Another tram enters the station, heading towards the city. And this time she stands, boards it. She feels the need to ride, to set events in motion. If the Turtle has worked through the implications of taking the video to the police, she needs to do the same. She needs to work out what to tell Montifore. And what not.
chapter twenty-two
Martin is still standing on the footpath outside the bar when his phone rings. It displays a number, a landline, but no identification.
‘Martin Scarsden,’ he answers gruffly.
‘It’s Talbot Torbett here. You rang me, I believe.’
The father. ‘I did. Thanks for returning my call. I wonder if I might talk to you about Elizabeth?’
‘Hmmm. Yes. I think we might manage that. Can you come to my home? Centennial Park.’
‘Of course.’
‘Good. You can come straight away, if it’s convenient.’
‘It is.’
The judge gives him the address and finishes the call with no further discussion.
Martin hails a cab, replaying the short conversation in his mind. Is he mistaken, or did the old judge sound eager to talk?
The house in Centennial Park is modest in its dimensions and impressive in its status. Having spent twenty years based in Sydney, Martin is not immune to the city’s obsession with real estate, even if he’s less fixated than most. He’s long been aware of this enclave, a couple of blocks of houses between the green expanses of Moore and Centennial parks, but he’s never had a reason to visit it. There is no through traffic; it’s an island of wealth, surrounded by parkland. The cab drops Martin off. There are security gates protecting a circular driveway, but a pedestrian gate is open wide. Inside, there are palm trees and a couple of massive Moreton Bay fig trees, leaves rustling in the wind. A big BMW sits in the drive, polished to a gleaming black, the sort of car that the owner doesn’t drive but rides in the back. The house is made of sandstone, brick and render, a century old, a melange of Art Deco and something older and more ambitious. It’s sited on a slight rise, gifting it an imposing air beyond its two storeys.
The door is opened by a man too well-dressed to be a butler. The suit is immaculate, the tie from somewhere a lot more expensive than Ichiban Computers and Scarvery. ‘I’m Titus Torbett,’ the man says, offering his hand. ‘Elizabeth’s brother.’
‘Martin Scarsden,’ he replies, covering his surprise. He wasn’t aware there was a brother. ‘I’m sorry for your loss.’
The handshake is unremarkable, neither pretentious in its firmness nor disappointing in its limpness. A Goldilocks handshake. The same can be said for the man himself: his face is neither handsome nor ugly, his hair neither thick nor thin, his physique neither impressive nor dissolute. Martin places him at about sixty, a professional in his prime.
‘Thank you. Before you come in, would you mind? Father will be ninety-eight this year.’ He hands Martin some alcohol-based sanitiser.
‘Of course,’ says Martin, cleansing his hands.
‘Thank you. Father won’t be a moment.’
Titus leads him into a modest lounge and leaves him there, a comfortable room lacking ostentatious displays of affluence or influence. It’s furnished with aged chesterfields. A bay window overlooks a rose garden, the breeze animating a large tree. The paintings are the giveaway; one looks suspiciously like a Drysdale, another like a Nolan. On the mantelpiece are a couple of fading family photographs. There’s one from way back, maybe the 1970s, Sir Talbot and his wife, plus the two children, Elizabeth and Titus, the elder brother with a protective arm around his younger sister. There’s not a single indication of Sir Talbot’s lofty career: not an oil painting of him in his robes, no photos of him with prime ministers, no images of him receiving honorary doctorates. Martin pulls out his phone and takes a snap of the family pictures. Then he takes a seat in a large leather armchair, before realising that he’s subconsciously chosen the correct position: the chair opposite is clearly Sir Talbot’s favourite, worn and lopsided from use, close to the window for light and the view over the gardens, sandwiched between occasional tables stacked high with books. One carries all four volumes of Churchill’s A History of the English-Speaking Peoples. He remembers it from university: well-written, if self-serving.
He’s sitting there when his phone pings. It’s a message from Mandy. See attached. She’s sent him a video. But before he can open it, Sir Talbot enters the room. Martin has been expecting some sort of invalid, wheeled in by Titus, not this spry old man, rake-thin and only slightly stooped, with a mop of white hair, as if a teenager has been photoshopped into an old man. He’s rather small; Martin had somehow thought that High Court judges should carry significant heft. Maybe he once did. Martin stands and shakes the man’s hand, feeling the bones through the thin skin, like chicken bones in a paper bag.
‘Martin, forgive me for keeping you waiting. I wanted to reassure Titus I’m happy talking to you.’ He eases himself into
