‘You copied them?’
‘No, that would have left an electronic trace, and we were worried we were being watched.’
‘By whom?’
‘There was a lot of CCTV.’
‘So what did you do?’
‘Each day’s dump was protected by a thirty-six-character alphanumeric identifying number.’
‘You’d write them down?’
‘I’d remember them.’
‘Remember them? Thirty-six characters? Alpha-numeric? How could you do that?’
‘Tarquin taught me mnemonics, at the casino.’
‘The casino?’
‘Counting cards.’
And for a moment, Martin says nothing, mouth open, at a loss for words. And then he laughs, shaking his head. ‘Well, I’ll be fucked.’
She feels herself starting to smile, his unexpected reaction a lift. But it’s a passing sensation. ‘I’m scared, Martin.’
‘Why? You didn’t do anything wrong. The guy was still an arsehole. He still manipulated you, lied to you. You didn’t know about the money, what he was planning to do.’
‘Zelda suspects I was involved. Others must too. Claus Vandenbruk. Mollisons must have had some reason to sack me.’
‘Maybe. After they reset your passwords, did you share them with Molloy again?’
‘No. He thought that was unwise.’ She takes a drink. ‘Do you think I should come clean and tell the cops? Montifore?’
He shakes his head without hesitation. ‘No. No way. Right now, you’re in the clear. Neither the police nor Mollisons found against you. If word gets out you were in the know, either you’ll end up in prison like Zelda Forshaw or some arsehole with a gun will think you can lead him to ten million dollars.’
‘I guess,’ she says. And she smiles. He’s on her side. Martin is on her side! And for a moment that’s enough. She sips her drink, which is already tasting better. ‘Do you believe in fate?’ she asks.
‘This again? We’ve had this conversation before.’
‘You still say no?’
‘That’s right.’
‘And karma?’
‘I don’t see what karma has to do with anything.’
‘You don’t think it strange? Down in Riversend, I tried to put Byron Swift behind me, but he wouldn’t stay buried. You come along and I find out that Byron Swift wasn’t his real name. And now it’s happening again. Tarquin Molloy was someone else. How can that happen twice? I couldn’t leave Riversend until I learnt who Byron was and why he did what he did. How can I return to Port Silver, to our life, unless I find out who Tarquin was, what he was really doing?’
And now she can see there is no longer any conflict on Martin’s face; there is only concern. And love. She takes another slug of her brandy. She needs to tell him about the Turtle; maybe this is a good time.
But suddenly, the affection leaves his eyes, and his eyes leave hers. ‘What the hell is that?’
She turns, sees what he is looking at: the television. The news. She recognises the reporter, Doug Thunkleton, remembering him from Riversend and Port Silver. He’s standing in front of a police car, addressing the camera, his face communicating gravity, even with the sound down.
‘That’s Max’s house,’ says Martin as he leaps to his feet, rushes over to the barman. ‘Hey, mate. The remote. Can you turn it up, please?’
The barman looks confused. On the screen is a slow zoom in to a page in the Sydney Morning Herald: TWO DEAD AT BELLEVUE HILL.
‘Please. It’s important.’
The barman retrieves a remote from beneath the bar, points it at the set and releases the volume. On the screen, Doug is walking up to a man fetching his mail from a suburban letterbox. His voiceover is deep and weighted with significance. ‘And yet the neighbours know of no such investigation.’ The edit cuts to a close-up of the man.
‘Yes, I read about it in the paper. It’s terrible.’
‘Have the police interviewed you?’
‘No. Why would they?’
‘You do live next door?’
‘Yes. Of course.’
Before the man can add anything else, the shot returns to Doug. A second piece to camera. ‘Police may say they are investigating the possibility of foul play, and yet almost two days after Max Fuller and Elizabeth Torbett died, homicide detectives have not even asked neighbours if they witnessed anything suspicious.’ There’s an ominous pause, then the sign-off, full of confected portent. ‘Doug Thunkleton. Ten News.’
Martin turns to her, eyes wide. On the television, the news has moved on to a story about the government’s budget plunging even further into the red.
‘Bludger pollies. You want to watch?’ asks the barman.
‘No,’ says Martin. ‘No, thanks.’ The barman happily mutes the prime minister in mid-spin. ‘Good old Doug,’ Martin says to her, grinning.
She can see the glint in his eye, his nostrils dilated as if to catch the scent of the story. He’s not going back to Port Silver, she knows that. And neither is she.
THURSDAY
chapter eighteen
He’s awake early, eyes open, mind churning a good half-hour before his alarm. Beside him Mandy is asleep, limbs splayed, covers in disarray, testimony to another restless night. Yet he imagines she has slept easier. She’d told him, trusted him with her secret: that she’d helped Molloy to steal his millions after all. Not knowingly, to be sure, but the police were unlikely to be sympathetic: she’d stolen confidential information, memorising the alpha-numeric codes. Technically, she’s guilty of theft, maybe of fraud, or of being an accessory to fraud. And afterwards, when the police investigated, when the company did the same, she had lied, pleading ignorance of Molloy’s activities. So the police could pursue her for obstructing the course of justice as well. And now she’s a wealthy woman, the bank could possibly pursue her for reparations.
But for all of that, he can’t help but sympathise with her. When Molloy disappeared, when she heard of the missing millions, who could blame her for denying any involvement? Surely her heartache was punishment enough? True, she had never confided in Martin, not even told him of her engagement to Molloy, but she’s trusted him now. He looks at her sleeping form and tells himself it must remain their secret, too dangerous to
