‘So they’d have a pretty hard task making a charge against her stick.’
‘Don’t be so sure. They won’t be able to prove involvement with the murder, not without evidence. But the charge of attempting to pervert the course of justice is a good one. The diary details some of the movements of the prime suspect, Byron Swift, in the days surrounding the abduction and murders of the German backpackers and the shooting spree at St James, and she has destroyed possibly vital pieces of evidence. She’s in deep shit.’
‘Christ, what happens next?’
‘That’s why I came looking for you. She’s applying for bail, wants to look after her kid. The cops are resisting. They’re planning to drive her down to Bellington to appear before a magistrate.’
‘There’s a magistrates court in Bellington?’
‘No. Not exactly. They’re driving in the bloke from Deniliquin.’
‘Why not drive him here?’
‘My guess? Because the media has based itself in Bellington.’
‘Shit. You’re kidding, right?’
‘No.’
‘So you’re telling me this why?’
‘Thought you might want to head down. She may need some moral support.’
‘From me?’
‘From anyone.’
It’s a long and peculiar caravan that speeds across the baking plain from Riversend to Bellington, a convoy of anticipation and fear, ambition and despair, each vehicle propelled by a different purpose and transporting different emotions. Taking the lead are the police vehicles: Robbie Haus-Jones driving Herb Walker’s four-wheel drive; Morris Montifore and Goffing in a rental; a highway patrol car with a garish paint job transporting Mandalay Blonde and Ivan Lucic. Thereafter, the media: 3AW in a tarted-up truck with a colour scheme to rival the highway patrol; a bunch of white rental cars; a couple of personal vehicles; the television networks in their kitted-out station wagons and SUVs. The caravan moves at exactly one hundred and ten kilometres per hour, the police observing the speed limit to the letter, the media not daring to go any faster or any slower, following in perfect formation, seatbelts fastened, cross purposes disguised by uniform velocity, all careering towards Bellington, the river and the next episode in this nation-gripping drama. Halfway across the plain the convoy sweeps past the lumbering satellite truck, not slowing, barely swerving, unimpeded by oncoming traffic, every driver indicating diligently as they pull out, indicating diligently as they pull back in.
Martin’s is the last car in the caravan; no longer at the vanguard of the story but in the caboose, not the headline but the footnote. For a moment he considers flooring it, redlining the rental, sweeping past his former colleagues and the police in a final gesture of defiance, hazard lights flashing, challenging them to respond. But the thought withers; he lacks the psychic capital. And so he resigns himself to his lowly rank and wonders why, at a time when no one else wants to know him, Jack Goffing has sought him out twice in twenty-four hours. To extract information, no doubt, cultivating a source, eliciting facts. What had he said? This is not an information swap. And yet that’s exactly what it proved to be: Goffing revealed Byron Swift was really Julian Flynt, detailing the soldier’s history and his crimes. And the ASIO man volunteered other information: the diary has pages missing, perhaps a line or two added. And he offered an opinion on police motivation. Why? Not because Martin could publish it. Mandy Blonde? That made more sense. Goffing now knows she was intimately involved with Swift and he thinks Martin may be the way to win her trust. Martin smiles at that. Goffing and Snouch, both seeing him as a conduit to Mandy. Chances are, she’ll never speak to him again.
He considers whether he should tell Goffing about the phone number. A Riversend phone number. Maybe there is some website that does reverse phone numbers and can tell him who it belongs to. Maybe Bethanie can help. Or maybe he should simply trust Goffing. The man would have the resources to identify the owner of the number, know who it was that Swift phoned from St James in the moments before the shooting started. But if Goffing finds out, would he feel any obligation to share his information with Martin? Yet what choice does Martin have? If Goffing can make any headway on either St James or the backpacker murders, it could spare Mandy a lot of grief. Or provide the evidence to prosecute her. Jesus. The permutations start to fuel Martin’s headache and he’s relieved when the green swathe of Bellington’s irrigated orchards emerges from the horizon and the brake lights of the convoy turn red in a chain reaction as the drivers, law-abiding citizens each and every one, slow to the requisite sixty kilometres an hour. By the time Martin drives into the main street, he’s made up his mind: he has to tell Goffing about the phone number.
The bail hearing is conducted behind closed doors. The magistrate has barricaded himself inside the Bellington police station and ruled that the media must keep their distance. And so the journalists wait, alive with anticipation and speculation. The police have arrested local woman Mandalay Blonde, they report urgently into microphones, their voices deep with gravity. Femme fatale says one, Bonnie and Clyde says another, crime of the century says a third. And soon they are all saying it. Doug Thunkleton booms authoritatively into the eye of a television camera, rewarming old facts and conjuring new ones. The story is breaking across the nation like a wave: the police are making headway, we’re awaiting news, stand by, whatever you do, don’t miss it, don’t change channels, back after the break, must-see TV. And yet, for all the excitement, a momentary hush falls over the mob as they watch Martin walk into the station, before recommencing, eager and urgent, a new buzz-phrase spreading through the pack and out across the nation: disgraced former journalist Martin Scarsden.
But today Martin is receiving no privileged access, not this time, and he’s asked to wait outside with the media. And so he does, back at the scene of yesterday’s train wreck. His former colleagues look either astounded or confused by his presence. Or both. Thackery shakes his head with dismay, but pays him the courtesy of saying hello, saying he’s sorry about how it’s all ended. An ABC journo requests an interview as if entitled to it, citing how the network had come to his defence on the previous night’s news. Martin declines. Doug Thunkleton, live cross complete for the moment, steadfastly refuses to make eye contact, even while his camera crew brazenly film Martin’s every movement.
‘Martin,’ says a voice, deep and self-possessed. It’s D’Arcy Defoe. ‘Didn’t expect to see you here. How you holding up?’
‘D’Arcy. Welcome to the circus. Not so bad. What are the police saying?’
‘Very little. They’ve arrested the bookstore owner. Apparently she knew the priest Byron Swift.’
‘Yes, she did.’
‘Your mate Thunkleton is going in strong. He’s saying the police suspect that she and the priest did it together, murdered the backpackers.’
‘Listen, D’Arcy, don’t report that. Seriously, wait until you hear what the police have to say.’
‘So you know differently?’
‘I’m not sure what I know. But I’ve been pushing the envelope on this story and look where it’s landed me. Even I wouldn’t report that. Not yet.’
D’Arcy is mulling over this information when, from the police station, a thin man in a grey suit and a five o’clock shadow emerges. ‘ASIO,’ comes the whisper.
Goffing spots Martin, waves him over. He can feel the cameras boring into his back as he joins Goffing and they enter the police station.
‘Hope you’re cashed up,’ says Goffing.
‘Why?’