by Chris Hammer
‘Mr Scarsden, did you kill Jasper Speight?’
‘Steady on,’ interjects Nick Poulos.
‘It’s okay,’ says Martin. ‘Let’s have it on the record. I most certainly did not kill Jasper Speight or harm him in any way. He was dead when I arrived.’
‘Very good,’ says Pear, although there is nothing in his tone to suggest Martin’s response is good, bad or indifferent. He asks several more questions, mainly about Mandy’s appearance and her attitude, then brings the official interview to an end. The constable turns the camera off, extracts its memory card and takes it with her as she leaves the room.
Pear remains seated, waiting until his subordinate has closed the door behind her before he speaks again, voice more matter-of-fact than menacing. ‘This is a murder inquiry. Homicide will be arriving from Sydney any time now, so they’ll be taking over. They wanted your recollections on the record as soon as possible. We’ll need to detain you until they get here.’ He turns to Poulos. ‘You understand that isn’t my call?’
‘My client is cooperating fully. He rang the police. You don’t need to detain him,’ says the young lawyer. ‘He didn’t witness the murder.’
Pear addresses Martin, not Nick Poulos. ‘I’ll be talking to homicide. It’s their call. We’ll get on to tracking your phone and I’ll get down to the backpackers to confirm your alibi. The forensic team from Sydney are also flying in, although some of their equipment is coming by road. We may need to hold you overnight.’
‘Not good enough,’ says Poulos, almost cheerfully. ‘Unless you intend charging him, he needs to be out of here by—’ he checks his watch for effect ‘—let’s say six-thirty. Okay?’
The policeman regards the lawyer for a moment. Martin thinks he’s starting to detect subtle changes in Pear’s face; is that contempt penetrating the mask? ‘That’s right, son. We can only hold him for four hours. Plus any time it reasonably takes to conduct forensic procedures. Which may mean until tomorrow. As I say, it’s homicide’s call. They’ll be here soon enough; you can argue the toss with them.’
Pear stands, but before he moves to the door he speaks again, this time addressing Martin. ‘Know this. Your lawyer here seems to view those murders down in the Riverina as something of a lark. I’m sure you don’t. As a police officer, I’m grateful for the assistance you gave in bringing a murderer to justice. But one policeman lost his life and another will be going to prison. Do not expect me to be doing you any favours.’ Pear gives him a withering glare, extends it to Nick Poulos, then heads towards the door.
‘What about Mandy?’ Martin asks, almost too late. ‘How is she?’
‘Sorry,’ says Pear over his shoulder, sounding anything but, ‘not my call.’
It’s a new cell, fresh and sterile, scrubbed clean of graffiti and misery, smelling of disinfectant, not piss. It boasts a solid metal door with a small hatch at eye level, giving him a sense of privacy even as a video camera, peering down from high in one corner, insists he has none at all. Martin remembers the old cells, reeking of shit and vomit, the marinated aftermath of lives gone wrong. No cameras back then, but no pretence at privacy either: one wall nothing but steel bars fronting the corridor beyond. He’d been locked up a few times, for teenage drunkenness and tomfoolery, put away for the night for his own good by old Sergeant Mackie, dispenser of arbitrary justice. No magistrate’s court for him, no habeas corpus, just Martin and Jasper and sometimes Scotty, detained at Mackie’s pleasure, released with a flea in the ear and a boot up the arse.
What was it they had done? That night with Scotty? Drunk too much grog, that much was a given. Goon bags and shoplifted Bundy. And dope? Probably. Jasper liked dope. It starts coming back.
They’re in the supermarket car park, up on its flat roof, sitting out of sight below its ramparts, drinking and talking and laughing. It’s night time. They’re maybe sixteen, the bodies of men and the minds of children. Drunken children. The shopping trolleys are just sitting there, waiting to tempt them. Jasper starts it, climbing into one, demanding to be pushed.
In his cell, Martin closes his eyes, hears the sound of the trolley rattling over the gaps in the concrete, clanking like a train, feels the vibrations in his hands.
They take turns pushing each other, narrowly missing light poles, crashing into kerbs. Martin sent flying, banging his knee and scraping his elbow, inspiring unmitigated laughter. The three of them on the ground, laughing, holding their stomachs, tears in their eyes, captive to the moment. It doesn’t hurt; not his knee, not his bloodied elbow. How drunk is he?
Now Jasper wants to race, challenges them, but it’s not possible, not with just the three of them. And then the inevitable idea. It doesn’t matter who suggests it; it’s immediately embraced: a race down the ramp from the roof. So they line up their wire-framed chariots, climb in, count down and push off, accelerating quickly, screaming with exhilaration, careening out of control, all three of them crashing, only Scotty still screaming, his arm broken and his tooth missing. Jasper and Martin ploughing headlong into a parked car—the mayor’s car—thrown out of the trolleys by the impact, lucky not to be more seriously hurt.
Martin smiles at the memory and wonders at it. Were they really that reckless? That wild? He hasn’t thought of it for years, but then he hasn’t thought about anything to do with Port Silver for years. Deliberately so. And now Jasper is dead. Twenty-five years since the supermarket and dead on arrival, Martin’s arrival. Jasper, with his mop of dark hair and twinkling blue eyes, always up for a laugh, ready with a quip, riding his luck. Chatting up the girls with his cheesy lines, just for the fun of it, surprised when they flirted back. Jasper. Stabbed to death, emptied of blood, with no more luck to ride.
Scotty ends up in hospital, Jasper and Martin in the slammer. And then Jasper is going, his mother Denise rushing in to collect him, grounding him for a month. Jasper winks at Martin as he leaves, giving him a conspiratorial smirk, uninjured and still drunk. And now Martin is alone, the pain returning first to his elbow and then to his knee, before spreading to his head, imposing a regime of suffering. He tries lying down, but his head begins to spin. He sits up, fighting back the urge to vomit. No one is coming to collect him, to ground him; only Mackie will discipline him. But he’s not scared, not intimidated—it isn’t the first time. On some other night he’ll be the one at home and his father will be in here sleeping off a big one, their roles reversed.
Martin opens his eyes, trawls his memory; when did he resolve to stop drinking, promising himself that he would never become his father? One night in the cells, drunk and miserable, or one morning waking with a heavy head, a dry mouth and a rebellious stomach? Old Mackie appearing with breakfast, bacon and eggs floating in a pool of grease, before sending him on his way, telling him that he never wants to see him again. Maybe the message had eventually got through? No, Martin knows when it was. That night out in the Settlement, the night his father died. He stands up, paces, putting the memories away, back where they belong. It shouldn’t be too long until he’s released; he can leave them in here.
There’s the sound of movement outside the cell. Martin peers through the hatch. The curve of her neck, a flash of her hair, no longer blonde.
‘Mandy!’ he calls.
She pauses, looks back, trying to locate his voice. She’s holding her boy, Liam, asleep in her arms. She manages a wan smile, eyes burdened. A timid wave, gaze slightly off centre, looking at the wrong door. Then she’s gone, escorted away by the same constable who had operated the video camera.
Martin sits down on the cell bed. There’s a thin mattress and nothing else. No pillow, no blanket. She smiled, he’s sure she smiled. And Liam is safe. A wave of emotion hits him: relief, longing, a compulsion to protect her and her boy. He feels it roll over him, unsure of his emotional footing. At the age of forty-one he’s still getting used to this, these surges of emotion, this undertow of affection. Once, not so long ago, he’d been in control, sailing a placid sea, oblivious to the currents a
nd tides pulsing beneath. Now, closer to the shore, the waves can catch him unawares. He looks at the painted wall, breathes deeply, letting the emotion ebb.
The police will soon clear him, but they’ll need to investigate Mandy. An image comes to him of her sitting on the couch, quietly going into shock, hands bloodied. What would the police make of that? They’ll ask if she sliced Speight open then finished him with one violent blow, plunging a blade into his heart. Martin knows it can’t be true; in the Riverina, she’d held a knife to a killer’s throat, a man about to slaughter her defenceless child. She hadn’t killed then, under the most extreme provocation, so he can’t believe she would kill now, not even in self-defence. Not the final blow, the fatal blow. Not when the victim was already so seriously wounded. Not when he’d turned his back.
But if Mandy wasn’t the killer, who was? Martin realises she mustn’t know. If she had witnessed the murder, if she had seen the killer, she would have told the police by now and Martin wouldn’t still be in custody. So she must have arrived after the fact, only shortly before Martin. Maybe she had heard something and come downstairs to find Jasper dead, just before Martin arrived.
And yet he hadn’t gone to her; he’d left her sitting bewildered and lost; he’d stayed in the hallway, awaiting the police. She’d needed him but he hadn’t moved. What had immobilised him? Another image comes to him: Jasper Speight with his blood pooling about him. No longer a body, but Jasper. Martin trembles involuntarily and fights the urge to be sick, no longer the dispassionate and impervious foreign correspondent.
Sergeant Mackie and the old police station may be long gone, but the breakfast remains unchanged. The same eggs, the same fatty bacon, the same layer of grease. This time around Martin declines; he’s not hungover and he’s not broke. A second police constable, a young bloke yet to shed the last of his puppy fat, seems to take it personally. ‘That’s good food, mate. You know that? Plenty would be grateful for it.’
‘You eat it then. All yours.’
‘I will at that,’ says the constable defiantly, taking the plate back. The puppy fat will linger a while yet.
‘Hello, Martin. Not hungry?’ It’s Detective Inspector Morris Montifore, replacing the constable in the doorway. Only six weeks have passed since Martin helped the homicide detective solve a set of brutal murders in the state’s parched interior, more than a thousand kilometres from Port Silver. And now here he is again, an unexpected encore. He can’t be much older than Martin, but he looks fatigued, the creases on his forehead permanent, as if he’s witnessed too much. Perhaps he has.
‘Morris. Fancy seeing you here.’
‘I was thinking the same thing.’ The homicide detective’s eyes are alert. Alert and amused.
‘I have a lawyer, you know,’ says Martin. ‘I want him here if you’re going to interview me.’
Montifore smiles. ‘No need. You’re free to go. Sorry you were kept overnight, but we needed to tick all the boxes. This is just a courtesy call.’
‘You have the killer?’
‘Not yet.’
‘But your forensic team, they’ve put me in the clear?’
Montifore shakes his head. ‘This is a police matter. A murder investigation. I don’t want you muddying the waters, you understand? That’s the courtesy part of the call: don’t get involved, leave it to us. Okay?’
‘What about Mandy? Is she free to go as well?’
‘She’s already out. Let her go last night. Better lawyers, I guess.’
Martin doesn’t bite. ‘Her boy. Is he okay?’
Montifore grows serious. ‘He is. Now come on, I’ll walk you to the desk and get you signed out. But I’ll need to talk to you again. And to her.’
chapter three
The first thing Martin does, before lacing his shoes and threading his belt, before leaving the overbright foyer of the police station, is to ring Mandy. She answers on the third ring.
‘Martin,’ she shouts. He can hear traffic noise; she’s on speaker. ‘Are you out?’
‘Yes,’ he says loudly. ‘Where are you?’
‘Driving up to Longton. I’m picking up Winifred from the airport.’
Airport? He wasn’t aware there was one. It must be a general aviation airport, Mandy’s solicitor chartering a plane to fly in from Melbourne. ‘Good. Are you okay?’
The pause is so long that he thinks the connection has dropped out. ‘Will you be there when I get back?’ she asks.
‘Of course I will,’ he says.
‘Good. See you then.’ And she hangs up.
He looks at his phone, unsettled by the abruptness of the call. She must still be recovering from the shock of Jasper’s bloody demise. Winifred is on her way, Montifore wants to interview them, Mandy remains a suspect. No wonder she was terse: it’s not over.
He walks into a town transforming, not so much a teenager blooming into adulthood as a middle-aged woman who’s undergone cosmetic surgery. The town of his youth is being nipped and tucked, its face lifted, its skin botoxed, its patchy exterior exfoliated; tarted up for the tourists and the retirees, the sea changers and the telecommuters. He sees it in the promised security of the new two-storey police station, concrete and brick, defended by scrubbed steel bollards, capped by satellite dishes, with an underground car park protected by steel gates. He sees it in the streetscape, in its flowerboxes, speed humps and pedestrian crossings, in the seasonal banners hanging from streetlights. He sees it in the main thoroughfare, The Boulevarde. The street has slimmed down, making room for the footpaths to expand, footpaths paved with herringbone bricks, wide enough to host outdoor cafes with chalkboard menus and umbrellas emblazoned with Italian coffee brands. The last time he was here, the footpaths were narrow strips of bitumen dotted with discarded gum, cigarette butts and dog turds.
He looks across the road, a time traveller fresh from his Tardis. The old fish-and-chip shop, Theo’s, is still there, a remnant, with fading Coke signs and a hand-painted declaration that fish is a health food. It’s where he, Jasper and Scotty once savoured caramel milkshakes in aluminium containers and potato scallops in butcher-paper wrappers. But the op shop next door has gone, replaced by a swimwear boutique, a Chinese massage centre next to it. Once, vacant blocks had dotted The Boulevarde like missing teeth, providing easy access to the beach on one side and nearby houses and holiday rentals on the other. But now The Boulevarde is growing more orthodontically correct, the vacant lots fewer and farther between, commerce spreading, the beach receding from sight and easy access.
A black Range Rover with personalised plates eases past, halting long enough to allow a skinny woman to emerge. She’s dressed in a sarong and a spray tan, her over-large sunglasses flashed with gold. She clip-clops on cork wedges over to unlock the boutique.
Martin walks across the street. An old man meanders past, unhurried by responsibility, unburdened by employment, dressed in ironed shorts, a creaseless polo shirt and deck shoes, his Panama hat blemish-free. He ignores one of his contemporaries, unshaven and bleary-eyed, slumped on a sheet of cardboard, talking passionately to himself, a bottle in a brown paper bag on one side, a small dog on the other, a hat upturned in front of him with a layer of coins thinner than his cushion. A peloton of middle-aged men rolls into view, lycra-clad and chatty, pulling into a bakery, carbon-fibre bikes slotted into council-built racks. They take a table next to a group of roadworkers, dressed in hi-vis and wolfing down egg-and-bacon rolls in silent unison. A glassy-eyed hippie shuffles, dreadlocks and dirty clothes, sandals scuffing.
For a moment Martin sees the two towns superimposed: the tough working-class community of his youth and the gentrified retirement village it is becoming. Some fairy godmother has visited in his absence, sprinkling the silver pixie dust of family trusts, self-managed super funds and negative gearing, but sprinkling it unevenly. Struggle town hasn’t gone altogether, but it’s in retreat, pushed inland, away from the water, away from The Boulevarde, banished west of the Longton Road, where the sea breeze b
lows less frequently and DOCS is never far away. He knows exactly where it will still be found: lurking in the Settlement, stalking the fibro-lined roads of his youth and loitering around the smaller farms. He looks along The Boulevarde and wonders if the tide of prosperity that has washed through Australia’s capitals for so long has deposited any lasting wealth with the battlers of Port Silver.
Martin attempts to order a coffee at the counter of the Che Bay Cafe but is informed it’s table service only and instructed to take a seat. Only then does the graceful young waitress approach, wearing an apron advocating revolution and brandishing a smartphone instead of an order pad. She seems disappointed when he shows no interest in selecting a blend from the coffee menu or hearing the benefits of fair trade organics. He orders a generic flat white and some sourdough raisin toast.
He tries calling Mandy again, but the call goes straight to voicemail. Either she’s out of range or on another call. He searches the net for a number for Nick Poulos. The phone interrupts, asking him if he wants to join Port Silver’s free wi-fi. The town has free wi-fi. Of course it does. He accepts the conditions without reading them, but the connection times out. Instead, he uses his 4G connection to find the number for the lawyer.
‘Nick? It’s Martin Scarsden. Where are you?’
‘Getting the kids ready for school. You out?’
‘Yes. Can we meet?’
‘Of course. Top priority. How about the surf club at eleven?’
Martin looks at his watch. It’s not yet nine. ‘You can’t make it any earlier?’
‘Ten-thirty?’
‘Okay. Don’t let me inconvenience you.’ He hangs up. The sooner he can ditch the training-wheels solicitor, the better.
His coffee arrives and he starts scanning news sites on his phone, but can find no mention of murder in Port Silver: not on Fairfax, News, the ABC or any of the other mainstream sites. The cops must be keeping it under their hats for now. Was that why they’d kept him locked up all night? To keep it out of the media for another day? Or maybe, this far from the capitals, it just doesn’t rate a mention. A dead local in a seaside town; how can that compare to Sydney celebrities, Melbourne house prices or the latest reality television program? He recalls there used to be a local paper that covered the whole district, based up in Longton, the regional centre on the highway above the escarpment. He finds a website, the Longton Observer, days out of date, and then the reason why: the once daily paper is now a bi-weekly, published Wednesdays and Saturdays. It’s Tuesday. Maybe the editor, some bloke called Paulo, is working up a screamer on Jasper Speight’s murder for tomorrow’s front page. Maybe.