Scrublands(109)

‘You don’t have any money?’ asks Martin, thinking of the hydroponic operation.

She shakes her head. ‘Fuck all. Not since the priest died. But Jase thought he could borrow some, get an advance. He had a half-bottle of bourbon. We were toasting the future when the cop arrived and it all went to shit.’

Martin’s breath catches; he can hardly speak. ‘Cop? What cop?’

‘Not Robbie. That arsehole from Bellington, the fat one.’

‘Herb Walker? What did he want?’

‘He had a gun. Arsehole. Made us take him to the shed, what’s left of it. I was scared he was going to shoot us.’

‘What happened?’

‘The Reapers got him. Him and Jase. Took them away in the cop car. Came back later for their bikes. Took Jason’s as well.’

Martin’s mind is leaping from one fact to another. Dope. The priest. The Reapers. Last Sunday. Walker.

‘You’ve been here by yourself since Sunday?’ asks Codger. ‘You poor thing.’

She nods. ‘Ran out of water yesterday. I was about to walk to Snouch’s. But I didn’t want to leave in case…’ She sobs, fighting tears. ‘In case he comes back, in case they let them go.’

Martin looks at Codger, sees the concern writ large on the old man’s face. He looks at Shazza, sees her stubborn hope. ‘Shazza, listen: Walker is dead. They think he committed suicide. That same night. Sunday. But there’s no news about Jason. He could be okay.’

But the news about Walker is too much for the woman. She breaks down completely, openly weeping, despairing for the fate of her partner.

Gently, moving slowly, Codger goes to her, takes the shotgun, breaks it open, removes the shells and lays it on the ground. He holds his arms wide and Shazza falls into them, like a child comforted by her grandfather. Martin watches this unfold without seeing; his mind is throwing up scenarios one after the other, trying to find one that makes sense. Jason growing dope but not making any money. Swift implicated; giving money to Jason. The Reapers, abducting Walker and Jason. Driving Walker to suicide? Killing him outright? Holy shit.

Into the silence, emphasised by Shazza’s weeping, another sound insinuates itself: a car. A car coming closer. Martin walks around to the side of his rental, picks up the shotgun. What did Codger do with the shells? Never mind. He snaps it shut, thinking maybe he can use it as a bluff.

A final wave of sound and the car comes over the rise into the broken yard. Jack Goffing is driving. He and two other men get out, one in his fifties, the other in his twenties, in the telltale dress of plainclothes policemen. The younger man is holding a handgun, out of its holster, pointing at the ground. He looks like he means business. Martin carefully puts the shotgun down, raises his hands, leaving no room for mistakes.

‘Are you Sharon Young?’ asks the older man, ignoring Martin and Codger.

Shazza nods.

‘Good. My name is Claus Vandenbruk. I’m a police officer. Your partner Jason Moore is helping us with our inquiries. He wants you to know he is alive and well.’

Shazza says nothing, surrendering entirely to tears, Codger supporting her.

‘You Scarsden?’ the cop barks, looking bluntly at Martin.

‘That’s me.’

‘You been over there?’ The policeman tips his head in the direction of the burnt-out dope shed, not taking his gaze from Martin as he does so.

‘Yeah. I had a look.’

‘What’d you see?’

‘A burnt-out machinery shed.’

The cop smiles menacingly. ‘Good for you. You work out what’s been going on?’

‘Yeah. Marijuana. Must have been quite a crop. Tapping into the water from Springfields.’

‘Clever lad. You thinking of publishing that?’

Next to Vandenbruk, Goffing is shaking his head, signalling to Martin to say no.

‘Any reason why I shouldn’t?’

‘Hundreds. Including being charged with obstructing a police inquiry. Your choice.’

‘Then I won’t. Not a word. Not yet. But when the time comes, when you bust open the Reapers, I want the inside running. Agreed?’

A flash of anger passes across the policeman’s face, and one of dismay across Jack Goffing’s. ‘Who said anything about the Reapers?’

‘I did. What do you think I’m doing out here? Do we have a deal or not?’

The young policeman, standing off to one side, places his handgun in its holster, reaches behind him and removes some handcuffs from his belt. ‘You want me to cuff him, boss?’

But Vandenbruk shakes his head, eyes still boring into Martin’s, looking as if nothing would please him more than wading into the reporter, boots and all. ‘No,’ he says eventually. ‘Here’s the deal, Scarsden. You tell me everything you know. Everything. In return, I don’t arrest you here and now. And if it suits me, if it suits the investigation, we’ll tell you what’s happening. When the time comes.’

‘Fair enough,’ says Martin.

‘Goodo then. Was Herb Walker your source?’

‘It’s okay, Martin,’ interjects Jack Goffing. ‘Claus knows you weren’t responsible for Walker’s death.’

Martin shakes his head. ‘I don’t reveal my sources. Including you—when the time comes,’ he says, parroting the policeman’s words. ‘What do you know about Herb’s death?’