Scrublands(73)

And yet if she takes the test and it confirms that Snouch is on the level, then what? Her mother will be irretrievably diminished in her eyes, the foundation stone of her life removed. What was it Mandy had said? That Byron Swift and her mother were the only two decent people she had ever known. Swift had revealed himself to be a homicidal psychopath and now here was Martin Scarsden, come to inform her that her mother was a pathological liar, a woman who had not only constructed a fantasy to protect her own reputation, but had destroyed the life of a man she had professed to love in the process. Could he do that? Walk into her bookstore, that shrine to Katherine Blonde, and bring it all crashing down around her?

He looks at his hands, his insipid and useless hands. He doesn’t know what to do.

Unable to sit any longer, unable to tolerate his own company any longer, he leaves the park and starts walking. But his thoughts come with him. Maybe he would be doing her a favour. Snouch would be gone, the myth of her mother gone with him. It would hurt her initially, no doubt about that, but it might also free her: from the past and from any obligations to Riversend. She could take Liam and start again somewhere. After all, she’s only twenty-nine. She wouldn’t need him, wouldn’t want him—Snouch’s accomplice, a forty-year-old hack, a middle-aged loser with a fading career. But if he’s to be brutally honest, that probably wouldn’t be such a bad thing for her either.

It seems like a very long time since he was her age. What was he like at twenty-nine? Cocksure, bullet-proof, a handsome heartbreaker. Already a senior correspondent, Max’s go-to person for trouble spots, parachuting in, seducing the local women, writing the yarn, returning to the office like a conquering hero. Living the life, living the dream, contemptuous of those pursuing more mundane careers, leading more conventional lives. He’d been arrogant, no doubt about it, not caring tuppence for the opinions of colleagues, the plodders and the office schemers. Maybe now they’re exacting their revenge.

He recalls one lad, his contemporary at school, a bright bloke called Scotty with a mop of blond hair and a ready smile. Scotty was intent on dentistry, like his father, explaining how it offered money, plenty of money, and security. Martin recalls his disdain, bordering on pity. But now, approaching forty-one, he wonders about Scotty, where he might be now. He knows the answer: a large home in a leafy suburb, a beautiful wife, two kids going to private schools. There’d be a beach house, skiing holidays, a sizeable share portfolio and, already, planning for retirement. Martin considers Mandy: so young, so beautiful, so vulnerable. What had he been thinking, to sleep with her? He knows he’ll be leaving again, leaving her, as he always does. Max’s parachute journo, on his last mission, in and out, like a commando. What an arsehole.

He makes a decision. He needs to leave; to get his stuff and check out of the Black Dog. He doesn’t want to be here when Defoe arrives. But he also needs to say farewell to Mandy. He can’t just slink out of town like a thief in the night. What does he say? Sorry to be such a predictable middle-aged lech, but thanks for the sex? Or: You’re starting to mean a lot to me, come to Sydney, let me take you and Liam away from all this. I’m not Scotty, but I’ve got a one-room apartment in Surry Hills. Christ, what does he say? What does he say about Harley Snouch?

He’s walking along the highway, still wondering what he should do, how he should approach Mandy, when Robbie Haus-Jones pulls up, not bothering with a reverse park but simply swinging the police car in parallel with the kerb, leaving the engine running as he leans out the window. There is an urgency and seriousness to his baritone. ‘Martin. Glad I found you.’

‘What’s up, Robbie?’

‘It’s Herb Walker. He’s killed himself.’

Martin says nothing, just stares with his mouth open.

‘In the river, outside Bellington. Drowned himself.’

‘Suicide? Are you sure?’

‘There’s a note. I’m heading down now.’

‘Can I come?’

‘No, Martin. There’s no way you want to be anywhere near this.’

‘What? Why not?’

‘The note more or less blames you. Your story that he received a tip-off about the bodies in the dam but didn’t investigate. He says he always did his duty.’

Martin just stares at Robbie. Walker dead. Suicide. Blaming him. Christ. And he thought the day couldn’t get any worse. It’s not even 9.30 am.

‘I’ve got to go, Martin, but if I were you, I’d be making myself scarce. No one is going to want to know you after this.’

Martin is still staring as Robbie puts the police car in gear and heads off towards Bellington.



Back inside his room at the Black Dog, Martin rings Bethanie Glass in Sydney. She answers her phone with a cheerful: ‘Bethanie.’ She doesn’t know.

‘Bethanie, it’s Martin.’

‘Oh, Martin. I am so sorry. I can’t believe you’re off the story. They’re shits with shit for brains. You absolutely don’t deserve any criticism over our coverage.’

‘Bethanie, I’m going to get a lot more criticism. You too, probably.’

‘What’s happened?’

‘It’s Herb Walker, the sergeant in Bellington. He’s killed himself.’

‘What? How?’

‘Drowned himself in the Murray, not far from Bellington. Apparently he left a note saying it was our story that drove him to it—the one claiming he ignored the tip-off about the bodies in the dam.’