‘I told you, I don’t know. He was here fifteen minutes ago, but he had to leave. He was meeting someone. I don’t know who. I don’t know where.’
‘Tell me about Harry Sweetwater.’
She shrugs, unsettled by the change of subject, but glad they’ve moved on from Martin. ‘I only met him once or twice back when I worked at Mollisons. He interrogated me—him and Clarity Sparkes—after Tarquin went missing with the money.’
‘With Clarity?’
‘Yes.’
‘What did you make of him?’
‘I didn’t like him.’
‘What did others say?’
‘No one else liked him either.’
‘Right. And do you know where I could find him?’
‘He stills works at Mollisons.’
‘Not anymore.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Not as of last night. He’s in the wind. Some very bad people are looking for him. Very bad people indeed. Including Joshua and me. We’re bad. Do you know why bad people are looking for him?’
‘No. I don’t know anything about him.’
‘Lucky for you, love.’ And he smirks; for the life of her, Mandy can’t quite make him out, can’t quite follow the logic that’s driving him. And it seems that he too can’t quite order his thoughts. ‘Let’s try again, shall we?’ says Livingstone, holding out her phone.
She unlocks it once more and Livingstone sends another WhatsApp message.
His face is deadly serious as he resumes the conversation. ‘Zelda Forshaw—was she ever a friend of Clarity?’
‘Clarity Sparkes? From security?’
‘Yeah, Clarity from security. You said she questioned you. Did you know her?’
‘No, not really. She seemed quiet, kind of private.’
‘Yeah, that was her.’ God, what is it that she can hear in his voice? A gentleness? A wistfulness? ‘She was pretty, though. Like you,’ he says. Yes, she’s right, it’s there: fondness.
‘And Zelda. Was she already a junkie back then?’
‘What?’ Of course. The moment he says it, it’s obvious. Zelda’s lack of money, her skin, her desperation. ‘How would I know?’
Livingstone looks sad. ‘She says she got into it inside. Or it got into her. She did six months in prison. You know that?’
‘Everyone who worked at Mollisons knows that.’
‘She denies it. We spoke to her last night. She denies it.’ Now there is a distant quality to his voice, as if he’s speaking more to himself than to Mandy.
She’s still having trouble following him. She tries to keep her own voice gentle as she responds. ‘Denies what? The money?’
‘No. I heard Zelda was with Clarity the night she died. She was out on bail, awaiting her trial.’
Mandy stares. Clarity Sparkes, dead from a heroin-cocaine speedball. She realises she’s biting her lip, stops it. ‘That’s why you were looking for Zelda?’
But before he can answer, her phone pings in his hand. A WhatsApp message. He regards it for a couple of seconds and the smile returns, his tooth glinting like that of a fairy-tale wolf. ‘A tracking app? You have a tracking app?’
Mandy says nothing.
‘Show me.’ He hands her the phone, gun pointed at her, denying her leeway.
She opens the app, shows him. It reveals Martin is down near Central Station.
‘Beauty,’ says Livingstone. ‘Not far away.’ He stands. ‘I’ll need the passcode for the phone.’
‘It’s already open.’
‘For later. We’re taking it with us. Either you give me the code or I take your finger. Your choice.’
Mandy gives him the code, watches as he trials it.
‘Very good. Now listen closely. Mr Spitt and I are professionals, so we’re not going to kill you, on account of the fact no one is paying us. Once we speak to Martin, we’ll tell him where to find you.’
They bind and gag Mandy, Yev and Lena with Italian silk ties, Egyptian cotton bandanas and Indian leather thongs, spraying Lena and Mandy with some perfume from an atomiser for good measure, with a touch of aftershave under the chin for Yev. But before he leaves, Livingstone crouches, placing his hand on Mandy’s shoulder. ‘I didn’t kill no undercover cop. I didn’t kill no newspaper editor, I didn’t kill no judge. The coppers won’t listen, so tell Martin Scarsden. Tell him—if I don’t tell him first.’
chapter thirty-five
He’s waiting for them at a table on the old goods line near Harris Street, sitting at a yellow metal table, street furniture designed to thwart vandals and survive the weather, not for comfort. The old rail line, elevated above the city streets, has been turned into a pedestrian thoroughfare, a broad pathway leading from the ABC studios and the University of Technology down towards the harbour, a stunted echo of New York’s High Line. The smoke from the fires in the Blue Mountains has thickened amid the absolute stillness of the day. Somewhere a siren is wailing, there are church bells up on Broadway, and closer by a raven calls. Sweetwater is staring at his phone, doesn’t even look up until they sit opposite him. He stares at them now, his eyes unreadable behind aviator sunglasses.
‘Montifore and Scarsden, right?’
‘Right,’ says Montifore.
‘You know who I am?’
The policeman responds. ‘Harry Sweetwater. Head of security at Mollisons Investment Bank.’
Sweetwater nods, turns to Martin. ‘And you. Do you know who I am?’
Martin tips his head. ‘Danilo Calabrese. The Chicago mob.’ Montifore says nothing, but Martin can feel him stiffen.
Sweetwater cocks the corner of his mouth, more of a sneer than a smile. ‘The cops are always the last to know.’ The sneer vanishes, gone in the smoke. ‘Keep your hands on the table. We don’t want any misunderstandings.’ And as he speaks, he reaches into his own coat pocket, retrieves a small brushed-steel pistol, and places it on the table in plain view, his hand resting on the grip. If a gun can be elegant, this gun is elegant.
‘What is it you want?’ asks Montifore, his voice carrying a mixture of apprehension, annoyance and uncertainty.
‘Well, I’d like to live. Not that you can help so much with that.’ He spreads his arms wide. ‘I’d also like to clarify a couple of points before I disappear
