Scrublands(65)

‘How do you mean?’ asks Martin.

‘Well, you know—five innocents dead, plus the priest. “Officer Haus-Jones, was there any warning, any way this could have been predicted or prevented?” “No, sir. Nothing. He lived in Bellington.” But then when those girls are hauled out of that dam at Snouch’s place, it’s time to fess up. “New information, sir. Hope it’s useful.” It’s what I’d do in his situation.’

Martin nods slowly. Codger Harris may look decrepit, but his brain cells are still firing. ‘So the police wanted to know about anyone coming out to your place shooting?’

‘Yeah, pretty much. Didn’t feel too comfortable dobbing on people, but as the cops said themselves, this is murder, not some speeding ticket.’

‘So, apart from the priest, who did go shooting in the Scrublands?’

‘Couldn’t say. It’s a huge area. The only ones for sure were Craig Landers and the Newkirks and their mates. They might come out once or twice a year.’

‘The Bellington Anglers Club?’

‘Is that what they called themselves? Yeah. But they were always well behaved. Always asked before they came on the property. Used to say cheerio when they were leaving, give me a rabbit or two, a couple of ducks one time.’

‘No one else?’

‘For sure there were others. You could hear the guns going off. Sometimes in the day, sometimes at night. But whoever it was, they didn’t come asking permission. Weird cunts, some of them, though.’

‘How’s that?’

‘Sometimes they’d shoot me cows, then butcher them. Drag their guts out, that sort of thing. After the choicest cuts, I’d reckon. Fucking waste, though. Whole cow for a kilo or two of steak.’

‘You sure that’s what they were doing?’

‘What else could it have been?’

‘I don’t know. Just for kicks. Possible, do you think?’

‘Jeez, young fella. You’d have to be pretty sick to do something like that.’

‘Well, you’d have to be pretty sick to kill a couple of pretty young backpackers and dump them in a farm dam.’

‘Yeah, well, ain’t that the truth. Sooner they lock up that bastard Snouch and chuck away the key, the better.’

‘You’re convinced it’s him?’

‘Yeah. Probably him killing me cows too. His family used to own all that land. Still thinks it’s his. It’d be just like the miserable shit to come killing my cows when he’s got plenty wandering around his own land.’

Martin drains the remnants of his beer, already grown tepid in the heat of the deck. ‘Where you staying, Codger? Not at the old pub, are you?’

‘Me? No. Wouldn’t mind, but the place is closed. Errol Ryding’s putting me up. Good man, Errol. I’ll get the bus down to Bellington tomorrow, see if I can buy a jalopy, then I can get back home.’

‘It’s just I thought I saw someone up on the pub verandah this morning. Thought it might have been you. I guess not. Might have been the owner, collecting some stuff.’

‘I think that’d be pretty unlikely, young fella.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘He’s dead. Topped himself. City bloke. Sank his pension into it. Did the place up, tried to make a go of a bistro. Anyway, his wife couldn’t stand it and went back to the city, then the drought really kicked in and the money dried up. Didn’t really know anyone, didn’t have anyone to talk to. Blew his brains out with a shotty. Happens more often than you’d think out here. Don’t know why I haven’t done it myself.’





MARTIN ENDS UP WRITING HIS STORY AT THE SERVICES CLUB. HE’S TRIED THE bookstore, but it’s shut, with the GON OUT, BACKSON sign hanging on the door. He guesses Mandy is with the cops, getting the third degree about Byron Swift and her diary. Pity. She might have been able to shed some more light on where the investigation is heading. Nevertheless, she’s most definitely going to be the top of the story; not much he can do about that.

A Sydney Morning Herald investigation has broken open the search for the vicious killers responsible for the brutal murder of German backpackers Heidi Schmeikle and Anna Brün, providing vital new information that has again shifted the focus of the police investigation.

The Herald has gathered evidence clearing the number-one police suspect, homicidal priest Byron Swift…

Before getting down to writing, Martin has relented, providing commentary for Doug Thunkleton and his rivals, all without revealing his new angle. Thankfully they’ve disappeared down to the resort in Bellington, leaving him to work in peace at the club. He extracts enough bandwidth from the recalcitrant wi-fi to file, then calls through first to Bethanie and then Max from the phone in the club foyer.

‘Yeah, okay, Martin, I’ve got it now. Looks good. Good stuff. Bethanie’s got a couple of minor additions, but it’s certainly a new angle.’

‘You don’t seem too enthused.’

‘To be honest, I’m not,’ says the editor.

‘You’re joking, right? The Herald out in front of the police? What could be better?’

‘You’re right. Sorry, champ. I’ve just been getting a lot of shit on this story. The editorial board have got their knickers in a knot. They’re demanding everything be legalled and fact-checked. They’re insisting on being kept in the loop.’