Was it really so long ago, Martin wonders, when the trucks dropped the papers at Taylor Square, when he and his workmates would greedily buy them, working their way through them, learning the fate of their stories: where they were run and at what length? He misses the camaraderie. They’ve all gone now, off to public relations and private enterprise, joining the government or climbing the greasy pole into management, chasing the corporate dollar and family-friendly work hours. Of his intake, there’s only D’Arcy and himself left. And now it will only be D’Arcy, the winner of a two-decades-long reality TV show: Survivor: Sydney Morning Herald. For Martin realises he’s leaving the Herald for good; not just for this story, but forever. When Wellington Smith publishes the story in This Month, that will be the end. There will be no going back, not this time. D’Arcy has trusted him, helped him gain access to Clarence O’Toole on the understanding the two of them are now working together. He knows he’s about to betray that trust, maybe for a good reason, but he understands that D’Arcy will never forgive him.
He pulls out the business card Clarence gave him. He should tell Yev about it, make sure they monitor the security website. He has to admire the judge, trying to finesse his own death. Talking to Martin, establishing his side of the story. And almost inviting retribution, hoping to die, to be martyred, while the CCTV makes a permanent record. Martin can’t help but think it noble: to go out with a bang, to make your death mean something, rather than just sliding into oblivion, sedated and unaware.
Martin’s phone rings, pulling him from the depths of his contemplation. An unlisted number.
‘Hello?’
‘It’s Jack Goffing. We need to meet.’
FRIDAY
chapter thirty
During the still of the night, a haze has spread across Sydney, turning the dawn grey and the rising sun a lurid orange. This acrid shroud, choking and ominous, carries the smell of a thousand campfires and the sense of the earth turned awry. Mandy peers into it through eyes growing scratchy, buildings disappearing in the distance. Sydney is on edge: workers wear face masks, leftovers from the summer’s fires and the winter’s pandemic.
‘Bushfires? In winter?’ she says. ‘Surely not.’
She watches as Martin checks the Herald site on his phone. ‘Hazard reduction,’ he says. ‘The Blue Mountains. They burn whenever it’s safe. Winter and no wind.’
That’s it, she realises: it’s the lack of wind that’s creating the sense of eeriness, as much as the smoke itself. The day sits upon her like a weight, a portent.
Martin turns to her. ‘You up for this?’
‘Of course—let’s do it,’ she says, remembering to smile.
At Ichiban Computers and Scarvery, there’s a young man with dead-straight, pure white hair, sitting behind a counter in front of an old-fashioned computer monitor, helping a customer. Mandy thinks the young client would be better off buying acne cream than splurging on the latest video card, but the gleam in his eyes and the excitement in his voice suggests he thinks different. While they wait, Mandy wanders to the scarvery, where a young woman is opening some new stock: pashmina scarves. She looks like the guy behind the computer counter, except with normal colouring, her straight hair brown and her eyes grey. She introduces herself as Lena, recommending a green scarf to match Mandy’s eyes. Mandy accepts the advice, buying the scarf and a set of three cotton bandanas for Martin. You never know when you might need a bandana in these days of smoke and viruses. Mandy pays. Lena smiles.
By the time she’s finished the purchase the young gamer has left and Martin introduces her to Yevgeny. Then he gets straight to business. ‘Yev, we need your help. Our investigation; we’ve made some progress.’
Yev’s eyes widen. ‘No shit?’
‘No shit.’ Martin smiles.
‘How can I help?’
It’s Mandy who takes the initiative. ‘There’s a couple of things we want to check out online. But before we do, can you enhance video? Zoom in, sharpen focus, that sort of technology?’
Yev shrugs. ‘Probably.’
‘We’ll pay, of course.’
‘Good. I’m not a charity.’ A dry grin. ‘What have you got?’
Mandy shows him her phone, the video of Tarquin Molloy, the CCTV from Mollisons.
Yev nods, a slight grimace, already intrigued by the challenge. ‘Yeah. I can clean it up a bit. Most video software has some capability. The cops and the intelligence services have the really good stuff.’
‘Can you zoom in?’
Another grimace. ‘Don’t expect miracles. The software can extrapolate to a very limited extent, but you can’t see what isn’t there. Not even the spooks can do that.’
‘It runs for about twenty minutes, but we don’t need all of it processed, just a few important moments,’ says Martin. ‘Does the man in the suit insert a flash drive into the computer? Is there any way to determine what he types on the keyboard? And right at the end, a second man gets into the lift with him. Can we enhance that, see if the new man is holding anything?’
Yev shrugs. ‘That sounds like a pretty tall order to me.’ Then the same dry grin. ‘But we won’t know if we don’t give it a go.’
It’s a good grin, Mandy decides, nothing duplicitous about it. She wonders how old Yev is. He seems young, like he’s fresh out of uni. Too young to be overwhelmed by the guile and calculations of the world.
‘Can you email me the clip?’ he asks her. He pulls out his phone, selects an email address from a long list and gives it to her. She sends the
