Silver

by Chris Hammer

  Montifore looks at Poulos, considers his position. ‘All right. Mr Scarsden, in your statement you said that after discovering the body of Jasper Speight and ascertaining he was deceased, you saw Mandalay Blonde sitting in the lounge, mere metres away, her hands covered in blood. Is that still your memory?’

  ‘Yes. There was blood on her hands; I wouldn’t say covered. They’re your words.’

  ‘Thank you,’ says Montifore. ‘And you didn’t go to her? You rang triple zero and waited where you were for the police and ambulance?’

  Martin looks at Poulos but gets no response. Why is Montifore going over this? ‘That’s correct,’ says Martin. ‘I think she was in shock. I think I was as well.’

  ‘You say Jasper Speight was dead. You checked for a pulse. Was there any sign of the weapon that killed him?’

  ‘No. I wasn’t looking but, no, I didn’t see anything.’

  ‘From where you were on the floor, did you have a clear view of Ms Blonde?’

  ‘Yes, I did.’

  ‘And at any stage, from the time you first saw her to the time the ambulance and the police arrived, was she ever out of your sight?’

  ‘No. She was kind of frozen there. Almost trance-like. As I said, in shock.’

  ‘You say you were sitting on the floor. Did you remain there for the entire time, until the police and ambulance came?’

  Martin tries to remember. ‘For most of it. But I think I must have stood when I heard the siren stop outside. I was standing when they came in the door.’

  ‘You’re sure of that?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And did you, once standing, look back towards Mandalay Blonde?’

  ‘I’m sure I must have. I can’t imagine I wouldn’t have done so. I was concerned about her.’

  ‘But you can’t be absolutely sure?’

  Martin closes his eyes. The image of Mandy sitting on the couch, hands bloodied, is burnt into his mind. But from what angle is he looking? The floor or standing? Some mixture of the two. He shakes his head. ‘I can’t be one hundred per cent sure; I can’t recall precisely. But it would have been bizarre if I didn’t. And I would absolutely remember if she had moved from the couch. Why?’

  Montifore nods, as if in understanding. ‘That’s fine, Martin. From your position on the floor, when you can be absolutely sure that you saw Ms Blonde, were you in a position to see if anything was on the sofa next to her?’

  Martin casts his mind back. He shrugs. ‘I can’t remember seeing anything else. Nothing of consequence.’

  ‘Cushions?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Cushions. Were there cushions on the sofa?’

  Martin blinks. Then a flash of memory, the white of the sofa contrasting with her hands, like blood on the snow. ‘Yes. There were two cushions, one in each corner of the sofa.’

  Nick Poulos shifts next to him. Martin glances over; his lawyer has a small smile.

  ‘And nothing else?’

  Martin thinks. ‘No, that’s all I recall.’

  ‘So no sign of the weapon? There or anywhere else?’

  The weapon. The knife. Is that what this is all about? ‘No. I saw no sign.’

  ‘And you didn’t talk to Ms Blonde?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘That’s strange, isn’t it?’

  Martin looks him in the eye, pushes some anger into his voice, some assertiveness. ‘You think so? You have a guidebook of how to behave when you find a man bled out on your girlfriend’s floor?’

  ‘No need to get aggressive, Mr Scarsden.’ It’s Lucic, his smirk back.

  Martin jabs his finger at the sergeant. ‘I checked his pulse, then I rang the ambulance and the police, within seconds of finding him. Are you telling me that was the wrong thing to do? You want to put that on the record?’

  Montifore grimaces, Lucic lets his smile talk for him, Nick places a restraining hand on Martin’s leg.

  ‘Let’s move on,’ says Montifore. He examines his notes. If he’s allowing time for the tension in the room to ease, it’s not working. ‘According to the timeline I have here, you and Mandalay Blonde returned to the townhouse on Tuesday afternoon, the day after the murder. Is that correct?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And why were you there?’

  ‘We went to collect Mandy’s stuff. Clothes and toiletries and whatnot. Equipment for her boy, for Liam—bottles and blenders and blankets. There’s a lot of stuff.’

  ‘And during this time, was Ms Blonde ever out of your sight?’

  ‘Yes. Several times.’

  ‘So you can’t be completely sure exactly what she collected?’

  Martin is shaking his head. Jesus, they’re still on about the knife. ‘No, I can’t. But the police had been there for more than twenty-four hours. They’d searched the place thoroughly. There was fingerprint dust everywhere, on every available surface.’

  ‘You’re an expert on forensic techniques and police searches then?’ It’s Lucic, needle in his voice.

  ‘No, but I’m sure the police must be. Is Sergeant Lucic really questioning the competence of his colleagues?’ Martin looks directly into the lens of the camera.

  Montifore smiles. ‘Okay, settle down, you two. Let’s move on.’

  Another pause, while the detective regards his next piece of paper. Nick Poulos places a hand on Martin’s shoulder to get his attention, then nods encouragement. Martin breathes out. He shouldn’t let that prick Lucic get under his skin. Not when he’s this tired and hungover.

  ‘Right,’ says Montifore. ‘The things you collected from the townhouse, Mandalay Blonde’s possessions. What did you do with them?’

  ‘We’ve rented a cabin at the caravan park across the river. We took everything there.’

  ‘Everything? Did you throw anything out? Take it to the tip? Throw it in a kerbside bin?’

  ‘Not that I recall.’

  ‘And you used Ms Blonde’s vehicle?’

  ‘And mine. We used both cars.’

  ‘And where was the boy, Liam?’

  ‘He was with us.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Yes. He’s quite a handful.’ Martin catches the constable smiling behind her camera. ‘Mandy picked him up from child care an hour or two before we went to the townhouse. You can check with the childcare centre. I assume they have a sign-out.’

  ‘So how long were you at the townhouse?’

  Martin shrugs. ‘Forty-five minutes. An hour. Something like that.’

  ‘Before sunset?’

  ‘Yes. Well before.’

  ‘When you arrived at the caravan park, who unloaded the possessions from the cars?’

  ‘We both did.’

  ‘You worked together?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘The possessions belonged mostly to Mandalay Blonde and her child?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So was it the case that you unloaded the cars while Ms Blonde arranged her possessions inside your cabin?’

  ‘I’d say so. For the most part.’

  ‘I see,’ Montifore continues, voice relaxed, non-confrontational. ‘And that afternoon you and Mandalay Blonde and the boy walked together by the river, watched the sunset, and then had dinner at your cabin.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Sorry? No?’ Montifore appears surprised by the response.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Where were the two of you then?’

  Martin looks at Nick Poulos, who is staring down at his hands and won’t make eye contact. Martin returns his gaze to Montifore. Lucic is no longer smiling, just looking at him intently. The constable operating the video camera has grown still, giving no sign she is breathing. Martin senses this is the pivot of the interview, the point it has been leading to. He doesn’t know what to say, how he can help Mandy, so he tells the truth.

  ‘I went to dinner at my uncle’s place, up along the river. I got there around seven, maybe a little later.’

  ‘Before sunset?’

&
nbsp; ‘Yes. Maybe fifteen minutes before.’

  ‘And returned when?’

  ‘Not sure. Maybe ten-thirty, maybe later.’

  ‘What is your uncle’s name?’

  ‘Vern Jones. Vernon, I guess.’

  ‘And your uncle can confirm those times?’

  ‘Yes. And his wife. And a swag of kids. My uncle and his son gave me a lift back to the caravan park in his boat.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I’d had a bit to drink. Didn’t want to drive.’

  ‘And your uncle? He doesn’t drink?’ There’s a glint of humour in Montifore’s eyes.

  ‘His son steered the boat.’

  Montifore smiles, but Lucic is dead serious as he poses the next question. ‘Just for the record, let me get this straight: the evening of the day after Jasper Speight was murdered, after he died in front of your partner, instead of remaining with her you went to your uncle’s place and got drunk?’

  ‘Correct,’ says Martin.

  Montifore looks disappointed, although Martin doesn’t know if it’s in him or his sergeant. ‘Thank you for your assistance, Mr Scarsden. You’re free to go.’ And he announces, for the benefit of the camera, that the interview is officially over.

  ‘Just a moment,’ says Martin, standing. ‘I have something for you.’ He pulls Topaz’s visa application form from his pocket and hands it to Montifore. ‘A few hours ago, you were desperate to get your hands on this.’

  Montifore unfolds the form, scans it quickly. ‘Thank you, Martin. I promise you this will get the attention it deserves.’ There is sincerity in his eyes, but Martin can’t help but hear irony in the policeman’s words.

  Martin waits until he and Nick Poulos are out of the station and down the steps before he turns on his lawyer. ‘What the fuck was that all about?’

  ‘Let’s get a coffee,’ says Poulos, his tone conciliatory.

  ‘Let’s not. Tell me what just happened. And tell me why you did nothing to help me.’ Martin is jabbing his finger at Poulos, millimetres from his chest.

  Nick puts his hands up, as if to surrender. ‘They were trying to trap you. To see if you would lie.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘They have a witness who says they saw Mandalay throw something into the river at the caravan park at sunset on Tuesday, while you were at your uncle’s place. The police think it may have been the knife. The murder weapon. Police divers are on their way from Sydney.’

  Martin stands and stares at Nick for a frozen moment even while his mind is already off and racing.

  ‘There’s something else,’ says Nick. ‘About the cheese factory.’

  But Martin’s not listening, he’s already moving. ‘Tell me later. I’ll ring you!’ he yells over his shoulder.

  The traffic along The Boulevarde is clogged. He is consumed by frustration, resisting the urge to shout, to bellow at all these people sleepwalking their way through normalcy. And then he’s away, over the bridge, to the caravan park.

  At the fork by reception, he turns right towards the section reserved for permanent residents. He passes a hedge, enters a small self-contained world of HardiePlank cottages, originally the same, now rendered unique by their residents. It’s like a village in miniature: roads shrunk to the size of bike paths, houses reduced to large kennels, lives reduced to a bonsai scale. But there is life here: a couple of young mums stand smoking cigarettes and chatting amiably, their babies in cheap strollers; a bloke in a blue singlet and tats is ducking his head in and out of the gizzards of a muscle car; and there, a group of older men, playing boules on a patch of grass. Martin parks his Corolla, the old car at home in the low-rent community. He walks over to the men playing boules, asks for directions.

  Clyde Mackie is gardening, weeding in among the potted flowers on his tiny deck. There is a radio murmuring; it sounds like the races. ‘Martin?’ he says. ‘What is it?’ He must see the urgency on Martin’s face.

  ‘Can we talk, Clyde?’

  ‘Of course. Come up.’

  Martin climbs up onto the small deck. There is just enough room for a couple of chairs sitting side by side, a small table between them. Mackie turns off the radio. ‘You want something? Tea, coffee? Something to eat?’

  The suggestion of food elicits a pang of appetite; his body wants more than Hummingbird toast and a Longton doughnut. ‘Water. A glass of water would be good. And yes, some food if you have something.’

  ‘Righto,’ says Clyde, removing his gardening gloves and entering his small home. A moment later he’s back with two glasses of water and a white-bread sandwich of devon and tomato sauce. ‘Sit down, Martin. This place is too small for pacing around like that.’

  Martin sits, drinks some water, launches into it. ‘Clyde, how often do you and Brian fish down there at the wharf?’

  ‘Most days, I guess, if the weather’s good,’ says the former policeman, eyes canny.

  ‘You always fish around sunset?’

  ‘That’s our routine.’

  ‘Can you remember if you were fishing on Tuesday?’

  ‘I’d say so. I think I’ve been there every day this week.’ Mackie is concentrating, trying to remember. ‘Maybe had one day off. Monday, I think, but it’s hard to be sure. The days kind of melt into one another.’

  Martin bites his lip. ‘Clyde, it’s important. Can we ask Brian?’

  The old policeman is about to respond when a light sparks in his eye. ‘Hang about. Tuesday, you say? Was that the cricket, the one-dayer?’

  Martin looks at Clyde, blinks, smiles. ‘Let’s see.’ He has his phone out, searches, confirms that Australia did indeed play on Tuesday. A day-nighter at the MCG. ‘Yes. The cricket was on.’

  ‘Well, we were both there then. We had the radio on from the start of Australia’s innings. So that’s about six-thirty or seven through until it was too dark to fish. It was a corker of a match. We watched the end at the hall. Finished about ten or ten-thirty.’

  Martin can feel a smile trying to break free, but he’s not done yet. ‘So you were down at the wharf from six-thirty or seven until about an hour after sunset?’

  ‘That’s right. What is it, Martin? Why do you need to know?’

  ‘Did you see anyone else down there?’

  ‘I’m sure we must have. Plenty of people head down to the river at that time of day.’

  ‘What about my partner, Mandy Blonde?’

  ‘No. I would have remembered seeing her. She’s quite the looker, you know.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Of course. I didn’t even know you were staying here then, if I recall correctly.’

  ‘You do, Clyde, you do recall correctly. We only moved here that afternoon.’ His smile has broken through, but he keeps his focus; this is too serious. ‘If Mandy had come down to the river around sunset, is there any chance you could have missed her? You know, too busy fishing, looking out at the river, wickets falling in the cricket?’

  Mackie is shaking his head before Martin can even finish the question. ‘No, mate. If she came down, we would have seen her.’

  ‘Can we check with Brian?’

  ‘Of course we can, son. But not until you tell me what’s going on.’

  So Martin tells him about the allegation made by a mystery witness, accusing Mandy of throwing something into the river some time close to sunset on Tuesday.

  Mackie shakes his head. ‘That’s bullshit. I’m sure we would have seen her—or anyone else tossing evidence into the water. Any idea who this so-called witness is?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Tuesday, you say. So who knew you were staying here then?’

  Martin looks at the policeman, mind starting to hare off in different directions. It’s a valid point; they’d only just arrived.

  ‘Come on, son, let’s find Brian.’

  Brian Jinjerik is outside his own cottage, lifting a large galvanised toolbox from the tray of an ancient ute. Martin gives him a hand.

  ‘Thanks, mate,’ says Br
ian. ‘Back’s killing me.’

  ‘You been working?’

  ‘Yeah. Up on a roof in the heat. Broken skylight. Can I help you with something?’

  ‘You can.’

  And he does, corroborating his friend’s recollection. Mandy wasn’t by the river at sunset on Tuesday.

  Martin rings Winifred. The call goes through to voicemail. Martin swallows a swear word, texts Winifred, uses capitals. TWO WITNESSES CONFIRM MANDY NOT AT RIVER TUESDAY SUNSET. CALL ME.

  It takes the lawyer less than two minutes to respond.

  ‘Martin. Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes. I’m with them now. Two residents of the caravan park. They fish at sunset every day. From the wharf. They were there Tuesday. Swear they would have seen Mandy if she went anywhere near the river.’

  ‘They’re reliable?’

  ‘One is a former policeman. Served for decades.’

  There’s a pause. Then: ‘Can I speak to the policeman?’

  Martin hands the phone to Clyde Mackie, who takes Winifred through his recollection, his voice dropping half an octave, full of courtroom-honed authority. Martin hears him explain about listening to the cricket, describe where they were sitting, what they saw. Mackie assures Winifred he is willing to make a formal statement.

  The call finishes. Mackie’s eyes are gleaming. ‘You know what that lawyer told me? The so-called witness alleged your girl threw whatever it was, presumably the murder weapon, from the wharf, not the riverbank. That’s impossible. We were sitting on the wharf the whole time.’

  Martin feels tears well in his eyes, unbidden. ‘Thank you, Clyde. I’m more grateful than I can ever say.’

  Mackie looks embarrassed. ‘It’s all right, son. I’m not doing you any special favours. Just telling the truth.’

  ‘You want a beer?’ asks Brian Jinjerik. ‘Sounds like you’ve had a win.’

  But Martin is already thinking ahead. ‘No, thanks. I’ve still got a few loose ends to tie up.’

  ‘Well, come on then,’ says Mackie to Brian. ‘Sunset isn’t that far away. We can have a cold one down at the wharf.’

  Back in his car, a thought niggles at Martin, something that Clyde Mackie had said. That on Tuesday afternoon he hadn’t even known that Martin and Mandy had checked into the caravan park. So who had known? Winifred. The owner of the park. Who else? Nick? But the false witness had only just come forward. By now, all sorts of people would know they were staying here. He shakes his head. The line of thought is going nowhere.