Silver

by Chris Hammer

  Made restless by his roiling thoughts, he gets out of the car, as if he might leave them inside. The Longton-bound truck crawls up the hill and past him, followed by a slow-moving caravan of cars. He’ll be stuck here for a while yet as the driver of the truck in front waits for the traffic to pass before attempting his own hairpin pirouette. Martin walks off to the side of the road. The sun moves with him, flickering through the trees, a slow-motion strobe. Can you see the sea? his father asks him. He stares into the distance, above the spreading green of the ferns, through the vertical gaps in the spotted gums. And there it is: the sea, a thin horizontal line dividing one shade of blue from another. The sea. He can see the sea. All he had to do was stop long enough to look for it.

  chapter twenty-three

  There are no floral tributes at the entry to Hummingbird, just a surly-looking police constable standing with her arms crossed, her car parked across the narrow track behind the cattle grid. Martin cuts the Corolla’s engine, silencing its increasingly delinquent muffler, and approaches the officer. She’s young, hair cut in a dark bob, eyes hidden behind sunglasses. She doesn’t wait for him to speak.

  ‘It’s a crime scene. No entrance.’

  ‘I’ve been staying here,’ says Martin, voice conciliatory. ‘I just came to collect some of my stuff and my friend’s.’

  The constable removes her sunglasses, not blinking. ‘You’re Martin Scarsden. You’re a journalist. Go any further and I’ll arrest you.’

  ‘I was here last night. I was part of the SES team. Saving lives. They told me I could get my stuff.’

  Her eyes bore into his, not a skerrick of sympathy in them. ‘I’m a graduate of the Goulburn police academy,’ she says quietly. Martin blinks. Why is she telling him that?

  ‘I graduated the same year as Robbie Haus-Jones. The most decent man I ever met.’ Her voice is even and unemotional.

  Fuck. Now he has it. Robbie Haus-Jones, the young constable who had befriended him out west, who did so much to help him; the young constable now recovering from third-degree burns, suspended from the force and facing criminal charges. Robbie. Poor Robbie.

  Martin doesn’t even try to respond. He gets back in the car, reverses precariously, cowed by the policewoman’s unwavering gaze. Once he’s out of sight of her righteousness, he manages to turn the car around and drive out. What now? He’s unsure. For a moment he contemplates driving to the cheese factory, finding a canoe or a kayak and paddling along the shore of the swamp and out through the estuary to Hummingbird. But what canoe, what kayak? Easier to park at the bridge and wade along the stream, swim around the headland to the beach. And then what? Emerge like the monster from the black lagoon and get himself arrested? Terrific. They could parade him for Doug Thunkleton and the media: Exhibit A—dickhead. He gets to the juncture of the drive, where it meets Ridge Road. Ridge Road … He recalls the walking track between the road and the lookout on the point. There was another path forking from it, leading down towards Hummingbird Beach, to the side of the campground where the guru’s followers were housed. What had Jay Jay said about the guru mixing his potion? Up at his retreat or in his cabin, by himself. He brought it down in a big Coke bottle. Up at his retreat? Brought it down? It’s worth a look.

  A few minutes later he leaves the car at the entry to the walking track, the same place he’d parked three days ago. The track is the same, the sound of the surf is the same, but today nature isn’t so impressive, not so present. There’s no wind; maybe that’s it, nothing to ease the growing heat. The path leading down towards Hummingbird’s campsite is exactly where he remembers it. He starts to descend and there, still some way above the campsite proper, as if he has imagined it into existence, a sole cabin sits off to the right on a shelf of bare sandstone, shielded from the track behind a screen of foliage. He follows a narrow walkway leading to the side of the cabin and up some steps onto a small deck. If the cabin itself is modest, the view is extravagant: to stand on the deck is to breathe exhilaration. The panorama extends right up the coast, to the dunes, the endless beaches and the thunderous surf of Treachery Bay, all the way to a distant green-blue line where the escarpment meets the sea.

  At first, he can’t get the door open. He’s reluctant to use his hands, to leave any evidence he’s been here. He steps off the deck, finds a couple of sticks, returns to the door and uses them to prise it open.

  It’s a one-room cabin, even smaller than the guest cabins down closer to the beach. There is the smell of incense and spices, cloying in the enclosed space. A large bed dominates the room, raised high, draped with multi-coloured cloths of silk rather than a mosquito net. On the floor, there’s a discarded condom packet. Martin pauses, realising the police haven’t been here yet. They mustn’t know about the cabin. Is that possible?

  He puts his hands in his pockets, not wanting to leave evidence of his presence. Before the bed is a prayer mat. Martin can imagine the guru here, in the lotus position, the door flung wide, the world stretched before him, like a god surveying the earth below. A carving of Shiva hangs from the wall on one side, Krishna on the other. Martin uses his phone as a camera. There is a wooden wardrobe—Balinese, at a guess—with a Panama hat sitting on top. Inside, various robes and, incongruously, business shirts and chinos. Street clothes like the swami had been wearing at Longton, talking with Tyson St Clair. Martin photographs the clothes. At the bottom of the wardrobe he finds a pile of footwear, eastern sandals and western shoes and boots, and next to them an old-fashioned suitcase, a relic, lacquered cardboard with dark brown ribs of polished wood, adorned with fading stickers. Martin takes a rag, lifts the case clear, photographs the outside. The stickers say Madras, London and Bombay. How long since Chennai was Madras and Mumbai Bombay?

  Martin places the case on the bed and, with a silk cloth protecting his hands, eases it open. There are some clothes: thick jumpers and winter vestments. Martin sifts through the contents. Under the clothes he finds a well-thumbed guidebook, an old Lonely Planet guide to India. He lifts it out. Its pages are interspersed with several postcards. Postcards. Martin feels his breath catch. Carefully, his hands awkward behind their silk shield, he opens the book, examining each postcard in turn, before returning them to the same page. There is a black-and-white portrait of an Indian holy man, identified on the flip side as Swami Brahmananda Saraswati, another of the Beatles with Maharishi Mahesh Yogi, a third of Bhagwan Shree Rajneesh wearing orange robes and looking like the cat that swallowed the cream. The remaining three postcards are paintings of Hindu deities: Brahma, Vishnu and Ganesh. None of the cards have handwriting on their flip sides. Religious postcards. He racks his brain, trying to find some link with the postcard Jasper Speight gripped in his dying hand, the postcard of a Greek saint. But there is no link, nothing substantial. He eases the book back into the bottom of the case and closes the lid. He’s just about to place it in the wardrobe when a thought flashes through his mind, a suspicion. He again settles the case on the bed, opens it. There: inside the lid, on a piece of blue adhesive tape, is the name of the owner, written in pen. Swami Dev Hawananda. But why write his name on a piece of tape, so easy to remove? Martin tries to peel the tape back, but it’s too difficult with his hands impaired by the silk cloth. He discards the cloth, uses his fingernails. He works slowly, not wanting to tear the tape or damage the case beneath it. Soon he has peeled enough back to see the beginnings of writing: another name. Gently, but with mounting excitement, he pulls the tape back until the name is revealed. It’s not English, but nor is it Hindi or Sanskrit. Instead it’s Cyrillic, or maybe Greek. Martin takes his phone, photographs the name: Múpov Παπαδόπουλος.

  For a moment, he considers taking the case. Once he wouldn’t have hesitated. As a younger man, a foreign correspondent, he would have stolen it, heedless of consequences, contemptuous of local laws. But now that’s impossible. He can’t remove evidence useful to the police. What has changed: himself or merely the jurisdiction? If he were in India, would he be so respectful
of the police? Or fearful? It doesn’t matter; he can’t take it. Instead he smooths the tape back into place, rubbing it with the silk cloth to make sure it’s holding fast and to remove his fingerprints. He closes the lid, places the case on the floor and photographs it from several angles before placing it back in the wardrobe. He needs to leave, he knows there can be no excuses should the police discover him here, yet he understands this is his only chance, he’s never going to be allowed back in here, not with the dead man’s worldly goods still in situ.

  He scans the room. What is he looking for? What has he missed? And then it comes to him. He lifts the silk draping the bed, climbs onto it. And there it is, on a shelf above the bedhead: a mortar and pestle. He stands on the bed, excited by his find. Next to the stone implements are a brown glass bottle and a narrow sandalwood box. He doesn’t move the box, just opens it where it is, lifting its brass latch, his hands still cloaked in silk. An array of six small medicine bottles with metal lids and a clear plastic bag containing pills. The bottles have old labels, hard to decipher. Martin gets his phone out, takes multiple shots, moving the lens in as close as he can. Fuck he loves his phone. Then he lowers the lid, gets off the bed and leaves the cabin, heart pounding.

  Exhilaration has him. This is shit hot. A scoop. Inside the inner-sanctum of a cult leader, the poisons arrayed, the images carrying the story. Martin Scarsden, out ahead of the pack, out ahead of the police. He starts skipping, swept along the path, headlines forming in his mind. Wait until Terri and the backstabbers at the Herald see what he’s got. The front page awaits. He stops for a moment, takes a deep breath. It tastes of sea salt and vindication. And he’s free to write whatever he likes, to assert whatever he likes; the dead can’t sue. Yet as he stands there, the first doubts shade him. He’s safe here, he knows. Even if the police climb the track from the beach he is well clear of them. So why is he hesitating? Something passes through him. Guilt? No, not that. Responsibility? No. Culpability? Possibly. Can he really find such evidence and keep it for his articles? Not tell the police before publication? Can he get away with it? He’s frozen to the spot, the urge to skip gone. He has to tell them, or how can he use it? Otherwise he risks being charged with withholding evidence and becoming the story himself. His rivals wouldn’t hesitate to pile on, condemning him for unethical behaviour: the man who jeopardised a murder investigation. Is there anyone as righteous as a journalist who has been scooped? Hell, how can he finesse this? And that’s when it comes to him, the real reason he’s hesitating. It’s not about the story or how the police may react. It’s not even about the impact on Mandy. It’s not about practicalities; it’s about the deaths of seven people and who killed them. The image returns: the beautiful couple, laid out like meat on their bed, their innocence gone, their lives stolen. It’s about Jay Jay Hayes, grieving for her dead lover. He trembles. As always, he’s been putting the story first, not considering the consequences. And at that moment he knows what he has to do; how could he ever have thought any different?

  Hesitation dispelled, he strides to his car, uses his key to open the boot. He lifts the tatty carpet, revealing the spare tyre compartment, then he powers his phone off and slides it down next to the tyre. He closes the boot, makes sure it’s locked, makes sure the car is locked, then hurries back down the track, past the retreat, down towards the Hummingbird Beach campsite. At the bottom, still sheltered by the rainforest, he stops, recovers his breath, settles himself like an actor waiting in the wings for his cue. And then he steps out into the clearing.

  The look on Ivan Lucic’s face is worth the price of admission. He looks appalled as he watches Martin sauntering towards him, suddenly deaf to the discussion he’s been having with three officers dressed in disposable plastic overalls, FORENSIC SERVICES in large letters on their backs.

  ‘How’s it going?’ Martin asks breezily. ‘Need a hand?’

  But Lucic isn’t smiling. ‘Martin Scarsden, I’m placing you under arrest for wilfully disobeying a lawful instruction.’ He turns to the other police officers. ‘Can someone go and get some cuffs from the car, please?’ One of the forensics officers shrugs and walks away, clearly not used to arresting people.

  Martin suddenly finds his bravado difficult to sustain. ‘Seriously, I’m here to help. I have vital information.’

  Lucic shakes his head. ‘The constable at the gate warned you off. You should have followed her instructions.’

  ‘Exactly what I was doing. Until I realised you might be about to miss vital evidence. Make a fool of yourself.’ The words are provocative, but Martin is keeping his voice as mild as he can.

  Lucic bites. ‘What evidence?’

  Martin swallows. Lucic wants to crucify him; he needs to make this convincing. ‘I was obeying her instructions. I just went up onto the point, not onto the site. I didn’t cross any police barriers. I just wanted to see if I could see the beach from up there, in case our photographer could get a shot of you guys working. You know, long lens, paparazzi-style.’ He turns around, gestures vaguely in the direction of the point.

  Lucic is controlled. ‘Keep digging.’

  ‘There’s a track winding down. A walking path. I was looking for a vantage point for the snapper. And that’s when I found it.’ He pauses for effect.

  ‘Found what?’

  ‘The swami’s cabin.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘His cabin.’

  ‘Bullshit. We’ve searched his cabin. It’s over there.’ Lucic indicates somewhere behind Martin.

  ‘He had two. Up there is his retreat. It’s kind of hidden away. Easy to miss.’ Martin spreads his hands. ‘No police tape. Nothing.’

  ‘How do you know it’s his?’

  ‘Jay Jay Hayes, the owner of this place, told me he had a retreat to himself as well as a cabin. I glanced inside. It’s full of Indian paraphernalia. Silk robes, incense, carvings of Hindu gods. It looked like nothing had been searched. I was about to head off when I heard your voices, figured you’d want to know. Before I wrote the story.’

  Lucic stares at him as if trying to vaporise him. ‘You went inside. Did you touch anything?’

  ‘Yeah, I went in. That’s how I knew it was his. Then I knew you needed to know, so I came down.’

  Lucic glares at him, considering the situation, then smiles maliciously. ‘I’m still arresting you.’

  Martin experiences a surge of desperation. He can’t get arrested, not now. Mandy needs him, the Herald needs him. Time to play a few cards. ‘No you’re not,’ he says calmly, impressed at his own bluster.

  ‘And why’s that?’ asks Lucic.

  ‘Because I will tell the magistrate exactly what happened: that despite being told not to enter this site, I felt obliged to inform the police of vital information they had overlooked.’

  That does it. Lucic is seething now, it’s there in his eyes, but he’s still keeping a lid on his emotions. ‘Why would a magistrate side with a journalist instead of a detective sergeant?’

  Martin shakes his head, as if in pity. ‘It doesn’t really matter what the magistrate says, this is one for the court of public opinion. The Sydney Morning Herald will report my testimony, so will the rest of the media. I will recount how I assisted police and was persecuted in return. Your bosses can read all about it.’

  Lucic says nothing. They are still for a moment, a stand-off, a test of wills. The impasse is broken by one of the forensics team. ‘Isn’t that like, um, a breach of journalistic ethics or something?’

  Lucic and Martin both stare at him with contempt, but it’s Lucic who speaks. ‘Why don’t you go and help your mate look for those handcuffs?’ The young man blushes, looks at his older colleague, presumably his superior. ‘Actually,’ says Lucic, ‘cancel that. Go and get the equipment you’ll need to search this cabin.’ He waits for the young man to walk away before he turns to the remaining technician. Martin recognises him: the man who was so understanding when he and Mandy collected her things from the townhouse. ‘You have anythi
ng to add?’