Silver

by Chris Hammer

  A walled compound appears to Martin’s left, disrupting his thoughts, disrupting the view out to sea. This must be Tyson St Clair’s house, but stopping is prohibited on the coiling road. Martin passes the enclosure, parking instead at the foot of the now silent lighthouse. A squall hits from nowhere, five minutes of peppering rain, the Corolla rocked by staccato wind gusts. And then the shower passes and the sun returns. From this height the sea is a moving two-tone quilt of sun and shade, blue on bluer, as the wind skittles clouds northwards. He walks back down the slope, towards the town. There are houses to his left: architecturally designed, built to impress. To the right the land falls away, revealing the expanse of the sea, the expanding horizon, until he reaches Tyson St Clair’s walled compound. The residence is hidden from view, the only house not flaunting itself, the only house confident enough to seclude itself. There’s a two-metre wall and a profusion of trees, only the roofline and a single turret visible from the street.

  He walks towards it. Some Italian tourists are taking selfies, boisterous and laughing. Beyond them, Martin sees someone exit the compound, a young woman. It looks like the hitchhiker, Topaz, something in the swing of her hips, the swish of her hair, but she doesn’t see him as she turns down the hill towards The Boulevarde. He’s sure it is her. But before he can follow the Italians have him, demanding he photograph them, the lighthouse again bathed in sunlight and glowing white behind them as they laugh and talk. By the time they let him go, in a flurry of grazie and ciao, Topaz is nowhere to be seen.

  There is a gate in the wall and an intercom: a button, a speaker, a camera lens. Martin pushes the button once.

  ‘Yes?’ comes the disembodied voice of a man.

  Martin looks directly into the camera. ‘Hello. My name is Martin Scarsden. I was hoping to talk to Tyson St Clair.’

  There is no response. Martin is about to repeat himself when he hears the click of the gate lock disengaging. ‘Come in,’ the voice says.

  Through the gate there is a short path, then, as the ground falls down and away, a steel bridge, suspended by taut cables, extending to the house, the building perched somehow on the very side of the hill. There are ferns, shrubs, trees, vines. Red flowers, purple. Parrots. It’s cool and damp in this hollow between hill and house, a softer, more muted world than the glare and concrete beyond the wall. Martin gets to the door. The same voice greets him through another intercom. ‘Come in, Martin. I will be right with you.’ Another click. Martin pushes the heavy door and it eases open.

  Inside, the entrance hall is quiet, seemingly deserted, lined in exotic woods. It’s dark, with a lone spotlight picking out a Brett Whiteley painting. Martin stops, unable to resist. He’s never seen a million-dollar painting hanging like this, up close and unprotected. It’s beautiful, black lines flowing with assurance, the radiant blue of the harbour, the arch of the bridge, the sinuous curves of a nude. He hears an echo of the whisper: this is the beauty that silver can buy. He walks through the foyer, drawn to the light, into a large living area. Through open doors he can see the deck and, beyond it, nothing but sky. He is considering venturing further, out into the blue, when a voice interrupts.

  ‘Martin, sorry. I wasn’t expecting visitors.’

  Before him is a small and wiry man dressed in board shorts and a Hawaiian shirt, his feet bare. The clothes are casual but look brand-new, as if they’re straight off the rack, and somehow expensive. The man himself looks to be in his mid-sixties, tanned, fit and exuding energy, remaining hair trimmed close and brushed forward, like a Roman emperor’s. He advances, flashing a smile, teeth radiant, extending his hand. ‘Tyson St Clair.’

  Martin shakes hands; St Clair’s grip is like a nutcracker. ‘Martin Scarsden.’

  ‘Yes. The famous journalist. Back in Port Silver. What can I do for you?’ The man is at ease; this is his domain and he is its king.

  ‘Jasper Speight. You heard what happened?’

  A shrug. ‘Who hasn’t?’

  ‘I’m trying to find out what led to his death.’

  St Clair stops smiling, stops moving. ‘I see. And you think I can help?’

  ‘I’m not sure. Can I ask you some questions?’

  St Clair examines Martin, as if assessing him, before relaxing into a smile. ‘Of course, if you think it might be of use. You want something to drink? A beer? Something stronger? Something weaker?’

  Martin frowns. His rumbling stomach tells him it’s past lunchtime; he’d prefer food to drink. ‘Are you having something?’

  ‘Me? No. Don’t drink before sunset, rarely after it. Too much to do.’ He smiles again and Martin sees something unnatural in this smile, the lips curling as if snarling, canines exposed. Martin wonders if he’s had some sort of surgery, something to tighten his skin.

  ‘Just some water then, thanks,’ says Martin.

  ‘No problem. Come on.’ St Clair walks off through a doorway into a designer kitchen. Martin is impressed: not by its massive size, or by the marble benchtops, the stainless-steel appliances and the glowing copper range hoods; it’s the view down across the town that takes his breath away.

  ‘You have an amazing house,’ observes Martin.

  ‘Not bad, is it?’ says St Clair, grinning his snarly pleasure. He extracts a large bottle of Italian mineral water from a huge fridge that contains nothing but bottles and hands one to Martin before cracking his own screwcap open and taking a slug. ‘Cheers,’ he says, raising his bottle and taking another swig.

  Martin opens his own bottle and drinks. It’s cold, frugally carbonated and almost sweet on his tongue.

  ‘Get it from an importer in Brisbane,’ says St Clair.

  ‘It’s very nice.’ Martin pretends to examine the label.

  ‘So, Martin—Jasper Speight. How can I help?’

  ‘He was murdered.’

  ‘So I understand. In the townhouse of your beautiful girlfriend Mandalay Blonde, right?’

  ‘You’ve met her?’

  ‘Not as yet. But I hear she’s quite something.’ And St Clair smiles his predator’s grin. Martin wonders if he only smiles when he’s pleased with himself. ‘So you’re trying to find out who killed him? Is that why you’re here?’

  Martin nods. ‘Yes. Or at least to exonerate Mandy. The police will clear her in the end, but there’s a danger they’ll put her through all sorts of grief before then.’

  ‘I see. I’m not sure how I can assist you, but I’ll do what I can.’ He pauses, as if to gauge Martin’s response as he continues. ‘Do you remember me?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I knew your father.’

  ‘So I’m told.’

  ‘I didn’t always live on Nobb Hill. Time was, I lived down the road from you in the Settlement, B Street, worked with your dad. Odd jobs. I had a different name.’ He holds up his left hand. For the first time Martin notices the entire little finger and the ring finger down to the first knuckle are missing. ‘The cheese factory. Your dad was there. Staunched the bleeding, drove me to the hospital at Longton.’

  ‘I see,’ says Martin, unsure how to react. ‘Tyson St Clair is not your real name?’

  ‘It is now. Writers have noms de plume, generals have noms de guerre, I needed a nom de development.’

  ‘What was your name?’

  ‘John Pyles.’

  The name means nothing to Martin, but an image comes to him: a small boy with an awkward name getting bullied in the school yard. ‘Fake it until you make it,’ he observes.

  St Clair grins, gestures around him. ‘It’s a long time since I had to fake it.’ Then he grows serious. ‘I remember where I came from. So of course I will do what I can. But I’m helping you as a person, the son of an old friend, a man concerned about the fate of his girlfriend. I’m not helping you as a journalist. Anything I tell you is not for the newspapers. Understood?’

  ‘Absolutely. I’m not chasing a story here. I’m trying to help Mandy.’

  ‘So you’ve left journalism behind?’

 
‘I think it might have left me behind.’

  Another lupine grin. ‘Good. As long as we understand each other. Now, I’m curious. Ask away.’

  ‘You knew Jasper well?’

  ‘Well enough.’

  ‘You did business with him? Through him?’

  ‘Sure. From time to time.’

  ‘What about socially?’

  ‘Not really. I’d see him now and then. Port Silver is a pretty small place. But he wasn’t a close friend or anything. He’s from your generation, not mine.’

  ‘Can you think of anyone who might want to harm him? Did he have any enemies?’

  ‘No. Not that I can think of.’ A pause. ‘Although …’

  ‘Although?’

  ‘Look, I don’t want to speak ill of the dead, but he had a reputation as a bit of a lady’s man. I have no idea if that’s right or not, but that was the rumour when his wife left him. And I hear he was into those orgies they have out at Hummingbird Beach.’

  ‘Is that what happens out there?’

  ‘So the newspapers say.’

  Touché. ‘So what are you suggesting?’

  ‘Maybe it was a jealous husband. Or a spurned lover.’

  Martin thinks of the murder scene: a crime of passion does seem more likely than a calculated killing. ‘Any names you can think of?’

  ‘Me? No. I wouldn’t know where to start. I guess I could ask about, if you like.’

  ‘Would you? I’d be most grateful.’

  There’s a pause. Martin knows the police will be pursuing the same idea, the same motive. Except they’re likely to include Mandy among the list of potential suspects.

  ‘Anything else?’ asks St Clair.

  ‘There is something. I’m told you and Jasper were representing a French firm that has plans to develop Hummingbird Beach, but he was opposed to your plans to develop Mackenzie’s Swamp.’

  ‘That’s a fair summary.’

  ‘So you were working together, the two of you?’

  ‘After a fashion.’

  Martin remembers what Jay Jay told him, about Jasper warning her of health inspectors and rates increases. Had St Clair been behind those? ‘Sounds problematic,’ he says.

  ‘How so?’

  ‘You want to develop the swamp, he’s opposed to it, yet the two of you were meant to be working together on Hummingbird Beach.’

  St Clair shakes his head, as if Martin is missing something. ‘No. Business is business. Jasper knew full well that the French proposal could be a game changer for this town.’ Then he flashes his predatory smile as if coming to a satisfactory solution. ‘You got a few minutes, Martin? There’s something I want to show you.’

  ‘Sure. Of course.’

  St Clair leads him out of the kitchen and through the living room, passing the doors to the deck, to an alcove where a set of spiral stairs leads upwards. They climb, St Clair first.

  Upstairs is a single room, a large study, an octagonal turret with windows on six sides, flooded with light and panoramic views: the lighthouse is to the south, so massive Martin feels as if he could touch it; the blue vastness and curving horizon of the ocean to the east; the town laid out to the north and, beyond it, the river, Mackenzie’s Swamp, the wide golden sands of Treachery Bay stretching unspoilt for miles. The Argyle snakes off to the west, towards the cane fields, the sugar mill, the escarpment.

  St Clair gives Martin time to soak it in before speaking. ‘Quite something, isn’t it?’

  ‘You can say that again.’

  ‘It’s the real reason I built the house. To put this on top of it.’

  ‘I was told you preferred to work from home. I can see why.’

  ‘Very perceptive.’

  Martin tears his eyes from the view, looks around the interior of the room. There’s a large desk, a purpose-built octagon at the room’s centre. To the west, where the stairs emerge, the two sides of the octagon are panelled wood. Opposite, looking east, the windows are full length, floor to ceiling, but to the north and south the windows only stretch from waist height to the roof. Below them are in-built counters, a metre deep, with drawers underneath. On both the counters, the one facing the lighthouse and the one facing the town, are large models.

  ‘Here, look at this,’ says St Clair, walking towards the counter below the lighthouse window. ‘This is what you want to see.’

  It’s a model of Hummingbird Beach, the estuary and Mackenzie’s Swamp—not as they are now, but how they might be, rendered in painstaking detail. In Tyson St Clair’s vision the water is blue, the golf course is green and the buildings are white. There are standalone bungalows, townhouses and apartments in tiers up the hillside. The car park has gone, banished to the other side of the ridge, with only model golf buggies to be seen in the development itself. There’s a new bridge, an elegant span arching between twin towers of spiderweb steel, high above the estuary. The marina is there, serviced discreetly from Dunes Road but with access from the resort by buggy. Martin inspects the bridge more closely: there are lanes for the buggies on the western side of the bridge leading across to the golf club. The clubhouse is two storeys with a wide patio: even in miniature it dominates the lagoon, offering stunning views. The swamp itself has become a well-defined lake, lined by stone retaining walls, the golf course running around the north and west sides, with mangroves allowed to stay in patches on the eastern side, screening the course from the main road.

  Martin nods. ‘Impressive.’

  ‘Isn’t it?’ says Tyson St Clair, unable to keep the pride from his voice. ‘Stage one is the development at Hummingbird Beach. Stage two is the bridge and the marina, stage three the golf course. And here, let me show you.’ St Clair moves to the model, lifting away a huge stretch of scrub between the river and the western boundary of the golf course where the Argyle swings north. He moves it to his desk, opens a wide drawer beneath the model. ‘Give me a hand,’ he says, and Martin complies. The two men lift the new section into place, like an oversized jigsaw. Now the land between the golf course and the curving river is populated with white cardboard houses sitting on large blocks, each with its own jetty, linked by a single road running back towards Dunes Road to the south of the lagoon. ‘Stage four. River views and sunsets on one side, golf course on the other, resort down the way. Retirement heaven. An exclusive gated community.’ He pauses to admire his handiwork, the logic of his vision. ‘This—all of this: it will be the making of Port Silver.’

  Martin examines the model, understands its logic, considers just how much money would be required, how much more might be gained. ‘You have the finance for this?’

  ‘I can get it.’

  ‘What about the caravan park?’

  St Clair shrugs. ‘It can stay. Here. That’s it here. But at some point the land will become too valuable and council will sell it.’ He points to an outline on the model. The access road to the gated community runs behind it.

  ‘What about flooding? I thought this whole area was vulnerable.’

  ‘Correct. We’ll need considerable earthworks and retaining walls. It won’t be cheap. But go to the Gold Coast some time, up on Broadwater; they’ve done amazing things up there. Entire islands developed for housing.’

  ‘I thought there were rules, council rules. You can’t build unless you’re several metres above sea level.’

  ‘True. We’d need to flood-proof it.’

  ‘Expensive?’

  ‘My word.’

  Martin studies the model again. Set out like this, it seems tangible. ‘Why are you showing me this?’

  ‘So you understand what’s at stake.’

  Martin frowns. ‘What’s at stake? What do you mean?’

  ‘Here. Come around this side.’ St Clair leads the way to the opposite window, and another model; the window looks out across the town, the scale model replicates the view. ‘There it is, Martin: Port Silver.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And it’s a great town. My town. Your town. But let’s be ho
nest: it’s a failure. It’s never reached its potential and there’s a good chance it never will.’

  ‘I’m not sure I follow.’

  ‘Listen. For as long as I remember, we’ve all been saying that we’re the next big thing: the next Byron, the next Noosa, the next Gold Coast. And in the past, I’ve been the booster-in-chief. We’ve got the beach, we’ve got the picturesque boat harbour, we’ve got desperate politicians hoping to buy votes with new high schools and police stations, ambulance posts and swimming pools. But it’s not enough.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘The wealthy buy weekenders, but they don’t live in them. The backpackers come, the fruit pickers come, the retirees come. But the money doesn’t.’

  ‘What money?’

  ‘The big money.’ St Clair points back the other way, at the lighthouse, stalks towards it, full of contained energy. ‘Look at it, will you? That’s the largest lighthouse south of Byron. They built it in the late 1890s, back when they envisaged this place as a port of significance, shipping out cedar from the forests, oil from the whaling station, dairy from the farms, sugar from the cane fields, meat from the abattoir. That lighthouse was the beginning, the beacon of our prosperity. But two things have always stopped us: that treacherous fucking sandbar at the mouth of the Argyle, and that death-trap donkey track up the escarpment. The harbour could never support anything much bigger than a trawler. It’s deep enough and sheltered enough, but the sandbar won’t allow it. We’ve done all sorts of geological surveys, oceanographic surveys. There’s a huge reef there, solid rock, the sandbar shifts around on top of it. You can’t dredge it; you’d need a fucking atom bomb to shift it. So the port never developed—just the opposite. As the boats got bigger, the trade got smaller. The railway reached Longton and kept going, the branch line down the escarpment was never built because there was no port to connect to and the incline is too steep to justify the costs. The timber from the forests got logged out, the whaling station closed, the fishing fleet was repossessed and the cheese factory shut down. And any day now the sugar mill will close; it’s already losing money. There aren’t enough cane farms down here, no economies of scale. And once it shuts, all the sugar farms are fucked. The dairy farmers can still pool together and get tankers of milk up the escarpment, but there’s no way known that you could get cane trucks up there. Not in the volume needed.’ St Clair lets out a long emphatic sigh. ‘You starting to get the picture now?’