‘It’s Terri Preswell.’
‘Good. She’s rock-solid. Tell her as soon as you can. Ask who she wants to write the story.’
‘She’s in conference.’
‘Doesn’t matter. Interrupt. They need to know.’
‘Of course.’
‘Ring me back when you know what’s happening. I’m at the Black Dog.’
‘Shit, Martin. I feel awful.’
‘Well, you shouldn’t. You did nothing wrong. You got a genuine story and we ran it. Hold your head high, don’t apologise.’
‘Thanks, Martin. You too, okay?’
‘Sure. Ring me when you know something.’
‘Will do. And good luck.’
Forty-five minutes later, Martin still hasn’t moved when the phone rings, a shattering, discordant sound, bringing him back from wherever it is his mind has been wandering.
‘Martin? Bethanie. Sorry to do this to you, but the cops are holding a presser in Bellington at noon. At the police station. D’Arcy won’t get there until tonight. They want you to cover it. Sorry.’
‘Christ, talk about eating a shit sandwich. See what I can do.’ He tries to keep his voice light, even as he feels a sense of dread descending.
‘Good on you, Martin. I’ll buy you a drink when you get back. Buy you several.’
‘Thanks. I might need a few. I’ll call you from Bellington.’
After the call is over, Martin thinks of his advice to Bethanie. Hold your head high, don’t apologise. Too fucking right. He decides not to check out after all. He puts his phone and laptop on charge to top them up before he leaves for Bellington. The phone will work down there; he can give it extra juice on the drive. No point in getting there early. He fires up the laptop and opens his incomplete feature, RIVERSEND: A YEAR ON. He starts reading, and before long he is typing furiously. The story pulls him in, engulfing him as it so often does, his personal problems temporarily compartmentalised.
Driving towards Bellington he considers Walker’s suicide, replaying his last conversation with the sergeant out the back of the Riversend police station. Walker had been aggressive and pissed off, not despondent or distracted. There was absolutely nothing in his demeanour to suggest he was contemplating suicide. On the contrary, he had seemed intent on continuing his investigations into Byron Swift. But Martin realises that doesn’t mean anything. Something could have happened in the interim, like some sort of discipline coming down from the executive, a demotion or a public reprimand for not pursuing the tip-off about the bodies in the dam. Walker had been a proud man, ruling his fiefdom with impunity. Perhaps he couldn’t bear the thought of the impending humiliation, no matter that it loomed so much larger in his own mind than it ever would among the residents of Bellington. Who knows what dark thoughts and obsessions can take hold in the small hours of the morning, when the mind chases itself down dark passageways and perspective is lost?
Such spectres had haunted Martin often enough in the months after Gaza, when even chemically-induced sleep came reluctantly. The demons had come and he had fought them, but all too often he’d felt as if they were winning, that the fight wasn’t worth it. He’d made the mistake of mentioning it to one of his counsellors and red flags had gone up all over the Herald. But that had gone on for weeks, the downward spiral and the climb back. Had Walker really gone from defiance and anger to despair and hopelessness in mere hours? Was that likely? Perhaps there were other issues, unknown issues, trapping Walker, and he took the easy way out, making it easier by blaming the Herald. Maybe.
An oncoming car rockets past, forcing Martin to concentrate on driving momentarily. The land is flat, a monochrome bone, colour leached by years of drought. Nothing moves. Last night’s fresh harvest of roadkill is splayed along the verge. Martin searches for the horizon, but it’s an indeterminate blur, the sky melted into the shimmering edges of the earth. For a moment the illusion that he’d forced upon himself a week ago descends uninvited: his car seems stationary and it’s the earth that is moving, revolving under him at a hundred and twenty kilometres an hour. He shakes his head, fighting for perspective.
A disturbing thought imposes itself on Martin’s consciousness. What if it were his body that had washed up on the banks of the Murray, found by some early-morning jogger or an unfortunate fisherman? It wouldn’t need a note: post-traumatic stress from Gaza, a series of incorrect stories, the burden of Walker’s death, the humiliation of being taken off reporting. The coroner wouldn’t think twice and the police wouldn’t think at all. Suicide. Bethanie and Max would co-author a short obituary, D’Arcy would speak eloquently at his wake, and poor Robbie Haus-Jones would wonder who was next. A shiver runs up Martin’s spine, defying the heat of the barren plain. At last the first strips of green appear out of the liquid distance. Bellington. Martin is relieved to be leaving the flatlands, almost pleased to arrive and confront whatever awaits him.
There’s a dozen media set up outside the Bellington police station, a sturdy red-brick building, purpose built. The camera crews have picked their spot, positioning their tripods in the shade, placing a white card on the ground in the sun to indicate where they want the police to stand. As Martin approaches, the usual banter tapers off into silence. Old Jim Thackery, the wire service journo, has the decency to offer a wry greeting, but no one else wants to talk to him. The Herald Sun reporter shakes her head at his lack of wisdom. Doug Thunkleton pretends that he hasn’t seen him, but the photographers and camera crews are unapologetic as they fill their lenses with images of their miscreant colleague. Hold your head high, don’t apologise, he reminds himself silently.
It’s not long before the police emerge: Montifore and Lucic, together with Robbie, the young constable frowning when he sees Martin at the back of the media scrum. Montifore is shuffling, getting his position right, asking whether the cameras are recording, when Martin feels a hand on his shoulder. It’s Goffing, the ASIO agent. The man smiles grimly and nods, but says nothing. What’s that meant to mean? A gesture of support?
‘Good morning, ladies and gentlemen,’ says Montifore, his delivery stiff and formal before the television cameras. ‘I understand the premier and police minister will be commenting in Sydney shortly, so I’ll make a brief statement and leave it at that. I won’t be taking questions. I will be restricting myself to the facts. At approximately oh-six-hundred and twenty minutes this morning, a local resident spotted what they believed to be a deceased person in the shallows of the Murray River approximately five kilometres north-west of Bellington. That’s downstream. We can now confirm the deceased male is Sergeant Herbert Walker of the New South Wales Police Force. We can confirm there are no suspicious circumstances.
‘Sergeant Walker has led policing in the Bellington district for more than twenty years and will be sorely missed by the people of this town and surrounding areas, and by the wider New South Wales police community. Herbert Walker was a very fine policeman, a very fine policeman indeed, and a great servant to his community. During the past few days I have had the privilege of working closely with Sergeant Walker. He was a highly professional officer, dedicated to upholding the rule of law and serving his community.’