Scrublands

by Chris Hammer

  He extracts another, more utilitarian album. Memories from the military. The same man, a younger man, Avery Foster, graduating in dress uniform. In camouflage, face blackened, an assault rifle at the ready, but the smile revealing this is an exercise, not combat. Photos in Australia, photos overseas. And then the familiar colours: brown and beige, the palette of Afghanistan, interspersed with the greenery of the valleys. Foster in camp, Foster with colleagues. Foster in uniform, his arm around a colleague, both smiling at the camera. Martin notices small variations in their uniforms, looks closely at their identifying tags. Is the man on the right Julian Flynt?

  He carries the album into the study to show Goffing. The ASIO man is still sitting at the desk, leaning back. In his hand is a roll of banknotes, hundred-dollar bills. He looks up at Martin. ‘About five thousand dollars. It was taped under the desk. If Avery Foster killed himself, it wasn’t for lack of money. And look at this.’ He hands Martin a receipt. ‘It’s for a headstone. The week after Swift died.’

  ‘I’ve seen it,’ says Martin. ‘He’s buried in Bellington. The inscription is Known unto God, the one used for soldiers who can’t be identified. And check this out.’ Martin shows Goffing the photo album, open at the page with the image of the two soldiers. ‘The man on the left is Avery Foster. Looks like Afghanistan.’

  ‘And the man on the right is Julian Flynt,’ says Jack Goffing without hesitation.

  ‘They were comrades in Afghanistan. So what does that add up to? Do you think it was Foster who smuggled Flynt back into Australia, who set him up with a false identity and a bolthole in Bellington?’

  Goffing says nothing, not for a long while, before nodding in affirmation. ‘Sounds as plausible as anything else.’

  ‘And on the day of the St James shooting, Swift is preparing to leave the district for good. He calls Foster from the church and sometime later Foster calls him back. Then Swift goes out and starts shooting.’

  ‘And six months later Foster kills himself.’

  The men are still, speculation running unfettered through Martin’s mind. Nothing moves in the rooms of the dead publican.

  ‘What time is it in Afghanistan?’ asks Goffing eventually.

  Martin checks his watch, does the calculation in his mind. ‘Early afternoon.’

  ‘Good. Let’s go. I’ve got some calls to make.’

  MARTIN IS BACK IN THE BOOT OF THE MERCEDES ON THE GAZA STRIP, BUT HE’S no longer so perturbed. He knows help is on its way; it won’t be too long now and he’ll be rescued. He can hear the clanking tanks, the rumble of activity. A helicopter passes benignly overhead. So he lies in the darkness, enjoying his last moments of respite before the boot is opened and a new day begins. And right on cue, the hammering comes, not ordnance, not mortar shells, but someone pounding on the door of room six of the Black Dog Motel. He opens his eyes, fully conscious, gets up and opens the door.

  ‘Martin. Mate. Talk about a scoop machine.’ It’s Doug Thunkleton.

  ‘Fuck off, Doug.’

  ‘But you are the story. Make the most of it, do an interview. Salvation awaits!’

  ‘Just fuck off and die, will you,’ he says, not even bothering to raise his voice, and shuts the door in the face of the television hyena.

  He’s emerging from the shower when another knock comes. ‘Martin? Are you in there? Martin?’ It’s Jack Goffing. Martin lets him in, scanning the car park for media as he does so.

  ‘It’s okay,’ says Goffing. ‘I told them Montifore is doing a doorstop. They’ve all scurried off to the police station.’

  ‘Is he?’

  ‘Bound to be sooner or later.’ Goffing is smiling. ‘They’ve got their man; they’ll want their credit.’

  Martin smiles as well. Both men can feel it: progress, momentum. They’re getting closer.

  ‘Finish getting dressed,’ says Goffing. ‘I’ll have a smoke.’

  Outside, Riversend’s clear night skies have drained off much of the car park’s heat, but the morning’s light is already so intense that Martin needs his sunglasses. He can feel the power of the sun on the bare skin of his arms. It will be another ferocious day.

  ‘Any news?’

  ‘Plenty. I rang our people in Kabul last night. They called back this morning; I’ve just got off the phone to them.’ He takes a drag of his smoke, looking as if he’s relishing it. ‘Get this. Avery Foster didn’t just know Julian Flynt in Afghanistan: he treated him. He was an army chaplain and a qualified psychologist. He was the one who gave Flynt the clean bill of health to return to active service after he’d been held captive by the Taliban.’

  ‘That’s it, Jack—it’s starting to come together. Foster felt responsible for what happened, Flynt killing those women and children.’

  ‘That’s what I’m thinking. I don’t know if he helped Flynt escape Afghanistan, or if he helped him get back into Australia, but I know for certain that he helped him get ordained and placed in Bellington.’

  ‘For certain?’

  ‘Yep, I’ve spoken to the Bishop of Albury. He says Foster, a former chaplain, was a major sponsor of Swift and backed him for ordination.’

  ‘You have been busy.’

  ‘Not me so much, but the team in Kabul have been outstanding. They also checked out the orphanage. It’s the real deal; does good works, cares for about sixty kids. It presents as secular, which is only sensible, but the Kabul office reckon its key staff are all Christians. The woman running it says she knew Foster; he was very supportive while he was in country. And get this: it was receiving anonymous donations from Australia. About a year ago, the flow of money started to slow, then stopped altogether about six months later.’

  ‘Right,’ says Martin. ‘Swift died a year ago, Foster six months later. They were sending money.’

  ‘Looks like it.’

  Goffing takes a long, satisfied drag on his cigarette. The men look into the distance, thoughts racing through Martin’s mind, connections being made, theories advanced and rejected.

  The silence is broken by the jagged ringing of the phone in Goffing’s room. He stamps out his cigarette and raises his eyebrows at Martin, communicating his expectations: watch this space.

  Goffing closes the door behind him and Martin considers what he knows. Jamie Landers and Allen Newkirk abducted and killed the two backpackers. Swift was with Mandy Blonde at the time of the abduction and probably had nothing to do with the crime. Swift may have seen some evidence left by Landers and Newkirk out in the Scrublands, but that’s the only likely link between the deaths of the German girls and the shooting at St James. They were probably distinct crimes, connected only by their proximity in time and location. But that still leaves a lot Martin doesn’t know. Swift and Foster were acting in concert, sending money to Afghanistan, but where were they getting money from in the middle of a drought, rolls of hundred-dollar notes? Someone had accused Swift of abusing children and Herb Walker reckoned he’d had it verified by two Riversend victims. Who made the allegations and were they true? And did they explain why Swift shot the five members of the Bellington Anglers Club?

  The moment Goffing emerges from his motel room, Martin knows something is wrong. The spring has gone from the man’s step, a veil has come down over his eyes. He slumps into the plastic chair, reaches for a cigarette and lights it without looking, a man on automatic pilot. When he draws in his first toke, there is no enjoyment, or even awareness that he’s smoking.

  ‘What’s wrong? What’s happened?’

  ‘Something bad.’

  ‘You want to tell me about it?’

  Goffing looks at Martin, examining him. Martin can see the calculation in the intelligence officer’s eyes. To confide or not to confide. The camaraderie is gone; the guile is back. Eventually, Goffing sighs. ‘I asked Canberra to run checks on Foster’s phone for the morning of the shooting. It’s not good.’

  ‘You have recordings?’

  ‘No. Of course not. No content. It’s just billing data. Metadata. Whi
ch number called which number at what time and for how long. The telcos are required to keep the metadata for two years.’ A drag on his cigarette, another calculation. ‘At ten forty-five on the morning of the shooting, a call was made from St James to Avery Foster’s apartment at the Commercial Hotel. The call lasted about a minute. At ten fifty-four Foster called the church back. Same thing: about a minute. After the second call it must have been almost immediately after the second call Swift went out and started shooting.’

  ‘Yes,’ says Martin. ‘That’s more or less what we knew from Walker’s information: Swift called someone and then that person rang back. It was Avery Foster.’

  ‘Yes,’ says Goffing. ‘But that’s not all. Between the two calls with St James, Foster received another call.’

  ‘Really? From whom?’

  ‘No specific number. It came through a switchboard. Russell Hill, in Canberra.’

  ‘Russell Hill…the Defence Department?’

  ‘No. More likely ASIO.’

  ‘ASIO?’

  ‘Snouch had identified Swift on the Friday. That Sunday morning we were gathered, a crisis team of about eight people, at ASIO headquarters. The cops were there, so was Attorney-General’s, and a liaison officer from Defence. Someone called Foster and warned him.’

  ‘So it’s true: ASIO leaked.’

  ‘Looks like it. Everyone in that room was security cleared, but one of them called Foster.’ He shakes his head, still coming to terms with the information. ‘You don’t understand, Martin. This’ll go off like a hand grenade when I tell the boss. There’ll be all sorts of internal investigations. A veritable witch-hunt. A mole-hunt. And if they don’t find out who was responsible, every person in that room, including me, will carry a question mark on their CV for all time, a very nasty and sinister question mark.’ Goffing finishes his cigarette, grinds it into the car park gravel, grinds it so thoroughly that it disintegrates beneath his shoe.

  ‘The Defence liaison officer? Could it have been him?’

  ‘Her. That’d be my guess.’

  ‘Hang on. Jack, where was Harley Snouch?’ asks Martin.

  ‘Snouch? Outside the meeting, in case we needed him.’

  ‘Well, don’t you see? It was Snouch who called Foster. ASIO didn’t leak. Snouch rang Foster and then Foster called Swift back. Remember Swift’s dying words to Robbie Haus-Jones: “Harley Snouch knows everything.” It must have been him; you’re in the clear.’

  But there’s no relief on the face of Jack Goffing. He’s shaking his head, a portrait of dismay. ‘Fuck. You could be right. That’s even worse.’

  ‘Worse? How?’

  ‘Don’t you see? If you’re right, he played me. He played ASIO. He didn’t come to Canberra to provide information—he came to gather it. He came because he knew we could identify Flynt for him. The identity of SAS soldiers, past and present, is classified. You’re a journo; you must know that. He never intended to help us.’ Goffing has his head in his hands, shoulders slumped. ‘Fuck, Martin. This is career-ending.’

  ‘Maybe. But we’re not dead yet.’

  ‘Easy for you to say. It’s not your career on the line.’

  ‘No, mine’s already fucked, thanks very much.’

  This time Goffing has no comeback.

  ‘Good. So let’s think it through. Why would Snouch call Foster and why would it have any impact? Foster already knew Swift was really Flynt; Snouch wasn’t telling him anything new.’

  Goffing grimaces, re-engaging. ‘I see where you’re coming from. Snouch was exerting some sort of leverage. He says, “I know Swift is Flynt; I know he’s a fugitive and a war criminal. Do what I want or I expose him.” No, that’s no good; he’d already exposed him.’

  Martin nods. ‘Maybe he’s been telling us the truth. Maybe he just wanted to get Swift out of town, away from Mandy. So he rings Foster and says, “Get him out of town.” Maybe he was doing Foster a favour, keeping him out of the firing line.’

  Goffing is frowning. ‘But Swift was already leaving, wasn’t he?’

  ‘Yes. But Snouch didn’t know that. He’d been in Canberra the whole time and missed Walker launching his child abuse probe.’

  ‘That’s ironic. Swift was going anyway.’ Another grimace. ‘Doesn’t help me, though.’

  ‘And it doesn’t explain why Swift opened fire, either.’

  ‘Jesus Christ. Every time I think we’re getting somewhere, it slips through our fingers. You get that feeling?’

  ‘I do,’ says Martin. ‘But listen. How does this play? Snouch rings Foster, tells him ASIO is onto Swift, that he has to go. But Snouch says he can keep Foster’s name out of it.’

  ‘Blackmail?’

  ‘Blackmail. Snouch tried something similar with me.’

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘He’s threatening to sue me for defamation unless I help him reconcile with Mandy.’

  Goffing takes his time before responding. ‘He played me, he’s blackmailing you, he coerced Avery Foster. The guy’s a ratfucker.’

  ‘And a good one. Foster’s name was kept out of it. Until last night, I’d never connected him to Swift. Had you?’

  ‘No. So he acceded to Snouch’s demands? But what was Snouch demanding?’

  ‘Money. Rolls of hundred-dollar bills would be my guess.’

  ‘Snouch never struck me as someone with money,’ Goffing objects. ‘More like a derro.’

  ‘He was restoring the old family homestead. He was getting money from somewhere. My guess is from Foster.’

  ‘But what money? Where could Foster find money in this shithole?’ Goffing stands, gestures around him, emphasising the absurdity of hidden wealth in Riversend.

  ‘Listen, Jack, I’ve lost my job, you’re about to lose yours. Let’s say we put it all on the table. No secrets. We’ve got nothing to lose.’

  Goffing looks at him: assessing, calculating, deciding. He shrugs. ‘Okay. What do you want to know?’

  ‘What you’re doing here. Why you came down with the cops, even before the bodies in the dam were identified.’

  Goffing shrugs again. ‘Sure. It’s not such a big deal.’ He sits back down, reaches for another cigarette, thinks better of it. ‘A lot of what we do nowadays is terrorism-related. Back in the day, during the Cold War, it was all counterespionage and keeping an eye on the commies. We still do the anti-spy stuff, lots of cybersecurity and so forth, but terrorism is the growth area. My unit is involved with monitoring communications between Australian extremists and jihadis in the Middle East, in particular the movement of foreign fighters and Australian money. In the months before St James, we picked up a trail of money being sent from Australia to Dubai and then disappearing. We suspected it was being funnelled to Islamic State or the Taliban or any one of a number of other extremist groups. There were a couple of key words picked out of the ether: Swift was one, Riversend was another. I mentioned this before; it’s why, when Snouch turned up, I gave him the time of day.’

  ‘I see,’ says Martin. ‘Except instead of going to Muslim extremists, the money was probably going to a Christian orphanage.’

  ‘Yeah, looks like it now.’ Another shrug. ‘We all make mistakes.’

  ‘But why come down here a year later when the bodies turned up at Springfields?’

  ‘Snouch rang me at the same time he called the coppers. After he found the bodies. Don’t know why. Probably wanted me to vouch for him. I immediately thought there might be a connection with Swift’s shooting spree, that it might have to do with the money flow. I half expected the bodies in the dam to be young Muslim hotheads, or informants, or God knows who. Not German fruit-pickers, that’s for sure.’ The men sit in silence, pondering. ‘I think we need to go after Snouch,’ says Goffing. ‘He’s the key.’

  ‘I agree. But how can we?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, he has you over a barrel for letting him use ASIO resources to identify a former special forces soldier. And he’s threatening to sue m
e for defamation and destroy what’s left of my career.’

  Goffing shakes his head. ‘He’s up to his eyeballs in something. I wish I knew what it was—that way we could threaten him straight back.’

  ‘I swear those are prison tattoos on his hands, but we’ve both run checks. Mandy’s mother accused him of rape, but there’s nothing. No records, no evidence.’

  There’s little left to say. The two men are immobilised, their frustration mounting with the arc of the sun. It’s getting hotter; soon the car park will be unbearable. Goffing lights another cigarette. Half-a-dozen cockatoos fly over, screeching raucously, complaining at the injustice of another day without rain, another baking day in western New South Wales. And now, into the silence left by the cockatoos, a new sound, a vibration felt before it’s heard, the guttural roar of approaching thunder.

  ‘What’s that?’ asks Goffing.

  ‘Motorbikes,’ says Martin.

  The noise comes closer and the two men stand and watch as four bikies, riding two abreast, ease by along the highway. The four horsemen of the apocalypse, vacationing in the Riverina. The noise bounces this way and that, filling the town with its presence. Martin and Jack Goffing watch them pass, and then follow their progress by sound alone as they change down gears and turn into Hay Road, the growl of the engines reverberating this way and that off the shopfronts. The sound is retreating when Goffing speaks. ‘Bikies. Here. They look like the real deal.’

  ‘Yeah, I’ve seen them before. They pass through now and then.’

  ‘Seriously? Out here? The most boring landscape in the world to ride a motorbike. Why?’

  ‘How would I know?’

  ‘You’ve seen them before, you say. Do you know who they are?’