Scrublands(75)

There’s a dozen media set up outside the Bellington police station, a sturdy red-brick building, purpose built. The camera crews have picked their spot, positioning their tripods in the shade, placing a white card on the ground in the sun to indicate where they want the police to stand. As Martin approaches, the usual banter tapers off into silence. Old Jim Thackery, the wire service journo, has the decency to offer a wry greeting, but no one else wants to talk to him. The Herald Sun reporter shakes her head at his lack of wisdom. Doug Thunkleton pretends that he hasn’t seen him, but the photographers and camera crews are unapologetic as they fill their lenses with images of their miscreant colleague. Hold your head high, don’t apologise, he reminds himself silently.

It’s not long before the police emerge: Montifore and Lucic, together with Robbie, the young constable frowning when he sees Martin at the back of the media scrum. Montifore is shuffling, getting his position right, asking whether the cameras are recording, when Martin feels a hand on his shoulder. It’s Goffing, the ASIO agent. The man smiles grimly and nods, but says nothing. What’s that meant to mean? A gesture of support?

‘Good morning, ladies and gentlemen,’ says Montifore, his delivery stiff and formal before the television cameras. ‘I understand the premier and police minister will be commenting in Sydney shortly, so I’ll make a brief statement and leave it at that. I won’t be taking questions. I will be restricting myself to the facts. At approximately oh-six-hundred and twenty minutes this morning, a local resident spotted what they believed to be a deceased person in the shallows of the Murray River approximately five kilometres north-west of Bellington. That’s downstream. We can now confirm the deceased male is Sergeant Herbert Walker of the New South Wales Police Force. We can confirm there are no suspicious circumstances.

‘Sergeant Walker has led policing in the Bellington district for more than twenty years and will be sorely missed by the people of this town and surrounding areas, and by the wider New South Wales police community. Herbert Walker was a very fine policeman, a very fine policeman indeed, and a great servant to his community. During the past few days I have had the privilege of working closely with Sergeant Walker. He was a highly professional officer, dedicated to upholding the rule of law and serving his community.’

Montifore has been looking directly down the barrel of the camera lenses, but now he shifts his eyes slightly to look at Martin. ‘Herb Walker gave his all to serving his community at a time of great need. He didn’t deserve this.’ The policeman’s gaze returns to the cameras. ‘Thank you. That’s all for now. Good morning.’

There’s momentary silence among the media as the cameras linger on the backs of the police officers returning to the police station. Then the cameras are off the tripods and are being pushed into Martin’s face, catching him unawares, their lenses wide open like hungry mouths, and Doug Thunkleton’s booming voice rains down upon him.

‘Martin Scarsden, what is your reaction to the death of Sergeant Herb Walker?’

One of the cameras has a light on top, and Martin winces as the cameraman flicks it on.

‘I am very sorry for his death. He was a very fine officer.’

‘But will you apologise to his family?’

‘Apologise? For what, exactly?’

‘You have hounded this policeman, driven him to take his own life, and you won’t even offer his grieving widow an apology?’

‘I’m sorry he’s dead. Of course I am.’

‘Do you accept you have behaved disgracefully?’

Martin gets it then. Thunkleton has his predetermined angle; he’s going to persist until Martin admits some sort of culpability. Well, fuck that. ‘We didn’t do anything wrong. We reported the facts of the story. I am not responsible for Herb Walker’s death.’

‘The Premier of New South Wales says you are the worst type of journalist, a moral vacuum who’d sell his soul for a headline.’

‘Well, in that case, why do you keep interviewing me? You know what you are? A hypocritical parasitic turd.’

As soon as the words are out of his mouth, Martin regrets them. He doesn’t need to see the self-satisfied smirk on Thunkleton’s face to tell him that. Shit. There are no more questions; Thunkleton has what he wants.

They leave him alone after that. He walks down to the river, sits on a bench in the shade of a line of poplars. The heat is keeping people inside. Thank goodness for that. He should ring Bethanie, he knows he should, but he can’t quite bring himself to dial the number. He’s almost relieved when his mobile rings, saving him from taking the initiative.

‘Martin?’ It’s Bethanie, her voice subdued, uncertain, concerned.

‘Hi, Bethanie.’

‘Are you all right?’

‘Never better.’

‘We’ve just seen the footage from Bellington.’

‘Yes. Perhaps not my finest moment.’

‘You appear to be calling Herb Walker a parasitic turd. Please tell me you didn’t do that.’

‘What? No way. Never. I said I was sorry about his death, that he was a fine officer.’

‘So who was the parasitic turd?’

‘Doug Thunkleton, that arsehole from Channel Ten.’

There’s a sigh of relief at the other end of the phone and a short, if rather forced, laugh. ‘Well, you got that one right.’