Scrublands(94)

Martin rings Bethanie from the phone behind the counter. She answers with a barked hello, clearly under the pump.

‘Bethanie, it’s Martin.’

‘Martin? Where are you?’

‘Riversend.’

‘Good. Do you know what the fuck is going on? The ABC are promoting a big breakthrough to be revealed on their seven o’clock news. The commercials seem to be clueless. Terri Preswell is screaming her tits off at me but my contacts aren’t answering. Defoe claims he’s across it, but won’t tell me what it is and now he’s not answering his phone.’

Slowly, methodically, Martin sets out the facts: that it was Jamie Landers and his mate Allen Newkirk who killed the backpackers, that Landers has confessed and is in detention. He’s not denying anything. Martin tells her that Mandy Blonde is in the clear, to ignore the commercial television reports, that the young mother nearly lost her child in horrifying circumstances, almost murdered by Landers.

Bethanie is all ears, only interposing questions for clarification, respecting Martin’s ability to order the facts. Only at the end does she seek advice on how to frame the story.

‘Martin, I should give you a by-line. What do you think?’

‘No. You’ll only antagonise management. Don’t refer to me at all, or call me a reliable source if you need to, but no names. And do yourself a favour: file before seven so people know it’s all your work—but after Defoe sees the ABC and files, share the by-line with him. You’ll want to keep him onside in future; don’t humiliate him.’

There’s a pause on the other end of the phone. ‘Martin, that sucks.’

‘Tell me about it. Now get moving, it’s already six-thirty.’

‘Absolutely. And, Martin, thanks.’

Martin sits alone in the foyer of the country police station, imagining the frenetic scene back in the Sydney newsroom: Bethanie yelling that she’s got it, the editors crowding around, the front page being remade. It will be a corker, one of his best, certainly one of his biggest, even though his name will be nowhere to be seen.

He’ll miss it, he knows he will. In the whole confused and confusing day, the whole confused and confusing week, the only periods of clarity and purpose had come when he was reporting events he’d witnessed, first to the paper, then to the police and now to Bethanie. The old thrill, one last time. He’s still sitting there when the ABC news comes on at 7 pm. It’s a national broadcast out of Sydney, all states receiving the same signal, that’s how big the story has become. The newsreader is grim, urgent and professional. ‘The ABC can reveal a major breakthrough…’

The report says police have arrested a suspect, a Riversend local, a teenage boy, and are expected to charge him this evening with the murders of the two German backpackers. There is no mention of Allen Newkirk, no mention of Liam Blonde, no mention of the confrontation in the Commercial Hotel. The new facts, sparse and lacking context, are at the top of the package, the remainder a rehash of the day’s events, Mandy and himself again caught in the storm of camera flashes even as the voiceover exonerates Mandy of any guilt. But there’s a sting in the tail, just before the reporter signs off: ‘It’s believed the police may have been denied vital information, delaying this evening’s arrest.’ That’s it then; the police are already preparing to hang him out to dry.

He’s still sitting there an hour later when Mandy emerges. She looks frail, exhausted. She is clutching Liam to her, soothing him even as he sleeps. Mandy turns to Martin then, and there is no barrier, no pretence in her eyes; he sees her anguish and he sees her relief.

‘Martin,’ she whispers, reaching out, taking his hand. ‘Thank you. Thank you so much.’ And then she smiles: a smile so pure, so free of calculation, that it takes his breath away. ‘I need to look after this little one tonight, but come and see me tomorrow. Say you will.’

‘Of course I will. If you’ll see me.’

And another smile, more illumination lighting his soul. ‘Of course.’ And quickly, still holding her son, she kisses him. A weight lifts from his shoulders and he feels, for the first time in a very long time, that things are turning for the better.

He’s about to offer to walk her home when Jack Goffing comes back through the door, urgency plain on his face. The evening isn’t over yet.





GOFFING WAITS UNTIL MANDY AND LIAM ARE OUT THE DOOR, ESCORTED BY Constable Greevy, before speaking, his voice low and urgent. ‘The phone number, Martin. It’s disconnected, but I got an address here in Riversend. Hay Road. Registered to someone called Avery Foster.’

‘The publican.’

‘How do you know that?’

‘His name’s written above the door. It’s on the licence sign.’

‘Isn’t he dead, though?’

‘Yes. Suicide. Six months ago.’

‘Fuck,’ says Goffing, losing some of his urgency. ‘He won’t be telling us much, then. Bugger it.’

‘Listen, Jack. Maybe there is something.’ Martin explains his first visit to the Commercial Hotel, seeing the locked room at the end of the corridor with its gold-painted sign: PRIVATE. ‘Should we take a look?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘The door is locked. Two or three locks.’

‘I’ll bring my picks.’