‘Martin? Is that you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Where are you?’
‘Driving to Sydney.’
‘How can I help?’
‘Mandalay’s disappeared. I think she’s been abducted. The police are looking for her.’
Looming on the road ahead is a wallaby, mowed down mid-lane. Martin veers, hitting the horn, sending ravens scrambling aloft. He passes the matted red mass without decelerating and returns to his lane.
‘Tell me what’s happened,’ instructs the lawyer.
Martin runs through the sequence of events: the screaming voicemail message, Claus Vandenbruk unconscious on the floor, bleeding from the head, Mandy gone. The Subaru parked, none of Mandy’s clothes or belongings touched, her phone on the dining-room table, her wallet and passport upstairs.
Winifred listens without comment, waiting for him to finish, before prompting him. ‘So why are you going to Sydney?’
‘She was engaged, Winifred. To an undercover policeman. Tarquin Molloy.’
There is no response, nothing for long seconds. Then: ‘When was this?’
‘You didn’t know?’
‘No.’
‘How could you not?’ Martin can’t help it; he can’t keep the accusatory note from his voice.
‘She’s my client. I work for her. I don’t spy on her.’
‘Not even in those years before she turned thirty, before she came into her inheritance?’
‘No. I was explicitly instructed not to contact her. What about you? Were you aware of her engagement?’
That puts Martin back in his box. ‘No. No, I wasn’t.’
‘Right. So tell me what you’ve learnt.’
Martin recounts the scant information Morris Montifore shared with him: the body in the foundations, the undercover policeman, the engagement five years earlier.
‘That’s incredible,’ says the solicitor. ‘I didn’t know. You didn’t know. She didn’t tell anyone.’
‘Apparently not.’
‘Why not? Why didn’t she tell anyone?’
‘If we knew that, we’d be halfway there.’
‘But, Martin, her name was everywhere. The events at Riversend, then again at Port Silver. She was big news, nationwide. Don’t you think it’s uncanny that no journalist discovered she’d been engaged to a missing policeman, thought it worthy of reporting?’
Martin can’t help but agree. ‘I guess Molloy’s disappearance wasn’t ever reported. I’d never heard of it.’
‘Surely the murder of an undercover cop would have been newsworthy. Did you check?’
‘I googled it. Nothing.’
‘It must have been suppressed. But why?’
‘So as not to compromise an ongoing investigation?’ Martin leaves his guess hanging.
‘Investigating what?’
‘Montifore wouldn’t tell me. But he did say that no one knew Molloy was dead, not even the cops. He was listed as missing right up until his body was found.’
‘And there’s no doubt that it’s him they found?’
‘Apparently not.’
More silence before the lawyer resumes, her voice thoughtful. ‘And Montifore told you all of this?’
‘That’s right. He’s got the job of finding who killed Tarquin Molloy.’
‘I think Montifore may know more than he’s saying.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Down in Riversend, he was happy to hang Mandy out for you vultures of the press, but in Port Silver he was far more circumspect.’
‘Maybe he just didn’t want to stuff up the second time around.’
‘Maybe.’ She sounds unconvinced.
‘Did the police ever raise her past with you? With Mandy?’
‘Not with me. And not with her. Not directly anyway.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘There was one occasion when Montifore was interviewing her and he threw in a couple of unconnected names—people who lived in Sydney, not Port Silver.’
‘Do you have a transcript?’
‘No. But I took notes. I’ll have the names. I remember checking them out.’
‘Can you send them to me?’
‘Of course.’
They talk some more, strategise, before Martin rings off. The road continues, the traffic sparse, the day calm. Then, abruptly, the eucalypt forest changes from khaki to more emphatic tones: black trunks wrapped in bright green foliage, recovering from the bushfires of summer. But the ground is still white with ash, the undergrowth slow to regenerate. Maybe it’s waiting for spring, maybe it’s waiting for rain. Maybe the fire had burnt too fiercely.
Martin goes over what he knows yet again. The body of Mandy’s fiancé was found in Sydney, murdered, concreted into the foundations of a high-rise. And within days she’s disappeared, most likely abducted. The police had come for her: Claus Vandenbruk, investigator with the Australian Criminal Intelligence Commission, no doubt motivated by the discovery of Tarquin Molloy’s remains. Morris Montifore didn’t say as much, but clearly the homicide detective believes the discovery of Molloy, the assault on Vandenbruk and Mandy’s disappearance are connected. Now Vandenbruk has been medivacked to Sydney’s Royal Prince Alfred, and Montifore is back in the state capital. Soon, Martin will be too.
He changes lanes, powers past a motor home—ADVENTURE BEFORE DEMENTIA painted across the back in old-fashioned cursive. The grey nomads, like the forest, slowly returning. He looks at the speedo, is surprised to see he’s crept up to twenty-five kilometres per hour beyond the limit, overriding the cruise control in his urgency. He winds the speed back, engages the speed limiter for the third or fourth time.
His phone rings, the sound coming through the speaker system. He answers it.
‘Martin. It’s Max Fuller. Thought I would have heard back by now.’
God. Max and his story. ‘Sorry. Something important has come up.’
‘So you won’t be heading to Sydney any time soon?’
Martin smiles despite himself. ‘I’m on my way.’
‘Good man. I knew you couldn’t resist. You won’t regret it. It’s a ball-tearer.’
‘Max, I can’t help you. Mandy has disappeared. I think she’s been kidnapped.’
There is a momentary silence then: ‘Shit. You sure?’
‘The police think so.’
‘So why are you coming to Sydney?’
‘Because I think she might have been taken there.’
‘Right.’
‘Sorry, Max, but she’s my priority. I wouldn’t be able to concentrate on anything else.’
‘Absolutely. Understood. I’m sure we can press on without you. But let me know if there is anything I can do to help.’
‘Actually there is. Have you ever heard of a man called Tarquin Molloy?’
There’s no response. For a moment Martin thinks he’s lost the connection. ‘Max?’
‘I’m still here.’
‘Molloy was an undercover police officer.’
‘Martin, this is important. Come and see me. As soon as you can.’
‘What is it?’
‘No, mate. Not on an open line. Come first thing tomorrow.’
‘I’ll be there.’
Somewhere north of Newcastle, the seasons change. A wall of grey cloud comes roiling up the coast, pushed by the
