up. ‘That was me.’

‘What? Why?’

‘I was asked by the police to play it down. They wanted to keep the real situation under wraps for a few days. We debated it in conference; agreed it was a fair trade-off if it helped them find the killers.’

‘What was the trade-off?’

‘Full access when they decide to go public.’

‘You spoke to Morris Montifore?’

‘No. Who’s he?’

‘The detective inspector running the investigation.’

‘Right.’

‘So if it wasn’t Montifore, who was it?’

‘Roger Macatelli.’

‘The deputy police commissioner? He asked you to hold off on reporting the true nature of their deaths?’

D’Arcy shrugs, but looks a little unsettled. ‘Yes. I dealt with Macatelli. So what?’

Martin recalls Morris Montifore saying it was Macatelli who had sent the detective to Port Silver over a year ago, and now the deputy commissioner is again bringing his influence to bear on an active investigation. Martin changes direction, hoping a blunt approach might elicit a response. ‘Tell me about the Mess.’

There is no immediate reaction from D’Arcy, no sign the question has ruffled him. Instead, he offers Martin an amused smile. ‘So you’ve come across the Mess. What do you need to know?’

‘I was told you’re a member.’

‘That’s true, I am.’

‘Is Macatelli?’

But Defoe simply shakes his head. ‘I’m not at liberty to say.’

‘One of the rules, right?’

‘The only rule, really.’

‘So how come you joined?’

‘How come? Why wouldn’t I, given half a chance? It’s an unprecedented networking opportunity: a journalistic goldmine. I’m not going to tell you who any of the members are, but suffice to say there are some heavy hitters. Politicians, lawyers, businesspeople. And as fellow members, they talk to you as an equal, and they talk to you confidentially, they talk to you on the basis of mutual trust. Trust, Martin, the most valuable commodity any journalist can possess. A ready-made, off-the-record insight into how this city really works.’

‘But it’s a secret organisation. Doesn’t that bother you? Aren’t we the ones who are meant to be shining light into dark places?’

‘What makes you think it’s a dark place?’

‘Because Elizabeth Torbett was a member, she and Max were investigating it, and they were murdered,’ says Martin.

D’Arcy nods, suddenly serious, considering his options. ‘So that’s what Max was working on.’

‘I believe so.’

‘All right.’ D’Arcy sighs. ‘It’s true, Elizabeth was a member. I believe her father—Sir Talbot, the old High Court judge—was one of the founders.’ He frowns into his wine. ‘Do you believe there is a link between the deaths and the Mess?’

‘Do you think it’s possible?’

D’Arcy doesn’t answer straight away. Instead, he turns and gazes out the window. Martin is unable to see his eyes. He turns back, leans in close. ‘Martin, I need to take you into my confidence. This is just between you and me, okay?’ Martin signals his agreement. ‘I have no idea how much you know about the Mess, but you’re right: there is something amiss. What I told you is correct; I joined for the contacts and the connections. I’ve been a member for three years. But in recent months, I’ve become concerned that it’s been infiltrated by some rather unsavoury elements. No, worse than unsavoury—criminal. But I must emphasise: most of the members are beyond reproach; that’s why I won’t identify them. However, I think one or two may have succumbed to temptation. I’m considering blowing the whistle on them.’

Martin blinks. ‘What? How?’

‘An investigative series. In the paper. How else?’ D’Arcy smiles. ‘I reckon there’s a book in it, if I play my cards right. I hear true crime is all the rage.’ He chuckles, two colleagues sharing a joke. And then he’s serious again. ‘But I need to tread carefully. I don’t want to burn all my bridges.’

‘Of course,’ says Martin, trying to keep his voice neutral.

But D’Arcy picks up on his scepticism. ‘You of all people should understand. If I’m seen to be betraying confidences, giving up the names of sources, that would destroy my reputation. It would be career-ending.’

‘Right.’

‘And if you are correct, and Max and Elizabeth were killed because they were investigating the Mess, then I’d prefer not to join them. No story is worth dying for.’

‘Did Max ever talk to you about the Mess?’

‘No. Never.’

‘But Elizabeth knew you were a member?’

‘Of course.’

‘So why didn’t he discuss it with you?’

D’Arcy shrugs. ‘Maybe he was planning to do just that. Maybe he figured I didn’t have much to offer; Elizabeth would know as much or more about the Mess than me. She’d been a member for decades, her father before her. Maybe he was just playing his cards close to his chest.’

‘But you knew he was working on a big story?’

‘I did. I am titular head of investigations, after all.’

‘Don’t you think it’s strange he didn’t tell you what it was?’

D’Arcy looks unperturbed. ‘I’m sure he would have told me sooner or later. I mean, it’s not as if I always told him what I was working on when he was editor. And neither did you.’

Martin has to accept that. He drinks some more wine. It really is very good; there is no faulting D’Arcy’s discernment. ‘What can you tell me about her then? Elizabeth Torbett, I mean.’

‘What’s to say? Supreme Court judge, pillar of the community. I’ve known her for years, even before I joined the Mess. She’s also a member over at the SCG. Big cricket fan. Tests, not the pyjama games. We sat in the same group at the New Year’s test match. I always found her a bit stand-offish. Always polite, but a little aloof. I don’t know if that was simply the way she was, or because I was a journalist. I got the impression she wasn’t a big fan of the media, that she only tolerated me because I was a fellow Mess member.’ D’Arcy again considers his wine. ‘That’s why I was surprised when I learnt she’d been cooperating with Max. Then again, I didn’t know they were related through marriage.’

‘And Max didn’t tell you they were working together?’

‘No. He said he thought he might have something for me,

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