Martin turns to Eileen. ‘So what was Max working on? I spoke to him on the phone the night before his death. He said he was on to some huge story, some grand conspiracy.’
‘I don’t know.’ For a moment her grief rises as if to reclaim her: a life together of trust and mutual support, and at the last he had kept his project from her.
Benjamin fills the silence, as if in consideration for his sister: ‘One night we were having dinner, Elizabeth and I, eating in silence. She was still preoccupied by whatever it was that had happened at work. It was like you could hear the cogs grinding inside her skull. Eventually she asked me what I’d been doing during the day. It wasn’t a real question, she didn’t care about the answer; she was only asking out of politeness, to acknowledge I was there. I said I’d had lunch with Eileen. And it was like a little light turned on in her mind. After dinner she went to her study. Nothing strange about that. Next morning, before heading to court, she asked me for Max and Eileen’s number. Next thing we know, the two of them, Lizzie and Max, are locked away together, working on something.’
‘But on what?’
‘We don’t know. But the obvious conclusion is that Max was writing something based on what Elizabeth had learnt at work.’
‘Okay, that makes sense. But you really have no idea what that might be?’
Now it’s Eileen who answers. ‘None. Sorry. They were very secretive about it. Perhaps they were trying to protect us.’ Again, some emotion creeps into her voice, however fleetingly. ‘It started getting on my wick. That’s why I went to Bowral to visit friends. To get away.’
‘Tell me,’ says Martin, ‘did Max work on a laptop or a desk computer?’
‘He had a laptop,’ says Eileen. ‘It’s missing.’
Martin blinks. ‘Do the police know?’
‘Of course.’
‘Did he have a second laptop, one he kept at the Herald?’
‘He did, but it won’t do you any good. He wiped it.’
‘He wiped it? How could you know that?’
‘He told me. I called him from Bowral on Sunday night, but I couldn’t get him on the landline. I got him on his mobile instead, and he said he’d been in to work to pick up some files and to wipe his laptop, that he wasn’t comfortable leaving it there.’
‘Did he say why?’
Again, Martin sees emotion shadow Eileen’s face. ‘He said he wasn’t sure he could publish with the Herald. He wanted to ask your opinion of Wellington.’
‘What?’ To Martin it sounds unbelievable, heretical: the Herald was Max’s life. ‘What happened? Did he say?’
‘No. He said he wanted to talk to you about it.’
‘To me? Why?’
‘He wouldn’t tell me.’
Martin blinks. ‘So everything was on his personal laptop. Do you know if he had a backup? A hard drive? Did he save things to the cloud?’
‘If there were a hard drive, it’s gone as well.’ She shakes her head, as if in dismay. ‘Just another question the police have failed to ask. But I know where he kept some of his passwords. I’ll check to see if there’s anything there.’
‘Thanks, Eileen. It’s essential we learn what they were working on.’ He turns to Benjamin. The brother is holding a china cup, his little finger extended. ‘Tell me: your wife was a Supreme Court judge—I’m guessing she was very well connected in the legal and political establishment.’
‘I should say so.’
‘So what could possibly disturb her so badly yet leave her unable to address it either through formal channels or through her establishment connections? Why would she feel her only outlet was to go to the media and cooperate with Max?’
‘I can’t imagine what it could possibly be. She was very discreet, very cautious. As I said, she would never discuss her cases with me. To speak to a journalist was anathema. She was a conservative: she believed in the system.’
Martin looks from one to the other. ‘Did either of them ever mention a man called Tarquin Molloy?’
Benjamin shakes his head. ‘No,’ Eileen says, but there is a gleam in her eye. She thinks Martin knows something.
‘I see. Well, if there is anything you recall or discover or even guess at, tell me. Without knowing what they were working on, I doubt I can find out any more than the police. Writing a piece on what really happened to them may be a lot more difficult than it sounds.’
‘Do your best, Martin,’ says Eileen. She reaches across the polished tabletop to place her hand on his. ‘Like I said, stir the possum, shake the tree. Don’t let those usurpers at the Herald bury this under their clickbait and frippery.’
Martin finishes his coffee and is about to stand when he remembers what Bethanie told him.
‘What about Changi? Did either of them mention Changi?’
‘Changi? As in Singapore Changi?’ asks Benjamin.
‘Yes. There was a Japanese prisoner-of-war camp there during the Second World War.’
‘Thanks for that insight, Martin; our generation is well aware of its history,’ says Eileen. ‘What about it?’
‘It’s possible what they were working on may have had something to do with Changi. Neither of them have been there, I suppose?’ ‘No. We’ve been to Singapore but not the old prison. I don’t even know if it’s still there.’ Eileen is adamant, but a cloud has come over Benjamin’s face.
‘What is it?’ asks Martin.
‘Elizabeth’s father, Sir Talbot. He was there.’
‘At Changi?’
‘Yes. During the war. But he never talks about it.’
‘You mean he’s still alive?’
‘Very much so.’ Benjamin shakes his head. ‘He’s absolutely gutted by Elizabeth’s death. She was always the apple of his eye.’
‘Do you have a phone number for him?’
‘Of course.’
When they’ve finished talking, the maid shows Martin out, as if to ensure he hasn’t trousered the silverware. The door closes, the glowing light from the apartment is denied him, and the stairwell seems almost dingy, less impressive on the way down than it was on the way up.
Before he leaves he makes the most
