Back in Riversend, the phone on the counter at the Oasis is ringing as Mandy lets them in. It stops just as she is about to reach for it. She turns, shrugs, is about to say something when it starts ringing again. She answers, listens for a moment, then hands the receiver to Martin. ‘It’s for you.’
‘Hello, it’s Martin Scarsden.’
‘Where the fuck have you been? We’ve rung half the numbers in Riversend.’
‘Hi, Max. Nice to talk to you, too.’
‘Cut the bullshit. We’re hearing someone’s been murdered down there.’
‘Two someones. On a property outside town. I’ve been out there, just got back.’
‘Really? You’re on top of it? Good man. Good man. Knew you would be. What can you tell me?’
‘Two bodies in a dam. Chief suspect an old felon, an alleged rapist, name of Harley Snouch.’
‘Terrific. This is huge. Riversend: murder capital of Australia. Front page. At this stage it’s an exclusive, no one else knows. Can you file?’
‘Yeah. What do you need?’
‘Everything. File everything. What’s the best number? This one?’
‘Yes, probably. If I swap back to the motel, I’ll let you know. It’s called the Black Dog.’
‘Is that a joke?’
‘No.’
‘Good then. Bethanie Glass is on the case up here. You two tick-tack okay? Terri is coordinating. I’ll give them this number. This guy Snouch, when was he convicted? We’ll pull the file.’
‘Long time ago. Twenty-five years at least, more like thirty. Details are sketchy on that. He denies it.’
‘Of course he does. Don’t they all? We want something up online before the cops tell the competitors. Get cracking.’ And the editor hangs up.
Martin looks at Mandy. ‘Sorry, I should have asked you first, but is it okay if I work out of here for a while? They want me to file.’
‘So I gathered. If you have to, you have to,’ she says, looking troubled. ‘Go through to the back; you can use the office. There’s a computer and a phone. Internet’s slow; okay for email but not much more. I’m going to pick up Liam.’
Martin can see she’s upset, dreading the news he’s about to send hurtling out across Australia, but the story has him in its grip and by the time he gets to her office he can think of nothing else.
The rest of the day is a blur; the first story hitting the web in time for the lunchtime peak. Martin filing what he’s gleaned from Robbie—the fact that homicide has choppered in from Sydney, plus some background on Snouch—with the Sydney police reporter Bethanie Glass pulling it together with information she has garnered from headquarters and the clippings file. No sooner has he filed than Bethanie is on the phone. She’s got a fresh line from a police source. So far there are two bodies, almost skeletal, in the farm dam. Police are working on the theory they’re German hitchhikers, Heidi Schmeikle and Anna Brün, last seen getting into a blue car in Swan Hill about a year ago. Martin asks for the date, does his calculations. Mid-January. A Tuesday, five days before Byron Swift lost it and started shooting his parishioners. What the fuck does that mean? It doesn’t matter, it’s going in the paper: let the readers speculate.
Martin files again, including Swift in the main story, then knocking out a side piece, speculating wildly about Swift’s potential involvement, setting out the dates of the abduction and murder and of the St James massacre. He includes Robbie’s theory that the priest and the alleged rapist Harley Snouch were in it together, attributing the information to police sources, joining the dots for the readers in a flurry of inspiration, indignation and righteousness. And as he writes, it feels good to purge himself on the computer screen, to vent his anger at the two perpetrators, one living, one dead; one a rapist, the other a mass murderer, both of whom had somehow inveigled him into doubting their guilt. Now, in his copy, the ambiguities of the real world are banished, all is black and white, there are no shades of grey. The words flow in a torrent, almost writing themselves: the evidence, the summation, the conviction. Guilty as proved. He attaches the copy to an email and clicks the send button with a self-satisfied sigh.
He starts work on a third piece: a feature about a once-proud town, ravaged by drought, besieged by bushfire, where good people fight to retain honour and dignity against unfair odds. He describes how their efforts have been undermined by atrocity and murder, how the town will forever be inextricably linked to unspeakable evil: ‘the Snowtown of the Riverina’ as one local now calls it. He writes of how deeply the townspeople feel betrayed, people like Constable Robbie Haus-Jones, who had worked with the priest at a youth centre, and who eventually cleansed the town by shooting Swift. He shamelessly includes the story of Robbie and himself putting their lives on the line to rescue Snouch just two days before his arrest. He reworks it, puts the fire at the top, making the contrast between the good cop and the twisted criminal all the stronger, understating his own heroism, but making sure it’s included. It’s better than a good yarn, better than a strong narrative; it’s a real cracker. Defoe will be spewing, Max will be elated, the newsroom sceptics will be silenced. He gets it away by mid-afternoon, feeling vindicated. It’s Saturday tomorrow, the biggest paper of the week. Talk about good timing. Front page, man on the spot, sidebar on the Byron Swift connection, plus a feature in News Review. Some of the old electricity is back, some of the old nervousness, something he hasn’t felt since before Gaza.
He rings Bethanie. She’s happy, confident they have demolished the competition, says the editors are arguing over what to put online and what to hold for the splash. They agree to watch the television news, see if there is anything they need to add. Martin mentions that he’s working on a follow-up for the Sunday papers about Byron Swift’s mysterious past, making sure he stakes his claim lest Bethanie get wind of the story through her Sydney police contacts. Then he takes a break, stretching his back as he stands. It’s been a while since he’s spent so many uninterrupted hours on a keyboard.
Mandy is in the kitchen. Liam is in some sort of harness, attached by springs to a doorframe, and is bouncing up and down, chuckling to himself. Mandy is cutting beans, as if hypnotised. There is a huge pile beside her on the bench. Martin sits at the kitchen table, breathes, allows a moment for the thoughts tumbling through his head to subside, re-entering the here and now. Mandy continues cutting beans.
‘Mandy, there’s no way you could have known.’
‘Really? You think? What sort of idiot am I? Just when I start to forgive him, this happens. Always getting fucked over, always the victim, always these fucking men stomping all over me.’
Martin doesn’t know what to say, so he steps up behind her, placing his hands on her shoulders, a gesture of comfort, but she shakes him off.
‘Don’t, Martin. Don’t walk up behind me when I’m holding a knife.’ There’s real anger in her voice.
‘Right,’ says Martin. He returns to his seat at the table. Mandy continues cutting beans. He wonders what he’s doing here, in this woman’s kitchen, a woman so cruelly treated by the fates. What will he do when the story is finished? After he has his front pages and his feature articles? Drive back out of town, leaving her here? Isn’t that what she wants, what she expects? He’s starting to regret sleeping with her. There was the euphoria of surviving the bushfire, her own willingness, but even so. He’s about to say something when he notices the blue flowers in the vase on the windowsill above the sink. ‘Nice flowers. What are they?’
‘What?’
‘The flowers.’ He gestures.
‘What the fuck, Martin? They’re swamp peas. Fran gave them to me when I picked up Liam. She sells them down at the store.’