Scrublands(78)

‘He seemed fine. Angry, but in no way depressed or despairing, if that’s what you mean.’

‘Resigned?’

‘Resigned to what?’

‘You know, that his career was over, it was all coming down on top of him, that it was useless to fight back.’

‘No. Just the opposite.’

‘How so?’

Ah, the rub. Martin takes another suck of his beer. He has to admire the ASIO man’s skill, leading him to this point. Does he cooperate? Does he tell him what he knows about Walker? Why not? He’s lost his job, Walker is dead, Goffing may be the only person interested in taking the matter any further. He drains more of his beer and talks.

‘I don’t think he was despondent. He was intrigued by the news of Mandy Blonde’s diary. And he remained determined to investigate the events leading up to Byron Swift’s massacre at St James.’

Goffing’s head is still, face smooth with concentration, eyes fixed on Martin. ‘Byron Swift and St James? Do you know anything of his line of inquiry?’

Martin nods. ‘I was able to speak to a witness to the shooting. Someone the police didn’t interview. He told me that Byron Swift appeared happy and unflustered shortly before the shooting. He’d been outside, talking to some of his parishioners, the early arrivals. Laughing and joking. He even talked to Craig Landers, one of his victims, apparently without rancour. Then he went into the church, presumably to prepare for the service. He came out after five or ten minutes and started shooting.’

‘Go on.’

‘So what happened inside the church? It occurred to me that Swift either spoke to someone inside the church, or spoke to someone by phone. Herb Walker was trying to find out if there had been any calls made to or from the church that morning.’

Goffing nods. ‘Right. And he drew a blank. We know. We checked the same thing. The only calls from the church that morning were Robbie Haus-Jones calling Walker and the ambulance in Bellington after the shooting. So what else?’

‘No. Walker said he didn’t draw a blank. Yesterday, when I saw him at the police station, he said there had been two other calls, one from the church and one to the church. Before the shooting. He said he was trying to chase down the numbers.’

Goffing doesn’t say anything for a good thirty seconds or more. He’s looking at Martin, but the ASIO man’s thoughts appear to be working away on a different plane.

‘Which call was made first? Did he say?’

‘No. Perhaps Swift made a call, and then got a call back.’

‘Maybe. Anything else? Did Walker mention anything else?’

‘No. We weren’t exactly on the best of terms by then, if you’ll recall.’

‘Martin, thank you. What you’ve told me might prove to be very useful indeed. Very useful. Have you told anyone else of these phone calls? Your colleagues, Mandalay Blonde?’

‘You think they’re significant?’

‘Possibly. When we checked the records, the calls weren’t on the database.’

‘Someone tampered with the call records?’

‘Maybe. It’s curious, at the very least. So have you told anyone else about the calls?’

‘No. Just you.’

‘Very good. Please don’t mention this to anybody else, including the police. Especially the police. If I’m going to clear you of responsibility for Walker’s suicide, I need to keep this under wraps. Understand?’

Martin feels a surge of adrenaline, of hope. ‘Clear me? You think you can do that?’

‘I don’t know. I shouldn’t raise false expectations; it may not be possible. But keep the phone calls to yourself.’

‘If you like. But what do I get in return?’

‘You mean apart from trying to clear you of Walker’s death?’ Goffing smiles, then grows more serious. ‘There is one thing. Your story in The Sunday Age, the one about Swift being a man without a past—it was right on the money.’

‘You can confirm that?’

‘Yes. Your story is correct. The real Byron Swift was an orphan and a ward of the state in Western Australia. Studied theology at uni in Perth and dropped out. Went to Cambodia, where he worked for a charity delivering development aid up on the Thai–Burma border. Died five years ago of a heroin overdose. All records, most records, redacted. Our Byron Swift assumed his identity.’

‘Do you know who he really was? Swift?’

‘I do.’ Goffing pauses, makes some mental calculation before continuing. ‘Martin, I’m going to tell you. It will most likely come out at the inquest.’ Goffing again pauses, as if weighing a decision, before speaking. ‘You should try to publish it before then but under no circumstances must my name or ASIO be mentioned. Just refer to reliable sources or however you want to phrase it.’

‘That’s kind of academic; I have nowhere to publish it.’

‘You’ll find somewhere.’

‘All right. Tell me. You have my word I won’t reveal where I got it from.’

‘His real name was Julian Flynt. He was a fugitive.’

‘A fugitive? I thought he was a former soldier.’

‘He was. A special forces sniper. Iraq and Afghanistan. By all accounts an amazing soldier: a born leader, fearless and charismatic. Until he was captured by the Taliban and held captive for eight months, during which time he was tortured, degraded and humiliated. Later, after he was freed, he passed all the psychological testing and was cleared for duty. Big mistake. Massive mistake. Seemed fine, everything normal, no sign of damage. Then one day, close to a year later, during a firefight in a Mujahedin compound, he lost it. Two women and their kids, unarmed, arms raised, surrendering. Five of them. He cut them down in cold blood. The army detained him, pending trial. Some wanted to try him for murder; others defended him, citing the fog of war. Those who had authorised his return to the frontline just wanted him to disappear. And he did: he escaped from custody. A warrant was put out for his arrest, for war crimes. There were reports he’d made his way to Iraq, was working as a private bodyguard. When the authorities went looking they were told he’d died in an ambush. That made everyone happy; they closed his file. But as we now know, he wasn’t dead. He came back here at some point, not on his own passport. Became Byron Swift.’