Scrublands(118)

A moment later he’s back. ‘Thought you might want to see these. Late editions.’ He hands Martin the latest Melbourne newspapers, The Age and the Herald Sun. The front page of The Age is given over entirely to another of Carrie O’Brien’s photographs, taken as Vandenbruk’s officers helped Robbie Haus-Jones from the inferno of the Commercial Hotel. The men are in silhouette, rimmed by fire, the flames brought closer by the length of the lens. There is something vaguely Christ-like in the posture of Robbie, his arms draped across the shoulders of his rescuers, his legs buckling beneath him. The headline is emblazoned onto the photo: DEATH TOWN HERO SAVED, with only enough room for the first few paragraphs of D’Arcy’s story.

The hero of Riversend, Constable Robert Haus-Jones, has been saved from a fiery death as yet another remarkable day of high drama unfolded in the embattled Riverina town.

The young police officer, who saved countless lives when he shot dead homicidal priest Byron Swift close to a year ago, again put his life on the line, rushing into the town’s burning hotel to ensure no one was trapped inside.

Haus-Jones was saved by fellow officers after he became disorientated and affected by smoke as the fire tore through the century-old landmark.

The dramatic rescue came just 24 hours after Robert Haus-Jones saved the life of a young child moments before alleged backpacker murderer James Arnold Landers allegedly attempted to butcher the boy.

The fire, believed to have been caused either by an electrical fault or deliberately set by vandals, moved through the structure at astonishing speed, trapping Haus-Jones.

The story continues inside but Martin doesn’t bother turning the page. D’Arcy would have been racing against time to get the story to print, only just making the late edition. But that doesn’t save it from being wrong: there was no one in the Commercial Hotel; there was no one to save. Just a fire, upstairs, engulfing the apartment of Avery Foster. Not caused by an electrical fault, not when the power was disconnected months ago; not caused by vandals, not with Allen Newkirk dead, Jamie Landers in custody and the place wrapped in crime scene tape.

Martin remembers Robbie’s face; he remembers his hands. And he remembers telling the young policeman about the undisturbed flat. What had Robbie imagined up until that point? That Foster’s widow had cleared out all the records? Not an unreasonable assumption if she had known what her former husband was up to. Not an unreasonable assumption if Robbie Haus-Jones had known what her former husband was up to. If he had known…

Fuck. Robbie. What an idiot.



Back at the Black Dog, Jack Goffing is sitting outside his room, smoking a cigarette. They nod to each other, but don’t speak. Martin hands Goffing the papers, eliciting a wry grin.

‘So he’s a hero, is he?’

‘Apparently.’

‘You told him about what we found?’

‘Enough. Yesterday, after I talked with Jamie Landers.’

‘You going to publish the truth?’

‘You think I should? There’s a bloke wants me to write a book. Offering hard cash and easy redemption.’

‘Sounds promising.’

‘Yes. I’m filled with enthusiasm.’

Goffing smiles at the ironic turn of phrase. Martin offers him tea, makes them a cup each in his room and brings them outside.

‘So where is he?’ Martin asks. ‘Robbie?’

‘Down in Melbourne. Burns like that need specialist care.’

‘Will they charge him?’

Goffing shrugs. ‘Montifore’s gone, taken Landers back to Sydney. Homicide have their man; they won’t give a shit about Robbie. And the brass like the idea of having a hero. They don’t have that many.’

‘What about Vandenbruk?’

‘That’s a different story. He probably hasn’t worked it out yet, but he will. If Robbie knew about the drugs, if he was taking backhanders, if he didn’t tell Herb Walker what he knew, then Vandenbruk will crucify him. You can ask Vandenbruk yourself. He’s down at the cop shop but he’ll be back in a moment. He wants you in the loop.’

‘Me? Why?’

‘They’re raiding the Reapers. Started before dawn. Here, there, everywhere. Adelaide, Melbourne, Canberra. Half the towns in between. They’re wrapping it up, pulling in the Mr Bigs. Robbie’s heroics will be washed away by lunchtime. The media’s been tipped off; they’re all over it.’

‘So why does he want to talk to us?’

‘Not sure. It’s not his show. He’s senior, but not in charge. I think he wants to know why Walker died.’

‘He’s blaming himself?’

‘I would, if I were him.’

Martin sits next to Goffing, sipping his tea and looking up at the sky. He knows that somewhere in the world there must be clouds; there have to be. Somewhere it is raining; somewhere it is pelting down. There will be floods and landslides and hurricanes and monsoons. Somewhere. More water than you can imagine, more water than you could ever want. Somewhere, but not here. Here there are no clouds and no rain. The drought can’t last forever; he knows it, everyone knows it. It’s just become hard to believe.

Claus Vandenbruk arrives, ushering them into Goffing’s room, bringing his surly manner with him, shutting it in with them when he closes the door. Martin finds it hard to imagine Vandenbruk and Walker were ever best mates: Walker was always laughing, patting his belly with satisfaction; the ACIC investigator is a man without a smile, a hair’s breadth from rage.