‘You think they’re significant?’
‘Possibly. When we checked the records, the calls weren’t on the database.’
‘Someone tampered with the call records?’
‘Maybe. It’s curious, at the very least. So have you told anyone else about the calls?’
‘No. Just you.’
‘Very good. Please don’t mention this to anybody else, including the police. Especially the police. If I’m going to clear you of responsibility for Walker’s suicide, I need to keep this under wraps. Understand?’
Martin feels a surge of adrenaline, of hope. ‘Clear me? You think you can do that?’
‘I don’t know. I shouldn’t raise false expectations; it may not be possible. But keep the phone calls to yourself.’
‘If you like. But what do I get in return?’
‘You mean apart from trying to clear you of Walker’s death?’ Goffing smiles, then grows more serious. ‘There is one thing. Your story in The Sunday Age, the one about Swift being a man without a past—it was right on the money.’
‘You can confirm that?’
‘Yes. Your story is correct. The real Byron Swift was an orphan and a ward of the state in Western Australia. Studied theology at uni in Perth and dropped out. Went to Cambodia, where he worked for a charity delivering development aid up on the Thai–Burma border. Died five years ago of a heroin overdose. All records, most records, redacted. Our Byron Swift assumed his identity.’
‘Do you know who he really was? Swift?’
‘I do.’ Goffing pauses, makes some mental calculation before continuing. ‘Martin, I’m going to tell you. It will most likely come out at the inquest.’ Goffing again pauses, as if weighing a decision, before speaking. ‘You should try to publish it before then but under no circumstances must my name or ASIO be mentioned. Just refer to reliable sources or however you want to phrase it.’
‘That’s kind of academic; I have nowhere to publish it.’
‘You’ll find somewhere.’
‘All right. Tell me. You have my word I won’t reveal where I got it from.’
‘His real name was Julian Flynt. He was a fugitive.’
‘A fugitive? I thought he was a former soldier.’
‘He was. A special forces sniper. Iraq and Afghanistan. By all accounts an amazing soldier: a born leader, fearless and charismatic. Until he was captured by the Taliban and held captive for eight months, during which time he was tortured, degraded and humiliated. Later, after he was freed, he passed all the psychological testing and was cleared for duty. Big mistake. Massive mistake. Seemed fine, everything normal, no sign of damage. Then one day, close to a year later, during a firefight in a Mujahedin compound, he lost it. Two women and their kids, unarmed, arms raised, surrendering. Five of them. He cut them down in cold blood. The army detained him, pending trial. Some wanted to try him for murder; others defended him, citing the fog of war. Those who had authorised his return to the frontline just wanted him to disappear. And he did: he escaped from custody. A warrant was put out for his arrest, for war crimes. There were reports he’d made his way to Iraq, was working as a private bodyguard. When the authorities went looking they were told he’d died in an ambush. That made everyone happy; they closed his file. But as we now know, he wasn’t dead. He came back here at some point, not on his own passport. Became Byron Swift.’
‘How is that possible?’
‘How indeed.’
‘Is that what you’re doing here? Investigating Byron Swift?’
‘I’m not authorised to talk about that, Martin. I’ll let you join the dots. But the Julian Flynt story, you think you can get that into the public domain?’
‘I guess so. It’s not a bad story.’
‘Not bad? Do you understand what I’ve told you? He was an Australian soldier, wanted for war crimes. You reported on the Middle East, you know that story as well as anyone. Have you ever heard of him?’
‘No.’
‘And why do you think that is?’
‘I don’t know. You tell me.’
‘For starters, the army doesn’t want his case publicised, not least because they sent him back into combat when he should have been in care. They were happy to have him forgotten. Next, there’s customs and border control. How the hell did he get back into the country? And then the police. He shoots five people dead and they don’t bother to find out who he really was? Really? Nobody wants the public to know. Now do you understand the scope of what I’m telling you?’
‘So what are you alleging, Jack? Some grand conspiracy?’
‘I wish. More likely cock-ups and arse-covering, everyone trying to pass the buck and deny their own culpability.’
‘So publish?’
‘Yeah. Publish. Let’s see if we can flush a few of them out.’ A smile passes between the men. And it seems to Martin something else passes between them as well, a kind of understanding. ‘You want some whisky?’ asks Goffing.
Martin has finished his second beer. ‘Shit. Why not?’ He locates a couple of grimy tumblers in the bathroom and gives them a good rinse, which does little more than impart the smell of chlorine and decay. When he returns, Goffing has relieved the bottle of its cap and Martin hands him the glasses. Goffing dispenses two healthy shots and the men clink glasses. Martin wonders what significance the gesture holds. He drops back onto the bed and savours the peat and smokiness of the drink. It’s been a long time since he’s drunk whisky.
‘Martin, I really can’t tell you anything more about my assignment, you understand, but I can tell you about the police investigation.’
‘Why?’
‘’Cos I think you’re owed.’
‘Good. I’m all ears.’
‘Walker’s death looks like a copybook suicide. His body was found in the Murray this morning. He probably died about midnight. He drowned. Filled his pockets with rocks and jumped from a bridge, some way out of Bellington, where he was unlikely to be discovered in the act. He left a note in his car. For the police, the note is always the clincher.’
‘What did it say?’ Martin takes a gulp of whisky, a little too much, feels it burn at the back of his throat.
‘It was short and simple. I always did my duty. I did nothing wrong. The media are liars. My reputation is everything to me.’
‘That’s it?’
‘That’s it.’
‘Shit.’ More silence. On the television, some hippies are dancing in a circle, part of a religious cult. ‘So why aren’t you convinced it was suicide?’
‘As I say, suspicious mind.’
The two men drink in silence then, exchanging small talk. Later, they flick the TV over to watch the ABC news at 7 pm. It’s politics at the top, the cult and the TV presenter second, with Martin coming in third. The bronze medal. The report is considerably milder, more balanced than Thunkleton’s. And more accurate. The confrontation between Martin and Doug Thunkleton is shown from a different, wider angle. ‘…you are the worst type of journalist, a moral vacuum who’d sell his soul for a headline,’ says Thunkleton. ‘Well, in that case, why do you keep interviewing me? You know what you are? A hypocritical parasitic turd,’ responds Martin. Thunkleton looks like a bully, Martin looks like a petulant and uncaring schoolboy, the ABC looks impartial and morally superior to them both. But at least it’s clear his turd accusation is directed at the Channel Ten reporter and not the dead cop. Be thankful for small mercies—another of Max’s dictums.
After that, Martin kills the box and he and Goffing talk of sport and politics and all those other things that fill the conversational void when other matters are too confronting to be vocalised.
Later, when the sun is setting and the heat has begun to drain off the landscape for another night, they sit outside and Goffing smokes cigarettes. Martin isn’t sure, but he might even smoke one himself. At some point Goffing melts away and Martin is left by himself, with only the bottle, the blood moon and the blazing wash of the Milky Way for company.