Silver

by Chris Hammer

  ‘Ha!’ Mandy exclaims, taking Martin’s hand. ‘Let’s go.’ And she drops to her knees, crawling in under the table to extract Liam.

  But Winifred clears her throat, smile easing away. She turns to their host. ‘Harrold, we’ve a few minor things to discuss. Housekeeping. I wonder if you might give us a few minutes?’

  ‘Of course,’ says Harrold smoothly, but he can’t help stealing a glance under the conference table as he leaves.

  ‘What gives?’ asks Mandy, back on her feet, holding Liam.

  ‘Let’s sit,’ says Winifred. ‘My legs aren’t so young anymore.’

  Martin takes a seat, unconvinced; he’s sure that Winifred could outsprint him if needs be. ‘What is it? What’s happened?’

  Mandy hears the concern in his voice and her smile begins to waver. She places Liam back under the table, takes a seat. ‘Winifred?’

  But the lawyer is offering a reassuring smile. ‘I did a bit of research into the cheese factory and its owner, Amory Ashton. There’s a fair chance Mandy is going to inherit that as well.’

  Mandy frowns. ‘The one on the lagoon that Martin was telling us about yesterday? Really? How?’

  ‘Amory Ashton was your great-uncle—Siobhan Hartigan’s half-brother.’

  ‘He left it to me?’

  ‘Not exactly. You weren’t even born when he wrote his will. He bequeathed everything to his sister and her heirs. When Siobhan died, her property passed to her husband Eric, your grandfather, who bequeathed practically his entire estate to you.’

  ‘So it’s mine,’ says Mandy, still sounding unsure.

  ‘Not yet. Ashton hasn’t been declared dead, not officially. There’s no body, he just vanished. That was a bit over five years ago, and in New South Wales he has to be missing seven years before he can legally be declared dead.’

  ‘What are you driving at?’ asks Mandy. ‘At some point I’m likely to inherit. Is there some other significance?’

  Winifred’s voice is calm, her fingers steepled in a pose Martin is growing familiar with, a gesture of judicial judgement. ‘Harrold Drake holds Amory Ashton’s will here in this office.’

  ‘Drake knows Mandy is the heir?’ asks Martin.

  ‘Probably.’

  ‘Why only probably?’ asks Mandy. ‘Surely he’s read it.’

  ‘Here’s how it works,’ says Winifred, taking on something of the air of a maths teacher broaching a new concept. ‘Drake could have accessed Ashton’s will at any time, but probably had no reason to do so until he disappeared. When he did, he would have seen Siobhan Hartigan as the heir, and that her heir in turn was Mandy’s grandfather, Eric Snouch.’

  Martin interrupts. ‘Hang on. He had Ashton’s will, but surely your firm held Siobhan Snouch’s will and her husband’s.’

  ‘Correct. Within a week of Ashton’s disappearance, Drake inquired after Siobhan’s will and then Eric’s. We have records.’

  ‘And you let him look?’

  ‘He had every right to look. Wills are not secret documents.’

  Now it’s Mandy’s turn. ‘But I thought Eric’s will was kept sealed or something until I turned thirty?’

  ‘No, not the will. But the major beneficiary of the will is a testamentary trust. So Drake learnt of the trust and found out that, upon Eric’s death, most of the Snouch family fortune passed into it. But he had no way of knowing who the beneficiary of the trust was. Nobody did until you turned thirty—except for the trustees, of course.’

  ‘In other words, you.’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘And did Drake ask who the beneficiary was?’ Martin wants to know.

  ‘I’ve checked. Yes, he did.’

  Martin smiles. ‘But you were legally obliged not to tell him.’

  ‘I understand we were very polite,’ says Winifred.

  ‘But now?’ asks Mandy.

  Winifred gives a shrug. ‘He still can’t access it. Nothing has changed, not legally. But we effectively told him who the beneficiary was the moment we informed him that Mandy had inherited Siobhan Hartigan’s house from the Snouch estate. It’s the same line of inheritance.’

  Martin feels a puzzle piece fall into place. ‘That’s why St Clair contacted Channel Ten and initiated the search for Ashton’s body. He told me straight up he doesn’t care who killed Ashton or how he died, he just wants him declared dead and the ownership decided. And now he knows the chain of inheritance and he can offer to buy Mandy out.’

  ‘Precisely,’ says Winifred. ‘But why the rush? Another two years and Ashton can be declared dead anyway.’

  It’s Mandy who answers. ‘Because in two years’ time the land at Hummingbird Beach could be sold and the development underway. He’s convinced himself Jay Jay Hayes will sell. And by then, I would know I didn’t own a derelict factory on the side of a swamp in the middle of nowhere but a valuable piece of land. So he’s hoping to get in early, get the land for a song from the dumb blonde.’

  ‘Has St Clair approached you?’ asks Martin.

  Mandy shakes her head. ‘No. I’ve never met him.’

  The three of them trade looks as they consider the possibilities, but it’s Martin who spells out the contradiction. ‘It doesn’t make sense. He’s made no approach to Mandy. More importantly, he was falling over himself to tell me about his plans for the factory and its land. He knew I was Mandy’s partner when he told me that.’ The two women nod, agreeing with his assessment.

  ‘Did Jasper Speight ever mention him?’ Winifred asks Mandy.

  Again, Mandy shakes her head, but now her voice is not so sure. ‘Jasper definitely mentioned plans to develop Hummingbird Beach, and I seem to remember him saying something about a swamp, wanting to save it. He might have mentioned St Clair’s name, I don’t remember.’ She shrugs. ‘I wasn’t interested in any development. I just wanted my house up on the point.’

  Martin sees his opportunity. ‘Did Jasper Speight ever mention a plan to develop the land up along the clifftops? Five-hectare lots, stretching from Hartigan’s all the way north to the point near Hummingbird Beach?’

  ‘Yeah, he did once. He was very enthusiastic. He said the other landowners were considering their options, but I said I wasn’t subdividing.’

  ‘He said the others were considering it?’

  ‘That’s right. But I don’t even know who they are yet.’

  ‘I do,’ says Martin. ‘None of them want to subdivide.’

  ‘I wouldn’t read too much into that,’ observes Winifred. ‘A real estate agent bending the truth. If no one was interested in selling, his proposal was going nowhere.’

  ‘We’re missing something,’ says Mandy. ‘If Jay Jay Hayes isn’t selling Hummingbird Beach, then why was Jasper investigating a subdivision? And why is St Clair so keen to find the body of Amory Ashton? Surely it can’t be because I’ve emerged as the heir to Hartigan’s and the factory. Can it?’

  There’s silence then. They can all feel it: this new information is important, but they can’t work out how. Mandy bends down and lifts Liam onto her lap. The boy looks around expectantly, waiting for the next contribution.

  It’s his mother who speaks. ‘Is that what Jasper wanted to tell us? To tell Martin?’ she whispers. ‘Did he know who killed Ashton? Did he find his body?’

  The three of them drive to Hartigan’s: Mandy, Martin and Liam. Like a real family, a proper one. Behind the wheel, Mandy seems determined to recapture the morning’s elation. She’s declared the search at the cheese factory a positive: if Doug Thunkleton finds a body, if it somehow provides a motive for Jasper Speight’s murder, that can only help clear her name. It reminds Martin of his twin priorities: clearing Mandy and starting their new life. The rest is superfluous. Or it should be, but he can’t quite shake his journalistic curiosity. It’s part of him. Somewhere in all of this, there is a terrific story, one that’s screaming to be told. It’s not the staggering criminality of Riversend, but it’s certainly something to capture the imagination: murder and myste
ry, drugs and sex, celebrity and religion, all unfolding against a background of real estate speculation, small-town ambitions and big-time money. He smiles to himself; clearing Mandy still comes first and foremost, plus building their new life together. But if there is a story, a big, compelling story, well, so much the better.

  He feels a weight lifting. He imagines Vern’s elation when he and Josie learn of the good news: if Mandy owns the cheese factory, she can block the golf course development, if not the marina. He recalls what Jay Jay Hayes had told him about environmental covenants. If Mandy placed one on the cheese factory site, that would go a long way to cruelling the golf course development for all time. And that, in turn, would undermine the basis for St Clair’s neighbouring riverside housing subdivision. Martin allows himself a private smile; he’s starting to enjoy himself.

  ‘Can you see the sea?’

  It’s Mandy, talking to Liam. They’re on the drive to Hartigan’s, winding up through the rainforest towards the house.

  ‘Can you see the sea, Liam?’

  Can you see the sea? His father’s voice comes to him unbidden, silencing his thoughts, dampening his enthusiasm. The tall trees, the strobing sunlight, the precipitous land; Martin is back inside the van, on the escarpment. Can you see the sea? A memory, clear as day. Not some distant echo, not some fleeting image, but as if it happened yesterday. From before the accident; before Ron Scarsden’s disintegration, when Martin was six or seven, when his dad was still his dad. Still his hero. It’s not a memory he struggles to recall; it’s within him as it’s always been within him. He closes his eyes, returns to his younger self. The car, the sounds, his father beside him, laughing. Happy. Big and strong, his tradesman’s hands, one on the oversize steering wheel, guiding the van smoothly through the hairpins, the other on the stick shift, running up and down through the gears with practised ease. Can you see the sea? He can hear the tone of his father’s voice, the throaty timbre. The self-assurance, the natural confidence. And emotions return, bound to the memory: his love, his elation, his joy that it is just the two of them, the men together, driving down towards home, father and son. See the sea, get home free.

  ‘Martin?’ It’s Mandy, jerking him back to the present. ‘You okay?’

  The car has stopped. They’ve reached a gate. HARTIGAN, says the faded sign, this one still attached to its gate. ‘Sorry,’ he says, shaking his head, climbing out.

  The place seems smaller, a scale model of the storm-blasted house of Martin’s memory, but still impressive, even with its back to them. It sits on the highest point, subordinate to nothing, two storeys tall, its weatherboard walls flaking white paint, displaying patches of yellow undercoat and bare wood, neglect made beautiful on this sunny morning, windows shuttered, ocean-blue paint peeling away in solidarity with the surrounding walls. It looks vaguely American under its gabled roof of corrugated iron, with dormer windows peering away to the north and south. Martin sees the two doors on either end of the wall facing them, knowing already where they lead: into the kitchen and into the hallway. And the window is still there, the one Scotty and he escaped through. This side of the house, facing the bush, seems blank, only the small portico over the front door extending any sort of welcome. Martin knows why: the Hartigans built their home to face the sea, not the land.

  Mandy parks and they walk towards it, Mandy carrying Liam. The wind is in their faces, clean and fresh, full of salt and promise. They ignore the front door, drawn instead to the house’s seaward side. Mandy leads the way, the design revealing itself as they progress. Extending from the two-storey block is a large single-storey room the width of the building: the lounge where Martin once sheltered from the storm with Jasper and Scotty. This seaward extension is surrounded entirely by a verandah, its far end curved like the prow of a ship. Indeed, there is something nautical about the design of the building, as if inspired by a boat putting to sea. And sitting on the roof of the lounge, like the bridge of a ship, a large balcony with wooden balustrades reaching out from an upstairs room.

  They climb a short set of steps onto the verandah. The boards are weathered, fraying, broken altogether in spots. But it’s the view that commands their attention, not the house. To the south, the ground falls away, taking the foliage and trees with it so that they can look down towards the mouth of the Argyle and the foaming sandbar, across the breakwater to Town Beach, to Nobb Hill and the lighthouse. To the right, glimpsed above the trees, is the port and the town. Martin hadn’t realised this headland was so high; it’s like Nobb Hill without the nobs. To the east, the view is out to sea. Container ships sit on the horizon, rendered motionless by distance. Martin continues by himself around the verandah. To the north, the cliffs fold, softened by sea mist, sheer sandstone and headlands, rainforest reaching down to the sea. There is a reflection of sunlight from a far headland; Bede Cromwell and Alexander Parkes’s home, perched atop the cliff like an insect poised for flight. Beyond that, the cliffs continue, past Sergi’s dairy farm, all the way to the point where Jay Jay Hayes surfs, rounding into Hummingbird Beach and, finally, the estuary leading to Mackenzie’s Swamp and the site of the old cheese factory. Martin feels a swell of exhilaration—this house is part of the town, part of the landscape, but aloof from it. Their future, safely quarantined from his youth by the wide waters of the Argyle River. Who would have thought it; the haunted house come to rescue him, offering him something he never imagined possessing: a family of his own.

  Mandy joins him. ‘The whales will be coming north again soon,’ she says. ‘We can sit out here and toast them on their way.’ Her eyes are shining, her early morning elation back for real.

  They stand on the verandah for a moment longer, silenced by the magnitude of the ocean. He takes her hand as he scans the vastness, hoping to spot an early whale among the white caps; instead there are only the container ships and a coal carrier, edging against the end of the world, an idle fishing boat closer to shore and a fisherman’s tinnie approaching the cliff. It would be a good spot, Martin imagines, in close to the rocks, inaccessible from land. Provided the swell doesn’t grow too large.

  They enter through the French doors off the verandah, screen door scraping its protest, the lock initially unsure of the provenance of their keys. Inside, the house presents as a strange hybrid of a holiday home, a time capsule and a promise of the future. There’s a tube television, a stereo with a turntable, a rotary telephone, all coated with a fine layer of dust. They explore, they plan, they begin to imagine a life together. Mandy’s arms grow tired so Martin takes Liam as they explore upstairs and down. The kitchen, the larder and the laundry, a bathroom with a claw-foot tub. The dining room, the table cleared. Stairs down to a wine cellar, sadly pillaged.

  Upstairs, bedrooms, the two largest at either end, one with views over the forest, the other looking out to sea with access to the bridge-like balcony, the third and fourth rooms with twin dormer windows.

  They leave the way they came, out onto the verandah, taking with them a burgeoning list of what needs to be done: solar panels, roof repairs, a new bathroom, a room for Liam. Water tanks cleaned and septic tanks serviced. Before he locks the door, Martin takes a final look around the lounge. It’s almost thirty years since he was last here, sheltering with Jasper and Scotty. The fireplace is the same, although it has been cleaned of ashes; the two-seater couch where Jasper held his cut foot aloft is still there, tattered and destined for the tip; the window they entered through has been repaired, the boarding gone, the glass replaced. Mandy’s grandfather, Eric Snouch, only died five years ago; he must have kept up some level of maintenance. Martin checks the bookshelf. The encyclopaedias are all there, volume U–V intact. So are the Phantom comics. He smiles. Perhaps he can read them with Liam.

  On the drive down the hill, Martin opens the gate, half carrying it as it scrapes into the soil on its loose hinges. He’s got it fully open when he hears a shrill whine, the sound of a two-stroke. His first thought is that it’s a chainsaw, someone come to dese
crate the forest. He holds his hand up, signalling Mandy to keep the car where it is as he tries to locate the source of the sound. There’s a louder buzz and a trail bike breaks out of the bush, not more than thirty metres down the hill from where he’s standing. The back wheel showers gravel as the rider flicks it out expertly, giving the throttle another burst to accelerate away and out of sight. Martin is left with fleeting impressions: a rider in black, panniers, a yellow L-plate. The sound recedes and Martin catches the oily smell of exhaust on the wind.

  chapter sixteen

  Mandy drops Martin back at the caravan park to collect his car. She’s taking Liam to child care and then going shopping for brooms, mops and a vacuum cleaner, intent on cleaning up Hartigan’s. She needs to get the power on and start checking out architects and tradespeople. Martin gives her Vern’s number, telling her his uncle knows all the local tradies, that Lucy May might be able to help. He’s kissing her goodbye, happy that she’s happy, when his phone rings. It’s Nick Poulos, his voice urgent. ‘Martin. Can we meet?’

  ‘Sure. What is it?’

  ‘I’ve got something for you. Surf club in half an hour?’

  ‘Don’t you have an office?’

  ‘Of course. But see you at the lifesavers at eleven.’ The phone goes dead.

  Martin is there on time, but his lawyer is a good twenty minutes late. Nick Poulos doesn’t apologise. He takes a seat opposite Martin. ‘What happened to you?’

  Martin touches his cheek. ‘Harry the Lad hit me.’

  ‘You want to sue?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Good.’ Nick leans in conspiratorially. ‘I heard they’re searching the cheese factory.’

  ‘Yeah, I know.’

  Poulos is taken aback. ‘You know?’

  ‘Yes. I was there yesterday. It’s Channel Ten filming a cold-case true-crime doco.’

  ‘Not the police?’

  ‘Not that I know of.’

  ‘Right.’