Scrublands(52)

‘Maybe. What about the suggestion that he was being protected by someone, that attempts to investigate him by police before the shooting were thwarted?’

‘Excellent. Right on the money. That’s what that spineless cunt Defoe should have written in the first place. Stir the possum. But for Christ’s sake leave me out of it, Martin. Nothing that can be traced back to me, okay?’

‘Absolutely. But there is one thing that intrigues me, something you might be able to help me with.’

‘What’s that?’

‘The day of the shooting. I’ve spoken to people who say Swift was acting normal that morning at church, that he was outside chatting to people like nothing was the matter. Then he went inside for ten minutes or so and came out a different man, shooting people. It makes no sense.’

‘You’re telling me. Crazy fucker. Nothing about that morning makes sense.’

‘Yeah, but what happened to him in those ten minutes? As far as I can make out he was alone in the church.’

‘So? What are you driving at?’

‘I’m guessing that he rang someone, and that’s what triggered the shooting. Is that something that was followed up in the investigation?’

‘I’d be surprised if it wasn’t. In one sense it was an open-and-shut case—he shot five people in broad daylight in front of witnesses and then young Robbie shot him dead—so there wasn’t that much to investigate. On the other hand, we all wanted to know why he did it. And there was massive public interest, plus pressure coming down from the pollies making sure their arses were covered. I’ll tell you what I’ll do, I’ll see if I can find out. Montifore has all the files with him.’

‘Why? Does he think there’s a link with the bodies in the dam?’

‘Yeah. We all do. Or we suspect it. Or at the very least we’d be stupid to discount it. Those girls disappeared just a few days before the shooting and wound up dead in a dam just outside Riversend. Might be a coincidence, but you’d be mad not to investigate possible links.’

‘So it’s definitely the German backpackers?’

‘Yeah, not much doubt. The bodies aren’t much more than skeletons, but we found bits of clothing, some of their belongings. They have to go through formal identification, dental and DNA and all that shit, as well as doing the right thing by the relatives, but everyone knows it’s them.’

‘How did they die?’

‘Shot through the head. We’ll trawl the dam for bullets. If we can link them to Swift’s guns, or to Snouch’s, that’ll be game over.’

‘Right. But apart from the timing—the week before Swift went postal—and the location—close by Riversend—there is nothing substantial or conclusive linking Swift with the backpacker murders?’

‘Well, nothing conclusive, that’s for sure. But there is some new information.’

‘Can you share it with me?’

‘Let me have a think.’ Walker draws on his cigarette, examines it, takes another long toke, then stubs it out on the outside of the door and drops the butt into the laneway. He issues one last stream of smoke through the window and then closes it. ‘All right, you can write it, but pretend you discovered it all by yourself. No citing police sources or any of that shit. There’s an old coot lives out there who reckons that Swift used to go out shooting in the Scrublands, rabbits and stuff, not that far from where the bodies were dumped. His name is William Harris. People call him Codger.’

‘And that’s new information?’

‘Yeah.’

‘How come that wasn’t discovered after the church shooting?’

‘Good question. As I told you, there were people protecting Swift while he was alive—and who wanted to protect him after he was dead. Anyway, I gotta get going. Where can I drop you?’

‘At the bookstore. The Oasis. You know it?’

‘Sure. What’s happening there?’

‘Good coffee.’

‘Right. And that hornbag single mum, hey? Wouldn’t mind a bit of that myself.’

Martin doesn’t respond, and a moment later Herb Walker drops him right outside. ‘Good on ya, Martin. I’ll see about those phone calls. Just remember, leave me out of it. Give me a ring if you need anything.’

‘Absolutely. And, Herb, thanks for your help. I really appreciate it.’

‘No sweat, mate. Stir that possum hard.’

Martin jumps out of the four-wheel drive and watches Walker head off towards the highway and Bellington. He turns and mounts the footpath outside the bookstore, wondering how Codger Harris’s information has only now reached the investigating officers and why Robbie Haus-Jones had withheld it. Was he part of the conspiracy Walker was alleging, to protect Byron Swift and cover his tracks?

Martin wonders about D’Arcy Defoe. The two have been rivals ever since joining the Herald as cadets together. They’re like oil and water: D’Arcy in his tailored suits, Martin in his jeans; D’Arcy indulging in fine dining and finer wines on his expenses while Martin lives on takeaways; D’Arcy cultivating the top end of town and currying favour with management, Martin doing his best to ignore them. Their relationship is competitive, respectful and superficially friendly, and has remained so, even as their contemporaries have fallen away onto the editorial backbench or been lured away by the money and family-friendly hours of public relations. They rose through the ranks together: Defoe the wordsmith and Scarsden the newshound. There was an evening drinking wine in London when Defoe had declared there are two types of correspondents: ‘frontline correspondents and chateau correspondents’. He didn’t need to spell out how he saw their respective roles.