When Martin arrives at the services club, he goes straight to Tommy’s Saigon Asian. Having explored the confusing menu extensively during the past week, he knows what to avoid, if not exactly what he likes. Today he orders chicken schnitzel and chips, with a side order of stir-fried English spinach. Tommy, a second-generation Vietnamese–Australian with a strine accent strong enough to cut glass, takes his money, says ‘No worries, mate’ and hands Martin a plastic disc that will light up and vibrate when his lunch is ready. Martin pays and makes his way through to the club proper.
A small group of journos have congealed around a table not far from the bar. Some are trying to work on laptops, swearing at the hypothetical wi-fi, while others are kicking back and chatting.
Doug Thunkleton greets him, his booming voice full of bonhomie. ‘Martin Scarsden! The great man! Join us.’
Martin declines with a wave and a smile. ‘Maybe later.’ He goes to the bar where Errol is again working.
‘Hi, mate. What can I get you?’
‘G’day, Errol. Schooner of light beer, thanks.’
‘Stubby okay?’
‘Sure.’
Errol fetches the Tasmanian beer in the familiar green bottle. Martin gives Errol twenty dollars, but Errol doesn’t go to the till straight away. ‘Anything happening down there?’
‘Where’s that?’ Martin asks.
‘The cop shop. Heard they were doing interviews. People from out in the Scrublands.’
‘Yeah. Just been down there. All looks pretty routine to me, but they’re keeping it tight.’
‘Reckon it was the priest, do they?’
‘That seems to be the main theory. What do you reckon?’
‘Me? Wouldn’t have the foggiest. Don’t know why you buggers keep asking me. As if I’d know.’ And Errol goes to the register and gets Martin his change.
Martin takes his beer and moves towards a table a good distance from the clutch of journalists, but he can see Doug Thunkleton and the others sizing him up. The last thing he feels like is supplying the television bulletins with another talking head, so Martin keeps going, taking his beer and his plastic disc out onto the deck overlooking the river.
The heat is stifling after the air-conditioned interior of the club, almost unbearable, despite the shade provided by a canopy of translucent plastic. He places his beer on a small table and stands with his back to the glass windows of the club, fishing out his sunglasses to guard against the glare. Before him, he can see the long slow bend in the riverbed. No, not slow, stopped; it’s completely devoid of water. The trees hang unmoved by even a whisper of breeze. There’s still the smell of smoke in the air, lingering from Wednesday’s fire. Somewhere in the far distance he can hear cicadas. He’s trying to ascertain the direction when he hears a rattling cough. He’s not alone on the deck. Over behind one of the roof pillars, Codger Harris is working his way through a rollie.
‘G’day, Codger. Mind if I join you?’
‘Free country, son.’
Martin pulls up a seat next to the former bank manager. The older man offers him his tobacco packet, but Martin declines.
‘Anything left of your place?’
‘Some. Not much to start with.’
‘Insurance?’
‘A bit. For the fencing and water. The house escaped. Guess the fire reckoned it wasn’t worth the effort.’
‘What about the cattle?’
‘Don’t know. Some survived, for sure. But that could be a cruel joke.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Well, there was fuck-all feed as it was. What the drought didn’t kill off, the fire has. If it rains, after a fire like that, it’ll be green as Kent. Fattest cows you ever saw. If it doesn’t rain, they’ll starve to death. Or I’ll have to go shoot ’em.’
Martin examines his beer. There isn’t a lot to say.
‘Talking of which, it wasn’t you who dobbed me in to the coppers, was it?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘They had me down there half the morning, asking me about Reverend Swift coming out shooting in the Scrublands. Wanted to know all about it. Get that from you?’
‘Not directly. It was in an article I wrote, that he went out into the scrub shooting. But I didn’t say your place. There are a few people around town who knew about it. I know at least one person told Robbie Haus-Jones.’
‘That nice young copper in town here? Wonder why he’s coughing up now.’
‘Fairly straightforward, I’d think,’ says Martin. ‘After the church shooting, it was largely irrelevant. Swift was dead. Didn’t matter what he’d done beforehand. But once the bodies were discovered in the dam at Springfields, suddenly it’s relevant.’
‘So covering his arse, then.’
‘How do you mean?’ asks Martin.
‘Well, you know—five innocents dead, plus the priest. “Officer Haus-Jones, was there any warning, any way this could have been predicted or prevented?” “No, sir. Nothing. He lived in Bellington.” But then when those girls are hauled out of that dam at Snouch’s place, it’s time to fess up. “New information, sir. Hope it’s useful.” It’s what I’d do in his situation.’
Martin nods slowly. Codger Harris may look decrepit, but his brain cells are still firing. ‘So the police wanted to know about anyone coming out to your place shooting?’
‘Yeah, pretty much. Didn’t feel too comfortable dobbing on people, but as the cops said themselves, this is murder, not some speeding ticket.’
‘So, apart from the priest, who did go shooting in the Scrublands?’
‘Couldn’t say. It’s a huge area. The only ones for sure were Craig Landers and the Newkirks and their mates. They might come out once or twice a year.’
‘The Bellington Anglers Club?’
‘Is that what they called themselves? Yeah. But they were always well behaved. Always asked before they came on the property. Used to say cheerio when they were leaving, give me a rabbit or two, a couple of ducks one time.’
‘No one else?’
‘For sure there were others. You could hear the guns going off. Sometimes in the day, sometimes at night. But whoever it was, they didn’t come asking permission. Weird cunts, some of them, though.’
‘How’s that?’
‘Sometimes they’d shoot me cows, then butcher them. Drag their guts out, that sort of thing. After the choicest cuts, I’d reckon. Fucking waste, though. Whole cow for a kilo or two of steak.’
‘You sure that’s what they were doing?’
‘What else could it have been?’
‘I don’t know. Just for kicks. Possible, do you think?’
‘Jeez, young fella. You’d have to be pretty sick to do something like that.’
‘Well, you’d have to be pretty sick to kill a couple of pretty young backpackers and dump them in a farm dam.’
‘Yeah, well, ain’t that the truth. Sooner they lock up that bastard Snouch and chuck away the key, the better.’
‘You’re convinced it’s him?’
‘Yeah. Probably him killing me cows too. His family used to own all that land. Still thinks it’s his. It’d be just like the miserable shit to come killing my cows when he’s got plenty wandering around his own land.’
Martin drains the remnants of his beer, already grown tepid in the heat of the deck. ‘Where you staying, Codger? Not at the old pub, are you?’
‘Me? No. Wouldn’t mind, but the place is closed. Errol Ryding’s putting me up. Good man, Errol. I’ll get the bus down to Bellington tomorrow, see if I can buy a jalopy, then I can get back home.’
‘It’s just I thought I saw someone up on the pub verandah this morning. Thought it might have been you. I guess not. Might have been the owner, collecting some stuff.’
‘I think that’d be pretty unlikely, young fella.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘He’s dead. Topped himself. City bloke. Sank his pension into it. Did the place up, tried to make a go of a bistro. Anyway, his wife couldn’t stand it and went back to the city, then the drought really kicked in and the money dried up. Didn’t really know anyone, didn’t have anyone to talk to. Blew his brains out with a shotty. Happens more often than you’d think out here. Don’t know why I haven’t done it myself.’