Scrublands(101)

Mandy looks uncertain, still coming to terms with her new status.

Martin takes the opportunity to ask a question. ‘Listen, before you go, can you tell me how Harley Snouch got the markings on his hands? They look like the sort of tattoos prisoners give each other.’

The solicitor looks grave as she responds. ‘As I said, we have acted for the Snouch family for many years. There is no statute of limitations on lawyer–client privilege. However, I can inform you that Harley Snouch has never been convicted of any crime in any Australian court.’

‘I see,’ says Martin, feeling deflated. ‘Thanks.’

‘Nevertheless, you are a journalist, are you not?’ the lawyer continues, the suggestion of a smile on her lips.

‘That’s right.’

‘There’s a fascinating story you should look into when you have a spare moment. A court case. A conman named Terrence Michael McGill, convicted and imprisoned in Western Australia some time back. Released just two years ago.’ The smile has extended to her eyes, twinkling above her half-moon glasses. ‘Now I must be getting along. A pleasure to meet you both.’

It’s left to Martin to show Winifred Barbicombe out. Mandy remains rooted to the spot, the joy of her windfall gone, replaced by a look of anguish. Martin moves to her. On the floor, Liam recommences his exploration of Martin’s shoelaces.

‘You were right. I thought there must have been a mistake.’ There’s a quaver in her voice. ‘He was never convicted. He didn’t go to jail.’

Martin reaches out, places a hand gently on her shoulder. ‘No. It doesn’t mean it didn’t happen, just that he didn’t go to prison.’

‘But Mum said he did.’ Martin can see the pain in her eyes, knows she’s doubting her beloved mother, questioning Katherine’s motives. ‘What should I do?’ she asks.

‘You should think about taking the DNA test.’

She doesn’t say anything, just bends down and lifts Liam, holding the boy close.

‘Can I use the phone?’ asks Martin.

She nods, thoughts elsewhere.

Bethanie Glass answers her mobile immediately. ‘Martin, is that you?’

‘Yes, how’s it going?’

‘Great. Did you see the front page? We killed it. Thanks to you. I even got a herogram.’

‘That’s great. Well deserved.’

‘Have you got something new?’

‘No, not exactly. Actually, I’m ringing to ask a favour.’

‘Anything. I owe you big time.’

‘Can you search the archives for me? I’m looking for anything you can find on a Terrence Michael McGill convicted in Western Australia in the past ten years or so. Released from prison about two years ago.’

‘Sure. Who is he?’

‘I’m not sure. But if there’s a story in it, I’ll see you get a slice of it.’

‘That’s good enough for me. What’s the best number to get you on?’

‘This one or the Black Dog. And email me any clippings.’

When he emerges from the office, Mandy and Liam have returned to the kitchen. She walks across and kisses him. ‘Thanks Martin.’

‘For what?’

‘For being halfway decent.’

He’s not sure how to respond. The old Martin would have gone with the moment but, then, the old Martin was not halfway decent.

‘I’m going to take the test,’ she says.

‘That’s probably for the best. But please don’t trust Harley Snouch. Check the DNA if you want to, but he’s more than just a harmless derro.’

‘What is it? What have you found out?’

Martin tries to think it through before he responds, trying to find an easy way of telling her about Julian Flynt, his murderous record and Harley Snouch’s role in exposing him. But before he can formulate an answer, there’s a knock at the kitchen door, hard and insistent.

‘Jesus,’ says Martin. ‘It’s probably some journo trying to cadge an interview.’

But when he opens the door a crack, it’s no journalist; it’s Jack Goffing, despondency gone, urgency back.





THE ASIO MAN HURRIES HIM OUT INTO THE BACKLANE, ENSURING THERE’S NO one to witness their conversation.

‘It’s the Reapers,’ Goffing states baldly.

‘The bikies?’

‘Yep. The federal coppers didn’t have anything, or weren’t telling me if they did. Same with the state plods. Don’t know nothing about nothing. But the Australian Criminal Intelligence Commission does. I got lucky, talked to the right person. The ACIC has been running a long-term surveillance operation targeting the Reapers, probing their criminal structure. I was right: organised crime.’

‘But what’s the Reapers’ connection with Riversend?’

‘Don’t know. Yet. One of their senior investigators, a bloke called Claus Vandenbruk, is on his way down to liaise with us; he’s chartered a light plane to get him into Bellington.’

Martin blinks, trying to keep up. Such sensitive information, obtained so quickly. ‘They’re running a covert surveillance operation? Into a bikie-run crime syndicate? And he tells you about it over the phone?’

‘Well, I’ve got clearance. That’s a start. But here’s the thing: thirty-five years ago, Claus Vandenbruk and Herb Walker were at the police academy in Goulburn together. And later, best men at each other’s weddings. Lifelong mates.’