by Chris Hammer
Martin checks his emails, but there’s nothing, just spam advertising wine, frequent flyer points and hotel bookings. He drains his coffee, pays and leaves, walking further down The Boulevarde. A couple of schoolgirls skip out of a sushi shop, almost bumping into him, giggling as they go. They’re wearing straw hats and green- and-white-checked cotton dresses, and they carry matching green backpacks emblazoned with the school badge and motto of Longton Grammar: Service and Success. They pile into the back of a waiting SUV. A private school in Longton. The world is indeed changing. He watches the car, a gleaming Hyundai, pull out into the traffic. It’s only as he turns back to the street that he sees her: Denise Speight, unlocking her real estate business just ten metres away. Jasper’s mother.
He takes a few steps towards her, uncertain. ‘Mrs Speight?’ he queries, reverting to the formalities of childhood.
She turns, sees him, her eyes bloodshot and sleep deprived. ‘Martin? Is that you? Martin Scarsden?’
He nods. ‘Yes. It’s me.’
Her hand goes to her mouth and a tremor runs through her. ‘Good God. Martin.’
He closes the gap between them, unsure what to do, what to say. She takes his hand, gripping it with force. ‘He’s dead, Martin. Do you know? Jasper is dead?’
‘Yes. I know.’
‘I had to go to Longton. The hospital. To identify him.’ And she shudders again, tears welling. ‘It was him.’
An elderly couple walks pass, frowning with concern.
‘Let’s go inside,’ says Martin. ‘Talk there.’
‘Yes,’ says Denise Speight. ‘Yes. Let’s do that.’ She releases his hand, opens the door. Inside she turns on the lights, a hum followed by clicks as the strip lighting sparks to life. An array of FOR SALE posters covers the plate glass of the shopfront, filtering the light from the street and providing a degree of privacy. There’s a vacant receptionist’s counter with two glassed-in offices behind it. More FOR SALE and FOR RENT flyers cover the walls.
‘Mrs Speight, sorry, but what are you doing here? Today? At work?’
‘What else can I do? I can’t bear to stay at home. I couldn’t sleep.’
Martin remembers her as fierce and sharp-tongued, disapproving of Scotty and himself, but now she seems lost, small and vulnerable. She’s dressed for her job: dark slacks, low heels, white blouse. Her grey hair is cut short. On any other day she would exude professionalism, but not on this day. On this day her clothes can’t prop her up; she looks like a collapsed bag.
‘Is there someone who you can be with?’ asks Martin. ‘Relatives? Friends?’
She shakes her head.
He persists. ‘You should take some time off. Someone else can look after the business for you.’
‘No. It was just Jasper and me. He was taking over altogether at the end of this year.’ She looks around the office, silent and empty, and stifles a sob. ‘It was all for Jasper.’ Another tremor. She’s barely holding herself together. The space seems full of her son, so recently gone.
‘Come on,’ says Martin gently. ‘Let’s go somewhere else. Have a coffee. Have a talk.’
‘No. The police will be here soon. To search Jasper’s office. That’s his, that one there.’
The door to her son’s office is closed. Martin feels an urge to look inside, but there’s no way he’s about to leave his fingerprints on the doorhandle, or any evidence he’s been in there. He walks across and peers through the glass. He can see a desk, papers spread across it. There’s a pen there as well, its cap off next to it, ready to write the next sentence. A cup of coffee, half empty, a skin of milk on its surface. A coat hangs on a hatstand. Two vacant chairs face the desk.
‘It’s like he’s coming back any minute, isn’t it?’ Denise has moved to his side.
‘Yes, it is,’ he whispers.
‘Come on,’ she says. ‘Come into my office. Let’s talk there.’ Her voice is a little more even, as if she’s overcome some internal obstacle.
Inside her office she takes her chair; Martin sits on the other side of the desk in one of the chairs provided for customers, like he’s interested in renting a house instead of mourning a much-loved son. Behind her are framed photos. Her son. Children. A fading shot of a black-haired man.
Denise looks at Martin, eyes red. ‘The police say you found him,’ she says.
Martin nods, uncertain. Outside she’d asked him if he knew Jasper was dead, now she’s saying she knows he found her son, demonstrating her disorientation. ‘Yes. That’s right. I found him.’
‘What happened, Martin? Who killed him?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t think the police know either. Not yet. I only saw a single blow, in the back. It would have struck his heart. Jasper wouldn’t have known what hit him. He would have died instantly. Almost instantly.’
Denise looks at him imploringly. ‘He didn’t suffer?’
‘No. I don’t think so.’
‘That’s kind of you, Martin. Kind of you to say that. But I know it’s not true. The police say he was stabbed in the stomach and chest first, that he was trying to get away. His hands were cut.’
Martin doesn’t know what to say, so he says nothing.
‘They think he may have known his assailant.’ Denise is looking into some imagined distance, talking to herself as much as to Martin, before bringing her focus back to him. ‘They said they were questioning your girlfriend. Interrogating her. Mandalay Blonde. From down there, from all the death and mayhem in that country town.’
‘They’ve released her,’ says Martin calmly. ‘There’s no evidence she was involved.’
‘But she was there?’
‘I think so. In the house. But I don’t know if she witnessed the attack.’
‘So she didn’t hear anything? Didn’t see anything?’
‘I don’t know,’ says Martin. ‘I haven’t spoken to her yet.’
‘They said they were questioning you, as well.’
‘That’s right. I’m doing everything I can to help.’
That seems to satisfy her. She settles back into her chair, intensity draining out of her, grief flowing back in.
‘Can I ask you something, Mrs Speight?’
She smiles at that, feigning amusement. ‘I think you can call me Denise, Martin. You’re not a schoolboy anymore.’
‘Thanks. Denise. Was Jasper religious?’
‘Not that I know of. Why do you ask?’
‘It was difficult to see, but when I found him, he was holding a postcard or a photograph. It looked like a religious image, of Christ or maybe a saint.’
Denise smiles weakly, as if a fond memory has presented itself. ‘One of his postcards. He had thousands of them. He collected them. It was his hobby.’
‘Religious postcards?’
‘No. All sorts of things. Places, mainly. You started it.’
‘Sorry?’
‘You sent him one, when you first got to Sydney. You and Scott. You remember?’
Martin blinks. He has no memory of ever writing to Jasper.
‘He always spoke of travelling. He followed all your reports from round the world. And he collected postcards. But, in the end, he never really saw much of the world. Never went overseas. Not like you.’
Martin wonders if he hears bitterness in the mother’s voice; lets it go. ‘Do you know why Jasper was visiting Mandy at her townhouse?’
Denise smiles again, a hybrid expression: mouth upturned but eyes sad. ‘No. We’ve been renting her the place for almost a month now, but there was no reason I know of for him to go there. Although he always had an eye for a pretty girl.’ She shrugs. ‘But I think he wanted to see you.’
‘Me? Why?’
‘My word, Martin, you have no idea how proud he was of you. He always read the paper, was always showing me your stories. The foreign pages and, more recently, those front pages from out west. Always told anyone who’d listen what great mates you two had been.’
Martin feels a surge of guilt, of remors
e. Now it’s his turn to feel emotion catching in his throat. ‘I wish I could have seen him again. I was looking forward to it.’
‘He heard you were moving back. He thought you could help him. As a journalist.’
‘What do you mean?’
She leans forward, intelligence sparking, grief set aside for another moment. ‘This town has changed, Martin. Every year, every month, there’s some new building. Money washing north from Sydney and Melbourne, developers coming south from Brisbane and the Gold Coast, meeting here. Just ask down on The Boulevarde: we’re the new Byron Bay, the new Noosa. Some of them want us to be the new Gold Coast, like that’s a good thing.’
‘Sounds like a good place to be a real estate agent,’ interposes Martin, regretting his words as soon as they are out of his mouth. ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to imply anything.’
‘That’s okay. You’re right. We’ve done very well. Jasper’s kids won’t go without.’
‘Kids? He was married?’ asks Martin. He looks again at the framed photos: Jasper’s kids.
‘Was is the operative word. Divorced seven or eight years ago. All his own fault. Couldn’t keep his hands to himself.’ It’s a frank assessment from the dead man’s mother.
‘Where is his ex? And the kids?’
‘Susan? New Zealand. I contacted her last night. She may come back for the funeral. She may not. More interested in how it affects her alimony, if I know her.’ There’s an edge to the statement; she closes her eyes, as if admonishing herself. ‘I can’t say I blame her; kids are expensive.’
Martin considers this before speaking again. ‘You’ve lost me. You were telling me the town is booming. You’ve made good money. But what’s that got to do with Jasper and why he wanted to see me?’
Denise frowns, as if she too has lost track of the conversation’s thread, or as if what she is about to say pains her. ‘We’re real estate agents, not property developers. The big money is in developing. We benefit, to be sure, but that doesn’t mean we have to like everything the developers do. Jasper used to be very ambitious, very money hungry, but after his wife walked out on him, he got depressed, started to reassess himself. Medication, support groups, spiritual retreats. He came through it okay, got his old spark back, but he was less of a larrikin, more considerate. I wouldn’t describe him as a greenie—far from it—but he’s helped the campaign against a new development planned for up on Crystal Lagoon.’
‘Crystal Lagoon? Never heard of it. Where is it?’
‘Mackenzie’s Swamp. It’s been rebranded.’
Martin laughs, shakes his head. ‘You’re kidding. It’s full of bull sharks. No one in their right mind would develop that.’
‘The sharks have gone. After the cheese factory closed.’
‘The cheese factory?’
‘You’d be surprised.’
The cheese factory. He can’t picture it, can’t ever remember going there, and yet he knows where it is, out on Dunes Road, well north of the town. He has some tendril of memory, a feeling his father may have once worked at the factory, but when he tries to pin the memory down, he can’t be sure if the recollection is real or imagined. ‘Why was Jasper opposed to a development? What was he protecting?’
Denise stands, walks around her desk. On one wall two maps are pinned up: one setting out the streets of Port Silver with individual block numbers, colour-coded for zoning, the other a larger-scale depiction of the surrounding district. She goes to the district map, black and white with contour lines in green. Martin joins her.
‘We’re here in town,’ says Denise, pointing. ‘The bridge takes you north across the Argyle onto Dunes Road. The road is raised, a causeway through the swamplands. The lagoon is mostly off to the left, the cheese factory up on its northern bank.’
Martin examines the map, reacquainting himself with the landscape of his youth. Dunes Road is dead straight, running north for twenty kilometres from the Argyle River. The land on both sides is low-lying—Mackenzie’s Swamp—with water at its centre: the rebranded Crystal Lagoon. ‘Flood prone,’ Martin says.
‘Yes. Can’t be built on.’
Martin continues to examine the map. The land east of the road, beyond the lagoon, rises sharply, up to a hundred metres or more above sea level, culminating in cliffs running north–south along the coast. Someone has marked out private holdings with a pencil, with clifftop houses drawn as small squares. His eyes return to the road, following it north, up to another, smaller bridge. This is where the lagoon opens to the sea. ‘The lake. It’s tidal?’
‘Yes. Every now and then the mouth will silt up, but then a big storm will come through and open it up again. And there’s the site of the old cheese factory, there. It’s on the only bit of high ground west of the road.’
The green contours on the map confirm the real estate agent’s assertion. Again, someone has drawn the boundaries of the private holding surrounding the factory in pencil. The land beyond it looks dead flat, as if the separation between land and water is debatable. ‘What about all this, these wetlands? Is this Crown land?’
‘Nature reserve. There’s been a native title claim on it for years, but who knows when that might be resolved.’
‘What’s there? Anything?’
‘No. Not west of the road. Just the old cheese factory site; the rest is mangroves, mudflats and sea water. Full of mosquitoes, ticks and leeches. It may be Crystal Lagoon some day, but right now it’s still a swamp. But good fishing, so they tell me, and prawns when they’re running.’
‘So why was Jasper opposed to developing it?’
‘He liked the idea of leaving something unspoilt, some green space on the other side of the river. For future generations.’ At the thought of her son, of his hopes, the momentary distraction of real estate falls away and her face again turns down.
‘What’s planned for it? Is there a firm proposal?’
Denise sighs. ‘A marina. On the south bank where the estuary meets the lagoon, just west of the bridge. But Jasper thought it would kill off the mangroves and ruin the environment.’
Martin considers the plan. He knows there is money in marinas, but the development strikes him as wildly unlikely. ‘It’s a long way from town to park a boat. Is there housing planned as well?’
‘Not at the marina itself. Too low-lying, too flood prone. There’s a development planned for the east side of the road, here at Hummingbird Beach on private land.’ Denise points out the site on the map. Martin can see a north-facing beach close to where the tidal lake joins the sea. The beach is backed by higher ground, the green contour lines declaring it flood proof. Denise continues: ‘It’s prime real estate. The beach is sheltered and catches the winter sun. Beautiful. There’s a big outfit, some multinational, that wants to build a high-end resort there. For tourists, but maybe with strata titles for the wealthy, with a walkway under the bridge to the marina. Stage three would be a golf course around the rest of the lagoon, with a clubhouse above the flood line, where the old factory is now. Jasper didn’t have any issues with the resort at Hummingbird Beach; he thought it was a good idea. He just wanted the lagoon and the land west of the road left alone.’
‘What about you?’ asks Martin. ‘What do you think?’
Denise shrugs. ‘I don’t think it’s doing anyone any good just sitting there. I’d like to see it developed, provided the local Gooris don’t get shafted, that they get a bit of money and some employment. That would be win-win.’
Martin looks at the map. He can see the attraction for the developers, and he can see why environmentalists would want to protect the tidal lake and the surrounding land. ‘What’s the company that’s pushing all this development?’
‘Two companies. The one that wants to buy Hummingbird Beach is a big French outfit. Jasper has been representing them. The marina and the golf course is a local developer, Tyson St Clair, trying to piggyback on their investment.’
Martin blinks. Denise Speight is attempting to sound matter-of-fact, but there is
something in her inflection, something akin to distaste. ‘You don’t approve?’
‘The man won’t be satisfied until he owns the whole town.’ This time, the bitterness in her voice is more evident.
Martin takes a moment to assimilate this. ‘So Jasper was representing the French, trying to win approval for their development at Hummingbird Beach, while at the same time opposing Tyson St Clair’s proposed marina and golf course?’
‘Yes. That’s right.’
‘Surely that must have led to some tension?’
‘I wouldn’t know.’
‘You two didn’t discuss it?’
‘No. He knew I don’t approve of St Clair. We didn’t talk about it.’
Martin makes a mental note to check out the property developer. ‘So Jasper wanted to enlist my help to get the story out to a national audience? That’s understandable. But no one is going to kill him for that. Was there something else he wanted to tell me? Something more sensitive?’
Denise Speight smiles, another weak approximation. ‘I don’t know, Martin. If there was, he didn’t tell me.’
‘I see.’
The smile vanishes as quickly as it appeared. ‘Will you investigate it? Why he died? For me? For him? He always loved your investigations.’
Martin sees the pleading in her eyes, hears the quaver in her voice. ‘Yes, of course,’ he says. ‘I want to know as well.’ Denise offers up her frail smile once again, this time touched with gratitude. Martin continues: ‘You say you don’t know if he had any information that could have got him killed. Is there anyone else who might, perhaps someone he could have confided in? About the development, for example, or his relationship with St Clair?’