Scrublands(86)

He considers whether he should tell Goffing about the phone number. A Riversend phone number. Maybe there is some website that does reverse phone numbers and can tell him who it belongs to. Maybe Bethanie can help. Or maybe he should simply trust Goffing. The man would have the resources to identify the owner of the number, know who it was that Swift phoned from St James in the moments before the shooting started. But if Goffing finds out, would he feel any obligation to share his information with Martin? Yet what choice does Martin have? If Goffing can make any headway on either St James or the backpacker murders, it could spare Mandy a lot of grief. Or provide the evidence to prosecute her. Jesus. The permutations start to fuel Martin’s headache and he’s relieved when the green swathe of Bellington’s irrigated orchards emerges from the horizon and the brake lights of the convoy turn red in a chain reaction as the drivers, law-abiding citizens each and every one, slow to the requisite sixty kilometres an hour. By the time Martin drives into the main street, he’s made up his mind: he has to tell Goffing about the phone number.



The bail hearing is conducted behind closed doors. The magistrate has barricaded himself inside the Bellington police station and ruled that the media must keep their distance. And so the journalists wait, alive with anticipation and speculation. The police have arrested local woman Mandalay Blonde, they report urgently into microphones, their voices deep with gravity. Femme fatale says one, Bonnie and Clyde says another, crime of the century says a third. And soon they are all saying it. Doug Thunkleton booms authoritatively into the eye of a television camera, rewarming old facts and conjuring new ones. The story is breaking across the nation like a wave: the police are making headway, we’re awaiting news, stand by, whatever you do, don’t miss it, don’t change channels, back after the break, must-see TV. And yet, for all the excitement, a momentary hush falls over the mob as they watch Martin walk into the station, before recommencing, eager and urgent, a new buzz-phrase spreading through the pack and out across the nation: disgraced former journalist Martin Scarsden.

But today Martin is receiving no privileged access, not this time, and he’s asked to wait outside with the media. And so he does, back at the scene of yesterday’s train wreck. His former colleagues look either astounded or confused by his presence. Or both. Thackery shakes his head with dismay, but pays him the courtesy of saying hello, saying he’s sorry about how it’s all ended. An ABC journo requests an interview as if entitled to it, citing how the network had come to his defence on the previous night’s news. Martin declines. Doug Thunkleton, live cross complete for the moment, steadfastly refuses to make eye contact, even while his camera crew brazenly film Martin’s every movement.

‘Martin,’ says a voice, deep and self-possessed. It’s D’Arcy Defoe. ‘Didn’t expect to see you here. How you holding up?’

‘D’Arcy. Welcome to the circus. Not so bad. What are the police saying?’

‘Very little. They’ve arrested the bookstore owner. Apparently she knew the priest Byron Swift.’

‘Yes, she did.’

‘Your mate Thunkleton is going in strong. He’s saying the police suspect that she and the priest did it together, murdered the backpackers.’

‘Listen, D’Arcy, don’t report that. Seriously, wait until you hear what the police have to say.’

‘So you know differently?’

‘I’m not sure what I know. But I’ve been pushing the envelope on this story and look where it’s landed me. Even I wouldn’t report that. Not yet.’

D’Arcy is mulling over this information when, from the police station, a thin man in a grey suit and a five o’clock shadow emerges. ‘ASIO,’ comes the whisper.

Goffing spots Martin, waves him over. He can feel the cameras boring into his back as he joins Goffing and they enter the police station.

‘Hope you’re cashed up,’ says Goffing.

‘Why?’

‘You may need to post bail.’

The magistrate is sitting at an impressive desk, red in the face, somewhat dishevelled and none too happy. Neither is anyone else: not Montifore, who is looking daggers at the magistrate, not Lucic, who is glaring at Robbie Haus-Jones, and not Robbie, who is avoiding eye contact with the homicide detectives. Mandy is seated, looking small, wearing a white shirt, blue jeans and handcuffs. She looks up at Martin and smiles, eyes hopeful. His heart quickens and he wonders if she might have forgiven him his early-morning accusations.

‘Martin Scarsden?’ asks the magistrate. His eyes are bloodshot. Martin smells alcohol.

‘That’s correct.’

‘I am informed you may be prepared to go surety for Ms Blonde. Is this correct?’

‘Yes, Your Honour.’

The magistrate snorts, sighs and shakes his head. ‘I’m a magistrate, not a judge, Mr Scarsden. I am no one’s honour.’ And he belches, for good measure. ‘Pardon me.’

Martin nods. No one is laughing; no one is smiling. The magistrate is drunk, but it’s straight faces all around.

The magistrate continues, his voice steady enough, but his hand gestures overly emphatic. ‘All right. I’m faced with a dilemma here, Mr Scarsden. A dilemma. Wisdom of Solomon required. On one hand, Detective Inspector Monty here is opposing bail, saying the charge is too serious. On the other hand, the young constable here tells me Ms Blonde is the sole carer for an infant under the age of one. Does that sound right to you?’