by Chris Hammer
‘Martin? Is that you?’
‘Yeah, it’s me.’
‘Did you see the story? I was trying to get hold of you all yesterday afternoon and evening. Didn’t you get any of my messages?’
‘No. I didn’t. My fault, but I wish I’d known in advance.’
There’s a pause before Bethanie speaks. ‘Martin, I’m sorry—if he was one of your sources, I mean. But Max made the call, said we couldn’t sit on it.’
‘Understood. I should have been checking for messages.’
‘Are you still staying at the Black Dog?’
‘Yeah. I must have been out walking.’
‘Right. Got a better offer, hey?’ And she laughs. ‘Who’s that cute Melbourne snapper again?’
‘Yeah, I wish. Listen, we’ve got a few problems. I’ve just got hold of some new information that appears to rule out Byron Swift being involved in the killing of the backpackers. Or at least it clears him from being part of their abduction.’
‘Shit. Is that from the cops? They’re still talking to you?’
‘No. It’s not from the cops. I’m going to have to tell them, though.’
‘What’s the problem then?’
‘Just the small issue of my article this morning all but convicting Swift of topping the girls.’
‘How’s that a problem? The guy’s dead; he’s not going to sue. Plus, he did put five people into an early grave. Go tell the cops and we have our yarn for tomorrow.’ Bethanie adopts a mock newsreader voice. ‘The Herald is again leading the investigation into the murder of two German backpackers in the Riverina, supplying police with vital new evidence,’ she says, before returning to her normal voice. ‘Just don’t tell them until late today, okay? They’ve got the shits with us; we don’t want them handballing it to the competitors.’
Martin can’t help but laugh. ‘Yeah, good point. I just hate getting it wrong, that’s all. Max too. You know what a stickler he is.’
‘Yeah, well, on that score I’ve got good news and bad news.’
‘That sounds ominous. What gives?’
‘It’s like this: on the good side of the ledger, the researchers have been digging away on our behalf. We’ve spoken to someone who knew the real Byron Swift in Cambodia and says it’s not the same person. Your man without a past story is right on the money. That’s one of the reasons I was trying to contact you yesterday evening. I’m not sure if you noticed, but we inserted a few pars into your feature, firming it up.’
‘Thanks for that. Much appreciated. What’s the bad news?’
‘The researchers have found no record of a Harley James Snouch ever being charged or convicted or arrested or investigated for rape, not in the past thirty years. Nothing in the court records, nothing in the newspaper archives. In fact, no record of him being convicted of anything. Not in New South Wales or Victoria. We’re looking at Queensland and South Australia.’
‘Christ, are they sure? He’s got prison tats, for God’s sake. We’ve more or less accused him of murdering the girls when the cops haven’t charged him, and we’ve described him as an alleged rapist. Does Max know?’
‘Yeah. He’s crawling up the wall. You don’t want to talk to him.’
‘But I told Max at the time that Snouch denied the conviction.’
‘Really? You sure? Max told us Snouch had denied the rape, not the conviction.’
‘What?’
‘I’m sure. He said we were safe to go with it, just to make sure we said alleged until we could confirm it was rape and not sexual assault or something else.’ There’s a pause before Bethanie speaks again. ‘Sounds like you two had your wires crossed.’
Martin feels a hollowness in his core. It looks like he’s not only got his facts wrong, but has somehow made Max complicit in his error.
‘Fuck it. Hose him down, will you? Snouch has lived with these allegations for years without taking legal action. Shit. And see if you can soften Max up for the next instalment: he’s not going to be overjoyed when we put Byron Swift in the clear over the backpackers.’
‘Leave him to me, Martin. As long as the Herald is leading the way, he’ll be fine.’
‘Yeah, maybe.’
‘Anything else?’
‘One thing: your story, the Crime Stoppers tip-off. I assume you got your info from the Sydney cops?’
‘That’s right. Covering their arses, no doubt. Making sure any blame fell on Walker, not them.’
‘Do you know who they are?’
‘No. It came through police PR.’
‘So an authorised drop, from the hierarchy? Trying to discredit Walker?’
‘Probably. But that’s strictly between you and me, okay? I can’t afford to piss them off.’
‘Of course not.’
‘Okay. And let’s make sure we keep each other up to date from now on.’
‘Too right. I’ll touch base later in the day. This lack of mobile coverage is starting to give me the shits.’
‘Tell me about it.’
They talk for a bit longer, making sure of phone numbers and times to call, then hang up.
Back in the store, the journalists are paying for their coffees. Martin waits for them to leave before speaking. ‘You okay?’ he asks Mandy.
‘Yep. I’ll be fine. They told me the police are working out of the Riversend station today, calling in people for interviews. There are TV crews and photographers set up outside.’
‘Who are they talking to? Did anyone say?’
‘Yeah. People who live out in the Scrublands. Checking if they saw anything.’ She pauses briefly, biting her lip. ‘Can we leave it until a bit later before we talk to the cops? I don’t want to go over while the TV crews are there.’
‘Sure,’ says Martin, feeling first relief—he and Bethanie don’t want her interviewed until later either—and then feeling like a heel for thinking of himself at Mandy’s time of need. ‘If they’re still around later, I’ll go by myself, ask the police to visit you over here. Tell them you’re looking after Liam.’ Martin looks at the boy, lying on his back on the floor, playing with his own hands as if they’re toys. Less than a year old. Christ. Mandy and Byron? ‘Mandy, did Fran know about you and Byron?’
‘Yep.’
‘And did you know about him and Fran?’
‘Yep.’
‘Jeez.’ Maybe he should think beyond his feature; there has to be a book in this. What a town: either screwing each other or shooting each other. No wonder the population is in freefall. Martin dismisses his thoughts as unworthy. ‘I didn’t realise that you and Byron Swift were so, you know, intimate. My story today, that he wasn’t who he claimed to be, that he was a former soldier, does that ring true to you?’
She nods, looking none too happy as she says, ‘Yeah, I guess.’
‘Did you know?’
‘No. I mean, I guessed he’d been in the military. He had some tattoos. But I didn’t know anything about a false identity. I thought Byron Swift was his real name. Are you sure that it wasn’t?’
‘Pretty sure. We’ve been able to confirm the real Byron Swift died in Cambodia.’
‘Good God. Do you think that’s got something to do with why he did it? Shot those men outside the church?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe.’
They stand in silence then, overtaken by their own thoughts. Martin is imagining Mandy falling under Swift’s spell, sleeping with him, knowing that he was also sleeping with Fran Landers. What must Mandy think of Swift now, knowing he was deceiving them both, pretending to be someone he wasn’t? Evidently her regard for him endures: she’s still willing to defend him, to show her diary to the police, to clear Swift of abducting the backpackers. Is she still in love with him?
‘How do you feel about that?’ asks Martin. ‘That he was an imposter?’
Her forehead furrows, her lower lip quivers, her eyes reveal pain. She shakes her head, as if in disbelief. ‘Not good,’ is all she says.
Martin takes her hands in his,
a gesture of sympathy and support. ‘Believe me, I want to work it out, find out why he shot those men. You were right, that first day when I came to Riversend: it would be a hell of a story. Will you help me?’
She nods, her face serious. ‘Yes. If I can.’
‘Okay. Let’s sit down. I’ll record it.’
‘Of course. You want to do it before the police start questioning me, don’t you?’
Martin wonders if his motives are so transparent. ‘Yes.’
‘Will you write about Byron and me? Byron and Fran? Please don’t. If not for my sake, for Liam’s.’
Martin looks again at the baby. ‘Mandy, is Byron Liam’s father?’
She looks up, meets his gaze, unapologetic. ‘Yes. But please, Martin, whatever you do, please don’t write that. You can’t write that. Liam doesn’t deserve to be branded with his father’s sins. Promise me that and I’ll help you.’ The look on her face is so sincere, her words so heartfelt, that Martin agrees. How could he not?
They’re interrupted again. A radio reporter after coffee. Mandy serves her and then posts the closed sign on the door and locks it. ‘Okay, let’s get on with it.’
Martin feels torn. Part of him wants to protect her, to shield her and her son; another part wants to interrogate her, to extract what she knows and write the story of the Lothario priest cutting a romantic swathe through the lonely hearts of the Riverina. It would elevate an already remarkable story to a sensational one. Just add sex and stir. A younger Martin wouldn’t have hesitated; he’d have written it all: named Mandy and Fran, revealed Liam as Byron Swift’s illegitimate son. He could still do it; by the time the anniversary story went to press he would have left Riversend far behind. He can picture his triumphal re-entry into the newsroom, admired by his colleagues and celebrated by his editors. His career would be back on track; there might even be awards and pay rises. But at what price? The emotional destruction of Fran Landers and Mandalay Blonde. He looks at the baby boy playing happily on his rug, eyes twinkling, and knows he won’t do it. Max Fuller’s go-to correspondent has gone. Gone for good. There are worse things than being trapped in a car boot.
‘What is it?’ asks Mandy, sensing his disquiet.
Martin shakes his head. ‘Nothing. It doesn’t matter. But listen, if I’m going to report this to the public, give an accurate depiction of Byron Swift or whoever he was, how can I leave out that he conducted simultaneous affairs with women in the district? I’ve already reported he was having an affair with a married woman. I’m going to have to refer to it in some fashion. I won’t mention you or Fran by name, and I won’t mention Liam at all—I’ll put in some obfuscation, like you live in Bellington or something, but I can’t see any way around it. What do you think?’
Mandy smiles, an unexpected reaction. ‘That’s fine. If you can do it like that, then you should include it. Absolutely.’
‘Really? Are you sure? I thought you didn’t want me to mention it?’
‘I don’t want you to use our names, but of course you should include it. Don’t you see? This was a man who was having regular sex. With me, with Fran, with God knows who else. Does that sound like a paedophile to you? Have you ever heard of a child molester who was so obsessed with women? Who could sustain relationships with grown women? I’m almost thirty; Fran is in her forties.’
Martin returns her smile; his dilemma resolved. ‘Point taken. I might use that in my piece.’
‘Yes. You should.’
They sit in the armchairs near the front of the bookstore. Martin sets his recorder app going, places his phone atop a pile of books on one of the tables and takes up his notebook, although he suspects Mandy has already imparted her most important information. Mandy scoops up Liam and settles him on her lap, perhaps more for her comfort than her son’s.
‘Tell me about him, Mandy. What was he really like?’
‘Dreamy. At his best he was fun, considerate, charismatic. You just wanted to be with him.’
‘Charismatic? That’s something.’ She’s used the term before, so has Robbie Haus-Jones.
‘Yeah, but different. Charisma makes you like a person; Byron made you like yourself. Does that make sense? You know, the drought was terrible, and having him in the town, even if only for a day or two a week, made us all feel better. He and Robbie were running the youth centre. I remember how it gave Mum a real lift. She said it was proof that there were still good men in the world.’
Martin shifts a little in his seat. After the charismatic priest and his good works, what could Mandy possibly see in a shell-shocked hack like himself? ‘You say that was him at his best. Does that mean there was another side to him?’
‘I think so. To be honest, he was very self-centred. I don’t mean in an egotistical way. I mean that when he was with you, you had all of him. It was like you were the centre of his universe. He made you feel so special. But when I wasn’t with him, I don’t think he spared me a second thought. It was his great charm and his great weakness. He lived in the moment, or so it seemed to me.’
‘Was he ever violent?’
‘No, not towards me.’
‘Towards anyone?’
‘Possibly.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘He beat up Craig Landers.’
Martin stops writing. ‘What? Why?’
‘You’d have to ask Fran.’
‘Craig found out? Confronted him?’
‘I don’t know. Ask Fran.’
‘So he beat him up? Her husband? That must have humiliated Craig even further.’
‘I guess so.’
‘Doesn’t sound very priestly.’
‘No. I remember Byron felt bad about it. Spent a lot of time praying after he did it, asking for forgiveness.’
‘That’s interesting; he prayed afterwards. So he was religious then? It wasn’t an act?’
‘Oh no, he was religious all right. Devout. More than devout—pious. He would stop every now and then, close his eyes, bow his head and say a few words. Just like that. He never tried to convert me. He wasn’t a proselytiser. He said God would find me when the time was right; that a life without faith is a life only half lived. He told me God was with him all the time, in actions great and small, that it made him who he was, that it centred him. Those were his words: it centred him. He had a tattoo, here, on his chest, a crucifix—on his heart.’
Martin frowns. ‘He sounds like Jekyll and Hyde. One minute he’s the pious priest, caring for his flock and looking after the local kids. The next he’s drinking, smoking dope and screwing around. And shooting things.’
Mandy is shaking her head even before he’s finished speaking. ‘No. That’s wrong. He wasn’t a split personality. He was the same calm, assured person whether he was praying or whether we were getting drunk and screwing. Can you believe that?’
‘To be honest, not really. He sounds too good to be true.’
‘Maybe he was.’
‘You were in love with him?’
‘Yes. I was. I knew he wasn’t about to marry me, though, or acknowledge me as his partner or anything like that.’
Martin feels unsettled, her declaration of love for Swift so certain, so matter-of-fact. ‘And that doesn’t bother you? That he wasn’t in love with you?’
‘No. I mean, I know he didn’t love me exclusively, but I think he did have love for me.’
‘And with Fran Landers and who knows who else?’
‘Yes. Does that bother you, Martin?’
He squirms a little at that. ‘I guess it does. He was either a complete charlatan or the most saintly man who ever lived.’
Mandy doesn’t reply, just looks him directly in the eye. He holds her gaze. What is it he sees there? Defiance? Doubt? He pauses then, trying to nail down in his own mind what Swift must have been like, but finds the man elusive, hard to define.
‘Didn’t it strike you as incongruous? Here he is, preaching love for all living things, tolerance and forgiveness, and then he’s out k
illing things, shooting animals in the Scrublands. Did you challenge him about it?’
Mandy doesn’t say anything for a full ten seconds, just looks deep into Martin’s eyes. He doesn’t flinch, returning her gaze steadily. Eventually she speaks, quietly, her voice barely above a whisper, as if in confessional. ‘He said that it made him feel closer to God, to nature, that it was praying with his body as well as with his mind and soul. He said it was a kind of meditation, a religious experience. He said it made him feel one with himself and one with the universe.’
Mandy bows her head into her hands. Martin looks at her, feeling a chill go up his spine, the hairs on the back of his neck standing stiff. He recalls the story Mandy had recounted to him the day he arrived in Riversend, telling him she’d fallen pregnant in Melbourne, that Swift had saved her life. It was a total fabrication.
‘Mandy, did he know you were pregnant?’
‘Yes. He called in here the morning of the shooting, before he went to the church. He told me he was leaving, right after the service. That the bishop had ordered him to leave. So I told him, said I wanted to go with him. But he said I couldn’t, it wasn’t possible.’
‘Did he say why not?’
‘No. Maybe it had something to do with him not really being Byron Swift, but I didn’t know about that until today.’
‘And you accepted that? That you couldn’t go with him?’
‘I didn’t have much choice.’
‘And how was he? Was there any indication of what he was about to do?’
‘None.’
Martin pauses, trying to assimilate this wash of new information. It corroborates what the boy Luke said, that he saw Swift’s car at the bookstore.
‘Fran saw Byron at the church a little later. She says that he asked her to wait for him out at Blackfellas Lagoon. She seems to believe they were going to leave together.’
‘More like he didn’t want her to witness what he was about to do.’
‘Maybe. You don’t think it’s possible that he would have taken her with him?’
Her features, so impassive a moment before, grow agitated as Martin’s insinuation, that Swift favoured Fran. ‘No. Why would he have taken her and not me? I was having his baby.’
