The road stretches towards infinity. There are no clouds, just a milky greyness from the bushfire receding behind him. Out on the shimmering horizon, the sky has turned liquid, leaking down into the plain. There are no trees; the only animals are dead ones, killed by the night trucks ploughing their way between Adelaide and the east coast. There aren’t any crows; even roadkill is powerless to lure them into the midday sun. The thermometer in the dash gives an outside temperature of forty-two degrees.
He thinks of Riversend and all its tragedies, large and small: Codger Harris and his dead wife and child; Harley Snouch professing love for the woman he’s accused of raping; Mandy, unable to close her mother’s bookstore and move away; Robbie Haus-Jones, haunted by St James and killing his friend; Fran Landers mourning her husband; the boy, Luke, unable to comprehend the horror that has split his young life apart. It makes Martin wonder about himself, why the experience in Gaza has left him so gutted, why the damage lingers. After all, he has lost no one, suffered no enduring injuries. Compared to the people in Riversend, he has got off lightly. He is unable to formulate a satisfactory answer and his mind wanders into a daydream, an imagined utopia: he and Mandy living in a shack on the coast, watching winter squalls blowing in off the ocean, Liam playing peacefully nearby.
Bellington emerges from the plain in a rush. The earth’s flat browns turn an almost iridescent green: grapevines and citrus orchards, irrigation-nourished verdure. And then the town itself, stretched out along the Murray River. He pulls into a park, has a piss in the public toilet, then wanders down to look at the river. It’s flowing between high banks, a green-glass mass, its intent unperturbed by the imperceptible fall of the land. Martin has heard somewhere that the flow is artificial, governed by some huge dam, high in the mountains. He doesn’t care; its existence is reassuring after the parched riverbed of Riversend. A pair of kookaburras herald his arrival with a raucous cackle; cockatoos squawk somewhere in the distance. He extracts his phone, relieved to see its signal bars. Civilisation.
He sits at a picnic table in the shade and collects messages. There are a couple of texts and a voicemail from his editor, Max. ‘Hiya, soldier. Wondering how you’re travelling. Heard you’re out of mobile range. Call us when you can, let me know how you’re going. Cheers, mate.’ He thinks of calling, but texts instead: All well. Story progressing. Cracker interview with local cop. More to come. Will call soon.
He powers up his laptop, using his phone to connect to the net. He finds the number of the local cop shop quickly enough and calls, asking for Sergeant Herb Walker. He’s told Walker is out of the office but will be back soon; Martin leaves his number. He knows Walker encouraged Robbie to agree to an interview and hopes the sergeant might now be as forthcoming himself. He finds the number and address for Torlini’s Fruit Barn, on a side road off the main street, plus a residential number for Torlini. He checks it out on Google Maps. It’s just outside town, not far from the river, possibly the family farm. He looks out at the Murray. What were Gerry Torlini and Horace Grosvenor doing at the church in Riversend? Simply accompanying Craig Landers and the Newkirks? Having just traversed the unforgiving plain, Martin can’t understand anyone doing it without a reason. He searches for Horace Grosvenor’s address and finds he is sitting across the road from his house. It seems like fate. He packs up his laptop and notebook and walks towards Grosvenor’s home, passing the playground and a low plaque. He’s almost past it when he realises its significance. He backtracks and snaps a photo with his phone. In loving memory, Jessica and Jonty. So sorely missed.
The house is solid and respectable red brick, with a healthy garden full of hydrangeas and a BORE WATER ONLY sign. Martin takes a snap: bore water just a hundred and fifty metres from Australia’s biggest river. He rings the doorbell; a singsong chime answers from somewhere inside.
The door opens and Mrs Janice Grosvenor is revealed as a large woman wrapped in a floral print dress, presenting somewhat like a sofa with legs. Martin explains himself and the story he is writing. Mrs Grosvenor looks unwilling. Martin persists. Mrs Grosvenor reluctantly lets him in, apparently concerned that it would be impolite to refuse. And once he’s seated, she insists on making tea for her unwelcome guest. He waits in the living room, seated attentively on the edge of a sofa just as floral and only marginally less mobile than Mrs Grosvenor. It has antimacassars to safeguard its fabric from the oleaginous heads of friends and family. Along the mantelpiece are framed photographs. Children and grandchildren; a black-and-white wedding shot of a far younger and slimmer Mrs Grosvenor and her groom; a more recent colour shot of a ruddy-faced man, laughing at the camera: Horace Grosvenor. Through open double doors Martin can see the dining table: sturdy wood, boasting two huge vases of hydrangeas, one bunch blue, the other pink.
Mrs Grosvenor returns with a tray supporting a teapot dressed in a crocheted red-and-blue cosy, cups, saucers, cut-glass sugar bowl, milk jug. There is a plate of homemade slice: date and walnut. Martin leaps to his feet, separating a nest of tables, placing one before himself and another before Mrs Grosvenor. Mrs Grosvenor plays mother, pouring tea, offering slice; Martin plays child, accepting tea and slice with gratitude. Formalities complete, the two sit facing each other, sipping tea.
‘Mrs Grosvenor, I realise this is difficult, especially me dropping in so unexpectedly, but I would be grateful for any insights you could give me. It’s likely that this will constitute just a small part of the final story.’
Janice Grosvenor nods assent.
Martin asks permission to record the interview.
Another nod of assent.
And he begins, asking innocuous and inoffensive questions. What sort of man was Horace?
A wonderful father and good provider.
What has the community response been like?
Wonderful, most supportive.
After twenty or so minutes he has established an incontrovertible impression of Horace and Janice Grosvenor as decent, respectable and utterly boring. That Horace could come to such an exotic end, shot down in cold blood by a murderous priest, belies the monotony of his previous sixty-four years.
‘Mrs Grosvenor, do you have any idea why Reverend Swift might have wanted to harm your husband?’
‘Don’t think he did. Think he was having an episode. Poor Horrie was in the wrong place at the wrong time. All there is to it.’
‘Yes, so it seems. Do you know why your husband was there, as you say, in the wrong place at the wrong time? Did he go to Riversend to attend church?’
‘Doubt it. Be a first if he did.’
‘So why was he there?’
‘Couldn’t say. Sorry.’
‘Did he go to Riversend often?’
‘From time to time. But not to church.’
‘Did he know any of the other men who were killed?’
‘Yes. All of them.’
‘All of them?’
‘All of them.’
‘How was that? I thought three of them were from Riversend.’
‘Yes. But he certainly knew them.’
‘How?’
‘They were fishing mates. Fishing and hunting. Called themselves the Bellington Anglers Club. Here, I’ll show you.’ And with a great deal of effort, ham-hock forearms pushing down on the arms of the chair like pistons, accompanied by a bellows-like exhalation of breath, Mrs Grosvenor lifts herself out of the chair that has been so snugly encompassing her. Martin feels an absurd pang of guilt at having induced such an effort. But soon enough Mrs Grosvenor is on her feet and off into her home’s hinterland, returning some moments later with the impressively large head of a Murray cod, stuffed and mounted, mouth agape at the imposition. She hands it to Martin, who examines the fish with some disquiet. Deep down a small rebellion flares in his stomach, a last stand of the morning’s hangover.
‘A big one,’ he says, not knowing what else to say.
‘Plenty more in the garage. One of Horrie’s hobbies. Used to have some in the house, but I took them down after he passed. Hope he doesn’t mind.’
‘I’m sure he would understand.’
‘Hmmph. Maybe.’
‘Mrs Grosvenor, this club—what did you call it again?’
‘The Bellington Anglers Club.’