Scrublands(102)

‘Shit. Do you think that’s where Walker got the information on the phone calls?’

‘Vandenbruk isn’t saying.’

‘And Vandenbruk now feels responsible for his death? That’s why he’s willing to help?’

‘He’s not saying.’

‘He doesn’t have to. Great. When does he get here? When can we talk to him?’

Goffing places his hand on Martin’s shoulder, as if to restrain him. ‘Listen, Martin. On that score, it’s probably not a good idea for you to meet him.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘Because Vandenbruk, like everyone else in law enforcement, thinks you drove his best mate to suicide. And you’re a journalist. It’s surprising enough he’s willing to trust ASIO, even with my clearance. He’s only talking because he thinks I might be able to tell him something useful.’

‘You didn’t tell him we were working together?’

‘I certainly did not, and neither should you. I’m going to drive down to Bellington and pick him up. If we run into you, don’t be too familiar with me, okay?’

Martin has little choice but to agree, grateful that Goffing is keeping him in the loop; he could easily have kept Vandenbruk and this new information to himself. Martin wonders why he hasn’t. ‘I guess that makes sense.’

‘Good. Now while I’m gone, there’s something you can do to help.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Jamie Landers. He wants to talk to you.’

‘Landers? Why? Is he still here?’

‘Yeah, they’re driving him out this afternoon, after they take him out to the Scrublands and film him recreating what happened. Don’t know what he wants to talk to you about—maybe he just needs to get it off his chest.’

‘And Montifore, the police, they’re happy with that? He’s been charged; it’s sub judice. If I published it could threaten a fair trial, undermine their case.’

‘Yes, you’d be done for contempt. So don’t publish, not until after he’s convicted. That’s what they want. He’s going to plead guilty, probably won’t take the stand. This way, once he’s put away, they can get it on the public record, just how depraved he and his mate were, what a great job they did to catch him. It’s a way for them to thank you and to help me. And to get the acknowledgement they want.’



The cell is cool, relatively cool, one of two holding cells connected as an afterthought to the back of the Riversend police station, like a converted garage. The brickwork of the interior walls has been rendered smooth by multiple coats of green enamel paint; the concrete floor is bare. There’s a cantilevered bed with a thin mattress and a scratchy blanket, a stainless-steel toilet with no seat and a matching washbasin. The ceiling is high, too high to reach even standing on the bed, with an indestructible light fitting. Its glow is supplemented by natural light filtering in from a grille high in one wall.

Jamie Landers is sitting in the middle of the bed, staring at the opposite wall, when Martin is escorted in by Robbie Haus-Jones. Landers turns and looks at Martin blankly, but doesn’t speak. Robbie tells Martin to yell if he needs anything and locks the door behind him as he leaves. A flash of memory comes to Martin—Jamie advancing, knife in hand, murder in his eyes. Suddenly the cell feels very small.

‘Hi, Jamie. You wanted to speak to me?’

‘I guess.’ Landers’ face is expressionless. If any emotions are playing out inside his mind, none are evident to Martin. Perhaps he’s been medicated. Martin hopes so.

There’s nowhere for Martin to sit, not unless he wants to sit next to Landers or perch on the rim of the toilet. Instead, he eases himself down onto the hard concrete floor. His eyes are below those of Landers. He feels uncomfortable, at the mercy of the killer, but hopes his submissive position may put Landers more at ease. He swallows with difficulty, reassuring himself that Robbie is listening outside, that the constable is just a cry away. He has his notebook and pen; the police haven’t allowed him his phone.

‘I’m told you confessed,’ says Martin.

Landers nods. ‘Yep.’

‘That’s a good thing to do, Jamie. It makes it easier for the families.’

‘Have you seen my mum?’ Jamie looks up, his eyes suddenly focused.

‘No. Not yet.’

‘Tell her I’m sorry, will you? That I didn’t mean to hurt her. I’d never hurt her.’

‘Is that why you wanted to see me?’

‘They won’t let her see me. Can you help? Help her in to see me?’ The numbness has gone from Landers; Martin can hear the pent-up emotion in his voice. He transcribes the words. He wasn’t expecting this: compassion from a psychopath.

‘I’ll see what I can do. Ask for you. But you know it’s not up to me.’

‘I know. Thanks for trying, though.’

Martin can see the anguish on the teenager’s face. He’s not sure what to make of it.

‘What happened, Jamie? Why did you do it?’

‘We didn’t mean to. We didn’t plan to. It just happened.’

‘How?’

Landers looks into space again, eyes losing their focus, emotion dissipating, the impression of numbness returning. When he speaks, his voice has a faraway quality. ‘Allen had his Ps, so we went driving. Didn’t plan to go far, but we did. Just kept going. All the way to Swan Hill. No real reason, we just drove. We had some bourbon, some tequila; we ended up drinking by the river. The river there is so big. Just looking at it makes you feel cooler. It’s a good place to drink. I knew we shouldn’t be drinking, ’cos Allen needed to drive back. You can’t drink if you’re on your Ps. We met the girls there, by the river. They were pretty and fun. They tried the drink, but didn’t like it. Then they left.’