by Chris Hammer
He does slow, if only slightly, as he reaches the curve in the road, the scene of the ute accident. The hole in the fence is still there, but the ute has been removed. He considers stopping to take a photo or two, but the car carries him past; it’s not as if he’s about to forget the details.
The road stretches towards infinity. There are no clouds, just a milky greyness from the bushfire receding behind him. Out on the shimmering horizon, the sky has turned liquid, leaking down into the plain. There are no trees; the only animals are dead ones, killed by the night trucks ploughing their way between Adelaide and the east coast. There aren’t any crows; even roadkill is powerless to lure them into the midday sun. The thermometer in the dash gives an outside temperature of forty-two degrees.
He thinks of Riversend and all its tragedies, large and small: Codger Harris and his dead wife and child; Harley Snouch professing love for the woman he’s accused of raping; Mandy, unable to close her mother’s bookstore and move away; Robbie Haus-Jones, haunted by St James and killing his friend; Fran Landers mourning her husband; the boy, Luke, unable to comprehend the horror that has split his young life apart. It makes Martin wonder about himself, why the experience in Gaza has left him so gutted, why the damage lingers. After all, he has lost no one, suffered no enduring injuries. Compared to the people in Riversend, he has got off lightly. He is unable to formulate a satisfactory answer and his mind wanders into a daydream, an imagined utopia: he and Mandy living in a shack on the coast, watching winter squalls blowing in off the ocean, Liam playing peacefully nearby.
Bellington emerges from the plain in a rush. The earth’s flat browns turn an almost iridescent green: grapevines and citrus orchards, irrigation-nourished verdure. And then the town itself, stretched out along the Murray River. He pulls into a park, has a piss in the public toilet, then wanders down to look at the river. It’s flowing between high banks, a green-glass mass, its intent unperturbed by the imperceptible fall of the land. Martin has heard somewhere that the flow is artificial, governed by some huge dam, high in the mountains. He doesn’t care; its existence is reassuring after the parched riverbed of Riversend. A pair of kookaburras herald his arrival with a raucous cackle; cockatoos squawk somewhere in the distance. He extracts his phone, relieved to see its signal bars. Civilisation.
He sits at a picnic table in the shade and collects messages. There are a couple of texts and a voicemail from his editor, Max. ‘Hiya, soldier. Wondering how you’re travelling. Heard you’re out of mobile range. Call us when you can, let me know how you’re going. Cheers, mate.’ He thinks of calling, but texts instead: All well. Story progressing. Cracker interview with local cop. More to come. Will call soon.
He powers up his laptop, using his phone to connect to the net. He finds the number of the local cop shop quickly enough and calls, asking for Sergeant Herb Walker. He’s told Walker is out of the office but will be back soon; Martin leaves his number. He knows Walker encouraged Robbie to agree to an interview and hopes the sergeant might now be as forthcoming himself. He finds the number and address for Torlini’s Fruit Barn, on a side road off the main street, plus a residential number for Torlini. He checks it out on Google Maps. It’s just outside town, not far from the river, possibly the family farm. He looks out at the Murray. What were Gerry Torlini and Horace Grosvenor doing at the church in Riversend? Simply accompanying Craig Landers and the Newkirks? Having just traversed the unforgiving plain, Martin can’t understand anyone doing it without a reason. He searches for Horace Grosvenor’s address and finds he is sitting across the road from his house. It seems like fate. He packs up his laptop and notebook and walks towards Grosvenor’s home, passing the playground and a low plaque. He’s almost past it when he realises its significance. He backtracks and snaps a photo with his phone. In loving memory, Jessica and Jonty. So sorely missed.
The house is solid and respectable red brick, with a healthy garden full of hydrangeas and a BORE WATER ONLY sign. Martin takes a snap: bore water just a hundred and fifty metres from Australia’s biggest river. He rings the doorbell; a singsong chime answers from somewhere inside.
The door opens and Mrs Janice Grosvenor is revealed as a large woman wrapped in a floral print dress, presenting somewhat like a sofa with legs. Martin explains himself and the story he is writing. Mrs Grosvenor looks unwilling. Martin persists. Mrs Grosvenor reluctantly lets him in, apparently concerned that it would be impolite to refuse. And once he’s seated, she insists on making tea for her unwelcome guest. He waits in the living room, seated attentively on the edge of a sofa just as floral and only marginally less mobile than Mrs Grosvenor. It has antimacassars to safeguard its fabric from the oleaginous heads of friends and family. Along the mantelpiece are framed photographs. Children and grandchildren; a black-and-white wedding shot of a far younger and slimmer Mrs Grosvenor and her groom; a more recent colour shot of a ruddy-faced man, laughing at the camera: Horace Grosvenor. Through open double doors Martin can see the dining table: sturdy wood, boasting two huge vases of hydrangeas, one bunch blue, the other pink.
Mrs Grosvenor returns with a tray supporting a teapot dressed in a crocheted red-and-blue cosy, cups, saucers, cut-glass sugar bowl, milk jug. There is a plate of homemade slice: date and walnut. Martin leaps to his feet, separating a nest of tables, placing one before himself and another before Mrs Grosvenor. Mrs Grosvenor plays mother, pouring tea, offering slice; Martin plays child, accepting tea and slice with gratitude. Formalities complete, the two sit facing each other, sipping tea.
‘Mrs Grosvenor, I realise this is difficult, especially me dropping in so unexpectedly, but I would be grateful for any insights you could give me. It’s likely that this will constitute just a small part of the final story.’
Janice Grosvenor nods assent.
Martin asks permission to record the interview.
Another nod of assent.
And he begins, asking innocuous and inoffensive questions. What sort of man was Horace?
A wonderful father and good provider.
What has the community response been like?
Wonderful, most supportive.
After twenty or so minutes he has established an incontrovertible impression of Horace and Janice Grosvenor as decent, respectable and utterly boring. That Horace could come to such an exotic end, shot down in cold blood by a murderous priest, belies the monotony of his previous sixty-four years.
‘Mrs Grosvenor, do you have any idea why Reverend Swift might have wanted to harm your husband?’
‘Don’t think he did. Think he was having an episode. Poor Horrie was in the wrong place at the wrong time. All there is to it.’
‘Yes, so it seems. Do you know why your husband was there, as you say, in the wrong place at the wrong time? Did he go to Riversend to attend church?’
‘Doubt it. Be a first if he did.’
‘So why was he there?’
‘Couldn’t say. Sorry.’
‘Did he go to Riversend often?’
‘From time to time. But not to church.’
‘Did he know any of the other men who were killed?’
‘Yes. All of them.’
‘All of them?’
‘All of them.’
‘How was that? I thought three of them were from Riversend.’
‘Yes. But he certainly knew them.’
‘How?’
‘They were fishing mates. Fishing and hunting. Called themselves the Bellington Anglers Club. Here, I’ll show you.’ And with a great deal of effort, ham-hock forearms pushing down on the arms of the chair like pistons, accompanied by a bellows-like exhalation of breath, Mrs Grosvenor lifts herself out of the chair that has been so snugly encompassing her. Martin feels an absurd pang of guilt at having induced such an effort. But soon enough Mrs Grosvenor is on her feet and off into her home’s hinterland, returning some moments later with the impressively large head of a Murray cod, stuffed and mounted, mouth agape at the imposition. She hands it to Martin, who examines the fish wi
th some disquiet. Deep down a small rebellion flares in his stomach, a last stand of the morning’s hangover.
‘A big one,’ he says, not knowing what else to say.
‘Plenty more in the garage. One of Horrie’s hobbies. Used to have some in the house, but I took them down after he passed. Hope he doesn’t mind.’
‘I’m sure he would understand.’
‘Hmmph. Maybe.’
‘Mrs Grosvenor, this club—what did you call it again?’
‘The Bellington Anglers Club.’
‘The Bellington Anglers Club. Was it a formal club, or just a group of men who went fishing together?’
‘And hunting. But yes. Just men who were friends. They’d go a couple of times a year. Long weekends down to Barmah forest, fishing and camping. Horrie loved it.’
‘And when they weren’t fishing and hunting? They still socialised?’
‘Not really. Horrie and Gerry Torlini would see each other at the bowls club, but not the fellows from Riversend so much. Horrie and I were better friends with the members at the club. Some of those men were part of the angling club too. But they weren’t at Riversend on the day of the shooting. If you want to know more, you can ask for Len Harding at the bowls club. He’s there most days, holding up the bar. But I’m not sure how any of this would help with your story.’
‘Quite right, Mrs Grosvenor, quite right. I should be more focused with my questions. My editor is always telling me that. But just a final question or two, if you would indulge me.’
‘Can’t stop you asking.’
‘You mentioned hunting. Did your husband and his friends ever go shooting in the Scrublands?’
‘Is that up near Riversend?’
‘That’s right. It’s bushland, mostly Crown land, just outside of town.’
‘Yes. That’s why he was up there: to go hunting. They’d been out on Saturday, were going again on Sunday. What he was doing at the church I have no idea. Wait here. There’s some mounted possums in the garage, they might be from up there.’
Martin is quickly on his feet. ‘No, Mrs Grosvenor, that’s not necessary. Please. I assure you. You’ve been too kind. But one last question. Was Reverend Byron Swift a member of the Bellington Anglers Club?’
‘I don’t think so. If he was, Horrie never mentioned his name.’
At the Sioux Falls Cafe, Martin sits directly under the air-conditioner and eats a hamburger with the lot and downs a six-hundred-millilitre carton of iced-coffee-flavoured milk, and feels much the better for it. The last vestiges of nausea surrender, overwhelmed by superior force. He wipes grease from his chin, turns on his laptop and opens the files containing the newspaper clippings. He finds Defoe’s award-winning piece and quickly scans it. The relevant section is not hard to find:
It’s understood the five victims knew each other. In all likelihood, one or more of them had learnt of Byron Swift’s perversions; police believe this may have led to their deaths. One theory is that Swift shot them to silence them.
So Defoe had made the connection; he just didn’t dwell upon how the men knew each other or how they came to be at the church. Fair enough; the article was about the priest, not his victims. Martin had overlooked the reference as he skimmed through the clippings on the plane trip to Wagga, back when his assignment was all about the present, not the past. He’s searching Defoe’s article for anything else he might have missed when his mobile rings. He unlocks it, smearing the screen in the process. It’s the local policeman, Sergeant Herb Walker. He tells Martin to come right over.
Harley Snouch had called Herb Walker ‘that fat fuck’. He’s right about one thing: the police sergeant is only slightly less corpulent than Mrs Grosvenor. Walker looks to be in his mid-fifties, a face of putty features sitting below a bouffant Elvis haircut turned snow white. He sits behind his desk, hands folded on his belly, nicotine-stained fingers entwined. From time to time he separates his hands and pats his gut appreciatively, giving him a self-satisfied air. As their conversation proceeds, Martin realises it’s something of a tell; Walker pats his belly with alternate hands when thinking, and with both hands when he’s pleased with himself or to emphasise a point. He’d want to be less obvious testifying in the witness box.
‘I’ve been expecting your call,’ he says to Martin. ‘Sooner or later you were bound to end up here.’ Double belly pat.
‘Well, I certainly owe you a debt of gratitude.’
‘How’s that?’
‘Constable Haus-Jones told me that it was you who encouraged him to talk to me. Thank you for that.’
‘You’re welcome. Was he of any use?’
‘Yes. He was most forthcoming. He has a very clear recollection of the day of the shooting.’
‘Burnt into his memory, I should imagine. And he spoke on the record?’
‘Yes. He was most helpful.’
‘He tell you Byron Swift’s last words?’
‘“Harley Snouch knows everything”? Yes, he did. What does it mean?’
‘Don’t know. Yet.’ Walker has a rather pained look on his face, as if something is bothering him. ‘He tell you about the woman hiding in the church, behind the door? The one who heard everything?’
‘No. Who is she? Can I talk to her?’
Walker shakes his head. ‘No. Sorry. She’ll testify at the inquest, but I can’t reveal her identity against her wishes. And don’t go asking around—she was visiting from interstate.’
‘Did she talk to Swift? Inside the church?’
‘No. She was just coming out of the toilet as the shooting started.’
‘So why tell me about her?’
‘You’re right. It’s not relevant.’ Walker lifts his hands from his belly and makes an apologetic gesture. ‘Let’s move on. I hope, like the constable, I too can be helpful. But you must understand that this conversation is totally off the record. No quotes, no references to police sources. Use the information as you see fit, but it absolutely cannot be traced back to me in any way, understood?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘Very good.’ Double belly pat.
‘Would you mind if I recorded the conversation, nevertheless, to ensure accuracy?’
‘Yes, I would mind. You may not record it. Unlike young Robbie Haus-Jones, I am actively involved in the investigation. I trust you to protect your sources; otherwise I wouldn’t be talking to you. But recordings go astray: they turn up in police searches, they find their way onto the internet. So no recording. Take notes, and if you need something clarified later, just ring me. Agreed?’
‘Agreed.’ Martin has sufficient faith in his notebook, pen and shorthand. ‘Shall we start?’
‘I thought we already had.’ Double belly pat.
‘Sergeant Walker, the story I came to write was how Riversend is coping a year after the shooting. That’s evolved a bit. I’m also interested in what the locals think of Byron Swift. I’ve been surprised to find that some people remember him rather fondly. Does that surprise you?’
‘When you’ve been a policeman as long as I have, nothing surprises you.’
‘What about yourself? Did you know Swift?’
‘No, not well. I would meet him on occasion. I know old Reverend Samuels was very pleased to have him here.’
‘Who is Reverend Samuels?’
‘He was the local Anglican minister here for fifty years or so. But he was getting too old to run the parish by himself, so they sent Swift to do the legwork for him. Seemed to work well, from what I can tell. But I’m not the one to ask. Not a churchgoer, you’ll understand.’
‘Is Reverend Samuels still in town?’
‘No, they retired him pretty soon after Swift died. He couldn’t cope with the workload by himself and I guess they didn’t have any more young priests to send to help. There’s a new man here now, Vietnamese fellow, Thieu. You can look him up, but he’s only been here about four months. There was another bloke filling in for a few months in between.’
‘I see. You say y
ou didn’t know Swift very well, but did you have any impression of him at all?’
‘Back then I thought he was a very conservative, well-mannered, well-presented young man. Now I know different.’ Double belly pat.
‘How do you mean?’
‘Okay, now we get to the guts of it. Remember, off the record, not attributable.’
Martin nods, watching the policeman drum his gut, considering his words.
‘Byron Swift was a murderer. You know that. He was also a paedophile. You know that too. But what you won’t know is that he was also a man without a past. And he was protected by powerful and influential people.’ The hands are still, the eyes are locked on Martin’s.
Martin holds the gaze for a moment before transcribing the comments into his notebook. His hands are a little shaky, but it’s nothing to do with his hangover. Shit, he thinks, he’s going to tell me everything.
‘Okay,’ he says aloud, ‘let’s take those one at a time. Murderer. He shot five people dead at St James. Is there any evidence that he killed before?’
‘Evidence? That’s a precise word. Maybe not evidence, but a strong suggestion.’
‘Can you take me through it?’
‘Sure. After the shooting, the investigation started looking at his past. At first glance it was straightforward. He was sent up here about three years ago, not long after he was ordained. He’d come from Cambodia, where he’d been working for a Christian charity. Before that, he was training in Perth, including a theology degree at Murdoch University that he didn’t finish. Before that, another half-finished uni degree; before that, state school in Western Australia. An orphan, a ward of the state.’
