Scrublands(89)

‘Listen, Jack, Byron Swift’s dying words to Robbie Haus-Jones were: “Harley Snouch knows everything.” Did he somehow know that Snouch was onto him?’

‘That’s what worries me. And worries the head of ASIO even more. There’s nothing concrete, but there’s a lingering suspicion that ASIO leaked; somehow Swift found out that Snouch had identified him. We take such suspicions very seriously.’

‘But that could be a factor in what made him kill those men.’

‘True. But, Martin, you can’t write it. Not yet. When the time comes, if the time comes, it’s all yours. An exclusive. You have my word.’

Martin smiles at that; the word of a trained liar.

‘Thanks, Jack—and I’ve got something for you.’

‘What’s that?’

Martin tells the ASIO man about the mysterious phone number passed onto him by the owner of the Black Dog, how he suspects it was left by Herb Walker pretending to be his editor, and that the number might be the one Swift had called from St James just moments before he started shooting.

‘Do you have it with you?’

‘Sure. In my coat. Take the wheel.’

Goffing reaches across and takes the steering wheel with his right hand. Martin keeps his foot on the accelerator, the car rocketing along, while he reaches into the back seat for his coat and retrieves the number written on the post-it note given to him by Felicity Kirby. He hands it to Goffing and resumes control of the car. In the distance, the tops of Riversend’s wheat silos come into view, floating above the heat-distorted plain.

‘Can you find out who it belongs to?’ asks Martin.

‘Sure, piece of piss.’

Martin slows the car, passing the abandoned petrol station and the Black Dog, turning into Hay Road and heading straight to the police station. There’s just the one photographer set up outside, the maniac who went tearing past as they left Bellington. The snapper takes a few frames and gives Martin a jovial wave. If he’s still the only one there when Martin and Mandy emerge together he’ll be more jovial still: the money shot will be his and his alone.

Inside the station, there’s little sign of life, just muffled voices in the back somewhere. He gives the counter bell a ring and Montifore’s offsider, Lucic, puts his head around the frame of the door. ‘Sorry, mate. We can’t bail her. We need the constable for that. If he has the guts to show his face.’ Lucic offers a malevolent smile and withdraws his head before Martin can reply.

Goffing shrugs in sympathy and heads out to his car, piece of paper in his hand. Martin slumps down on the bench where he was left waiting for Herb Walker two days ago. Everything is the same. The same brochures are in the same slots in the same rack: Neighbourhood Watch, fire permits, how to get your driver’s licence. It’s as if the world has not moved on, that it’s condemned to repeat the same cycles. Riversend, like Brigadoon’s evil twin, is locked outside time. Nothing changes. Not even his ageless hands.

Robbie Haus-Jones walks in. ‘Hi, Martin.’

‘Hi, Robbie.’

‘You here to bail Mandy?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Won’t be a mo. See what I can do.’ The young policeman saunters through to the back of the station, seemingly unperturbed.

But it’s an hour before he returns, followed by Mandy and the pretty young constable from Bellington who was there two days before. The hour of waiting vanishes, evaporated by Mandy Blonde’s grateful smile, beaming across the counter at Martin.

‘Sorry, Martin—had to sort a few things first,’ says Robbie. ‘I’ll need you both to sign some forms, pretty much confirming the conditions set out by the magistrate. Martin, you have the money?’

Martin hands over the cheque. Robbie signs off on a receipt. Other papers are signed. Finally the policewoman—her name is Greevy—removes the handcuffs. ‘Free to go.’

Mandy is about to walk out past the counter, but first she turns, takes Robbie’s arm and stretches up, planting a sisterly kiss on his cheek. ‘Thank you for speaking for me, Robbie. I won’t forget it.’

Robbie nods, the faintest hint of a blush softening the seriousness of his expression.

‘You ready for this?’ asks Martin. Mandy Blonde nods, and they walk out arm in arm, into the blizzard of camera flashes and the storm of yelling reporters. It’s the money shot all right, but it’s no exclusive.

The photographers and camera operators follow them with the persistence of bush flies, down the road past the bank, past the bronze soldier marking his eternal vigilance, past the shuttered pub. The two of them barely exchange a word. Martin is unable to think of anything beyond banalities amid the mad running, pivoting swarm of cameras. Only as they approach the general store does the media melt away, their appetite for images of the leading police suspect and the disgraced former journalist finally sated. Inside the general store, there is no one at the counter.

‘Fran?’ yells Mandy. ‘Fran? Are you here?’

Martin follows Mandy through the aisles towards the back of the store, where the shopkeeper might be minding young Liam.

‘Fran?’

Fran Landers emerges. She’s wearing rubber gloves, a shower cap and an apron. They’ve disturbed her in the middle of some cleaning task. She looks puzzled. ‘Mandy? Thank God you’re out. Everything okay?’