Scrublands(95)

‘You can do that? Pick locks?’

Goffing looks at him like he’s an idiot. ‘I’m ASIO, remember. We do it in basic training.’

Night is almost complete as the two men leave the police station. The western horizon is rimmed with blood and the scarlet moon hangs above it; there is the smell of wood smoke and desolation. Three large moths circle the POLICE sign, but they seem lethargic; having survived the heat of another day they can barely raise the energy to circle their blue-and-white beacon. There’s no such lethargy among the gaggle of journalists who also flitter around the police station, lured back across the plain by news of the arrest. They buzz with energy, desperate to report on the police breakthrough, the story that has somehow eluded them and arrived independently into the newsrooms of the capital cities. Alerted by the ABC news, they have come dashing from Bellington, breaking speed limits and playing Russian roulette with kangaroos but, now they’re here, there’s little for them to do: recording pieces to camera and filming guilty buildings. Montifore and his team will spend hours grilling Landers, teasing out every last detail while the young man remains willing to talk and before any lawyer can counsel him otherwise. For now, feeding the media will be a very low priority. Carrie, the Fairfax photographer, captures a couple of frames of Martin and Goffing as they leave, her camera flash abrupt and insistent. She shrugs apologetically and takes a couple more shots. Martin can see a few locals have joined the media but, away from the police station, the town is closed for the day, slowly surrendering its pent-up heat into the clear night skies.

The hotel looks little different; only the crime scene tape draped across the entrance to the back laneway suggests anything amiss. Goffing doesn’t hesitate, lifting it, passing under it, holding it for Martin to follow. He has a torch in one hand and is carrying a small backpack in the other. Martin is using the flashlight on his phone, leading the way up the outside stairs and into the darkened interior. The glass from the broken door pane crunches under their feet. The air is unchanged, laden in the enclosed space with the smells of the afternoon: dust and neglect and residual fear. Martin’s muscles tighten, the hairs on his neck lift once again, he reminds himself to breathe. He shines his light down the corridor, towards the corner of the pub, but there is nothing to see, only darkness.

‘This way,’ he says, almost a whisper, despite knowing he and Jack Goffing are alone in the abandoned building. He guides Goffing to the locked apartment, holding both lights as the ASIO man picks first one lock and then another and then another, taking remarkably little time to do it.

‘Like riding a bike,’ says Goffing, his voice clear. If Martin is tense, Goffing almost seems to be enjoying himself. ‘Here, put these on.’ He hands Martin some latex gloves and retrieves a second pair for himself from the backpack.

Inside, the apartment is like a tomb, the air still and bone-dry. The absence of moisture has mummified its contents: a budgerigar lies desiccated at the bottom of its cage, like one of Horrie Grosvenor’s trophies, feathers intact, beak open; a half-eaten bowl of spaghetti sits on a coffee table, the pasta returned to its original pre-cooked state; slices of bread sit brittle and dehydrated next to it, no sign of mould or decay. There’s a pot plant, now nothing more than bare stalks, surrounded on the windowsill by a ring of brown leaves. By the light of Martin’s phone, Jack Goffing looks like Howard Carter, come to raid Tutankhamun’s burial chamber. Martin feels a strong sense of trespass: they have entered the dead man’s domain, uninvited, like graverobbers in the Valley of the Kings.

‘Jesus,’ says Goffing. ‘It’s untouched.’

The men explore further: a kitchenette with unwashed dishes, a bedroom with an unmade bed, a bathroom with underwear on the floor. A study, papers strewn across the desk, chair pushed back, as if the person working there has gone to get a cup of tea and will be back at any moment.

‘Look,’ says Martin. On the wall, framed and mounted, is a certificate recognising the service and dedication of Captain Avery Foster, 1RAR, Afghanistan. ‘He was there. Infantry, not special forces. But he was there.’ Next to it hangs another framed certificate, this one from the Central Orphanage Kabul, thanking Avery Foster for his support and generosity.

‘Interesting,’ says Goffing, examining it.

‘What does it mean?’

‘Not sure yet.’

The desktop reveals invoices and orders, demands for payment and bills, booking calendars and bank statements. Goffing takes a seat and starts sifting through the papers, dividing them into two piles: the mundane and the noteworthy.

He pauses. ‘You say he suicided?’

‘That’s what I was told.’

‘Curious. It must have been very spur of the moment by the look of this place. Do you know why he did it?’

‘I was told money problems—the pub was sinking under debt.’

‘Who told you that? Police?’

‘No, just a local, an old bloke called Codger Harris. He was probably just repeating the accepted wisdom. He told me Foster shot himself.’

‘Did he say where?’

‘No, not that I recall.’

‘Well, I’m not sure about the money problems. Here, look.’ Goffing hands Martin a bank statement for Riverina Hotels and Food Pty Ltd. The balance is eight thousand dollars; not a fortune, but not scraping the bottom.