‘Only because we are booked out here, Mr Scarsden.’
‘I’m sure you’re right, Mrs Kirby. Nevertheless, in Mr Defoe’s case, unless you offer him the penthouse, he’s still likely to prefer Bellington.’
‘Is that a joke, Mr Scarsden?’
‘I’m afraid it is, Mrs Kirby.’
‘Really? You’re a funny man. Now hand over your key and we can all have a good laugh.’
‘Tell you what, Mrs Kirby, perhaps we can come to a more mutually advantageous arrangement.’
‘Spit it out, love. I haven’t got all day.’
‘I keep the room, pay on my personal card.’
‘I see. And you’re sure this other bloke will be okay with that? I told them I would hold it for him.’
‘Trust me. His tastes are a little more elevated.’
‘Sounds like a bit of a tosser, Mr Scarsden.’
‘Your words, Mrs Kirby, not mine.’
‘All right then. It’s a week’s payment in advance, day by day after that.’
‘A week in advance? I’ve already been here a week.’
‘New card, new account.’
Martin shrugs, is about to sign when he notices the rate has increased by thirty dollars a night. ‘Inflationary pressures come to Riversend, Mrs Kirby?’
‘Textbook economics, Mr Scarsden. Too much money chasing too few assets. Plus it’s the school holiday rush.’
Martin starts filling out the credit card authorisation and a new hotel registration form.
‘Oh, yes, I almost forgot—your editor rang last night. No, the night before.’
‘Thanks. Probably doesn’t matter now.’
‘He left a message.’ She rummages around in her desk, hands Martin a post-it note. There’s a phone number on it, a landline. ‘He said it was a new number.’
Cripes. Poor Max. They haven’t even let him keep his phone number.
Martin smiles as he hands over the paperwork. ‘Nice haircut, Mrs Kirby.’
‘Why thank you, Mr Scarsden.’
Indecision is waiting in his room, embracing him as he enters, flopping him onto the unmade bed. Has he really just committed himself to another week in this hellhole? More specifically, what should he do now? He’s still here because he doesn’t want to abandon Mandalay Blonde to her fate, but on the other hand, he’s not going to be doing her any favours if he camps outside the police station, providing more grist for the relentless media mill. Moreover, as of this morning, she can’t stand the sight of him.
He wonders what she does want, what her desires might be. She had slept with him, it was true. But only the once; it hardly meant she was carrying a torch for him. What had motivated her to take him home that night? Gratitude that Snouch had survived? Gratitude Martin had also escaped death? Guilt for manipulating him? Or perhaps she was just lonely. Or bored. Or she just wanted to share in some of the excitement of the day. She certainly wasn’t pining after a man, that much was obvious. She’d only wanted to leave town with Swift after she discovered she was pregnant, but up until then had seemed content to share the priest with Fran, despite claiming to be in love with him. She’s certainly made no such declarations towards Martin. And is unlikely to do so, not since his newspaper slurs and his early morning insinuations. What had she said? Get out and never come back. He looks at his hands, his pathetic hands, realising he’s the one craving an emotional connection, not her. He’s the one who needs to help her; she’s not the one who needs his help.
So what should he do? Maybe he should return to the general store and wait there with Fran Landers and Liam; it will be the first place Mandy heads to when the police release her. He can speak with her, offer his help, say his goodbyes, leave with a clear conscience. But he delays moving. He doesn’t want to be left sitting outside the store for hours on end, like some callow schoolboy. Not with this head, not in this heat. He knows he should be thinking about his future, contemplating what he might do with his life, with his career, now that the Herald has cut him adrift, instead of obsessing about an unobtainable young woman. Could he still have any future as a journalist, in a contracting industry experiencing its own financial drought? He should be on the phone, finding someone to take the story about Julian Flynt.
He looks at the paper with Max’s new number. Maybe his old editor could suggest someone to take the story? Martin picks up the motel phone, dials, but the call doesn’t go through. Instead, he gets a recorded message. ‘The number you have called is no longer in service.’ Terrific.
He gets out his mobile phone, reduced by Riversend’s lack of service to little more than an electronic Rolodex. He finds Max’s mobile number, dials it on the hotel phone.
‘Hello, Max Fuller.’
‘Max, it’s Martin.’
‘Martin, good man. Where are you?’
‘Still in Riversend. Just tidying up a few loose ends.’
‘I see. How can I help?’
‘Did you call me here the other night? At the Black Dog? Leave me a phone number?’
‘Not me, soldier. What was the number?’
Martin quotes it to him.
‘Jeez, Martin, that’s not even a Sydney number. It’s from down where you are. The first four digits are the same as the phone you’re on now.’
Martin looks across at the bedside table where Tommy’s takeaway menu lies, red ink on white. Saigon Asian, with its phone number. Max is right: the first four digits are the same. Something isn’t right. ‘Max. I’m an idiot. Sorry to bother you. Crossed wires.’
‘Martin, are you okay?’
‘Never better. I’ll give you a ring when I’m back in Sydney.’
‘Make sure you do.’
The call finished, Martin is left staring at the receiver. Was Felicity Kirby mistaken? Who would call him, from somewhere in Riversend or close by, pretending to be his editor? Someone covering their tracks? In order to leave a disconnected phone number? Unless…Holy shit. Walker. The number from St James. He’s still staring at the phone when there’s a knock at the door. He feels a surge of panic, unsure whether to answer. The knock comes again. ‘Martin? You there?’
It’s Jack Goffing. Martin opens the door, lets the ASIO man enter.
‘You look like shit,’ says Goffing by way of greeting. ‘Glad to see I’m not the only one feeling a bit dusty this morning.’
Martin can detect no evidence of any after-effects on the man’s face; his eyes appear as clear and perceptive as ever. Martin sits on the bed; Goffing closes the door and remains standing. There’s a smell of cigarettes.
‘You know what’s happened?’
‘What? No.’
‘You all right?’
‘No, I’m hungover. Thanks to you.’
‘They’ve arrested Mandalay Blonde. They’re charging her.’
‘With what?’
‘Attempting to pervert the course of justice.’
‘The diary?’
‘The diary.’
‘Shit.’ Martin pauses. ‘Fuck knows why she wanted to come forward with that.’
‘Any ideas?’
‘Me? No. You?’
‘No.’
‘So what’s wrong with the diary?’ asks Martin. ‘Is it falsified?’
‘Not sure. You understand this conversation is utterly and totally off the record?’
‘Like I said, that’s academic. I still don’t have anywhere to publish it.’
‘True. But I don’t want you handballing it to your mates. So no tip-offs to D’Arcy Defoe.’
‘You have my word.’
‘Good. Well, as I understand it, the problem with the diary isn’t so much what has been added to it, although the plods suspect at least one line has been written after the fact. The problem is that there are pages missing. She’s ripped them out.’
‘She’s probably just trying to protect her privacy.’
‘Maybe. But if that’s right, she doesn’t know coppers. They’ll be like a dog at a bone with this. You can’t imagine the sort of pressure that’s starting to come down on them to get a result, and then she comes forward and delivers herself on a platter.’
‘But it doesn’t make any sense. If she were involved in the murders, why would she volunteer the diary? She wasn’t a suspect before this, was she?’
‘Not that I’m aware of.’