‘You may need to post bail.’
The magistrate is sitting at an impressive desk, red in the face, somewhat dishevelled and none too happy. Neither is anyone else: not Montifore, who is looking daggers at the magistrate, not Lucic, who is glaring at Robbie Haus-Jones, and not Robbie, who is avoiding eye contact with the homicide detectives. Mandy is seated, looking small, wearing a white shirt, blue jeans and handcuffs. She looks up at Martin and smiles, eyes hopeful. His heart quickens and he wonders if she might have forgiven him his early-morning accusations.
‘Martin Scarsden?’ asks the magistrate. His eyes are bloodshot. Martin smells alcohol.
‘That’s correct.’
‘I am informed you may be prepared to go surety for Ms Blonde. Is this correct?’
‘Yes, Your Honour.’
The magistrate snorts, sighs and shakes his head. ‘I’m a magistrate, not a judge, Mr Scarsden. I am no one’s honour.’ And he belches, for good measure. ‘Pardon me.’
Martin nods. No one is laughing; no one is smiling. The magistrate is drunk, but it’s straight faces all around.
The magistrate continues, his voice steady enough, but his hand gestures overly emphatic. ‘All right. I’m faced with a dilemma here, Mr Scarsden. A dilemma. Wisdom of Solomon required. On one hand, Detective Inspector Monty here is opposing bail, saying the charge is too serious. On the other hand, the young constable here tells me Ms Blonde is the sole carer for an infant under the age of one. Does that sound right to you?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Very good. Have you ever had gout?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Very good. Avoid it if you can.’ Another belch, the faces of the police officers resolutely serious, although Montifore has closed his eyes. ‘So here is what I propose: I will grant bail, provided you post a surety of, what shall we say, fifteen thousand dollars? Yes, that has a good ring to it. Fifteen thousand. Do you have access to that amount of money? And are you prepared to go guarantor?’
Martin looks at Mandy and any doubts he has are erased. Her eyes are on him, filled with concern about Liam. How could he possibly deny her?
‘Yes, sir. I can visit my bank here in Bellington.’
‘Very good. Here are the conditions. Ms Blonde, you are to report to police in Riversend daily, before noon. You are not permitted to travel more than five kilometres outside the town without informing the police in advance and gaining their permission. And let’s see…you are not permitted to discuss matters connected to the charge with Mr Scarsden or any other media. However, I do advise you to discuss them with a lawyer. These conditions will remain in force until you face a committal hearing, or the charges are dropped, or I make some other determination. Or something else happens. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Mandy says softly.
‘Mr Scarsden, I am wary about discharging the accused into the care of a reporter. To be honest, I don’t think much of you lot. Be that as it may. You will not discuss the charge, Ms Blonde’s diary or its contents with her. And you shall not report on matters related to the charge. Do you understand?’
Martin blinks. A gag on reporting. But he looks again at Mandy and the matter is settled. ‘Yes,’ he tells the magistrate.
‘And you are still willing to post bail?’
‘I am.’
‘All right. Ms Blonde will remain in police custody until she is returned to Riversend. Mr Scarsden, please collect a bank cheque and make your way to the Riversend police station. And Mr Scarsden?’
‘Yes, sir?’
‘Avoid rich foods if you possibly can. Source of all evil. Now good day to you all.’ And he liberates another belch, larger, louder and longer than its predecessors.
THE CARAVAN HAS LOST ITS COHERENCE; MARTIN FINDS HIMSELF DRIVING BACK to Riversend without another car in sight. He’s not alone, though; sitting next to him, having cadged a lift, is Jack Goffing, ASIO investigator. The men drive in silence, occupied by their own thoughts. Martin has been to the bank, organised a bank cheque. It sits in his shirt pocket, weightless, yet heavy with obligation. Martin knows that somewhere ahead of him the purpose of the cheque, Mandy Blonde, is traversing the plain in the back of the highway patrol car, still wearing handcuffs, still a prisoner. Montifore and Lucic will be up ahead as well, planning their next moves. Martin wonders if Robbie Haus-Jones is part of their small convoy or if he’s put some distance between himself and his Sydney superiors.
Martin may be trailing the police by some way, but he has a head start on the media, still in Bellington, still filing. Martin can imagine them: Doug Thunkleton talking nonstop down the maw of a camera lens, his observations beamed via the satellite van out across Australia; radio reporters breathlessly describing the scene as Mandy Blonde left the police station in a storm of camera flashes; newspaper reporters making the most of Bellington’s functional internet to file online: straight news reporting scant facts, colour pieces conveying the day’s drama, opinion pieces bravely asserting what it all means. But regardless of style, and regardless of medium, sitting at the core of each and every report, driving interest across the nation, will be variations of a single image: the young mother, with her ethereal beauty and uncanny green eyes, her wrists bound by handcuffs. Soon the journalists will be done and they too will be on their way across the digital desert to Riversend, eager to report the next instalment of this small-town saga, this tale of murder, religion and illicit love that is suddenly dominating the summer news cycle, this story now revolving around the photogenic couple: Byron Swift, deceased, and Mandalay Blonde, condemned. Halfway to Riversend, the first of the media passes Martin at speed, clocking a hundred and sixty at least: a photographer, having quickly filed his images from outside the police station, thrashing his rental to get a drop on his competitors and position himself for the next episode. Martin watches the car race into the distance, warping and distorting in the heat before dissolving altogether.