Silver

by Chris Hammer

‘Nick, is that why you wanted to see me? You could have told me that on the phone.’

  The lawyer looks sheepish. ‘Sorry.’ But he quickly regains his intensity. ‘You think that’s what Jasper discovered?’

  ‘It’s one possibility.’ Martin is beginning to think the meeting is a waste of time. ‘Did you manage to track down Jasper’s ex-wife?’

  ‘Yeah, I did. Lives in New Zealand—Wellington. Didn’t I text you?’

  ‘No, Nick, you didn’t.’

  ‘Oh, here then.’ Nick pulls out his phone, messages the contact through to Martin.

  Martin makes sure he has it before continuing. ‘Did you know Amory Ashton yourself?’

  ‘Me? No, never met him. He was gone by the time I got here. But I caught the aftermath, or the end of it. He was as dodgy as all get out. I did a bit of work for some of the employees. The place wasn’t unionised and they were after their entitlements: unpaid wages, leave pay, superannuation, that sort of thing.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘There wasn’t any. The place was a mess. The bookkeeping, what there was of it, was a complete shambles.’

  ‘How did the workers fare?’

  ‘Got screwed, as usual.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘I didn’t get paid either. Thanks for your concern.’ Nick offers a sardonic grin. ‘But I was new in town; it helped engender trust and goodwill.’

  ‘So what happened? Was Ashton bankrupted? Was an administrator appointed?’

  ‘Yeah, administrators. They took one look at the books and closed the factory. But any final distribution can’t be settled until he’s declared dead and the land sold.’

  ‘Can’t that happen anyway? Can’t he be bankrupted in absentia and the land sold?’

  ‘Usually that could happen, if it was in his name, but it’s not. It’s all tied up in trusts.’

  ‘And if he’s declared dead?’

  ‘Then we find out who controls the trusts, get a court order to sell the factory and the land, and distribute any proceeds. But it would be cents in the dollar. Sweet FA.’

  ‘Nick, I know who the owner will be.’

  Nick blinks. ‘Who?’

  ‘Mandalay. She inherited at the same time she inherited Hartigan’s.’

  Nick looks down, rubs his hands together, thinking. ‘Right. I probably should have worked that out. But she hasn’t inherited yet.’

  Martin nods. ‘Yes, but what happens once Ashton is declared dead and she gains control? Can the creditors team together to force a sale to get whatever they can?’

  ‘I guess.’

  ‘And is there a dominant creditor?’

  ‘Yeah, his bank. Westpac.’

  ‘Who knows that?’

  ‘The bank, the administrators, me, Harrold Drake, some of the larger creditors. Half the town. Why?’

  ‘So if someone desperately wanted to buy the land, they wouldn’t need to wait for Ashton to be declared dead, they wouldn’t need to negotiate with Mandy. They could come to an arrangement directly with Westpac.’

  Nick Poulos sits upright, thinking it through, as if surprised by the suggestion. ‘Yes. I think that’s right. They couldn’t take formal ownership, of course but, yes, all the mechanisms could already be in place. Technically, Mandalay could still stymie it, but she’d have to pay out all the creditors. She’d be mad to do that.’

  ‘Can we find out if someone has approached Westpac, cut a deal? Tyson St Clair, for example?’

  Nick is nodding slowly, following Martin’s logic. ‘Harrold Drake—he’s St Clair’s lawyer—so he won’t be talking, but I had a bit to do with the administrators. Let me see what I can find out.’

  Once Nick has left, Martin calls Vern, seeking more information about Ashton.

  His uncle answers, his voice breezy. ‘Martin. How’s tricks?’

  ‘Good, Vern. What do you know about Amory Ashton?’

  ‘That prick. What about him?’

  ‘There’s a camera crew searching the cheese factory. They think his body might be buried out there.’

  ‘Really? They want a hand?’

  ‘You want to help?’

  ‘I want to piss on his grave.’

  Martin laughs. ‘Sounds like you’re familiar with him then.’

  ‘Fucking oath I am. Owes me money. Me and half the town.’

  ‘Can I meet you somewhere?’

  ‘Not now, mate. I’m down at the dock. The fishing inspectors are in town. I’ll call you later, when I’m free.’

  Martin looks around the surf club. Somewhere here, among the locals, among the retirees in their cargo shorts and chinos, their beer-swollen polo shirts, their feet encased in socks and sandals, their age-spotted hands clutching the day’s first schooners, dentures present and correct, will undoubtedly be men who knew Amory Ashton. But by now, opinion would have solidified: the man was a bastard of a boss and a crook; he drove a big car and flashed his cash around even as he ripped off his workers and dudded his creditors. Martin needs facts, not opinions. And facts look pretty thin on the ground here. He could ask about the altercation between Mandy and Jasper; some of the staff might have witnessed it. But to what end? Mandy wasn’t contesting it.

  Instead, he rings the former Susan Speight in New Zealand.

  The voice that answers is bright, cheerful. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Susan Speight?’

  ‘This is she.’

  ‘Susan, this is Martin Scarsden. I’m a—’

  She cuts him off. ‘I know who you are. The great man, Martin Scarsden.’ Now the voice is tainted by hostility. ‘Where were you when we needed you?’ Martin doesn’t know what to say, is still searching for words when the woman speaks again. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I’m trying to find out who killed Jasper.’

  ‘Is this for your paper?’

  ‘No, it’s for me. For me and my family. For Jasper. I want to find the killer.’

  Another pause before she speaks again, the edge coming off her words. ‘What do you need to know?’

  ‘What sort of man was Jasper?’

  Susan Speight sighs. ‘He was complex. A mixture. Good and bad. You never quite knew which one you were dealing with.’

  ‘Was he a good husband and father?’ Martin winces as he finishes the question; it sounds like a reporter’s query.

  ‘He was an amazing father.’

  ‘And husband?’

  A bitter little laugh comes down the phone. ‘You mean was he faithful? No, he wasn’t. He was a player. Half the town knew it. A small place like Port Silver, full of gossips and small-minded deadshits.’

  ‘That’s why you divorced him?’

  ‘Part of the reason. That, the money and the mother.’

  ‘The money?’

  ‘He was a gambler. He never destroyed us, never went too far, but every now and then he’d break out. He could lose thousands in a week. He’d try to hide it, but I’d find out and he’d be full of remorse. Then he wouldn’t do it for a year or two until the pressure got too much.’

  ‘What pressure?’

  ‘His mother.’

  ‘Denise?’

  ‘Yeah, the arch bitch herself.’

  Now it’s Martin’s turn to pause. ‘Can you explain that?’ An image of Denise comes to him, the grieving mother, collapsing in on herself in her real estate agency. ‘I’ve been away a long time.’

  ‘Oh, come on, you must remember how she controlled his every move. How she stopped him from going to uni. That used to come up all the time, how you and that other friend of yours went. What was his name?’

  ‘Scotty.’

  ‘Yeah, you and Scotty. How you guys got away and never came back, and she wouldn’t let him go. Especially you, coming from the Settlement and all. Vern could find the money for you, but she wouldn’t give him a dime.’

  The mention of Vern’s selflessness twists another knife into him. ‘Jasper would talk about that?’

  ‘All the time. You want to know what ended
our marriage? That woman, that’s what. The cheating I could live with, the gambling outbreaks I could endure. But not that. I’d try to get him to leave, restart somewhere else, and he’d be all for it. But it never happened. When she started trying the same thing with our kids—deciding where they’d go to school, insisting on braces when they didn’t need them—when he wouldn’t stand up to her, that’s when I left.’ She stops speaking almost abruptly; Martin wonders if that’s a suppressed sob he hears. ‘It wasn’t Jasper I left. I wanted him to come with us. He couldn’t.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘About three years ago.’

  ‘Did his gambling get worse once you’d gone?’

  ‘I don’t know. He was good with his support payments. And he sent some nice stuff over for the kids.’

  ‘He had access to the kids?’

  ‘In theory. He promised them he’d visit, but he never made it.’ And this time Martin is sure he hears something akin to a sob. ‘He never did travel. Just collected all those fucking postcards. He couldn’t even get away to see his kids. It broke my heart all over again.’

  ‘So she controlled him.’ Martin isn’t asking a question: it’s a statement, a summary.

  ‘Yes. And every now and then, when he was under pressure, he’d break out. A fling, an inappropriate proposition, a splurge on the horses. A stupid, impotent rebellion. But he never got away.’

  Martin is out of questions, consumed by the thoughts flowing through his mind, building a new understanding of his old friend. ‘Thanks for talking to me, Susan. You’ve been incredibly helpful. And I’m sorry for your loss. Truly.’ Martin knows it’s too little, too late.

  ‘Just catch the bastard, Martin. Write another spectacular exclusive. A front-page screamer. Jasper would have liked that.’ The phone cuts out.

  He sits alone in the club, the call still reverberating through his mind, recollecting the Jasper Speight of his childhood. He’d never considered Denise to be that overbearing, that controlling, but Susan Speight’s depiction rings true. Denise had disapproved of Scotty and Martin, especially Martin, had never hidden the fact that she thought they weren’t good enough for her boy. And what was it Susan had said? That the flings, the inappropriate propositions came when Jasper was under pressure. So what pressure was he under when he slid his hand up Mandy’s leg at the lifesavers?

  Martin looks about him, and suddenly he no longer wants to be in the club. He heads out onto The Boulevarde, walks towards Speight’s Real Estate. He wants to see Denise again, reassess her. At the very least, she may know about the cheese factory, know if Ashton had tried to unload it before it all went pear-shaped. Compared to her, Nick is a blow-in. But when he gets to the shopfront, it’s still closed, the handwritten note still taped to the inside of the door. Martin rereads the last line. Funeral arrangements—Longton Observer.

  The Longton Observer. It’s worth a try. A big employer like the cheese factory going out of business, the owner disappearing under mysterious circumstances, that would be a massive story. The editor would know the facts—and the scuttlebutt. Martin returns to his car, left baking in the sun in the car park above the former supermarket, and begins the forty-five-minute drive to Longton.

  The highway town wears its prosperity more comfortably than Port Silver. There’s none of the bling, none of the pretence, no compulsion to appeal to tourists. But Australia’s quarter-century of uninterrupted economic growth has left its mark. That and being located in perennially marginal seats, state and federal. The main street is full of cars, there are no empty shops, no vacant lots. There are signs to the hospital, the airport, to the mall, to Longton Grammar. To an industrial estate, to a retirement home, to an aquatic centre. But when he enters the air-conditioned relief of the newspaper office, there’s little sign that the affluence has filtered into the local media. An elderly receptionist looks up at him, decidedly unimpressed. Her hair is permed into a tightly woven helmet, tinted mauve and lacquered into place. Cat’s-eye glasses hang from a chain around her neck.

  ‘Listen, love, if someone hit you, tell the police, not us.’

  Martin touches his cheek. The pain is diminishing even as the bruise grows more prominent. ‘It’s not that. I was looking for the editor.’

  ‘That makes two of us.’

  ‘He’s not here?’

  The old woman sizes him up. ‘You don’t know much about journalism, do you, love?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asks Martin, taken aback.

  ‘The real ones don’t sit around on their arses; they go out chasing stories.’

  ‘Right,’ says Martin, feeling strangely wrong-footed. ‘So you know where he’s gone?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Could you give me his mobile number?’ He tries to smile, knows it’s not impressing anyone. ‘Please. It’s important. A story. A cracker.’

  She stares at him, a living bullshit detector. He holds her gaze. ‘Righto, here then,’ she says, making up her mind. She takes a business card, one of many stacked on top of the counter right in front of him, and passes it over. ‘Not that it will do you any good.’

  ‘Why’s that?’ asks Martin through his embarrassment.

  ‘He’s most likely out of mobile range.’

  ‘Why? Where is he?’

  ‘Old cheese factory down near Port Silver. Don’t know why.’

  ‘Right. Fair enough.’ Of course he is.

  ‘Have a nice day.’ She dismisses him, chalking up another victory against the riffraff of the world.

  But Martin isn’t done. ‘Say, did he ever write anything about a murder down in Port Silver on Monday? Jasper Speight, a real estate agent?’

  The old dear looks at him, a mix of pity and contempt. All she says is: ‘Yesterday’s paper.’ She goes to hand him a copy then withdraws it as he reaches for it. ‘Three bucks.’

  Martin doesn’t bite. ‘EFTPOS?’

  ‘Cash.’

  He searches his wallet, hands over five bucks. ‘Keep the change. For your medication.’

  He walks outside. The front page is an advertorial for a local hardware store, but the murder is the first real news story, the page-three lead.

  POLICE INVESTIGATE LOCAL DEATH

  By Paulo Robb in Port Silver

  Sydney homicide police, including a crack team of forensic experts, are investigating the death of Port Silver real estate agent Jasper Speight.

  It’s believed the body of Mr Speight, 41, was found inside a townhouse at 15 Riverside Place, Port Silver, about eleven o’clock on Monday morning.

  Police have not confirmed how Mr Speight met his death, but have not ruled out foul play. As of Tuesday afternoon, police were still collecting evidence at the crime scene.

  Police have called for any witnesses who saw Mr Speight at any time on Monday morning, or had contact with him in any way over the weekend, to come forward.

  It’s believed the real estate firm Mr Speight ran with his mother, Denise Speight, managed the property at Riverside Place on behalf of out-of-town investors.

  Mr Speight was a well-known local identity …

  As an afterthought, he checks the editorial page to find who owns the paper. The publisher is listed as St Clair Holdings.

  Martin chucks the paper in a nearby bin and texts Paulo Robb, asking him to call. He’s about to head across the road to the library when he hears laughter, a voice somehow familiar. Sitting outside a cafe, drinking coffee, is Tyson St Clair. He’s talking to someone, a large man wearing a broad Panama hat, who has his back to Martin. St Clair sees Martin, waves his good hand in acknowledgement. St Clair’s companion turns, sees him, turns back. The two men continue their conversation, but Martin hasn’t moved. The other man; a broad brown face. Martin struggles for a moment before he places him: the swami from Hummingbird Beach, dressed in street clothes. The holy man and St Clair? Together? What does that mean?

  Martin is still trying to think that through as he enters the Longton library. The building is new,
spacious, its air-conditioning ducting a shiny, sinuous feature curling above the room. There’s a desk, a young librarian, hair dyed red, shaved on one side, long on the other. Oversized glasses teeter on the end of her nose, her eyes darting back and forth between her computer screen and a form in front of her. She senses Martin’s presence and looks up, smiling. ‘How can I help?’

  ‘I’m interested in back copies of the Longton Observer.’

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Your funeral,’ she says, but the warmth of her smile takes the edge from her words. She stands. She’s wearing a torn t-shirt, tartan pants and Doc Martens. ‘Follow me.’

  She leads him through an open reading area, through some book-filled stacks to a back wall where that day’s papers are spread out across the top of a long chest of old map drawers, surely rescued from the building’s predecessor. The Sydney Morning Herald and the Daily Telegraph are here, the Courier-Mail from Brisbane, plus the Financial Review, The Australian and The Land. In pride of place is the Longton Observer as well as a free throwaway, the Rivers Real Estate and Restaurant Review. Top marks for alliteration.

  ‘Today’s papers are on top, recent editions in the drawers underneath. Anything more than a few months old is online,’ the young librarian informs him.

  ‘Can you show me that?’

  ‘Sure.’

  She takes him back through the stacks to a row of cubicles, each with its own monitor and keyboard. ‘The metros are on a national database. The Observer is there as well, but it’s quicker to access through our own server. No delay.’ She shows him the interface. He thanks her and she smiles radiantly. Martin wonders if she’s just fallen in love with someone and takes a seat.

  He sets a date range—from six years ago to four years ago—and types in the name ‘Ashton’ as a search term. Over a hundred results appear, but nine out of the first ten refer to a young girl cracking an appearance on a television talent show—Elaine Ashton, aged ten. A death metal guitarist. He refines his search to ‘Amory Ashton’, which cuts the results to twenty-four. In the first year, there are only three articles. The first reports that Mackenzie’s Cheese and Pickles has won a trophy at the Tamworth show for its Port Silver Blue. Martin shakes his head and moves on. The next article reports Ashton and the cheese factory have secured a development grant from a federal government regional development initiative. The report reads like a press release and it probably is: the local federal MP, a member of the National Party, claiming credit for the half-million dollars for ‘environmental enhancements’. There’s a photo of four men in suits: Amory Ashton, fat and beaming, flanked by Cyril Klapper, mayor of the Argyle River Shire, and Darryl ‘Dazzer’ Duncan, the National Party’s federal member. Next to the mayor stands Tyson St Clair, credited as the head of the Port Silver Chamber of Commerce. Martin looks at Ashton; perhaps the man had eaten his factory’s profits. Not only is he grossly overweight, but there is an unhealthy sheen to his face, like a heart attack waiting to happen, even compared to the MP, whose own head resembles a beetroot gone wrong. Tyson St Clair, by contrast, looks slim, fit and tanned, like a half-back posing alongside the front row of a veteran’s rugby scrum.