Scrublands(51)

‘Yes. We have definitive reasons to believe there has been foul play. I can’t go into the details, but there is sufficient evidence to believe we are looking at homicide. Additionally, the remains are not from the distant past. Some articles of clothing, or remnants of clothing and personal effects, have been found. We are using these articles of clothing to help with identification but, as I said, that may take some time.’

Another voice, one of Doug’s blonde rivals. ‘Who discovered the bodies?’

‘The owner of the property. His house and some other buildings were destroyed in a bushfire earlier this week. He was surveying the damage when he made the discovery. Newspaper reports that the remains were found by alternative individuals are not accurate.’

There’s a small, smug chuckle from behind Martin.

‘Is the property owner under arrest?’

‘No.’

‘Is he a suspect?’

‘No. He is helping with inquiries, but no more than that. Again, media speculation that he is implicated in the killings has no basis in fact and is not sourced from the police.’

Another chuckle.

Doug Thunkleton again: ‘Detective, there is also newspaper speculation linking Reverend Byron Swift to these latest murders. Is there any evidence to support that speculation?’

‘Not at this stage. Thank you for that question. There is no substantive evidence to link him to these crimes. We’d be interested to hear from anyone with any evidence that does link the two tragedies.’

Another chuckle. Martin can feel his hackles rising, even as his colleagues continue to fire questions.

‘Have the bodies been in the dam for more than a year?’ ‘We can’t be sure, but that’s possible.’

‘Is it possible the bodies are those of the two German backpackers abducted in Swan Hill a year or so ago, as also mentioned in newspaper reports?’

‘It’s possible, but no more than that.’

Another chuckle.

Martin has had enough. ‘Detective Inspector, why aren’t the police capable of investigating this crime independently?’

‘I don’t follow your question. The police are confident we can move quickly to achieve a resolution of the investigation.’

‘Then why is ASIO involved, and what is the nature of their involvement?’

This time there is no chuckle.

The detective is caught off guard. ‘Um, yes. I’m not authorised…I’m not sure of the relevance…Ah, yes: I’m here to answer questions on behalf of the New South Wales Police Force. Nothing more.’

It’s Martin’s turn to chuckle. He looks behind him, but the intelligence officer is nowhere to be seen. A half-finished cigarette lies smouldering on the lawn.



‘That was fucking terrific!’ enthuses Sergeant Herb Walker. ‘You shoulda seen the look on his face when you dropped him in it. Dumped his fag and scarpered.’ He laughs at the memory, slapping his belly for emphasis. ‘Total fire ban. Could’ve busted him then and there.’ The Bellington sergeant has given Martin a lift after spotting him walking away from the services club.

Martin smiles. ‘So he is ASIO?’

‘Too right he is, superior cunt.’

‘What’s his name?’

‘Goffing. Jack Goffing.’

‘What’s he doing here?’

‘Fucked if I know. As far as I can see, he’s not doing anything. Just sits in on interviews, monitors what we’re doing, doesn’t add anything or make suggestions. Just sits there like he’s marking us. Montifore must know more, but he’s not telling me.’ Walker turns his four-wheel drive into the lane behind the Commercial Hotel and parks halfway along, away from prying eyes. He fishes a packet of cigarettes out of his top pocket and lights up. He leaves the engine going, air-conditioning pulsing, even as he opens his window and blows a stream of smoke out into the heat.

Martin is feeling lucky. Walker is in an expansive mood and obviously delighted Martin has blown the whistle on the ASIO agent. Martin waits until the policeman has taken another long drag on his cigarette before continuing. ‘So what’s the story with Harley Snouch? Are you going to charge him?’

‘Not yet, but he’s still in the frame. Lucic wanted to throw him in the can and sweat him but Montifore wants to give him enough rope to hang himself. “Slowly, slowly, catchy monkey.”’

‘What do you reckon?’

‘Me? I’d be very fucking surprised if he wasn’t implicated in one way or another. Don’t quote me on any of this, by the way.’

‘Of course not.’

‘What’s your angle for tomorrow, Martin? Got anything new?’

‘We’ll have all the routine stuff from the press conference et cetera, but I’m also doing a feature on Byron Swift and his shadowy past. Whether that was his real name or not.’

‘Really?’ says Walker. ‘This day just gets better and better. What have you got?’

‘Most of it’s from you, Herb, to be honest. What you told me the other day. How he has no history in the church, suspicions he was a former soldier, the inscription on his gravestone, the suggestion that the real Byron Swift died in Cambodia of a smack overdose. Am I good to go with that?’

Walker takes a long toke of his cigarette as he considers. ‘Sure. Just make sure you leave me out of it. Throw in a red herring or two if you can. Cite an ASIO source—that’d put the cat among the pigeons.’