Scrublands(53)

But Defoe has always been a good reporter. Martin can’t believe he would willingly bury Walker’s allegation of powerful people protecting Swift. More likely he’d held off on writing it, searching out confirmation from his high-level contacts in state parliament. That’s another of their differences: D’Arcy is adept at playing the long game, storing away facts, leads and contacts only to bring them together weeks or months later in a big reveal. Martin is more like a bull at a gate, anxious to publish and move on to the next story. Perhaps Defoe has never been able to stand the allegations up? Or perhaps he will, now that the story is current once again. Perhaps he’s already deploying his company credit card at Sydney’s better restaurants, garnering information, preparing a splash to overshadow Martin’s anniversary profile on Riversend. Martin wouldn’t put it past him.

The bookstore is open but empty. Martin walks up the aisle and pushes the swing door open. He sticks his head through. ‘Hello?’ he yells.

‘Down here.’ It’s Mandy.

He finds her in the bathroom off the kitchen, giving her boy a bath. ‘Hi there,’ he says.

‘Hi.’

‘All right if I work out of your office again? The police gave a doorstop; I need to file.’

She takes a breath before answering. ‘Sure. If you have to.’ Permission granted, but her voice is grudging.

‘Thanks, Mandy. We’ll catch up later, okay?’

‘Maybe not. Not tonight, Martin.’ She is kneeling beside the bath, her back to him, hands supporting the boy.

‘You okay?’

‘Sure. Why wouldn’t I be? But I’ve had a long day. I’m zonked.’

‘Anything I can do?’

‘Tell the truth.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘Byron. He didn’t kill those girls.’

‘You can’t be sure of that.’

‘You can’t be sure he did.’

Martin doesn’t know what to say. He can hear an edge to her voice, an edge of controlled anger. ‘Maybe I should work from the motel.’

‘Yeah. Maybe you should.’





MARTIN SCARSDEN IS FEELING DECIDEDLY UNSETTLED AS HE WALKS DOWN HAY Road through the Sunday morning quiet. He heads towards the general store, past the soldier standing vigil outside the empty Commercial Hotel. He feels none of the exuberance or confidence of the previous morning, when the story seemed so obvious and his perspective so clear. He doesn’t walk down the centre of the street; instead he hugs the shade of the shop awnings, haunted by doubts. Two backpackers are dead, dead a full year, found by Harley Snouch in his farm dam. The town priest, Byron Swift, and his five victims are also dead, dead and buried twelve months ago. But the rest is elusive. No one can definitively say why Swift shot Craig Landers and his mates in the Bellington Anglers Club, no one knows who killed the German backpackers or why, and no one knows if there is a connection between the two killings. Eight people shot dead and no answers. Or if there are answers, he doesn’t know what they are, despite his front-page splashes. Maybe, instead of trying to figure it out by himself, he should be concentrating on those who know more than he does.

He’s aware he’s been lucky with Robbie Haus-Jones and Herb Walker; both have entrusted him with information they shouldn’t be sharing with a journalist. Martin considers this. In Robbie’s case, they’ve formed a bond, first through Martin saving the life of Jamie Landers and then through surviving the firestorm at Springfields together. But possibly through something else. Robbie was friends with Byron Swift and must still be coming to terms with shooting him dead on the church steps, while trying to work out in his own mind why his friend turned homicidal. And just a few weeks ago, Herb Walker had shared his suspicion that Swift was an imposter. Walker said that had rattled the constable.

Who does Robbie confide in? From whom does he draw solace and support? Not from Walker, that much seems clear. How does he bear up, all alone in this town, carrying that weight? As far as Martin knows, he has no partner, no family, no close friends. A real loner. Perhaps Robbie recognises in Martin a kindred spirit. Or maybe he hopes Martin can discover Swift’s motivation and determine his real identity. Martin wonders what the constable will make of this morning’s papers and his feature on the priest with no past.

Martin gets to the general store, but it’s not yet open, despite it being well past nine o’clock. Martin checks the opening hours: 8 am Monday to Saturday, 9.30 am Sunday. Fair enough. He sits on a bench in the shade and waits.

Herb Walker’s motivation seems easier to divine. A year ago he was master of all he surveyed, a big fish in a small pond. But then bigger fish from bigger ponds interfered with his investigation into allegations of child abuse against Byron Swift. And after the massacre at St James, he was relegated to being an adjunct to the investigation. So he spoke to D’Arcy Defoe, making sure the child abuse allegations were ventilated in public. Good for him. He didn’t stop there, either; he started digging into Swift’s past, eventually discovering he wasn’t the real Byron Swift, only to hit a brick wall when he suggested the priest be exhumed. And now something similar is happening. Walker can hardly complain about the Sydney homicide detectives; he is, after all, a country cop. But the presence of the ASIO agent, Jack Goffing, must leave him feeling out of the loop, especially if Goffing isn’t telling Walker why he’s here, sniffing around his patch. Walker is protective of his fiefdom. It explains why he wants to talk to Martin.