by Chris Hammer
He walks to the corner, looks towards the police station. The predictable gaggle of cameramen and photographers are already in place. It’s not yet nine o’clock. Either his erstwhile colleagues are displaying commendable diligence, driving the forty minutes from Bellington to take up their position, or they’ve been tipped off by the police for the parade: walk the suspect in, walk her out, parade her for the titillation of the great Australian public, demonstrate that the police are making progress.
It is, he knows full well, growing into a perfect summer story, in the great tradition of Lindy Chamberlain and Schapelle Corby. A heady mixture of murder, religion and sex. And, once news of Mandy’s diary is inevitably leaked, a beautiful femme fatale to feed to the cameras, as well as perhaps the most crucial element of all: mystery. Why did Byron Swift open fire? Who did murder the pretty young backpackers? Were they raped and tortured, as alleged by the competition papers? All around Australia, at barbecues and bars, at cafes and canteens, at hairdressers and in taxis, everyone and their dog will be advancing their own half-baked theories of what happened and who was responsible. Talkback radio will be having a field day; the internet will be spawning an equal measure of sick jokes and conspiracy theories, with him featuring in many of them. And yet he can’t complain: no one has done more to put the story on the front page, to propel it into the consciousness of the nation, than himself, Martin Scarsden. His stomach lurches at the thought and he needs to sit down. He should never drink whisky.
Arriving back at the Black Dog, he feels even worse. There’s a television satellite truck parked outside. The story is about to go live, 24/7. And if one network does it, the others are bound to follow. Christ. And he’s powerless to do anything about it. He’s walking past reception towards his room, considering the gathering media storm, when the woman from behind the counter sticks her head out the door. ‘Mr Scarsden? A moment, if you will?’ She is back behind the counter by the time Martin enters reception. He sees that she’s had her hair cut and dyed, the ragged blonde lengths and their mousy roots replaced by brunette consistency. Bellington chic.
‘I’m sorry, Mr Scarsden, but I had a call from your employer. Your former employer. They’re stopping the authorisation on your card as of today. They want to transfer your room over to another gentleman. A Mr…’
‘Defoe.’
‘So that’s how you pronounce it. Mr Defoe. Is he with you?’
‘No.’
‘I see. Anyway, if you can vacate, I can get the room ready for him.’
‘Look—um, sorry, I’ve forgotten your name.’
‘Felicity Kirby. My husband Gino and I own the Black Dog.’
‘Well, Mrs Kirby, I haven’t seen Mr Defoe as yet, but I’m inclined to think that he might not stay here. Much of the media are staying down in Bellington. They seem to like it down there by the river.’
‘Only because we are booked out here, Mr Scarsden.’
‘I’m sure you’re right, Mrs Kirby. Nevertheless, in Mr Defoe’s case, unless you offer him the penthouse, he’s still likely to prefer Bellington.’
‘Is that a joke, Mr Scarsden?’
‘I’m afraid it is, Mrs Kirby.’
‘Really? You’re a funny man. Now hand over your key and we can all have a good laugh.’
‘Tell you what, Mrs Kirby, perhaps we can come to a more mutually advantageous arrangement.’
‘Spit it out, love. I haven’t got all day.’
‘I keep the room, pay on my personal card.’
‘I see. And you’re sure this other bloke will be okay with that? I told them I would hold it for him.’
‘Trust me. His tastes are a little more elevated.’
‘Sounds like a bit of a tosser, Mr Scarsden.’
‘Your words, Mrs Kirby, not mine.’
‘All right then. It’s a week’s payment in advance, day by day after that.’
‘A week in advance? I’ve already been here a week.’
‘New card, new account.’
Martin shrugs, is about to sign when he notices the rate has increased by thirty dollars a night. ‘Inflationary pressures come to Riversend, Mrs Kirby?’
‘Textbook economics, Mr Scarsden. Too much money chasing too few assets. Plus it’s the school holiday rush.’
Martin starts filling out the credit card authorisation and a new hotel registration form.
‘Oh, yes, I almost forgot—your editor rang last night. No, the night before.’
‘Thanks. Probably doesn’t matter now.’
‘He left a message.’ She rummages around in her desk, hands Martin a post-it note. There’s a phone number on it, a landline. ‘He said it was a new number.’
Cripes. Poor Max. They haven’t even let him keep his phone number.
Martin smiles as he hands over the paperwork. ‘Nice haircut, Mrs Kirby.’
‘Why thank you, Mr Scarsden.’
Indecision is waiting in his room, embracing him as he enters, flopping him onto the unmade bed. Has he really just committed himself to another week in this hellhole? More specifically, what should he do now? He’s still here because he doesn’t want to abandon Mandalay Blonde to her fate, but on the other hand, he’s not going to be doing her any favours if he camps outside the police station, providing more grist for the relentless media mill. Moreover, as of this morning, she can’t stand the sight of him.
He wonders what she does want, what her desires might be. She had slept with him, it was true. But only the once; it hardly meant she was carrying a torch for him. What had motivated her to take him home that night? Gratitude that Snouch had survived? Gratitude Martin had also escaped death? Guilt for manipulating him? Or perhaps she was just lonely. Or bored. Or she just wanted to share in some of the excitement of the day. She certainly wasn’t pining after a man, that much was obvious. She’d only wanted to leave town with Swift after she discovered she was pregnant, but up until then had seemed content to share the priest with Fran, despite claiming to be in love with him. She’s certainly made no such declarations towards Martin. And is unlikely to do so, not since his newspaper slurs and his early morning insinuations. What had she said? Get out and never come back. He looks at his hands, his pathetic hands, realising he’s the one craving an emotional connection, not her. He’s the one who needs to help her; she’s not the one who needs his help.
So what should he do? Maybe he should return to the general store and wait there with Fran Landers and Liam; it will be the first place Mandy heads to when the police release her. He can speak with her, offer his help, say his goodbyes, leave with a clear conscience. But he delays moving. He doesn’t want to be left sitting outside the store for hours on end, like some callow schoolboy. Not with this head, not in this heat. He knows he should be thinking about his future, contemplating what he might do with his life, with his career, now that the Herald has cut him adrift, instead of obsessing about an unobtainable young woman. Could he still have any future as a journalist, in a contracting industry experiencing its own financial drought? He should be on the phone, finding someone to take the story about Julian Flynt.
He looks at the paper with Max’s new number. Maybe his old editor could suggest someone to take the story? Martin picks up the motel phone, dials, but the call doesn’t go through. Instead, he gets a recorded message. ‘The number you have called is no longer in service.’ Terrific.
He gets out his mobile phone, reduced by Riversend’s lack of service to little more than an electronic Rolodex. He finds Max’s mobile number, dials it on the hotel phone.
‘Hello, Max Fuller.’
‘Max, it’s Martin.’
‘Martin, good man. Where are you?’
‘Still in Riversend. Just tidying up a few loose ends.’
‘I see. How can I help?’
‘Did you call me here the other night? At the Black Dog? Leave me a phone number?’
‘Not me, soldier. What was the number?’
Martin quotes it to him.
&nb
sp; ‘Jeez, Martin, that’s not even a Sydney number. It’s from down where you are. The first four digits are the same as the phone you’re on now.’
Martin looks across at the bedside table where Tommy’s takeaway menu lies, red ink on white. Saigon Asian, with its phone number. Max is right: the first four digits are the same. Something isn’t right. ‘Max. I’m an idiot. Sorry to bother you. Crossed wires.’
‘Martin, are you okay?’
‘Never better. I’ll give you a ring when I’m back in Sydney.’
‘Make sure you do.’
The call finished, Martin is left staring at the receiver. Was Felicity Kirby mistaken? Who would call him, from somewhere in Riversend or close by, pretending to be his editor? Someone covering their tracks? In order to leave a disconnected phone number? Unless…Holy shit. Walker. The number from St James. He’s still staring at the phone when there’s a knock at the door. He feels a surge of panic, unsure whether to answer. The knock comes again. ‘Martin? You there?’
It’s Jack Goffing. Martin opens the door, lets the ASIO man enter.
‘You look like shit,’ says Goffing by way of greeting. ‘Glad to see I’m not the only one feeling a bit dusty this morning.’
Martin can detect no evidence of any after-effects on the man’s face; his eyes appear as clear and perceptive as ever. Martin sits on the bed; Goffing closes the door and remains standing. There’s a smell of cigarettes.
‘You know what’s happened?’
‘What? No.’
‘You all right?’
‘No, I’m hungover. Thanks to you.’
‘They’ve arrested Mandalay Blonde. They’re charging her.’
‘With what?’
‘Attempting to pervert the course of justice.’
‘The diary?’
‘The diary.’
‘Shit.’ Martin pauses. ‘Fuck knows why she wanted to come forward with that.’
‘Any ideas?’
‘Me? No. You?’
‘No.’
‘So what’s wrong with the diary?’ asks Martin. ‘Is it falsified?’
‘Not sure. You understand this conversation is utterly and totally off the record?’
‘Like I said, that’s academic. I still don’t have anywhere to publish it.’
‘True. But I don’t want you handballing it to your mates. So no tip-offs to D’Arcy Defoe.’
‘You have my word.’
‘Good. Well, as I understand it, the problem with the diary isn’t so much what has been added to it, although the plods suspect at least one line has been written after the fact. The problem is that there are pages missing. She’s ripped them out.’
‘She’s probably just trying to protect her privacy.’
‘Maybe. But if that’s right, she doesn’t know coppers. They’ll be like a dog at a bone with this. You can’t imagine the sort of pressure that’s starting to come down on them to get a result, and then she comes forward and delivers herself on a platter.’
‘But it doesn’t make any sense. If she were involved in the murders, why would she volunteer the diary? She wasn’t a suspect before this, was she?’
‘Not that I’m aware of.’
‘So they’d have a pretty hard task making a charge against her stick.’
‘Don’t be so sure. They won’t be able to prove involvement with the murder, not without evidence. But the charge of attempting to pervert the course of justice is a good one. The diary details some of the movements of the prime suspect, Byron Swift, in the days surrounding the abduction and murders of the German backpackers and the shooting spree at St James, and she has destroyed possibly vital pieces of evidence. She’s in deep shit.’
‘Christ, what happens next?’
‘That’s why I came looking for you. She’s applying for bail, wants to look after her kid. The cops are resisting. They’re planning to drive her down to Bellington to appear before a magistrate.’
‘There’s a magistrates court in Bellington?’
‘No. Not exactly. They’re driving in the bloke from Deniliquin.’
‘Why not drive him here?’
‘My guess? Because the media has based itself in Bellington.’
‘Shit. You’re kidding, right?’
‘No.’
‘So you’re telling me this why?’
‘Thought you might want to head down. She may need some moral support.’
‘From me?’
‘From anyone.’
It’s a long and peculiar caravan that speeds across the baking plain from Riversend to Bellington, a convoy of anticipation and fear, ambition and despair, each vehicle propelled by a different purpose and transporting different emotions. Taking the lead are the police vehicles: Robbie Haus-Jones driving Herb Walker’s four-wheel drive; Morris Montifore and Goffing in a rental; a highway patrol car with a garish paint job transporting Mandalay Blonde and Ivan Lucic. Thereafter, the media: 3AW in a tarted-up truck with a colour scheme to rival the highway patrol; a bunch of white rental cars; a couple of personal vehicles; the television networks in their kitted-out station wagons and SUVs. The caravan moves at exactly one hundred and ten kilometres per hour, the police observing the speed limit to the letter, the media not daring to go any faster or any slower, following in perfect formation, seatbelts fastened, cross purposes disguised by uniform velocity, all careering towards Bellington, the river and the next episode in this nation-gripping drama. Halfway across the plain the convoy sweeps past the lumbering satellite truck, not slowing, barely swerving, unimpeded by oncoming traffic, every driver indicating diligently as they pull out, indicating diligently as they pull back in.
Martin’s is the last car in the caravan; no longer at the vanguard of the story but in the caboose, not the headline but the footnote. For a moment he considers flooring it, redlining the rental, sweeping past his former colleagues and the police in a final gesture of defiance, hazard lights flashing, challenging them to respond. But the thought withers; he lacks the psychic capital. And so he resigns himself to his lowly rank and wonders why, at a time when no one else wants to know him, Jack Goffing has sought him out twice in twenty-four hours. To extract information, no doubt, cultivating a source, eliciting facts. What had he said? This is not an information swap. And yet that’s exactly what it proved to be: Goffing revealed Byron Swift was really Julian Flynt, detailing the soldier’s history and his crimes. And the ASIO man volunteered other information: the diary has pages missing, perhaps a line or two added. And he offered an opinion on police motivation. Why? Not because Martin could publish it. Mandy Blonde? That made more sense. Goffing now knows she was intimately involved with Swift and he thinks Martin may be the way to win her trust. Martin smiles at that. Goffing and Snouch, both seeing him as a conduit to Mandy. Chances are, she’ll never speak to him again.
He considers whether he should tell Goffing about the phone number. A Riversend phone number. Maybe there is some website that does reverse phone numbers and can tell him who it belongs to. Maybe Bethanie can help. Or maybe he should simply trust Goffing. The man would have the resources to identify the owner of the number, know who it was that Swift phoned from St James in the moments before the shooting started. But if Goffing finds out, would he feel any obligation to share his information with Martin? Yet what choice does Martin have? If Goffing can make any headway on either St James or the backpacker murders, it could spare Mandy a lot of grief. Or provide the evidence to prosecute her. Jesus. The permutations start to fuel Martin’s headache and he’s relieved when the green swathe of Bellington’s irrigated orchards emerges from the horizon and the brake lights of the convoy turn red in a chain reaction as the drivers, law-abiding citizens each and every one, slow to the requisite sixty kilometres an hour. By the time Martin drives into the main street, he’s made up his mind: he has to tell Goffing about the phone number.
The bail hearing is conducted behind closed doors. The magistrate has barricaded himself inside the Bellington police
station and ruled that the media must keep their distance. And so the journalists wait, alive with anticipation and speculation. The police have arrested local woman Mandalay Blonde, they report urgently into microphones, their voices deep with gravity. Femme fatale says one, Bonnie and Clyde says another, crime of the century says a third. And soon they are all saying it. Doug Thunkleton booms authoritatively into the eye of a television camera, rewarming old facts and conjuring new ones. The story is breaking across the nation like a wave: the police are making headway, we’re awaiting news, stand by, whatever you do, don’t miss it, don’t change channels, back after the break, must-see TV. And yet, for all the excitement, a momentary hush falls over the mob as they watch Martin walk into the station, before recommencing, eager and urgent, a new buzz-phrase spreading through the pack and out across the nation: disgraced former journalist Martin Scarsden.
But today Martin is receiving no privileged access, not this time, and he’s asked to wait outside with the media. And so he does, back at the scene of yesterday’s train wreck. His former colleagues look either astounded or confused by his presence. Or both. Thackery shakes his head with dismay, but pays him the courtesy of saying hello, saying he’s sorry about how it’s all ended. An ABC journo requests an interview as if entitled to it, citing how the network had come to his defence on the previous night’s news. Martin declines. Doug Thunkleton, live cross complete for the moment, steadfastly refuses to make eye contact, even while his camera crew brazenly film Martin’s every movement.
‘Martin,’ says a voice, deep and self-possessed. It’s D’Arcy Defoe. ‘Didn’t expect to see you here. How you holding up?’
