‘Jesus,’ she exclaims when he has finished. ‘Do you think there is any way they’re connected? Tarquin’s murder and the killings of Max and Elizabeth Torbett?’
Martin grimaces. ‘Max certainly knew about Molloy, said he was investigating a grand conspiracy, or words to that effect. Apart from that, I can’t see any connection. It could be coincidental.’
Mandy stares at him, feeling as if they’re almost there, that answers lie just beyond their grasp, waiting to be revealed. ‘You think?’
He shrugs. ‘Let’s keep digging. We might only be scraping the surface, but we’re making progress.’
A warmth spreads through her. He said ‘we’. ‘So what next?’
‘Go see Montifore. Ring Winifred if you want. She’ll know better than me how to handle it.’
‘Can we trust him?’
Martin frowns at the suggestion. ‘We don’t have much choice. But don’t tell him anything you’re not comfortable with.’
‘Okay. And what about you?’
‘I’m going to find Clarence O’Toole. And, hopefully, have a chat to D’Arcy Defoe.’
‘D’Arcy? Why?’
‘He’s a member of the Mess.’
‘Do you trust him.’
‘Right now, the only person I trust is you.’
chapter twenty-six
Elizabeth Street is a world of shadows, the setting sun unable to penetrate, only the peaks of buildings framed by its failing luminescence. Sydneysiders might deny the season, but the rhythms of the sun are beyond the influence of public opinion. There is an old woman outside the wine bar, a high-vis vest an outer skin on layers of overcoats that threaten to swallow her. Her face is red and her eyes are bleary; she’s selling copies of the Big Issue. Martin fishes around in his pocket, but he has no change, no cash at all. He pushes past, apologetic.
It’s a plush place, set inside colonial-era sandstone. Brass and polished wood, red velvet and warm lighting imbue an air of opulence. The bar may be old, but the clientele is young: bankers, lawyers and political staffers; good-looking achievers, orthodontically correct, confident of their upward trajectories, filling the space with the boasts and braying laughter of infallibility.
He feels underdressed in his jeans and open-necked shirt as he works his way through the crowd by the bar. The glorious young take micro-seconds to scan his face, register him as unknown, unimportant and undesirable, before averting their gaze towards more promising prospects. He spots D’Arcy Defoe occupying a prime spot by the window looking out on the street, sitting in a dark leather armchair, a glass of red resting on the antique marble table before him. He rises when he sees Martin, extends both hands in welcome, a politician’s handshake, and smiles a well-calibrated smile, a smile that simultaneously says he’s glad and grateful to see his former colleague but regrets the circumstances of their meeting. Martin can’t help but admire D’Arcy’s presence, his well-tailored suit and his ability to secure them two seats in the packed bar.
Pleasantries exchanged, D’Arcy signals effortlessly for a waitress and offers Martin a drink.
‘Why don’t I try what you’re having?’ says Martin, glancing at the glass of red.
‘Excellent suggestion. In which case, let’s get a bottle. On expenses. Agreed?’
‘Of course.’ Martin wonders why he feels as if he’s sparring whenever he encounters D’Arcy.
The two men sit not opposite each other, but at right angles. D’Arcy’s view extends across the table towards the door, where he can see all those who enter and leave. Martin sits to his left, looking across the table and out through the window at pedestrians and traffic hurrying along Elizabeth Street, his back to the aspirational young. If the two men both lean forward their faces are close; they have no trouble hearing each other over the background babble of ambition.
‘How are you doing then, Martin? We don’t talk often enough.’
‘I’m good.’
‘Have you given any more thought to coming back on full-time? I could really do with your help.’ Technically, D’Arcy is head of investigations; technically he’s one of those authorised to commission work from Martin. Yet for the past eighteen months, Martin has only filed intermittently, mainly updates based on his books about the crimes in Riversend and Port Silver. He knows it’s an arrangement that can’t last forever, not with the financial pressures bearing down on the Herald. It was tough enough before the virus tanked the economy.
‘No, not really. But I’m working on something. Max’s death.’
‘Yes. Max.’ D’Arcy takes a considered sip of his wine. ‘I’m glad you got in touch—I’m writing his obituary. I’m pushing for an entire page; he deserves it. Here’s what I’m thinking: if you give me some good anecdotes and some good character observations, I’ll marry them with my own and I’ll write it up. Once I’m done, I’ll send you the draft and then it’s up to you: you can correct any errors or rework sections or rewrite the lot. Up to you. The way I see it, we’ll share the by-line. What do you think?’
‘That sounds fine. Thank you.’ Martin has always thought of himself as a better-than-average writer, capable of rising above the formulaic when time and circumstances permit, but he also knows he’s no D’Arcy Defoe. His colleague can write in any number of styles, all of them well: the analytical, the emotive, the satirical, the portentous, the elegiac. He’s been pumping out a book every second year for a decade, all of them well received, all of them selling well.
So the two former colleagues drink wine and Martin recounts stories about Max. D’Arcy seems to know many of them, but prompts Martin to flesh them out. An hour later, they have reached the end of the bottle and D’Arcy has ordered another of a lighter wine, ‘to toast the great man’. They raise their glasses and take a sip. To Martin it tastes very fine; Max deserves nothing less.
‘D’Arcy, there are a few other things I’d like to ask you about.’
‘Sure. Go for your life.’
‘Why was the report of Max’s death so short? Page thirteen. Half-a-dozen sentences.’
D’Arcy looks at him, sizing him
