Scrublands(119)

‘Okay. The raids are going well. We’ve got just about everyone we want and the evidence already looks compelling, but I need to tie up loose ends here. So, Martin, I need to know everything you know. Dick me around, and you won’t believe how much shit I can drop you in. Help me, though, and I’ll help you.’

‘How can you help me?’ asks Martin, trying not to sound intimidated.

‘I have the telephone intercepts from the church—on the day of the shooting.’

‘You have recordings?’ Martin doesn’t hesitate. ‘What do you want to know?’

‘The dope operation. The shed out in the bush there. Tell me all you know.’

‘I thought Jason Moore was helping with inquiries?’

Vandenbruk pauses; he appears to be counting to ten. ‘Right. Listen carefully. Jason Moore is a protected witness. He’s going to put a lot of very nasty people behind bars. So you must never, not in this world and not in the next, mention his name. Never. Not to anyone. Not in print, not at the pub, not to the love of your life. He’s a no-go zone, okay?’ He pauses for effect before continuing. ‘But I do need to corroborate what he’s been telling us, so talk.’

‘Okay, here’s how I see it,’ says Martin. ‘Jason was growing a few plants. Most people living out there in the scrub do. Then the drought came, there was less water, less money. So he started stealing water. There’s a big old homestead out there called Springfields—at least there was until the bushfire last week. It has a dam, spring-fed. Doesn’t run dry, even in a drought as bad as this. Jason was stealing water from it for his plants. It’s the same dam where the bodies of the backpackers were found, but that’s coincidental. You following?’

Vandenbruk nods.

‘Good. So back to Jason. A few years ago, the owner of Springfields, a man called Eric Snouch, died and the place became vacant. His son Harley was in prison in Western Australia under a false name, Terrence Michael McGill, so the place was empty and there was an opportunity to steal even more water. With impunity. Open slather.’

Vandenbruk has his hand up, signalling Martin to stop. ‘Is this true?’ he asks Goffing. ‘In prison under a false name?’

Goffing nods. ‘Yep.’

‘What a bunch of plods,’ says Vandenbruk, shaking his head. ‘Okay, go on.’

‘My impression is that it was still a pretty small-time operation. Then Byron Swift turned up, and he and the publican, a bloke called Avery Foster, bankrolled a big shed with a hydroponic operation and started supplying the Reapers. Jason was getting some money and, once he showed up, so was Harley Snouch, who claimed he was the owner of Springfields. But most of the profits were being sent offshore, to an orphanage in Afghanistan.’

Vandenbruk, who has been nodding, ticking off a mental checklist, looks to Goffing again. ‘Jack? Is this right?’

‘Yeah. Remember? I told you on the drive from Bellington. Swift was an alias. His real name was Julian Flynt, a wanted war criminal. From what Martin and I have uncovered, Flynt knew Foster from Afghanistan. They were sending money to the orphanage.’

‘How do you know this?’

‘We found evidence in Foster’s flat. Upstairs in the pub.’

‘Upstairs? Where the fire was?’

‘That’s right. We were there the night before last.’

‘Fuck. Really?’ It takes Vandenbruk a moment to consider the implications of that, a moment more for the penny to drop. ‘Did either of you tell Haus-Jones about the flat?’

Martin hesitates, but Goffing has no such qualms. ‘Yeah, he knew.’

To Martin, it’s like watching a fuse burn down. He looks on as Vandenbruk fights for control, his face swelling red with anger, before he rises to his feet, pacing, detonation imminent, starting to vocalise, filling the air with expletives. And abruptly lashing out: the explosion, a single punch, driving his fist through the Black Dog’s thin plasterboard wall, driving it through up to his elbow. ‘Fuck,’ he says a final time, investing the word with all his pent-up venom and fury. Martin and Jack exchange a glance. Vandenbruk withdraws his arm, brushing off white flakes of plaster, then turns to them, his temper coming back under control. ‘Did you find any evidence in the flat that Haus-Jones was involved with the drug op?’

‘No,’ says Goffing. ‘None.’

Vandenbruk nurses his hand, takes a deep breath. ‘My men risked their lives getting him out.’ He reflects on this, his fury slowly subsiding. Eventually he calms down enough to resume his seat, giving his head one last shake, more from sorrow than anger. ‘You think he was trying to suicide? Take the evidence with him?’

The thought hadn’t occurred to Martin. He exchanges another look with Goffing. ‘Sorry. No idea.’

‘Okay. Go on then, Martin. You were talking about the drug operation.’

‘Sure. It seems everything was travelling along smoothly until this time last year. Then Swift shot five people dead and got killed by Robbie Haus-Jones. Swift, or should I say Flynt, was former special forces and not easily intimidated. But once he’d gone, the Reapers saw an opportunity and moved in, squeezing out Avery Foster. He was still getting some money but probably not all that much; the Reapers were taking the lion’s share.’

‘Okay, you two saw Foster’s flat. Jack, was there any evidence he was planning to kill himself?’