‘And found what?’
‘Irregularities. The way the bank sourced money, the way it operated. And she starts to suspect her own boss, Harry Sweetwater. She told me all this and a week later she was dead.’
‘So what did you do?’
‘What did I do? Not enough, coward that I am. Oh, I had a word to Roger Macatelli, the deputy police commissioner. A good fellow, mind like a steel trap. I impressed upon him my suspicion that Clarity had been a victim of foul play, told him of her suspicions, and he assured me the case would be thoroughly examined. But it came to nothing. The police determined it was a self-administered overdose and so did the coroner. I knew then that Macatelli was either compromised himself or had been overruled by those who were. The fix was in; there was little I could do about it.’ The judge smiles, a bitter expression, and adds, almost wistfully, like an aside to himself, ‘You can’t fight city hall.’
Macatelli. That name again. ‘I’m assuming Roger Macatelli is a member of the Mess?’
‘Of course.’
Martin pauses, making sure he has assimilated all the judge has told him before responding. ‘That was almost five years ago. What’s changed, other than your condition?’
‘My condition, as you so coyly describe it, has quite a bit to do with it. It means I now give zero fucks.’ Martin can’t help but be amused, the youthful phrase expressed in the sonorous voice of authority. O’Toole continues, again alternating from flippancy to gravitas: ‘A month or two ago, Harry Sweetwater came to me, wanting a favour. After all, he reminded me, he’d hired Clarity as a favour to me.’ The judge breathes deep. ‘He said that to me. Really, he did.’ Another pause, emotions bubbling. ‘So I smiled and I went along with it. He wanted me to find in favour of a Mess member in a court case.’
‘What case?’ asks Martin.
‘A development application. I mentioned it earlier. A huge one. On the north shore, towering over Luna Park. Massive. As big as Barangaroo. Retail, a hotel, cinemas, thousands of apartments. A casino. Just what this city needs: more apartments, another casino. But it was never going to win approval. As the law and the regulations stand, the application didn’t have a chance.’
‘Was this the same development application? The one with the photographs, the blackmail attempt and the suppression order?’
‘One and the same.’
‘When did Sweetwater approach you? Before or after all that?’
‘About a week before.’
‘Let me guess,’ says Martin. ‘Large Sky.’
That gets the judge’s attention. ‘Very good. How did you know that?’
‘I didn’t. I was just guessing. Who was the Mess member?’
‘A new man, George Giopolis. Never really had much to do with him.’
So Giopolis is a Mess member too. ‘What did you do?’
‘I said no. I joined the Mess to advance my career, not destroy it. To obtain a degree of power, not to become someone’s pawn. Of course, that’s not what I said to Sweetwater’s face. I told him it was pointless; that if I were to hand down such an unsound verdict it would be overturned on appeal to the Supreme Court. Sweetwater said that wasn’t a problem, he’d spoken to Elizabeth and she was onside.’
Martin blinks. He wasn’t expecting this. ‘What does that mean, she was onside?’
‘That she would arrange to hear the appeal and find in favour of Giopolis and Large Sky.’
‘You’re saying Elizabeth Torbett was corrupt? I thought you just said she was Sir Galahad?’
‘She was. He just didn’t know it yet.’
‘Sorry, I don’t follow. What happened?’
‘I had dinner with Elizabeth. All very civilised, at our club, a polite conversation, a few snifters. I told her what had happened. All of it. I was very candid, listed some of my past misdemeanours. It had something of the atmosphere of a confessional.’ He pauses, seeks out his hip flask and takes another fortifying swig. ‘She was appalled. Devastated. Especially when I told her that Sweetwater claimed she was onside. Like Galahad realising the round table was full of termites.’ He clears his throat, puts the flask away. ‘Sorry. Bad analogy.’
‘What happened?’
‘That week, the case came before court. It became apparent I wasn’t going to indulge Large Sky. After I reserved judgement, I was photographed in women’s underwear.’ The judge shakes his head. ‘And then, not long after that, the diagnosis was in. I was dying. I didn’t care. My wife was dead, Clarity was dead, my sons are living overseas, and I’m dying. So why would I help that cunt?’
‘And you told all of this to Elizabeth?’
‘I did.’
‘So she teams up with Max to do an exposé.’
‘Something like that.’
Martin thinks it through. He can understand O’Toole’s actions and motivations, but those of Elizabeth Torbett seem less clear. ‘But it doesn’t make sense. She was a Supreme Court judge, daughter of a High Court judge; no one could be more embedded in the Sydney establishment than she was. Why would she need to go to Max? I heard she held journalists in contempt.’
Now O’Toole looks serious, nodding slowly. ‘That’s very perceptive of you. It’s true. Sydney might be rotten, but it’s not that rotten. There are plenty of honourable and decent and unblemished people in this city: judges, politicians, police.’
‘So why not go to them?’
‘Isn’t it obvious? Sweetwater had something on her.’
‘Do you know what it was?’
‘No.’
‘Would you tell me if you did?’
‘Depends.’
Martin finds himself frowning. ‘I still don’t get it.’
‘Oh, I think you probably do. You just don’t want to admit it.’
‘Tell me.’
‘She went to her brother-in-law, Max Fuller, the former newspaper editor. Elizabeth disliked him, to be honest; thought he was a muckraker and a socialist. But she saw a use for him. She presented Fuller with evidence that his removal from the editorship of the Herald had been orchestrated through
