Scrublands(114)
And next to it, on the desk, is a second letter, on identical letterhead.
Dear Mr Snouch and Ms Blonde,
Thank you for availing yourselves of the services of Excelsior Genealogy. We are pleased to report that our technicians were able to extract robust samples of DNA from the two specimens provided and were able to make the comparison requested.
We can confirm, with a 99.8% degree of confidence, that Mr Harley Snouch is NOT the father of Ms Mandalay Blonde.
However, after further investigation, we can also confirm you are closely related. With a 98.5% degree of confidence, we can report Mr Snouch and Ms Blonde are half-brother and half-sister, sharing a common father and different mothers.
We trust this information is useful to you both. Please don’t hesitate to contact us if you require any further information or testing.
Yours sincerely,
Arthur Montgomery
Chief Analyst
Excelsior Genealogy
The letter is not yet signed. There is a blue fountain pen on the desk beside it. Snouch must have been preparing to deliver the coup de grace when they interrupted him.
The men read the forgery again, Martin trying to imagine the effect it would have had on Mandy.
Goffing speaks first. ‘Pretty impressive. But half-brother and half-sister?’
‘Yes. Perfect. Not only clears Snouch of raping the mother, Katherine, it frames his father, Eric. The father who, Mandy and I were informed just this morning, disinherited Snouch and bequeathed Springfields to Mandy. Reading this, Mandy would think old Eric was a bastard and most likely raped her mother. Sweet revenge for Harley; even as he shifts the blame, he creates a scapegoat. And Mandy would feel sorry for him, perhaps feel a sibling bond—maybe cut him a share of the inheritance. Like I said: perfect.’
Snouch groans. Martin moves back towards the door, rips a bottle of mineral water from the cling wrap, returns, and empties it over the forger’s head. It has the desired effect: Snouch groans again, coughs and opens his eyes.
Martin crouches down, his face just inches away from Snouch’s. He waits until he’s sure Snouch is fully conscious, fully aware that he’s tied up and at their mercy. Martin holds the forged letter where Snouch can see it. ‘I have your handiwork, Harley, which I’m going to show to Mandy. I have your DNA sample, which we are going to test. For real. And I have news: your father’s lawyers—Wright, Douglas and Fenning—have confirmed Mandy is the sole heir to Springfields and all that goes with it.’ He can see the comprehension in the conman’s eyes, the bitterness and rising bile. ‘I’m going to tell the police where to find you. They’ll want you to testify against the Reapers and their drug operation. Unless the Reapers find you first. Sounds like fun. My advice? Fuck off while you still can and never come back.’
‘Should we untie him?’ asks Goffing.
‘Fuck that,’ says Codger Harris. ‘Let the coppers have him.’
THE THREE MEN DRIVE IN SILENCE, LOST IN THOUGHT, NOT EXHILARATED BY the unravelling of Harley Snouch, but turned reflective by his demise. Behind the wheel, Martin ponders the prodigal son despoiling his own heritage. He imagines Snouch enduring prison in Perth, dreaming of better days ahead, being released, shedding his assumed identity, learning of his father’s death, anticipating his inheritance—only to receive nothing; the lawyers at Wright, Douglas and Fenning tight-lipped and duty-bound, telling him he’d been disowned and nothing more. He’d been let go, set adrift, no longer his father’s son. Winifred Barbicombe had known of the conviction in Perth; the will had been redrawn shortly before Eric Snouch’s death. Perhaps the jail sentence for fraud had been the last straw.
And so Harley Snouch had left prison with nothing. He returned to Springfields, only to find his erstwhile birthright deserted and vandalised, left open to the elements, his neighbours pilfering water. And so he squatted, lost for a time in despair and self-pity, drinking too much and growing increasingly embittered. In truth, a derelict. And yet he must have retained some hope, some ambition. He closed the doors, cleaned the house, stopped his neighbours siphoning water. And then they came to him, the priest and the publican, offering money for water. The money was welcome: money to live and money to restore the house. And something else; the implicit acknowledgement of title, that possession equalled ownership. They gave him money because they believed the water was his. It was the acknowledgement he needed. Gradually the derelict became more of an act and less of a reality.
Martin is aware this is nothing more than speculation; he can never know the inner workings of Snouch’s mind. But that makes it all the more fascinating. He wonders what Snouch felt when he first saw Katherine again after all those years. Remorse? Hope? Love? Or something altogether more calculating? And then one day, peering out from the wine saloon, Harley Snouch saw the daughter, his daughter, Mandalay Blonde, a woman now, back to care for her dying mother. Did he somehow learn the truth of his father’s will or was he simply smart enough to work it out? The money from the dope was useful, but nothing compared with the accumulated wealth of the Snouch dynasty.
And so the plan evolved, following the death of Katherine Blonde. Everyone who had known the truth, everyone who had lived through the events three decades before, was dead: Eric Snouch, Katherine Blonde, Herb Walker’s predecessor. He’d outlived them all; he alone knew the truth. And from that seed grew his audacious plan. He spent his marijuana money on repairing Springfields, a gift to Mandy, a symbol of his devotion, even as he schemed to win it back. But she rejected him, repelled him, resolutely taking the side of her mother. And worse was to follow: the priest made his move on her, with his good looks and callous charms. Snouch watched it unfold: Mandy falling for Byron Swift, confiding in him, alerting him. Snouch needed Swift gone, and so he spied, learning his secrets, seeking out leverage, looking for a weakness—and finding it.