‘That’s correct.’ The lawyer places the first of a series of papers on the coffee table between them, and Martin signs and dates it with Winifred’s elegant fountain pen.
‘What about Harley Snouch? He’s Eric’s son, isn’t he?’
The lawyer’s expression is impenetrable. ‘He will receive an allowance. Generous enough; considerably more than unemployment benefits.’
She places more papers on the table, but Martin leans back, pen in hand, his curiosity alive. ‘Did Katherine Blonde know Mandy would inherit? Mandy says she urged her to have her house in order by the time she reached thirty. She must have known something.’ Martin glances at Mandy; her smile has been replaced by the stillness of concentration.
‘Well, not from us,’ says Winifred. ‘Eric Snouch was adamant about that: he wanted it kept secret. But perhaps he said something to Katherine before he died. I simply don’t know.’
‘He remade his will shortly before he died?’
‘That’s right.’
‘But why keep it secret?’
‘I don’t know. Perhaps he was worried Mandalay was still too young and too wild to be informed she was coming into money. Perhaps he didn’t want Harley to know.’
‘But Harley must have asked—I mean, when his father died. Didn’t he ask you, your firm, what was happening with the estate?’
‘Constantly.’
‘And what did you tell him?’
‘Nothing.’
Mandy has lost her serenity. She’s holding Liam close. ‘Ms Barbicombe—Winifred—is it true? Is Harley Snouch my father? Did he rape my mother?’
For a moment, the professional facade falls from Winifred Barbicombe’s face, exposing some of the human underneath, sympathy written in her eyes. But only in her eyes; her voice retains its professionalism. ‘I’m sorry, my dear. We acted on behalf of Eric Snouch and his family on a number of matters that are protected by lawyer–client confidentiality. I can’t comment on such matters.’
‘So I’ll never know?’ Mandy whispers.
The lawyer seems unsure how to respond; instead it’s Martin who intercedes, seizing this unexpected opening. ‘Mandy, I haven’t mentioned this before, but I spoke to Harley Snouch. He denies paternity. And rape. He wants you both to undertake a DNA test to establish the truth once and for all.’
Mandy looks at him, looks to Winifred Barbicombe, seeking advice. Martin feels annoyed with himself. Is he trying to help Mandy, or is he trying to appease Snouch and assuage his threat of defamation? He really needs to think more before he speaks, weigh his words, like Jack Goffing.
Winifred Barbicombe responds. ‘I’m not sure what I can advise. But rest assured, no matter what such a test of DNA might reveal, it will not alter the effect of Eric Snouch’s will or provide Harley Snouch with grounds to challenge it. Springfields, and all that goes with it, is yours. If you wish to go ahead with the test, that is entirely up to you.’
Mandy nods her understanding.
‘Now, there are more papers to sign. Mandalay first, then Martin.’ There is silence as the paperwork is completed, the earlier lightness of mood weighed down by the spectre of Harley Snouch. Martin knows he needs to warn Mandy about Snouch, his duplicitous nature, but that can wait until the lawyer has left. The last paper signed authorises Winifred Barbicombe and Wright, Douglas and Fenning to act on behalf of Mandalay Susan Blonde, soon to be mistress of Springfields and sole owner of the Snouch family fortune.
Winifred Barbicombe gathers the papers, snaps the cap back on her fountain pen and places them into a slim leather briefcase. She stands, shaking hands formally with Martin and more warmly with Mandy. ‘It is a pleasure to meet you and an honour to represent you, my dear. If we can help in any way, call me. And if Harley Snouch should menace you, tell me straight away. I’ll have a restraining order slapped on him before he knows what hit him.’
Mandy looks uncertain, still coming to terms with her new status.
Martin takes the opportunity to ask a question. ‘Listen, before you go, can you tell me how Harley Snouch got the markings on his hands? They look like the sort of tattoos prisoners give each other.’
The solicitor looks grave as she responds. ‘As I said, we have acted for the Snouch family for many years. There is no statute of limitations on lawyer–client privilege. However, I can inform you that Harley Snouch has never been convicted of any crime in any Australian court.’
‘I see,’ says Martin, feeling deflated. ‘Thanks.’
‘Nevertheless, you are a journalist, are you not?’ the lawyer continues, the suggestion of a smile on her lips.
‘That’s right.’
‘There’s a fascinating story you should look into when you have a spare moment. A court case. A conman named Terrence Michael McGill, convicted and imprisoned in Western Australia some time back. Released just two years ago.’ The smile has extended to her eyes, twinkling above her half-moon glasses. ‘Now I must be getting along. A pleasure to meet you both.’
It’s left to Martin to show Winifred Barbicombe out. Mandy remains rooted to the spot, the joy of her windfall gone, replaced by a look of anguish. Martin moves to her. On the floor, Liam recommences his exploration of Martin’s shoelaces.
‘You were right. I thought there must have been a mistake.’ There’s a quaver in her voice. ‘He was never convicted. He didn’t go to jail.’
Martin reaches out, places a hand gently on her shoulder. ‘No. It doesn’t mean it didn’t happen, just that he didn’t go to prison.’
‘But Mum said he did.’ Martin can see the pain in her eyes, knows she’s doubting her beloved mother, questioning Katherine’s motives. ‘What should I do?’ she asks.
‘You should think about taking the DNA test.’
She doesn’t say anything, just bends down and lifts Liam, holding the boy close.
‘Can I use the phone?’ asks Martin.
She nods, thoughts elsewhere.
Bethanie Glass answers her mobile immediately. ‘Martin, is that you?’
‘Yes, how’s it going?’
‘Great. Did you see the front page? We killed it. Thanks to you. I even got a herogram.’
‘That’s great. Well deserved.’
‘Have you got something new?’
‘No, not exactly. Actually, I’m ringing to ask a favour.’
‘Anything. I owe you big time.’
‘Can you search the archives for me? I’m looking for anything you can find on a Terrence Michael McGill convicted in Western Australia in the past ten years or so. Released from prison about two years ago.’
‘Sure. Who is he?’
‘I’m not sure. But if there’s a story in it, I’ll see you get a slice of it.’
‘That’s good enough for me. What’s the best number to get you on?’
‘This one or the Black Dog. And email me any clippings.’
When he emerges from the office, Mandy and Liam have returned to the kitchen. She walks across and kisses him. ‘Thanks Martin.’
‘For what?’
‘For being halfway decent.’
He’s not sure how to respond. The old Martin would have gone with the moment but, then, the old Martin was not halfway decent.
‘I’m going to take the test,’ she says.
‘That’s probably for the best. But please don’t trust Harley Snouch. Check the DNA if you want to, but he’s more than just a harmless derro.’
‘What is it? What have you found out?’
Martin tries to think it through before he responds, trying to find an easy way of telling her about Julian Flynt, his murderous record and Harley Snouch’s role in exposing him. But before he can formulate an answer, there’s a knock at the kitchen door, hard and insistent.
‘Jesus,’ says Martin. ‘It’s probably some journo trying to cadge an interview.’
But when he opens the door a crack, it’s no journalist; it’s Jack Goffing, despondency gone, urgency back.
THE ASIO MAN HURRIES HIM OUT INTO THE BACKLANE, ENSURING THERE’S NO one to witness their conversation.
‘It’s the Reapers,’ Goffing states baldly.