Vandenbruk returns, his face grim, his hands covered in latex gloves and his shoes with slip-on plastic covers, like repurposed shower caps. He shakes his head, eyes filled with the horror of it. He has his phone with him; he hands it over to Montifore. Montifore examines it for a moment, then shows it to Martin. It’s a photograph, the colours overly bright, like a Christmas decoration, green against red: a set of green-rimmed spectacles, lying on the blood-soaked rug.
‘Who was wearing the green glasses, Martin?’
A deep breath washes through him, as if he has been resuscitated, brought back from the deep water and revived on the warming sands of a beach. Another deep sigh and he can speak, the fog beginning to rise. ‘No one. They belong to Titus Torbett. Fell from his pocket when he was shot.’
Montifore and Vandenbruk exchange a knowing look. ‘So Torbett murdered Clarence O’Toole,’ says Montifore.
‘He …’ says Martin. He tries again. ‘He confessed. In there. To killing Elizabeth and Max. Ordering their deaths.’
There’s a short silence, spreading to accommodate the weight of the allegation. ‘His own sister? He admitted to that?’ asks Montifore.
Martin nods, feeling as if he’s moving his head too emphatically, or too slowly. ‘He said it.’
‘Christ,’ says Vandenbruk. ‘I guess it makes sense. Killed O’Toole. Killed his sister and Fuller. Probably killed Molloy as well.’ ‘Why?’ asks Montifore, semi-rhetorically. ‘What was he trying to achieve?’
But Martin doesn’t respond. Through the fog, his mind is slowly coming back to life. It’s true Torbett confessed to killing his own sister, confessed to it in front of their father. And he killed O’Toole, by the sounds of it. So why did he deny killing Molloy? Why? But now Martin’s moment of perspicacity dissolves again, and he again finds it difficult to muster his thoughts; they’re drifting this way and that. ‘What’s the Turtle?’ he asks the policemen.
chapter forty-four
She doesn’t have many options. The police won’t take her with them, Martin’s phone is not responding and she doesn’t want to go back to Yev’s, not if Lucic is still there trawling through video. There’s the hotel, but what is she meant to do there? Take up knitting? Remove herself from the events she has helped set in train, events that may determine her future? Bugger that.
And so she waits in the foyer of the police station, trying to decide her next move, trying not to panic, trying to glean what is happening from the news sites on her phone and the wall-mounted television. And ringing in her ears, Claus Vandenbruk’s throwaway line as he rushed out of the building with Montifore: ‘Scarsden. He’s like the angel of fucking death.’ Martin: where is he? What has happened?
She’s sitting there as the ABC News anchor, eyebrows arched into an overly emphatic expression of concern, announces above a red banner declaring BREAKING NEWS that police are warning of an ‘active shooter’ on the loose in Sydney’s eastern suburbs, with unconfirmed reports of casualties. Mandy’s eyes lock on the screen, her ears straining to hear the presenter, while her mind runs free, speculating wildly, and her guts swirl in gusts of dread. Soon, the ABC has a chopper in the air. The presenter is talking about Centennial Park, an exclusive enclave surrounded by parkland. Shit. It can’t be, she tells herself. Not him. Not now. Not taken from her, not taken from Liam. An image comes to her of the house at Port Silver, no longer a sanctuary, but a purgatory, she a widow, her son fatherless. ‘It can’t be,’ she repeats under her breath. ‘It can’t be.’
The news anchor updates the situation. Police say there is no longer an active shooter, that the situation is under control. They are establishing a crime scene. Motorists are being requested to avoid Moore Park Road and surrounding areas. A map of alternative routes appears full screen.
‘Fuck the motorists,’ she says aloud. ‘Who’s dead? Who’s alive? And where is Martin?’
By the time the television is catching up, reporting that it’s believed either three or four people have been shot dead inside a house in Centennial Park, her mind is starting to contemplate the worst: that he really is dead.
And then he arrives back at the station.
The wave of relief, of gratitude, of unspoken prayers answered, is closely followed by a wave of concern and, momentarily, revulsion. There is gore all over him, spattered on his clothes, in his hair; she can see where it has been wiped from his face. But there is no checking her emotions; they propel her to him, throw her on him, thread her arms around his neck, stains or no stains, blood or no blood.
‘You’re alive,’ she manages, standing back, considering his face.
‘Yes,’ he replies, sounding somewhat surprised.
‘Are you all right?’ she asks, unsettled by the strangeness of his tone.
‘Mild shock,’ says Montifore, who is holding Martin by the arm.
‘Mild?’ asks Mandy, then looks down at the policeman’s hand. ‘Are you supporting him, or arresting him?’
‘He’s not under arrest. Far from it. But we need to get a statement from him. We might be a while.’
‘A statement? He needs medical care.’
‘He’ll get it. I promise.’
Martin turns to her. ‘It’s okay. They need to hear.’
‘Can I sit in with him?’ Mandy asks the detective.
Montifore grimaces. ‘No. Better that you don’t hear all the details.’
That angers her, as if only men can face the grisly. ‘I’ll be fine.’
But Montifore is firm. ‘I’m sorry. No.’
‘I want my lawyer there, then.’
‘Your lawyer?’
‘His lawyer.’
Montifore sighs. ‘Yes. Send her in.’ Then his voice softens. ‘Seriously, he’s not in any sort of legal trouble. But he is going to need
