‘Yeah. News spreads fast. That’s why Henry Livingstone and Joshua Spitt went gunning for him; the contract is worth half a million dollars US. Big money.’
‘So what’s that got to do with me?’
‘We desperately want to get to Sweetwater before they do. You can imagine what a motherlode of information he could give us. So should he try to contact you, it’s imperative you let me know. Understand?’
‘Why would he contact me? After what happened on the Goods Line, Morris and I are the last people he’s going to trust. He’ll think we set him up for Livingstone.’
All this time Mandy has been listening; now she speaks. ‘If he’s desperate, maybe he’ll try to get his hands on the money? Lead us to it.’
Vandenbruk frowns. ‘I doubt it. He’ll have plenty of money squirrelled away already.’
‘Why would you think that?’ asks Martin.
Vandenbruk shrugs. ‘The mob must have a reason to put out a contract on him. Maybe he killed Molloy and kept the money for himself. Told his bosses that Molloy had escaped overseas.’
Martin looks to Montifore, who raises his eyebrows as if the theory is worth consideration.
Mandy is looking concerned. ‘Will you give him immunity if he talks to you?’
‘No,’ says Morris Montifore. ‘Murder is murder. More so if the victim is a cop.’
Vandenbruk purses his lips, calibrates his response. ‘Personally, I agree with Morris. But decisions like that, they’re well above our pay grade.’
Now it’s Montifore who looks annoyed.
‘Boss?’ It’s Lucic, still standing in a corner.
Montifore looks at his watch. ‘Shit. I need to get upstairs. I’ll get my arse kicked. Thanks for being so candid, but needless to say, do not tell anyone what we spoke about here. And for God’s sake, don’t put it in the paper. Leave the speculation to D’Arcy Defoe.’
‘Can we leave?’ asks Mandy.
‘Yes,’ says Montifore.
‘Yes,’ says Vandenbruk.
Martin nods as if in agreement, but it’s not what he’s thinking. When Livingstone appeared on the Goods Line, he’d come from Yev and Mandy, had used the tracking app to find Martin, not Sweetwater. Either he knew the two men were about to meet, or it was just a coincidence.
He’s following Mandy and Winifred back out onto the street when his phone rings. Another unidentified number. His deleted contact book is really starting to give him the shits.
‘Scarsden.’
‘Martin, it’s Talbot Torbett. Do you have a number for D’Arcy Defoe? I desperately want to speak to a journalist.’
‘Where are you? At home?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m on my way.’
chapter thirty-eight
Mandy is still having trouble comprehending the change in Martin. He’s buzzing with energy, talking on the phone as they leave the police station with Winifred, bouncing around like a frog in a sock. He puts his phone away, places his hands on her shoulders and gives her a cursory kiss. ‘I’ve got to go.’
‘You want me to come?’ Mandy asks.
‘No. It’s a source. They’ll want confidentiality.’
And now Mandy understands: the story has him. It’s part of him, this journalistic fervour, she knows that, but she’s not so sure she likes it. As recently as two days ago, she experienced the same adrenaline rush, the same addictive pull, at the State Library when she revealed the company diagram Pam and Zelda had prepared, and he was linking it to the Mess. But now she sees that there’s something reckless about it, something self-righteous, something of the same cowboy spirit that had infected Tarquin Molloy. The sense of being different, of having a licence to flout the rules, of the ends justifying the means. She’s heard Martin spouting Max Fuller’s dictums often enough: ‘speaking truth to power’, ‘holding the powerful to account’, ‘shining light into dark corners’. The fourth estate. But she knows that’s only part of it: that the noble ideals of public service are matched by self-serving ambition. Nevertheless, right here, right now, she doesn’t have time to voice her concerns. ‘Okay, take care.’
‘Sure, you too,’ says Martin, sounding distracted. The urgency is in his eyes; the story has him in its grip.
No sooner has he hailed a cab and headed off than her own phone rings. It’s Yev.
‘You’ve finished with the police, I see,’ he says.
‘How do you know that?’ she asks.
‘The tracking app. You’re back on the street.’
‘The app? It’s still working?’
‘Of course. Where’s Martin going? His phone is engaged.’
‘Off to meet a contact.’
‘Will he be long?’ And now Mandy can hear a seriousness in Yev’s voice. And something more: trepidation.
‘Why, Yev? What’s happened?’
‘You should come here straight away. There’s something you should see. Come straight away. I’ll try ringing Martin again.’
Fifteen minutes later, after promising to keep Winifred abreast of any developments, she enters Ichiban Computers and Scarvery, Lena scowling at her entrance. A faint smell of the perfume lingers from Henry Livingstone’s parting gesture the previous day. Yev isn’t at the retro monitor on the counter; instead he’s back behind the shelves, working at his homemade super computer.
‘Fuck,’ he says. ‘Fuck. I found more. After we spoke on the phone. You won’t fucking believe this.’
‘What? What is it?’
‘We need to go straight to the police.’
‘Jesus, Yev—tell me what you’ve found.’
‘You remember Martin went and saw an old man, a judge called O’Toole? He told you about that?’
‘Of course. We tell each other everything,’ she says, trying to keep the irony from her voice.
‘This judge, he has his entire house wired with closed-circuit television. It all goes to an external site, triggered by any intrusion, like additional people in the house. Each time that happens, it sets off a little alarm. Early this morning, the alarm went off. I got a message, so I checked it out.’
‘You got a message? Why you?’
‘Martin should have got it as well. He told me about the website, gave me the username and login.’
‘Go on,’ says Mandy. ‘What did it show?’
‘Here, see for yourself.’ He opens up a program on his computer, his two big screens revealing almost two dozen camera angles in and around a house.
‘This
