by Chris Hammer
Luke is looking down at the stick, twirling it absent-mindedly in his hands. He doesn’t seem at all upset; maybe replaying the scene constantly in his mind has normalised it.
‘What about the other people who were there?’
‘They ran away. Some hid behind cars, some ran up over the bank and down to the riverbed. There was no one left, just Byron, with the constable getting closer.’
‘Did you see what happened when Constable Haus-Jones confronted Byron?’
‘Yeah, they talked for a bit. Constable Haus-Jones was pointing his pistol at Byron. I thought Byron was going to surrender. But he didn’t. He lifted the gun, pointed it at Constable Haus-Jones and fired. And then Constable Haus-Jones shot him. Four times. Pap, pap. Pap, pap. Byron fell down, dropped the gun. Constable Haus-Jones walked over, moved the gun away with his foot. Then he carefully put his gun down. Then he sat with Byron. He was crying.’
‘Jeez, you poor kid.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Luke, you say they talked for a bit before he was shot. You didn’t hear what they said?’
‘No.’
‘How long did they talk for?’
‘Not long. I don’t know. A minute maybe, something like that.’
‘And when the priest lifted his gun, did he do it quickly?’
‘No. He did it really slowly. Constable Haus-Jones wasn’t caught by surprise.’
‘What do you think of the constable now?’
‘I feel sorry for him. He didn’t have any choice.’
There’s a pause, Martin imagining the scene, Luke reliving it.
‘Do you have any idea why he did it—why Byron Swift shot those men?’
‘No. I think of it every day. I don’t know.’
They sit side by side, the newsman and the boy, lost in thought. Again, it is Martin who breaks the silence. ‘Luke, I owe you an apology. For the other day, when I first met you outside the church. I didn’t mean to upset you.’
Luke nods, saying nothing.
‘The police still believe the allegations made against him, you know.’
‘Does Constable Haus-Jones?’
‘No. But two boys told the police it was true.’
‘It’s not true, Mr Scarsden. It’s not. He never touched me and he never touched anyone else.’
The journalists, cameramen and photographers, having swarmed locust-like from the church to the Oasis, have now moved en masse to the services club. They’re in the main bar area, drinking Coca-Cola, eating takeaway from Saigon Asian and working away on laptops. Over to one side, by the windows looking out over a steel-form deck and the dry riverbed, sit a group of police officers. Robbie Haus-Jones isn’t there, but Herb Walker is, hoeing into a steak and beer, plus a couple of other men, all too easily recognisable as cops in their bad suits or chinos and polo shirts. Homicide detectives.
Carrie detaches herself from a gaggle of reporters and comes over to him.
‘Glad you turned up,’ says the photographer. ‘I’ve been looking for you. You hear about the doorstop? The cops are speaking out the front at one.’
‘Thanks. I didn’t know. Want a drink?’
‘No, I’m right. I’ve got one.’ And she returns to her friends.
Martin checks the time. Twelve forty-five. Bugger. Not enough time to eat, so he walks to the bar, fills a glass of water from the jug sitting there, downs it and fills another, before moving along to order a drink. Errol is manning the bar. He gets Martin a light beer and a packet of chips, taking Martin’s money and shaking his head. ‘I don’t know what we ever did to deserve this.’ Martin assumes he means the murders, not the media.
The police hold their press conference in the shade of a large gum tree. The senior man, wearing a suit, identifies himself as Detective Inspector Morris Montifore from Sydney homicide, spelling his name for the reporters and introducing his colleague Detective Sergeant Ivan Lucic and Sergeant Herbert Walker of the Bellington police. There’s a young female constable with a voice recorder, but she doesn’t rate a mention. Martin looks about and finds the ASIO officer from the motel car park lurking behind the media, smoking a cigarette. The man winks at Martin and, smirking, mouths: ‘Top story.’
Detective Montifore begins. ‘We can confirm that two sets of human remains, deceased remains, have been discovered in a farm dam on a property approximately twelve kilometres north-west of Riversend. The property has been designated a crime scene and media are requested not to attempt to access the property at this time. A preliminary search has found no evidence of additional bodies, but that will need to be confirmed by a more extensive and systematic search. I repeat, there is no evidence that there are more bodies out there, contrary to speculation in some sections of the media. The bodies are badly decomposed and we believe they have been there for some time. We are unable to make any positive identification as yet and identification of the deceased may take some days, even weeks. Police are taking this investigation very seriously, but at this early stage we are still collecting evidence at the scene. However, we have already established a number of leads and will be pursuing them vigorously. Questions?’
Doug Thunkleton’s booming voice crashes through, drowning out the lesser inquiries of his rivals. ‘You describe the property as a crime scene. What makes you certain there is not an innocent explanation for the bodies being there, like a drowning or Aboriginal remains?’
‘Yes. We have definitive reasons to believe there has been foul play. I can’t go into the details, but there is sufficient evidence to believe we are looking at homicide. Additionally, the remains are not from the distant past. Some articles of clothing, or remnants of clothing and personal effects, have been found. We are using these articles of clothing to help with identification but, as I said, that may take some time.’
Another voice, one of Doug’s blonde rivals. ‘Who discovered the bodies?’
‘The owner of the property. His house and some other buildings were destroyed in a bushfire earlier this week. He was surveying the damage when he made the discovery. Newspaper reports that the remains were found by alternative individuals are not accurate.’
There’s a small, smug chuckle from behind Martin.
‘Is the property owner under arrest?’
‘No.’
‘Is he a suspect?’
‘No. He is helping with inquiries, but no more than that. Again, media speculation that he is implicated in the killings has no basis in fact and is not sourced from the police.’
Another chuckle.
Doug Thunkleton again: ‘Detective, there is also newspaper speculation linking Reverend Byron Swift to these latest murders. Is there any evidence to support that speculation?’
‘Not at this stage. Thank you for that question. There is no substantive evidence to link him to these crimes. We’d be interested to hear from anyone with any evidence that does link the two tragedies.’
Another chuckle. Martin can feel his hackles rising, even as his colleagues continue to fire questions.
‘Have the bodies been in the dam for more than a year?’ ‘We can’t be sure, but that’s possible.’
‘Is it possible the bodies are those of the two German backpackers abducted in Swan Hill a year or so ago, as also mentioned in newspaper reports?’
‘It’s possible, but no more than that.’
Another chuckle.
Martin has had enough. ‘Detective Inspector, why aren’t the police capable of investigating this crime independently?’
‘I don’t follow your question. The police are confident we can move quickly to achieve a resolution of the investigation.’
‘Then why is ASIO involved, and what is the nature of their involvement?’
This time there is no chuckle.
The detective is caught off guard. ‘Um, yes. I’m not authorised…I’m not sure of the relevance…Ah, yes: I’m here to answer questions on behalf of the New South Wales Police Force. Nothing more.’
It’s Marti
n’s turn to chuckle. He looks behind him, but the intelligence officer is nowhere to be seen. A half-finished cigarette lies smouldering on the lawn.
‘That was fucking terrific!’ enthuses Sergeant Herb Walker. ‘You shoulda seen the look on his face when you dropped him in it. Dumped his fag and scarpered.’ He laughs at the memory, slapping his belly for emphasis. ‘Total fire ban. Could’ve busted him then and there.’ The Bellington sergeant has given Martin a lift after spotting him walking away from the services club.
Martin smiles. ‘So he is ASIO?’
‘Too right he is, superior cunt.’
‘What’s his name?’
‘Goffing. Jack Goffing.’
‘What’s he doing here?’
‘Fucked if I know. As far as I can see, he’s not doing anything. Just sits in on interviews, monitors what we’re doing, doesn’t add anything or make suggestions. Just sits there like he’s marking us. Montifore must know more, but he’s not telling me.’ Walker turns his four-wheel drive into the lane behind the Commercial Hotel and parks halfway along, away from prying eyes. He fishes a packet of cigarettes out of his top pocket and lights up. He leaves the engine going, air-conditioning pulsing, even as he opens his window and blows a stream of smoke out into the heat.
Martin is feeling lucky. Walker is in an expansive mood and obviously delighted Martin has blown the whistle on the ASIO agent. Martin waits until the policeman has taken another long drag on his cigarette before continuing. ‘So what’s the story with Harley Snouch? Are you going to charge him?’
‘Not yet, but he’s still in the frame. Lucic wanted to throw him in the can and sweat him but Montifore wants to give him enough rope to hang himself. “Slowly, slowly, catchy monkey.”’
‘What do you reckon?’
‘Me? I’d be very fucking surprised if he wasn’t implicated in one way or another. Don’t quote me on any of this, by the way.’
‘Of course not.’
‘What’s your angle for tomorrow, Martin? Got anything new?’
‘We’ll have all the routine stuff from the press conference et cetera, but I’m also doing a feature on Byron Swift and his shadowy past. Whether that was his real name or not.’
‘Really?’ says Walker. ‘This day just gets better and better. What have you got?’
‘Most of it’s from you, Herb, to be honest. What you told me the other day. How he has no history in the church, suspicions he was a former soldier, the inscription on his gravestone, the suggestion that the real Byron Swift died in Cambodia of a smack overdose. Am I good to go with that?’
Walker takes a long toke of his cigarette as he considers. ‘Sure. Just make sure you leave me out of it. Throw in a red herring or two if you can. Cite an ASIO source—that’d put the cat among the pigeons.’
‘Maybe. What about the suggestion that he was being protected by someone, that attempts to investigate him by police before the shooting were thwarted?’
‘Excellent. Right on the money. That’s what that spineless cunt Defoe should have written in the first place. Stir the possum. But for Christ’s sake leave me out of it, Martin. Nothing that can be traced back to me, okay?’
‘Absolutely. But there is one thing that intrigues me, something you might be able to help me with.’
‘What’s that?’
‘The day of the shooting. I’ve spoken to people who say Swift was acting normal that morning at church, that he was outside chatting to people like nothing was the matter. Then he went inside for ten minutes or so and came out a different man, shooting people. It makes no sense.’
‘You’re telling me. Crazy fucker. Nothing about that morning makes sense.’
‘Yeah, but what happened to him in those ten minutes? As far as I can make out he was alone in the church.’
‘So? What are you driving at?’
‘I’m guessing that he rang someone, and that’s what triggered the shooting. Is that something that was followed up in the investigation?’
‘I’d be surprised if it wasn’t. In one sense it was an open-and-shut case—he shot five people in broad daylight in front of witnesses and then young Robbie shot him dead—so there wasn’t that much to investigate. On the other hand, we all wanted to know why he did it. And there was massive public interest, plus pressure coming down from the pollies making sure their arses were covered. I’ll tell you what I’ll do, I’ll see if I can find out. Montifore has all the files with him.’
‘Why? Does he think there’s a link with the bodies in the dam?’
‘Yeah. We all do. Or we suspect it. Or at the very least we’d be stupid to discount it. Those girls disappeared just a few days before the shooting and wound up dead in a dam just outside Riversend. Might be a coincidence, but you’d be mad not to investigate possible links.’
‘So it’s definitely the German backpackers?’
‘Yeah, not much doubt. The bodies aren’t much more than skeletons, but we found bits of clothing, some of their belongings. They have to go through formal identification, dental and DNA and all that shit, as well as doing the right thing by the relatives, but everyone knows it’s them.’
‘How did they die?’
‘Shot through the head. We’ll trawl the dam for bullets. If we can link them to Swift’s guns, or to Snouch’s, that’ll be game over.’
‘Right. But apart from the timing—the week before Swift went postal—and the location—close by Riversend—there is nothing substantial or conclusive linking Swift with the backpacker murders?’
‘Well, nothing conclusive, that’s for sure. But there is some new information.’
‘Can you share it with me?’
‘Let me have a think.’ Walker draws on his cigarette, examines it, takes another long toke, then stubs it out on the outside of the door and drops the butt into the laneway. He issues one last stream of smoke through the window and then closes it. ‘All right, you can write it, but pretend you discovered it all by yourself. No citing police sources or any of that shit. There’s an old coot lives out there who reckons that Swift used to go out shooting in the Scrublands, rabbits and stuff, not that far from where the bodies were dumped. His name is William Harris. People call him Codger.’
‘And that’s new information?’
‘Yeah.’
‘How come that wasn’t discovered after the church shooting?’
‘Good question. As I told you, there were people protecting Swift while he was alive—and who wanted to protect him after he was dead. Anyway, I gotta get going. Where can I drop you?’
‘At the bookstore. The Oasis. You know it?’
‘Sure. What’s happening there?’
‘Good coffee.’
‘Right. And that hornbag single mum, hey? Wouldn’t mind a bit of that myself.’
Martin doesn’t respond, and a moment later Herb Walker drops him right outside. ‘Good on ya, Martin. I’ll see about those phone calls. Just remember, leave me out of it. Give me a ring if you need anything.’
‘Absolutely. And, Herb, thanks for your help. I really appreciate it.’
‘No sweat, mate. Stir that possum hard.’
Martin jumps out of the four-wheel drive and watches Walker head off towards the highway and Bellington. He turns and mounts the footpath outside the bookstore, wondering how Codger Harris’s information has only now reached the investigating officers and why Robbie Haus-Jones had withheld it. Was he part of the conspiracy Walker was alleging, to protect Byron Swift and cover his tracks?
Martin wonders about D’Arcy Defoe. The two have been rivals ever since joining the Herald as cadets together. They’re like oil and water: D’Arcy in his tailored suits, Martin in his jeans; D’Arcy indulging in fine dining and finer wines on his expenses while Martin lives on takeaways; D’Arcy cultivating the top end of town and currying favour with management, Martin doing his best to ignore them. Their relationship is competitive, respectful and superficially friendly, and has remained so, even as their contemporaries hav
e fallen away onto the editorial backbench or been lured away by the money and family-friendly hours of public relations. They rose through the ranks together: Defoe the wordsmith and Scarsden the newshound. There was an evening drinking wine in London when Defoe had declared there are two types of correspondents: ‘frontline correspondents and chateau correspondents’. He didn’t need to spell out how he saw their respective roles.
But Defoe has always been a good reporter. Martin can’t believe he would willingly bury Walker’s allegation of powerful people protecting Swift. More likely he’d held off on writing it, searching out confirmation from his high-level contacts in state parliament. That’s another of their differences: D’Arcy is adept at playing the long game, storing away facts, leads and contacts only to bring them together weeks or months later in a big reveal. Martin is more like a bull at a gate, anxious to publish and move on to the next story. Perhaps Defoe has never been able to stand the allegations up? Or perhaps he will, now that the story is current once again. Perhaps he’s already deploying his company credit card at Sydney’s better restaurants, garnering information, preparing a splash to overshadow Martin’s anniversary profile on Riversend. Martin wouldn’t put it past him.
The bookstore is open but empty. Martin walks up the aisle and pushes the swing door open. He sticks his head through. ‘Hello?’ he yells.
‘Down here.’ It’s Mandy.
He finds her in the bathroom off the kitchen, giving her boy a bath. ‘Hi there,’ he says.
‘Hi.’
‘All right if I work out of your office again? The police gave a doorstop; I need to file.’
