by Chris Hammer
The Port Silver police station is as unwelcoming as ever, its harsh fluorescent lighting, unnecessary during daylight hours, a deterrence to anyone who doesn’t need to be there. But Martin does; he badly needs to be here. There is an ambulance officer at the counter making small talk with one of the constables, the man, Johnson Pear’s beefy young offsider.
‘Excuse me,’ says Martin, interrupting. ‘I need to talk with Detective Inspector Montifore, please. It’s urgent.’
The constable looks at him sceptically. ‘Okay. Please take a seat.’
Martin does what he’s told, checking his phone for calls or messages, but there’s nothing new, nothing to distract him.
‘Scarsden.’
He looks up, but it’s not Montifore or even Ivan Lucic. It’s Pear. Martin stands. ‘I need to talk to Morris Montifore.’
The sergeant smiles maliciously. ‘He’s not here. On your way.’
‘This is serious.’
‘It is,’ says Pear, his smile undimmed. ‘Move on, please, sir. That’s a lawful instruction.’
Anger swells in Martin: he’s about to say something sharp, something deplorable, but he can’t risk arrest, not now, not with Mandy back in the investigators’ sights. So he smiles, a reflection of Pear’s own insincerity. ‘Thank you for your assistance, Sergeant.’ And he turns to the ambulance officer and the constable. ‘And to you two. Have a good day.’ And he departs before Pear can react.
Outside he calls Montifore, but the policeman doesn’t pick up. He leaves a voicemail message, then repeats it in a text. Need to speak urgently. I’m outside PS police. He doesn’t bother calling Winifred, moving straight to text. Urgent. Need to see Montifore. I’m outside PS police.
She replies immediately. On our way from Longton. 10 mins.
He sends a thumbs-up emoji. Pear wasn’t lying; Martin’s beaten them here. He looks at his watch. Two-and-a-half hours to deadline. He considers ringing Nick back, but the lawyer has work to do. He has no choice; he needs to stay where he is. The feeling is a familiar one, the ‘hurry up and wait’ rhythm of a journalist’s day, waiting for things to happen, for press conferences and interviews and announcements and verdicts, and then rushing to make deadline.
He stops pacing, sits, lowering himself onto the concrete steps of Port Silver police station. It’s Sunday afternoon, the sun is starting to tilt westwards. The Boulevarde is quiet. Summer’s tourists have long gone, returned to the city, to schools and offices and factories. The season is fading. He watches as a young couple sidle down the footpath, arms around each other, veering gently back and forth as they progress, as if they have had too much to drink. Or smoke. The shadows from the police station are beginning their creep across The Boulevarde, but it will be a few hours yet before they reach Theo’s fish-and-chip shop. He watches as a dishevelled bloke in a flannel shirt and work boots emerges from the takeaway carrying the white paper bags of an afternoon snack. The smell comes wafting to him: fish and chips. He’s too far away for the aroma to be real but his mouth waters nevertheless. What has he had to eat today? A mouthful of stale quiche. What else? He looks longingly across at Theo’s, but Mandy, Montifore and Winifred will be here any minute.
Martin realises he’s licking his fingers, as if finishing a piece of battered flathead. By God, but he’s hungry. Just as he’s reconsidering a lightning trip to Theo’s, the convoy arrives from Longton. First comes a police car, fully kitted out, driven by a uniformed officer. Martin catches a glimpse of Mandy seated in the back next to another officer. She doesn’t see him as the car drives down into the underground car park. Next comes an unmarked car, probably a rental, Lucic driving with Montifore in the passenger seat. It follows the first car into the basement, the steel gate rolling closed behind them. Only then does the final car appear: Nick Poulos driving his old wagon, with squeaky brakes and a strange list. It comes to a halt next to him. Winifred Barbicombe climbs out from the passenger side, as composed as ever, as if she’s disembarking from a Bentley.
‘Martin, what have you got for us?’
‘We need to see Montifore. I think he’s wrong about the knife.’
‘All right. But tread carefully. He’s getting frustrated.’
‘Why? What’s happened?’
‘Hummingbird is getting complicated. And he’s struggling to build the case against Mandy.’
Inside the station, Winifred walks directly to the steel-plated security door with its number-pad lock and demands access from the constable behind the counter.
‘I’m sorry, ma’am,’ he says. ‘I am not authorised to allow civilians entry.’
‘I am not a civilian and I am not a ma’am; I am a solicitor and an officer of the court,’ states Winifred, voice imperious. ‘My client is being detained in there. If you deny me access, you are defying the law. The law. You hear me?’
The young officer looks nonplussed, eyes wide. ‘I’ll have to check with my sergeant.’
‘You do that,’ says Winifred. ‘And be quick about it.’
A few minutes later, the security door opens. It’s Johnson Pear. He looks at Martin. ‘I gave you a lawful instruction to leave. Get out or I’ll arrest you.’
‘Poppycock,’ says Winifred. ‘I’m coming in to see Morris Montifore, and Mr Scarsden is coming with me.’
Pear just smiles, unmoved. ‘You can fuck off as well then, you old shrew.’
Winifred says nothing. Instead she steps forward slowly, deliberately—one step, two steps, three steps—until she is mere centimetres from Pear’s face. His smile begins to waver under her gaze.
The security door opens. It’s Morris Montifore, who immediately assesses the situation. ‘Winifred. Martin. Thanks for coming in so promptly. I appreciate it. Come through.’
For a moment, nothing happens. Pear doesn’t move; Winifred continues to stare him down. Then the policeman steps aside, and first Winifred, then Martin walk through the security door. Martin can’t resist: he gives Pear a wink as he passes. Morris Montifore brings up the rear.
‘Thanks for that,’ says Martin, once they’ve gained the sanctuary of the detective’s makeshift operations room.
Montifore slumps into a chair at a desk, not interested in small talk. ‘Tell me what you have,’ he says.
‘The knife,’ says Martin. ‘The stain on the handle. That’s the only substantive link with Mandy, right?’
‘I’m listening.’
‘Have you established the stain did come from her hair dye? Is it beyond doubt?’
‘Forensics are pretty sure. But they’re still working on it.’
‘You said it was scrubbed with bleach and then spent a couple of days at the bottom of a river. How can they be sure?’
Montifore shakes his head, looking tired. ‘I’m not the one you need to convince. Forensics will determine if it’s a match one way or the other, not me.’
‘I think the dye is from the swami. He used a brown dye to mark the foreheads of his devotees. Their bindis. It was red-brown, a henna, something like that. The dye was kept either in his cabin or his retreat.’
The detective frowns. ‘I already told you. The swami, Myron Florakis, whatever you want to call him, he had an alibi.’
‘And so does Mandy. Clyde Mackie swears she wasn’t on the wharf at sunset on Tuesday,’ says Martin.
‘What’s your point?’
‘Jay Jay Hayes was the swami’s lover. She says in the days leading up to his death, he complained that someone had been going through his things.’
‘Yes, probably Jasper Speight. We thought that postcard was from his own collection, now we think he may have found it in the suitcase.’
‘Don’t you see? Whoever killed Jasper initially planned to frame the swami, so they smeared the knife handle with the dye from his cabin. They were probably intending to plant the knife on him, or somewhere close. But then they learnt that he had an alibi, so they decided to frame Mandy instead. They scrubbed the knife, then they dumped it in the river and made their anonymous ca
ll.’
Montifore laughs out loud, a sudden release of tension. ‘That’s preposterous. You’re saying they knew the stains on the handle would match Mandy’s hair colouring?’
‘No. I’m saying it’s a coincidence. They tried to scrub them off, bleach them off.’
Montifore says nothing more, but looks sceptical.
Martin persists. ‘You said it yourself. We can debate the matter all we like, but it’s the experts who can tell for sure. All I’m asking is that they compare the stain with any dyes found in the swami’s cabins.’
It’s Winifred who breaks the impasse. ‘Let me make an observation, if I may, Detective Inspector. If you charge Mandalay and take her to trial, we will make an issue of this. If you don’t test the dyes used by the swami, the jury will hear all about it. We will sow doubt in their minds: reasonable doubt.’
Montifore looks at her for a moment, face impassive, then sighs. ‘All right. It’s Monday tomorrow. We’ll check it out.’
Winifred bristles. ‘You cannot detain her overnight. Not without charging her.’
‘And there’s another issue,’ adds Martin. ‘The Herald is preparing to splash her photo all over the front page and report that you’re questioning her for murder. That won’t look so good if forensics exonerate her later the same day. And it won’t look so good if it’s reported you were informed in advance about the swami’s dye.’
Now Montifore’s eyes flash with irritation. He stands, pacing, thinking it through before speaking. ‘Okay, have it your way,’ he says. He picks up his mobile, makes the call. ‘Yes, it’s me. Yes, I know it’s Sunday. Tell me: is the evidence from the Jasper Speight crime scene and from the Hummingbird Beach scene being tested by the same teams?’
A pause as Montifore waits for the answer.
‘Understood. Collected by one team up here, but testing by separate teams in Sydney.’
The detective pauses again.
‘No. No problem at all. But I need you to test something for me. Can you cross-reference the dye or stain found on the handle of the knife in the Jasper Speight case with any suspect dyes or stains or other substances found at Hummingbird Beach, particularly anything found in either of the cabins used by the dead swami?’
Montifore listens. As he does so, he turns to Martin, raising his eyebrows, signalling some interesting development.
‘Really? There now? Yes, of course. If they can get back as soon as possible that would be most useful … An hour? Really? That’s outstanding.’
The call ends, and Montifore addresses Martin and Winifred, irritation forgotten. ‘That’s good. A team member is working today. There’s some analytical machine they’ve got, it’s in high demand, in use twenty-four seven. They’re using it right now. They can get back to us within an hour. They’ve finished establishing a profile of the stain on the knife. That’s the tricky one; they had so little to work with. It’s taken a couple of days. But comparing it to substances in pots or jars or whatever is a simple scan, almost instantaneous.’
‘Brilliant,’ says Martin.
Montifore offers a weak facsimile of a smile. The anger seems to have drained out of him. ‘Thanks for coming in. I doubt you’re right, but better to check and make sure.’
‘Tell me,’ says Martin, ‘the Hummingbird deaths. You’ve charged Topaz Throssel?’
‘This afternoon. She’s been packed off to Sydney. That’s why we’ve moved back down here, to concentrate on the Speight investigation.’
‘So Hummingbird is wrapped up? You’re charging her with all seven deaths?’
Montifore stands still, his face again unreadable. ‘We’re working our way through the evidence. There’s a lot to process.’
‘What did the blood tests show?’ asks Martin.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Remember? I told you about the Rohypnol, the tests Topaz and I gave at the hospital on Friday morning.’
‘What about them?’
Martin pauses for a moment. Montifore has grown defensive. ‘Was it there again on Friday night? With the poison?’ The detective averts his gaze, slumps back into his chair. Martin and Winifred exchange a glance. She’s sensing it too, thinks Martin. Something is troubling the detective. ‘Morris?’
‘Yes. At least three people. The swami, a middle-aged man, a young woman. There may have been others, but we only tested the dead and hospitalised.’
‘The young woman. Pretty? Looks Polynesian?’
Montifore looks up, making eye contact once again. ‘Yes. That’s her. How did you know that?’
‘Garth McGrath,’ says Martin. He explains his theory that the soapie star had been drugging victims, together with any men who may have been rivals or protectors.
‘What happened to them?’ asks Winifred. ‘The girl and the man?’ ‘The girl survived, the man’s dead,’ says Montifore.
‘Shit,’ says Martin, remembering the body laid out in the dark next to McGrath and Hawananda. ‘So he drank Rohypnol and the poison.’ He states it as a fact, but Montifore has again broken eye contact and is examining his desk. Martin and Winifred trade another glance, the lawyer frowning.
‘What is it, Morris? What aren’t you telling us?’ asks Martin. The detective keeps his eyes shut, lowers his head and shakes it. Martin persists. ‘Something’s wrong, isn’t it? With the evidence. Is it the case against Topaz?’
Montifore looks up, eyes now open, almost pleading, as if he wants to share information but knows that he can’t.
‘You think she had an accomplice,’ says Winifred, half assertion, half question.
This time the policeman answers, his voice a whisper. ‘It’s possible. We don’t know.’
‘Is it something about the blood tests?’ asks Martin.
Montifore is studying his hands.
‘Jesus,’ says Martin. ‘There was more than one poison, wasn’t there?’ The policeman looks at him, a tortured expression on his face. To Martin, it feels like confirmation, so he continues to press. ‘Two poisons. Some swallowed both, some swallowed one, some didn’t swallow any. Plus the Rohypnol. And Topaz is only admitting to administering one of them.’
Montifore is completely still, his eyes focused, his voice low. ‘We can’t work out what happened, the chain of events.’
chapter twenty-nine
Nick Poulos is waiting outside the police station. He’s smiling. Martin wants to know why, but first he texts Terri Preswell and Bethanie Glass. Police running new forensics. Mandy’s guilt/innocence established within next hour. He checks his watch. It’s just gone four, still plenty of time: they can swap out the front page up until six, maybe six-thirty.
He turns to his grinning lawyer. ‘What have you got?’
‘The Divine Meditation Foundation. It’s incorporated.’
‘A company?’
‘That’s right. So it survives the death of Hawananda. Or Florakis. Whatever you want to call him.’
‘Are there any other shareholders?’
‘I’m trying to find out. It’s Sunday and it’s a private company, so it’s not straightforward. But the ASIC website lists the office bearers. Hawananda is listed as chairman and managing director, Harrold Drake Senior is company secretary and Harrold Drake Junior is a director.’
‘The Drakes? Both of them?’
‘Yes. If Hawananda just wanted a company, then he could easily be a sole director and single shareholder.’
‘So why have them as directors?’
‘My guess is he was chasing tax-free status, as a charity or a religion or something. He’d need a more impressive structure to qualify.’
‘Is the foundation registered as a charity?’
‘Not that I can see, but maybe that was the intention.’
‘Jay Jay Hayes told me the other day she was going to see you about writing a new will. Did you prepare her last one for her?’
‘Jay Jay? No. Not me.’
‘She said the beneficiary of her existing will is the Divine Medi
tation Foundation.’
The two men stare at each other for a moment, the implications growing. It’s Martin who spells it out. ‘Harrold Drake prepared a will for Jay Jay Hayes some time ago, bequeathing her estate, including Hummingbird Beach, to Swami Dev Hawananda—or, more precisely, to the Divine Meditation Foundation—of which Drake himself is the company secretary and his son is a director.’
Nick Poulos nods. ‘Let’s tell the cops.’
Martin is tempted, but shakes his head. He wants Montifore focused on the knife stain. ‘Not yet. I don’t want them distracted. See if you can nail down any more information about the foundation, especially its share structure.’
‘What are you going to do?’
‘Go visiting.’
The lighthouse sits atop Nobb Hill, catching the afternoon sun, a beacon glowing white, almost silver against the clarity of the sky. Silver. Martin climbs, the footpath sinuous beside the road, the wealth and status of the homes rising with the elevation. Silver. He again hears the insinuation: that the death of Jasper Speight is somehow connected to money, to greed, to avarice. To silver. And at Hummingbird Beach, Topaz Throssel killed Dev Hawananda, and Garth McGrath killed no one. Someone else is involved. There is another killer. What motivated them? Silver, whispers the lighthouse. Find the silver. And the people with the most silver are Tyson St Clair, Denise Speight and George Tomakis’s mother. Martin doesn’t think the Greek widow could know much; she’s shown no interest in developments north of the Argyle. Tyson St Clair and Denise Speight, on the other hand, are up to their necks in it. Them and their proxies: Jasper Speight, Dev Hawananda and Harry the Lad. Silver, whispers the siren song of the lighthouse. ‘Silver,’ says Martin to himself.
Denise Speight’s house is perched on the far side of Nobb Hill, past the lighthouse. Martin stands under her portico regaining his breath and absorbing the view. He’s sweating in the heat, the day still without a breeze, the bandages on his knee and elbow itching mercilessly. Five Mile Beach stretches into the distance, the ocean to the left, coastal scrub and cane fields to the right, the homes of Port Silver’s middle class below. The lowering sun is beginning to give the panorama definition. Out to sea, storm clouds are gathering on the horizon. It’s an impressive vista, stunning. Martin turns his back on it and pulls on an elaborate cord of metal and leather, setting chimes going deep inside the three-storey edifice. It takes some time for Denise to answer the door. She seems smaller, reduced, dressed in black and dwarfed by circumstances and the dimensions of her own home. ‘Martin? Is that you? Come in.’