Scrublands(110)

The policeman’s face is hard to read, not because it’s devoid of emotion, but because there are so many to see: anger and amusement, disgust and grief, eddying back and forth, one after the other. Finally, disgust wins out.

‘He didn’t suicide. The Reapers killed him. Waterboarded him, but fucked it up. He had a heart attack, so they drowned him. Stupid cunts.’ And he spits into the ashes at his feet.

‘How do you know that?’

‘That’s for me to know, not you.’

‘And the Reapers? You’ll arrest them?’

‘Arrest them? They have no idea the amount of shit that is about to come down upon them. Forget the rest; they killed a cop. We’re setting the raids up now with the feds and state coppers. They’re fucked six ways to Sunday.’

‘I can report that? When it happens?’ asks Martin.

‘Mate, the whole world will be reporting that particular shitstorm. But you breathe a word about it before we’re done, and you’ll be as sorry as Sisyphus. I’ll see to it myself. And breathe a word about Jason Moore—ever—and you risk having his blood on your hands. Got that? Ever.’

‘So why tell me?’

Vandenbruk pauses. Another emotional squall passes over his face, leaving him more subdued. ‘Because you’re here, because you know. And Herb trusted you. Stupid bastard. Now let’s get out of here; I don’t want to be around if any of those bike-riding bastards show up. We’ll take your car, Jack. Sharon can come with us. You okay riding back with Scarsden?’

Goffing nods, looking somewhat taken aback by the policeman’s presumption.

Codger helps Shazza over to Goffing’s commandeered rental. Before she gets into the car, she takes one last look around her devastated property. But in her eyes there are signs of hope; her man is alive.

The car pulls away, leaving the three of them to watch it go.

‘We haven’t met,’ Goffing says to Codger. ‘I’m Jack Goffing.’

‘Hello, Jack. Everyone calls me Codger. Codger Harris.’

‘Pleased to meet you, Codger. Do you mind giving Martin and me a moment in private?’

‘No worries,’ says Codger and he shuffles away towards the ruins of the house.

Martin waits until he is out of earshot. ‘What did Vandenbruk have to say?’

‘The Criminal Intelligence Commission has been running surveillance on the Reapers for almost two years. The bikies are Adelaide-based, but have been extending their influence into the east coast. They’re moving members into Canberra, setting up a chapter; the anti-consorting laws are weaker there. Meanwhile, they’re putting drugs into country Victoria and New South Wales, carving out new territory. Crystal meth, ecstasy, dope. They’ve been using Riversend as a staging point. Byron Swift was in on it. That and growing dope out here. That’s why he put a phone line into St James: to coordinate it.’

‘So that’s where he and Avery Foster were getting the money for the orphanage? Marijuana?’

‘Looks like it. Spend a bit of time in Afghanistan and hashish becomes a non-issue very quickly. It’s nothing compared to the rest of the shit going down over there.’

‘Dope maybe. But ice? That’s no laughing matter.’

‘You’re telling me. But that’s what Vandenbruk said. Swift put the phone line in. Maybe it was just intended to sell the dope, but the Reapers definitely started using the church as a staging point for hard drugs. The ACIC has been monitoring the number, running surveillance on the dope shed, the lot.’

‘So that’s where Herb Walker got Avery’s phone number? From Vandenbruk?’

‘That has to be right. But go easy there. Vandenbruk is like a grenade with the pin out. He reckons he got his best mate killed; he seriously wants to do some damage to someone. Make sure it’s the Reapers, not you.’

‘And the Reapers? How come Jason Moore has no money if he’s growing dope for them?’

‘Because they’re ruthless. Utterly ruthless. My guess is that Flynt could hold his own, with his guns and his military training, but once he was gone, the bikies sidelined Avery Foster and took over the operation. Any money the orphanage or anyone here was getting would have dried up pretty quickly.’

‘What a bunch of charmers. Sounds like they’re going to get what’s coming to them. Anything else?’

‘Yeah—here,’ says Goffing, pulling an envelope from a pocket and handing it over.

‘What’s this?’

‘It’s from your girlfriend. Mandy. Said your Herald colleague Bethanie rang, told her you needed to see it.’

‘Did you open it?’

‘Of course I did. I’m ASIO.’

Martin opens the envelope, extracts a single sheet of A4 paper. It’s a newspaper clipping. The headline reads: CONMAN GETS FIVE YEARS. He scans the lead paragraph.

The master forger behind one of Western Australia’s most brazen corporate frauds, Terrence Michael McGill, has been sentenced to five years prison with a three-year non-parole period…

Next to the copy is a small head-and-shoulders photograph of a man, his identity blurred by the low quality of the printout. But there’s a red circle drawn around it, together with a handwritten note: Harley Snouch, beyond doubt—Mandy.

‘Let’s pay him a visit,’ says Martin, feeling his emotions stir, a mixture of satisfaction and indignation and something altogether more volatile.