no longer hold his gaze and looks away towards the constable standing by the video camera next to the interview room door. She looks as uncomfortable as Martin feels, shifting her weight from one leg to the other, staring resolutely at the camera’s screen, as the silence endures. Only once eye contact is broken does the policeman deign to speak, his voice flat. ‘Interview conducted by Sergeant Johnson Pear with Martin Michael Scarsden. Port Silver police station. Two-ten pm, the fourth of March.’ Martin waits, but the policeman pauses again, his eyes unreadable. The tally light on the video camera flicks on and off every five seconds or so.

  ‘All right, Mr Scarsden. In your own words. Please recount how you came to be at the residence of Mandalay Blonde today.’

  Martin clears his throat, feeling uncomfortable, as if he stands accused of something, even as he reminds himself he is blameless. ‘Last night I stayed in Glen Innes. I drove there yesterday from Sydney, up the New England Highway. I stayed in a pub called the Great Central Hotel. You can check. They’ll have records. I continued this morning, arrived in Port Silver at about eleven o’clock.’

  ‘And you went straight to the townhouse of Mandalay Blonde at fifteen Riverside Place?’

  ‘No, not straight away.’ Martin recounts picking up the two hitchhikers, Topaz and Royce, dropping them at the backpacker hostel. The policeman writes this information down. He has a brand-new notebook, a big one. ‘Surnames?’

  Martin thinks. ‘Royce told me his. McAlister, I think. Not sure about the girl.’

  ‘Never mind. We’ll find them. They’ll be able to corroborate your movements. Makes our job easier.’ If he’s pleased his eyes don’t show it; they appear devoid of emotion. ‘Can you say at
precisely what time you dropped the couple at the hostel?’

  Martin shakes his head. ‘Not precisely. As I said, it was round eleven.’

  The policeman looks unconvinced and Martin feels himself squirming under his gaze. The tally light on the video camera winks like a metronome. God knows how he’d be feeling if he’d actually done anything wrong.

  ‘Mr Scarsden, we’ll be accessing data from mobile phone towers that will give us a more accurate account of your movements, especially between Glen Innes and Port Silver. Is there any reason why we shouldn’t gain access to that information?’

  ‘No. Please do.’

  The policeman stares for a long ten seconds and then writes again in his notebook, taking his time. He appears to be framing his next question when the door behind him bursts open and a young man pushes into the room, breathing hard. His hair is a mass of unkempt black wool, his stubble so dense it looks woven, his eyes black. He’s wearing board shorts and sandals, chest hair erupting from beneath an erratically buttoned Hawaiian shirt.

  Sergeant Pear doesn’t turn immediately. Instead he waits a moment, sighs, and then swivels in his chair.

  ‘Nick Poulos,’ pants the man. ‘I’m Nick Poulos.’

  ‘I know who you are, son. What are you doing here?’ asks Pear.

  ‘I’ve been appointed as Mr Scarsden’s lawyer.’

  ‘Is that right?’ The policeman swivels back to Martin. ‘Can you confirm that?’

  ‘No. But I’d certainly like a lawyer.’

  Pear remains impassive. ‘Interview adjourned at two-sixteen pm.’ The constable turns the camera off. ‘Okay, you two sort out your relationship. I’ll give you five minutes and then we’re back on.’

  ‘Thanks, mate,’ says Poulos with a huge grin, seemingly unaffected by the policeman’s frostiness. Sergeant Pear and the constable leave, and Poulos turns to Martin, his arms wide as if he’s about to hug him. ‘Martin Scarsden. Can you believe it? Martin fucking Scarsden. Country’s most famous journalist. My client!’

  Martin blinks, silenced momentarily by the young man’s eagerness. ‘Are you sure you’re a lawyer?’ he asks, assessing the man’s casual clothes, his apparent lack of years. ‘Tell me you’re on your day off.’

  ‘Yeah. I was on my day off. So what? Now I’m here.’

  ‘Who appointed you?’

  ‘Melbourne firm. Wright, Douglas and Fenning. Rang me out of the blue. Asked me to come straight away. Top dollar.’ The lawyer’s eyes are wide; he’s still panting, like a puppy.

  Martin understands: Mandy’s solicitors have appointed the solicitor, repaying Martin for alerting them of Mandy’s plight. ‘Why you, Nick? Why call you?’

  Poulos laughs, pulling out a chair, sitting down, as if Martin has already agreed to hire him. ‘Not much choice. There’s one big firm here, Drake and Associates, and me. A few more up in Longton.’

  ‘So why didn’t they hire Drake?’

  ‘They did. Drake are representing Mandalay Blonde, at least until their own people get here.’

  Martin grimaces. Mandy’s solicitors may be helping him out, but they’re keeping his counsel discrete from her own, just in case his interests and hers don’t align. Just in case they need to throw him under a bus. He looks at the lawyer, who shows no sign of settling down. ‘Nick, you’re not high, are you?’

  ‘Shit no. Don’t drink, don’t do drugs. Can’t handle that shit. Spazzes me out.’

  ‘You do a lot of criminal law?’

  ‘Shitloads. I’m up before the magistrate most weeks.’

  ‘This isn’t exactly one for the magistrate.’

  ‘You’re telling me. Murder. How good is that?’ Poulos rubs his hands together, oblivious to the look on Martin’s face. ‘The Supreme Court. Shit, man, that’s the big time.’

  Martin is still wondering how to respond when Pear returns.

  ‘You two sorted then?’ he asks. For the first time Martin detects some emotion seeping through the officer’s taciturn hostility: amusement.

  ‘Yes,’ says Martin. ‘Mr Poulos is my lawyer. For now.’

  ‘Glad to hear it. Let’s get going then.’

  They resume their former positions—Martin sitting across the interview table from Pear, with the constable operating the video camera—except now Nick Poulos is sitting by Martin’s side. The interview recommences, Pear an image of stillness at the centre of Martin’s vision, Poulos in constant motion at its periphery. It doesn’t take Martin long to recount what happened: finding the door ajar, keys in the lock, the body on the floor, the blood spreading. He tells Pear of seeing Mandy, apparently in shock, how he rang the ambulance.

  ‘Did you see anyone enter the townhouse or leave it?’ asks Pear.

  ‘No. No one.’

  ‘And you heard nothing? No struggle, no cry for help, nothing?’

  ‘Nothing. It must have all finished before I arrived.’

  ‘Yet your impression is that the attack must have only just taken place?’

  ‘Yes. The pool of blood, it was still spreading. And when I felt for a pulse, the victim’s neck felt like he could have still been alive. It was warm and pliable. Just no pulse.’

  Pear engages in another of his ponderous pauses before resuming. ‘And the victim … did you recognise him?’

  ‘No. He was face down. Who was he?’

  ‘Local real estate agent. Jasper Speight.’

  ‘Jasper?’ exclaims Nick Poulos. ‘Fuck me.’

  But Pear isn’t distracted. His eyes are boring into Martin, whose own eyes have grown wide, even as dread begins to churn within him.

  ‘You knew him?’ demands the policeman.

  Martin is unable to answer immediately; something feels profoundly wrong, as if the world has shifted in its orbit. ‘Yes. We went to school together. We were friends,’ he manages to say. ‘Good friends.’

  ‘Is that right? Here? In Port Silver?’

  ‘Yes. I grew up here.’ A tremor runs through his hands. He holds them together to keep them still.

  The policeman writes in his notebook; apparently Martin’s connection to Port Silver is news to him. ‘And when was the last time you saw the victim, before this morning?’

  ‘Twenty-three years ago. As soon as I finished high school, I left town.’

  ‘And never came back?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Not ever?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And no other contact with Jasper Speight in the interim? Letters, emails, phone calls?’

  ‘No. None that I remember.’

  Pear thinks that one through. ‘So why come back now?’

  ‘I’m moving back here. With my partner, Mandalay Blonde. She moved up recently.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Three weeks, maybe a month. I’d have to check.’

  ‘So why are you only just arriving?’

  ‘I’ve been holed up in Sydney, writing a book.’

  ‘No shit!’ exclaims Nick Poulos. ‘About all those murders out west? Can’t wait.’

  Martin stares at his lawyer, incredulous, while Pear simply shakes his head. ‘Mr Poulos, this is a police interview. You can get Mr Scarsden’s autograph when we’re finished.’

  ‘Yes. Righto. Sorry, mate,’ says Poulos, although his contrition doesn’t extend to keeping still; he continues to fidget by Martin’s side.

  Pear returns his attention to Martin. ‘Was this morning the first time you visited Mandalay Blonde’s townhouse? The only time?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘And apart from the hallway, you didn’t enter any other part of the house?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘And at no point did you touch the weapon?’

  ‘There was no weapon. Not that I saw.’

  ‘What wounds did the victim have?’

  Martin needs only to close his eyes; the scene comes immediately: technicolour gore, the air flooded with the stench of blood; the body on the floor, blood still leaking.

&nb
sp; ‘It looked like he’d been stabbed in the back, right in the centre. There was a circle of blood around a wound. You could see where the shirt had been sliced, the cut itself. But not so much blood. All that blood spreading on the floor, he must have been stabbed, or cut open, in his front, but I couldn’t see those injuries, just the one in his back.’

  ‘Did you touch the body?’

  ‘Yes. I touched his neck, searching for a pulse, but that’s all. That’s when I got some blood on my hand.’

  ‘There was blood on his neck?’

  ‘I don’t know. But that’s the only part of him I recall touching. And I did get blood on my hand.’ Pear squints, his gaze unwavering, as if Martin’s words hold great significance. Martin continues, ‘He was holding something. It looked like a postcard, some sort of religious image.’

  ‘Did you touch it?’

  ‘No. What was it?’

  Pear shakes his head, as if in sorrow. ‘I can’t tell you that.’ Another pause. ‘And you didn’t go to Mandalay Blonde? You didn’t try to comfort your girlfriend?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  Martin doesn’t answer immediately; he doesn’t know the answer. ‘I can’t say. I guess I was in shock. We needed help. We were out of our depth.’