He gets out of bed, careful not to disturb her, and his mind, having made its decision, moves on. His yearning for coffee is profound, a physical need. Up on the coast, he might not brew a cup until mid-morning. Some days he’d go without altogether, not even missing it. But back here, in the city, in the midst of it, chasing a story, the craving is back. He’s considering heading to Aldo’s even before showering, when his phone rings.
It’s an unknown number, but he answers nevertheless. Things are moving in the world and he wants to know what they are: the lassitude of Port Silver is gone.
‘Martin Scarsden.’
‘Good morning, Martin. It’s Eileen Fuller.’ The voice is no-nonsense, the inflections of grief absent.
‘Eileen? How are you?’
‘Cheesed off. That’s what I am.’
‘Right.’ Martin can hear the irritation in her voice. ‘How can I help?’
‘Come and see me. I’m at my brother’s place.’ She gives him the address and terminates the call.
Martin showers and gets dressed, all the time thinking, his mind alight even without caffeine. He considers Eileen, who appeared shattered just two days ago, sitting outside the house containing the bodies of Max Fuller and Elizabeth Torbett, now demanding his attendance, sounding as hard-headed and focused as her late husband. What has happened to stir her? Doug Thunkleton’s report maybe.
The apartment block in Elizabeth Bay looks plain from the street: three solid storeys of brown brick softened by a few Art Deco flourishes, fronted by a small, well-tended garden comprising lawn and rosebushes. Polished brass handrails lead up the short flight of steps to the entrance alcove. Six intercom buttons are mounted on a panel beside the door, one of the top flats apparently empty, with a CCTV camera hovering above. Martin buzzes apartment five, identifies himself to the disembodied voice, hears the wooden and etched-glass door click open.
Inside the entrance hall, an expensive-looking kilim leads across a polished hardwood floor; there’s an oil painting in a gilt frame on the salmon-painted walls. There’s money here; this is a common area. Martin eschews the lift and climbs the steps, solid oak with matching banisters, soft carpet held firm by brass runners. Apartment five is on the top floor. There is no apartment six: the door is still there, but a sign says TRADE. The door to apartment five opens before Martin can knock. There is a middle-aged Asian woman wearing an apron over a grey cotton dress. ‘Mr Scarsden? Please come through.’ The maid’s accent is Singaporean; more refined than most university graduates.
Inside, she has him wait for a moment, giving him an opportunity to look around. The apartment is saved from opulence by its taste. The ceilings are high, the walls are white, the rooms are flooded by light, skylights augmenting windows. Martin searches for the seam where the two apartments have been joined but looks in vain; the entire interior must have been gutted and rebuilt. The furnishings are traditional but their arrangement is uncluttered, almost minimalist, the walls adorned with paintings by artists prominent enough for Martin to recognise some of them: John Brack, Fred Williams, Grace Cossington Smith. Everything is spotlessly clean, everything perfectly positioned, nothing out of place. Martin feels admiration for the maid’s work ethic.
She returns and leads him through to the back of the apartment, bathed in the glowing light of Sydney Harbour. The entire top two-thirds of the front wall has been replaced by glass concertina windows, superficially similar to those at Aldo’s, double-glazed and framed in cedar. This day they are closed, yet the space is flooded with the view, the harbour stretching out before him towards the heads. The apartment sits high above the shoreline, and the panorama is full of sky and sea: the world in cinemascope. There is more sun today and the wind has slackened, but it’s still strong enough to animate the vista, propelling small clouds, their shadows scuttling across the ruffled harbour surface. He wants to open the window and reach out, check that it’s real and not a projection, this other Sydney of water and sky and dynamic light. Even glassed off, it reaches back into the room itself, embracing Eileen Fuller as she sits in a wicker chair alongside a man who must be her brother, the two of them looking out into the azure abyss, their backs to Martin. There’s a moment of silence, a pause, with only the harbour moving.
‘Mr Scarsden,’ announces the maid, breaking the tableau.
‘Martin, thank you so much for coming,’ says Eileen, rising to greet him, as does the man. Her handshake is firm, yet her eyes are red. Her hair is pulled back in a loose bun, a few stray hairs resisting containment. ‘This is my brother Benjamin,’ she says.
Martin shakes the man’s hand and looks into his face, seeking and finding the family resemblance. The siblings are of similar size and age; Eileen wears little make-up and her hair is grey; her brother’s face is more polished, the tan of a sailor or a sunbaker, and his hair appears to be dyed haystack blond, a professional job. Martin has words of praise for the apartment forming on his tongue as Eileen continues: ‘Ben is married—was married—to Elizabeth Torbett.’
‘I see,’ says Martin. ‘I’m so sorry for your loss. How terrible for the two of you.’
‘Thank you,’ says Benjamin. He too is showing the strain, slightly bent in his posture, deflated by the events of the week. The two must be in their early sixties; today, they look more elderly, as if old age has arrived precipitously during the night.
‘Come, let us sit,’ says Eileen, leading them away from the luminous view, back into the apartment where armchairs circle a
