Jasper’s smile had fallen so far he had to retrieve it. Eventually he mumbled out, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Of course you don’t.” I winked.
I saw Jasper wrestle with it, and then accept my discovery. “Just don’t tell anyone. I’m serious. It’s only worth anything because no one knows.”
This is far from my finest deduction. Veronica had a personalized signature in her copy: To V! A copy that I knew had been bought in Darwin, at the beginning of the train ride. It could only have been signed in the last three days. There was no other solution: Erica Mathison was on the train.
“You are killing it,” I said. “No wonder Wyatt was smiling. You were here to hash out a new deal. Seems you’ve got something to celebrate?”
“Me? Yeah. Harriet? She’ll come around.” He read my expression. “She’s happy for me, of course. She’d rather I publish under my own name.”
I remembered them arguing about money. It made sense now: Harriet was disappointed that he was just doing it for the money. She wanted him to do it for himself, and she’d been trying to convince him it didn’t matter if they took a hit financially. She wanted him on the other side of those panels they’d come here to watch.
“But I have been published as myself. It’s not all it’s cracked up to be. And I’m happy, especially if Wyatt keeps doubling my advance. Sometimes I think it might be nice . . .” I realized he was staring across the yard, where Harriet was dancing in the dust, arms above her head, swaying in the throes of the music. “Then again, I’ve got better things to put my name on.” He pointed at her. “That right there, that’s what you’ve got to look forward to. We’re trying to adopt. My name there, handed down to their kids and so on, that’s going to outlast any book.”
“Yeah,” I muttered, staring at my shoes.
He turned back to me. “It’s nice to have someone else to talk to about this for once.”
“Seeing as we’re being honest, I think I might have stuffed things up with Juliette.”
“That’s gotta be a record. You got engaged twenty minutes ago.”
“I guess I’m a better liar than you think I am.”
“Why the hell are you sitting here drinking with me, then?”
I stood up. “That is an excellent point.” I extended a hand and put on a toffy formal accent. “It’s been a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Mathison.”
He laughed, great relief in his voice. His secret out, the burden gone. He squeezed my hand, mimicked my poshness. “I prefer Jasper Murdoch, if you please.”
Chapter 22
You’ll have to read Erica Mathison if you want a race to the airport and a romantic climax (plus a tryst in the toilets, if those types of books are anything to go by), because not ten minutes after I’d left Jasper, we were all being shepherded onto the buses headed back to the Ghan. I was told Juliette had already gotten a taxi from the homestead into town. She wasn’t answering her phone; I tried the whole ride back. On the platform, Aaron looked nervously at his watch, sucked his teeth and said, “I’m sorry, sir, she asked me not to tell you where she was going. We leave in five minutes.”
I looked around the platform, hoping Juliette might suddenly appear, mind changed. I noticed there were no police cars in the lot anymore.
“Are any officers joining us for the second half of the journey?”
Aaron seemed surprised. “No. Why would they?”
“Protection?”
“What would they be protecting us from? They’ve taken the body, and you and your pal said yourselves there’s no foul play. Listen, I know it’s been a tough night. But you’re either on the train or you’re staying here.”
The lights of the township cast a dim halo into the night. My vision for what this trip could be had crumbled: it was all a dream. It was a choice between the train and door-knocking every Alice Springs motel room until dawn.
Writing this all out in hindsight, it’s so easy to see I’ve gotten a few things wrong so far, both deductive and emotional, and here’s another one.
I chose the train.
Chapter 23
The first thing I did back on board was commit a crime.
Theft, specifically. Everyone was in a good mood from the food and the grog and most were kicking on in the bar carriage. Douglas asked Cynthia to make him a cup of tea, complaining that the binned kettle in the hallway was of no use. I made my way there for a drink too, intending to drown—no, that wasn’t severe enough, waterboard—my sorrows. However, as I walked in I saw Alan Royce, legs splayed the way stockbrokers sit on public transport, and I pinwheeled immediately back into the corridor. It wasn’t that I was avoiding Royce, it was that he’d changed his clothes.
The Ghan has limited locks on the doors, remember, and so I swiftly ducked into Royce’s room. Sure enough, he remained allergic to putting things away: his crumpled jacket from this afternoon lay on the bed. On the ground, piled like they’d been literally stepped out of, were his trousers. Jackpot.
I know. It’s not a nice thing to do, even to a man like Royce. But I think, after the events of this book are all printed, he won’t really be in a position to press charges over something so small as burglary. Not after what he did.
Afterward, I meandered my way through the carriages down to the back of the train, where there was an outdoor smoking deck. It was tiny, suitable for three or four people at most, with a wrought-iron fence to stop guests tumbling off the back, and a small awning. The clanking of the train was loud here, mechanical and foreign against the quiet of the desert night. The symmetrical tracks whizzed out from under the carriage, our journey perfectly measured by their line, meter on meter unveiled as we picked up speed. I watched Alice Springs, and everything in it, fade into the distance.
Then I unfolded the piece of paper I’d taken from Royce’s pocket. The one he’d secreted away while searching McTavish’s room. It was a check. Well, half a check. It had been burned, starting in the bottom right corner, the flame devouring all the identifying details except the bank’s header and the amount: $25,000. I recalled the ash on McTavish’s floor and my assumption that he’d flouted the no-smoking rule. This is one of the places where I had been wrong.
The door opened behind me and I stuffed the check back in my pocket as I turned to see Lisa Fulton. She was wearing a floor-length sapphire-blue evening gown, which was almost too fancy for the formal evening dress code on the itinerary. The hem had been splashed up with dirt and dust from the farmyard, and she had a slight bruise just above the elbow on her right arm, which was enough to make me glad I’d skipped the rowdy dance floor.
“Congratulations,” she said, sheltering a cigarette from the wind and flicking a lighter.
It took me a second to deduce what she was congratulating me for. I could still see the dim glow of Alice Springs retreating behind us.
“Thank you, we’re so happy.”
“Happy enough that you’re traveling on your own?”
I thought I’d have a little more time before people noticed Juliette hadn’t boarded the train with me. I tried to think of a fast excuse. “It’s all a bit ad hoc. We thought we might do it quickly. Like, next weekend quickly. Lots to organize.” Lisa didn’t look like she bought it, so, as with all teetering lies, I simply built it up. “Besides”—I laughed—“a few too many dead bodies for her ideal holiday.”
“Weak. There’s only one.”
“Surely one’s enough.”
“Depends where you holiday. I took a photo of you proposing, by the way. Give me your email and I’ll flick it to you while we still have reception.” I obliged, and a minute later, the reception growing more sluggish as we moved, my phone dinged. The photo looked properly romantic to the unknowing—starry night, the glow of the marshmallow fires—but all I could see was the strain in my jaw. The glisten in Juliette’s eyes.