Everyone on This Train Is a Suspect

I’d been emboldened by my chat with Majors to try a psychological profile of my own. This train was jostling with egos and blurbs and legacies, and Jasper seemed too nonchalant about being known among it all. Harriet clearly disagreed. But maybe it wasn’t humility. Maybe it was necessity. I remembered Wyatt, whom I’d barely seen crack a smile this whole trip, wanting a celebratory drink with him, and this bolstered my confidence in my deduction.

“That’s easy for someone to say who doesn’t have their name on their covers,” I said.

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.