Scrublands(87)
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Very good. Have you ever had gout?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Very good. Avoid it if you can.’ Another belch, the faces of the police officers resolutely serious, although Montifore has closed his eyes. ‘So here is what I propose: I will grant bail, provided you post a surety of, what shall we say, fifteen thousand dollars? Yes, that has a good ring to it. Fifteen thousand. Do you have access to that amount of money? And are you prepared to go guarantor?’
Martin looks at Mandy and any doubts he has are erased. Her eyes are on him, filled with concern about Liam. How could he possibly deny her?
‘Yes, sir. I can visit my bank here in Bellington.’
‘Very good. Here are the conditions. Ms Blonde, you are to report to police in Riversend daily, before noon. You are not permitted to travel more than five kilometres outside the town without informing the police in advance and gaining their permission. And let’s see…you are not permitted to discuss matters connected to the charge with Mr Scarsden or any other media. However, I do advise you to discuss them with a lawyer. These conditions will remain in force until you face a committal hearing, or the charges are dropped, or I make some other determination. Or something else happens. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Mandy says softly.
‘Mr Scarsden, I am wary about discharging the accused into the care of a reporter. To be honest, I don’t think much of you lot. Be that as it may. You will not discuss the charge, Ms Blonde’s diary or its contents with her. And you shall not report on matters related to the charge. Do you understand?’
Martin blinks. A gag on reporting. But he looks again at Mandy and the matter is settled. ‘Yes,’ he tells the magistrate.
‘And you are still willing to post bail?’
‘I am.’
‘All right. Ms Blonde will remain in police custody until she is returned to Riversend. Mr Scarsden, please collect a bank cheque and make your way to the Riversend police station. And Mr Scarsden?’
‘Yes, sir?’
‘Avoid rich foods if you possibly can. Source of all evil. Now good day to you all.’ And he liberates another belch, larger, louder and longer than its predecessors.
THE CARAVAN HAS LOST ITS COHERENCE; MARTIN FINDS HIMSELF DRIVING BACK to Riversend without another car in sight. He’s not alone, though; sitting next to him, having cadged a lift, is Jack Goffing, ASIO investigator. The men drive in silence, occupied by their own thoughts. Martin has been to the bank, organised a bank cheque. It sits in his shirt pocket, weightless, yet heavy with obligation. Martin knows that somewhere ahead of him the purpose of the cheque, Mandy Blonde, is traversing the plain in the back of the highway patrol car, still wearing handcuffs, still a prisoner. Montifore and Lucic will be up ahead as well, planning their next moves. Martin wonders if Robbie Haus-Jones is part of their small convoy or if he’s put some distance between himself and his Sydney superiors.
Martin may be trailing the police by some way, but he has a head start on the media, still in Bellington, still filing. Martin can imagine them: Doug Thunkleton talking nonstop down the maw of a camera lens, his observations beamed via the satellite van out across Australia; radio reporters breathlessly describing the scene as Mandy Blonde left the police station in a storm of camera flashes; newspaper reporters making the most of Bellington’s functional internet to file online: straight news reporting scant facts, colour pieces conveying the day’s drama, opinion pieces bravely asserting what it all means. But regardless of style, and regardless of medium, sitting at the core of each and every report, driving interest across the nation, will be variations of a single image: the young mother, with her ethereal beauty and uncanny green eyes, her wrists bound by handcuffs. Soon the journalists will be done and they too will be on their way across the digital desert to Riversend, eager to report the next instalment of this small-town saga, this tale of murder, religion and illicit love that is suddenly dominating the summer news cycle, this story now revolving around the photogenic couple: Byron Swift, deceased, and Mandalay Blonde, condemned. Halfway to Riversend, the first of the media passes Martin at speed, clocking a hundred and sixty at least: a photographer, having quickly filed his images from outside the police station, thrashing his rental to get a drop on his competitors and position himself for the next episode. Martin watches the car race into the distance, warping and distorting in the heat before dissolving altogether.
Martin tries to concentrate on driving, but there is precious little to concentrate on: the road is flat, straight and devoid of traffic, a bitumen line bisecting an impassive and nonjudgemental landscape, like a line of longitude drawn on a map. He wonders what it is he’s committing himself to: fifteen thousand dollars is a lot of money for an unemployed journalist, particularly one gagged from reporting Australia’s biggest story. It’s not the money that bothers him; he doesn’t think that Mandy Blonde is about to abscond, but he has no idea what she might do. Or what she has done in the past. He’s acted with decency, with chivalry, in securing her release. Or has he? Is it gallantry or is it his desire for reconciliation? Or is it self-interest? Mandy will be in his debt, will surely forgive him, speak with him. Then he’ll be able to make the case for Harley Snouch, persuade her to take the DNA test and avert Snouch’s defamation threat. Has he been fooling himself; is that his true motivation? Regardless, he’ll now be inextricably linked to her in the public mind; if not already, certainly by the time the evening television news stories have delivered their verdict. Her epithet is set: she is now leading police suspect Mandalay Blonde, just as he is disgraced former journalist Martin Scarsden. And he’s stuck here, stuck in Riversend, his fate linked to hers, his fifteen thousand dollars most definitely linked to her. And he’s forbidden by the magistrate from writing a word about it. Where it’s all heading he has no idea, but his first course of action is clear: he needs to bail out Mandy and then get back on speaking terms with her. A memory comes to mind of her standing in her kitchen wearing nothing more than a loose t-shirt, offering him coffee. He shakes his head, dismissing the recollection.