Scrublands(105)

‘That’s nothing. You should hear the full confession. What they put those girls through. It’s not human, makes your skin crawl. Montifore is insisting on counselling for the lot of us.’

Robbie pauses and Martin takes the opportunity to change subject. ‘Hey, there are a few other things I’d like you to help me with. Off the record.’

Robbie shrugs affably. ‘Sure. Montifore’s commandeered my office, but we can talk here.’

‘Remember that first time we met, when I interviewed you at the police station. You said that you and Byron Swift had been friends. You remember that?’

‘Sure.’

‘You just heard what Jamie said, that Swift warned him and Allen that something bad had happened out in the Scrublands. Did Swift ever say anything to you?’

Robbie is unable to meet Martin’s gaze, staring at his hands as he picks at his nails. ‘No. No he didn’t.’

‘Any idea why not?’

‘Not really. I guess he didn’t want it made public for some reason.’

‘Walker told you his theory, didn’t he? That Swift was an imposter. It wasn’t his real name.’

Robbie looks at him then, eyes intense. ‘Is it true?’

‘I think so, yes.’

‘Who was he then? Do you know?’

‘A former soldier. He was wanted by the authorities. I’m guessing that’s why he didn’t tell you. He knew you’d arrest him.’

Robbie nods, as if endorsing Martin’s interpretation. ‘And you intend publishing this?’

‘I do, as soon as I find someone who’ll run the story.’

Robbie stares at him, hesitating before speaking again. ‘Did Harley Snouch know? Byron’s last words. Was that what he was trying to tell me?’

‘I think maybe it was.’

Robbie just shakes his head, as if in disbelief. Or in despair. ‘Shit. Harley Snouch knew, Herb Walker worked it out. Just poor dumb Robbie Haus-Jones left in the dark, sucked in and spat out.’ He shakes his head again. ‘I’m going to look the right fool when your story comes out. Fuck me.’ A third shake of his head. ‘But thanks, Martin. Thanks for telling me. For warning me.’

‘Sorry. There are a couple of other matters. I keep seeing bikies riding through town. What’s the story with them?’

‘The Reapers? No idea. They stay down in Bellington. There’s a pub there they like, owned by a former member.’

‘So not around here?’

‘No. No bikies around here.’

‘What about Jason, out in the Scrublands?’

‘Jason? He’s not a bikie. He’s an invalid with a Yamaha.’

Martin nods. ‘The publican—Avery Foster. You knew him?’

Robbie frowns, looking confused by Martin’s question. ‘Sure. Everyone knew him. He served behind the bar most lunchtimes, most nights. Can’t say I knew him well, though. He was a pleasant bloke, but quiet for a publican. Not prone to banter.’

‘Accepted by the community?’

‘Oh yeah. People were happy someone was trying to make a go of the pub.’

‘Was he mates with Byron Swift?’

The frown deepens. ‘No. Not particularly. I don’t think Byron went to the pub much. He wasn’t up here that often. But maybe he did. I know Foster donated some money to our youth group, so they must have known each other somehow. Byron organised that. Either that or Avery got wind of what we were doing and decided to help off his own bat.’

‘He killed himself; am I right?’

‘Yes. It wasn’t good. Put a shotgun in his mouth and pulled the trigger. Down by the river. One hell of a mess. I should tell Montifore’s counsellors about that while I’m at it.’

‘Do you know why he did it? Did he leave a note?’

‘No, no note. But the reasons were pretty clear. His wife had left him. She’d never liked it here, never fitted in. The week after the shooting at St James, she packed up and headed back to the city. You can understand why. And he was out of money, so they say. The drought. It’s tough times, Martin. Desperate times.’

‘What happened to his body? His affairs?’

‘Why are you so interested in Foster?’

‘I think he may have known Swift’s real identity.’

‘What? How?’

‘They were in the military together.’

‘How do you know that?’

‘Jack Goffing and I, we broke into his apartment over at the Commercial.’

‘But the pub’s empty. The wife cleared everything out.’

‘Not everything. Goffing’s on his way to Bellington to pick up a criminal investigator.’





OUTSIDE THE POLICE STATION THE DAY GROWS HOTTER, A HIGH - PRESSURE system suspended above eastern Australia like a spiteful god, banishing clouds and forbidding moisture. Martin can feel the sun on his bare skin like a physical assault, as if the hairs on his arms might catch fire like the mulga of the Scrublands. The temperature must be approaching forty. He’s been here for more than a week and he’s yet to experience a cool day, yet to see a cloud. The only variation is the wind: too much and there’s the risk of fire, too little and there’s no relief whatsoever. Today is windless.