by Chris Hammer
She takes a breath before answering. ‘Sure. If you have to.’ Permission granted, but her voice is grudging.
‘Thanks, Mandy. We’ll catch up later, okay?’
‘Maybe not. Not tonight, Martin.’ She is kneeling beside the bath, her back to him, hands supporting the boy.
‘You okay?’
‘Sure. Why wouldn’t I be? But I’ve had a long day. I’m zonked.’
‘Anything I can do?’
‘Tell the truth.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘Byron. He didn’t kill those girls.’
‘You can’t be sure of that.’
‘You can’t be sure he did.’
Martin doesn’t know what to say. He can hear an edge to her voice, an edge of controlled anger. ‘Maybe I should work from the motel.’
‘Yeah. Maybe you should.’
MARTIN SCARSDEN IS FEELING DECIDEDLY UNSETTLED AS HE WALKS DOWN HAY Road through the Sunday morning quiet. He heads towards the general store, past the soldier standing vigil outside the empty Commercial Hotel. He feels none of the exuberance or confidence of the previous morning, when the story seemed so obvious and his perspective so clear. He doesn’t walk down the centre of the street; instead he hugs the shade of the shop awnings, haunted by doubts. Two backpackers are dead, dead a full year, found by Harley Snouch in his farm dam. The town priest, Byron Swift, and his five victims are also dead, dead and buried twelve months ago. But the rest is elusive. No one can definitively say why Swift shot Craig Landers and his mates in the Bellington Anglers Club, no one knows who killed the German backpackers or why, and no one knows if there is a connection between the two killings. Eight people shot dead and no answers. Or if there are answers, he doesn’t know what they are, despite his front-page splashes. Maybe, instead of trying to figure it out by himself, he should be concentrating on those who know more than he does.
He’s aware he’s been lucky with Robbie Haus-Jones and Herb Walker; both have entrusted him with information they shouldn’t be sharing with a journalist. Martin considers this. In Robbie’s case, they’ve formed a bond, first through Martin saving the life of Jamie Landers and then through surviving the firestorm at Springfields together. But possibly through something else. Robbie was friends with Byron Swift and must still be coming to terms with shooting him dead on the church steps, while trying to work out in his own mind why his friend turned homicidal. And just a few weeks ago, Herb Walker had shared his suspicion that Swift was an imposter. Walker said that had rattled the constable.
Who does Robbie confide in? From whom does he draw solace and support? Not from Walker, that much seems clear. How does he bear up, all alone in this town, carrying that weight? As far as Martin knows, he has no partner, no family, no close friends. A real loner. Perhaps Robbie recognises in Martin a kindred spirit. Or maybe he hopes Martin can discover Swift’s motivation and determine his real identity. Martin wonders what the constable will make of this morning’s papers and his feature on the priest with no past.
Martin gets to the general store, but it’s not yet open, despite it being well past nine o’clock. Martin checks the opening hours: 8 am Monday to Saturday, 9.30 am Sunday. Fair enough. He sits on a bench in the shade and waits.
Herb Walker’s motivation seems easier to divine. A year ago he was master of all he surveyed, a big fish in a small pond. But then bigger fish from bigger ponds interfered with his investigation into allegations of child abuse against Byron Swift. And after the massacre at St James, he was relegated to being an adjunct to the investigation. So he spoke to D’Arcy Defoe, making sure the child abuse allegations were ventilated in public. Good for him. He didn’t stop there, either; he started digging into Swift’s past, eventually discovering he wasn’t the real Byron Swift, only to hit a brick wall when he suggested the priest be exhumed. And now something similar is happening. Walker can hardly complain about the Sydney homicide detectives; he is, after all, a country cop. But the presence of the ASIO agent, Jack Goffing, must leave him feeling out of the loop, especially if Goffing isn’t telling Walker why he’s here, sniffing around his patch. Walker is protective of his fiefdom. It explains why he wants to talk to Martin.
Which brings Martin to Jack Goffing. What is ASIO doing here? Walker doesn’t know. According to the Bellington cop, Goffing isn’t actively investigating anything, he’s simply monitoring the police. Martin wonders how Goffing and Montifore are getting along, if they’re sitting around at night comparing notes and war-gaming strategies, or whether Montifore is as resentful as Walker. Perhaps Montifore might be willing to talk, if not about his investigation, then maybe about ASIO. Or could the cops have actually called on ASIO for assistance? That seems unlikely; there wouldn’t be much the spooks could offer a homicide investigation, at least not this one. In any case, Goffing arrived in Riversend two days ago, the same day the homicide cops choppered in. Most likely he flew in with them; Martin recalls the mud on the man’s shoes and the charcoal on his shirt when he first encountered him in the Black Dog’s car park, suggesting he’d been out at Springfields with Montifore, Lucic, Walker and the forensic investigators.
But why? The dead backpackers had been nineteen and twenty, middle-class German students travelling around Australia like so many other young foreigners. They’d come to the Murray to look for seasonal work picking fruit. There was absolutely nothing in their backgrounds, or in their deaths, to suggest any possible security threat to Australia. Besides, if Goffing had flown in with Montifore’s team, the identity of the bodies wouldn’t have been determined by then. The conclusion is inescapable: Goffing is in Riversend in case the bodies in the farm dam are linked in some way to Byron Swift’s rampage at St James. But how? How were the killings at the church and the bodies in the dam connected? Did Swift kill the backpackers and then unleash his violence at the church? And what does the St James massacre have to do with national security? A disturbing thought: is Goffing here to uncover new information about the priest and his murderous spree, or is he here to suppress it? Is that what Walker thinks?
Martin’s train of thought is interrupted by the arrival of Fran Landers. She parks her red station wagon with practised skill, reversing in quickly towards the curve before stopping just centimetres short. She gets out, scowls at Martin, then walks to the back of the car to retrieve the milk, paper and bread she has picked up in Bellington.
Martin stands up. ‘Morning, Fran. Give you a hand?’
‘No thanks, Martin. I think you’ve done enough.’
‘How’s that?’
‘I don’t just sell the papers. I read them as well.’
His feature on the mystery priest. Shit. He steps down from the gutter to stand beside her. ‘Fran, I’m sorry, but it’s what I do. It’s my job to inform people what’s happening. But if there’s anything in that article that you think is wrong, then tell me. That’s all I want to do: tell people what’s happened.’ Even to his own ears, it sounds ingratiating and insincere.
She regards him with animosity. ‘Even if it hurts and harms those who have been hurt and harmed enough already?’
‘Look, Fran, you know it’s not like that. I found evidence that Byron Swift was an imposter, some former soldier only pretending to be Swift. I asked you about it, remember? Surely you understand I couldn’t keep that quiet? It’s a big story—people have the right to know.’
‘If it’s such a big story, why did you have to put in all that stuff about him having an affair?’
‘Because it informs the readers what he was really like. Sure, I wrote that he was involved with a married woman, but I didn’t say more than that. And it was down in the body of the article; the subs wanted it at the top. I could have named you, but I didn’t.’
She looks at him with disgust. ‘Well, thanks for nothing. And you still repeated all that rubbish about him being a paedophile. What a lot of garbage.’
‘Is it? It was already all on the record. Surely you remember my paper making a big
deal of it a year ago. And the police have told me that some boys—boys here in Riversend—confirmed that allegation to them.’
‘What police? That fat dopey cop who was so busy persecuting Byron that he couldn’t be bothered finding those poor girls?’
‘What?’
‘Sergeant Walker in Bellington.’
‘Yeah, I know who you’re talking about, but what do you mean about the girls? He couldn’t possibly have known about them a year ago. Their bodies have only just been found. What are you talking about?’
Fran looks at him for a moment, obviously confused. ‘Don’t you read your own stories?’
‘What?’ It’s Martin’s turn to look confused.
Fran leans into the back of the car and retrieves a newspaper, The Sunday Age, and hands it to Martin. There’s no missing the headline screaming across the front page: COPS IGNORED MURDER TIP-OFF. The story is accompanied by a colour photo of two pretty girls at a cafe table, toasting the camera with broad smiles. The two German backpackers. The by-line hits him in the guts. By Bethanie Glass, Senior Police Reporter, and Martin Scarsden in Riversend. Shit. This time, the red EXCLUSIVE stamp incites dismay, not pride.
New South Wales Police ignored information received within days of the disappearance of two German backpackers that the two young women had been murdered and their bodies dumped in a Riverina farm dam.
The anonymous tip was received by Crime Stoppers and passed on to local police in the Murray River town of Bellington, but a search of the dam was never conducted.
A source close to Crime Stoppers has confirmed the tip-off was received three days after German backpackers Heidi Schmeikle and Anna Brün were seen getting into a blue sedan in Swan Hill, and two days before Riversend priest Byron Swift went on a murderous rampage, shooting dead five locals.
Bellington police officer Sergeant Herbert Joseph Walker offered no comment when contacted by…
There’s more. Much more. But Martin can’t bring himself to read it. Herbert Joseph Walker. Shit a brick. The use of the policeman’s full name was no subeditor’s slip; Bethanie had deliberately used it knowing it is the form typically used to identify criminals appearing before a court. Walker would know that too.
Martin turns to Fran Landers, who has been watching his reaction with interest. ‘Fran, can I use your phone? It’s important.’
Fran nods, perhaps sensing his desperation, fetches her keys from the ignition and unlocks the door of the general store. Martin rushes to the counter and picks up the phone.
‘Thanks for giving us a hand,’ says Fran, carrying in the newspapers and spreading them out on the low flat areas before the magazine racks, but Martin ignores her sarcasm. He has his notebook out, dialling Walker’s office number, but is put through to an answering machine.
‘Herb. It’s Martin Scarsden. I am so sorry about the story in today’s paper. I promise, I didn’t know. It was my colleague, Bethanie Glass. She got it from her sources in Sydney. I’ll try your mobile. Hope to talk soon.’
‘Shit. Shit, shit, shit,’ he mutters to himself as he dials the mobile number.
The call goes straight to voicemail. Martin is forced to repeat his awkward message of denial.
‘Shit,’ he says to himself, hanging up. He addresses the shopkeeper, who is lugging another load in from the car. ‘Thanks for that, Fran. I’ve gotta run. We’ll talk. I’ll make it up to you somehow. Promise.’
‘Yeah, sure,’ she says as he rushes past her and out the door.
Doug Thunkleton and his camera crew are draped over the old armchairs inside the Oasis, drinking coffee and reading the papers, when Martin pushes through the door. One of the camera guys has Liam out of the playpen and is bouncing him up and down on his knee, making vastly stupid faces and eliciting gurgles of joy from the boy.
‘Here he is,’ says Doug enthusiastically, ‘the man of the moment.’
‘Hi, Doug,’ replies Martin flatly. ‘Where’d you get the papers?’
‘Bellington. We’re in the Riverside Resort and Spa. Swimming pool, bar, wireless. Mobile reception. And there’s some okay restaurants down there. You should move down. It’s only a forty-minute drive.’
‘I’ll think about it. Thanks for the tip. Is Mandy about, the owner?’
‘Out the back, making toasties. You just missed the coppers. They were just in getting coffee.’
‘Bugger. Did they say anything? They doing another doorstop?’
‘No, didn’t say a lot. Not overly impressed with your piece, though.’
‘I guess not.’
‘Yeah, well fuck ’em,’ says Doug casually, oozing journalistic solidarity. ‘We’re not here to help. It’s a top story. I wish I’d got it. My people are very revved up.’
‘Yeah, I can imagine. Did Walker say anything?’
‘The Bellington cop? No. I asked him for an interview. You know, giving him the opportunity to put his side of the story. He just looked at me like I was some kind of turd. The old story: when the cops want publicity, they tip us off, but when they fuck up, they brush us off.’
‘Always the way,’ says Martin, wondering if he should wait for Mandy or go out the back to find her.
‘Say, Martin,’ says Doug, ‘you got time for a quick interview? Your story is driving the news cycle. We could get it out of the way before the day gets messy.’
The last thing Martin wants is to be seen gloating about Bethanie’s scoop on television; nothing would piss Walker off more. ‘Maybe later on, Doug. There’s a few things I need to check out. The story may have moved on by this evening.’
‘Really?’ says Doug, news antenna twitching. ‘You got more coming?’
‘We’ve always got more coming,’ says Martin, regretting his smart-arse tone even as he speaks. What is it about these TV types that gets up his nose so much?
The situation is saved by Mandy emerging from the back room carrying toasted sandwiches in brown paper bags. Doug Thunkleton pays, making sure to collect the receipt from Mandy, then distributes the bags to his crew. The camera guy gently returns Liam to his pen.
‘We’d better get going,’ says Doug. ‘Lot to do. Got a few strong leads of my own to follow up. Might catch you later.’
The television team departs, leaving Martin and Mandy in the silence of the bookstore.
‘Busy morning,’ says Martin.
‘Busy morning,’ says Mandy. ‘Sold a lot of coffee.’ Her manner is distant, her smile absent, but at least the quiet anger of the past day or two seems to have dissipated. Perhaps she’s accepted he has little choice but to report the story. ‘There’s a lot of messages for you. Your Sydney journo, Bethanie, left at least half-a-dozen.’
‘This morning?’
‘Yesterday afternoon and evening. She didn’t find you?’
‘No. She must have been calling me about today’s story.’
‘Yeah, I saw it. That slimy TV reporter showed me. That fat cop left a message for you too. They were in for coffee a moment ago. Here.’ She gives Martin a piece of folded paper.
Martin takes the paper, opens it up, reads the message: Fuck you too pal.
‘Not good?’ asks Mandy.
‘Not good.’ He shows her the note, provoking a small smile.
‘Couldn’t have said it better myself,’ she says.
‘Yeah, thanks for that.’
‘Your story in the paper—it’s all wrong.’
‘About Walker? It’s not my story; it’s all Bethanie’s work.’
‘Not that story.’
‘My feature on Swift? What’s wrong with it? He was a man without a past. And the allegation about preying on children is on the public record and the cops have confirmed it.’
‘No. Not that.’ Mandy is looking at him calmly, without rancour.
‘What then?’
‘You all but convict him of killing those girls, the backpackers.’
‘That’s what the police believe. It’s in the article. They say he used to go shooting ou
t in the Scrublands.’
‘Yes. That’s true.’
‘You knew that?’
There’s a silence in the bookstore. Martin can hear the tinkling of the water feature on the counter, the slow movement of the ceiling fan. Liam is silent. Mandy is looking at Martin expectantly.
‘Mandy, tell me.’
‘Byron didn’t kill those girls, Martin.’
‘So you said yesterday. How can you be so sure?’
‘I’ve checked. That night they were taken, down in Swan Hill, he was here, with me. All night.’
‘Christ. You and Byron Swift?’ Martin’s mind spins, recalibrating, accommodating this unexpected information. ‘Are you sure? About the timing, I mean?’
‘Yes. I wrote it down. I keep a diary. Sorry.’
‘Sorry? Why sorry?’
‘Your story. It’s wrong again.’
She’s right, of course. The day before Martin had all but convicted Harley Snouch and today he has all but convicted Byron Swift. But his immediate concern is for her, not his inaccurate reporting. He takes the few short steps to bridge the gulf between them and puts his hands on her shoulders, half anticipating she will push him away. Instead, she moves closer, allowing him to embrace her. And for a moment that’s enough. But only for a moment.
‘You know we can’t keep this to ourselves, don’t you?’ he says.
She nods. ‘Will you write about it?’
‘I’ll have to. But first, we need to tell the police. They’re working on the theory that Byron Swift was involved in the murder.’
‘I guess you’re right. I don’t have to show them my diary, though, do I?’
‘I imagine so. Why not? Are there things you don’t want them to read?’
‘Yes. Of course.’
‘Illegal things?’
‘No. Just private things.’
‘There are eight people shot dead. They’re going to want to see it.’
The discussion is abruptly interrupted—two journalists and a photographer barge into the store, demanding coffee. Martin asks Mandy permission to use the phone. She nods and starts on the coffees as he makes his way back to the office. He rings Bethanie on her mobile. She picks up on the third ring.
