‘No. I told you. I don’t.’
‘It’s important,’ Vandenbruk persists. Then he seems to change tack, staring past her into an imagined distance, as if considering something of great import, before returning his gaze to her. ‘Can I take you into my confidence? Can I trust you?’
Mandy frowns. ‘How do you mean?’
‘I’ve been combing through the evidence. In the end, Zelda Forshaw confessed, you know that. She told the police all she knew, all about the help she gave Molloy. There’s one problem: it wouldn’t have been enough to give Molloy the access to steal all that money.’
‘What are you saying?’
‘He must have had other help. Others inside the bank with greater access.’
‘Well, that counts me out. I had very low-level clearance.’
Vandenbruk smiles. ‘Relax. I’m not accusing you. But you were engaged to him, knew him better than anyone. Can you remember anyone else he was close to, apart from you and Zelda? Sometimes, even the smallest memory can help, something that seems inconsequential in itself can help inform the larger picture.’
Mandy shrugs. ‘No. He was always interested in my work, who I met, who did what. The office gossip. I thought he was just interested in me. It was refreshing. In retrospect, maybe he was trawling for information. But I was very junior. I didn’t know anything, I didn’t know anyone important, I had nothing to give him.’
‘But you looked after the records of the traders. Rosters, holidays, and so on.’
‘Yes. That was part of my job.’
‘Did he ever ask about your co-workers? Their foibles, for example? You know, colleagues who liked to gamble, or who were having trouble with their bills, or who were in the closet, or who indulged in a bit of recreational drug use, that sort of thing?’
‘It’s possible. And if I’d heard something, I’m sure I would have told him. But, thinking back now, I can’t recall anything like that.’
‘Were you aware of any illicit drug use?’
‘No. Not then.’
‘Now?’
‘I was told someone died from a drug overdose not long after we were made redundant.’
‘Who was that?’
‘Clarity Sparkes. She worked in security.’
‘You didn’t know her?’
‘She interviewed me a couple of times. About my passwords and again when Tarquin disappeared. So I met her, but I can’t say I really knew her.’
‘And Tarquin? Was he close to her?’
Mandy shrugs. ‘Not that I know.’ Then she frowns, disturbed by the question. ‘But she was young and quite pretty in her own way.’
‘Who told you about her death?’
She recalls Winifred’s advice: ‘Remember, your own interests come first.’ She doesn’t want to tell Vandenbruk about Pam. Not Pam. ‘I think it must have been Inspector Montifore.’
Vandenbruk moves on. ‘So why do you think Tarquin Molloy was killed?’
She shrugs. ‘I really don’t know. He was an undercover cop; he manipulated me, he cultivated Zelda. But what he was really doing, what he was investigating, I have no idea. And the same with the money. The bank said it was missing, so we all believed it. Why wouldn’t we?’
Vandenbruk nods. ‘It probably was the money. We’re double-checking the accounts, but it looks pretty solid. It’s important we rule out all other possibilities, though.’ He smiles. This time it doesn’t look so forced. Maybe all the practice is starting to pay dividends.
But Mandy is not smiling. ‘Do you think I helped get him killed?’
‘By answering that security survey? By telling your boss about giving him the passwords?’
‘Yes.’
Vandenbruk shakes his head. ‘I doubt it. I really do. I don’t think you had much to do with what happened at all.’ He reaches out, gives her hand a reassuring pat. She allows it, even though she doesn’t need his comfort. ‘But rest assured, between Morris Montifore’s team and mine, we will get to the bottom of this: Morris will find out who killed Tarquin Molloy and I’ll find out why.’
Mandy feels as if the conversation is coming to an end, as if she is being discounted, a loose end tied up. ‘You never did explain: why did you come to Port Silver to see me?’
Vandenbruk smiles again. ‘To have this conversation. I didn’t want anyone to know I spoke to you.’
‘Why? Why the secrecy?’
The smile slides off the policeman’s face. ‘This is just between you and me, understood?’
‘Of course,’ says Mandy.
Vandenbruk frowns, choosing his words. ‘We’re working on the theory that Molloy was killed either because of the money, or because of his undercover work, or both. But there is another issue. How was he discovered? We have to look at all the possibilities.’
‘Such as?’
‘That someone on Molloy’s team gave him up. That there was a leak in the ACIC, the police.’
‘Are you serious?’
‘We have to be sure. Bloody sure. That’s why I didn’t want anyone to know I was talking to you. I still don’t.’
Mandy stares out past the counter at the bustling commuters, the uninterrupted flow of people. ‘Can they monitor you? Tarquin’s old colleagues, members of his team. Can they find out what you’re doing?’
‘Not easily. All the members of Molloy’s team have been moved on.’
‘As a precaution?’
‘I think I’ve said enough.’
‘Are they dangerous?’
He sighs, shrugs. ‘I don’t know. But let’s not risk it.’ He looks at the remains of his egg-and-bacon roll, forlorn on his plate. He picks it up, sinks his teeth into it. He wipes his hands on his pants, stands up, still chewing. ‘I’m glad we’ve had this talk, away from curious eyes. I’m most grateful to you. You are free to go, free to leave Sydney. In fact, I’d strongly recommend it.’
chapter twenty
Everything about Flanagan Mort is crumpled: his clothes, his face, his demeanour. The court reporter is among the last of a dying breed. Martin finds him in a bar full of suits—all of them in better repair than Flanagan’s—called the Flynn, a couple of blocks from the courthouses of Phillip Street. He’s inside, out of the wind, sitting on a lunchtime middy and studying the form guide so intently that he doesn’t notice Martin approaching.
‘Anything take your fancy?’
Flanagan
