WEDNESDAY
chapter twelve
For a moment, as he lingers, drifting between sleep and wakefulness, it seems all might be well with the world: the sheets are crisp, the air refined, her body warm under the covers. But with consciousness comes awareness; this is no holiday, the hotel no indulgence. The memory of the night comes back to him first: Mandy roiling in her insomnia, unable to settle, disturbing his own attempts at sleep. Now he’s waking properly and the memories of the previous day return: Max murdered, Eileen in shock, his apartment eviscerated. The recollections incite a rush of adrenaline and suddenly he’s utterly awake. Yet as he rises, he feels washed out: too awake, too exhausted.
It’s half past six in the morning. He looks across to her, sleeping at last, her face towards him, the innocence of unconsciousness.
He pulls back the heavy curtains a fraction, peers out. The light is flat and grey, the sky overcast. He closes the curtains, he showers, he dresses, as Mandy sleeps on.
Outside, the day is humourless, the wind hard and persistent. It comes gusting down the city canyons, swirling coffee cups and advertising flyers and takeaway wrappers. It’s not so long after dawn, the morning should still be at peace, yet the blustering day suggests much is underway, as if the story is already half told, that events can wait no longer. He walks with his head down: the air is full of grit, eager to get at his eyes.
Despite the weather, Martin feels the need to walk, as if exercise might dispel his fatigue. And so he stalks the city, past the sleeping homeless who care nothing for the first commuters emerging from the subway, who in turn care nothing for them. Martin sees it all and sees nothing, falling into step with the zombie workforce. And without making a conscious decision, he finds himself walking all the way through Hyde Park back into his own neighbourhood, back to Surry Hills and Aldo’s.
The wind leaves him at the cafe door: inside Aldo’s cocoon, the atmosphere is warm and the smell of coffee embracing. His old friend is manning the espresso machine, twisting the knobs and pulling the levers like the engineer on a steam train. His face breaks into a broad smile at the sight of Martin.
‘Marty! It’s true, you’re back.’
Martin reaches past the machine; they shake hands.
‘Aldo. Good to see you. How’s business?’
‘Shit, mate. Retail drought. People still aren’t spending.’
‘That bad?’
‘We’ve survived worse. We’ve all survived worse.’ He works the machine as he talks. ‘And coffee, mate; people need their coffee.’ And Aldo cracks an Aldo smile and the morning doesn’t seem so bleak, despite the rolling recession and the malicious squalls.
The steaming bowl of milk coffee, when it comes, is hot and strong and honest. The wind outside is starting to howl, but the cafe, with its worn wood and tired travel posters, is timeless, offering the sort of comfort only familiarity can bring. Martin carries his drink to a bench alongside the window, where he can look out onto the street, and picks up a gratis copy of the Sydney Morning Herald, still relatively unsullied this early in the day, and leafs through it, hoping his old paper might offer some clue to the horror of Max Fuller’s death. But the journal of record is silent—until he reaches page thirteen. And there it is, making it real, a brief report by his former colleague, crime reporter Bethanie Glass, under a say-nothing headline.
TWO DEAD AT BELLEVUE HILL
Police have confirmed that two people found dead at a Bellevue Hill house on Tuesday morning were the former editor of the Sydney Morning Herald, Mr Maximillian Fuller, and the distinguished Supreme Court judge Justice Elizabeth Torbett AO.
Police say there were no suspicious circumstances. The two were lifelong friends.
Justice Torbett was an eminent jurist, having served for more than a decade on the bench of the NSW Supreme Court. Previously, she was a District Court judge. As a prominent barrister and Senior Counsel, she was a leading light in the NSW Law Society in the 1990s. Justice Torbett was the daughter of the former justice of the NSW Supreme Court and the High Court of Australia, Sir Talbot Torbett AO.
Max Fuller was a distinguished newspaperman working across four decades, beginning as a copyboy on the Sydney evening paper, the Daily Mirror. Until recently he was the editor of the Sydney Morning Herald. Under his stewardship, the Herald was twice named PANPA newspaper of the year.
Martin finds it hard to believe. Ten centimetres on page thirteen, the last news story in the paper before the sudoku, the comics and the sport. No suspicious circumstances? The old media shorthand for suicide. And lifelong friends? What is that designed to convey? He pulls out his phone, rings Bethanie.
‘Martin? Jesus. Is that you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you have any idea what time it is?’
‘Half past seven. Normal people are up and going to work.’
‘Fuck that, I’m not a person, I’m a journalist.’ She takes a deep breath, loud enough for Martin to hear it down the phone. ‘What is it? What can’t wait?’
‘Your report on Max and Elizabeth Torbett—I thought Max might have been worth a bit more than ten centimetres.’
Bethanie doesn’t answer straight away and Martin wonders if she’s taken offence. Instead, when she does speak, she sounds apprehensive. ‘Martin, there’s something wrong. Can we meet?’
chapter thirteen
She wakes alone, Martin gone, his side of the bed already cold. She lies still for a moment, gathering herself, and in these first moments of consciousness, she’s aware that during the night, even as she slept, the resolve that first came to her in Martin’s apartment has solidified. The fear has diminished, the determination grown. Good.
He’s left a note. Couldn’t sleep. Gone walking. Call me. She knows Martin. Max’s death has badly
