Silver

by Chris Hammer

  ‘No, sir,’ says the forensics expert, looking uncomfortable.

  Lucic turns to Martin. ‘Give me your phone.’

  ‘It doesn’t work out here. No signal.’

  ‘I don’t care. Give me your phone.’

  ‘I don’t have it. It’s back at the caravan park charging. I knew it would be useless here.’

  Lucic turns to the forensics officer. ‘Search him.’

  The man looks shocked. ‘No, thanks,’ he says, and walks away.

  Demarcation dispute, thinks Martin, insubordination in the ranks. But he’s wise enough not to say it.

  ‘Spread your arms and legs,’ says Lucic.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Really.’

  Martin does what he’s told. Lucic takes his time about frisking him, but takes no uncalled-for liberties, content with the unspoken threat the search entails.

  ‘Okay. You can go.’

  ‘Thank you,’ says Martin. ‘And, seriously, I hope you find something useful.’

  ‘Get lost before I have second thoughts.’

  Martin turns, starts walking, is beginning to congratulate himself when Lucic speaks again. ‘No. Not that way. You might contaminate the site.’

  ‘I’ve already been up there. My car’s up there.’

  ‘Too bad. Out the main track. You can follow the road up.’

  A two-kilometre walk, closer to three. But there’s nothing useful to say, so Martin says nothing.

  But when he gets up past Jay Jay’s house and reception, he pauses. The three forensic officers are collecting bags of equipment from the car park. There are two uniformed officers sitting on the deck of the house, drinking tea, looking out to sea. He can’t see anyone else. He slows his pace. The blue-clad technical officers head down, passing him, not making eye contact. Martin walks higher, out of sight of the deck. He stops, looks, listens. Just the unhurried collapse of the waves on the beach and the white noise of distant surf. Nothing. He looks down at the site, makes a quick calculation, a quicker decision.

  He moves rapidly across behind the cabins on the western side of the path, the cabins occupied by the fun-seekers, the backpackers and the swingers. There are only five huts, all with police tape across their doors. Martin recognises the one rented by Topaz, so he discounts it. The young couple who died were one along, so not that one. Martin looks closely; the cabin at the end of the row, up against the bushland, looks a little larger and has its own water tank. Garth McGrath would have wanted the best cabin.

  He walks quickly, not looking back, ducking under the police tape, moving up the stairs onto the small deck. He uses the heel of his palm to ease the door open, again conscious of fingerprints. He has no reason to be here, no ready-made excuse. He feels a strong sense of trespass. The man is dead, and he is transgressing.

  The room is a mess, clothes everywhere. On a wide shelf beneath a side window there’s a framed photo of McGrath receiving some sort of award, a Logie perhaps, placed to impress visitors or maybe to reassure McGrath his star still shone. Next to it is a toiletries bag. Martin opens it, careful not to leave prints, hands wrapped in a t-shirt. Toothpaste, wrinkle cream, some sort of fake tan cream. But no pills, nothing incriminating. Surely if they were here, the police would have taken them for testing. There’s a cardboard box on the floor beneath the shelf. Martin tips its contents onto the floor. There’s a wallet, a set of BMW car keys and a gold Rolex, still ticking away. A packet of condoms, extra-large. Martin doesn’t touch anything, surprised the personal items haven’t been removed. There’s another photo: McGrath with a blonde woman, good-looking, like a model, and two young children. The family, abandoned in Sydney, relegated to the box. Again, the feeling of trespass sweeps him. He is unsure what he’s looking for: perhaps an explanation for why someone like McGrath would end up in a place like this. Carefully, hands still covered, Martin replaces the bits and pieces into the box. He takes a last look around. What’s he doing here? What’s he looking for? Maybe for the reason he’s still alive and McGrath is dead. One night earlier and he could be up in the Longton morgue now, in the drawer next to McGrath, with someone else—Mandy most probably—considering his personal belongings, the last flotsam of his life, floating to the surface in his wake.

  He’s about to leave when he sees it, hanging from a hook on the shelf below the window. The thin silver thread of a necklace, a single pearl at the end. Just like the one Mandy used to wear.

  chapter twenty-four

  Away from the water, the heat is oppressive. There is no wind, nothing to stir the swampy humidity. His shirt is soon sweat soaked, small bush flies coat his back and land on his face, getting at his eyes, taunting him, undeterred by his swatting hands. He trudges up Ridge Road, the shade from the trees ineffectual. He’s had two nights in a row with insufficient sleep; his legs grow heavy with the effort. But the uphill slog is the easy part; it’s his own thoughts, his sense of betrayal, that weigh most heavily upon him. Mandy. How could she? Garth McGrath. Of all people. He needs to stop and rest, to regather his strength. And, soon, he’s chastising himself: how hypocritical he is, how childish. He had slept with Topaz, or the Polynesian girl, or someone. Probably. But only because he’d been drugged. And if it happened to him, most likely the same thing happened to her. Jay Jay had intimated as much. Garth McGrath, predator. He has no proof it was the actor, of course, except that he was the only person affected, or claiming to be affected, on both occasions the date rape drug was suspected. Could a soapie star act that well? And on both occasions, McGrath had clear targets: Mandy in the first instance, Topaz in the second. And, Martin realises, on each occasion there were other men there, men who might have been protectors or who might have been competitors: Jasper and himself, men who might have intervened. Men who also got drugged. He recommences walking, his growing anger helping to propel him up the hill. By the time he gets to his car, the matter is settled in his mind: McGrath was the low-life drugging women with Rohypnol, using the swami as a cover. The evidence may be circumstantial, but Martin can’t imagine any other scenario that fits the facts.

  He desperately wants to write this story now; he wants to hold up McGrath for the ridicule he so richly deserves. He wants the mountain of floral tributes building outside Longton Hospital to turn to ash. And yet—the acknowledgement comes reluctantly—if McGrath was guilty of those crimes, no matter how abhorrent, most likely he was not responsible for the deaths of seven people, including himself. Rohypnol did not kill the victims. No, the two incidents must be unrelated. A grim determination comes over Martin. He wants to avenge Mandy, but clearing her of murder is the priority: he needs to find Jasper’s killer. Garth McGrath’s deprivations are not the main story.

  And he needs to see Mandy. He has no idea what he’s going to say, how to approach it. Maybe he should make a full confession, explain what had happened on his own evening of misadventure. Surely she would take the opportunity to reveal what had befallen her at Hummingbird Beach. Surely.

  These are the thoughts filling his mind as he steers the car down the hill and back onto the reliable asphalt of Dunes Road, heading for the caravan park. He’s almost there when his phone, recovered from the boot, begins to chirp. He’s back in range. He pulls over a little before the entry track to Hartigan’s. There are messages and missed calls. The first two calls were from a blocked number, no message left. He calls Jack Goffing.

  ‘Jack, was that you?’

  A short pause. ‘Martin.’

  ‘Any information?’

  ‘Yes. Your guru. His passport is genuine, his details check out. He’s a bona fide Indian.’

  ‘Okay,’ says Martin, trying to keep the disappointment from his voice. ‘Thanks for that.’

  ‘Your two young grifters, on the other hand, are less straightforward.’

  ‘Grifters? Topaz and Royce?’

  ‘Correct. They were investigated in Melbourne last year, caught out pulling a scam. But in the end their mark didn’t want the embarras
sment of going to trial.’

  ‘What did they do?’

  ‘Oldest swindle in the book. I assume the girl is a bit of a looker.’

  ‘She is. And knows how to use it.’

  ‘That sounds right. It works like this: she seduces a married guy. They’re going at it when her so-called husband bursts in, catches them in flagrante delicto, threatens to beat up the mark or expose him. The mark then pays them off to keep the peace. An oldie but a goodie.’

  ‘Shit. That works, does it?’

  ‘All too often. And in this case, the guy was drugged, which made him easier to seduce, easier to manipulate.’

  ‘Drugged? What with?’

  ‘Rohypnol, probably. Something like that.’

  Rohypnol? Martin joins the dots. But the dots don’t align. Topaz wasn’t around when Mandy was drugged, and she wouldn’t have drugged herself and let McGrath molest her. At most, it would give her some knowledge of the drug and its effects. ‘Thanks, Jack. I really appreciate it, you going out on a limb for me like this.’

  Goffing laughs, an unexpected response. ‘It’s okay, Martin. I’ve listed you.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘You’re officially listed as one of my sources.’

  ‘Really?’ Martin shifts uncomfortably in his car seat. Somewhere, in the subterranean vaults of the secret police, he is now listed as an informant, a source. It doesn’t sit well with him. ‘I’m not sure I’m comfortable with that.’

  ‘Relax. You’re not the first journo on our books and you won’t be the last.’

  ‘Why doesn’t that make me feel any better?’

  Goffing laughs again, knowing he has Martin where he wants him. ‘Oh, and Martin? Your grifters, Royce and Topaz—she’s not his girlfriend; they’re married.’

  ‘Married? She has permanent residency?’

  ‘Better than that. She’s a citizen, has an Australian passport. And an American one too. Why?’

  ‘Nothing. I’ve got to go. Thanks, Jack.’

  But Martin doesn’t start driving again. The story they fed him that first day when he picked them up hitchhiking was bullshit. Topaz has a passport; she didn’t need a visa, she didn’t need to work in the regions. They were simply rehearsing their cover story with Martin. They’d come to Port Silver specifically to scam the visa scheme, a variation on their regular swindle. They must have heard about it in Sydney. Not a bad idea: someone involved in illegality is unlikely to complain to the police. And might be willing to pay more money. Higher risk, higher reward.

  He rings Bethanie. She answers immediately. ‘Martin. I tried calling. You been out of range?’

  ‘That’s right. At Hummingbird. How was the presser?’

  ‘Nothing out of the ordinary. The doctors went first. Seven confirmed dead, all at the beach last night. Four still in a serious condition in Brisbane, but all expected to recover. The ones here are expected to be released over the next day or two. The doctors anticipate no permanent organ damage.’

  ‘That’s good news. And the cops?’

  ‘Treating Hummingbird as a crime scene, but not ready to declare it a crime. They say it may have been unintentional, an accidental overdose. They say comparisons with Jonestown are, quote, far-fetched, unsubstantiated and inappropriate, unquote.’

  ‘Right. Can’t argue with that. Anything else?’

  ‘Yeah. They’re pissed off at us for revealing McGrath’s identity. They say normal procedures should have been followed. But I get the feeling they won’t be losing any sleep over it.’

  ‘What else could they say? You filing?’

  ‘Doing it now. You have anything to add?’

  Martin thinks of what he has found at Hummingbird, what Jack Goffing has told him. ‘No. Nothing substantial. Not yet. Hopefully something for tomorrow’s paper, if it pans out. But apparently there was a lot of coverage of Hummingbird a month or two ago, when I was stuck down in the Riverina—Garth McGrath leaving his wife, bacchanalia on the beach, that sort of thing. Can we get the clippings from the library?’

  ‘I’ve already downloaded them. I’ll send you a link.’

  Martin ends the call and starts his car, but he doesn’t pull onto the road just yet. He can see the entrance to the caravan park, just a hundred metres ahead of him, the dolphin hanging by its nose. He needs to talk to Mandy, ask her about McGrath. He sits for a moment, indecision weighing on him. He takes the idea and tries pushing it back in its box, a rational part of his mind insisting a confrontation won’t help.

  His phone rings; he’s grateful for the distraction. Nick Poulos, says the screen.

  ‘Nick.’

  ‘Martin. Where are you?’

  ‘Dunes Road.’

  ‘Right. Well, the police are after you.’

  ‘Me? Why?’

  ‘They suspect you of tampering with a crime scene.’

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘Yes, Martin. Very seriously. Come straight to the lifesavers.’

  Martin can’t help himself: ‘You really don’t have an office, do you?’

  ‘The surf club, Martin. Now.’ The call goes dead. Martin wonders at his lawyer’s assertiveness.

  This time Nick is not late. When Martin arrives he’s waiting inside for him. Everybody else is out on the deck, enjoying the view, hoping the sight of the ocean might cool them. Without a sea breeze, the club is uncomfortably warm, roof fans merely stirring the humidity. Nick is dressed like a beach bum, not a lawyer, his five o’clock shadow wound forward to a midnight mat, but his laptop is open and the look on his face is one of concentration and sober assessment. Martin sits without shaking his hand.

  ‘So tell me,’ says Nick.

  ‘I went looking for information. I’m back writing for the Herald.’

  ‘So I see. But you know as well as I do that is no excuse.’

  ‘I didn’t tamper with any evidence.’

  Nick wears a look of pity, as if listening to the excuses of an infant. ‘You were there. You circumvented a police roadblock. Montifore is spitting chips. He’s going to hang you out to dry.’

  ‘I was trying to help.’

  Nick looks unconvinced. He has a notebook. ‘Take me through it.’ Martin recounts what he found at Hummingbird Beach, leaving out his search of Garth McGrath’s cabin, describing his discoveries in the swami’s hut, emphasising how he immediately informed Ivan Lucic. When he’s done, the lawyer leans back, shakes his head again. ‘Sorry, this isn’t going to cut it. You shouldn’t have gone inside, not after the constable warned you off. They can charge you, haul you before a magistrate.’

  ‘Nick, seriously, I was trying to help. I could have kept the information to myself.’

  But Nick is not appeased. ‘You may or may not have compromised a crime scene, but that’s not the point. You’re a journo; they’re law enforcement. The magistrate will see an opportunity to set an example, to send a clear message: under no circumstances should a journalist or anyone else disobey police instructions and enter a crime scene.’ He pauses, sighs and summarises. ‘You’re fucked.’

  ‘What do you suggest?’

  ‘Grovelling. Go to Morris Montifore before he escalates it, before it gets near a court.’

  ‘Maybe I can trade. Give them what I found.’

  ‘You found something?’

  ‘Several things. The first is a young woman, an apparent victim, currently in Longton hospital. Name of Topaz Throssel. She and her husband are small-time con artists. The police may know of them. There’s a possibility the deaths resulted from some sort of extortion gone wrong. A scam.’

  ‘Who were they trying to extort?’

  ‘Don’t know. Maybe Jay Jay Hayes. Maybe the swami. Apparently, his Indian passport is genuine, but I still think there’s something suss about him. He had a guidebook to India. Why would an Indian carry one of those? And here, check this out.’ Martin pulls up one of the photos on his phone. It’s of the name written inside the case, under the tape. He passes it to N
ick.

  The lawyer frowns, his eyes widening with surprise. ‘That’s Greek.’

  ‘Can you read it?’

  The lawyer’s brow momentarily furrows in concentration. ‘Holy shit,’ he says. ‘Myron. Myron Papadopoulos.’

  The two men stare at each other.

  ‘Myron,’ says Nick.

  ‘Myron the Wonderworker,’ says Martin. ‘The swami had postcards in his case.’

  ‘Jesus,’ says Nick. ‘We’ve got to tell Montifore. He needs to know this.’

  ‘Agreed. But who is Myron Papadopoulos?’

  ‘How should I know?’

  ‘You don’t think it could be Hawananda’s real name?’

  ‘You just said he was definitely Indian,’ says Nick.

  ‘With a guidebook to India.’

  Nick looks at him, face blank while his mind churns. ‘I’ll google it.’ He starts typing into his laptop. ‘God, there are thousands of them. Papadopoulos is the most common name in Greece. Like Smith is here.’

  ‘So good for an alias?’

  ‘I guess. Listen, do you have a photo of this guy? The swami?’ he asks Martin.

  ‘No.’ And then a thought occurs to him. ‘Can I borrow your laptop?’ Nick pushes it across the table to him. Martin logs into his webmail. Sure enough, Bethanie has come through. ‘Hummingbird articles’ says the subject line and, in the body, there’s a link to a file-sharing service. Martin clicks through, opening articles. Before long he finds one with a photo of the swami sitting in the lotus position, radiating beneficence.

  Nick takes the computer back. ‘I just want to try something.’ He taps away for a few minutes, intensity spreading across his face before suddenly it lifts, swept aside by a smile of tidal power. ‘Bingo!’ He twists the laptop towards Martin. ‘Here’s our man.’

  Martin looks at a Facebook page. It’s in Greek; he recognises nothing. Nothing except for a photo of a man who has to be the swami. The swami, just much younger. ‘How did you do that?’