Martin considers that. Max had rung him in Port Silver, had been eager to involve him in the story, and yet he hadn’t confided in the Herald’s own head of investigations, another of his protégés. Instead, just recently, he’d started working with Wellington Smith. ‘The night before he was killed, Max went into the Herald and scrubbed his hard drive clean. Why would he do that?’
D’Arcy smiles once more, although this time it doesn’t look like there’s much humour underpinning it. ‘I see you have good sources. I can’t imagine who.’ And then he again becomes serious. ‘I don’t know why he would do that. Perhaps you’re right: perhaps he no longer trusted me because I’m a member of the Mess. If so, that’s a tragedy. He should have; we should have been working together.’ He sips some wine. ‘A lesson for us all.’
‘Clarence O’Toole?’ asks Martin.
That elicits a knowing grin. ‘What about him?’
‘I know he’s a member of the Mess. You’re betraying no confidences there.’
‘What can I say? I assume you heard about the photographs and the suppression order?’
Martin suppresses his own smile; it is as he suspected: O’Toole is the Land and Environment Court judge, the one Flanagan Mort told him about, the one covered by the suppression order. ‘Yes. I know about the order.’
‘Of course, who doesn’t?’ D’Arcy continues. ‘Bit of a buffoon, if you ask me, but that could just be an affectation. You know, the sort who appears to have had more to drink than they really have. And the underwear thing, not totally out of character, if you get my drift. But he does have a reputation as a solid judge.’ Defoe pours more wine, topping up Martin before filling his own glass. ‘There’s an obvious parallel between the photos of O’Toole and the murder of Max and Elizabeth Torbett, but whether that’s Mess-related, or court-related, or unrelated, I can’t say.’
‘You say the Mess may be harbouring some sort of criminality. Is there any suggestion O’Toole is involved?’
‘No. None that I know of.’ Martin is about to pose further questions, but D’Arcy cuts him off. ‘Listen, Martin, I need to be somewhere. But here’s a thought. We’re both investigating the same thing, both prying into the Mess. Let’s work together, a collaboration. It may take a long time, it could be a lengthy dig, but it has the makings of a mighty yarn. We research it together, we write it together, we collect the Walkley together. We dedicate it to Max.’
Martin is a little surprised; he and his rival have never shared anything more than a drink, a bit of banter and the occasional contact number. ‘Are you sure?’
‘I am. It might prove useful to have you as a co-author. If one of my contacts cracks the shits, then I can lay the blame on you.’ And D’Arcy laughs, that rich baritone laugh of his. He raises his glass, compelling Martin to join him. They clink glasses. ‘It would be great to have you back on board,’ says D’Arcy, before taking a mouthful of wine.
But Martin holds off drinking any more. ‘Okay, as we’re working together, can you put me in touch with Clarence O’Toole? All I could find was a number for his chambers, and they weren’t telling me anything.’
‘Let’s try.’ Defoe pulls his phone from his inside coat pocket. Its case is maroon leather, perfectly in accord with the bar’s expensive decor. Martin watches as he taps out a text. Defoe looks up at him, raising his eyebrows in a ‘let’s see’ gesture.
Almost immediately the phone vibrates. Defoe nods. ‘Well, blow me down. He says yes.’
‘Do you have an address? I can go there once we’re done.’
D’Arcy taps again, then holds his phone out as the reply comes in. Martin notes down the address. Paddington. Ten minutes by cab, fifteen at most.
‘Thanks, D’Arcy.’
‘Don’t mention it. I’ll be keen to hear what his honour has to say.’ He glances at his watch, an elegant affair sliding from under his cuff as he lifts his arm. ‘I’m sorry, Martin. I do need to leave. Let me know how you go with his justice.’
The waitress appears, as if by magic, and D’Arcy signs the chit. ‘I run an account,’ he explains. Of course he does. He stands, leaving his glass unfinished, with more wine left in the bottle. He departs and the young aspirants of the bar turn to watch him go.
Martin sits alone, restored to anonymity. He’s tempted. D’Arcy is a man on the inside. Connected. He will ensure they claim the front page, extract maximum coverage for the story. But another part of him feels wary, uncomfortable. D’Arcy is still a member of the Mess, and Max is still dead. It comes down to trust. Does he trust him? Martin twists his neck, looking back towards the bar. The waitress steadfastly ignores him. He stays a moment more, wondering if the wine really is as good as it seems. He thinks of Max, defecting to Wellington Smith. That’s good enough for him. Wellington Smith and This Month it is. He gets up and leaves, unnoticed by the throng. Outside, the woman selling the Big Issue has disappeared and the sun has set. At least the wind has died.
chapter twenty-seven
Sydney is winter dark, the colours of summer nowhere apparent, stored as if with mothballs to be aired occasionally but not worn seriously until spring. Not now that night is here. Office workers walk quickly, eager to be home. Dixon Street seems tired, the trees without leaves, no one dawdling, tourists absent, the neon signs of the restaurants more garish than joyful. The pandemic has gone but Chinatown is yet to regain its buzz. A busker stands around the corner from the Covent Garden pub, trying valiantly to attract interest, or at least a coin or two, but is thwarted by lack of talent,
