by Chris Hammer
They stand in her hall for an awkward moment and then, almost as an afterthought, she ushers him into the living room. It’s as large as St Clair’s, but more opulent. And more cluttered: there are richly embroidered rugs overlapping on the parquetry floor, too many for the available space; cherry wood cabinets line the walls and chesterfields are arranged in three groups, two of a green leather so dark it’s almost black, the other stained a deep burgundy. The walls are a battlefield, as a mishmash of artwork fights for space: Russian icons, glinting with gold leaf; tapestries faded enough to be medieval; what could be an original Georges Braque in an antique gilt frame; fading QANTAS posters; bark paintings from the Top End; and some family portraits. She leads him to the main group of chesterfields, surrounding a coffee table large enough to accommodate ten, its glass surface revealing an intricately carved scene, the meticulous work of Balinese artisans. There’s a fireplace, scrubbed clean, flanked on one side by a ceramic vase, blue and white and ancient, a metre and a half tall, and on the other by a rather tatty-looking sarcophagus. If St Clair’s house whispers money, this shouts it; if St Clair’s is minimalist, this is maximalist; if St Clair’s is modern, this is dated. Martin concludes St Clair has an interior designer, but Denise Speight self-curates.
‘Martin. What is it?’ She sits opposite him, small within the chesterfield, as if pushed down by an unseen weight.
Martin sits. ‘You asked me to find out who killed Jasper. I might be getting close.’
This brings no joy to Denise Speight; her face remains bleak. ‘I heard they had arrested that woman of yours, Mandalay Blonde. That they’re questioning her now.’
Martin keeps his voice conciliatory as he replies. ‘No, they haven’t arrested her. It’s true, she has been questioned, but it’s likely she’ll be released shortly.’
Denise looks away, staring at a photo mounted to one side of the mantelpiece: her and Jasper, the boy a smiling teenager, teeth clad in braces. When she turns back to Martin, her eyes, already red, are moist. ‘I just want to bury him, Martin. They still aren’t releasing his body.’
‘I’m sure it can’t be much longer,’ says Martin, wincing at his platitude.
‘I thought the swami did it,’ she said. ‘I read your stories. It seemed straightforward. Jasper uncovered his squalid secret, and he killed Jasper to keep it buried.’
‘We all thought that. But it can’t have been him. He was at Hummingbird Beach when Jasper died.’
‘I see,’ she says. ‘So how can I help?’
‘You know Jasper had plans to develop up along Ridge Road? To subdivide?’
‘I did know that, yes. But it wasn’t feasible. We didn’t have that sort of money. Maybe some time in the future, but certainly not now.’
‘Is that because you are so deeply committed elsewhere north of the Argyle? I know you have entered into an undertaking to buy the cheese factory site, as well as making an offer to the Gooris to purchase the rest of the land around Mackenzie’s Swamp.’ Martin sees something flash in Denise Speight’s eyes. She isn’t happy he knows this. And there’s something else there, too: defiance or anger or maybe pride. He can’t be sure.
‘What does that have to do with Jasper’s death?’
‘Could he have persisted with the plans to develop Ridge Road without your knowledge?’
‘No. He wouldn’t dare do that without my consent. Absolutely not.’
‘So when did he drop the proposal?’
‘Does it matter? Three months ago. When we learnt of the opportunity to invest in Crystal Lagoon.’
‘Crystal Lagoon? That’s your rebranding, isn’t it?’
‘As I say, what does it matter?’ The grieving mother is becoming more defensive by the second; there’s a suggestion of aggression in her response.
‘Would it surprise you to know Jasper was still discussing his plans for Ridge Road about a month ago with Harrold Drake Junior?’
It does surprise her; he can see it in her eyes. ‘I don’t approve of that young man,’ she says. ‘He causes his parents all sorts of worry.’
‘Would Harry have had the money to help Jasper finance a subdivision stretching along Ridge Road?’
Denise laughs, a brittle sound, dry as bones. ‘I hear there is good money in drugs, but surely not that much.’
‘His father?’
Denise’s mouth contracts, her lips pursed. ‘Not if he knew what was good for him.’
The afternoon remains breathless, even on Nobb Hill, as Martin walks back around the looping crescent past the lighthouse and starts back down the hill towards the town centre. Above him the sky is clear, but the storm out at sea is gathering strength, white clouds and grey billowing towards the stratosphere. At Tyson St Clair’s home he rings the intercom at the gate, unsure if the developer will even deign to see him. The voice on the intercom is thin and remote, like an old-fashioned phone call. ‘It’s you. Enter.’ There is the electric slap of the catch on the gate releasing; Martin pushes through. It’s cool and dark in the rainforest, the entrance bridge extending through the greenery, a drawbridge above a moat. The front door opens; Tyson St Clair emerges to meet him.
‘Martin. I wondered when you might show up.’
‘Tyson.’ The handshake is strangely formal, like two fighters before a bout.
Inside, the lighting in the entrance hall is muted, almost dark. A discreet spotlight, set on low, illuminates the Brett Whiteley, not so bright as to reveal its wonders, but enough to make its presence known. Inside the main room, the floor-to-ceiling windows are like a cinema screen, dominated by blue, but with the storm building like opening titles. A woman is curled on a couch, reading a book under a lamp, earbuds in, wearing a terry towelling robe, long legs tanned and sleek. She stands, smiles without warmth. Her blonde hair is bouffant, her face skilfully made up, softer inside than it might be out in the daylight. Martin places her in her mid-forties: lean, glamorous and gym-toned. ‘I think I might leave you to it.’ She gives St Clair’s cheek an arid sweep with her lips, and departs.
‘My wife,’ says St Clair, introducing her after she has left the room.
‘Beautiful,’ says Martin, wondering if she knows of her husband’s predilection for backpackers.
Behind St Clair, outside the long windows, lightning flashes below the clouds. ‘Do you like whisky?’
‘More than it likes me.’
The millionaire moves to a sideboard where decanters and bottles glow beneath another spotlight. ‘You’ll like this.’
‘I thought you didn’t drink during the day?’
‘I don’t as a rule. But it’s Sunday. Peaty and smoky, or smooth and rounded? Your choice.’
‘Peaty, thanks.’
St Clair decants a glass each, nothing so gauche as a label to indicate what they’ll be drinking, and hands one to Martin. ‘Just got these two in today.’ He raises his glass in a silent salute, another gesture of a battle about to begin.
Martin sips at the whisky. It sings in his mouth, is almost worth the hike up the hill in its own right. St Clair leads him towards the windows; some unseen mechanism senses their approach and the doors silently concertina open. They step out onto a wide deck, seemingly afloat above the cliff, separated from the world, surrounded by shades of blue and white: the gradient of the sky, the deep blue of the ocean, the massing white of the storm clouds, the lighthouse looming above them like an orbiting moon. They sit opposite each other, a small table separating them, as if they are about to begin a game of chess. The wicker chairs are large and comfortable, with deep all-weather cushions.
‘I’m glad you called in, Martin. I was going to call you first thing tomorrow. We have much to discuss.’
Martin feels wrong-footed. ‘How so?’
‘Well, I hear all sorts of things, but the Sydney Morning Herald’s gun journalist must know a lot more than I do. Such as forensic experts rechecking the murder weapon, looking for matches with some sort of dye.’
Martin stares at him.
How could he possibly know? Johnson Pear must have told him. And in telling Martin the developer is emphasising just how well connected he is. ‘That’s true. I’m hoping the homicide detectives are about to eliminate Mandy as a suspect.’
‘So who killed Jasper then?’ asks St Clair, with the casual air of someone asking the score in the cricket.
‘I’m hoping you’ll help me work that out.’
St Clair chuckles softly. ‘I hope you’re not suggesting I had anything to do with it.’
‘No.’ Martin takes another sip, the whisky simultaneously smooth and rough; the crystal glass at once sparkling with light and heavy in his hand. He knows he shouldn’t be drinking, not spirits, not on an empty stomach. ‘I know you and the Speights have been competitors, but I can’t see you risking all of this to kill him.’
‘I’m glad to hear it. I thought maybe you’d got the wrong idea after that incident with your girlfriend.’
‘I got the right idea. You’re involved in visa fraud—which would provide a motive if Jasper had decided to expose your involvement.’
The property developer looks at him for a long moment, considering Martin’s words. ‘Do the police think that?’
‘You’d have to ask them.’
St Clair raises his own glass to his lips, savours the taste before speaking again. ‘So how can I help?’
‘What’s the status of the French proposal to develop Hummingbird Beach?’
‘Unchanged. Jay Jay Hayes doesn’t want to sell. I doubt she ever will.’
‘That’s funny. The last time we spoke, you seemed sure she would.’
‘I’ve changed my mind.’
Martin is finding St Clair’s attitude unsettling; it’s as if the man is taunting him, playing at some game. ‘The swami,’ Martin counters. ‘I saw you together in Longton the other day.’
‘So you did. I waved to you, as I remember.’
‘He was spying on Jay Jay for you.’
St Clair laughs, baring his incisors. ‘No. Far from it. He was after my advice about how he might grow his meditation business. In return, he’d keep me abreast of what Jasper Speight was up to.’
‘Which was?’
‘Trying to cultivate Jay Jay. From what Dev said, he wasn’t making much progress.’
Martin looks out to sea. ‘You seem to have lost interest in the development.’
St Clair smiles broadly, as if enjoying a good joke. ‘Why do you say that?’
‘You’ve let everyone know about your plans to develop Mackenzie’s Swamp. The marina, the golf course, the gated community along the river. You were very keen to tell me all about it the last time I was here, saying you were convinced Jay Jay would sell eventually.’
St Clair is still smiling. ‘Go on.’
‘But if you were so keen to get your hands on the old cheese factory, why did you never approach Mandy about buying it? Once she inherited Hartigan’s, you and Harrold Drake would have worked out pretty quickly she will also become the owner of Mackenzie’s Cheese and Pickles.’
St Clair shrugs. ‘Maybe I thought it made more sense to go directly to the administrators and the major creditors.’
‘That’s right. But then Denise Speight stole it from under your nose.’
‘She’s a very competitive woman.’
‘I believe she is,’ says Martin, gathering his thoughts. ‘So you know she has come to an agreement with Westpac?’
‘I do.’ Another smile.
When Martin speaks again, he’s not so much conversing as thinking out loud. ‘Of course, she never would have become interested in the site if you hadn’t promoted it far and wide, including in the Longton Observer.’
‘An excellent newspaper.’
‘Which you own. And whose editor doesn’t return my calls.’
‘Is that all?’
‘Not quite. Then there’s Doug Thunkleton. You tip him off that Amory Ashton is buried at the cheese factory and supply him with a few bogus witnesses, all of which gives the very clear impression that Ashton’s body is about to be found, he’ll be declared dead, and his land will be free for sale.’
St Clair’s smile hasn’t left his face, canines glistening. ‘Excellent whisky, isn’t it?’
‘But tell me, the cheese factory, your fingers—what happened?’
St Clair stops smiling, as if one of Martin’s questions has finally ruffled him. ‘What do you mean?’
‘You told me my dad helped you. But how do you slice off your fingers in a cheese factory?’
St Clair regards him with curiosity. ‘Do you know what a bobby calf is?’ he asks.
‘A what?’
‘Give me your glass. I’ll get you a refill. You can google it while I’m gone.’
Martin does what he’s told, handing over his glass, still half full, and fires up his phone. By the time St Clair returns, he knows: dairy cows need to give birth to bring on their milk. The female calves may be raised to become milkers themselves, but the male calves, the bobby calves, are typically killed soon after birth. St Clair hands him back his glass, four-fifths full.
‘Ashton was running an abattoir inside the cheese factory,’ says Martin.
‘Correct. Not exactly hygienic. Not exactly legal.’
‘And he disposed of the offcuts and the offal into the swamp, attracting bull sharks.’
‘That’s right.’
‘So why tell Doug Thunkleton to search inside the factory? If I’d killed Amory Ashton out there, I’d chuck his body to the sharks.’
St Clair doesn’t just smile; he laughs out loud. ‘I bet you would, son. I bet you would.’
‘So why not tell Channel Ten that?’
St Clair leans forward, laughter gone, but his teeth again exposed by his rictus smile. ‘It doesn’t matter where that idiot looks, inside the factory or in the swamp, he’s never going to find Ashton. He’s not there. He did a runner.’
Martin does his best to hide his surprise. He’s thinking of Jay Jay and her confession. St Clair has been so canny and so well-informed up until this point; how could he be so wrong about the death of Amory Ashton? ‘How could you know that? I thought his disappearance was a mystery.’
‘Because at the same time he disappeared, so did ten million dollars. He took it and he ran.’
‘I’ve never heard that.’
‘It’s not widely known.’
‘Whose ten million dollars?’
‘Harrold Drake’s.’
Martin doesn’t know what to say. Out at sea, lightning flashes. A few seconds later he hears thunder. The storm is moving closer to shore. ‘Harrold Drake?’
‘Ashton took him in: hook, line and sinker. Spun him this fantastical story about developing the cheese factory into an upmarket resort, complete with a golf course, a marina and condominiums. Drake borrowed heavily, threw in ten million; the next thing anyone knew, Ashton had disappeared into thin air.’
Martin is having a difficult time digesting all that St Clair is telling him. ‘Who knows this? About Drake losing so much money?’
‘His bank and his accountant. And, eventually, me. And now you. I doubt even his wife knows. You could say it’s a tightly held secret.’
Martin takes another sip of whisky, his mind racing in a dozen different directions before settling on one. He places the glass on the table, telling himself not to drink any more. ‘Why is the development of Mackenzie’s fantastical? It’s your grand vision, the transformation of Port Silver. You couldn’t wait to tell me about it. What’s changed?’
‘Since Ashton? The French, for a start. They weren’t sniffing around five years ago. A development at Hummingbird makes perfect sense. It’s a great location. But even with it, the rest is still pie in the sky. You could possibly do something with the cheese factory—a hotel or an eco-resort—but nothing else. The marina is totally unrealistic. I’ve spent the last twenty-five years trying to work out how to open up the mouth of the Argyle, to make that properly navigable. And that’s a rea
l river with real water. That pissy little inlet up at Mackenzie’s is flat out floating an inner tube, let alone an ocean-going yacht.’
‘And the golf course? You cited examples of all sorts of developments up on the Gold Coast on reclaimed land.’
Another self-satisfied grin. ‘It can be done. Of course it can be done. But it’s massively expensive. The only way you could get your money back is if you developed housing, like up there in Queensland—and if there was demand for the housing. A golf course by itself, twenty kilometres from town, could never generate sufficient returns. Not in a million years.’
Martin finds he has been leaning forward. Now he leans back, looking towards the storm clouds as if seeking enlightenment. ‘So it was all a sham. You never had any intention of developing any of it. That’s why you never approached Mandy.’
St Clair nods, raises his glass as if in a toast.
‘But why? Why this whole elaborate ruse? To what end?’
‘Revenge.’
‘Revenge?’
‘There’s an old hotel by the port. The Breakwater. Badly run down now, but with enormous potential. You know it?’
‘Yes. Mandy’s lawyer is staying there. So are half the media.’
‘Lucky them. Did you notice that it’s under new management?’
Martin nods. ‘I did. Who’s the new manager?’
‘Not just the new manager—the new owner. Denise Speight.’ St Clair mouths her name with distaste. ‘For decades, the Breakwater was owned by an old Greek lady, Mrs Tomakis.’
‘George’s mum?’
‘Precisely. Theo’s widow. And for the past five or ten years, ever since the fishing fleet was grounded and we got the government money to tart up the harbour, I’ve been trying to persuade her to do it up. Either do it up or sell it. The potential is enormous. But dear old Mrs Tomakis is not a developer. Hates to spend a penny, even to make a pound. She can sweat a property like no one I know. Owns half the Settlement.’