Martin tries to concentrate on driving, but there is precious little to concentrate on: the road is flat, straight and devoid of traffic, a bitumen line bisecting an impassive and nonjudgemental landscape, like a line of longitude drawn on a map. He wonders what it is he’s committing himself to: fifteen thousand dollars is a lot of money for an unemployed journalist, particularly one gagged from reporting Australia’s biggest story. It’s not the money that bothers him; he doesn’t think that Mandy Blonde is about to abscond, but he has no idea what she might do. Or what she has done in the past. He’s acted with decency, with chivalry, in securing her release. Or has he? Is it gallantry or is it his desire for reconciliation? Or is it self-interest? Mandy will be in his debt, will surely forgive him, speak with him. Then he’ll be able to make the case for Harley Snouch, persuade her to take the DNA test and avert Snouch’s defamation threat. Has he been fooling himself; is that his true motivation? Regardless, he’ll now be inextricably linked to her in the public mind; if not already, certainly by the time the evening television news stories have delivered their verdict. Her epithet is set: she is now leading police suspect Mandalay Blonde, just as he is disgraced former journalist Martin Scarsden. And he’s stuck here, stuck in Riversend, his fate linked to hers, his fifteen thousand dollars most definitely linked to her. And he’s forbidden by the magistrate from writing a word about it. Where it’s all heading he has no idea, but his first course of action is clear: he needs to bail out Mandy and then get back on speaking terms with her. A memory comes to mind of her standing in her kitchen wearing nothing more than a loose t-shirt, offering him coffee. He shakes his head, dismissing the recollection.
He looks away to the horizon, shimmering and ill-defined under the harsh sunlight, the sun that should lift all shadows but instead blurs the edges of the world, renders the horizon debatable, so that it’s impossible to tell land from sky. Who killed the backpackers? Why did Byron Swift run amok? What was written on the pages Mandy had ripped from the diary? The landscape is blank, the road melts into the distance, the sun beats down.
Jack Goffing breaks the silence. ‘Martin, I need your help.’
‘I guessed as much.’
‘I want to speak to Mandalay Blonde, by herself, away from the police.’
‘Is that why you’ve been cultivating me? To get to her?’
‘To be honest, that’s a large part of it, yes.’
Martin laughs at that, at Goffing’s honesty. ‘Right. Let me think about it. What’s in it for me?’
‘Maybe nothing. But there could be a lot for her. It doesn’t make sense, her handing over the diary like that if it implicates her. I might be able to help her get off the charge.’
‘So might a lawyer.’
‘You won’t help?’
‘I will. But tell me how you know Swift was really Flynt. And what you’re really doing here.’
Goffing doesn’t respond straight away. It’s something Martin has noticed about the intelligence man: he never seems pressed to respond immediately, taking time if he needs to think through the implications. When he does speak, his voice is serious. ‘All right. I’ll tell you what I can. This can’t appear in the papers. Not yet. Maybe never.’
‘If you say so.’
Goffing pauses, again considering his options, before sighing, as if giving in.
‘It started more than a year ago. An intelligence operation. You don’t need to know the details. Names were mentioned on the periphery: one was Swift, another was Riversend. We thought it was two words: river’s end or river send. Didn’t mean anything to us. Then Harley Snouch turned up at ASIO headquarters and exposed Byron Swift, identifying him as Julian Flynt.’
Martin turns, stares at Goffing in disbelief, stares for so long that the car almost runs off the edge of the dead-straight road.
‘Say that again.’
‘It was Snouch who informed us Swift was really Flynt.’
‘I still don’t get it. Can you explain how that can even happen?’
‘He came up to Canberra a year ago, peddling this story to anyone who would listen that his town priest was a gun-wielding imposter. Not surprisingly, no one would listen. Not the cops, not the media, not us. No one. Eventually he got on to me, only because he mentioned those two names, Swift and Riversend. To be honest, I thought he was a fantasist, that the names were a coincidence. I was just going through the motions. Being thorough. But he was strangely convincing. Once he set it out, it sounded more and more credible. He said Swift liked shooting and that he was former military. Said he had what looked like a scar from a bullet wound and military tattoos.
‘I heard him out, then sent him home. But just to be sure, I had an analyst run the name. And bingo: she uncovered the death of Byron Swift in Cambodia. Suddenly we had something. So I got Snouch back in; he was still in Canberra. I sat him down with folios of photographs of former special forces soldiers. He identified Julian Flynt the moment he saw the photo. The name meant nothing to me, but as soon as it went into the system, all sorts of red flags went up: an alleged war criminal, a fugitive, supposedly killed while on the run in Iraq.’
‘Shit. So why didn’t you arrest him? Swift, I mean.’
‘We were too late. That was late Friday afternoon. We convened a crisis meeting on the Sunday morning, hauled all sorts of people into work. We were still deliberating when the news came through: Swift had shot the men at the church and been killed by the local police constable. We were too late.’
‘Shit. And Snouch was still in Canberra?’
‘Yeah. That’s why he’s in the clear over the backpacker killings. He was in Canberra that whole week, talking to the police, talking to us. Alibis don’t get much better than that.’
‘He told me he was in Melbourne. In hospital with pneumonia.’
‘Is that right? Convincing, isn’t he?’
‘So what did he tell you? Why was he so anxious to inform on Swift?’
‘Said he was concerned about his stepdaughter.’
‘Mandy?’
‘Correct. Didn’t want her entangled with this bloke he suspected was an imposter and could be dangerous.’
Martin thinks about that; it has the ring of truth to it.
‘What about Snouch himself? Did you run a check on his background?’
‘Yes, he’s a bit of a mystery man. Lot of time out of the country, but nothing extraordinary.’
‘Did you find out how he got those markings on his hands? They look like prison tattoos.’
‘No. Nothing on that. But he hasn’t been in prison, I can tell you that much.’
‘So nothing about rape or sexual assault?’
‘No. We would have picked up anything like that.’
More silence, the men ponder, the plain rolls by. Snouch had known all along that Swift was Flynt, but he had chosen not to tell Martin. Martin wonders why not, if Snouch was keen to diminish Swift in Mandy’s eyes. He’d been quick to repeat allegations of child abuse, so why not tell Martin the truth about Flynt? Because Goffing would know Martin’s source and come after him? Or because of Mandy’s likely reaction? If she found out Snouch had exposed Swift in the days before the priest’s death, then she might hold Snouch responsible for the shooting spree and any hopes of reconciliation would be dashed forever. Is that it? What is Snouch up to?
‘Listen, Jack, Byron Swift’s dying words to Robbie Haus-Jones were: “Harley Snouch knows everything.” Did he somehow know that Snouch was onto him?’
‘That’s what worries me. And worries the head of ASIO even more. There’s nothing concrete, but there’s a lingering suspicion that ASIO leaked; somehow Swift found out that Snouch had identified him. We take such suspicions very seriously.’
‘But that could be a factor in what made him kill those men.’
‘True. But, Martin, you can’t write it. Not yet. When the time comes, if the time comes, it’s all yours. An exclusive. You have my word.’
Martin smiles at that; the word of a trained liar.
‘Thanks, Jack—and I’ve got something for you.’
‘What’s that?’
Martin tells the ASIO man about the mysterious phone number passed onto him by the owner of the Black Dog, how he suspects it was left by Herb Walker pretending to be his editor, and that the number might be the one Swift had called from St James just moments before he started shooting.
‘Do you have it with you?’
‘Sure. In my coat. Take the wheel.’
Goffing reaches across and takes the steering wheel with his right hand. Martin keeps his foot on the accelerator, the car rocketing along, while he reaches into the back seat for his coat and retrieves the number written on the post-it note given to him by Felicity Kirby. He hands it to Goffing and resumes control of the car. In the distance, the tops of Riversend’s wheat silos come into view, floating above the heat-distorted plain.
‘Can you find out who it belongs to?’ asks Martin.
‘Sure, piece of piss.’
Martin slows the car, passing the abandoned petrol station and the Black Dog, turning into Hay Road and heading straight to the police station. There’s just the one photographer set up outside, the maniac who went tearing past as they left Bellington. The snapper takes a few frames and gives Martin a jovial wave. If he’s still the only one there when Martin and Mandy emerge together he’ll be more jovial still: the money shot will be his and his alone.