‘Shot through the head. We’ll trawl the dam for bullets. If we can link them to Swift’s guns, or to Snouch’s, that’ll be game over.’
‘Right. But apart from the timing—the week before Swift went postal—and the location—close by Riversend—there is nothing substantial or conclusive linking Swift with the backpacker murders?’
‘Well, nothing conclusive, that’s for sure. But there is some new information.’
‘Can you share it with me?’
‘Let me have a think.’ Walker draws on his cigarette, examines it, takes another long toke, then stubs it out on the outside of the door and drops the butt into the laneway. He issues one last stream of smoke through the window and then closes it. ‘All right, you can write it, but pretend you discovered it all by yourself. No citing police sources or any of that shit. There’s an old coot lives out there who reckons that Swift used to go out shooting in the Scrublands, rabbits and stuff, not that far from where the bodies were dumped. His name is William Harris. People call him Codger.’
‘And that’s new information?’
‘Yeah.’
‘How come that wasn’t discovered after the church shooting?’
‘Good question. As I told you, there were people protecting Swift while he was alive—and who wanted to protect him after he was dead. Anyway, I gotta get going. Where can I drop you?’
‘At the bookstore. The Oasis. You know it?’
‘Sure. What’s happening there?’
‘Good coffee.’
‘Right. And that hornbag single mum, hey? Wouldn’t mind a bit of that myself.’
Martin doesn’t respond, and a moment later Herb Walker drops him right outside. ‘Good on ya, Martin. I’ll see about those phone calls. Just remember, leave me out of it. Give me a ring if you need anything.’
‘Absolutely. And, Herb, thanks for your help. I really appreciate it.’
‘No sweat, mate. Stir that possum hard.’
Martin jumps out of the four-wheel drive and watches Walker head off towards the highway and Bellington. He turns and mounts the footpath outside the bookstore, wondering how Codger Harris’s information has only now reached the investigating officers and why Robbie Haus-Jones had withheld it. Was he part of the conspiracy Walker was alleging, to protect Byron Swift and cover his tracks?
Martin wonders about D’Arcy Defoe. The two have been rivals ever since joining the Herald as cadets together. They’re like oil and water: D’Arcy in his tailored suits, Martin in his jeans; D’Arcy indulging in fine dining and finer wines on his expenses while Martin lives on takeaways; D’Arcy cultivating the top end of town and currying favour with management, Martin doing his best to ignore them. Their relationship is competitive, respectful and superficially friendly, and has remained so, even as their contemporaries have fallen away onto the editorial backbench or been lured away by the money and family-friendly hours of public relations. They rose through the ranks together: Defoe the wordsmith and Scarsden the newshound. There was an evening drinking wine in London when Defoe had declared there are two types of correspondents: ‘frontline correspondents and chateau correspondents’. He didn’t need to spell out how he saw their respective roles.
But Defoe has always been a good reporter. Martin can’t believe he would willingly bury Walker’s allegation of powerful people protecting Swift. More likely he’d held off on writing it, searching out confirmation from his high-level contacts in state parliament. That’s another of their differences: D’Arcy is adept at playing the long game, storing away facts, leads and contacts only to bring them together weeks or months later in a big reveal. Martin is more like a bull at a gate, anxious to publish and move on to the next story. Perhaps Defoe has never been able to stand the allegations up? Or perhaps he will, now that the story is current once again. Perhaps he’s already deploying his company credit card at Sydney’s better restaurants, garnering information, preparing a splash to overshadow Martin’s anniversary profile on Riversend. Martin wouldn’t put it past him.
The bookstore is open but empty. Martin walks up the aisle and pushes the swing door open. He sticks his head through. ‘Hello?’ he yells.
‘Down here.’ It’s Mandy.
He finds her in the bathroom off the kitchen, giving her boy a bath. ‘Hi there,’ he says.
‘Hi.’
‘All right if I work out of your office again? The police gave a doorstop; I need to file.’
She takes a breath before answering. ‘Sure. If you have to.’ Permission granted, but her voice is grudging.
‘Thanks, Mandy. We’ll catch up later, okay?’
‘Maybe not. Not tonight, Martin.’ She is kneeling beside the bath, her back to him, hands supporting the boy.
‘You okay?’
‘Sure. Why wouldn’t I be? But I’ve had a long day. I’m zonked.’
‘Anything I can do?’
‘Tell the truth.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘Byron. He didn’t kill those girls.’
‘You can’t be sure of that.’
‘You can’t be sure he did.’
Martin doesn’t know what to say. He can hear an edge to her voice, an edge of controlled anger. ‘Maybe I should work from the motel.’
‘Yeah. Maybe you should.’
MARTIN SCARSDEN IS FEELING DECIDEDLY UNSETTLED AS HE WALKS DOWN HAY Road through the Sunday morning quiet. He heads towards the general store, past the soldier standing vigil outside the empty Commercial Hotel. He feels none of the exuberance or confidence of the previous morning, when the story seemed so obvious and his perspective so clear. He doesn’t walk down the centre of the street; instead he hugs the shade of the shop awnings, haunted by doubts. Two backpackers are dead, dead a full year, found by Harley Snouch in his farm dam. The town priest, Byron Swift, and his five victims are also dead, dead and buried twelve months ago. But the rest is elusive. No one can definitively say why Swift shot Craig Landers and his mates in the Bellington Anglers Club, no one knows who killed the German backpackers or why, and no one knows if there is a connection between the two killings. Eight people shot dead and no answers. Or if there are answers, he doesn’t know what they are, despite his front-page splashes. Maybe, instead of trying to figure it out by himself, he should be concentrating on those who know more than he does.
He’s aware he’s been lucky with Robbie Haus-Jones and Herb Walker; both have entrusted him with information they shouldn’t be sharing with a journalist. Martin considers this. In Robbie’s case, they’ve formed a bond, first through Martin saving the life of Jamie Landers and then through surviving the firestorm at Springfields together. But possibly through something else. Robbie was friends with Byron Swift and must still be coming to terms with shooting him dead on the church steps, while trying to work out in his own mind why his friend turned homicidal. And just a few weeks ago, Herb Walker had shared his suspicion that Swift was an imposter. Walker said that had rattled the constable.
Who does Robbie confide in? From whom does he draw solace and support? Not from Walker, that much seems clear. How does he bear up, all alone in this town, carrying that weight? As far as Martin knows, he has no partner, no family, no close friends. A real loner. Perhaps Robbie recognises in Martin a kindred spirit. Or maybe he hopes Martin can discover Swift’s motivation and determine his real identity. Martin wonders what the constable will make of this morning’s papers and his feature on the priest with no past.