There are two glasses—small tumblers, one full, one empty—and the bottle in its brown paper bag. Snouch pours red wine into the second glass. It looks dark and viscous. ‘Have a drink,’ says Snouch. ‘Thought you might show up sooner or later.’
Martin takes a tentative sip and is surprised to find the wine passable, at least in contrast to Jamie Landers’ tequila.
Snouch gives an amused snort. ‘What did you expect? Cat’s piss?’
‘It was last time around. Why the change?’ Martin reaches over, extracts the bottle from the bag. Sure enough, Penfolds.
Snouch grins like a naughty schoolboy, stripping more years off. ‘Mate, even us derros have standards.’
‘Except that you’re not really a derro, are you, Harley? I saw your house, remember, before it burnt down.’
Snouch smiles with apparent pleasure. ‘I tell you, Martin, some of the greatest bums I’ve known were loaded. Rich scumbags. My school was full of them.’
‘What school was that?’
‘Geelong Grammar.’
‘That figures. Explains your classy accent and polished turn of phrase.’
Snouch smiles again, taking a healthy slug of his wine.
Martin gets to the point. ‘Why aren’t you a suspect in the murder of the two backpackers?’
‘Because I have a cast-iron alibi.’
‘Which is?’
‘I was in hospital in Melbourne. For two weeks. Pneumonia. Missed everything. The priest raining holy retribution down on his congregation and some bastard dumping bodies in my dam. Shit timing. Nothing happens for years on end and then when it does, I’m flat on me back in Melbourne. Surrounded by witnesses, covered in documentation.’
‘So you say.’
‘So the police have established beyond all doubt. If you’re trying to work out who killed those girls, I am the last person you should be thinking about.’
‘That’s nice to hear, but you’re not exactly what I’d call a reliable witness.’
‘I was a reliable witness last time you were in here. I told you I hadn’t done anything wrong. I told you I hadn’t gone to prison. And I told you at Springfields that I never raped anyone. And yet you went and published it anyway. Wrote it big and splashed it bigger. You should have listened, but you didn’t. Maybe you’ll listen now.’
Martin is still, frozen by Snouch’s calm words of confrontation. A hollowness has opened in his chest and the wine, pleasant a moment before, has lost its savour. ‘What are you going to do?’
Snouch looks him directly in the eye, no longer the derro, more like a predator. ‘Well, I’m thinking I might sue the shit out of you, your paper and anyone with the remotest connection to your slander. I’ll be drinking fine wine for the rest of my days.’
‘Good luck with that,’ Martin says, attempting bravado. ‘Civil cases don’t carry the same burden of proof as criminal trials. Your reputation is already shot. And we have very good lawyers.’
But Snouch scoffs, leaning back with a lupine grin. ‘Really? You know as well as I do that won’t fly. And even if it did, in some fantastical scenario, it might save the paper but it won’t save you. You wrote the story, you got the facts wrong. You’re fucked.’
Martin feels like he’s wandered into some high-stakes poker game, caught in a pool of lamplight in the old wine saloon. He’s dealt himself a shit hand and now he’s obliged to table a card.
‘Harley, I saved your life—me and Robbie Haus-Jones.’
‘Bullshit. I saved yours. That idiot wanted to drive into the dam. I would have survived with or without you.’
‘What do you want?’
‘I want to reconcile with Mandalay.’
‘But you said yourself, out at Springfields, that she’s not your daughter.’
‘She’s not.’
Martin digests that. Snouch’s gaze doesn’t leave his face. He has the upper hand; he can afford to wait for Martin’s next move, knowing he can counter it.
‘What about those?’ Martin nods at Snouch’s hands and their blurred blue prison tattoos.
Snouch smiles indulgently. ‘What about them?’ He holds his left hand out for Martin to examine. ‘You seen anything like this before? Recognise any of the symbols?’
Martin looks. There are squiggles, letters, maybe an omega symbol, but nothing that makes sense. He returns his gaze to Snouch’s face.
‘You really want to base a court case on those?’ asks Snouch.
Martin examines him a moment longer, wondering if he’s bluffing, detecting nothing but resolve. ‘Okay. What is it you want me to do?’
‘Talk to Mandalay for me. Convince her I’m not the monster she thinks I am.’
‘Easier said than done. Her mother claimed you raped her and Mandy believes it. How can I overcome that?’
‘That’s your problem. Convince her otherwise or I’ll see you in court.’
Martin leans back, wondering how he might persuade Mandy. He momentarily considers doing the honourable thing: ringing Max, resigning, acknowledging his mistake. But as he looks at Snouch, sees the man’s determination, he realises it wouldn’t do any good. If Martin can’t help engineer a reconciliation, then Snouch will certainly sue; not just for the money, but to offer Mandy some legal proof he’s innocent of rape.
‘Okay, Harley. I’ll try. But tell me, what happened? If you didn’t rape her, why was Katherine Blonde so adamant that you did? And why weren’t you investigated or charged?’
Snouch tops up Martin’s glass, then his own. Martin takes it as a conciliatory gesture, a sign that the conversation has further to go.
‘That’s better. But I’m serious, Martin: you get results or I sue; I end your career. You understand me? Help me, and I’ll be the best friend you ever had.’
Somehow, Martin gets the impression Snouch is not new to this game. ‘That sounds like blackmail.’
‘Does it? Call it what you like.’
Martin’s mouth is dry. He drinks some more wine.
Snouch nods, apparently satisfied he has Martin where he wants him. ‘It was a long time ago. Katherine did claim I raped her. The local cop investigated. And he cleared me. Any records, if there were any, were expunged. My father was very wealthy, very powerful. People round here remember him as some sort of patrician benefactor. They don’t remember him like that in Melbourne. Tough as mulga root: ruthless in business, callous in person. Treated his staff like shit, belittling the men and groping the women. He didn’t give a flying fuck about me, but he wouldn’t have the family name tainted. So he pulled the strings; there is no record of even a cursory investigation.’
‘And no mention in any of the newspapers? None?’
‘Not when he owned the Crier. And remember, there was no arrest, no charges, no trial. Because there was no rape. My father’s influence didn’t get me off the hook, the facts did that. He just kept it out of the media.’
Martin smiles, enjoying a small victory when it offers itself. ‘Well, that worked a treat. You’re still the town pariah.’
‘Katherine was very popular. A lot of people believed her.’
‘So what did happen?’
‘I’ll tell you. But it’s not for publication, Martin. You got that? You’re already in a hole, don’t dig it any deeper.’