Fran Landers? Martin remembers her praying in the church, the widow defending Swift. What had she said? Something about Swift being kind and decent.
He’s about to ask Mandy more, but is interrupted by a buzzer. ‘What’s that?’
‘Someone in the store. I forgot to lock up. Keep an eye on Liam, I’ll be right back.’
Martin looks at the chubby child, who is now rocking gently back and forth in his harness, dark eyes gleaming up at him. Martin puts out a hand, extends a finger. The child takes it, wraps his tiny fist around it. So small, so pink. A blank hand, with none of life’s transgressions inscribed upon it.
Mandy returns. ‘It’s someone for you,’ she says. ‘Some television reporter.’
‘Shit, that didn’t take long.’
‘No. They’ve parked their choppers on the school oval. They’re prowling around town filming anything that moves, knocking on doors, trying to find someone to interview.’
Martin thinks about it for a moment, then walks out into the store. He doesn’t know the man, but recognises him from television: Doug Thunkleton. The TV man recognises him, strides towards him, hand outstretched, greeting him like an old friend. ‘Martin Scarsden. Wonderful to see you.’
The man has a rich baritone, even deeper in reality than it sounds on the news. He’s wearing a tie, no jacket, his shirtsleeves rolled up. His face is make-up smooth with no sign of sweat.
Doug doesn’t muck about. ‘Martin, we’re almost on deadline. We need to chopper out to Swan Hill to feed. Any chance of an interview? As the reporter who broke this story?’
Martin feigns reluctance, but agrees. Max will love it: his man and his paper on the evening news.
Doug has a car, an old Ford, hired with television’s magic chequebook from some local. There’s a baby seat still bolted into the back and the interior smells of blue cheese. Martin wonders how much he’s paying.
The TV reporter drives them to St James, where his camera crew is filming. They stand Martin in front of the church, bounce the sun into his eye with a large white disc, and Doug gets going, not so much questioning him as prompting him, like two colleagues colluding. And collude they do: Doug dons the voice of television authority, his demeanour suitably serious, while Martin wraps himself in the mystique of the investigative reporter, a man with covert sources and deep knowledge. He lets slip that he has been researching the story for a considerable amount of time, states that it’s a Sydney Morning Herald investigation, hints at police contacts. He mentions at least a half-a-dozen times that the full story will be in tomorrow’s paper. Five minutes and they’re done, Doug attempting to wheedle a little more information out of his interviewee as the crew picks up some editing shots. Martin doesn’t add anything, other than to imply that he has the trust of the police, that they’re grateful for his insights. Martin leaves the crew scrambling to get Doug’s new piece to camera recorded. The last thing he hears is the cameraman saying, ‘Fantastic. That’ll fuck the ABC.’
When Martin gets back to the Oasis, he finds the door locked. There’s no GON OUT, BACKSON sign. He knocks, but there’s no answer. He glances at his watch. It’s twenty minutes to five. The Channel Ten chopper lifts off from the primary school oval and heads south, followed shortly after by the ABC. Martin feels a little surge of satisfaction. They’re here to follow up his story.
He walks down to the general store.
Fran Landers gives him a smile when he enters. ‘Hello, Martin. Need some more water?’
It occurs to him that he does, so he walks to the end of the aisle and picks up two sixpacks of one-litre bottles, wishing he’d driven the car down from where he had left it outside the Oasis. He walks back down a different aisle, confirming that he and Fran are the only ones in the store, and places the water on the counter.
‘You heard about the police at Springfields?’ he asks, as a way of initiating conversation.
‘I’ve heard of nothing else. The town’s abuzz. Television reporters like blowflies. Awful people.’
‘Indeed,’ says Martin.
‘You are as well, of course,’ says Fran, smiling. ‘Although in your case, you’re forgiven.’ There’s something flirtatious in her manner. Martin wonders if she’s coming on to him.
‘That’s nice to hear. What are people saying?’
The coquettish smile drops away and she sighs. ‘That there are bodies in Harley Snouch’s dam. At least half-a-dozen. Discovered by a power company linesman, or an insurance inspector, or a firefighting helicopter refilling from his dam. They’ve already flown Snouch to Sydney to interrogate him. Awful man. He should never have been allowed back into town.’
Martin considers this, decides there’s not much point in pursuing town rumours, that Robbie Haus-Jones and Herb Walker will be more reliable sources of information. Instead, he indicates the bunches of pale blue flowers standing in a small white bucket at the end of the counter. ‘Nice flowers. Swamp peas, aren’t they?’
‘That’s right. Very good. Would you like a bunch?’
‘Not right now. Can’t carry them. Do they grow around here?’
‘Most years. Great swathes of them around Blackfellas Lagoon on the other side of the river. Beautiful. Not in the drought, though; no water. I pick them down near Bellington. Even on the Murray, they’re almost impossible to find. But I know a billabong where they still grow. It’s very pretty down there first thing in the morning as the sun is rising.’
‘Long way to go for flowers.’
‘Not really—I go every day to get the papers, bread and milk.’
‘And to put swamp peas on Byron Swift’s grave.’
Fran stops moving, expression draining from her face. Martin thinks of her praying in St James. Praying for whom?
‘It’s okay, Fran. I’m not going to put your name in the paper. Not like that.’
‘Like what, then?’
‘Explain it to me. Why are you mourning Byron Swift?’
‘He was a good man.’
‘He killed your husband.’
‘I know he did. It was awful. Unforgiveable. But you didn’t know him from before all that. He was a kind man. So gentle.’
Martin nods, grits his teeth, concluding it’s better to be blunt. ‘Were you having an affair with him?’
The shopkeeper doesn’t answer immediately, but he can see the confirmation in her wide eyes, in her open mouth, in the way she involuntarily takes a small step backwards.
‘Are you going to put that in the paper?’
‘No. And I won’t mention your name if I do. Besides, I’ve got my editor on my back. They want everything they can get on Springfields and the bodies in the dam. The anniversary of the shooting at St James has very much taken a back seat.’
‘I see.’
‘Fran, what can you tell me about Harley Snouch?’
‘Is this for your paper?’
Martin nods. ‘But I won’t use your name.’
The woman sighs, relieved at the change in topic. ‘Okay. I guess I owe you, after all, for saving Jamie. But please don’t write about Byron and me. Jamie has been through so much. He doesn’t need that.’
Martin nods. ‘I promise I won’t mention you. Not by name.’
Fran looks unsure, eyes unhappy. ‘What do you want to know about Snouch?’
‘I’m not sure. Everything, I guess.’
‘Well, there’s not that much to tell, really. He turned up a while back, maybe two years ago, moved into his family’s place, Springfields, but only after his father died. He was a lovely old fellow, Eric. A true gentleman. People said he had banished Harley, wouldn’t allow him to step foot in the house while he drew breath. First time he came into the store, I didn’t know who he was. Seemed nice enough, but there was something strange about him, something out of kilter. Then I found out who he was. After that, I didn’t talk to him, no more than I had to. I wouldn’t refuse him service, but I didn’t encourage it. He was pretty much ostracised. I see him wandering around, wearing that awful old coat, always drunk.’
‘What did he do that was so terrible?’
‘Didn’t Mandy tell you?’
‘Not really,’ he dissembles. ‘It upsets her too much.’
‘Yes, well, that’s true.’