‘I showed you how Mollisons works,’ says Zelda. ‘Now, I need your help.’
‘How?’ asks Mandy warily.
‘I have no money. If I’m going to win compensation, I’m going to need a lawyer.’
Mandy says nothing.
‘In return, I’ll give you everything I find, everything I know.’
‘All right,’ says Mandy eventually. ‘I have a lawyer. A very good one. I’ll instruct her to assist you.’
‘I’d prefer my own.’
‘You won’t find one as good as Winifred. And if you’re her client, you’re protected. Lawyer–client privilege; she can’t tell me anything.’ Mandy hesitates. ‘Are you sure you want to pursue this?’
‘Why wouldn’t I? I want what’s owed me.’
‘Henry Livingstone? Organised crime?’
Zelda looks at her ruefully, then laughs. ‘Fuck it. What have I got to lose?’
Derek makes a guttural exclamation; the spoon is caught up in his mouth, tangled in the wiring, mousse smeared across his chin.
chapter twenty-four
Titus Torbett gives Martin a lift back to the city in the BMW. It seems the limousine belongs to him, not his father.
‘This is very good of you,’ offers Martin as the car glides away from the house.
‘No problem. I have a hearing at the courts.’
‘You’re a lawyer as well?’
Titus’s eyes are on the road, but Martin thinks he detects a smile as he answers. ‘All Torbetts are lawyers.’
‘A barrister?’
‘Of course. I’m a corporate counsel.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘I work for a select group of corporations.’
‘Sounds interesting. Which ones?’
‘Sorry. That’s confidential.’
‘Of course.’
Martin watches the greenery of Moore Park slide by before attempting to restart the conversation. ‘Were you close? To Elizabeth?’
‘Of course. She was my little sister.’ Titus is concentrating on the traffic; his face betrays no emotion. ‘I’m told you found them.’
‘Not exactly. But I witnessed the crime scene.’
There’s a red light, giving Titus Torbett the opportunity to turn his eyes from the road to Martin. ‘Do you think she suffered?’
Martin shakes his head. ‘No. She wouldn’t have felt a thing.’ Which is true, he thinks. Not when the bullet entered her brain and blew out the back of her skull. But in the minutes before, she must have been terrified. But why tell her brother that? ‘Your father told me you were once a member of the Mess,’ Martin states.
‘A long time ago. I quit after a couple of years.’ The man’s face is neutral, eyes back on the road.
‘Why?’
‘Never really interested me. Father signed me up, but I found it tedious. A bunch of self-promoters, sitting around drinking fine wines and eating roadkill. Not my scene.’
‘Roadkill?’
‘Their dinners. They eat rare and endangered species, if you can believe that. Makes them feel special. Elite.’ The lights change and he moves off with the traffic, face still impassive. ‘Perverse, if you ask me.’
‘Shark fin soup made from white pointers, that sort of thing?’
‘Exactly. Bloody disgusting.’
‘You don’t approve?’
‘I don’t. Father had the good sense to distance himself when he went to the High Court. Elizabeth should have done the same when she went to the bench.’
‘You think that’s what got her killed? Being a member of the Mess?’
Titus laughs, amused at the idea. ‘I doubt it.’ He seems about to add something, hesitates, then refrains from saying anything more.
‘Your father said you might be able to help me. Thought you might know some of the members.’
‘Me? I resigned thirty years ago. More than thirty years.’
‘You never discussed it?’
‘No.’
‘Your father thought Clarence O’Toole might still be a member.’
Titus shrugs. ‘More than likely. He’d be right at home there.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Likes the sound of his own voice.’
‘I see. Anyone else you can think of?’
Titus grunts. ‘Just one—your pal at the Herald: D’Arcy Defoe.’
‘D’Arcy? Are you sure?’ Martin reaches up, takes hold of the Jesus handle, even as the BMW continues on its smooth trajectory along Oxford Street.
‘That’s what Elizabeth said.’
‘When was this?’
‘A couple of years ago. She was on her high horse. Thought it was outrageous having a journalist as a member. Said he was always sniffing around, trying to get the inside running on some story or another.’
‘Sounds about right. She wasn’t impressed?’
‘You could say that.’
‘Anyone else?’
‘No, sorry.’
‘Atticus Pons? George Giopolis?’
Titus takes his eyes from the road to cast a doubtful look at Martin. ‘Never heard of them. Who are they?’
‘Never mind. Just some names I heard. Probably unconnected.’ They’re almost at Whitlam Square now; Martin can see the trees of Hyde Park.
‘Somewhere here do you?’ asks Titus.
‘No. The courts will be fine,’ says Martin, wanting to ask a few more questions. ‘Tell me, though: do you have any idea who might have killed them? Max and your sister?’
‘Me? No. Not at all.’
Titus turns right onto College Street. An orange light at the corner with William Street invites acceleration; instead, Titus takes the opportunity to stop. He turns to Martin. ‘My father comes across as rather modest and self-contained, I know. But men like him, men who have wielded real power, they’re used to being at the centre of things. They can have a difficult time believing events no longer revolve around them, that they now inhabit the periphery. Father has settled on the belief that Elizabeth’s death is connected to the Mess, and therefore to him. But there is no evidence of that. None. The Mess is most likely irrelevant. And so is he. The Mess is not a criminal organisation—it’s a dining club for blowhards. I’d be very careful about leaping to conclusions. I know you’ve got yourself into trouble doing that previously.’
‘You’ve researched me?’
‘Of course.’ The light changes and Titus returns his concentration to driving. He turns into Macquarie Street, pulling over to let Martin out. He smiles, offers his hand, gripping Martin’s with the same Goldilocks handshake. ‘I do wish you the best with your investigations. Please contact me if there is anything else I might assist with.’ He hands Martin a business card.
