Scrublands(77)

And then the shot of Martin, looking shifty as he begins to walk away, blinking under the glare of the camera lights. Thunkleton homing in for the kill: ‘And from the reporter responsible, Martin Scarsden, not a skerrick of remorse.’ Then Martin: ‘A hypocritical parasitic turd.’

‘In Riversend, Doug Thunkleton, Ten News.’

Back to the newsreader, forehead creased with the import of the story: ‘We are able to report some small consolation for Sergeant Walker’s grieving family and the good folk of Bellington; this evening the Sydney Morning Herald has published an unreserved apology and sacked the reporter responsible, effective immediately.’

Martin kills the sound, staring at the glowing set. Charged, tried, convicted, all in a neat two-minute television package. Hung, drawn and quartered. ‘Fuck me,’ says Martin out loud, almost amused by the absurdity of it all. What now? He’s been thinking of getting something to eat and a drink at the club. That’s out of the question. Mandy’s? No, he would be doing her no favours. Guilt by association would be an ugly phenomenon in such a small town. Best thing would be to check out now and drive somewhere far, far away. The rental car is still on the company account. Perth maybe. Or Darwin.

There’s a knock at the door. Who? It sounds too measured for a torch-and-pitchfork mob. Martin eases the door open a whisker, his foot wedged hard in behind it, just in case.

It’s Goffing. The ASIO man has a sixpack of stubbies in one hand, a bottle of Scotch in the other. ‘Thought you might need a drink.’

Martin opens the door, lets him in.

Goffing looks at the muted TV set, broadcasting the remains of the Channel Ten news. ‘So you saw, I take it?’

Martin nods.

Goffing holds the beers up first, then the whisky, offering Martin the choice.

‘Beer, thanks.’

Martin sits on the bed; the agent takes the sole chair. They twist off the bottle caps with a gentle fizz and take the first few slugs in silence.

‘The police believe it was suicide; I’m not so sure,’ says the ASIO man, looking Martin in the eye.

The abruptness of the statement takes Martin by surprise. He doesn’t answer immediately as he considers the implications. ‘Why’s that?’

‘Let’s just say I have a suspicious mind. Comes with the territory.’

‘Well, I certainly hope you’re right.’

‘Tell me, Martin, do you feel guilty over Herb Walker’s death?’

‘No,’ Martin answers without hesitation, despite the unexpected nature of the question. ‘No, I don’t. Do you think I should?’

‘Not necessarily. What do you feel?’

‘Pissed off. Hard done by. A bit despondent. For the life of me, I can’t understand exactly what I’ve done to be in this position.’

Martin pauses, drinks some more beer. It’s cold and comforting as it slides down his throat. Why is he confiding in this man, this spy, this exponent of the covert? Because it feels good to unburden himself. And because there is no one else to talk to.

‘I accept that we may have been wrong about Byron Swift and Harley Snouch, but they were honest mistakes. You know that. We’ve been doing our best. And as for Herb Walker, that wasn’t even me. My colleague in Sydney got that tip-off from one of her police contacts. I didn’t even know about it until I read it in the paper.’

‘You were uncomfortable with the story?’

‘No. No, I can’t claim that. If it was accurate, and it appears to be, he could have checked out the dam a year ago. Why wouldn’t we publish that?’

‘Because he was one of your sources?’

‘No. Being a source doesn’t give someone immunity.’

‘But I was under the impression you apologised to him when you saw him at the police station yesterday.’

‘That’s half true. If I’d known what Bethanie had, I would have told him in person, tried to get his side of the story. But I wouldn’t have argued against publication. At least, I don’t think I would have. And that wasn’t the main reason I sought him out yesterday.’

‘Yes, so I understand. Mandalay Blonde and Byron Swift’s supposed alibi.’

‘Supposed?’

‘The police aren’t convinced. They’ve sent the diary for forensic analysis.’

‘Really? What do you think?’

‘Don’t know. I’m agnostic on that matter.’

Goffing hands Martin a second beer. Martin hadn’t realised he’d finished his first; he twists the top from the stubby.

‘Why are you here, Agent Goffing?’

‘The name’s Jack. And we don’t call ourselves “agent”—that’s an American thing.’

‘So why are you in Riversend, Jack?’

Goffing looks almost sad. ‘Sorry, Martin. This is not an information swap. I can’t afford to reveal anything more about my purpose here. My superiors are already pissed off at my presence being so spectacularly outed by you on national television. I’m not so ecstatic about it either.’

‘So why talk to me now?’

‘Herb Walker. You spoke to him yesterday. He was angry with you. You and your paper had fucked him over. He may have been less likely to disguise his state of mind with you than he might have in the presence of his police colleagues. It’s not a culture that encourages any sign of emotional fragility.’