He doesn’t want to enter the house, but he knows he must; he owes it to the traumatised woman quietly going into shock on her own front step. And he owes it to Max.
He smells it, of course, before he sees it: the blood and the shit and the other thing, that strange sweet smell that accompanies death. Max is indeed in the sitting room. He’s slumped against a sideboard, naked from the waist down, wearing stockings gone awry. Around his neck, a choker leash, tied to a sideboard, cutting into his neck. His face is blue and distorted, eyes engorged, tongue bulbous and blue. Jesus.
Lying face down on the other side of the room is another body. A woman, not a young woman: a bra, stockings, no knickers, her flesh flaccid, the back of her head a volcanic red hole, a gun in her limp hand. Jesus Christ.
He takes one more look then backs out of the room, creeping, as if not to disturb them, as if to exclude himself from their reality.
Outside, he lowers himself onto the steps beside Eileen, holding his breath, trying not to shake, trying not to make a sound. He places his hand on her shoulder, looks down at her hands with the red streak. She doesn’t flinch, doesn’t move. The morning remains sunny and still, resolutely untarnished by what has occurred inside the house. In the distance, through the houses, the harbour still glints, white sails carving through the gaps.
‘I was in Bowral last night,’ she says. ‘I just got back. I knew something was wrong. The door wasn’t locked. The alarm wasn’t on. I’ve called the police.’
‘It’s okay, Eileen, they’ll be here soon enough.’
And they are. No sirens, just a quiet swoosh as the squad car pulls up to the kerb beyond the wall. Two constables walk through the open gate, a man and a woman, stiff and apprehensive. To Martin they seem too young to witness what the world is about to show them.
‘Mrs Fuller?’ asks the policewoman. ‘Are you Eileen Fuller? The woman who phoned?’
‘Yes,’ says Eileen. ‘They’re inside. Please go through. You’ll forgive me if I stay here?’
‘Of course. And you, sir?’
‘Martin Scarsden. A friend of the family. I just arrived.’
The police enter, spend no more than a minute inside. The policeman, looking grim, is speaking on his phone as he walks back down the path towards his car. ‘Homicide, please,’ he says.
chapter eight
It isn’t an interview room, more like a meeting room, with a small conference table surrounded by a dozen chairs, and on the walls innocuous black-and-white prints of the harbour city: the bridge, the Opera House, Luna Park. It might as well be wallpaper, for all the difference it makes: she’s still in police headquarters, there’s a tape recorder on the table and a constable in the corner. Mandy feels as if she’s about to be grilled, as if she’s guilty. She feels guilty, knows herself to be guilty; she’s just not sure of which crime. At least her lawyer, Winifred, is here with her, as supportive as always, showing no sign that her advancing years or the early morning flight from Melbourne have blunted her scimitar mind.
Morris Montifore enters, looking dishevelled and apologetic. Not so his assistant, Ivan Lucic, his suit a cut above his superior’s; superficially neutral and businesslike, he carries with him unspoken aggressions. Mandy tells herself it’s his default disposition, directed at the world in general and not at her in particular. Montifore sits, Lucic remains standing. The senior man mouths the niceties, then the necessities, and launches into it, as if time is short and this is just one more task on a long list.
‘We are investigating the murder five years ago of a man known to you as Tarquin Molloy. Our investigators have confirmed that you were interstate, on the Gold Coast, at the time that Molloy disappeared. You are not a suspect in his murder. However, we are hoping you might be of assistance to our investigation. Are you willing to assist?’
‘Of course.’ Mandy keeps her voice measured, cautious.
‘Ms Blonde, you’re aware that Tarquin Molloy was a police officer, working undercover?’
‘I am now. But I wasn’t then.’
‘When did you find out?’
‘Last night. After you neglected to tell me at dinner.’
‘I see.’ Montifore makes a note. ‘My apologies. I should have told you.’ Behind him, Lucic grimaces, as if apologising to the public contravenes the code of conduct.
‘What was he investigating?’ asks Mandy.
‘Sorry?’
‘He was an undercover police officer. He was murdered. Now you want my help. So perhaps you can tell me what it was all about.’
Winifred nods her support and encouragement, but Lucic shakes his head as if in disbelief. Mandy glares at the junior officer.
Montifore notices the exchange and turns to his subordinate. ‘Ivan, give us a minute, will you?’
Lucic shrugs, as if indicating he couldn’t care less about the interview, and saunters from the room. The constable in the corner remains impassive.
Montifore leans back, pauses to think, but answers the question nevertheless. ‘Money laundering. Tax evasion. High-level corruption. You name it, Molloy was chasing it.’
‘Right.’
The policeman spreads his hands, a conciliatory gesture. ‘But that’s not why I’m here. I’m a homicide detective; I’m investigating his death, nothing more.’
‘Okay, how can I help?’ she asks, her tone measured.
‘Tell me about Molloy. How did you meet?’
‘At the casino—the Star—late one night. He’d had a big win in the high-rollers room. He took a shine to me, bought me a drink, then something to eat. He was handsome. Nice hair, nice smile, nice suit. Charming. Polite. He didn’t try to race me off. Instead he listened to what I had to say. At the end of the night he requested my phone number, asked if he could call me.’
‘He liked gambling?’
‘Loved it.’
‘And you were already working at Mollisons, the investment bank?’
‘No.’
