Everyone on This Train Is a Suspect

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.

“It’s very . . .” I hunted for the word, shot it out of the sky. “Memorable. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Now, what’s this I hear about you and Alan thinking Henry’s death was suspicious?”

This was much more comfortable ground for me. “I think the circumstances invite a certain level of inquiry. And I think a lot of people had reasons to dislike McTavish.”

“A lot of people?”

“Well, everyone.”

She turned away from the tracks and sized me up. “Me?”

I hesitated. “I heard McTavish was an old flame.”

Her hands kneaded the grate. “More a candle than a bonfire. It was very short-lived.”

“You left an impression on him, though—he gave you that blurb. And you were the only one to skip his panel the next morning.”

“It’s all been a bit overwhelming.” She sighed. “Anyway, I’m glad I sat it out.”

“It was gruesome. You’re lucky you missed it.”

“Good research, I suppose.”

“I wish people would stop saying that.”

She was fiddling with the filter of her cigarette now, clearly uncomfortable, but she hadn’t yet left. It was like she wanted me to ask her something. Like Jasper’s truth: desperate, in a way, to get out. Or she wanted to see how much I knew. I was happy to play that game.