Montifore has been looking directly down the barrel of the camera lenses, but now he shifts his eyes slightly to look at Martin. ‘Herb Walker gave his all to serving his community at a time of great need. He didn’t deserve this.’ The policeman’s gaze returns to the cameras. ‘Thank you. That’s all for now. Good morning.’
There’s momentary silence among the media as the cameras linger on the backs of the police officers returning to the police station. Then the cameras are off the tripods and are being pushed into Martin’s face, catching him unawares, their lenses wide open like hungry mouths, and Doug Thunkleton’s booming voice rains down upon him.
‘Martin Scarsden, what is your reaction to the death of Sergeant Herb Walker?’
One of the cameras has a light on top, and Martin winces as the cameraman flicks it on.
‘I am very sorry for his death. He was a very fine officer.’
‘But will you apologise to his family?’
‘Apologise? For what, exactly?’
‘You have hounded this policeman, driven him to take his own life, and you won’t even offer his grieving widow an apology?’
‘I’m sorry he’s dead. Of course I am.’
‘Do you accept you have behaved disgracefully?’
Martin gets it then. Thunkleton has his predetermined angle; he’s going to persist until Martin admits some sort of culpability. Well, fuck that. ‘We didn’t do anything wrong. We reported the facts of the story. I am not responsible for Herb Walker’s death.’
‘The Premier of New South Wales says you are the worst type of journalist, a moral vacuum who’d sell his soul for a headline.’
‘Well, in that case, why do you keep interviewing me? You know what you are? A hypocritical parasitic turd.’
As soon as the words are out of his mouth, Martin regrets them. He doesn’t need to see the self-satisfied smirk on Thunkleton’s face to tell him that. Shit. There are no more questions; Thunkleton has what he wants.
They leave him alone after that. He walks down to the river, sits on a bench in the shade of a line of poplars. The heat is keeping people inside. Thank goodness for that. He should ring Bethanie, he knows he should, but he can’t quite bring himself to dial the number. He’s almost relieved when his mobile rings, saving him from taking the initiative.
‘Martin?’ It’s Bethanie, her voice subdued, uncertain, concerned.
‘Hi, Bethanie.’
‘Are you all right?’
‘Never better.’
‘We’ve just seen the footage from Bellington.’
‘Yes. Perhaps not my finest moment.’
‘You appear to be calling Herb Walker a parasitic turd. Please tell me you didn’t do that.’
‘What? No way. Never. I said I was sorry about his death, that he was a fine officer.’
‘So who was the parasitic turd?’
‘Doug Thunkleton, that arsehole from Channel Ten.’
There’s a sigh of relief at the other end of the phone and a short, if rather forced, laugh. ‘Well, you got that one right.’
‘Bethanie, keep your head down, okay? I’m going to be the sacrificial lamb on this one. No need for you to cop it as well. You got everything you need? You need any quotes?’
‘No, we’ve got a transcript from the police. Quickest turnaround ever. But you should send through an audio file of your interchange with Thunkleton if you recorded it. We can run it in your defence.’
‘Thanks, Bethanie. It’s been good working with you.’
After the call, Martin looks out across the river and wonders why he agreed to cover the police doorstop. After all, the transcript was already out. And he wonders why the Herald insisted that he attend, given that he was officially off the story. But what the heck, he isn’t ready to become a transcript journalist just yet.
His phone rings again. It’s Max.
‘Shit, Max. They still don’t have the guts to call me themselves?’
‘Apparently not. How you coping?’
‘Not sure. You see the doorstop?’
‘Everyone has seen the doorstop. Sky is playing it on high rotation, courtesy of Channel Ten. I assume you didn’t really call that dead cop a parasitic turd.’
‘No. Of course not. It was a character reference for that dickhead from Channel Ten, Thunkleton.’
‘Well, it’s not the way our television brethren are reporting it. Fortunately, Thackery at AAP has put it in perspective and now the ABC have picked it up and are taking the high moral ground. They’re having a crack at Ten for sensationalist reporting.’
‘So there’s hope for me yet.’
‘No, Martin, there’s not.’
‘How’s that?’
‘That’s why I’m calling. You’re sacked. Nothing to do with me, I’m just the messenger. You’ll be paid your entitlements, but your employment is terminated as of now. I’m sorry, Martin—more sorry than you can ever know.’
For a moment, Martin can’t speak. When he does, it’s to console his old friend and mentor. ‘What a bunch of gutless cunts, Max. Getting you to do this. It’s unforgiveable. I won’t forget it. I won’t forgive them.’
‘Thanks, Martin, but don’t worry about me, think about yourself. Give me a call when you get back to Sydney. We’ll have a drink, discuss options. I’ve got a few ideas.’
‘Thanks, Max. You’re a mate.’
‘Martin?’
‘Yes?’
‘Don’t do anything silly, okay? Nothing precipitous.’
THE CHANNEL TEN NEWS IS EVEN WORSE THAN MARTIN HAS BEEN EXPECTING. He sits alone in room six at the Black Dog Motel, watching it on the old-fashioned tube television set, the picture snowy. The newsreader wears a look of deep concern: ‘There has been a disturbing development in the police investigation into murdered backpackers in the state’s south-west. One of the key police investigators is dead—driven to take his own life, allegedly by irresponsible media reporting. Ten’s Doug Thunkleton has the story from Riversend.’
The news package opens with sepia photos of Herb Walker, police hero, accompanied by cello music. There’s a brazen EXCLUSIVE dominating the top right corner of the screen. Doug’s rich baritone is dripping with sympathy and regret. ‘For a town that has already lost so much, there is more loss tonight—the death of policeman and local hero Sergeant Herb Walker.’
Then a grab of a middle-aged woman identified by the screen super as the mayor of Bellington. ‘Herb Walker was one of the kindest, hardest-working men I ever met. He was a pillar of our community.’
Another grab, this time from Robbie Haus-Jones. ‘Yes, I guess in a way he was a mentor to me.’
Cut to Thunkleton, standing by the banks of the Murray, camera zooming slowly in as he makes his point. ‘It was here, last night, that it all got too much for Sergeant Herb Walker. He’d investigated the Riversend massacre and the backpacker murders with courage and integrity, but a note found at the scene suggests he took his own life, unable to come to terms with scurrilous and inaccurate newspaper reporting.’ Cut to a montage of Herald and Age front pages. Thunkleton’s voiceover continues, no longer heavy with grief or sympathy but stepped up into prosecutorial righteousness. ‘For three days, the Fairfax press has provided sensationalist and at times inaccurate coverage of Riversend’s backpacker murders. It has accused first one man then another of committing the crime—men the police say are demonstrably innocent. Then, yesterday, the paper accused Herb Walker of covering up knowledge of the backpacker murders for almost a year.’
Cut to the premier, the embodiment of earnestness, standing out the back of parliament, flanked by the police minister, the attorney-general and the police commissioner, all of whom are staring grimly into the back of his neck as they nod their profound endorsement. ‘There is no greater defender of free speech than myself and my government. But this is beyond the pale. A good man is dead. All for a grubby headline. All to sell a few extra newspapers.’
A wide shot of the police doorstop in Bellington, a shot of Thunkleton listening, his voiceover again touched by sympathy: ‘Herb Walker’s police colleagues are attempting to cope with their loss while continuing their investigation.’