by Chris Hammer
‘Truly, Vern: I’m sorry.’
‘Matey, don’t worry about it. You’re back now, back in the fold.’
‘Did you hear about Jasper Speight?’
‘No. What?’
‘He’s dead.’ His words wash the smile from his uncle’s face. ‘I’m sorry, Vern.’
‘Dead? You serious?’
‘I found him yesterday. Stabbed to death.’ Martin can’t keep the emotion from his voice; one moment he’s like a blushing teenager, the next like a broken child, voice wavering. Until a year ago he’d been a correspondent, wearing his profession like a carapace, proud and remote and emotionless, but no longer. Something had happened in the Middle East, something more down in the drought-stricken Riverina. He’s changed, the shield has been stripped away. And this is no section editor he’s addressing, it’s his uncle; he’s not briefing a news conference, he’s looking into the eyes of the man who raised him. Who believed in him. Who rescued him. He sees the distress in his uncle’s eyes and feels the moisture in his own. He realises, even as he shudders, that the years of distancing and denial have been futile: there are things you can’t escape.
Vern is shaking his head. ‘Jasper, hey? So that was him, the man killed yesterday in Riverside Place?’
‘Yes,’ says Martin, and he struggles to keep even the single syllable free from quivering.
‘That’s awful,’ says Vern. ‘No one deserves that.’
‘Can I ask you about him, Vern? About Jasper?’
‘Yeah, sure. Why?’
‘I want to find out who killed him.’
Some light returns to Vern’s eyes. ‘Do you? Good lad. A Herald investigation.’ And then the shadows are back as he remembers what they are discussing. ‘Well, anything I can do to help, just ask.’
‘Thanks.’
But before he can posit a question, Vern interjects. ‘Listen, Martin, I’m sorry, but those blokes I’m with—it’s business. I got to get back to them. But tell you what: you come to dinner tonight, you and your girl, okay?’
‘Yeah. Maybe. I’m not sure she’ll be up to it. I haven’t seen her yet.’
‘Well, you come. We can talk. Here.’ Vern has a business card out. Martin watches as his uncle laboriously writes his home address on the back, pen gripped in his fist like a child. He hands it to Martin, beaming as if proud of his penmanship. ‘Ring if you can’t make it, but don’t leave it too late. I’ll fire up the barbie. We’ll have a feed, talk about Jasper, about old times.’
Vern stands and so does Martin. His uncle looks him over once more, as if reassuring himself his nephew is real. ‘Martin Scarsden, hey? Back in Port Silver. How good is that?’ And he pulls Martin into another quick bear hug before releasing him. ‘Got to go, matey. See you tonight.’
As he moves back to his friends, Martin looks at the business card. Vern Jones—Fishing charters & whale watching. And on the back, the address, letters askew, spelling approximate.
chapter five
The sea is still the sea, the beach is still the beach. No matter the changes sweeping The Boulevarde, no matter the new money whitewashing old miseries, no matter the ringing changes in his own life, the water is still the water: embracing, disinterested, constant. He skips through the foaming ankle-high wavelets past the stamping toddlers, past the backpackers skimming a ball to each other in the shallows, past the kids on their first foam boards, wading deeper, pushing through larger waves, feeling the water surge around him. He pushes further, diving under a clear green wall as it rises before him, eyes open, touches the bottom with his hand as the wave licks his feet. Surfacing he puts in some freestyle strokes, his shoulders welcoming the well-remembered sensation, swimming further out, beyond the breaking waves. Out the back.
He swings upright, treading water, his feet no longer able to touch the bottom, feeling the gentle pull and push of the sea, the ocean’s mighty breath. He inhales deeply, dives down, eyes open, through the sun-straddled translucence. Down he goes, into colder water, touches the sandy bottom again with satisfaction, rises again, not kicking but letting his buoyancy float him back to the surface, towards the spearing shafts of gold. The water feels so good, so honest, washing away the residue of the police cell, lifting the lingering taint of death, scrubbing the recent past from his pores.
Treading water again, breathing harder, he looks around him. The sea is open, not threatening. Memories come to him, swirl around: wild surf in a storm-brewed sea, caught in a rip, swimming out of it sideways, out beyond the waves, only to be dumped by a huge breaker on the way back in, the air knocked from his lungs, the struggle to breathe. Another memory: kissing a girl in the dunes only to have her laugh at him and walk away; loitering with Scotty and Jasper, smoking cigarettes and drinking, flicking butts with practised nonchalance, mocking the conformity of the clubbies and their silly caps.
The water flows over him, cooling and calming. Fifteen metres away, parallel to the beach, an elderly man is swimming towards him, arms moving methodically, in no hurry. Martin watches him as he passes, wonders if he’s swimming back and forth in the zone defined by the red-and-yellow flags, or if he cares nothing for the lifesavers and their attempts to regulate the sea. The way he’s swimming, slowly and effortlessly, he might be an old clubbie himself, a life member, a veteran of Port Silver.
Martin dives again, down into the deepening green, feeling again the mild swell and benevolent currents. The water holds him, forgives him and releases him to surface again. The sun and the sea, the land and the wind. And for the first time since Mandy revealed her plans to move here to the cauldron of his youth, for the first time since he finished his true-crime book, refocused and left Sydney, for the first time since he descended the escarpment, he feels that maybe it’s not such a bad thing, returning here. The past is immutable, but it’s distant, controllable; the future is yet to be determined, to be shaped by the present, to be fashioned by Mandy and himself. The sea is still the sea, but the town is evolving. Maybe, just maybe, it’s all going to work out.
In the change sheds, above the beach, between the lifesavers and the backpacker hostel, across the burning sand and scorching concrete, Martin stands under the stream of water, eyes closed beneath the shower. Vern. Maybe his return to Port Silver is fated, giving him a chance to make amends, to reconnect with his uncle even as he comes to terms with his own past.
A memory emerges. He’s returning home to Vern’s from somewhere, school maybe. He finds his uncle at the kitchen table, tears in his eyes. Before him, a form, an application for some sort of boating licence. Martin sees him there, the frustration on his face, the anger and shame in his eyes. Martin silently completes the form, quickly, no words spoken, pointing to the space awaiting Vern’s childlike signature. Leaving the kitchen again, feeling bewildered and embarrassed by his uncle’s incapacity, unable to understand how a man so quick-witted and capable could be so slow to learn.
A receptionist, her hair as straight and perfect as a nylon wig, her pencil skirt as sharp as a nib, her perfume polite in the air-conditioned coolness, leads Martin through the offices of Drake and Associates to a conference room of smoked-glass walls, black leather swivel chairs and a table of seamless black wood. The table is so polished, so flawless, that Martin initially mistakes it for stone or resin. It supports, at its precise centre, a white ceramic vase containing fresh-cut lilies. A large television, screen dark, hangs behind the head of the table from sandstone bricks, the only wall that isn’t glass. There’s a sideboard with a silver water jug and glasses at the other end of the room, a room as free of dust as any computer-maker’s clean room, leaving only the smell of lilies, leather and money. The offices of Drake and Associates, occupying the entire top floor, the third floor, wouldn’t be out of place in a Manhattan skyscraper.
A man of about sixty enters the room. He has thick grey hair and the smooth skin of self-satisfaction. His suit is well cut, his cufflinks catch the light, his teeth are perfectly aligned. ‘Harrold Drake, Martin. W
elcome.’ They shake hands and the receptionist, hovering by the door, asks Martin what blend of espresso he’d care for. Martin says he wouldn’t mind a cup of tea.
‘Take a seat, Martin,’ says Harrold Drake. ‘The others won’t be a moment.’
Martin is about to comply when he hears Mandy’s voice. ‘Is he here yet? Martin?’
And she’s through the door and into his arms, squeezing him tight, head on his shoulder, before pulling back a little so she can look him in the eye. He can see the love there, the relief. She kisses him, not for long but with passion. ‘Am I ever glad to see you,’ she says, but her words are a mere subtitle, it’s her face that fills his screen, cinematic perfection. For a moment his heart pumps out emotions, not blood: longing, caring, love. He realises anew how precious this woman is to him, how she has broken down his defences, thrown a lifeline into the dark sea of his solitude.
‘And I’m so glad to be here—for you,’ he says, surprising himself with his unfiltered sincerity. And then to lighten the mood: ‘I like the hair.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Where’s Liam?’
‘I dropped him at child care on the way up to collect Winifred.’
‘Let’s get to it then,’ says a voice, all business.
Martin looks beyond Mandy to see Winifred Barbicombe. The solicitor is much as Martin remembers: posture erect, an understated suit of silk and fine wool, half-moon glasses hanging from a thin gold chain. She must be late sixties at least, but there’s no evidence age has impaired her in any way. Her voice is resonant and her eyes alert. ‘I’m glad you’re here, Martin. Where is your lawyer?’
‘Here,’ says Nick Poulos, bustling into the room ahead of the receptionist. ‘Am I late?’ He’s wearing a blue linen suit over a white linen shirt, both crumpled, conveying casual professionalism. His brown elastic-sided boots are polished and he’s shaved, the five o’clock mat reduced to a dark promise. Martin wonders if this is how he presents himself before the magistrates court. Probably.
‘Thanks, Harry,’ says Winifred. ‘We’ll take it from here.’
Harrold Drake looks momentarily nonplussed at being dismissed from his own conference room, but recovers quickly enough. ‘Right you are. Call the girl if you need anything.’ And he departs—glowering at Nick, as if the young lawyer is trespassing—closing the door behind him.
Winifred moves to take the chair at the head of the table, then thinks better of it. Instead she arranges them on either side of the table: Martin next to herself and opposite Mandy; Nick next to Mandy and opposite Winifred. Martin appreciates the pattern: it’s not one team against the other.
‘Here’s what we know,’ says Winifred, not bothering with niceties or introductory comments. ‘Late yesterday morning, an unknown assailant or assailants stabbed a local man, a real estate agent named Jasper Speight, to death. The murder occurred in the hallway of a townhouse that Mandalay is renting from Speight’s company. It’s near here in Riverside Place. Mandy was in the upstairs bathroom at the time. She heard a commotion and went to investigate. She got downstairs in time to find Speight dying on her floor. There was no sign of the assailant or assailants—he, she or they had fled. Mandy tried to save Speight, but there was nothing she could do. He died shortly afterwards. Moments later Martin arrived and found Speight dead. Mandy was in the lounge room, going into shock. Martin called the police and emergency workers. And us.’
Winifred looks around the table. Nicks nods, Mandy nods, Martin nods.
‘Here’s what else I have gleaned from the police in return for our full cooperation. The murder weapon is almost certainly a knife, very sharp, possibly a filleting knife with a thin blade about twenty centimetres long. The police have requested we keep this information strictly to ourselves; they don’t want it made public as yet.’
Again, she scans the table; again, the nods of concurrence.
‘The townhouse comes fully furnished. The owner has already confirmed the inventory is intact; the killer must have brought the murder weapon with them. This is important. If the killer brought the knife to the scene, it suggests the stabbing may have been premeditated, not opportunistic. And if the police intend pursuing Mandy for this crime, then they would have to demonstrate where she obtained the knife and, more importantly, how she disposed of it afterwards. To date, it has not been found. They have also found some physical evidence suggesting the assailant fled out the back door of the townhouse and along the river, possibly after being disturbed by Mandy. Again, this is information the police don’t want made public. They aren’t saying as much, but I believe that at this stage Mandy is not the prime suspect.’
Martin looks at his partner, sees the relief on her face. He gives her a reassuring smile.
Winifred continues: ‘It appears the dead man, Jasper Speight, put up a fight. He was seriously wounded, sliced open across the chest and abdomen, and received cuts to his hands. He may have been trying to flee when he was stabbed through the back. It’s likely that blow killed him, although he was probably mortally wounded already.’
Winifred, pauses, letting the significance of the information rest there, like a piece of physical evidence to be examined. Martin and Mandy are staring at the table, captured again by the horror of the death scene.
It’s Nick who speaks next. ‘The knife—you say it was a filleting knife. Like one used by fishermen?’
‘Just so,’ answers Winifred. ‘Ten a penny in a town like this.’
‘The knife is gone, but what about other physical evidence?’ asks Nick. ‘Did they find fingerprints?’
‘Lots of them, but they’re not confident they’ll be of any use. They think the killer was wearing gloves. Again, this suggests premeditation. And again, it helps absolve Mandy. If she was wearing gloves, where are they now? Alternatively, if she wiped the handle clean with a cloth, where is the cloth now? Where is the knife? Martin’s testimony is critical here. He arrived so soon after Jasper Speight’s death that Mandy had no time to dispose of those things.’
Martin is leaning back in his chair, feeling the tension ebbing away. ‘So the police know we had nothing to do with it. We’re in the clear.’ He looks to Mandy, who smiles.
But there’s silence from the lawyers. Winifred takes a deep breath before speaking. ‘The unknown assailant is definitely the leading theory, the one they are compelled to pour resources into for now, but we shouldn’t relax. There are other scenarios: that the killer is known to Mandy, or to the both of you, that you are accomplices or are protecting them for some reason. Or that there is no unknown killer; that the two of you acted in concert, Mandy luring Speight to her apartment and Martin killing him, then disposing of the gloves and the knife, fabricating the evidence of the assailant fleeing out the back, and only then calling the emergency services.’
‘That’s ridiculous,’ says Martin, incredulous. ‘The ambos were there in no time. They’ll testify that Speight had only just died.’
‘Yes. They have a station here in town. They’ve already been interviewed.’
‘There’s another possibility,’ says Nick quietly. ‘Another scenario.’ All eyes are on him, but his head is down, looking at the table in front of him. ‘What if the assailant didn’t follow Jasper into the townhouse? What if it was the other way around? He saw the assailant entering the townhouse and followed them inside, challenged them, and he or she then attacked him.’
Martin and Winifred turn to Mandy, her eyes wide with the implication. ‘Someone was coming to harm me?’ she asks.
‘Was your door open?’ asks Winifred. ‘Could someone else have gained entry before Jasper?’
Mandy shakes her head. ‘No. I’m sure it was locked.’
‘There were keys in the door when I arrived,’ says Martin.
‘Then Jasper let himself in,’ says Winifred, looking directly at Mandy, emphatic in her reassurance. ‘He was the target, not you.’
‘I guess,’ says Mandy, sounding unsure.
‘He let him
self in and the attacker followed him,’ says Martin, the sequence of events suddenly clear to him. ‘I spoke with Denise Speight this morning, Jasper’s mother. She said the police believe Jasper was attacked, tried to fend off the knife, then tried to run. The killer was behind him, in the hallway, and Jasper was trying to run into the house. The position of his body confirms it.’ He looks around the table, sees only agreement.
‘There is one other thing.’ Winifred addresses the group as a whole. ‘The police already know, so should you. Mandy?’
Martin looks across at her. She’s biting her lip. He’s familiar with the gesture; it indicates she’s unsettled about something.
‘I heard the noise and started downstairs. I was cautious. Then I saw Jasper, laid out on the floor, just where you found him. But he wasn’t dead, not yet. I went down, tried to help. That’s how I got the blood on my hands. But there was nothing I could do. He was kind of …’ She stops, trembles, skewered by a shard of memory. ‘He was kind of … gurgling. Trying to breathe, to speak. There were bubbles, red bubbles. Like he was drowning. I couldn’t understand him. He started to go into spasms, coughing blood. Only one word made sense: Martin.’ She lifts her eyes, looks at him. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘So he was coming to see me?’
Mandy nods. ‘He was holding something in his hand. I tried to take it from him, but he was gripping it tight, trying to speak. That’s when he said your name.’
‘I saw it too,’ says Martin. ‘A religious image. Christ or one of the saints. It was probably a postcard. His mother told me he had thousands of them. A collector.’ He looks at Winifred. ‘Did the police mention it?’
Winifred shakes her head, her face filled with concern, her voice low. ‘No. Mandy?’
‘Yes, they asked me about it, but I don’t recall it as well as Martin.’
There’s silence. The police have told Winifred about the knife, about the wounds sustained by Jasper Speight, but not about whatever it was the dead man was holding.