Scrublands(50)

Luke is looking down at the stick, twirling it absent-mindedly in his hands. He doesn’t seem at all upset; maybe replaying the scene constantly in his mind has normalised it.

‘What about the other people who were there?’

‘They ran away. Some hid behind cars, some ran up over the bank and down to the riverbed. There was no one left, just Byron, with the constable getting closer.’

‘Did you see what happened when Constable Haus-Jones confronted Byron?’

‘Yeah, they talked for a bit. Constable Haus-Jones was pointing his pistol at Byron. I thought Byron was going to surrender. But he didn’t. He lifted the gun, pointed it at Constable Haus-Jones and fired. And then Constable Haus-Jones shot him. Four times. Pap, pap. Pap, pap. Byron fell down, dropped the gun. Constable Haus-Jones walked over, moved the gun away with his foot. Then he carefully put his gun down. Then he sat with Byron. He was crying.’

‘Jeez, you poor kid.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Luke, you say they talked for a bit before he was shot. You didn’t hear what they said?’

‘No.’

‘How long did they talk for?’

‘Not long. I don’t know. A minute maybe, something like that.’

‘And when the priest lifted his gun, did he do it quickly?’

‘No. He did it really slowly. Constable Haus-Jones wasn’t caught by surprise.’

‘What do you think of the constable now?’

‘I feel sorry for him. He didn’t have any choice.’

There’s a pause, Martin imagining the scene, Luke reliving it.

‘Do you have any idea why he did it—why Byron Swift shot those men?’

‘No. I think of it every day. I don’t know.’

They sit side by side, the newsman and the boy, lost in thought. Again, it is Martin who breaks the silence. ‘Luke, I owe you an apology. For the other day, when I first met you outside the church. I didn’t mean to upset you.’

Luke nods, saying nothing.

‘The police still believe the allegations made against him, you know.’

‘Does Constable Haus-Jones?’

‘No. But two boys told the police it was true.’

‘It’s not true, Mr Scarsden. It’s not. He never touched me and he never touched anyone else.’



The journalists, cameramen and photographers, having swarmed locust-like from the church to the Oasis, have now moved en masse to the services club. They’re in the main bar area, drinking Coca-Cola, eating takeaway from Saigon Asian and working away on laptops. Over to one side, by the windows looking out over a steel-form deck and the dry riverbed, sit a group of police officers. Robbie Haus-Jones isn’t there, but Herb Walker is, hoeing into a steak and beer, plus a couple of other men, all too easily recognisable as cops in their bad suits or chinos and polo shirts. Homicide detectives.

Carrie detaches herself from a gaggle of reporters and comes over to him.

‘Glad you turned up,’ says the photographer. ‘I’ve been looking for you. You hear about the doorstop? The cops are speaking out the front at one.’

‘Thanks. I didn’t know. Want a drink?’

‘No, I’m right. I’ve got one.’ And she returns to her friends.

Martin checks the time. Twelve forty-five. Bugger. Not enough time to eat, so he walks to the bar, fills a glass of water from the jug sitting there, downs it and fills another, before moving along to order a drink. Errol is manning the bar. He gets Martin a light beer and a packet of chips, taking Martin’s money and shaking his head. ‘I don’t know what we ever did to deserve this.’ Martin assumes he means the murders, not the media.

The police hold their press conference in the shade of a large gum tree. The senior man, wearing a suit, identifies himself as Detective Inspector Morris Montifore from Sydney homicide, spelling his name for the reporters and introducing his colleague Detective Sergeant Ivan Lucic and Sergeant Herbert Walker of the Bellington police. There’s a young female constable with a voice recorder, but she doesn’t rate a mention. Martin looks about and finds the ASIO officer from the motel car park lurking behind the media, smoking a cigarette. The man winks at Martin and, smirking, mouths: ‘Top story.’

Detective Montifore begins. ‘We can confirm that two sets of human remains, deceased remains, have been discovered in a farm dam on a property approximately twelve kilometres north-west of Riversend. The property has been designated a crime scene and media are requested not to attempt to access the property at this time. A preliminary search has found no evidence of additional bodies, but that will need to be confirmed by a more extensive and systematic search. I repeat, there is no evidence that there are more bodies out there, contrary to speculation in some sections of the media. The bodies are badly decomposed and we believe they have been there for some time. We are unable to make any positive identification as yet and identification of the deceased may take some days, even weeks. Police are taking this investigation very seriously, but at this early stage we are still collecting evidence at the scene. However, we have already established a number of leads and will be pursuing them vigorously. Questions?’

Doug Thunkleton’s booming voice crashes through, drowning out the lesser inquiries of his rivals. ‘You describe the property as a crime scene. What makes you certain there is not an innocent explanation for the bodies being there, like a drowning or Aboriginal remains?’