Martin is looking at the old judge. There is no sign of fear in his eyes, just tenacity and resistance. Tough as teak. The same can’t be said for the son. He’s trembling, dread and fear and horror chasing each other across the profile of his face.
‘Good,’ says Sweetwater affably. ‘The sooner we get started the sooner we get finished. First question. What is your precise position at Mollisons?’
‘Corporate counsel.’
‘Thank you. Easy, isn’t it?’ Sweetwater turns to Martin. ‘Did you know that?’
‘No. I didn’t.’
Sweetwater grins, gleeful at the amazement on Martin’s face, before returning his attention to Titus. ‘How was it that I came to Australia to start working alongside you at Mollisons?’
Titus looks at his father, looks at Martin. His eyes are pleading, but there is nothing Martin can do. ‘You want me to tell a journalist that?’
‘I do.’
Titus glances quickly back at Martin, before facing Sweetwater again. In that moment, Martin can see the man’s mind working, trying to calculate the angles; the lawyer’s intellect. ‘I understand you came to Australia as part of a wider deal. Your employers would funnel more money through Mollisons and take a large equity position in the company. You would be placed in the company to ensure their interests were looked after.’
‘Very good, Titus. This is encouraging. But there is no need to be coy. Mr Scarsden already knows the identity of my employers. Maybe you should let your father in on the secret too.’
Martin can see the old man’s eyes, wide with intelligence, the eyes of an inquisitor. Martin clears his throat, begins to respond.
‘Not you,’ interjects Sweetwater. ‘He should hear it from his heir.’
Titus’s voice is softer, lower. ‘Mr Sweetwater works for, is part of, an American organised crime organisation. The mafia. Based in Chicago.’
‘And as corporate counsel, did you play a pivotal role in these arrangements? The shareholdings, the investments, my visa, my employment? Disguising it, making it respectable?’
‘Yes,’ Titus whispers, his head hanging, unable to meet the laser glare of his father. The distaste on the judge’s face is all too apparent.
But Sweetwater isn’t done. Far from it. ‘Now, who suggested I join this so-called dining club that Martin has been poking his nose into, the Mess?’
Titus’s head remains slumped, his voice barely above a whisper. ‘It was me.’
‘You championed my membership?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
Titus lifts his head, looks at Sweetwater with the eyes of a supplicant. ‘I thought it would help extend your influence.’
Sweetwater is nodding. ‘So I was aided and abetted by you?’
Again the head bows, again the whispered response. ‘Yes.’
‘But you’re no longer a member yourself?’
‘No. Not for many years.’
‘Why did you leave?’
To Martin it sounds an innocuous question, easily answered, but for some reason Torbett is hesitating.
‘The truth now,’ says Sweetwater. His voice is almost placid, but of a sudden he grabs the old judge by his mop of white hair, holding his head tight, flourishing the knife before his eyes. ‘The truth now. Or the old man loses his nose.’
That’s enough for Titus. ‘Elizabeth asked me to resign. She had someone else she wanted to join.’
‘Numbers are limited.’
‘Yes.’
‘That must have hurt. Your own sister. Your little sister. Not thinking you important enough.’ And Sweetwater smiles, releasing the father. ‘You’re doing very well. Hope you’re getting all this, Martin. A simple question next: do you know what I’m capable of?’
That gets the son, Martin can sense it. Another tremor runs down the length of the lawyer’s body and a broken affirmation escapes his lips. ‘Yes.’
Martin can see the son is engulfed by fear. He looks at Sweetwater, who remains calm and deliberate and smiling. Like a snake charmer.
‘Have I ever deployed violence?’
‘You want me to incriminate you?’
There’s something in this answer that Sweetwater doesn’t like. He moves back towards the judge, knife extended, but then thinks better of it. ‘Tell Martin about Tarquin Molloy. What happened to him.’
But the lawyer’s mind has leapt ahead, has reached a conclusion as to where this might be heading. ‘You don’t need to kill us. I’ll do whatever you want.’ To Martin’s ears, there is something pathetic, something craven in the man’s voice. Across from him, a new emotion has entered the eyes of Sir Talbot: contempt.
‘I won’t be killing anybody. I won’t even be harming anybody,’ says Sweetwater. ‘Just tell the truth.’
Titus’s eyes are firmly on the floor as he speaks. ‘Your physical security person, Clarity Sparkes, came to us. She said she was suspicious of Molloy, that he was attempting to cultivate her, attempting to cultivate other women. He was trying to access files he had no authority to read.’
‘Did we know Molloy was a policeman?’
‘No. We thought he was some sort of fraudster. Whoever he was, we needed to fix him, without drawing attention to ourselves or what the bank was doing.’
‘We didn’t want to involve the police?’
‘No.’
‘So what did we do?’
‘The three of us discussed what might be done. The Turtle set up surveillance. I forget his real name. Clarity tried to lead Molloy on, find out what he was up to. She was authorised to use money, to bribe him. But he wasn’t tempted.’
‘And after that?’
Titus Torbett is looking increasingly confused. ‘Why are we discussing this?’
But Sweetwater simply raises his eyebrows. ‘So Martin and your father know exactly what we did. Exactly what sort of men we are, you and I.’ And he smiles, a rictus of saccharine menace. ‘What happened?’
‘You and I discussed killing him. But you thought it too extreme.’
‘And Clarity? What did she suggest?’
‘She was the one who came up with the idea of beating him up, warning him off. She knew some people.’
‘Who were they,
