Back the other way the doors on the left open onto hotel rooms. At the end of the corridor, where it turns ninety degrees to the right, there is another open door, leading into the best room in the hotel, the corner room. There’s a double bed, a washbasin and a small desk, and the room has its own set of French doors opening onto the verandah. Someone has been sleeping on the bare mattress of the bed; there are blankets bundled at its end and an ashtray full of butts on the bedside table. On the floor, next to an empty bourbon bottle, there’s a scattering of pornographic magazines. Martin picks one up; he didn’t think they still existed in this digital age. There’s nothing subtle about the imagery. It’s brutal, mechanical, emotionless, the flat lighting leaving nothing to the imagination. He wonders if they belong to the person in the checked shirt.
Exiting the room, Martin follows the corridor around its right-angle corner. It opens out a little where thickly carpeted stairs with brass runners head down on the right to a landing, from where they must continue back towards the front of the hotel. Opposite the stairs a wide passage leads to the verandah. There’s an ornate dresser on one side of the passage and a bucolic print depicting an English fox hunt on the other. Martin continues along the main corridor, more open doors to the left. To his right, a door opens onto a guest lounge. An old sofa and lopsided armchairs face a new flat-screen television. Someone has been here as well. Another overflowing ashtray, empty beer cans, dirty coffee cups.
The smell is worse down this end of the hotel, no longer merely musty. There are communal bathrooms at the end of the corridor, one for men, one for women. Martin gives them a miss. There is a final hotel room, this time with the door closed. Martin approaches it, and the smell is coming at him in waves: the smell of death. His stomach turns, from the stench and from the trepidation at what he might find inside the room. He holds his breath, pushes the door open, braces himself.
The place reeks. He pinches his nose shut between finger and thumb and enters, almost afraid to look at the bed. But it’s empty. What, then? He walks around the bed and there, lying spread on the floor, is the body of a cat, crawling with maggots and flies. Martin gags. Mr Puss, he guesses; locked in the hotel room with no way out. Poor thing. Martin retreats backwards towards the door, but then stops. He creeps forward again. There. The cat’s tail has been nailed to the floor.
Martin sits slumped on a bench in the Riversend police station, wondering if Walker will give him the time of day. The pretty young constable behind the counter has taken Martin’s name through to the office and returned with the message that if ‘sir’ would like to wait, Sergeant Walker will talk to him when he has an opportunity. So Martin sits and waits, suspecting Walker will simply leave him stewing all afternoon. There’s a wooden rack filled with brochures: Neighbourhood Watch, fire permits, how to get your driver’s licence.
Forty minutes later, Jason the army vet emerges from the back rooms and walks out of the station, deep in thought and apparently oblivious to Martin’s presence. A minute or two later Herb Walker appears. Martin leaps to his feet. Walker regards him with contempt. ‘This better be good, fuckface.’
‘Herb. Thanks for seeing me—’
‘I didn’t come to see you. I came for a smoke. C’mon.’ He walks to a door leading out to the car park at the back of the station.
Outside, the overweight police sergeant extracts a cigarette and disposable plastic lighter from a khaki packet, lights up, sucks in a huge lungful of smoke and blows it back out with a long sigh of satisfaction. Only then does he regard Martin. ‘That’s better,’ he says. ‘You can’t even blow smoke in their faces while you interrogate the fuckers anymore.’
‘Herb, I just want you to know I wasn’t aware of the article until I saw it this morning—’
Walker has his hand up, palm out, ordering Martin to stop. ‘I hope like hell that isn’t why you’ve come here.’
‘No, but it’s worth saying.’
‘Really? And if you had known, would you have pulled the story to help me out?’
‘No. But I would have warned you, got your side of the story, and made sure it was written as objectively as possible.’
The policeman takes another long suck of his cigarette. ‘So what is it that you desperately want to tell me? Be quick, you’re on cigarette time. As soon as I’ve finished this, I’m back inside.’
‘Byron Swift couldn’t have killed those girls. At least, he couldn’t have abducted them.’
Walker raises his eyebrows. ‘That’s interesting. How do you know that?’
Martin tells the policeman about Mandy’s record of her being with Byron on the night of the abduction, explaining that she’s willing to talk to the police, but would prefer not to be paraded before the media.
Walker listens intently, finishes his smoke with another massive toke and grinds the butt beneath his black boot.
‘So this is going to be in the paper tomorrow?’
‘Yes. There’s no reason to hold it, is there?’
‘You asking permission to publish?’
‘No.’
‘No, I didn’t think so. You shagging her now, are you?’
‘What’s that got to do with anything?’
‘Not a lot.’ Walker offers a leery grin.
‘Herb?’
‘Yes, Martin?’
‘Did you find out? Did he make calls from St James before the shooting?’
Walker looks at Martin as if deciding whether or not to confide. ‘Yes. Two calls. One outgoing, then one incoming.’
‘You have the numbers?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Will you tell me when you do?’
‘Maybe. If I need your help. If I don’t, you can whistle Dixie. But right now, you’ve had more than your durry’s worth. I need to get back in there. Tell Miss Mandalay Blonde we’ll be in touch.’ ‘Before you go, Herb: today’s story, Bethanie’s story, the tip-off to Crime Stoppers about the bodies in the dam—what happened?’
‘Get fucked, Scarsden.’
It’s only as he’s leaving the station that Martin remembers he hasn’t told Walker about the dead cat. He’d been intending to, just in case it held any significance. A shiver defies the oppressive heat, running up his spine. There is something wrong with this town, as if the heat has turned it, like milk curdled by the sun.
He sees Carrie the photographer across the road, chiacking with the other photographers and camera crews. Doug Thunkleton’s cameraman says ‘g’day’ as Martin approaches. ‘Anything happening?’ he asks. ‘They doing a doorstop?’
‘Not that they’re telling me,’ replies Martin. ‘Where’s Doug?’
‘He’s been looking for you. Wants you for another interview.’
‘Is that right? Where is he?’
‘Where do you reckon? At the club with the rest of you slack-arse journos.’
‘I’ll give him your love.’ Martin walks away a few metres, followed by Carrie, so they can confer in private.
‘I’ve shot the shit out of it,’ says the snapper. ‘Unless something happens soon, or unless you’ve got some requests, I’m pretty much out of ideas. You think we’re going to see an arrest?’
‘Don’t know. The cops are telling me jack shit. But Bethanie and I have another good yarn for tomorrow, so they’ll be needing pictures. You got any of the cops?’
‘Yeah. Some good ones of them gathered in a huddle talking early this morning. There’s a bit of finger-pointing, like they’re debating something. The cop cars are in the background with nothing else but trees. They could be anywhere. Crime scene, anywhere.’
‘Where were they?’
‘Outside the services club. Here, have a look.’ She scrolls through the photos using the screen on the back of her camera, but even in the shade the day is too bright to discern much detail.
‘Looks perfect. What were they debating?’
‘No idea. I was on the long lens, couldn’t hear a thing. Probably what to have for breakfast. How much longer do you think I’ll be needed up here?’
‘Don’t know. If they arrest anyone, they’ll want to parade them for the cameras, but who knows if that’ll happen. Why? You need to get back to Melbourne?’
‘Wouldn’t mind. Slept in the car last night.’
Martin thinks guiltily of his motel room. ‘Shit. That’s no good. You could have shared with me.’
‘Thanks, Martin—you’re not the first to offer,’ she says sardonically.
‘Listen, the Channel Ten guys are staying at some swish place in Bellington. Why not move down there?’
‘You sure?’
‘Absolutely. Mobiles work down there. I can always call if there’s anything urgent.’
‘Done.’