Scrublands(106)

Across the road, in the shade of a tree, the gaggle of media, beaten down by the heat, come alert at the sight of him. A couple of photographers notch up some lazy frames, more out of boredom than interest: he’s yesterday’s story. The media will get a doorstop with Montifore, then the spectacle of Landers at the Scrublands crime scene, recounting his atrocities. Then they can be on their way, the story that drew them to Riversend, the murder of the backpackers, resolved.

A thin figure of a man, wearing moleskins, riding boots and a light linen shirt, breaks away from the group and makes his way towards Martin. D’Arcy Defoe, dressed the part.

‘Martin.’

‘D’Arcy.’

They shake hands.

‘Looks like I got here in time to turn around and go back again,’ says D’Arcy.

‘Sorry to inconvenience you.’

Defoe laughs. ‘Yeah. I reckon you did it on purpose.’

Martin smiles. His rival has always possessed an easy line in banter.

‘For what it’s worth, Martin, I think you have been most shabbily treated. Most shabbily. Our management is a disgrace—but you already know that.’

‘Thanks, D’Arcy. I appreciate it.’

Defoe flicks his head in the direction of the police station. ‘Any developments?’

‘No, not a lot. Jamie Landers has confessed to everything. He isn’t holding back. It’s not going to be much of a trial; very open and shut, I should think. The coppers are going to drive him out to the bush to film him taking them through it.’

‘I know. They want a media pool.’

‘You going out?’

‘Yeah. I don’t think there’s any news left to wring out of the yarn, but that could provide some useful colour. If I can hack the heat. Is it always this hot?’

‘Yep.’

‘Listen, Martin, if you don’t mind me asking, what are you still doing here?’

‘Not sure I know myself. Just want to see it through to a conclusion, I guess. My last story, and all that.’

D’Arcy nods, his manner sincere. ‘Listen, you should give Wellington Smith a ring. You know him? Editor of This Month. I’m sure they’d go for a longer piece on what you’ve seen here. Be a shame to waste what you’ve got.’

‘Thanks, D’Arcy. That’s not a bad idea.’

‘Just a moment.’ D’Arcy has his phone out, writes down the number of the editor of the monthly news magazine. ‘Here. And give me a ring if there’s anything else I can do, okay?’

‘Sure. Thanks.’ Martin watches D’Arcy return to the media fold. The two have long been competitors, their rivalry at times intense, but now he’s no longer in the contest, that all seems petty. Typical of D’Arcy to be alive to the new reality; Martin has always been slower on the uptake. He looks at the number his former colleague has given him. D’Arcy is right: it is a good idea. He already has the makings of a great story, a compelling long read: everything from Robbie’s initial interview, through Julian Flynt hiding out as Byron Swift, to his own role in saving Liam Blonde and flushing out the backpacker killers. Plus an exclusive interview with Landers, erratic and lost to himself. Maybe he’s selling himself short: surely he’s got the makings of a book. A small surge of excitement runs through him; he’s not dead yet. Instead of returning to wait for Goffing at the Black Dog, he decides to make his way out to the Scrublands with the others; the sight of Jamie Landers at the murder scene may yet prove useful for a longer narrative.

By the time he collects his car from the Black Dog and returns to the police station, Montifore is finishing a doorstop interview and the media are preparing to drive to the Scrublands. There’s the sudden snarl of camera shutters; Jamie Landers is being led out wearing handcuffs and assisted into the back of a car, but not before the police are sure the cameras have had their fill.



Once more, Martin finds himself driving the last car in the media convoy. He’s debating whether the trip is worth it. D’Arcy’s suggestion of a longer piece for This Month is a good one, but the closer Martin gets to the murder scene, the less likely it appears he will learn anything useful traipsing around in the searing heat. Defoe is no slouch, he’ll milk the moment for all it’s worth, and he’s always been the more evocative writer of the two of them. And the cops won’t let them get within cooee: it’s a job for the photographers, television crews and telephoto lenses. There’ll be precious little left for any This Month piece. Perhaps Martin would have been better off staying in town, waiting for Goffing. Or going to see Mandy. He’s yet to tell her what he’s learnt about Swift. She won’t take it well, he knows that, the revelation that her lover was a fraud, a war criminal, a murderer of innocents. Is that why he’s driven out here? To avoid her? To delay? To savour this morning’s kiss a little longer? At least now he’ll be able to tell her that Defoe’s allegation was false; Swift was no paedophile—Jamie Landers has cleared him of that slander, at least. He wonders how much of an impact learning of Swift’s past will have on her. She had looked so happy; her son is alive, her charges have been dropped, she has inherited a fortune. For a moment he wonders if he needs to tell her about Swift at all. Why threaten her new-found equilibrium? But he knows the answer to that: she can’t learn about it from the papers, certainly not from a magazine article with his name attached to it. He has to tell her.