‘Who’s that?’ asks Mandy.

‘Forget him. He’s undercover. Understand? You never saw him.’

Mandy nods her comprehension.

‘Now. I’m assuming that was Zelda Forshaw who was holding you here.’

‘Yes. It was her.’

The man looks around the room, as if considering something. ‘We’ve been looking for her. You’re Mandalay Blonde, correct?’ His hair glistens in the fluorescent light. There is a sweet smell.

Mandy feels suddenly emboldened. ‘You say you’re a policeman.’

The man smiles, one tooth glinting with gold. ‘Detective Inspector Henry Livingstone, at your service.’ He reaches into the inside of his coat pocket, withdraws a wallet. He flicks it open, revealing a police badge. ‘Internal investigations.’ He holds it out for her fleeting examination, then returns it to his coat. ‘Now, while we wait for the constable and his wire-cutters, why don’t you tell me what happened here.’

And so Mandy explains. Her abduction, being drugged, waking to find herself a captive of Zelda Forshaw.

Inspector Livingstone listens intently, not speaking until Mandy has finished. ‘And this policeman who came to see you at your home—what was his name?’

‘It was Claus something. He said he’d met me before.’

‘I see.’ Livingstone frowns, as if considering the gravity of the situation. ‘I remember hearing all about you. You were the innocent; the fool.’ He smiles apologetically. ‘Tell me about the money. Why does Zelda Forshaw think you know where the money is?’

‘I have no idea. I don’t know anything about the money. I told them, back then, the police and the bank. I never knew about it. That was Tarquin. And her: Zelda.’

‘It’s okay,’ Livingstone says, reassuring. ‘I believe you.’

‘Is it true?’ Mandy asks. ‘Is he really dead?’

‘Who’s that, love?’

‘Tarquin Molloy. She said he’s dead.’

The man nods, eyes sad, face gaunt. ‘Oh yes. I’m sorry to say it is. I have it on the best authority.’ He reaches out his hand, places it gently on her bound hands. In the distance, Mandy can hear a siren.

The bald undercover agent puts his head back through the door. ‘Boss. Backup is almost here.’

‘Right. Thanks.’ He turns to Mandy. ‘I’d better go and speak with them. And I’ll see what’s keeping that constable.’ He’s almost to the door when he turns and says quietly, ‘A word to the wise. Don’t get mixed up in this thing. It’s going to get ugly.’ And he leaves.

It’s only later, after her bladder has surrendered but well before the police find her lying there, soaked and shivering, hands and feet still bound, that she realises Livingstone isn’t coming back. And that the man can’t possibly be a police officer.

chapter five

Martin drives south towards Sydney, the freeway long and sinuous, lined with state forest, far enough inland to be unimpeded by development, rising and falling with the gentle folding of the land. Exits come and go, promising beachside resorts to the east and heritage towns to the west, while signs assure him there are strategically spaced rest areas and service centres along the kilometres to come.

He guides the car automatically, eyes on the road but thoughts elsewhere, already stalking city streets. Somewhere down there, amid the office towers and the endless suburbs, the concrete and the bitumen, among the unmindful millions, there will be answers. Answers and Mandy—but how does he find them? He’s sure now that she’s no longer in Port Silver. She would have contacted him. And someone would have seen her; the town is too small, she is too well known, if not personally then by reputation. No, she’s gone; taken. He thinks again of her phone, left on the dining-room table, the screaming voice message. Her wallet in the bedroom, her clothes still there, their luggage. No, she’s been abducted; there can be no other explanation. So he’s brought her phone with him, and her wallet, hoping he can reunite them with their owner.

He tries to discipline his thoughts, to control them, just as he keeps the car in its lane; he mustn’t permit his imagination to swerve onto the fearful verge. He tries instead to concentrate on the future, the coming days, what needs to be done. He needs a plan. But the road is mesmeric, the forest unchanging. His mind wanders across the white lines, veering onto the soft shoulder of speculation.

Has he ever known her? Really, known her? They’ve been together for a year and a half now, sharing their thoughts, sharing their bed, sharing every intimacy. Building a life together. They’ve been refurbishing the old house on the cliffs, Hartigan’s. They’ve been raising her son Liam together, their son, the jewel in their existence. And slowly, amid the warmth of the coast, the warmth of this unexpected family, Martin has felt himself unfurling, growing, transforming. Because of her. Because of this stranger.

For she has never mentioned, not once, not even hinted at this other life, this other man, this Tarquin Molloy. Even as Martin gradually peeled back the layers of his own repressed past, the trauma of his youth, his lost family, she remained silent. Gradually he’d begun to heal, felt himself becoming a better man, more compassionate, more empathetic, spurred on by her love for him and his love for her and Liam. They’d hidden away in their redoubt, their fortress on the clifftops, removed from the traumas of the world. And in all that time together, she had never confided. Yet she had been engaged to be married; not something easily forgotten, not something to paper over. He acknowledges what it means: that he doesn’t know her after all. For if he didn’t know about that, how can he know what else she has redacted from her past? How can he trust those things she has told him? Can he trust himself to feel the same about her?

The cruise control rushes him up behind a semi-trailer. He changes lanes, taps the accelerator, moves past the truck, changes back.

An idea occurs to him, an unexplored line of inquiry. He speaks to his phone, mounted on the dash, and calls Winifred Barbicombe, Mandy’s

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