Claus Vandenbruk seems more reflective than his colleague. ‘What drove Torbett to do it? Jealousy? What?’
Martin shrugs, then frowns, his mental motor skipping a beat as a memory reasserts itself. ‘What’s the Turtle?’ he asks again.
‘Who cares?’ says Montifore. ‘Come on. Let’s get you out of here. Mandy will be waiting for you.’
At her name, Martin feels a sense of longing, emotions surfacing. Yes, Mandy. But when he enters the foyer, she’s not there.
Winifred tries phoning her but gets no response.
‘Let’s get a cab, get you to your hotel,’ says the lawyer, her voice patient, as if addressing a child.
‘Now?’
‘Yes.’ She regards him with concern. ‘You need to wash, get new clothes.’
‘I guess so.’ He looks down at himself. Of course. New clothes.
They walk to a taxi rank. He’s vaguely aware of Winifred threatening a reluctant driver with legal action. The cabbie seems to think Martin might be trouble.
Then Winifred is gone and he is alone in the hotel room. He blinks. What just happened?
The phone rings. Not his mobile, the hotel phone. He’s lost his mobile somewhere. No, that’s right: Harry Sweetwater made him smash it.
The phone stops ringing. He starts removing his clothes.
The phone rings again.
‘Yes?’ he answers tentatively.
‘Martin. Are you okay?’
‘D’Arcy? Is that you?’
‘Yes. Are you all right?’
‘Never better. How did you get this number?’
‘Does it matter?’ A short pause. ‘Bethanie says you were there. Inside the house.’
‘I was.’
‘Great. Talk about johnny-on-the-spot. We need your story. The first-hand account. No one else can touch that. No one. And a big analysis piece. THE MESS: PART TWO. Joint by-line. Graphics are already on to it.’
Martin can hear the enthusiasm in his rival’s voice, the rush of the next big thing. ‘You sound happy.’
‘Don’t you realise what this means?’ says D’Arcy. ‘This is your ticket back. This will blow them away, any lingering resistance. You can write your own job description. We are going to be a brilliant team.’
‘And the Mess?’
‘Yes. Of course. It all comes out, we hold nothing back. I tell you, Australia has never seen a story like this. Never. And you, old friend, are right at the centre of it.’
‘Thanks, D’Arcy. I’ll get back to you.’ And he ends the call. Just like that.
He stands, regards himself, blood-spattered and haggard, in the full-length mirror mounted on the wall. Why do hotel rooms always have so many mirrors? To make the space seem bigger? To appeal to the vanity of the clientele? His reflection stares back at him, a familiar stranger, his face gaunt, his hair matted. His eyes hold him, haunted. He touches his face, wipes it. It’s still him all right, inside of it all. Jesus.
He stands there for a long time, staring at himself. Everyone is happy. Montifore is happy: he’s got his killer, Titus Torbett, who is himself conveniently dead. There will be no trial, no chance of pointed fingers, of embarrassing revelations. The powers that be can rest easy. All neat and tidy and tied up in a blood-red bow. Claus Vandenbruk is happy: the ACIC is off the hook; Tarquin Molloy can be declared a hero, no longer a thief on the run, a time bomb awaiting detonation. His real name can be revealed, he can be buried with full honours, the premier and the police commissioner and the attorney-general and the head of the ACIC can drape his casket with the flag and salute it on its way. And D’Arcy Defoe is happy: he has his hooks into an enormous story, delivered to his door by Martin and the information flows of the Mess, its members eager to placate and appease the investigations editor, the gatekeeper to exoneration. Everyone is happy; everyone else. But Martin Scarsden is not happy. All this death and he still doesn’t really know what happened.
‘Fuck it,’ he says to the mirror.
He really does need a shower. But first he rings Wellington Smith.
chapter forty-six
At Ichiban Computers and Scarvery, Lucic is gone, Lena is still here. So is her frostiness. Mandy ignores her and walks across to Yev, back at the counter in front of his old-school monitor.
‘All done?’ she asks.
‘Yeah. They’ve got the lot. Enough footage for a blockbuster.’ He tries to smile, but can’t quite carry it off.
‘Are you all right?’
‘It’s different, isn’t it? In the movies, it’s all acting and special effects. It doesn’t matter how real they make it look, you know it isn’t. But this. I never imagined …’ His voice trails off.
Mandy realises he’s been sorting through videos for hours. ‘I know, Yev. But it’s helping the police no end. You’ve just helped solve a whole truckload of crimes. You’ve been exceptional.’
‘Doesn’t really feel like it.’ His voice is as flat as his expression. ‘I heard what happened. Martin at that house. All the shooting, the deaths. Is he all right?’
‘He’s going to be.’ She places a reassuring hand on Yev’s shoulder. ‘Listen. I’ve got something else. It might be important.’ She holds up the thumb drive.
‘Not more video?’
‘No. I don’t think so.’
Suddenly, awareness flashes in his eyes. ‘Is that what I think it is? From the judge’s safe?’
‘One way to find out.’
‘Come around. We’ll need the mothership.’
Yev
