by Chris Hammer
As Martin watches she walks to the edge of the rock plateau. She attaches her leg rope, then stands dead still, assessing the rhythms of the sea, choosing her moment, then launching herself catlike into the swell. Martin is mesmerised by her mastery, paddling with assurance out through the heaving ocean, unconcerned by the nearby rocks, at home in her environment. In no time, she is positioning herself off the point, waiting barely a moment before she is paddling forward, onto the wave, onto her feet, carving across the wave towards Martin. He holds his breath; she is practically on top of the rocks, almost touching them, before switching direction in a heartbeat. The wave starts breaking away from the point and she glides away along it, momentarily out of sight as she crouches within its curling cylinder, reappearing to carve up to the top of it and cutting back down, the board obedient to her will, part of her. The wave starts to lose its power as it moves towards Hummingbird Beach and the estuary; Jay Jay comes off the back of it, board already pointing oceanwards, and she drops with feline agility onto her stomach and is immediately paddling seawards. Only now, almost back to her take-off point, does she look up and see Martin. She waves, he waves back. Her own private surf break; no wonder she doesn’t want to sell.
Morris Montifore doesn’t look happy. The detective’s face looks worn, his eyes hooded. He’s behind a desk in an open-plan office, some sort of meeting room turned into a temporary headquarters for the Sydney homicide detectives. His deputy, Ivan Lucic, is with him, eyeing Martin with scepticism.
‘Martin Scarsden, journalist,’ says Montifore, his voice carrying not so much annoyance as weariness.
‘Martin Scarsden, witness. Martin Scarsden, source of information.’
Montifore looks unimpressed. ‘Whatever. Tell me what you know. But if this is some stunt to extract information from me, I’m not in the mood. Leave now.’
‘Can I sit?’
‘Of course you can sit.’
Martin takes a seat and recounts what he and Mandy have discovered about Tyson St Clair, his penchant for young backpackers and the sex-for-visa racket. Lucic smirks salaciously when Martin describes St Clair’s behaviour, but Montifore merely listens, face stern, giving nothing away. From time to time he nods his encouragement for Martin to continue, the slightest of frowns extending twin creases from his nose up across his forehead. Martin recounts finding a corroborating witness, a backpacker, who has confirmed St Clair’s predilections and that visas are available in return for sex.
When Martin finishes, Montifore says nothing for a long moment, then he turns to his offsider. ‘Ivan, let me talk to Mr Scarsden here in private.’ Lucic nods his compliance and goes to leave. ‘And, Ivan, not a word to anyone. Not yet. Okay?’
‘Of course.’
Montifore waits until his subordinate has left the room and closed the door behind him, before speaking. ‘So your theory is that Jasper Speight knew of this scam and was threatening to expose St Clair?’
‘Yes. That may have been why he wanted to see me the morning he was killed.’
‘Why expose St Clair?’
‘To get the inside running with the consortium wanting to develop Hummingbird Beach. There’s a million-dollar spotter’s fee, according to St Clair himself, plus a commission on the sale if Jay Jay Hayes agrees to sell. Not to mention becoming the consortium’s man in Port Silver. On top of that, if St Clair was convicted, it would stop him developing Mackenzie’s Swamp. Jasper was opposed to the development. You know about that, right?’
‘I do,’ says Montifore. He ponders his options a little longer. ‘I assume Mandalay Blonde is willing to make a statement as to what occurred with St Clair?’
‘You would have to ask her, but I’m sure she would.’
‘How about your backpacker source? What’s her name?’
Martin takes a deep breath. ‘I can’t tell you. I promised her she would remain anonymous.’
Montifore shakes his head. ‘Of course you fucking did.’ The exasperation is evident on the policeman’s face, his voice flat. ‘You journos and protecting your sources. I don’t have to remind you that has no standing in law. None whatsoever.’
Martin shrugs. ‘I can’t give you her name. Not without her consent.’
‘Well, in that case, we’ve got nothing. Mandalay Blonde’s evidence is next to useless without corroboration, you must see that. At the most, St Clair made an indecent suggestion. Gross, but not unlawful. And he made no mention of visas or any other quid pro quo, not to Mandalay Blonde, am I right?’
Martin nods.
‘Right. And she’s hardly an impartial witness. Speight died in her home and she’s still a person of interest. So any statement she does make can easily be construed as self-serving, an attempt to deflect suspicions. St Clair’s counsel would eat her alive.’
‘But you can investigate, surely. You’re a police officer. You don’t need my witness; you can find others.’
‘You think? If St Clair gives them a visa after one root, why would they hang around? And why talk to us and incriminate themselves? Remember, we’re asking them to admit to breaking the law. They’ll be afraid of jail or deportation or both. And whatever others at the hostel have heard would be hearsay, inadmissible. We need your witness, or someone just like her: someone who has received the paperwork for a visa.’
Martin doesn’t know what to say. He thinks there is something not quite right, that Montifore should be more enthusiastic. He’s come offering a solid lead, a potential breakthrough, and the policeman appears more irritated than grateful. ‘What is it, Morris? What aren’t you telling me?’
That does little to calm the detective. ‘First, we are not on a first-name basis. Second, I am a homicide detective and you’re a journalist; I am not obliged to tell you anything. Just the opposite.’
‘So why send Ivan Lucic out of the room?’
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘No witnesses. No recordings.’
Montifore leans back in his chair, laughing. ‘Jesus. You really are a dumb cunt, aren’t you?’
‘What? Tell me.’ But Montifore is shaking his head, still smiling. At least the policeman is engaging. ‘Listen,’ says Martin, ‘you know why I’m here. I’m not hiding anything. I want to help clear Mandy of suspicion. And yes, if this ends up being a good story, all the better. But I am being absolutely transparent. You know where I stand.’
Montifore nods, seems to come to some conclusion. ‘All right, here’s what I can tell you. Not for publication. Got that?’
‘Of course.’
‘The first thing is that you hold information vital to an ongoing homicide investigation: the identity of a vital witness. Information you are withholding from police. That is a criminal offence. I could arrest you here and now. If you continued to withhold that information when I put you before a magistrate, let’s say tomorrow, then you will also be in contempt of court. Prison time. That’s what I can tell you.’
Martin looks into the policeman’s unsmiling eyes, keeping his own face impassive, resisting the temptation to give voice to the slurry of invective storming through his mind. He’s thinking of how to respond when Montifore speaks again.
‘But I’m not going to do that. Instead, I want you to find this source of yours and persuade her to talk to me. In private. I will keep her identity confidential. If your theory proves to be correct, then it’s entirely likely we won’t need her in court; we can leverage her statement to gather more compelling evidence. Search warrants. Phone records. The works. But we need her statement to get those warrants.’
Martin smiles. ‘You’re worried about Johnson Pear.’
‘No comment,’ says Montifore, but now there’s the hint of acknowledgement edging his eyes.
Of course, thinks Martin, that’s why he sent Lucic out; he doesn’t want his subordinate to see him questioning the propriety of a fellow officer.
‘Here’s the situation,’ Montifore continues. ‘As of tomorrow, it will be just Ivan Lucic and me here,
plus one inexperienced constable. Forensics and the rest of the unit will be heading back to Sydney. I am reliant on Pear and his goodwill to operate out of this station, for administrative help and any additional manpower. I can’t afford to get him offside, and I certainly can’t tip him off. You need to get me that witness; until then my hands are tied. And you need to make sure anyone else who knows, including your girlfriend and her pain-in-the-arse lawyer, understands it too.’
Martin doesn’t say anything, knowing he needs to tread carefully.
‘I will pursue this theory of yours,’ Montifore says, ‘but I want to do it discreetly. If Jasper Speight discovered St Clair engaged in criminal activity, he may well have gone to Johnson Pear in the first instance, only to have nothing happen, which is why Speight decided to come to you. You can see the implication as clearly as I can: Pear didn’t investigate.’
The men stare at each other for a moment before Martin speaks again. ‘You don’t think Pear could be implicated in the murder?’
‘Go find your source, Martin. Tell her to speak to me. Tell her not to talk to anyone else. Let’s not put her in danger.’
chapter eighteen
Martin drives along the Boulevarde, his damaged muffler emitting a low roar, bouncing back from the shopfronts through his open window. He wants to return to Hummingbird and convince Topaz to talk to Montifore. But first he wants to reassure himself Mandy has recovered from her encounter with St Clair. She’s left Drakes, gone to pick up Liam from child care and take him to the caravan park. He’ll wait for her there, then head to Hummingbird Beach.
He motors across the bridge, the Argyle languid below. He’s slowing to turn left into the caravan park when his mirrors light up. Blue and red lights. The police. Shit. Just what he needs. He indicates meticulously, eases the car off the blacktop into the entry of the caravan park, the dolphin hanging by its nose, still threatening to fall. He cuts his engine and sits waiting for the police officer to approach him. He’s pretty sure that’s what’s expected nowadays, that you wait for the police, no jumping out to meet them like when he was a kid. An American thing, he thinks: fear of guns. Sit in the car with your hands on the wheel.
He sees movement in his mirror and his heart drops a beat. It’s Johnson Pear walking towards him, hands hitched into his belt, gun prominent. Gun prominent. Martin attaches his hands to the top of the steering wheel in clear view. Shit. He takes a deep breath, paints his face with neutrality.
‘Oh, well. Here’s a surprise. The celebrated journalist himself.’ Pear’s smile leaks malice like a Liberian tanker. He leans over, places his hands on the windowsill.
Martin looks him in the eye, smiles. ‘Afternoon, Officer.’
‘Licence and rego.’
Martin knows Pear will have already checked the registration through the police car’s computer, but he’s not about to argue. He leaves his hands on the steering wheel. ‘My licence is in my wallet in my pocket. The papers are in the glove box.’
Pear’s smile broadens. ‘Good. Get them.’ And he takes his hands off the door, stands straight, hitching his hands back into his belt. Near his gun.
Martin has no choice: he must comply. Slowly he reaches down with his left hand, arching his back and extracting his wallet from the left front pocket of his pants. He watches Pear as he does so, seeing the bully’s grin, seeing the casual movement of his hand onto the stock of his gun. Martin has his wallet out, holds it in clear sight, up near the top of the steering wheel, using both hands to open it and retrieve his licence. He hands it to Pear, who gives it the most cursory of glances before handing it back. ‘Rego.’
Martin slides the licence into his wallet and places the wallet on the dashboard before turning away, leaning over to open the glove compartment. He’s about to grab the papers when Pear speaks, low and hostile. ‘Stop. Hands up where I can see them.’
Martin does what he’s told, turns, and flinches involuntarily. Pear has his pistol out and is pointing it at him, the mouth of its barrel a black hole, sucking in Martin’s attention, emitting fear like X-rays. The moment lasts a few seconds and forever.
‘My mistake,’ says Pear. ‘Thought I saw something.’ He smiles, eyebrow cocked. ‘Tell you what, don’t worry about the papers.’ He returns his gun to its holster, but he’s not finished. ‘Turn it over—the engine.’
Martin starts the car.
‘Give it a good rev, will you?’
Martin obeys.
Pear nods in mock seriousness. ‘Muffler’s fucked. You know that?’
‘Just happened this morning,’ says Martin, then bites his tongue, recognising the game Pear is playing, knowing nothing he says is going to help.
‘Is that right?’ says Pear, cocking his other eyebrow. He starts walking around the car, moving to the back first, Martin following him in the mirrors, his hands back in clear view on the steering wheel. Pear continues past the boot and along the car’s far side, before stopping in front of the grille. He grins at Martin, draws a finger across his throat, an instruction to kill the engine. Martin complies.
‘Come and have a look at this,’ commands Pear.
Martin climbs out, knowing what’s coming.
‘Your left front indicator is smashed. Were you aware of that?’
Martin nods. ‘Also this morning.’
‘Rough day,’ says Pear. ‘Okay. You can get back in.’ And then he adds, ‘Hands where I can see them.’
Martin returns to the driver’s seat. Pear makes a great show of walking back to his car, returning with a handheld device like an EFTPOS machine, prodding at it with a stylus. Martin tries to maintain his poker face while he waits, wondering just how many offences he’s about to be ticketed for. As many as Pear fancies, he supposes. The policeman is taking his time, ticking off items like it’s a hotel breakfast menu and he’s on company expenses. A van passes with no muffler at all by the sounds of it, gaskets gone, black smoke pouring out the exhaust. Pear watches it go and smiles at Martin. A black Range Rover coming from town slows and turns in front of them, passing into the caravan park, tinted windows concealing its interior. Martin feels a surge of adrenaline kick in. It’s a car that doesn’t belong anywhere near the caravan park. Almost too late, Martin thinks of the number plate, only gets a glance, but it’s enough. There are just three letters: TSC. Shit. His imagination fills in what his eyes couldn’t see: Tyson St Clair and Harry the Lad and the thug from the cheese factory, bent on no good. He wants to get going, to get in there, before Mandy and Liam return, but knows he’s powerless; if he attempts to drive off now Pear will arrest him on the spot. And if he uses his phone, the policeman might shoot him, claim he thought Martin was going for a weapon. So he sits there emasculated, at Pear’s mercy, knowing any attempt to hurry the policeman along will only have the opposite effect. He closes his eyes, urging calm upon himself.
But now, in his side mirror, he sees more movement, another vehicle approaching. Fear folds into reality: it’s the Subaru. He can see Mandy’s face now, in the mirror. She slows, indicating to turn into the caravan park, easing her car to a stop alongside them, engine running.
Pear turns to her. ‘Keep going.’
She ignores him, God bless her. ‘You okay?’ she calls to Martin.
‘Get going,’ Pear repeats, ‘or I’ll book you as well.’
‘Wait for me by reception,’ calls Martin.
Mandy frowns, shaking her head, signalling she hasn’t heard. She moves off, her car disappearing through the rusted arch of the entry, the dolphin hanging like the sword of Damocles, Martin consumed by stomach-gnawing trepidation.
Pear leans down, hands back on the windowsill. ‘Tell you what: seeing as you’re a local again, I’m going to let you off with a warning. A welcome home gesture.’
If there is anything welcoming in Pear’s demeanour, Martin can’t see it. But he’s anxious to move, to follow Mandy; he’s not going to derail that now. ‘Thank you. That’s very generous.’
But Pear is
n’t done. He leans even closer, head almost through the window. His breath doesn’t smell good. ‘You know what a warning is, don’t you?’ He pauses for Martin’s nod. ‘Excellent. This is a warning. First and last.’ He withdraws his head, stands erect. ‘Now, get the fuck out of my sight.’
Martin does what he’s told, starting the Corolla, indicating carefully, crawling forward and through the gates under the precarious dolphin. Once through the entry way and out of sight of Pear, he accelerates, ignoring the cacophony of speed limit signs, impatient to get to Mandy. He gets to the fork in the road at reception only to be brought to a stop by the owner moving across the drive, her prosthetic leg shining in the sun, as if she’s just given it a good polish. She stops in the middle of the drive, blocking his way, signalling with both hands for him to slow down before moving off to one side. ‘Slow down, mate. Can’t you read? There are kids and oldies galore in here.’