by Chris Hammer
Martin wants to swear, to vent his frustration at the woman, but he suppresses it. ‘Right you are,’ he says. ‘Old car; sounds faster than it is.’
The owner looks unimpressed; Martin doesn’t care. He’s on his way again, heading towards their cabin.
He arrives just in time to see it end. Parked outside their cabin is the Range Rover, a large and lustrous machine. If it’s ever been off-road, he sees no evidence of it. He pulls over, jumps out, starts to run. And then stops. Standing on the steps to the cabin is Tyson St Clair. There’s no sign of Harry the Lad, no sign of the menacing Islander. The developer is armed only with a bouquet of flowers and a gift-wrapped box—and he has a startled look on his face. Mandy’s standing at the door, delivering a tongue lashing. Martin is in time to hear its culmination, spoken quietly but with passion to spare: ‘Just fuck off and die, you miserable, pathetic, loathsome creep.’ And with that, she steps back into the cabin, delivers St Clair a devastating smile and closes the door.
For a moment, St Clair doesn’t move; he just stands there, flowers held limply in one hand, gift in the other.
‘That went well,’ says Martin, mischief bubbling, his fear and trepidation replaced by relief and victory.
St Clair turns to him. ‘I just wanted to explain, to apologise. That’s all.’
Martin smiles. ‘Good luck with that.’
‘She told you?’
‘That you thought she was on the game? Indeed she did.’
St Clair comes down off the steps, looks at the useless flowers, and tosses them on the bonnet of the Range Rover, followed by the gift-wrapped package. He walks over to Martin. ‘Look, it was an honest mistake.’
Martin shrugs. ‘It’s not me you need to convince.’
‘I don’t need to convince anyone,’ St Clair replies tersely. ‘I didn’t need to come here. I wanted to make amends, that’s all.’
Martin makes a rapid assessment. St Clair hasn’t realised Martin knows about the visa scam. Good. But by now he surely knows that Mandy is the new owner of the cheese factory. Martin tries to sound earnest. ‘I’m sorry, I can’t take up your job offer, Tyson.’
St Clair’s eyes blaze like twin blue gemstones, but he says nothing.
Martin pushes it. ‘I’m going to stick with journalism.’
St Clair is squinting, face hard. ‘What do you want?’
‘Tell me why you instigated the search of the cheese factory,’ says Martin. ‘Why you tipped off Channel Ten. Why now?’
A smile births itself on the hard face of Tyson St Clair; the businessman can smell a deal. ‘All right, I’ll tell you all about it, but I want something in return.’
‘I’m all ears.’
‘You give me your word that the incident with young Mandalay stays between the three of us. It does not, under any circumstances, go in the papers or into any sordid little book of small-town intrigues.’
Martin frowns, as if pondering the journalistic code of ethics. But it’s an act; inside he’s smirking. At some point he will write the story, but it won’t be about St Clair mistaking an upright citizen for a prostitute; it will detail his participation in visa fraud and coercive sex. So when Martin speaks, he’s not making a serious commitment, despite his sober voice. ‘You have my word. I won’t write it. It’s not in her interest.’
St Clair grins. ‘Correct. It makes me look bad, but it does her no favours either. Where there’s smoke, there’s fire. That’s what people will think.’
Martin gestures, as if in agreement. ‘Tell me. What makes you think Ashton was murdered and that he’s buried at the cheese factory?’
St Clair shrugs, as if to indicate he’s not saying anything new. ‘He had a lot of enemies. He owed a lot of people money. There were rumours he had come to a sticky end and the last place he was seen alive was at the cheese factory. It’s worth a look.’
‘Did Ashton owe you money?’
‘Too right he did. Bastard. And get this: I got a whiff, before he disappeared, that he was in strife. He offered to sell me the lot. I didn’t realise how much he needed the money. I could have got it for a song.’
Martin frowns. ‘So why didn’t you buy it?’
‘Because five or six years ago it was a shithole in the middle of nowhere. And if I’d bought it, I risked having the EPA insist I pay for its clean-up. Not to mention a bunch of creditors chasing me. No thanks.’
‘What’s changed?’
‘The French and Hummingbird Beach. If he can be declared dead, I can find the owner and buy it from them.’
‘You don’t know who the prospective owner is?’
St Clair offers a derisory little snort, looks sadly at the flowers and the gift. ‘Of course I do.’
‘Are you paying Channel Ten to search the factory?’
‘No. They’re staying for free in one of my properties. That’s it.’
‘Have they found anything?’
St Clair sizes him up. ‘I’ve been sworn to secrecy. But off the record, Thunkleton says he’s making progress.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘You’ll have to ask him. Now do we have a deal?’
Martin is shaking St Clair’s hand when Mandy emerges from the cabin. She’s holding Liam and she’s looking daggers. Seeing them, she turns on her heel and returns inside.
Once St Clair has gone, the Range Rover heading back towards its habitat on Nobb Hill, Martin goes after her to explain himself, fearing the worst. Instead he finds Mandy smiling.
‘He doesn’t know, does he?’ she says. ‘That we know about the visas?’
‘No, I don’t think he does. But he’s definitely worked out you are the likely owner of the cheese factory, or soon will be.’
She shakes her head. ‘What a prize dick. He treats me like that and then thinks flowers and a trinket will smooth it over?’ She moves to Martin, takes his arm. ‘I hope like hell you’re going to write something. An exposé.’
‘All in good time.’
And she smiles some more. And so does he. Maybe they’re getting somewhere. Maybe. But it’s a fleeting moment of satisfaction. He needs to get to Hummingbird and convince Topaz to help. But first, before he leaves mobile range, he calls Morris Montifore. This time the detective answers promptly.
‘Martin? How’d it go with your source?’
‘I’m not there yet. But I need to check something with you first.’
It’s not what Montifore wants to hear; his reply is curt. ‘I’m listening.’
‘Did you know that Channel Ten is searching for a body at the abandoned cheese factory on Dunes Road?’
‘I’m aware of that. What about it?’
‘I just ran into Tyson St Clair. He claims the television team is making progress.’
‘Progress? What does that mean?’
‘I don’t know. That’s why I’m telling you. Perhaps you can find out.’ Montifore says nothing; Martin persists. ‘If Jasper discovered who killed Ashton, the murderer could have killed Jasper to keep him quiet.’
‘You should be a policeman.’
‘You’ve spoken to St Clair?’
‘Of course.’
‘You could have told me.’
‘Told you what? A rumour about a cold case?’
‘Did St Clair say anything else? Does he know who killed Ashton?’
Now there is a touch of anger to the policeman’s voice. ‘You think I’d be sitting here on my arse if I knew that?’ There’s the briefest of pauses. ‘Martin, go talk to your source. We need her onside and on the record.’ And Montifore hangs up.
The policeman is right; Martin’s priority has to be persuading Topaz to speak to the detective. He bids Mandy goodbye and gets going. Out on Dunes Road, he tries to think through how he will convince the American, but instead the unmuffled sound of the Corolla, its throaty growl, reverberating around him, enters his head through the open windows, arousing memory.
Jasper and his hotted-up Mazda. The Beast. Fanging along Dunes
Road, shattering the speed limit, Jasper and Martin in the front, Scotty in the back, arms out the windows, hooting their delight. It’s a graduation present from Denise; either that or a bribe to stop Jasper following his friends to Sydney. It’s an old car with a new paint job: day-glo yellow with black racing stripes, front lowered, back raised, a burbling, gurgling concoction of chrome and hormones. A chick magnet, according to Jasper. He only gets it a month before Martin leaves Port Silver for good, but in that month the three of them do it all: endless laps around The Boulevarde, hill climbs against the clock up the escarpment, challenging the land speed record after midnight on Dunes Road. And getting pulled over on three separate occasions by Clyde Mackie.
Martin smiles. The Beast. Not all memories are bad. And then he’s passing his family’s cross, alone by the roadside, and he’s wrenched back into the present, reminded that most memories are not good.
Martin finds Topaz on the beach with a small group of admirers, sitting around an unlit fire, passing around a joint. Some of the more industrious campers are bringing firewood down from the forest in preparation for night time. The last golden shafts of sunlight are carving through the trees, the wind has dropped, waves punctuate the late afternoon like a heartbeat.
‘Hi, Topaz. Can I have a word?’
‘Sure,’ she says, handing him the reefer like a challenge. ‘We’re all friends here.’
He takes a perfunctory toke. He already feels like an outsider, wearing shoes on the sand, a forty-one-year-old in street clothes; no need to behave like one. He passes the joint on to the youth next to him. ‘Seriously. It’s important.’
She smiles, moves away from the circle, hips swaying for the benefit of the eyes she knows will be following her. She climbs up the ledge and onto the grass above the beach, where she turns to face him, eyes sparking with the last of the sunlight. ‘What is it?’ she asks.
‘The police. They need to speak to you.’
She frowns. ‘You said you wouldn’t tell them my name.’
‘I haven’t. That’s why I’m here. But they don’t know if I’m telling the truth. From me it’s only hearsay.’
‘What about your girlfriend? Don’t they believe her?’
‘No. She stormed out of St Clair’s place the moment he told her to strip. There was no mention of visas.’
But Topaz is already shaking her head. ‘No. I can’t. I won’t.’
‘Please. Someone killed my best friend. You understand? Without your help, the killer may well go free, kill again. There’s a chance my innocent girlfriend will go to prison. Is that what you want?’
‘You say that, but you don’t know that. And if the police knew I was scamming a visa, they could arrest me, deport me. I’m not risking that, not with Royce lying helpless up in that hospital.’
‘So you’ve already applied then?’ he asks.
‘Applied for what? The visa extension?’
‘Yes.’
She frowns, as if they’re talking at cross-purposes. ‘No, not yet. When I get back to Sydney.’
‘So you still have the paperwork, the form or letter or whatever it is?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then you haven’t done anything wrong yet, nothing illegal. If you haven’t submitted the application, you haven’t broken any law.’
Topaz looks unsure. ‘What are you saying?’
‘If you talk to the police, then they can’t charge you, even if they wanted to. All you have to say is that you had second thoughts and couldn’t go through with it. You’d be in the clear. No arrest, no charges, no deportation. Just the opposite; they’ll be grateful for your help.’
‘And no visa.’
‘No. But if you do submit that form, try to get a visa extension after less than a week in Port Silver, what do you think is going to happen?’
‘You’re threatening me?’
‘No. Helping you. You can’t use that form. Not now. Not with the police aware of what’s going on. But if you give it to the police, they’ll have the evidence they need.’
‘I told you, I’m not testifying.’
‘You won’t have to. If the police can talk to you, see that form, they’ll have enough evidence to get search warrants, pull up all the past records, find cases where visa extensions were actually granted on fraudulent documents. They may not even care about the recipients; they’ll go after St Clair and Harry Drake and the farmers. Surely you’d like to see Drake get his comeuppance after what he did to Royce?’
Topaz stares into his eyes, thinking. The flirt has gone, the happy-go-lucky persona stowed for the moment. ‘Okay, I’ll talk to them. If they want the form they can have it, but I will not appear in court. That’s my condition. I want anonymity and I want immunity.’
‘Okay. Let’s call them. Only they can make those assurances.’
They walk together to the office, Martin hoping Jay Jay is there and the landline is free.
There’s a low light coming through the windows of the office. Martin is about to try the door, when Topaz grabs his forearm. ‘Listen,’ she hisses.
Martin stops, holds his breath, listens: the waves breaking, distant music and laughter, and, closer, someone groaning. Adrenaline catches Martin, taking the edge off the dope: there’s someone in pain, someone inside the office. He reaches for the handle, but again Topaz grabs his arm, stops him. He turns to her; she is smiling, shaking her head. She removes her hand, combines it with her other to make a crude gesture, a finger moving in and out of a hole. Suddenly Martin understands.
Topaz moves to a window, presses her face to it, looks back at Martin, eyes wide, a huge smile on her face. ‘Check it out,’ she whispers.
Maybe it’s the dope, maybe it’s his innate curiosity, but Martin doesn’t resist the invitation to voyeurism. He presses his face to the window, holding up his hands to cut out the glare from the setting sun.
The couple are on the floor in front of the desk, candles glowing along its edge. A pair of feet, a plump brown shape: a man lying on his back, head obscured by the woman riding him enthusiastically, her back to the window. Her skin is white, glowing in the candlelight. Two diamonds are carved into her back, moving as if alive as she writhes on top of her lover.
‘Jay Jay,’ whispers Martin.
‘And the swami.’ Topaz laughs. ‘God, he’s like a trampoline.’
But Martin is not answering. He’s transfixed. The twin skin-cancer scars dance in the candlelight and below, curving around one buttock, is a ragged crescent, flashing purple and crimson in the flickering light. ‘What’s that on her bum?’ he asks.
‘Spanking,’ says Topaz, an element of awe in her voice. ‘God, they’re really going for it.’
Martin takes a last look. The backpacker isn’t wrong. Jay Jay’s arms are now high in the air, her back arching, her moaning louder and more emphatic. He’s seen enough and looks away.
Back on the beach, the sun has set and the fire has been lit, flames bright in the diminishing light. A portable speaker is playing this decade’s take on folk music. Martin really wants Topaz to talk to Montifore tonight, before she changes her mind. She’s already declined his invitation to drive up the cliff road into mobile range. So the phone in reception is the only option; he’ll have to wait till Jay Jay and the swami reappear before he asks to use it. He looks at Topaz, across the fire. She’s got an arm draped around the neck of a gorgeous young Polynesian woman dressed in a tank top and a tiny denim skirt. The woman is laughing too much, obviously stoned. Martin is offered a joint; he takes a long toke and passes it on. He removes his shoes and socks.
Gradually more people gather and the music steps up a notch, no longer acoustic. He accepts a drink of orange juice, quickly realising it’s more than juice. Alcohol. Vodka. He finishes the drink, the sweetness cloying. There is beer. A young fellow asks him if he wants to join the pool. Twenty dollars in, as much as you can drink. And smoke. Martin only wants one beer, but hands over the money anyway, buying his licence to be here,
to linger, to wait for Jay Jay and the guru and to persist with Topaz. She’s up dancing with the young Polynesian woman now, their hips grinding. Others are dancing as well, some just watching. Garth McGrath the soap star arrives, chugs back some beer, eyes fixed on Topaz. Martin fears he may have to engage the randy prick in conversation; he doesn’t want him making a move on Topaz before Jay Jay and the swami return.
And then they arrive, the guru and the surfer. The spiritual leader is wearing a look of divine peace; Jay Jay merely looks smug. She sees Martin; their eyes lock. She moves around the fire to him. ‘Didn’t think I’d see you here,’ she says, voice questioning.
‘Discovering my inner hippie,’ he says, laughing at his own quip, then catching himself. The blend of alcohol and dope must be stronger than he’d realised.
Jay Jay shakes her head as if in disbelief. ‘Give me your phone then. And any cameras you’ve got with you.’
‘What? Why?’
‘You’re not the first, sweetheart. I had half the press corps dancing around my fire one night.’
‘Jay Jay, I swear—that’s not why I’m here.’
‘Of course not. But just to be safe, I’ll put them in the office. You can get them back when you leave.’
Martin nods, sees the opportunity. ‘Sure. But while you’re there, can I make a call on your landline?’
She shrugs. ‘I guess. Telling your girlfriend where you are?’
‘No, not exactly.’
She laughs. ‘Didn’t think so. But tell her to come join us, if you want. She enjoyed it last time. Might help her chill a bit.’
Martin blinks. Mandy? Last time?
‘Phone,’ says Jay Jay, hand out.
Martin hands over his smartphone. ‘I’ll be right with you,’ he says. ‘I need to bring someone with me.’
‘Whatever,’ says Jay Jay. ‘But don’t leave it too long. I want to have a swim before it’s totally dark.’
But it’s too late; Topaz isn’t interested. Martin can’t convince her to leave the dance floor, where she is becoming increasingly entwined with not only the Polynesian girl but with Garth McGrath, his eyes alive with lechery, his hands all over them.