And with that she rises from the bed and heads towards the kitchenette, knowing that sleep is beyond reach. Feeling as if she may never sleep again.
TUESDAY
chapter seven
Aldo’s is unchanged. The cafe on a laneway off Crown was Martin’s regular haunt back when he worked full-time at the Herald, in the years after he bought his apartment. He ignores the outside tables, like everyone else in the chill of the morning. Inside, two steps lead down, giving the place a slightly subterranean feel, but it’s warm and welcoming, the polished concrete floor softened by the dark stained wood of tables and stools. Aldo himself is nowhere to be seen; his son Louie is manning the espresso machine.
‘Martin. Your usual?’
‘Thanks, Louie.’
‘I’ll bring it over.’
It’s been two months since he was last here, but suddenly Martin feels like he’s home, so much more than in the apartment. He sits at the bench by the concertina windows, usually open but closed today. Outside the sun is shining: an exemplary Sydney winter’s day, the perfect rebuttal of the night’s rain, the sky a vivid blue above the persistent shadows of Surry Hills. Soon it will warm up, but not yet. Across the street a cat is curled in a doorway, soaking up the sunlight in anticipation. When the coffee arrives, it tastes as if it’s been consecrated: rich, strong, smooth. He hasn’t missed Sydney, but he’s missed Aldo’s coffee. For all his efforts and expensive gadgetry, he’s yet to master the perfect cup at home. He closes his eyes and takes another sip. The world has corrected itself: his late-night concerns seem inconsequential. Mandy is safe and nothing else matters. She’ll spend the morning with Montifore; sooner or later, the police will arrest her kidnappers. With any luck, long before that, the two of them can leave Sydney, drive back over the Hawkesbury, back to Port Silver, the cogs of this great machine of a city whirring on without them. He imagines the scene: he and Mandy reunited with Liam. A big sprawling lunch with Vern and Josie and their extended family to celebrate, outside in the balmy weather of the north coast. Later, they’d head down to the beach, go back to waving at whales. And then, in private, over many months if that is what it takes, he can help Mandy come to terms with her past, just as she has helped him.
But first he needs to go and see Max, to explain in person why he can’t stay in Sydney, why he can’t participate in the scoop of the century. At the same time, if he’s being honest, he’s still intrigued. Not in the story, but in what his former editor might tell him about the mystery man, Tarquin Molloy, the man whom Mandy agreed to marry. The wall on his flat has enough trophies; he doesn’t need any more, but he desperately wants to help Mandy reconcile with her past.
His phone buzzes in his jacket pocket. It’s Winifred Barbicombe.
‘Winifred. Hello.’
The lawyer doesn’t bother with greetings, her voice matter-of-fact. ‘I’ve just arrived in Sydney. The police want a statement from Mandy and probably a formal interview as well. I’m heading straight to the station.’
‘Does Mandy know? She was asleep when I left her.’
‘Yes. I just spoke to her.’
‘So how can I help?’
‘It’s probably inconsequential now, but I looked up those names—the ones Montifore mentioned up in Port Silver. Atticus Pons and George Giopolis.’
‘Never heard of them. Who are they?’
‘Giopolis is a property developer. Pons is a lawyer, a senior partner in Phipps Allenby Lockhart. Commercial law. Phipps is where Molloy purportedly worked while he was undercover.’
‘So, about sixteen months ago, Montifore floated Pons’s name in an interview with Mandy?’
‘That’s right.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘I don’t know. It’s possible Pons was helping with the police investigation, that he provided Molloy with his cover. But that’s just a guess.’
‘What about Giopolis?’
‘He’s wealthy, self-made, well connected. His family develops industrial parks. I can’t see any reason why Montifore raised his name.’
‘Right. Well, it probably doesn’t matter now Mandy is safe. I’m off to see my old editor. He may know something about Molloy. I’ll see if the names mean anything to him.’
He hails a cab, deciding to leave the Subaru cosseted in the underground car park. Hopefully, by tomorrow they’ll be gone. The taxi winds through the familiar streets, up Moore Park Road and along Oxford Street, Martin gazing out at the morning rush, the commuters at bus stops, the clog of traffic, the city back to normal. And then turning off, into the quieter streets of Bellevue Hill. The air is sweeter up here: less exhaust, more money. The cab drops him outside the protective wall surrounding Max’s place. Martin has been here many times, at dinners hosting the city’s movers and shakers, at more informal weekend lunches full of wine and conjecture. Today, the gate is open and welcoming. For a moment he stands and breathes in the street: the trees, the peace under the cloudless canopy, the post-rain clarity. Between the houses opposite, he can catch glimpses of the harbour, the blue expanse, the glittering city, all of its promises within reach.
He walks through the gate, following the path via a small garden towards the front stairs. There he finds Max’s wife Eileen, sunning herself on the stairs, sitting with her eyes closed.
‘Eileen. Good morning.’
‘Oh. Martin. It’s you.’
‘Yes. Lovely morning, isn’t it?’
‘Just beautiful.’ She smiles.
‘Is Max in?’
‘Yes, he’s in the sitting room.’
‘Can I go through?’
‘Of course. And Martin?’
‘Yes?’
‘He’s dead.’
Words fail him. He stares at her. Her face is benign, but on her hands, clasped tightly before her, is the smallest smear of
