‘Sounds like you didn’t get on so well.’
‘No. Even after Tarquin and I were engaged, she was still trying to get into his pants.’
‘Succeeding?’
Mandy again examines the remnants of her meal, the heat going out from her. ‘Yes. Probably.’
Montifore studies her face before changing tack. ‘Tell me what happened in the storeroom. What did she say? And why did she abandon you?’
Mandy smiles grimly, glad to be back in the present day, distanced from the past. ‘She was questioning me, threatening me. It was all about the money. Then there was the sound of breaking glass. She sent her flunky off to find out what it was.’
‘Her flunky?’
‘A man. He was wearing a mask. Full face. I have no idea who he was.’
‘Go on.’
‘Is he okay?’
‘The flunky?’
‘Yes. She sent him to find out what the noise was. Then there was a gunshot. Is he alive?’
Montifore blinks, as if he’s been momentarily wrong-footed by her question. ‘I’d say so. There was broken glass everywhere, a few specks of blood, but not much. So no evidence he was shot.’ He considers another prawn, decides against it. ‘What happened next?’ She tells him of Zelda escaping through the back door, of the appearance of the gaunt man in the tailored suit. ‘He claimed he was a policeman, but he didn’t release me.’
‘You believed him?’
‘Yes. He had a badge.’
Montifore reaches into his pocket, extracts his wallet, flips it open, revealing his own glistening identity. ‘Like this?’
‘Similar.’ She frowns. ‘Maybe with more bling.’
‘Of course. More bling.’ The detective repeats her words, scowling. ‘Describe him for me, please.’
So she does: the height, the slight stoop, the immaculate suit and the polished shoes. The horse face, the sallow complexion, the long hair, the nicotine-stained fingers, a gold tooth, the sweet smell of his hair oil.
‘California Poppy,’ whispers Morris Montifore, as if talking to himself.
‘Pardon?’
‘His hair oil. California Poppy. Very popular once upon a time, sixty or seventy years ago. Almost impossible to find now.’
‘He said his name was Henry Livingstone.’
Montifore looks stunned, as if not quite able to believe it. ‘Yes, that’s him. His real name. Why would he tell you his real name?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Was he alone?’
‘No. There was another man. Short, a ball of muscles, like a powerlifter or something.’
‘Bald? With tattoos?’
‘That’s him. A spider web on his neck. Livingstone claimed he was an undercover cop.’
That elicits a derisory grunt from the policeman. ‘Joshua Spitt,’ he says. ‘Livingstone’s little mate. Fresh out of Silverwater.’
Mandy can see the concern on the detective’s face. ‘What is it?’
‘Spitt and Livingstone. Hard men. Killers. They didn’t harm you?’
‘No.’
‘I guess there’s a first time for everything.’ He’s about to say something else, but seems to think better of it. ‘I’ll need to speak with you some more. Tomorrow. More formally. And after I do, you and Martin should leave Sydney. As soon as possible.’
‘Martin? Where is he?’
The policeman smiles, gesturing towards something behind her.
Mandy turns. Martin Scarsden is standing at the top of the stairs, breathing hard, his face flushed. He sees them and starts towards her, a smile breaking across his face, and her spirits lift her to her feet.
In an apartment slowly warming, after the joy and the relief and the love-making, Martin can’t sleep, the normal post-coital stupor absent. He rolls over, and in the half-light of the city, leaking in through the blinds and onto their bed, he can see that Mandy is also awake, lying still, staring at the ceiling, eyes wide open. She’s told him all about her ordeal: held captive by Zelda Forshaw, tied to the shabby mattress, the appearance of the two fake policemen, Morris Montifore identifying them as the underworld thugs Spitt and Livingstone. And yet so much remains unsaid. He hesitates, bites his lip, a gesture learnt from her, but realises neither of them can escape into unconsciousness.
‘Tell me about him,’ he says quietly. ‘Tell me about Tarquin Molloy.’
She sighs, but says nothing, not for a very long time. When she does speak, her eyes remain fixed on the ceiling, her voice remote. ‘I loved him. It was the first time I ever properly loved anyone. We were engaged to be married—a fairy tale come true. But he cheated on me. He lied to me. And then he abandoned me.’
‘You don’t know that. He was killed. Murdered.’
‘Only after he had deceived me.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘He stole millions. He was planning it the whole time. He used me.’
‘Maybe he was trying to protect you?’
‘No. He used me, kept me in the dark. He never loved me.’ There is a hard edge to her voice.
Martin is unsure what to say. ‘You knew he was a cop?’
‘What?’
‘Montifore didn’t tell you?’
There is no response, but he senses her contained distress. Through the window comes the sound of sirens, cutting above the background orchestra of traffic. Martin feels a surge of compassion. He thinks of her life—childhood poverty and scandal in small-town Australia. And her three lovers: the murdered undercover cop Tarquin Molloy, the homicidal priest Byron Swift and the damaged journalist Martin Scarsden. Lucky her.
Finally she speaks. ‘All that means is that he played the cops for fools, like he did me and everyone else.’
He rolls over towards her, reaches out to comfort her, but she shrugs his hand away. ‘Don’t.’
He rolls back, joins her in staring at the ceiling. There are cobwebs and stains. He should clean, get someone in to repaint. He considers staying silent, to hope for sleep. Instead, he decides it’s time; time to put the past where it belongs: in the past. ‘You’ve never talked about it—what you did in all those years between leaving Riversend and returning.’
‘There’s not a lot to tell.’
‘Ten years?’
More silence, the city sounds again penetrating, washing over
