by Chris Hammer
‘Facebook facial recognition. I put the photo in my feed. I tagged him and started with Myron, and up popped a few suggestions. I found this guy, Myron Florakis.’
‘Florakis? So Papadopoulos is an alias? Can you confirm that’s him?’
‘Give me a moment.’
Nick types and, as he types, his features begin to distort: first his eyes widen, then his eyebrows lift, and then his jaw drops, until his whole face is united in an expression of astonishment, with nothing left but to voice his surprise. ‘Fuck me,’ he whispers.
‘What?’ demands Martin.
‘Fucking hell.’
‘What is it, Nick?’
‘Here.’ Nick swivels the laptop back around. It’s a newspaper report, a pdf, black and white, poor quality, like a fax that has been scanned into a computer. It’s all in Greek.
‘What’s it say?’ asks Martin.
Nick takes the computer back, starts reading from the screen, translating hesitantly as he goes.
‘It’s from almost eight years ago. The headline is WITCH’S BREW MANHUNT WIDENS. The story reads: Police have extended the dragnet in the so-called Witch’s Brew case to the mainland, believing a number of people with important information may have fled Crete on a ferry to Piraeus, including self-styled religious healer Myron Florakis.’
‘He’s a fugitive?’
‘Yeah. Was,’ says Nick. He reads more. ‘Okay, here it is. The religious ceremony went bad, with several disciples overdosing, resulting in three deaths.’ Nick looks up at Martin, no further words necessary.
‘Let’s go see Montifore,’ says Martin.
‘Hang on, there’s more. Florakis, the son of a Greek father and an Indian mother, returned to Crete about five years ago and set up his controversial healing centre, a mixture of Christian and eastern beliefs.’ Nick stops reading, looks up at Martin. ‘Indian mother. It’s him,’ he says matter-of-factly. ‘Let’s go.’
‘Hang on, I just want to make one call.’
Martin heads out onto the deck, but it’s too crowded and too hot, so he returns inside, finding a quiet corner. He rings Goffing, quickly telling him what they’ve discovered, that he’s in trouble with the law, that he’s on his way to beg forgiveness from Montifore. He asks Goffing to see what he can find out about Myron Florakis, if he was indeed a fugitive.
‘And you’re going to hand all of this over to Montifore?’
‘Shit yeah. I need to save my arse.’
When he finishes the call, Martin checks his watch. It’s almost five. It’s true he needs to throw himself on Montifore’s mercy, but before that he needs to file for the Herald; the policeman is just as likely to lock him up and gag him. And this story is too big to sit on.
They find Montifore and Lucic inside a dimly lit Chinese restaurant in Longton, the Heavenly Dragon, sitting at a round table big enough for twelve. Outside, the light is golden, the town awash with the late-afternoon sun, but inside the light is low wattage. Maybe all the power is being fed through the air conditioner. The detective inspector has his paper napkin on his lap, the detective sergeant has his tucked into his collar. All class. They say nothing as Martin and Nick walk towards them. Montifore’s stare could carve marble; Lucic’s smirk could curdle milk. There are no greetings from either party. Nick Poulos gets straight down to business.
‘My client is extremely apologetic. He is willing to fully cooperate and hand over critical evidence he has gathered.’
Montifore grunts, if only to express his contempt.
‘Can we sit?’ asks Nick.
Another grunt without a word attached to it, but it sounds close enough to permission. Martin and Nick exchange a glance and sit. The policemen continue eating, ignoring them, making sure they know how insignificant they are, how completely they are at Montifore’s mercy. Montifore finishes masticating a honey prawn, looks up, slowly moving his gaze from journalist to lawyer. ‘Tell me,’ he says.
Nick does the talking, as earlier agreed with Martin. ‘My client suspected there was something suspicious about Swami Hawananda. He wanted to share his suspicions with you, but he had nothing concrete. So, he went to Hummingbird Beach and searched the guru’s cabin.’
Lucic almost chokes. ‘He’s admitting to that?’
‘I am,’ says Martin.
‘He removed nothing, he changed nothing,’ says Nick.
Montifore turns his gaze to Martin. ‘Cut to the chase. What did you find?’
‘My client …’ Nick starts, but Montifore shakes his head.
‘Him. Not you.’
Nick shuts up; Martin swallows. ‘There’s a suitcase. You can find it. It’s—’
Montifore turns to Lucic. ‘We’ve got it,’ says the junior officer.
‘What’s in it?’ Montifore asks Martin.
‘His name. In Greek. Under some adhesive tape on the inside of the lid.’
Montifore turns to Lucic. The sergeant shrugs and Montifore turns back to Nick. ‘In Greek? You sure?’
‘Yes.’
‘He’s Indian,’ says Lucic. ‘His passport is genuine. We’ve checked.’
‘That’s true,’ says Martin. ‘Indian mother, Greek father.’
Montifore is looking at him intently. ‘Go on.’
‘We’ve identified him,’ says Nick. ‘His real name is Myron Florakis.’
‘Myron?’ repeats Montifore. ‘As in the Wonderworker?’
‘That’s right. He’s a fugitive. Or was. We have newspaper clippings. I can forward them to you, but they’re in Greek.’ Nick explains the essentials of the reports: Florakis was a self-styled religious leader, three of his followers died, others were hospitalised in a drug overdose, and he fled. The overdose was most likely accidental, but police still believed Florakis was culpable. Martin scrutinises the policemen’s faces as his lawyer lays out the evidence, seeing the scepticism waver and fold, replaced by calculation. Lucic leans back in his chair, squinting with concentration. Montifore maintains his intensity. He turns his attention back to Martin. ‘Is this in tomorrow’s paper?’
Martin nods silently.
‘Highlighting your role. One step ahead of the police, finding the evidence. Tipping off the slow-footed investigators. That all there?’
Martin holds the policeman’s gaze. ‘No. Not in the first edition.’
‘Do you cite police sources?’
‘No.’
‘What sources do you quote?’
‘Greek newspapers.’
Montifore nods. ‘Good for you.’
It’s only once they get outside that Martin feels he can breathe again. By the look of Nick Poulos’s face, the lawyer feels the same.
‘Fuck me. Well played,’ says Nick.
‘Yeah,’ says Martin. ‘Just let me call the editor.’
They’re almost at the top of the escarpment, driving back towards Port Silver, Nick at the wheel of a ten-year-old family wagon, when Martin finishes his call and lets out a long sigh of relief. Terri has managed to change the copy in time; Martin’s first-hand account of finding the suitcase has been expunged, as has the reference to being out in front of the official investigation. But before he can speak his phone breaks the silence. It’s an unidentified number.
‘Hello?’ says Martin, voice uncommitted.
‘Martin, it’s Jack. You alone?’
‘No. I’m in the car with my lawyer. He’s driving.’
‘Can he hear me?’ asks Goffing. ‘I’m not on speaker, am I?’
Martin looks across at Nick. ‘No. We’re good.’
‘I just read your article. Please tell me you’ve told Montifore.’
‘My article? It hasn’t been published yet.’
‘So what?’
‘So what? The secret police spying on the free press. That’s so what.’
‘Yeah, whatever. Listen, I have something for you. You need to tell Montifore. It’s important.’
‘I’m all ears. Hang on.’ He puts his hand over the phone. ‘Nick, pull o
ver. We might have to go back.’
Nick looks doubtful, but pulls off the road, still a good kilometre before the escarpment.
Martin is back on the phone. ‘Okay, I’m listening.’
‘First, your information looks spot on. I assume your lawyer helped you with that?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Good. So, last the Greek police knew Myron Florakis was still in the wind. Montifore will be able to identify him within hours from fingerprints.’
‘Good,’ says Martin. ‘Is that all?’
‘No. Get this: two of the victims in Crete were tourists, a Canadian and his American girlfriend. The American’s name was Cascade Throssel.’ Goffing pauses, perhaps for effect.
Martin blinks. ‘You’re shitting me.’
‘They were sisters. Topaz was two years older. And she was there.’
‘On Crete?’
‘Yeah. But she left around the time her sister went to the retreat with her boyfriend. Looks like she’s been travelling ever since.’
‘I’ll be damned,’ says Martin into the phone, then turns to Nick. ‘We’re going back. Turn around.’
‘Martin. You there?’ asks Goffing.
‘Yes.’
‘For now, tell Montifore you and your lawyer discovered this in the Greek press archives. I’ll text you a link you can use.’
‘You don’t want to be involved?’
‘Fuck no. Keep me out of it.’
Montifore and Lucic are still at the round table, eating banana fritters and ice cream, washing them down with beer, when Martin and Nick walk back in.
‘Get your copy changed in time?’ asks Montifore, not missing a beat.
‘Hope so.’
‘So what now?’
‘We think we know who the killer is,’ says Martin. ‘The killer at Hummingbird. It wasn’t the swami.’
Montifore says nothing. Lucic pushes his plate away, drains his beer and waves towards the counter for the bill.
Five minutes later the four men leave the restaurant, walking purposefully towards the hospital, the two police in front, Martin and Nick following. The lawyer’s puppy-dog enthusiasm has long deserted him, replaced by a quiet determination.
The police stop, turn to confront Martin. ‘We don’t need your help,’ says Lucic. ‘Beat it.’
‘Police breakthrough,’ says Martin. ‘Homicide crack baffling case wide open. Front page. Surely you’d want that reported.’
‘Not until I give the say-so,’ says Montifore. ‘I want this controlled.’
‘You got it.’
‘Okay. Let them come,’ Montifore says to Lucic. But at the hospital, Montifore turns again. ‘Wait outside. I can’t have you in there with us. But we’ll be coming out this door. We won’t dodge you; the story is yours.’ The police enter through casualty.
Martin gets straight on the phone to Bethanie, castigating himself for not thinking ahead.
‘Martin? What is it?’
‘Do you have a snapper with you?’
‘Yeah. I’m with him now. Baxter James.’
‘Baxter? Is he sober?’
‘For now. What’s up?’
‘Where are you?’
‘Port Silver. We’ve set up at the Breakwater Hotel. Bit shabby but great views.’
‘Okay, listen. I’m in Longton. The police are about to make an arrest at the hospital.’
‘An arrest? Right. We’re on our way. See you there.’ She ends the call.
Martin looks at his watch. Port Silver is forty-five minutes away. The photographer will thrash the guts out of his rental; he might make it in half an hour if the escarpment is free of trucks, but he’s still unlikely to make it in time. Martin checks the camera app on his phone, making sure the flash is switched on. Next, he calls Terri Preswell, updates her.
‘Too late, Martin, the paper’s gone. We’ll rejig the lead for online, say we believe an arrest is imminent.’
Martin is about to respond when Montifore and Lucic burst out of the doors, like peas squeezed from a pod. Empty-handed.
‘Terri, I got to go.’ And he hangs up on the editor of the Sydney Morning Herald.
‘They’ve gone,’ says Montifore. ‘Did you see them?’
‘Us? No,’ says Nick.
‘They’ve only just left. Scarpered.’
‘They don’t have a car,’ says Martin. ‘Do they know you’re after them?’
‘What difference does that make?’ spits Lucic.
‘If they know you’re on to them, they’ll make themselves scarce. Otherwise they might still be in the open. Hitching on the highway or checking into a hotel.’
‘Right,’ says Montifore, taking charge, talking to Lucic. ‘Get everyone up here from Port Silver. Get patrols out on the highway checking for hitchhikers. Everyone else to the Longton police station. We’ll coordinate from there.’ He turns to Martin. ‘Here’s the deal. We don’t want to alert them that we’re on to them, so nothing in the paper, nothing online until we nab them. Understand? Nothing. In return, when we get the bastards, it’s all yours—you’ll get the pics, an exclusive. You got it?’
‘Deal.’
Montifore and Lucic storm off towards the police station.
‘What next?’ asks Nick.
‘Give us a moment.’ Martin calls Terri at the Herald.
‘What is it now, Martin?’ she answers.
‘We need to cut the imminent arrest line. The Myron Florakis exposé is strong enough by itself.’
‘You serious?’
‘Yeah. The suspects have done a runner. The police don’t want us to alert them.’
‘Do we care?’
‘They’ve promised exclusive access if we hold off, eternal pain if we don’t.’
There’s a long pause. ‘You think it’s worth it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Okay. Done. But when you get a chance, file as much as you can with a hold on it. As soon as they arrest them, I want it up online. You good with that?’
‘Perfect.’ He ends the call.
‘Port Silver?’ asks Nick.
‘No. Train station. It’s how they got up here from Sydney.’
Nick looks shocked, then smiles. ‘Quick thinking.’
Martin finds a phone app for the state railways and it hurries them along: the Sydney-bound train is scheduled to pass through Longton in less than ten minutes. Topaz and Royce have timed their run well. Nick drives, Martin texts Bethanie. Longton train station. Tell Baxter. Look for me. Approach with stealth.
Night is almost complete by the time Nick pulls off the road a hundred metres from the station. The heat remains, trapped by an unmoving mass of air, the stars hazy.
‘You wait here,’ instructs Martin, climbing out of the car. ‘If they’re not there, I’ll be back inside two minutes. Any longer, it means I’m talking to them. You’ll need to call Montifore. If we let them get on the train without telling him, we’re fucked.’
‘Got it,’ says Nick.
It’s a small-town station, a whistlestop on the slow train from Brisbane, nineteenth-century brick and stone, now painted heritage colours, well-maintained in denial of its decline. The drive to Sydney is now less than seven hours, the train still takes more than ten.
There is no one on the platform. Not a soul. Just moths, excited by the late season warmth, circling lamp posts. His heart skips a beat. He starts running, mind churning. Where could they be? Is there an overnight bus instead? Is he wrong about the train? Then he finds them, in a small waiting room, backpacks at their feet, sitting in silence. Alone. Royce smiles when he enters, laughing at the sight of him. ‘Martin! Come to say farewell?’ He’s on his feet, seemingly oblivious to what is happening. Either that, or he’s a good actor. A good con man.
But Topaz is past acting. She simply looks at Martin, face impassive, eyes hollow.
Martin has her now, has the fugitive, the killer. For a five-minute exclusive.
‘I know,’ he says. ‘Crete.’
> Topaz merely nods, eyes closed.
‘What does that mean?’ asks Royce.
Martin gets out his phone, stands there, takes a photo of the woman, shrunken, her vivacity gone and her eyes empty, sitting on a bench in a waiting room in a small country town staring into the camera. He takes another two shots before Royce is back in frame, sitting beside his wife, putting his arm around her. ‘Topaz?’
‘It wasn’t planned, was it?’ asks Martin. ‘You didn’t even know he was here when I picked you guys up on Monday.’
Topaz shakes her head, her voice a whisper. ‘No.’
‘So when did you know?’
‘Sitting on the beach with you and Garth. I saw him dunking those followers in the water. It looked like a baptism. Then the marks on the forehead. Something clicked, some connection.’
‘But seven dead?’ says Martin.
‘Baby?’ asks Royce, arm around her, concern in his eyes and the first hint of tears.
Topaz appears devoid of emotion as she addresses Martin. ‘It wasn’t meant to happen like that. Just him. Him and me.’
Martin recalls seeing Topaz, laid out and unconscious, covered in vomit. She’d taken a lethal dose, but hadn’t kept it down for long enough.
‘So what happened?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘What was the poison?’
‘Doesn’t matter.’ And she falls into the protective hollow of her husband’s shoulder, the distress in his eyes and his alone.
There’s a distant hum. The train is approaching. Martin ducks his head out of the doorway. He can see a single light in the distance. It’s almost here.
‘C’mon, babe, let’s go,’ says Royce, standing. ‘The train. Let’s go.’
But Topaz doesn’t move. She sits, deflated, eyes again closed. ‘He deserved to die. I deserved to die. But not the others. I’m so sorry.’ She doesn’t say anything more, and Martin finds himself unable to ask another question.
The train eases into the station, comes to a stop and sits waiting, breathing, expectant. If anyone is getting on or getting off, Martin doesn’t know. His back is to the train, his attention on the two fugitives.
Nick Poulos enters the waiting room. He walks across to Topaz and Royce. She doesn’t acknowledge him, so he silently hands Royce his card. The young man reads it, looks up, still not entirely comprehending. ‘Please help her,’ he says to Nick, voice weak and cracking.