MARTIN ENDS UP WRITING HIS STORY AT THE SERVICES CLUB. HE’S TRIED THE bookstore, but it’s shut, with the GON OUT, BACKSON sign hanging on the door. He guesses Mandy is with the cops, getting the third degree about Byron Swift and her diary. Pity. She might have been able to shed some more light on where the investigation is heading. Nevertheless, she’s most definitely going to be the top of the story; not much he can do about that.
A Sydney Morning Herald investigation has broken open the search for the vicious killers responsible for the brutal murder of German backpackers Heidi Schmeikle and Anna Brün, providing vital new information that has again shifted the focus of the police investigation.
The Herald has gathered evidence clearing the number-one police suspect, homicidal priest Byron Swift…
Before getting down to writing, Martin has relented, providing commentary for Doug Thunkleton and his rivals, all without revealing his new angle. Thankfully they’ve disappeared down to the resort in Bellington, leaving him to work in peace at the club. He extracts enough bandwidth from the recalcitrant wi-fi to file, then calls through first to Bethanie and then Max from the phone in the club foyer.
‘Yeah, okay, Martin, I’ve got it now. Looks good. Good stuff. Bethanie’s got a couple of minor additions, but it’s certainly a new angle.’
‘You don’t seem too enthused.’
‘To be honest, I’m not,’ says the editor.
‘You’re joking, right? The Herald out in front of the police? What could be better?’
‘You’re right. Sorry, champ. I’ve just been getting a lot of shit on this story. The editorial board have got their knickers in a knot. They’re demanding everything be legalled and fact-checked. They’re insisting on being kept in the loop.’
‘What? Three front pages in a row and they’re not happy? We own this story, Max. Look at the TV news tonight. I’m on most of them: the expert from the Herald. What more do they want?’
‘Accuracy, apparently.’
‘Shit, Max. What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Well, in no short time we have reported that Harley James Snouch is the primary murder suspect and an alleged rapist. With no substantive evidence of either. Then we all but convict Reverend Swift of the murders. That was in your stories in today’s paper, if you’ll recall. Today’s, Martin. And tomorrow’s splash is that Swift is probably innocent. To be honest, some of those upstairs are asking if you’re up to it.’
Martin is silent for a moment, taken aback by the allegation, before he feels a surge of defensive anger swelling.
‘What do you think, Max? Do you think that?’
‘No, I don’t. You have my utter confidence and trust.’ The reply comes immediately and with conviction.
Martin breathes out, some of the anger dissipating. Good old Max: a journo’s journo, an editor’s editor.
‘Thanks, Max, I appreciate it. But I really am reporting it as it happens to the best of my ability. It’s why the cops aren’t talking much on the record; they don’t know where this is heading either. They’d put all their eggs in the Byron Swift basket before this new info—I was reporting that one hundred per cent accurately. And I know they haven’t ruled Snouch out altogether. It could turn out that we were right all along.’
‘Well, keep at it. How much longer do you think you’ll need to be down there? It’s already been a week.’
‘What? As long as it takes. It’s the biggest story in the country. And I still want to do the feature piece, the original piece. That’s for next weekend. The anniversary of the shooting. As for the daily news stuff, who knows? The police investigation might peter out, or it could bust wide open.’
‘Fair enough. But, Martin, we’ve had a good run with it. It doesn’t have to be front page every day.’
‘What’s that mean?’
‘That means you don’t have anything to prove. Not to me, not to anybody else. You don’t have to push the envelope, not on every story.’
Martin stews on that for a moment. ‘Are you worried about my judgement?’
‘No, champ. Your judgement is fine. However, I do worry about you. How are you holding up?’
‘Terrific, actually. I’ve been feeling more like the old me. You were right; it was good to get out of the office and into the field.’
‘Glad to hear it. Ring if you need to sound me out on anything. Let’s not give those shits in Mahogany Row any ammunition.’
‘Thanks, Max. For everything.’
Martin buys a bottle of white wine at the bar and some takeaway at Tommy’s, carrying them down to the bookstore. The store is shut, but when he walks around the block to the back alley he can hear music coming out through the screen door of Mandy’s home. He knocks, hears the baby give a joyous gurgle, and then Mandy opens the door.
‘Hello, Martin,’ she says with a long sigh. She looks bedraggled, exhausted and beautiful. And not so keen to see him.
‘I brought a peace offering,’ he says, holding up the wine in its brown paper wrapper and the white plastic bag bursting with takeaway.
‘You’d better come in then.’
Liam is sitting in a highchair eating some orange mush that’s come out of a blender. The highchair is isolated in the middle of the kitchen and Martin can see why; for every spoonful that Liam gets to his mouth or its environs, he sends another dollop flying over the side of the highchair, cooing with delight as it splats onto the lino floor. Mandy frowns at him, shaking her head.
‘Thanks for this, Martin. I couldn’t bear cooking after today.’
‘So it didn’t go well?’
‘No. You could say that.’ There’s an irritated edge to her voice.
‘Want to talk about it?’
‘Want to knock the top off that bottle?’
She fetches some glasses, Martin opens the wine; he takes a sip, she takes a slug. Martin thinks about making some witty toast to lighten the mood, but the only things that come to mind seem lame so he simply raises his glass. Mandy doesn’t return the gesture; instead she sets out dishes on the table. Martin starts serving the food, waiting for the dam to burst. It doesn’t take long.
‘Those fuckwits,’ she starts. ‘I volunteered this information. I didn’t need to, I’m helping them to do their job, and they sit there and judge me. Like I’m the town bike or something.’
Martin says nothing, attempting to project a sympathetic air while dishing out Tommy’s eccentric approximation of Asian cuisine. The fried rice appears to contain corn kernels, spam and small cubes of beetroot, all sourced from cans.
Mandy drains her wine and continues. ‘I mean, you know a thing or two, right, Martin? I told them what they needed to know, that Byron was here with me the entire night. They asked me how I could be sure, so I showed them the diary. They confiscated it and just laughed when I asked for a warrant. Can they do that?’
‘I guess so. It’s material evidence in a murder inquiry. You could demand it back, but I’m pretty sure they could get a court order to keep it.’
‘Well, it seems like an abuse of power to me.’
‘Yes, you’re probably right,’ Martin dissembles.
‘But that’s not what really pissed me off. It was all the stuff about my history. You know, how many men have I slept with, how well I knew Craig Landers, how the business is going. How the business is going, for Christ’s sake? Who my friends are, who I see on a frequent basis, who looks after Liam when I can’t. What’s that all about?’
‘Covering their arses,’ Martin assures her. ‘They’ve ballsed up the investigation, pinned the backpackers’ murder on Swift, and then you turn up and demonstrate that they’re on the wrong track. So they’re trying to make sure they don’t miss anything this time around.’
‘And will all this come out in court?’
‘Can’t see why it would.’
‘And then all the questions about you. How is that relevant? You weren’t even here a year ago. What the fuck could you have to do with any of it?’
‘They asked about me?’