CHAPTER 14

Hamish Doncaster was passing through, so he said. (Who passes through Barnforth?) She’d agreed to a coffee with him before her meeting with the mayor. As she approached the coffee shop, she could see him sitting at a table by the window, looking out of place in his white designer shirt and brogues while locals in shorts and thongs, high-vis and work boots, queued for bacon and egg rolls.

He stood up to welcome her to the table, moving aside the plastic tray of vinegar and sauce bottles.

‘Clementine, good to see you again.’ Air-kiss, both sides. The most distinctive product of a decade’s private schooling on show: European manners.

His greeting. Kisses. It jumped out at her, surprising in its force—could Hamish Doncaster be the giver of the birthday card? It would explain both the oddities about Hamish: the golden boy’s repeated presence in this backwater and his rabid bidding for Turtle Shores—perhaps the romance had become obsessive somehow, attaching itself to Helen’s home? It seemed a stretch. But all Clem knew was there had been a greeting card, possibly from a lover. As a subtle waft of expensive aftershave blew across the gap between Hamish’s moisturised throat and her face, a host of formless suspicions gathered in her head.

‘So, I looked you up,’ he said as they sat down.

The familiar sinking feeling. How quickly her thoughts switched back to herself. ‘And you still wanted to meet for coffee?’

‘Of course—I’m intrigued!’

It was like Helen had said, she’d become a curiosity.

‘I want to know why on earth you’re not still practising law after doing so well at Crozier Dickens and then I want you to give me one good reason why I shouldn’t offer you a position in my firm. But first,’ he said, waving his finger at her, ‘I want the full brief, no detail too small, on how on earth you came to be coaching a team of meathead footballers out in the sticks.’

Clem swallowed her discomfort. She told him about herself—a few snippets, enough to satisfy for now, and Hamish was too polished to press—then changed the subject.

‘So, tell me about you, Hamish.’ He was mid to late thirties, she estimated. Helen would have had over twenty years on him.

‘What would you like to know?’

‘Well, how about we start with your marital status.’

‘Oooh, businesslike…to the point…I like that,’ he said. ‘Currently married but recently separated…’

‘Sorry to hear that. But didn’t I see a photo of you online with your wife only last month?’ A fundraiser: Hamish, olive-skinned, dimples, resplendent in black tie and a stunning brunette with her arm linked through his.

‘Yes. Very recent. Sadly, my wife is an accountant,’ he said, ‘and I’ve found myself on the wrong side of the ledger. She rather likes to draw nice neat lines under things…in fact, I’m soon to be “off balance sheet”—divorce papers on their way.’

The coins were dropping into the slot without so much as a clang—he could be Helen’s lover, someone who needed to keep their relationship a secret, tried to do so…but failed. Helen was attractive, experienced; and Hamish came across as someone up for experimentation, keen to taste the many flavours of life…an older woman could have been a delicacy or a conquest or both.

Her suspect list was blowing out again. It was both encouraging and disappointing.

She wished she could ask if his wife had discovered his infidelity but instead she said, ‘I don’t mean to be insensitive, but you don’t sound too upset about it.’

‘Yes, one could be down in the mouth, I suppose, but I’m actually finding it…well, liberating. I mean I’m living in a trendy apartment, I stay up late listening to my music, my opera…loud…I can travel whenever I please, and to hell with the exhausting, goddamn life-sapping budget she insisted on. And, to prove my point, here I am, meeting interesting women without so much as a pinch of guilt.’ He flashed a full smile. Yes, he was very easy on the eye.

Should she flirt back? It felt weird even to consider it. Rule number one when she was released from prison was No Relationships, not even a friendship. Hiding in her little sanctuary in the hills behind Katinga, her shame locked tight, buried deep so she never had to speak of it, never had to parry the well-meaning questions or endure the looks, avert her eyes from the loaded glances as they imagined her at the scene: the woman, the blood, the smell of death, the reek of alcohol on her breath.

Well, there was Rowan of course. She’d broken the rule with him.

She took a gulp of coffee. Black and bitter.

This was different, though. This would be a pretence—she wouldn’t actually let Hamish get close.

‘It’s you that’s interesting.’ She gave him a single raised eyebrow. That’s it, that’s the best you can do Jones? It was like prising open a rusty padlock. ‘I mean why? Why is a man like you even here, in downtown Barnforth?’

‘Well, let’s see…I had the good fortune to meet a captivating young lawyer who’s courageously throwing herself against corporations and power. It seems so hopeless…and yet so enchanting…I find it irresistible.’

Or perhaps he’s keen to make sure she’s not poking around in Helen’s story, thought Clem, unimpressed by the show.

‘I thought you said you were passing through on your way to somewhere else?’ she said.

‘Oh yes, I’m passing through…passing through on my way to new adventures, new life, new loves.’

She snorted out a giggle. It was just too silly, she couldn’t possibly play this game. He was laughing too, dimples on demand, apparently thrilled that Clementine found him humorous.

‘Please, tell me—what lures a man who loves opera to Barnforth? Really?’

‘If you must know, Madam Interrogator, I’m here to see His Redness. He has graced me with an appointment this afternoon.’

‘Surprising…I kind of got the impression you might not be on speaking terms.’

‘Whatever made you think that? It’s the only time I get to use my Japanese sword collection!’ he laughed.

She regarded him for a moment, tapping a single finger on the table. ‘I’m not sure how to take you, Hamish Doncaster. I’ve met your father twice now, and both times he was an absolute gentleman.’ She imagined that Hamish might be embarrassed about his father—the grocer’s son with his crude inflexions and liberal use of expletives, but she was still struggling to understand what would drive someone to be so gratuitously hostile as Hamish had been at the auction.

‘He is, isn’t he? That’s why he’s so effective. Let me guess, he told you about the kids’ cancer camp?’

‘Yes, he mentioned it.’

‘Did he tell you it’s on a piece of prime real estate in the Blue Mountains?’

‘Not in so many words, but I got the impression it’s surrounded by bush, great views…peaceful for the kids and their families.’

‘Oh, don’t get me wrong, it’s a great concept and a wonderful place for sick kids, just…not for long. He plans to sell the operating rights to a hotel-management firm as soon as he can. He’ll make a motza, and then: hasta la vista kids. Meantime, he’s getting government-subsidised rent until the right buyers come along.’

Clem searched his face. Why was he so eager for her to understand his father’s shortcomings? Perhaps he regretted telling her what he’d done at the auction and needed to cover his tracks, provide a justification for what must have seemed spiteful to a stranger he’d only just met. There was something hollow about it, though. Something forced.

Hamish explained how his father had made him a director of certain of his companies and then sacked him as soon as he realised his son, not cut from the same ruthless cloth, refused to support his schemes. She didn’t buy it, not entirely; perhaps Hamish had a couple of schemes of his own that clashed with his father’s plans. Hamish had already accumulated enough wealth by that stage, he said, most of it from the property portfolio his father had set up for him before they fell out. His talk was light, chatty, referring to his father as he might a disagreeable pet.

‘So I’ve made my first donation to the campaign,’ he said brightly, ‘and I expect you to reciprocate by sending me your CV.’

Was this his first donation, or was he one of Helen’s regulars? In more ways than one. He struck Clementine as smart, even cunning, with the kind of charm that would open doors and the looks to turn heads, including maybe Helen’s. (In which case, Clem found herself wanting to give Helen a high five for being such a hot cougar.) But why was he in Piama again? Was there something he needed from his father?

He probably didn’t donate personally, he’d have used a company. She made a note to check the WAGSS books for donations anyway. The Doncaster donors. She couldn’t shake the feeling that one of them was lying.

The smooth white curve of the windowsill in Fullerton’s office seemed to accentuate the knife-edge in her stomach. All she’d achieved thus far was to confirm her suspicion that Helen was murdered. She’d eliminated Ralph but added Hamish. It was time to corner Blair the Mayor.

She would play her cards carefully. She held the ace, two aces in fact, but she was aware that the chance of forcing a favourable outcome was still low.

The executive assistant with the bouffant ushered her in with the same shark-like smile as the first meeting and proceeded to make a self-important show of placing glasses of water on the coffee table. Fullerton nodded obsequiously to the old dragon—some sort of weird power inversion going on that Clem could only guess at. With the assistant safely out of the room, the small talk ended. Clementine sat with her hands palm down in her lap, her feet planted firmly in the cushioned burgundy carpet.

‘Well, Ms Jones, let’s get down to it, shall we? I’m interested to hear where you’re at with the concept of a compromise.’

‘Yes, well it’s only hypothetical at this stage but I’ve tested the idea with key stakeholders’—she hadn’t—‘and it seems there’s a fairly solid consensus on what might work. All on a theoretical basis of course: if we were to consider an offer, what might we be prepared to request?’

‘And?’

‘So, in broad terms, we spoke about a ten-year commitment. During that period, the mine would fund a monitoring program across the three known white-throat habitats throughout the state to get clear visibility of the total population, Piama being the largest of these. Combined with that would be a significant commitment to fox and feral cat eradication in turtle habitats across Queensland. In addition, there would need to be an amount allocated for research. And we’re thinking the Galimore Foundation could administer this fund and select the research that will have the greatest impact.’ She was mildly surprised—the string of hastily made-up rubbish coming from her mouth sounded almost feasible.

‘Good, good, I see,’ he said, nodding solemnly. ‘And do you have any kind of budget for these measures. Ballpark numbers?’

Even though this was all her own creation, without any authority or input from the Foundation or WAGSS, the fact remained that this was where the campaign might end up in any event—failing in the bid to stop the port and desperately trying to get money to save the turtle.

If minister Williams managed to shepherd the proposal through the department it all came down to the WAGSS legal challenge, the outcome of which would always be a coin toss. A deal might be the best option. Time to shoot for the stars.

‘Five million per annum for the ten-year period,’ she said confidently.

The mayor’s face turned a delicate shade of peach. The number was clearly well beyond anything he and the company had anticipated.

‘That’s…’ He cleared his throat. ‘Well…let’s call that a starting point…the parties would of course need to meet somewhere in the middle, one suspects.’

She was warming to the task as his discomfort grew. Despite his concern about the number, on the audio recording the mayor had openly shown his enthusiasm for a deal and she could sense, sitting in front of him, how valuable to his public image it might be: honest broker, grand poobah deal-maker, saviour of the port and the community’s only hope for economic deliverance. Time to go harder.

‘Oh, and I should have mentioned an additional two million per annum if numbers in the Piama region drop below current levels. As you would expect, it will be situation critical if that happens and the need for funding will be acute.’

‘Oh, Ms Jones, we should keep this in perspective, you speak as if this is a bottomless pit—’

‘Fifty million is less than 0.5% of one year’s revenues for the syndicate members. If anything, we should be asking for more.’

‘Oh, I don’t think that’s quite right.’

‘Oh, I think it is. On a global basis, syndicate members turned over a combined total of more than two billion last financial year and before you say it, I know profit and cashflows would be a better measure than revenue but you can’t tell me those numbers aren’t healthy.’

‘Well, perhaps, but the mine’s profits are likely to be negligible for the first two years of operation at Piama, not to mention the three years of construction activity before that. And I think the concept of a penalty for a drop in turtle numbers might need to be reconsidered—it suggests the syndicate is somehow underwriting the turtle population regardless of other factors.’

‘But councillor,’ she remonstrated, palms uplifted, ‘that’s pretty much what the company’s EPBC Act submission said: The EIS demonstrates no substantial reduction in turtle population.’

But he wasn’t listening. He was staring at her hands, fixated, his face darkening. She glanced down and stifled a gasp. The jagged cuts from her first failed mission to the Success were healing but the raised scabs stood out like black-red strings across her palms. He knew. She dropped her hands back on her lap instantly, pretended nothing had happened. His eyes locked on hers, blanketed with cold.

It dawned on her: the latex surgical gloves. They were transparent, he’d managed to make out the wounds from the security-camera footage.

‘Your hands look very sore, Ms Jones.’ The tone was clipped, icy.

‘Hah, yes. I had a fall walking the dogs. Nothing to worry about.’

He nodded, his gaze searching, creeping under her skin. And in his reaction, in the chill of his stare…she could see the possibility: this man, his ambition, his attachment to power—he could want something enough to kill. Forget being arrested for burglary. She had just become his next target.

‘Well, this is an interesting conundrum. I’m unsure what to make of you.’ He grinned, a lip-curling kind of sneer. ‘You come here offering what sounds like a compromise—an expensive compromise, but still, something to start the conversation—and meanwhile, you’ve been breaking and entering.’

Was there any point denying it? She had to give it a shot. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘Oh, it’s perfectly clear, Ms Jones. I have video footage of someone trespassing on my boat wearing surgical gloves which, on a second viewing and in the torchlight were quite transparent.’ Why hadn’t she thought of this? ‘And a large amount of my wife’s jewellery missing.’

What a snake. Denying the jewellery would be tantamount to an admission that she’d been there.

Her mind was scrambling to collect itself, her heart racing. It felt like she was slipping, falling off the knife edge she’d set up for herself by coming here.

Get a grip, Clementine.

She gave a half-smile and clasped her hands together. A demonstration of strength—they may be cut and bruised, but I still hold the aces and he knows it.

‘Well, Mr Mayor, I’m glad you enjoyed the show. The home video must have been fun to watch. I didn’t get any visuals, of course, but I certainly enjoyed the audio.’

‘So tell me, why shouldn’t I call the police and turn you in? Break and enter, theft…should be enough to see you locked up again, I expect.’

He wouldn’t go to the police anyway, he’d made that clear onboard the Success. She needed to stick a knife in. ‘We both know that’s not going to happen. And I don’t think your wife will be pleased if you suddenly decide to lift her jewellery from home just to make a point. No, what we should be talking about,’ said Clem, easing the blade against his throat, ‘is the joyous sounds of the master cabin. Now that was a show!’

Ace number one had been played. A vein was pulsing in his neck, a rope-like thing stretching down to his shirt collar.

‘Ms Jones, whatever you have has been obtained illegally,’ he said. She could see the nerves flutter in the corner of his lip. ‘It can’t be used against me. And you’ll be going to prison regardless.’

Her heart thudded against her ribs but her anger, her rage at what she thought this man had done to Helen, was taking over the fear. She wanted to jab something sharp into his face.

She shook her head and let out a long, disapproving sigh as if she was disappointed in his lack of intelligence.

‘Oh come on man, don’t pretend you don’t understand the impact of this. The media don’t care if the information is illegal. You know the damage will be done and your career will be over, at least for the foreseeable future. No doubt your marriage too.’

His teeth began grinding, the strain rippling across his jaw. Time to strike hard. For Helen.

‘Councillor. I also know about the other thing,’ she whispered as if it was a secret between them. ‘The bribes, Blair. The bribes you’ve been receiving from the syndicate, from your mate Slippery Scottie the Meatco man. And it seems you’re branching out as a bagman too, distributing the largesse in Canberra via your brother-in-law.’

She let the words sink in: stones falling through his concrete eyes, down through his spine.

‘And let’s face it, Blair, you’re not going to the police. Like you said, and I hope you don’t mind me quoting you: Not a word, not a single syllable to anyone about this. Ring a bell, does it?’ Christ, it felt good to mimic him. Like throwing an egg and seeing the yolk run down his cheek.

He was twitching, then suddenly lunged forward in his seat. She tensed, rocked back, anticipating his hands around her throat, but he stood up and stormed to the window, gripping the back of his neck as he looked out.

She quietly eased her way up out of the chair, keeping her eyes on him and found the house keys in her bag, held them firmly, longest key out. If he was going to do something crazy, she would do what she’d been longing to do for the last two minutes and fork out his eyeball.

He swung around, his hands in tight fists by his side, spoke through his teeth. ‘What is it you want exactly, Ms Jones? I mean what is this bizarre little performance all about? Is it the turtle or is there something else going on here?’

She breathed, a long slow breath in through her nostrils, the first decent air since she’d stupidly let him get a look at her hands. She wanted the inconceivable, of course. She wanted him to confess to Helen’s murder.

But in fact, here she was, no closer to nailing Fullerton than she’d been when she walked in—absent a confession, which was highly unlikely. Why would he confess?

It was the weak part of her strategy. Now her cards were on the table and the two of them, herself and Fullerton, were locked in an impasse. She’d suspected this was where they would end up; hoped she was wrong.

‘What I want, Mr Fullerton, is for you to tell me who it was that killed Helen Westley.’

His mouth dropped open in disbelief.

‘I know you were involved.’ She didn’t, but at this point he seemed the most likely candidate. Or, alternatively, he was the Hyphen’s accomplice, and she fancied the odds there. Especially if she could divide and conquer, split him away from Stanton-Green. She was pretty sure he’d drop his boating buddy like a stone if it might save himself.

‘I suppose there would have been a paid killer hired to do the actual deed. You can tell me who that person was,’ she said, taking a step towards him, ‘and, you can tell me who did the hiring.’

‘You are insane. Certifiably insane. Ms Westley died of…she killed herself.’

‘Oh come on, Blair. Let’s not play games. Let’s do a deal together. You and me,’ she gave him a fully charged false smile. ‘I know it’s not the one you originally had in mind but it’s going to be good for you: you give up whoever killed Helen and I let you off the hook. But I must hear from you by tomorrow or else I’m going to share your little boat show—broadcast it as far and wide as I can.’

She had no intention of letting him off the hook, of course. It wouldn’t be her choice anyway. Once she had a name, the police would finally do their job.

His lips drew down in a thin curve, pinched above and below. In his eyes was a slow ticking. He was making his assessment, forming his strategy as she watched.

She ran through the possibilities: if it wasn’t him but he knew who it was, he might agree to tell her everything. Or he might tip off the killer, who would probably contract the hitman again to get rid of her. If he didn’t know who’d done it then he was in deep shit anyway, exposed to public release of the audio from the Success. If shit didn’t stick, then nothing did. In this scenario he might even accuse someone, anyone, just to silence her.

If it was him, of course, he would probably just have her killed.

Two out of the four possibilities ended with Clementine’s death. She’d played her aces. She still didn’t know who had killed Helen, and she now had a fifty-fifty chance of being murdered herself. Maybe she should have folded early.