by Chris Hammer
He makes a decision. He needs to leave; to get his stuff and check out of the Black Dog. He doesn’t want to be here when Defoe arrives. But he also needs to say farewell to Mandy. He can’t just slink out of town like a thief in the night. What does he say? Sorry to be such a predictable middle-aged lech, but thanks for the sex? Or: You’re starting to mean a lot to me, come to Sydney, let me take you and Liam away from all this. I’m not Scotty, but I’ve got a one-room apartment in Surry Hills. Christ, what does he say? What does he say about Harley Snouch?
He’s walking along the highway, still wondering what he should do, how he should approach Mandy, when Robbie Haus-Jones pulls up, not bothering with a reverse park but simply swinging the police car in parallel with the kerb, leaving the engine running as he leans out the window. There is an urgency and seriousness to his baritone. ‘Martin. Glad I found you.’
‘What’s up, Robbie?’
‘It’s Herb Walker. He’s killed himself.’
Martin says nothing, just stares with his mouth open.
‘In the river, outside Bellington. Drowned himself.’
‘Suicide? Are you sure?’
‘There’s a note. I’m heading down now.’
‘Can I come?’
‘No, Martin. There’s no way you want to be anywhere near this.’
‘What? Why not?’
‘The note more or less blames you. Your story that he received a tip-off about the bodies in the dam but didn’t investigate. He says he always did his duty.’
Martin just stares at Robbie. Walker dead. Suicide. Blaming him. Christ. And he thought the day couldn’t get any worse. It’s not even 9.30 am.
‘I’ve got to go, Martin, but if I were you, I’d be making myself scarce. No one is going to want to know you after this.’
Martin is still staring as Robbie puts the police car in gear and heads off towards Bellington.
Back inside his room at the Black Dog, Martin rings Bethanie Glass in Sydney. She answers her phone with a cheerful: ‘Bethanie.’ She doesn’t know.
‘Bethanie, it’s Martin.’
‘Oh, Martin. I am so sorry. I can’t believe you’re off the story. They’re shits with shit for brains. You absolutely don’t deserve any criticism over our coverage.’
‘Bethanie, I’m going to get a lot more criticism. You too, probably.’
‘What’s happened?’
‘It’s Herb Walker, the sergeant in Bellington. He’s killed himself.’
‘What? How?’
‘Drowned himself in the Murray, not far from Bellington. Apparently he left a note saying it was our story that drove him to it—the one claiming he ignored the tip-off about the bodies in the dam.’
‘That story was accurate. He never denied it.’
‘Yeah, but he was a smart guy. He must have guessed how you got the story: the top brass throwing him to the wolves, making him the scapegoat. Career over.’
‘That’s not our fault.’
‘I don’t think that’s the point, Bethanie. We’ve left the competitors in our wake on this one. Now’s their chance. They’ll go for the throat. And we can’t exactly rely on management to back us up, can we?’
‘Shit. What should we do?’
‘Well, first thing you need to do is tell Max, or whoever it is that’s filling in for him, and explain the shitstorm that’s about to engulf us.’
‘It’s Terri Preswell.’
‘Good. She’s rock-solid. Tell her as soon as you can. Ask who she wants to write the story.’
‘She’s in conference.’
‘Doesn’t matter. Interrupt. They need to know.’
‘Of course.’
‘Ring me back when you know what’s happening. I’m at the Black Dog.’
‘Shit, Martin. I feel awful.’
‘Well, you shouldn’t. You did nothing wrong. You got a genuine story and we ran it. Hold your head high, don’t apologise.’
‘Thanks, Martin. You too, okay?’
‘Sure. Ring me when you know something.’
‘Will do. And good luck.’
Forty-five minutes later, Martin still hasn’t moved when the phone rings, a shattering, discordant sound, bringing him back from wherever it is his mind has been wandering.
‘Martin? Bethanie. Sorry to do this to you, but the cops are holding a presser in Bellington at noon. At the police station. D’Arcy won’t get there until tonight. They want you to cover it. Sorry.’
‘Christ, talk about eating a shit sandwich. See what I can do.’ He tries to keep his voice light, even as he feels a sense of dread descending.
‘Good on you, Martin. I’ll buy you a drink when you get back. Buy you several.’
‘Thanks. I might need a few. I’ll call you from Bellington.’
After the call is over, Martin thinks of his advice to Bethanie. Hold your head high, don’t apologise. Too fucking right. He decides not to check out after all. He puts his phone and laptop on charge to top them up before he leaves for Bellington. The phone will work down there; he can give it extra juice on the drive. No point in getting there early. He fires up the laptop and opens his incomplete feature, RIVERSEND: A YEAR ON. He starts reading, and before long he is typing furiously. The story pulls him in, engulfing him as it so often does, his personal problems temporarily compartmentalised.
Driving towards Bellington he considers Walker’s suicide, replaying his last conversation with the sergeant out the back of the Riversend police station. Walker had been aggressive and pissed off, not despondent or distracted. There was absolutely nothing in his demeanour to suggest he was contemplating suicide. On the contrary, he had seemed intent on continuing his investigations into Byron Swift. But Martin realises that doesn’t mean anything. Something could have happened in the interim, like some sort of discipline coming down from the executive, a demotion or a public reprimand for not pursuing the tip-off about the bodies in the dam. Walker had been a proud man, ruling his fiefdom with impunity. Perhaps he couldn’t bear the thought of the impending humiliation, no matter that it loomed so much larger in his own mind than it ever would among the residents of Bellington. Who knows what dark thoughts and obsessions can take hold in the small hours of the morning, when the mind chases itself down dark passageways and perspective is lost?
Such spectres had haunted Martin often enough in the months after Gaza, when even chemically-induced sleep came reluctantly. The demons had come and he had fought them, but all too often he’d felt as if they were winning, that the fight wasn’t worth it. He’d made the mistake of mentioning it to one of his counsellors and red flags had gone up all over the Herald. But that had gone on for weeks, the downward spiral and the climb back. Had Walker really gone from defiance and anger to despair and hopelessness in mere hours? Was that likely? Perhaps there were other issues, unknown issues, trapping Walker, and he took the easy way out, making it easier by blaming the Herald. Maybe.
An oncoming car rockets past, forcing Martin to concentrate on driving momentarily. The land is flat, a monochrome bone, colour leached by years of drought. Nothing moves. Last night’s fresh harvest of roadkill is splayed along the verge. Martin searches for the horizon, but it’s an indeterminate blur, the sky melted into the shimmering edges of the earth. For a moment the illusion that he’d forced upon himself a week ago descends uninvited: his car seems stationary and it’s the earth that is moving, revolving under him at a hundred and twenty kilometres an hour. He shakes his head, fighting for perspective.
A disturbing thought imposes itself on Martin’s consciousness. What if it were his body that had washed up on the banks of the Murray, found by some early-morning jogger or an unfortunate fisherman? It wouldn’t need a note: post-traumatic stress from Gaza, a series of incorrect stories, the burden of Walker’s death, the humiliation of being taken off reporting. The coroner wouldn’t think twice and the police wouldn’t think at all. Suicide. Bethanie and Max would co-author a short obituary, D’Arcy would speak eloquently at
his wake, and poor Robbie Haus-Jones would wonder who was next. A shiver runs up Martin’s spine, defying the heat of the barren plain. At last the first strips of green appear out of the liquid distance. Bellington. Martin is relieved to be leaving the flatlands, almost pleased to arrive and confront whatever awaits him.
There’s a dozen media set up outside the Bellington police station, a sturdy red-brick building, purpose built. The camera crews have picked their spot, positioning their tripods in the shade, placing a white card on the ground in the sun to indicate where they want the police to stand. As Martin approaches, the usual banter tapers off into silence. Old Jim Thackery, the wire service journo, has the decency to offer a wry greeting, but no one else wants to talk to him. The Herald Sun reporter shakes her head at his lack of wisdom. Doug Thunkleton pretends that he hasn’t seen him, but the photographers and camera crews are unapologetic as they fill their lenses with images of their miscreant colleague. Hold your head high, don’t apologise, he reminds himself silently.
It’s not long before the police emerge: Montifore and Lucic, together with Robbie, the young constable frowning when he sees Martin at the back of the media scrum. Montifore is shuffling, getting his position right, asking whether the cameras are recording, when Martin feels a hand on his shoulder. It’s Goffing, the ASIO agent. The man smiles grimly and nods, but says nothing. What’s that meant to mean? A gesture of support?
‘Good morning, ladies and gentlemen,’ says Montifore, his delivery stiff and formal before the television cameras. ‘I understand the premier and police minister will be commenting in Sydney shortly, so I’ll make a brief statement and leave it at that. I won’t be taking questions. I will be restricting myself to the facts. At approximately oh-six-hundred and twenty minutes this morning, a local resident spotted what they believed to be a deceased person in the shallows of the Murray River approximately five kilometres north-west of Bellington. That’s downstream. We can now confirm the deceased male is Sergeant Herbert Walker of the New South Wales Police Force. We can confirm there are no suspicious circumstances.
‘Sergeant Walker has led policing in the Bellington district for more than twenty years and will be sorely missed by the people of this town and surrounding areas, and by the wider New South Wales police community. Herbert Walker was a very fine policeman, a very fine policeman indeed, and a great servant to his community. During the past few days I have had the privilege of working closely with Sergeant Walker. He was a highly professional officer, dedicated to upholding the rule of law and serving his community.’
Montifore has been looking directly down the barrel of the camera lenses, but now he shifts his eyes slightly to look at Martin. ‘Herb Walker gave his all to serving his community at a time of great need. He didn’t deserve this.’ The policeman’s gaze returns to the cameras. ‘Thank you. That’s all for now. Good morning.’
There’s momentary silence among the media as the cameras linger on the backs of the police officers returning to the police station. Then the cameras are off the tripods and are being pushed into Martin’s face, catching him unawares, their lenses wide open like hungry mouths, and Doug Thunkleton’s booming voice rains down upon him.
‘Martin Scarsden, what is your reaction to the death of Sergeant Herb Walker?’
One of the cameras has a light on top, and Martin winces as the cameraman flicks it on.
‘I am very sorry for his death. He was a very fine officer.’
‘But will you apologise to his family?’
‘Apologise? For what, exactly?’
‘You have hounded this policeman, driven him to take his own life, and you won’t even offer his grieving widow an apology?’
‘I’m sorry he’s dead. Of course I am.’
‘Do you accept you have behaved disgracefully?’
Martin gets it then. Thunkleton has his predetermined angle; he’s going to persist until Martin admits some sort of culpability. Well, fuck that. ‘We didn’t do anything wrong. We reported the facts of the story. I am not responsible for Herb Walker’s death.’
‘The Premier of New South Wales says you are the worst type of journalist, a moral vacuum who’d sell his soul for a headline.’
‘Well, in that case, why do you keep interviewing me? You know what you are? A hypocritical parasitic turd.’
As soon as the words are out of his mouth, Martin regrets them. He doesn’t need to see the self-satisfied smirk on Thunkleton’s face to tell him that. Shit. There are no more questions; Thunkleton has what he wants.
They leave him alone after that. He walks down to the river, sits on a bench in the shade of a line of poplars. The heat is keeping people inside. Thank goodness for that. He should ring Bethanie, he knows he should, but he can’t quite bring himself to dial the number. He’s almost relieved when his mobile rings, saving him from taking the initiative.
‘Martin?’ It’s Bethanie, her voice subdued, uncertain, concerned.
‘Hi, Bethanie.’
‘Are you all right?’
‘Never better.’
‘We’ve just seen the footage from Bellington.’
‘Yes. Perhaps not my finest moment.’
‘You appear to be calling Herb Walker a parasitic turd. Please tell me you didn’t do that.’
‘What? No way. Never. I said I was sorry about his death, that he was a fine officer.’
‘So who was the parasitic turd?’
‘Doug Thunkleton, that arsehole from Channel Ten.’
There’s a sigh of relief at the other end of the phone and a short, if rather forced, laugh. ‘Well, you got that one right.’
‘Bethanie, keep your head down, okay? I’m going to be the sacrificial lamb on this one. No need for you to cop it as well. You got everything you need? You need any quotes?’
‘No, we’ve got a transcript from the police. Quickest turnaround ever. But you should send through an audio file of your interchange with Thunkleton if you recorded it. We can run it in your defence.’
‘Thanks, Bethanie. It’s been good working with you.’
After the call, Martin looks out across the river and wonders why he agreed to cover the police doorstop. After all, the transcript was already out. And he wonders why the Herald insisted that he attend, given that he was officially off the story. But what the heck, he isn’t ready to become a transcript journalist just yet.
His phone rings again. It’s Max.
‘Shit, Max. They still don’t have the guts to call me themselves?’
‘Apparently not. How you coping?’
‘Not sure. You see the doorstop?’
‘Everyone has seen the doorstop. Sky is playing it on high rotation, courtesy of Channel Ten. I assume you didn’t really call that dead cop a parasitic turd.’
‘No. Of course not. It was a character reference for that dickhead from Channel Ten, Thunkleton.’
‘Well, it’s not the way our television brethren are reporting it. Fortunately, Thackery at AAP has put it in perspective and now the ABC have picked it up and are taking the high moral ground. They’re having a crack at Ten for sensationalist reporting.’
‘So there’s hope for me yet.’
‘No, Martin, there’s not.’
‘How’s that?’
‘That’s why I’m calling. You’re sacked. Nothing to do with me, I’m just the messenger. You’ll be paid your entitlements, but your employment is terminated as of now. I’m sorry, Martin—more sorry than you can ever know.’
For a moment, Martin can’t speak. When he does, it’s to console his old friend and mentor. ‘What a bunch of gutless cunts, Max. Getting you to do this. It’s unforgiveable. I won’t forget it. I won’t forgive them.’
‘Thanks, Martin, but don’t worry about me, think about yourself. Give me a call when you get back to Sydney. We’ll have a drink, discuss options. I’ve got a few ideas.’
‘Thanks, Max. You’re a mate.’
‘Martin?’
‘Yes?’
THE CHANNEL TEN NEWS IS EVEN WORSE THAN MARTIN HAS BEEN EXPECTING. He sits alone in room six at the Black Dog Motel, watching it on the old-fashioned tube television set, the picture snowy. The newsreader wears a look of deep concern: ‘There has been a disturbing development in the police investigation into murdered backpackers in the state’s south-west. One of the key police investigators is dead—driven to take his own life, allegedly by irresponsible media reporting. Ten’s Doug Thunkleton has the story from Riversend.’
The news package opens with sepia photos of Herb Walker, police hero, accompanied by cello music. There’s a brazen EXCLUSIVE dominating the top right corner of the screen. Doug’s rich baritone is dripping with sympathy and regret. ‘For a town that has already lost so much, there is more loss tonight—the death of policeman and local hero Sergeant Herb Walker.’
Then a grab of a middle-aged woman identified by the screen super as the mayor of Bellington. ‘Herb Walker was one of the kindest, hardest-working men I ever met. He was a pillar of our community.’
Another grab, this time from Robbie Haus-Jones. ‘Yes, I guess in a way he was a mentor to me.’
Cut to Thunkleton, standing by the banks of the Murray, camera zooming slowly in as he makes his point. ‘It was here, last night, that it all got too much for Sergeant Herb Walker. He’d investigated the Riversend massacre and the backpacker murders with courage and integrity, but a note found at the scene suggests he took his own life, unable to come to terms with scurrilous and inaccurate newspaper reporting.’ Cut to a montage of Herald and Age front pages. Thunkleton’s voiceover continues, no longer heavy with grief or sympathy but stepped up into prosecutorial righteousness. ‘For three days, the Fairfax press has provided sensationalist and at times inaccurate coverage of Riversend’s backpacker murders. It has accused first one man then another of committing the crime—men the police say are demonstrably innocent. Then, yesterday, the paper accused Herb Walker of covering up knowledge of the backpacker murders for almost a year.’
