Scrublands(35)

‘Can’t stop you asking.’

‘You mentioned hunting. Did your husband and his friends ever go shooting in the Scrublands?’

‘Is that up near Riversend?’

‘That’s right. It’s bushland, mostly Crown land, just outside of town.’

‘Yes. That’s why he was up there: to go hunting. They’d been out on Saturday, were going again on Sunday. What he was doing at the church I have no idea. Wait here. There’s some mounted possums in the garage, they might be from up there.’

Martin is quickly on his feet. ‘No, Mrs Grosvenor, that’s not necessary. Please. I assure you. You’ve been too kind. But one last question. Was Reverend Byron Swift a member of the Bellington Anglers Club?’

‘I don’t think so. If he was, Horrie never mentioned his name.’



At the Sioux Falls Cafe, Martin sits directly under the air-conditioner and eats a hamburger with the lot and downs a six-hundred-millilitre carton of iced-coffee-flavoured milk, and feels much the better for it. The last vestiges of nausea surrender, overwhelmed by superior force. He wipes grease from his chin, turns on his laptop and opens the files containing the newspaper clippings. He finds Defoe’s award-winning piece and quickly scans it. The relevant section is not hard to find: It’s understood the five victims knew each other. In all likelihood, one or more of them had learnt of Byron Swift’s perversions; police believe this may have led to their deaths. One theory is that Swift shot them to silence them.

So Defoe had made the connection; he just didn’t dwell upon how the men knew each other or how they came to be at the church. Fair enough; the article was about the priest, not his victims. Martin had overlooked the reference as he skimmed through the clippings on the plane trip to Wagga, back when his assignment was all about the present, not the past. He’s searching Defoe’s article for anything else he might have missed when his mobile rings. He unlocks it, smearing the screen in the process. It’s the local policeman, Sergeant Herb Walker. He tells Martin to come right over.

Harley Snouch had called Herb Walker ‘that fat fuck’. He’s right about one thing: the police sergeant is only slightly less corpulent than Mrs Grosvenor. Walker looks to be in his mid-fifties, a face of putty features sitting below a bouffant Elvis haircut turned snow white. He sits behind his desk, hands folded on his belly, nicotine-stained fingers entwined. From time to time he separates his hands and pats his gut appreciatively, giving him a self-satisfied air. As their conversation proceeds, Martin realises it’s something of a tell; Walker pats his belly with alternate hands when thinking, and with both hands when he’s pleased with himself or to emphasise a point. He’d want to be less obvious testifying in the witness box.

‘I’ve been expecting your call,’ he says to Martin. ‘Sooner or later you were bound to end up here.’ Double belly pat.

‘Well, I certainly owe you a debt of gratitude.’

‘How’s that?’

‘Constable Haus-Jones told me that it was you who encouraged him to talk to me. Thank you for that.’

‘You’re welcome. Was he of any use?’

‘Yes. He was most forthcoming. He has a very clear recollection of the day of the shooting.’

‘Burnt into his memory, I should imagine. And he spoke on the record?’

‘Yes. He was most helpful.’

‘He tell you Byron Swift’s last words?’

‘“Harley Snouch knows everything”? Yes, he did. What does it mean?’

‘Don’t know. Yet.’ Walker has a rather pained look on his face, as if something is bothering him. ‘He tell you about the woman hiding in the church, behind the door? The one who heard everything?’

‘No. Who is she? Can I talk to her?’

Walker shakes his head. ‘No. Sorry. She’ll testify at the inquest, but I can’t reveal her identity against her wishes. And don’t go asking around—she was visiting from interstate.’

‘Did she talk to Swift? Inside the church?’

‘No. She was just coming out of the toilet as the shooting started.’

‘So why tell me about her?’

‘You’re right. It’s not relevant.’ Walker lifts his hands from his belly and makes an apologetic gesture. ‘Let’s move on. I hope, like the constable, I too can be helpful. But you must understand that this conversation is totally off the record. No quotes, no references to police sources. Use the information as you see fit, but it absolutely cannot be traced back to me in any way, understood?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘Very good.’ Double belly pat.

‘Would you mind if I recorded the conversation, nevertheless, to ensure accuracy?’

‘Yes, I would mind. You may not record it. Unlike young Robbie Haus-Jones, I am actively involved in the investigation. I trust you to protect your sources; otherwise I wouldn’t be talking to you. But recordings go astray: they turn up in police searches, they find their way onto the internet. So no recording. Take notes, and if you need something clarified later, just ring me. Agreed?’

‘Agreed.’ Martin has sufficient faith in his notebook, pen and shorthand. ‘Shall we start?’

‘I thought we already had.’ Double belly pat.