Scrublands(83)

Not long after, Martin sees the two policemen emerge from a store on the next block. Another surge of dread: the bookstore. Sure enough, as the policemen wait, Mandy joins them, and they cross the road, round the corner in front of the old council building and disappear from sight behind the bank, heading towards the police station. None of the three look at Martin.

He’s still sitting there when Fran returns, pushing a stroller. Liam is sucking on a bottle without a care in the world.

‘Fran, what’s happening?’

‘They’ve taken Mandy in for questioning. I’m looking after Liam. Said they’d likely be a few hours.’

‘What are they questioning her over?’

‘I don’t know, Martin. They didn’t tell me.’

‘How is she?’

‘Okay, I think. Resigned, maybe, as if she was expecting it.’

‘Right.’

Martin isn’t sure what to do. Leaving town seems like the obvious choice, but how can he? He feels responsible for Mandy. He’s slept with her, he’s carried her alibi for Byron Swift to Walker, he’s returned her affection by more or less accusing her of complicity in murder. And now? Just leave town, wash his hands? Leave her to whatever trouble she finds herself in? A six o’clock execution by Doug Thunkleton, a beautifully written stiletto piece by D’Arcy Defoe, a scapegoat hung out to appease the public by Montifore and the cops?

He walks to the corner, looks towards the police station. The predictable gaggle of cameramen and photographers are already in place. It’s not yet nine o’clock. Either his erstwhile colleagues are displaying commendable diligence, driving the forty minutes from Bellington to take up their position, or they’ve been tipped off by the police for the parade: walk the suspect in, walk her out, parade her for the titillation of the great Australian public, demonstrate that the police are making progress.

It is, he knows full well, growing into a perfect summer story, in the great tradition of Lindy Chamberlain and Schapelle Corby. A heady mixture of murder, religion and sex. And, once news of Mandy’s diary is inevitably leaked, a beautiful femme fatale to feed to the cameras, as well as perhaps the most crucial element of all: mystery. Why did Byron Swift open fire? Who did murder the pretty young backpackers? Were they raped and tortured, as alleged by the competition papers? All around Australia, at barbecues and bars, at cafes and canteens, at hairdressers and in taxis, everyone and their dog will be advancing their own half-baked theories of what happened and who was responsible. Talkback radio will be having a field day; the internet will be spawning an equal measure of sick jokes and conspiracy theories, with him featuring in many of them. And yet he can’t complain: no one has done more to put the story on the front page, to propel it into the consciousness of the nation, than himself, Martin Scarsden. His stomach lurches at the thought and he needs to sit down. He should never drink whisky.



Arriving back at the Black Dog, he feels even worse. There’s a television satellite truck parked outside. The story is about to go live, 24/7. And if one network does it, the others are bound to follow. Christ. And he’s powerless to do anything about it. He’s walking past reception towards his room, considering the gathering media storm, when the woman from behind the counter sticks her head out the door. ‘Mr Scarsden? A moment, if you will?’ She is back behind the counter by the time Martin enters reception. He sees that she’s had her hair cut and dyed, the ragged blonde lengths and their mousy roots replaced by brunette consistency. Bellington chic.

‘I’m sorry, Mr Scarsden, but I had a call from your employer. Your former employer. They’re stopping the authorisation on your card as of today. They want to transfer your room over to another gentleman. A Mr…’

‘Defoe.’

‘So that’s how you pronounce it. Mr Defoe. Is he with you?’

‘No.’

‘I see. Anyway, if you can vacate, I can get the room ready for him.’

‘Look—um, sorry, I’ve forgotten your name.’

‘Felicity Kirby. My husband Gino and I own the Black Dog.’

‘Well, Mrs Kirby, I haven’t seen Mr Defoe as yet, but I’m inclined to think that he might not stay here. Much of the media are staying down in Bellington. They seem to like it down there by the river.’

‘Only because we are booked out here, Mr Scarsden.’

‘I’m sure you’re right, Mrs Kirby. Nevertheless, in Mr Defoe’s case, unless you offer him the penthouse, he’s still likely to prefer Bellington.’

‘Is that a joke, Mr Scarsden?’

‘I’m afraid it is, Mrs Kirby.’

‘Really? You’re a funny man. Now hand over your key and we can all have a good laugh.’

‘Tell you what, Mrs Kirby, perhaps we can come to a more mutually advantageous arrangement.’

‘Spit it out, love. I haven’t got all day.’

‘I keep the room, pay on my personal card.’

‘I see. And you’re sure this other bloke will be okay with that? I told them I would hold it for him.’

‘Trust me. His tastes are a little more elevated.’

‘Sounds like a bit of a tosser, Mr Scarsden.’

‘Your words, Mrs Kirby, not mine.’

‘All right then. It’s a week’s payment in advance, day by day after that.’