Scrublands(97)

‘Any news?’

‘Plenty. I rang our people in Kabul last night. They called back this morning; I’ve just got off the phone to them.’ He takes a drag of his smoke, looking as if he’s relishing it. ‘Get this. Avery Foster didn’t just know Julian Flynt in Afghanistan: he treated him. He was an army chaplain and a qualified psychologist. He was the one who gave Flynt the clean bill of health to return to active service after he’d been held captive by the Taliban.’

‘That’s it, Jack—it’s starting to come together. Foster felt responsible for what happened, Flynt killing those women and children.’

‘That’s what I’m thinking. I don’t know if he helped Flynt escape Afghanistan, or if he helped him get back into Australia, but I know for certain that he helped him get ordained and placed in Bellington.’

‘For certain?’

‘Yep, I’ve spoken to the Bishop of Albury. He says Foster, a former chaplain, was a major sponsor of Swift and backed him for ordination.’

‘You have been busy.’

‘Not me so much, but the team in Kabul have been outstanding. They also checked out the orphanage. It’s the real deal; does good works, cares for about sixty kids. It presents as secular, which is only sensible, but the Kabul office reckon its key staff are all Christians. The woman running it says she knew Foster; he was very supportive while he was in country. And get this: it was receiving anonymous donations from Australia. About a year ago, the flow of money started to slow, then stopped altogether about six months later.’

‘Right,’ says Martin. ‘Swift died a year ago, Foster six months later. They were sending money.’

‘Looks like it.’

Goffing takes a long, satisfied drag on his cigarette. The men look into the distance, thoughts racing through Martin’s mind, connections being made, theories advanced and rejected.

The silence is broken by the jagged ringing of the phone in Goffing’s room. He stamps out his cigarette and raises his eyebrows at Martin, communicating his expectations: watch this space.

Goffing closes the door behind him and Martin considers what he knows. Jamie Landers and Allen Newkirk abducted and killed the two backpackers. Swift was with Mandy Blonde at the time of the abduction and probably had nothing to do with the crime. Swift may have seen some evidence left by Landers and Newkirk out in the Scrublands, but that’s the only likely link between the deaths of the German girls and the shooting at St James. They were probably distinct crimes, connected only by their proximity in time and location. But that still leaves a lot Martin doesn’t know. Swift and Foster were acting in concert, sending money to Afghanistan, but where were they getting money from in the middle of a drought, rolls of hundred-dollar notes? Someone had accused Swift of abusing children and Herb Walker reckoned he’d had it verified by two Riversend victims. Who made the allegations and were they true? And did they explain why Swift shot the five members of the Bellington Anglers Club?

The moment Goffing emerges from his motel room, Martin knows something is wrong. The spring has gone from the man’s step, a veil has come down over his eyes. He slumps into the plastic chair, reaches for a cigarette and lights it without looking, a man on automatic pilot. When he draws in his first toke, there is no enjoyment, or even awareness that he’s smoking.

‘What’s wrong? What’s happened?’

‘Something bad.’

‘You want to tell me about it?’

Goffing looks at Martin, examining him. Martin can see the calculation in the intelligence officer’s eyes. To confide or not to confide. The camaraderie is gone; the guile is back. Eventually, Goffing sighs. ‘I asked Canberra to run checks on Foster’s phone for the morning of the shooting. It’s not good.’

‘You have recordings?’

‘No. Of course not. No content. It’s just billing data. Metadata. Which number called which number at what time and for how long. The telcos are required to keep the metadata for two years.’ A drag on his cigarette, another calculation. ‘At ten forty-five on the morning of the shooting, a call was made from St James to Avery Foster’s apartment at the Commercial Hotel. The call lasted about a minute. At ten fifty-four Foster called the church back. Same thing: about a minute. After the second call it must have been almost immediately after the second call Swift went out and started shooting.’

‘Yes,’ says Martin. ‘That’s more or less what we knew from Walker’s information: Swift called someone and then that person rang back. It was Avery Foster.’

‘Yes,’ says Goffing. ‘But that’s not all. Between the two calls with St James, Foster received another call.’

‘Really? From whom?’

‘No specific number. It came through a switchboard. Russell Hill, in Canberra.’

‘Russell Hill…the Defence Department?’

‘No. More likely ASIO.’

‘ASIO?’

‘Snouch had identified Swift on the Friday. That Sunday morning we were gathered, a crisis team of about eight people, at ASIO headquarters. The cops were there, so was Attorney-General’s, and a liaison officer from Defence. Someone called Foster and warned him.’

‘So it’s true: ASIO leaked.’

‘Looks like it. Everyone in that room was security cleared, but one of them called Foster.’ He shakes his head, still coming to terms with the information. ‘You don’t understand, Martin. This’ll go off like a hand grenade when I tell the boss. There’ll be all sorts of internal investigations. A veritable witch-hunt. A mole-hunt. And if they don’t find out who was responsible, every person in that room, including me, will carry a question mark on their CV for all time, a very nasty and sinister question mark.’ Goffing finishes his cigarette, grinds it into the car park gravel, grinds it so thoroughly that it disintegrates beneath his shoe.