Silver

by Chris Hammer

  Then Montifore is with them, breathing hard, Lucic at his side, with the constable from Hummingbird Beach, her pistol drawn, pointed at the ground. Montifore stops, considering the tableau in front of him. He ignores Martin and Nick, having eyes only for Topaz and Royce.

  ‘Topaz Throssel,’ he says formally, ‘I’m arresting you for the murder of Myron Florakis, also known as Swami Dev Hawananda.’ He turns to her husband. ‘Royce McAlister, I’m arresting you for being an accessory after the fact of murder.’ Royce looks astonished, Topaz looks resigned, but both allow themselves to be handcuffed. The train pulls out, oblivious, continuing its journey south. Two more police arrive and are instructed to bring the backpacks.

  It’s a sad little procession that leaves the station, consigning it to its long night of well-illuminated desolation: two uniformed officers, one each guiding Topaz and Royce; then Montifore and Lucic and the constable; then Martin and Nick; and, last of all, the two policemen carrying the backpacks with latex-gloved hands. There is no hurry, no rush, all is calm. Until the night is suddenly broken with lightning: Baxter James’s flash gun.

  Montifore doesn’t try to close it down. Instead he steps forward into frame as Topaz is placed into the back of a marked car. Only after the car pulls away does he speak, looking at Baxter and Bethanie but addressing Martin. ‘Are they with you?’

  ‘Yes. From the Herald.’

  ‘Okay. I’ve arrested them, but we won’t charge them until lunchtime at the earliest.’ He cracks a smile. ‘Thanks, Martin.’ And he walks to a waiting car.

  ‘I’m going to the station; they need representation,’ says Nick, more of a statement than a question.

  ‘Of course,’ says Martin. And then, almost as an afterthought, ‘Hey, Nick?’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Thanks. I wouldn’t have worked it out, not without you.’

  ‘Maybe,’ says the lawyer, but he’s not smiling.

  ‘What was all that?’ asks Baxter, already checking his shots on the back of his camera. ‘Not charging them?’

  It’s Bethanie who explains. ‘We can report it all for now. Once they’re charged, it’s sub judice.’

  ‘Too late for the paper, though,’ says Baxter, looking at his watch.

  ‘Yeah, let me call Terri. She’s not going to want to sit on this,’ she says, reaching for her phone.

  There’s a McDonald’s on the highway with free wi-fi, but it’s way too slow; they use their phones instead, hooking up their laptops. Baxter has his photos away in no time, getting them out through his tablet. Martin works on his laptop while Bethanie coordinates with the production team at the Herald.

  ‘They want it by nine, otherwise they’ll hold it till morning,’ she says.

  And so Martin writes as quickly as he can, not bothering with rereading, not concerned with typos or grammar or style, the words flowing out of him in a catharsis, forming themselves. Bethanie is reading over his shoulder, suggesting improvements and correcting errors as he goes. They’re finished within fifteen minutes.

  EXCLUSIVE

  By Martin Scarsden and Bethanie Glass in Longton

  A young Australian-American woman, Topaz Throssel, is under arrest and is expected to be charged with the murder of seven people, including actor Garth McGrath and self-proclaimed religious leader Swami Dev Hawananda.

  A team of Herald investigators intercepted Ms Throssel and her husband, Australian Royce McAlister, as they attempted to flee Longton in northern New South Wales by train.

  The couple attempted to escape as a Herald probe uncovered dramatic new evidence that Swami Hawananda was an imposter with his own dark history.

  In a sensational development, the Herald can reveal that Hawananda was in fact a Greek–Indian fugitive named Myron Florakis, wanted in connection with the deaths of three people on Crete eight years ago.

  It’s believed one of the victims on Crete was Topaz Throssel’s younger sister, Cascade Throssel. It will be alleged this was her motive for killing Florakis.

  Seven people died at a beach party at the secluded resort and religious retreat Hummingbird Beach near Port Silver on Saturday night after an unknown poison was added to a ceremonial potion.

  It’s believed Ms Throssel attempted to suicide by drinking the same lethal mix, but was saved by the quick actions of police and ambulance officers.

  Royce McAlister is being held under suspicion of being an accessory after the fact. It’s believed he was not aware of his wife’s actions until confronted by an investigative team from the Herald …

  Martin and Bethanie give it a last read through, a final tweak, and hit send, propelling their copy out through the ether and onto a computer screen in the newsroom of the Sydney Morning Herald. A text message confirms receipt. ‘It’s there,’ says Bethanie. ‘Let’s get a drink.’

  Martin smiles. ‘I’ll be right with you.’

  He steps outside into the car park, still radiating heat. He rings Mandy, his heart glad.

  She answers, voice uncertain. ‘Martin?’

  ‘We’ve cracked it. We know who killed the people at Hummingbird. The police have arrested Topaz, the backpacker from Hummingbird.’

  ‘That’s good,’ says Mandy, but there’s no joy in her voice. ‘I guess that gets her out of your life.’

  Martin ignores the barb. ‘And we think we know who killed Jasper—and why.’

  There’s a pause. ‘Really?’

  ‘We’ve nothing conclusive, but I’m pretty sure it was the swami. His real name was Myron. He was half Greek, half Indian.’

  ‘Myron. The same as the postcard.’

  ‘Exactly. Jasper worked it out. I don’t think the postcard was part of his collection; I think he found it in the swami’s cabin. He worked out Hawananda was an imposter. And was wanted in connection with drug deaths in Greece.’

  They talk some more, but Mandy sounds flat and Martin’s mind keeps returning to the necklace he found in McGrath’s cabin.

  ‘Thank you, Martin. Thank you so much,’ Mandy says finally, her diction strangely formal, before she ends the call.

  Martin, Bethanie and Baxter celebrate in the beer garden of a pub in Longton. Martin has fish and chips, Baxter has steak, Bethanie has a schnitzel. They share a salad and a bottle of white wine. And then a second bottle, and the necklace is forgotten. Martin loves it, being back in the fold, back with the colleagues, like a sports team celebrating a big win. They’ve pulled down a screamer, booted a goal after the siren, won the grand final. They’ve landed the biggest story in Australia and he’s gone a long way towards clearing Mandy of murder. It doesn’t get much better than this.

  ‘It’s like winning the lottery,’ says Bethanie. But not even that can dampen Martin’s spirits.

  Terri Preswell calls. ‘It’s online now,’ she says. ‘Excellent work, you three. Outstanding fucking work. Great copy, great photos.’ There is exhilaration in her voice, the adrenaline high every journalist knows and covets, the drug that keeps them coming back for more. ‘We’re running it all over the home page; I’ve pulled the social media team in to give it maximum exposure.’

  ‘Wow,’ says Martin. ‘Thanks, Terri. For everything.’

  ‘No problem. But we’re not done yet.’

  ‘What are you thinking?’

  ‘I’ve got the lawyers here. They’re worried about when this Topaz woman will be charged.’

  ‘The cops said not until noon at the earliest.’

  ‘You believe them?’

  ‘Sure. They want the story out there.’

  ‘Okay, but it means that we can’t hold anything else for Monday’s paper—particularly anything about her past, her sister’s death in Greece. That may be ruled prejudicial. We need to get it up online before she’s charged.’

  ‘Yeah, I get it. I can do a piece focused on Topaz. On her and the swami, paths colliding, something like that. On their pasts.’

  ‘Okay. But concentrate on her. I’m commissioning another piece from a stringer i
n Athens on Florakis and the deaths in Crete.’

  ‘Makes sense.’

  ‘Good. So the timing is the same as last night. We don’t want to put anything else up online yet, but we’ll need fresh material for the morning. Write overnight, get it to us as soon as you can. But it has to be here by six tomorrow morning. The lawyers can give it a once over and we’ll get it up by around seven, after everyone has seen what we’ve already got and the competitors are catching up. We’ll do another social media storm, make sure the whole country sees it. Then we can close it back down when she’s charged.’

  Martin agrees and they spend several more minutes working through details of how to coordinate the coverage. And the whole time he’s thinking about the implications of Terri Preswell strategising with him—Martin Scarsden, freelancer—and not with Bethanie Glass, the rising star of the Herald. It’s as if he’s never left. Before ending the call, he sows the seed for another follow-up, maybe for Monday’s paper: the murder of a local real estate agent, connected to the deaths at Hummingbird, probably killed by the swami. Terri is enthusiastic.

  Martin, Bethanie and Baxter find a hotel, check in. Martin and Bethanie get a two-bedroom suite with a separate lounge. Baxter gets a room to himself. They set up their computers and get started while Baxter takes his camera and goes out scouting for pictures, promising to bring back supplies of coffee and snacks.

  ‘Tell no one what we’ve got,’ says Martin.

  ‘Mate,’ says Baxter, as if insulted by the suggestion. ‘Won’t stop me finding out what they know, though.’

  ‘And don’t drink too much,’ says Bethanie.

  ‘Moi?’ And he cracks a Baxter grin.

  chapter twenty-five

  The Longton Dawn may be smooth and calm, the sky outside the hotel window a luminous gradient between pink and blue, but Martin Scarsden is haggard and jittery, powered by caffeine, nerves and too little sleep. Terri and the lawyers have the story, the designers have his photo of Topaz Throssel sitting forlorn in the waiting room of a railway station, the train about to leave. Her eyes are haunted, staring back at his phone. Baxter wasn’t happy when he saw it, immediately recognising the power of the image.

  Bethanie is asleep, catching what she can before the day begins. But Martin is restless; he needs to walk. The police have arrested Topaz for the deaths at Hummingbird; the swami almost certainly killed Jasper Speight. Mandy is in the clear. His story is all over the internet, spawning imitations and driving the news cycle. He should be feeling elated, but he doesn’t. Some time in the night, some time during the fitful hours, from his stolen sleep and fleeting dreams, something has come to niggle at him. He reaches into his pocket; the necklace is still there. How is it that journalism can be so easy, and life so difficult?

  So he walks. A train comes through, a thunderous reminder that life doesn’t have a pause button. The rising sun flickers through the trees. Memories come flickering with it: a cricket ball, camping near a beach, an empty bottle of champagne. A beautiful woman in a bookshop in the middle of nowhere. Suddenly he feels very tired, can sense age spreading through his limbs, the irreversible process. He feels vulnerable, exposed to whatever his subconscious may elect to throw up at him.

  A car crawls down Longton’s main street, as if apologetic about disturbing the new day. Further down the street Martin spies a gaggle of tables and chairs on the footpath. A bakery, here as everywhere, the first business of the day to open. Martin walks towards it, thinking of yet more coffee, maybe breakfast. Bacon and eggs would work, a few moments by himself, to eat, to put his thinking on pause. But when he enters the shop he finds Royce McAlister and Nick Poulos sitting at an inside table, sipping coffee, eyes blank. Nick sees him, gestures for him to join them. Royce looks at him without emotion. Martin orders a coffee at the counter and some breakfast; there is no bacon and eggs, he has to make do with a day-old quiche. He sits at the end of the table, Nick on one side, Royce on the other.

  ‘You okay?’ Martin asks Royce.

  The young man just shakes his head.

  ‘He’s in the clear,’ says Nick. ‘He knew nothing of it. He was in hospital the whole time. The police have dropped the charges.’

  Martin studies Royce’s face, still wearing the bruises of the beating Harry the Lad gave him; there is no sign of relief.

  ‘Topaz?’ Martin directs the question to Nick.

  ‘She’s confessed. She poisoned herself and the guru. She’s adamant she intended no harm to anyone else.’

  ‘You believe her?’

  ‘It’s kind of academic. One case of murder, six cases of manslaughter. Not a lot I can do for her.’

  ‘You’re representing her?’

  ‘For now.’

  Martin turns to Royce. ‘Did you know? About her past? What happened to her sister?’

  Royce shakes his head again. ‘None of it.’ They’re the first words he’s spoken. They fall with the weight of truth. The once-vibrant young man is gone, replaced by a husk. A wave of reality has swept over him and he’s lost his footing, no longer able to con anyone, himself included. ‘All that time, not a word.’ He’s staring into space, not at Nick or Martin, talking to himself more than to them. ‘I thought we were a team, us against the world. I meant it; I guess she didn’t.’

  ‘More like she never trusted herself,’ says Martin.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘She was running, Royce. Trying to distance herself. It’s not your fault.’

  ‘That’s easy for you to say.’ The pain is clear on his face.

  Silence falls upon the table. Martin abandons the quiche; it’s stale and close to inedible, its filling exhibiting a suggestion of greyness. Nick gets more coffee for himself and Royce. A truck comes to a standstill outside, air brakes wheezing, engine left idling as the driver, with his greasy hair, tats and a well-tended gut, orders his breakfast: a sausage roll, a sachet of tomato sauce and a bottle of chocolate milk. He pays and leaves. The gears crunch, the truck moves off.

  ‘Royce,’ says Martin, ‘the other day, Monday, when I gave the two of you a lift, you said you’d come all the way from Sydney on the train. Port Silver was not a random destination.’

  Royce says nothing. Nick is alert. Martin might be his client but so too is Royce.

  Martin presses on. ‘I know why you came. You’d heard of the sex-for-visas fraud that Harry the Lad was running. You thought you could scam him. You had it planned, even before you arrived.’

  Royce looks him in the eye, shrugs. ‘I’m not admitting to anything.’

  ‘You don’t have to.’

  ‘Then you don’t have to ask me.’

  ‘And I know you’re married. Topaz has an Australian passport; she doesn’t need a visa.’

  Royce still isn’t engaging. ‘And?’

  ‘How did you know about the visa scam?’

  ‘Mate, every second backpacker knows about it. And not just here. It’s rife. All those river towns out west? There’s randy farmers everywhere. Not an organised racket like here, though. We should have stuck to swindling them.’

  ‘So you’d done it before? Scammed farmers?’

  Nick interrupts. ‘You don’t have to answer that.’ He turns to Martin. ‘Ease up, will you, for Christ’s sake.’

  Martin looks at Nick, back to Royce, softening his voice. ‘Listen, anything you tell Nick is protected by client–lawyer privilege. You know about that, right? The police and the courts can’t force him to reveal what you tell him. I’m offering something similar. There’s no legal protection, but if you tell me information in confidence, I won’t reveal who told me. Journalists protect their sources.’

  Royce turns to Nick, who shrugs.

  ‘It was your mate,’ says Royce. ‘Jasper Speight.’

  Martin doesn’t move. His mouth hangs open, his next word stillborn, his line of questioning forgotten. ‘Jasper Speight?’ It’s all he can manage.

  ‘He was the one who told us about St Clair.’

&nb
sp; ‘St Clair? How? You’ve been to Port Silver before?’

  ‘No. We tried scamming Speight in Sydney. We thought he was married—he was wearing a wedding band. But when I walked in on him and Topaz having it off, he just laughed, offered us his former wife’s email address and phone number. He saw straight through us.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘About a month ago.’

  ‘I don’t understand. Why would he tell you about St Clair?’

  Royce shrugs. ‘He had it in for the guy and that bastard who works for him, Harry the Lad.’ Unconsciously Martin lifts his hand, touches his still-bruised eye. Will it ever get better? ‘Yeah, sorry about that,’ says Royce, but he doesn’t look sorry at all.

  ‘So what was the deal with Jasper? He wanted you to con St Clair? Why?’

  ‘Nah, it wasn’t like that. He wanted Topaz to film it. Use a concealed camera.’

  Martin sees it now. ‘Blackmail.’

  ‘I guess,’ says Royce. ‘We didn’t give a shit what it was for. Speight said he’d give us ten grand for a video and the visa paperwork. Sounded like easy money.’

  ‘And when you learnt he was dead—murdered—you still went ahead?’

  ‘Didn’t have much choice. We were low on money. Thought we’d just go it alone.’

  ‘Which is why Harry the Lad beat you up.’

  ‘That’s right. Told me to shut the fuck up and get out of town.’

  ‘What happened to the video?’ asks Nick.

  Royce shakes his head. ‘There is no video. The Speight dude was going to give us the spy camera when we arrived but, you know, he was gone.’

  They sit in silence again. A young man, too slim to have been a baker for long, emerges from the back of the store carrying a tray. ‘Hey, mate,’ he says to Martin. ‘I’ve got some fresh quiches here if you’re interested, straight out of the oven.’

  Martin looks at the unfinished specimen on his plate. ‘No, thanks,’ he says.