Martin orders himself a coffee and mass-produced muffin, declining the offer to have it microwaved. They sit across from each other amid the clattering noise bouncing around the hard surfaces of the mall. The glassed-in food court has evolved into some sort of unintentional aviary: seagulls squabble, just for the heck of it or practising for the discarded chips that will come later in the day; a couple of pigeons warble on a ledge above a sushi booth; and an ibis, one of the much-maligned bin chickens, stalks around like an escapee from Jurassic Park. Martin and Bethanie exchange pleasantries: she inquires after the health of Mandy and Liam; Martin compliments her work and her promotion to the investigative unit; she praises his latest book, recounting the events in Port Silver early the previous year, when they had worked so closely together.
He’s the first to break the superficiality. ‘So, what’s the story with Max?’
She avoids his gaze, looking instead out at the passing parade. One of the seagulls has lost a few feathers and is holding its wing at an unusual angle. ‘I wrote a much longer piece. It was cut by the subs. Severely.’
‘Not so unusual. These straitened times, these straitened resources.’
‘It wasn’t just cut. That crap about no suspicious circumstances—I never wrote that.’
‘And “lifelong friends”?’
‘Of course not.’
‘So what happened?’
‘I don’t know. Some sub changed it.’
‘What’s that even meant to convey, do you think? Lifelong friends?’
‘I told you. I didn’t write it.’
‘I know. I’m just asking your opinion.’
‘It sounds like they were having an affair.’
‘So why would a sub insert that?’
Bethanie frowns. ‘I heard that the bodies … That they were found in a compromising position. It was all over the newsroom. Maybe the sub was alluding to that.’
It doesn’t sound right to Martin. Why cut so much of Bethanie’s copy, only to insert that? He tries another tack. ‘Sometimes women have a very different opinion of men than other men do. Particularly of men in positions of power. Did you ever get the impression that Max was a player?’
Bethanie must see the distress it causes him to ask the question: she reaches out, takes his hand. ‘Never, Martin. Never. Not personally, not second-hand, not on the rumour mill. You know that: Max was the mentor to generations.’
Martin feels a moment of relief, but it’s fleeting. Maybe it’s true, maybe Max and Elizabeth Torbett were long-time lovers. Maybe someone at the Herald knows it. Maybe that explains why they wanted to curtail the story.
‘I raised it with D’Arcy Defoe,’ says Bethanie, as if following Martin’s thought process. ‘He’s the head of investigations now, did you know that?’
‘I heard.’
‘I wish you’d come back full-time. It’s just D’Arcy, me and a cadet in investigations. He’s not always the most collegiate.’
Martin laughs. ‘Yeah. He likes to run his own race. Nothing wrong with that.’
Bethanie returns the laugh. ‘Yeah. That may be about the only thing you two have in common.’
‘He’s a good reporter, don’t forget that. And a better writer than I’ll ever be.’
‘You’re the one with the bestselling true crime books.’
Martin smiles that one off. ‘So what did D’Arcy say?’
‘He agreed it was outrageous and said he’d raise it in conference.’
‘You know if he did?’
‘No. You should ask him.’
‘Maybe I should.’ Martin pauses. A bin chicken has come to contest the turf with the seagulls. They squawk, scatter and reassemble, bubbling with resentment. ‘You don’t think D’Arcy was behind the changes to your copy?’
‘No. Why would he be? He’s working on an obituary for Max, pushing for a full page. I thought he might call you, ask for a few anecdotes.’
‘Not yet.’ He picks at his muffin, wondering what’s taking so long with his coffee. ‘Did you have much to do with Max recently?’
She shakes her head. ‘Not a lot. He wasn’t in the office so much. I reckon he was still gutted over losing the editorship, especially after our coverage of the murders out west was vindicated. But just lately, he seemed really happy, like the old Max.’
‘He’d found a big story, a cracker,’ volunteers Martin.
‘You knew that?’
‘Yeah, he told me. Wanted me to work on it with him. Do you have any idea what it was?’
‘No. But you’re right. There was a gleam in his eye and a spring in his step. He was working on something significant, for sure. Mainly from home, but he was in the office sometimes. Remember all those filing cabinets of his? All those old clippings, decades’ worth? He was dumpster diving, going back to look at the pre-digital stuff.’ She sips some coffee, grimacing at the quality. ‘He was keeping it close to his chest, though. One time he asked me how much I knew about Changi.’
‘Changi? The airport in Singapore?’
‘No. The prisoner-of-war camp. Second World War. He wasn’t sure if my generation knew about it.’
‘And do you?’
She looks at him sardonically. ‘Martin, my generation has been force-fed the Anzac tradition until it’s coming out our ears.’
‘You’re probably right about that.’ My generation? How old does she think he is?
‘When I heard that Max was dead, I tried to find out what he was working on, but there was nothing. His personal baskets were empty, the drive clean enough to eat your lunch off. Nothing.’
‘You’d need his passwords to know that.’
‘So I would. Don’t ask. The important thing is that his drive has been erased.’
‘What are you saying?’
‘I don’t know. But it smells, don’t you think?’
‘Who could wipe his drive? Who would have the authority?’
She shrugs. ‘You’d need someone from IT, I guess, but someone high up in the Herald would need to authorise it. I made inquiries.’ ‘And?’
‘I’ve a friend in IT. We’re on the same indoor cricket team. She had a look for me. First thing she could tell me was that it was deliberate. She ran a data recovery program; you know, they use it all the time when some boomer accidentally deletes a file. There was nothing left. Not a byte.’
‘Does the
