He’s shaken awake by Ivan Lucic.
‘What?’
‘You look like shit,’ says Lucic by way of a greeting.
‘Thanks.’
‘C’mon, I’ll take you to the boss.’ Lucic leads him through the station and into the underground car park; drives him out, Martin bent over to escape detection by the photographers. Lucic drops him back at the same cafe where he and Montifore met during the smoke haze. ‘He won’t be long,’ says Lucic.
‘He doesn’t want to be seen with me?’
‘Who would?’ says Lucic, apparently for his own amusement.
This time Martin waits inside, out of the cold. The place is more of a bar than a cafe, almost empty on a Sunday morning, but it retains its essential smell, the aftermath of Saturday night. Of alcohol and body odour and even—is he imagining it?—the smell of cigarettes. He orders a long black, triple shot. It can’t hurt. The barista brings it over just as Morris Montifore arrives, looking dishevelled and badly in need of a shave.
‘Morris.’
‘Martin.’ They don’t bother shaking hands.
‘Winifred told me. Mandy’s confessed.’
Montifore shakes his head, as if in regret. ‘I don’t want to prosecute her, the fraud squad doesn’t want to prosecute her, but the commissioner is insisting we play it straight down the line. Gutless bastard.’ Montifore goes to the counter, orders a coffee, returns to Martin. ‘She’ll be charged this afternoon. She’ll get bail for sure. Make sure you’re back at the station to collect her. About four o’clock.’
‘Okay. Thanks,’ says Martin.
The fatigue on the policeman’s face reflects Martin’s own state of mind, his own state of body. And yet he smiles. ‘You won’t believe the shitstorm you’ve released.’
‘Sounds like you approve.’
‘Too right I do. Shovel it out there, as much as you can. Everything you can.’
‘Seriously?’
There is a sadness in the policeman’s eye as he replies, ‘All that you can. You can’t rely on us.’
‘We’re trying our best. Wellington Smith is holding nothing back.’
‘So I see.’ Montifore looks fondly at Martin’s coffee, then looks around, either to see what’s happening with his order or to make sure no one is watching, that no photographer is lurking.
‘Morris? What is it?’
‘You didn’t hear this from me.’
‘Of course not.’
‘We never made this public. It was very tightly held, just Ivan and me and forensics, the people I could trust.’
‘Small circle,’ says Martin.
‘Very small.’
The barista arrives with the policeman’s coffee. Montifore slurps gratefully before continuing. ‘Molloy was killed by three bullets to the head. One of them was still inside the skull when we retrieved the body. That’s what we kept secret. We’ve run ballistics. Identified the gun.’
‘Titus Torbett?’
‘Claus Vandenbruk.’
Martin stares at the policeman for long seconds while his mind catches up. ‘Five years ago? He was involved all this time?’
‘Yes,’ says Montifore. ‘Go back to the documents on the thumb drive, the ones Molloy copied, the ones Mandy decrypted. Vandenbruk’s alias was SC13. As in Santa Claus thirteen. Have another look; it will all become clear.’
‘Why didn’t Sweetwater mention him? Or Titus Torbett?’
‘My guess? They never knew about him. His job wasn’t protecting criminals and money launderers.’
‘What then?’
‘He was riding shotgun for the political establishment. The attorney-general, the deputy police commissioner, among others.’ Montifore drinks more coffee. ‘We believe he was in cahoots with a man named Kenneth Steadman, nickname the Turtle.’
‘The Turtle?’
‘I know you’ve heard of him.’
‘Titus Torbett referred to him, but I didn’t understand who he was. Still don’t.’
‘He’s on the run, but I’m expecting to arrest him soon.’ Montifore checks his watch. ‘About two hours from now.’
‘You sound very sure.’
‘I am. And the first thing we’ll do is double-check his DNA.’
‘DNA?’
Montifore smiles. ‘The shit in your freezer. It was him.’
Martin smiles back. ‘So not a smoking gun, a steaming turd.’
‘Sounds like a headline to me.’
‘Doesn’t it, just?’
Montifore takes another sip of his coffee, looks at it dubiously. His phone rumbles on the table. He checks the text, stands. ‘I’ve got to get back. One of these days we’ve got to have a real drink, a real celebration. You, me, Ivan and Mandy. And Winifred. The good guys.’
‘Thanks, I’d like that,’ says Martin. ‘Can I run the story about Vandenbruk?’
‘That’s why I’m here. Run the lot as soon as you can, before we charge him. Before some gutless wonder upstairs tries to finesse it.’
‘One question. What was he doing up at Port Silver? When he came to see Mandy?’
‘To make sure she didn’t know too much. He knew she was rich, suspected she knew more than she was saying. And maybe to kill her if she did. Maybe you as well.’
Martin blinks. ‘How can you know that? Is he talking?’
‘No. Not about that. Not yet.’ Montifore gestures for Martin to stand too. ‘Come on. There’s someone waiting for you.’
Outside, on the street, a white SUV with tinted windows is parked by the kerb.
‘Here,’ says Montifore, ‘a parting gift.’ He hands Martin a sheet of folded paper.
‘What’s this?’
‘The Mess. A full membership list.’
‘Seriously? Thanks, Morris. Thanks so much.’
‘No, mate. Thank you.’
Martin opens the car door, climbs in. ‘Hi, Jack.’
‘You got the membership list?’ asks Jack Goffing.
‘Yeah.’
‘Good. Have a look while I drive.’
‘Where are we going?’
‘You’ll see.’
Martin unfolds the paper, scans the membership list. It’s a photocopy. The names are typed and someone has annotated the handwritten descriptions.
Jeffery Jamison—retired brigadier and diplomat
Samson Fielding—NSW deputy treasurer, Liberal
Clarissa Hawthorne—owner Nextown executive recruitment, member NSW Liberal executive
Janine Trelore—federal Labor senator for New South Wales
Harry Sweetwater—head of security Mollisons Bank
Elizabeth Torbett—NSW Supreme Court judge
Clarence O’Toole—Land and Environment Court judge
Chester Blythe-Janes—company director, former commodore Sydney Cruising Yacht Squadron
Mathilda Hope—art gallery director and film impresario
D’Arcy Defoe—SMH journalist
Gino Trombino—businessman, former CFMEU state secretary
Palmer Fletcher—consultant to Nine board
Mary Dunbar—historian at Sydney University
Ralph Ladders—AWU and ACTU
Norman Bones—Sydney shock jock
Gerald Jones—celebrity stockbroker
George Giopolis—property developer, board member Large Sky
Lucy Wong-Clark—retail clothing, import export
Delaney ‘Big Deal’ Bullwinkel—mining magnate, billionaire
Bill Townsend—lobbyist and member of ALP state council
Clarrie Perret—former
