‘Herb. It’s Martin Scarsden. I am so sorry about the story in today’s paper. I promise, I didn’t know. It was my colleague, Bethanie Glass. She got it from her sources in Sydney. I’ll try your mobile. Hope to talk soon.’
‘Shit. Shit, shit, shit,’ he mutters to himself as he dials the mobile number.
The call goes straight to voicemail. Martin is forced to repeat his awkward message of denial.
‘Shit,’ he says to himself, hanging up. He addresses the shopkeeper, who is lugging another load in from the car. ‘Thanks for that, Fran. I’ve gotta run. We’ll talk. I’ll make it up to you somehow. Promise.’
‘Yeah, sure,’ she says as he rushes past her and out the door.
Doug Thunkleton and his camera crew are draped over the old armchairs inside the Oasis, drinking coffee and reading the papers, when Martin pushes through the door. One of the camera guys has Liam out of the playpen and is bouncing him up and down on his knee, making vastly stupid faces and eliciting gurgles of joy from the boy.
‘Here he is,’ says Doug enthusiastically, ‘the man of the moment.’
‘Hi, Doug,’ replies Martin flatly. ‘Where’d you get the papers?’
‘Bellington. We’re in the Riverside Resort and Spa. Swimming pool, bar, wireless. Mobile reception. And there’s some okay restaurants down there. You should move down. It’s only a forty-minute drive.’
‘I’ll think about it. Thanks for the tip. Is Mandy about, the owner?’
‘Out the back, making toasties. You just missed the coppers. They were just in getting coffee.’
‘Bugger. Did they say anything? They doing another doorstop?’
‘No, didn’t say a lot. Not overly impressed with your piece, though.’
‘I guess not.’
‘Yeah, well fuck ’em,’ says Doug casually, oozing journalistic solidarity. ‘We’re not here to help. It’s a top story. I wish I’d got it. My people are very revved up.’
‘Yeah, I can imagine. Did Walker say anything?’
‘The Bellington cop? No. I asked him for an interview. You know, giving him the opportunity to put his side of the story. He just looked at me like I was some kind of turd. The old story: when the cops want publicity, they tip us off, but when they fuck up, they brush us off.’
‘Always the way,’ says Martin, wondering if he should wait for Mandy or go out the back to find her.
‘Say, Martin,’ says Doug, ‘you got time for a quick interview? Your story is driving the news cycle. We could get it out of the way before the day gets messy.’
The last thing Martin wants is to be seen gloating about Bethanie’s scoop on television; nothing would piss Walker off more. ‘Maybe later on, Doug. There’s a few things I need to check out. The story may have moved on by this evening.’
‘Really?’ says Doug, news antenna twitching. ‘You got more coming?’
‘We’ve always got more coming,’ says Martin, regretting his smart-arse tone even as he speaks. What is it about these TV types that gets up his nose so much?
The situation is saved by Mandy emerging from the back room carrying toasted sandwiches in brown paper bags. Doug Thunkleton pays, making sure to collect the receipt from Mandy, then distributes the bags to his crew. The camera guy gently returns Liam to his pen.
‘We’d better get going,’ says Doug. ‘Lot to do. Got a few strong leads of my own to follow up. Might catch you later.’
The television team departs, leaving Martin and Mandy in the silence of the bookstore.
‘Busy morning,’ says Martin.
‘Busy morning,’ says Mandy. ‘Sold a lot of coffee.’ Her manner is distant, her smile absent, but at least the quiet anger of the past day or two seems to have dissipated. Perhaps she’s accepted he has little choice but to report the story. ‘There’s a lot of messages for you. Your Sydney journo, Bethanie, left at least half-a-dozen.’
‘This morning?’
‘Yesterday afternoon and evening. She didn’t find you?’
‘No. She must have been calling me about today’s story.’
‘Yeah, I saw it. That slimy TV reporter showed me. That fat cop left a message for you too. They were in for coffee a moment ago. Here.’ She gives Martin a piece of folded paper.
Martin takes the paper, opens it up, reads the message: Fuck you too pal.
‘Not good?’ asks Mandy.
‘Not good.’ He shows her the note, provoking a small smile.
‘Couldn’t have said it better myself,’ she says.
‘Yeah, thanks for that.’
‘Your story in the paper—it’s all wrong.’
‘About Walker? It’s not my story; it’s all Bethanie’s work.’
‘Not that story.’
‘My feature on Swift? What’s wrong with it? He was a man without a past. And the allegation about preying on children is on the public record and the cops have confirmed it.’
‘No. Not that.’ Mandy is looking at him calmly, without rancour.
‘What then?’
‘You all but convict him of killing those girls, the backpackers.’
‘That’s what the police believe. It’s in the article. They say he used to go shooting out in the Scrublands.’
‘Yes. That’s true.’
‘You knew that?’
There’s a silence in the bookstore. Martin can hear the tinkling of the water feature on the counter, the slow movement of the ceiling fan. Liam is silent. Mandy is looking at Martin expectantly.
‘Mandy, tell me.’
‘Byron didn’t kill those girls, Martin.’
‘So you said yesterday. How can you be so sure?’
‘I’ve checked. That night they were taken, down in Swan Hill, he was here, with me. All night.’
‘Christ. You and Byron Swift?’ Martin’s mind spins, recalibrating, accommodating this unexpected information. ‘Are you sure? About the timing, I mean?’
‘Yes. I wrote it down. I keep a diary. Sorry.’
‘Sorry? Why sorry?’
‘Your story. It’s wrong again.’
She’s right, of course. The day before Martin had all but convicted Harley Snouch and today he has all but convicted Byron Swift. But his immediate concern is for her, not his inaccurate reporting. He takes the few short steps to bridge the gulf between them and puts his hands on her shoulders, half anticipating she will push him away. Instead, she moves closer, allowing him to embrace her. And for a moment that’s enough. But only for a moment.
‘You know we can’t keep this to ourselves, don’t you?’ he says.
She nods. ‘Will you write about it?’
‘I’ll have to. But first, we need to tell the police. They’re working on the theory that Byron Swift was involved in the murder.’
‘I guess you’re right. I don’t have to show them my diary, though, do I?’
‘I imagine so. Why not? Are there things you don’t want them to read?’
‘Yes. Of course.’
‘Illegal things?’
‘No. Just private things.’
‘There are eight people shot dead. They’re going to want to see it.’
The discussion is abruptly interrupted—two journalists and a photographer barge into the store, demanding coffee. Martin asks Mandy permission to use the phone. She nods and starts on the coffees as he makes his way back to the office. He rings Bethanie on her mobile. She picks up on the third ring.
‘Martin? Is that you?’
‘Yeah, it’s me.’
‘Did you see the story? I was trying to get hold of you all yesterday afternoon and evening. Didn’t you get any of my messages?’
‘No. I didn’t. My fault, but I wish I’d known in advance.’
There’s a pause before Bethanie speaks. ‘Martin, I’m sorry—if he was one of your sources, I mean. But Max made the call, said we couldn’t sit on it.’
‘Understood. I should have been checking for messages.’
‘Are you still staying at the Black Dog?’
‘Yeah. I must have been out walking.’
‘Right. Got a better offer, hey?’ And she laughs. ‘Who’s that cute Melbourne snapper again?’
‘Yeah, I wish. Listen, we’ve got a few problems. I’ve just got hold of some new information that appears to rule out Byron Swift being involved in the killing of the backpackers. Or at least it clears him from being part of their abduction.’
‘Shit. Is that from the cops? They’re still talking to you?’
‘No. It’s not from the cops. I’m going to have to tell them, though.’
‘What’s the problem then?’