by Chris Hammer
‘So this is going to be in the paper tomorrow?’
‘Yes. There’s no reason to hold it, is there?’
‘You asking permission to publish?’
‘No.’
‘No, I didn’t think so. You shagging her now, are you?’
‘What’s that got to do with anything?’
‘Not a lot.’ Walker offers a leery grin.
‘Herb?’
‘Yes, Martin?’
‘Did you find out? Did he make calls from St James before the shooting?’
Walker looks at Martin as if deciding whether or not to confide. ‘Yes. Two calls. One outgoing, then one incoming.’
‘You have the numbers?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Will you tell me when you do?’
‘Maybe. If I need your help. If I don’t, you can whistle Dixie. But right now, you’ve had more than your durry’s worth. I need to get back in there. Tell Miss Mandalay Blonde we’ll be in touch.’ ‘Before you go, Herb: today’s story, Bethanie’s story, the tip-off to Crime Stoppers about the bodies in the dam—what happened?’
‘Get fucked, Scarsden.’
It’s only as he’s leaving the station that Martin remembers he hasn’t told Walker about the dead cat. He’d been intending to, just in case it held any significance. A shiver defies the oppressive heat, running up his spine. There is something wrong with this town, as if the heat has turned it, like milk curdled by the sun.
He sees Carrie the photographer across the road, chiacking with the other photographers and camera crews. Doug Thunkleton’s cameraman says ‘g’day’ as Martin approaches. ‘Anything happening?’ he asks. ‘They doing a doorstop?’
‘Not that they’re telling me,’ replies Martin. ‘Where’s Doug?’
‘He’s been looking for you. Wants you for another interview.’
‘Is that right? Where is he?’
‘Where do you reckon? At the club with the rest of you slack-arse journos.’
‘I’ll give him your love.’ Martin walks away a few metres, followed by Carrie, so they can confer in private.
‘I’ve shot the shit out of it,’ says the snapper. ‘Unless something happens soon, or unless you’ve got some requests, I’m pretty much out of ideas. You think we’re going to see an arrest?’
‘Don’t know. The cops are telling me jack shit. But Bethanie and I have another good yarn for tomorrow, so they’ll be needing pictures. You got any of the cops?’
‘Yeah. Some good ones of them gathered in a huddle talking early this morning. There’s a bit of finger-pointing, like they’re debating something. The cop cars are in the background with nothing else but trees. They could be anywhere. Crime scene, anywhere.’
‘Where were they?’
‘Outside the services club. Here, have a look.’ She scrolls through the photos using the screen on the back of her camera, but even in the shade the day is too bright to discern much detail.
‘Looks perfect. What were they debating?’
‘No idea. I was on the long lens, couldn’t hear a thing. Probably what to have for breakfast. How much longer do you think I’ll be needed up here?’
‘Don’t know. If they arrest anyone, they’ll want to parade them for the cameras, but who knows if that’ll happen. Why? You need to get back to Melbourne?’
‘Wouldn’t mind. Slept in the car last night.’
Martin thinks guiltily of his motel room. ‘Shit. That’s no good. You could have shared with me.’
‘Thanks, Martin—you’re not the first to offer,’ she says sardonically.
‘Listen, the Channel Ten guys are staying at some swish place in Bellington. Why not move down there?’
‘You sure?’
‘Absolutely. Mobiles work down there. I can always call if there’s anything urgent.’
‘Done.’
When Martin arrives at the services club, he goes straight to Tommy’s Saigon Asian. Having explored the confusing menu extensively during the past week, he knows what to avoid, if not exactly what he likes. Today he orders chicken schnitzel and chips, with a side order of stir-fried English spinach. Tommy, a second-generation Vietnamese–Australian with a strine accent strong enough to cut glass, takes his money, says ‘No worries, mate’ and hands Martin a plastic disc that will light up and vibrate when his lunch is ready. Martin pays and makes his way through to the club proper.
A small group of journos have congealed around a table not far from the bar. Some are trying to work on laptops, swearing at the hypothetical wi-fi, while others are kicking back and chatting.
Doug Thunkleton greets him, his booming voice full of bonhomie. ‘Martin Scarsden! The great man! Join us.’
Martin declines with a wave and a smile. ‘Maybe later.’ He goes to the bar where Errol is again working.
‘Hi, mate. What can I get you?’
‘G’day, Errol. Schooner of light beer, thanks.’
‘Stubby okay?’
‘Sure.’
Errol fetches the Tasmanian beer in the familiar green bottle. Martin gives Errol twenty dollars, but Errol doesn’t go to the till straight away. ‘Anything happening down there?’
‘Where’s that?’ Martin asks.
‘The cop shop. Heard they were doing interviews. People from out in the Scrublands.’
‘Yeah. Just been down there. All looks pretty routine to me, but they’re keeping it tight.’
‘Reckon it was the priest, do they?’
‘That seems to be the main theory. What do you reckon?’
‘Me? Wouldn’t have the foggiest. Don’t know why you buggers keep asking me. As if I’d know.’ And Errol goes to the register and gets Martin his change.
Martin takes his beer and moves towards a table a good distance from the clutch of journalists, but he can see Doug Thunkleton and the others sizing him up. The last thing he feels like is supplying the television bulletins with another talking head, so Martin keeps going, taking his beer and his plastic disc out onto the deck overlooking the river.
The heat is stifling after the air-conditioned interior of the club, almost unbearable, despite the shade provided by a canopy of translucent plastic. He places his beer on a small table and stands with his back to the glass windows of the club, fishing out his sunglasses to guard against the glare. Before him, he can see the long slow bend in the riverbed. No, not slow, stopped; it’s completely devoid of water. The trees hang unmoved by even a whisper of breeze. There’s still the smell of smoke in the air, lingering from Wednesday’s fire. Somewhere in the far distance he can hear cicadas. He’s trying to ascertain the direction when he hears a rattling cough. He’s not alone on the deck. Over behind one of the roof pillars, Codger Harris is working his way through a rollie.
‘G’day, Codger. Mind if I join you?’
‘Free country, son.’
Martin pulls up a seat next to the former bank manager. The older man offers him his tobacco packet, but Martin declines.
‘Anything left of your place?’
‘Some. Not much to start with.’
‘Insurance?’
‘A bit. For the fencing and water. The house escaped. Guess the fire reckoned it wasn’t worth the effort.’
‘What about the cattle?’
‘Don’t know. Some survived, for sure. But that could be a cruel joke.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Well, there was fuck-all feed as it was. What the drought didn’t kill off, the fire has. If it rains, after a fire like that, it’ll be green as Kent. Fattest cows you ever saw. If it doesn’t rain, they’ll starve to death. Or I’ll have to go shoot ’em.’
Martin examines his beer. There isn’t a lot to say.
‘Talking of which, it wasn’t you who dobbed me in to the coppers, was it?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘They had me down there half the morning, asking me about Reverend Swift coming out shooting in the Scrublands. Wanted to know all about it. Get that from
you?’
‘Not directly. It was in an article I wrote, that he went out into the scrub shooting. But I didn’t say your place. There are a few people around town who knew about it. I know at least one person told Robbie Haus-Jones.’
‘That nice young copper in town here? Wonder why he’s coughing up now.’
‘Fairly straightforward, I’d think,’ says Martin. ‘After the church shooting, it was largely irrelevant. Swift was dead. Didn’t matter what he’d done beforehand. But once the bodies were discovered in the dam at Springfields, suddenly it’s relevant.’
‘So covering his arse, then.’
‘How do you mean?’ asks Martin.
‘Well, you know—five innocents dead, plus the priest. “Officer Haus-Jones, was there any warning, any way this could have been predicted or prevented?” “No, sir. Nothing. He lived in Bellington.” But then when those girls are hauled out of that dam at Snouch’s place, it’s time to fess up. “New information, sir. Hope it’s useful.” It’s what I’d do in his situation.’
Martin nods slowly. Codger Harris may look decrepit, but his brain cells are still firing. ‘So the police wanted to know about anyone coming out to your place shooting?’
‘Yeah, pretty much. Didn’t feel too comfortable dobbing on people, but as the cops said themselves, this is murder, not some speeding ticket.’
‘So, apart from the priest, who did go shooting in the Scrublands?’
‘Couldn’t say. It’s a huge area. The only ones for sure were Craig Landers and the Newkirks and their mates. They might come out once or twice a year.’
‘The Bellington Anglers Club?’
‘Is that what they called themselves? Yeah. But they were always well behaved. Always asked before they came on the property. Used to say cheerio when they were leaving, give me a rabbit or two, a couple of ducks one time.’
‘No one else?’
‘For sure there were others. You could hear the guns going off. Sometimes in the day, sometimes at night. But whoever it was, they didn’t come asking permission. Weird cunts, some of them, though.’
‘How’s that?’
‘Sometimes they’d shoot me cows, then butcher them. Drag their guts out, that sort of thing. After the choicest cuts, I’d reckon. Fucking waste, though. Whole cow for a kilo or two of steak.’
‘You sure that’s what they were doing?’
‘What else could it have been?’
‘I don’t know. Just for kicks. Possible, do you think?’
‘Jeez, young fella. You’d have to be pretty sick to do something like that.’
‘Well, you’d have to be pretty sick to kill a couple of pretty young backpackers and dump them in a farm dam.’
‘Yeah, well, ain’t that the truth. Sooner they lock up that bastard Snouch and chuck away the key, the better.’
‘You’re convinced it’s him?’
‘Yeah. Probably him killing me cows too. His family used to own all that land. Still thinks it’s his. It’d be just like the miserable shit to come killing my cows when he’s got plenty wandering around his own land.’
Martin drains the remnants of his beer, already grown tepid in the heat of the deck. ‘Where you staying, Codger? Not at the old pub, are you?’
‘Me? No. Wouldn’t mind, but the place is closed. Errol Ryding’s putting me up. Good man, Errol. I’ll get the bus down to Bellington tomorrow, see if I can buy a jalopy, then I can get back home.’
‘It’s just I thought I saw someone up on the pub verandah this morning. Thought it might have been you. I guess not. Might have been the owner, collecting some stuff.’
‘I think that’d be pretty unlikely, young fella.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘He’s dead. Topped himself. City bloke. Sank his pension into it. Did the place up, tried to make a go of a bistro. Anyway, his wife couldn’t stand it and went back to the city, then the drought really kicked in and the money dried up. Didn’t really know anyone, didn’t have anyone to talk to. Blew his brains out with a shotty. Happens more often than you’d think out here. Don’t know why I haven’t done it myself.’
MARTIN ENDS UP WRITING HIS STORY AT THE SERVICES CLUB. HE’S TRIED THE bookstore, but it’s shut, with the GON OUT, BACKSON sign hanging on the door. He guesses Mandy is with the cops, getting the third degree about Byron Swift and her diary. Pity. She might have been able to shed some more light on where the investigation is heading. Nevertheless, she’s most definitely going to be the top of the story; not much he can do about that.
A Sydney Morning Herald investigation has broken open the search for the vicious killers responsible for the brutal murder of German backpackers Heidi Schmeikle and Anna Brün, providing vital new information that has again shifted the focus of the police investigation.
The Herald has gathered evidence clearing the number-one police suspect, homicidal priest Byron Swift…
Before getting down to writing, Martin has relented, providing commentary for Doug Thunkleton and his rivals, all without revealing his new angle. Thankfully they’ve disappeared down to the resort in Bellington, leaving him to work in peace at the club. He extracts enough bandwidth from the recalcitrant wi-fi to file, then calls through first to Bethanie and then Max from the phone in the club foyer.
‘Yeah, okay, Martin, I’ve got it now. Looks good. Good stuff. Bethanie’s got a couple of minor additions, but it’s certainly a new angle.’
‘You don’t seem too enthused.’
‘To be honest, I’m not,’ says the editor.
‘You’re joking, right? The Herald out in front of the police? What could be better?’
‘You’re right. Sorry, champ. I’ve just been getting a lot of shit on this story. The editorial board have got their knickers in a knot. They’re demanding everything be legalled and fact-checked. They’re insisting on being kept in the loop.’
‘What? Three front pages in a row and they’re not happy? We own this story, Max. Look at the TV news tonight. I’m on most of them: the expert from the Herald. What more do they want?’
‘Accuracy, apparently.’
‘Shit, Max. What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Well, in no short time we have reported that Harley James Snouch is the primary murder suspect and an alleged rapist. With no substantive evidence of either. Then we all but convict Reverend Swift of the murders. That was in your stories in today’s paper, if you’ll recall. Today’s, Martin. And tomorrow’s splash is that Swift is probably innocent. To be honest, some of those upstairs are asking if you’re up to it.’
Martin is silent for a moment, taken aback by the allegation, before he feels a surge of defensive anger swelling.
‘What do you think, Max? Do you think that?’
‘No, I don’t. You have my utter confidence and trust.’ The reply comes immediately and with conviction.
Martin breathes out, some of the anger dissipating. Good old Max: a journo’s journo, an editor’s editor.
‘Thanks, Max, I appreciate it. But I really am reporting it as it happens to the best of my ability. It’s why the cops aren’t talking much on the record; they don’t know where this is heading either. They’d put all their eggs in the Byron Swift basket before this new info—I was reporting that one hundred per cent accurately. And I know they haven’t ruled Snouch out altogether. It could turn out that we were right all along.’
‘Well, keep at it. How much longer do you think you’ll need to be down there? It’s already been a week.’
‘What? As long as it takes. It’s the biggest story in the country. And I still want to do the feature piece, the original piece. That’s for next weekend. The anniversary of the shooting. As for the daily news stuff, who knows? The police investigation might peter out, or it could bust wide open.’
‘Fair enough. But, Martin, we’ve had a good run with it. It doesn’t have to be front page every day.’
‘What’s that mean?’
‘That means you don’t have any
thing to prove. Not to me, not to anybody else. You don’t have to push the envelope, not on every story.’
Martin stews on that for a moment. ‘Are you worried about my judgement?’
‘No, champ. Your judgement is fine. However, I do worry about you. How are you holding up?’
‘Terrific, actually. I’ve been feeling more like the old me. You were right; it was good to get out of the office and into the field.’
‘Glad to hear it. Ring if you need to sound me out on anything. Let’s not give those shits in Mahogany Row any ammunition.’
‘Thanks, Max. For everything.’
Martin buys a bottle of white wine at the bar and some takeaway at Tommy’s, carrying them down to the bookstore. The store is shut, but when he walks around the block to the back alley he can hear music coming out through the screen door of Mandy’s home. He knocks, hears the baby give a joyous gurgle, and then Mandy opens the door.
‘Hello, Martin,’ she says with a long sigh. She looks bedraggled, exhausted and beautiful. And not so keen to see him.
‘I brought a peace offering,’ he says, holding up the wine in its brown paper wrapper and the white plastic bag bursting with takeaway.
‘You’d better come in then.’
Liam is sitting in a highchair eating some orange mush that’s come out of a blender. The highchair is isolated in the middle of the kitchen and Martin can see why; for every spoonful that Liam gets to his mouth or its environs, he sends another dollop flying over the side of the highchair, cooing with delight as it splats onto the lino floor. Mandy frowns at him, shaking her head.
‘Thanks for this, Martin. I couldn’t bear cooking after today.’
‘So it didn’t go well?’
‘No. You could say that.’ There’s an irritated edge to her voice.
‘Want to talk about it?’
‘Want to knock the top off that bottle?’
She fetches some glasses, Martin opens the wine; he takes a sip, she takes a slug. Martin thinks about making some witty toast to lighten the mood, but the only things that come to mind seem lame so he simply raises his glass. Mandy doesn’t return the gesture; instead she sets out dishes on the table. Martin starts serving the food, waiting for the dam to burst. It doesn’t take long.
