Goffing takes a long, satisfied drag on his cigarette. The men look into the distance, thoughts racing through Martin’s mind, connections being made, theories advanced and rejected.
The silence is broken by the jagged ringing of the phone in Goffing’s room. He stamps out his cigarette and raises his eyebrows at Martin, communicating his expectations: watch this space.
Goffing closes the door behind him and Martin considers what he knows. Jamie Landers and Allen Newkirk abducted and killed the two backpackers. Swift was with Mandy Blonde at the time of the abduction and probably had nothing to do with the crime. Swift may have seen some evidence left by Landers and Newkirk out in the Scrublands, but that’s the only likely link between the deaths of the German girls and the shooting at St James. They were probably distinct crimes, connected only by their proximity in time and location. But that still leaves a lot Martin doesn’t know. Swift and Foster were acting in concert, sending money to Afghanistan, but where were they getting money from in the middle of a drought, rolls of hundred-dollar notes? Someone had accused Swift of abusing children and Herb Walker reckoned he’d had it verified by two Riversend victims. Who made the allegations and were they true? And did they explain why Swift shot the five members of the Bellington Anglers Club?
The moment Goffing emerges from his motel room, Martin knows something is wrong. The spring has gone from the man’s step, a veil has come down over his eyes. He slumps into the plastic chair, reaches for a cigarette and lights it without looking, a man on automatic pilot. When he draws in his first toke, there is no enjoyment, or even awareness that he’s smoking.
‘What’s wrong? What’s happened?’
‘Something bad.’
‘You want to tell me about it?’
Goffing looks at Martin, examining him. Martin can see the calculation in the intelligence officer’s eyes. To confide or not to confide. The camaraderie is gone; the guile is back. Eventually, Goffing sighs. ‘I asked Canberra to run checks on Foster’s phone for the morning of the shooting. It’s not good.’
‘You have recordings?’
‘No. Of course not. No content. It’s just billing data. Metadata. Which number called which number at what time and for how long. The telcos are required to keep the metadata for two years.’ A drag on his cigarette, another calculation. ‘At ten forty-five on the morning of the shooting, a call was made from St James to Avery Foster’s apartment at the Commercial Hotel. The call lasted about a minute. At ten fifty-four Foster called the church back. Same thing: about a minute. After the second call it must have been almost immediately after the second call Swift went out and started shooting.’
‘Yes,’ says Martin. ‘That’s more or less what we knew from Walker’s information: Swift called someone and then that person rang back. It was Avery Foster.’
‘Yes,’ says Goffing. ‘But that’s not all. Between the two calls with St James, Foster received another call.’
‘Really? From whom?’
‘No specific number. It came through a switchboard. Russell Hill, in Canberra.’
‘Russell Hill…the Defence Department?’
‘No. More likely ASIO.’
‘ASIO?’
‘Snouch had identified Swift on the Friday. That Sunday morning we were gathered, a crisis team of about eight people, at ASIO headquarters. The cops were there, so was Attorney-General’s, and a liaison officer from Defence. Someone called Foster and warned him.’
‘So it’s true: ASIO leaked.’
‘Looks like it. Everyone in that room was security cleared, but one of them called Foster.’ He shakes his head, still coming to terms with the information. ‘You don’t understand, Martin. This’ll go off like a hand grenade when I tell the boss. There’ll be all sorts of internal investigations. A veritable witch-hunt. A mole-hunt. And if they don’t find out who was responsible, every person in that room, including me, will carry a question mark on their CV for all time, a very nasty and sinister question mark.’ Goffing finishes his cigarette, grinds it into the car park gravel, grinds it so thoroughly that it disintegrates beneath his shoe.
‘The Defence liaison officer? Could it have been him?’
‘Her. That’d be my guess.’
‘Hang on. Jack, where was Harley Snouch?’ asks Martin.
‘Snouch? Outside the meeting, in case we needed him.’
‘Well, don’t you see? It was Snouch who called Foster. ASIO didn’t leak. Snouch rang Foster and then Foster called Swift back. Remember Swift’s dying words to Robbie Haus-Jones: “Harley Snouch knows everything.” It must have been him; you’re in the clear.’
But there’s no relief on the face of Jack Goffing. He’s shaking his head, a portrait of dismay. ‘Fuck. You could be right. That’s even worse.’
‘Worse? How?’
‘Don’t you see? If you’re right, he played me. He played ASIO. He didn’t come to Canberra to provide information—he came to gather it. He came because he knew we could identify Flynt for him. The identity of SAS soldiers, past and present, is classified. You’re a journo; you must know that. He never intended to help us.’ Goffing has his head in his hands, shoulders slumped. ‘Fuck, Martin. This is career-ending.’
‘Maybe. But we’re not dead yet.’
‘Easy for you to say. It’s not your career on the line.’
‘No, mine’s already fucked, thanks very much.’
This time Goffing has no comeback.
‘Good. So let’s think it through. Why would Snouch call Foster and why would it have any impact? Foster already knew Swift was really Flynt; Snouch wasn’t telling him anything new.’
Goffing grimaces, re-engaging. ‘I see where you’re coming from. Snouch was exerting some sort of leverage. He says, “I know Swift is Flynt; I know he’s a fugitive and a war criminal. Do what I want or I expose him.” No, that’s no good; he’d already exposed him.’
Martin nods. ‘Maybe he’s been telling us the truth. Maybe he just wanted to get Swift out of town, away from Mandy. So he rings Foster and says, “Get him out of town.” Maybe he was doing Foster a favour, keeping him out of the firing line.’
Goffing is frowning. ‘But Swift was already leaving, wasn’t he?’
‘Yes. But Snouch didn’t know that. He’d been in Canberra the whole time and missed Walker launching his child abuse probe.’
‘That’s ironic. Swift was going anyway.’ Another grimace. ‘Doesn’t help me, though.’
‘And it doesn’t explain why Swift opened fire, either.’
‘Jesus Christ. Every time I think we’re getting somewhere, it slips through our fingers. You get that feeling?’
‘I do,’ says Martin. ‘But listen. How does this play? Snouch rings Foster, tells him ASIO is onto Swift, that he has to go. But Snouch says he can keep Foster’s name out of it.’
‘Blackmail?’
‘Blackmail. Snouch tried something similar with me.’
‘What was that?’
‘He’s threatening to sue me for defamation unless I help him reconcile with Mandy.’
Goffing takes his time before responding. ‘He played me, he’s blackmailing you, he coerced Avery Foster. The guy’s a ratfucker.’
‘And a good one. Foster’s name was kept out of it. Until last night, I’d never connected him to Swift. Had you?’
‘No. So he acceded to Snouch’s demands? But what was Snouch demanding?’
‘Money. Rolls of hundred-dollar bills would be my guess.’
‘Snouch never struck me as someone with money,’ Goffing objects. ‘More like a derro.’
‘He was restoring the old family homestead. He was getting money from somewhere. My guess is from Foster.’
‘But what money? Where could Foster find money in this shithole?’ Goffing stands, gestures around him, emphasising the absurdity of hidden wealth in Riversend.
‘Listen, Jack, I’ve lost my job, you’re about to lose yours. Let’s say we put it all on the table. No secrets. We’ve got nothing to lose.’
Goffing looks at him: assessing, calculating, deciding. He shrugs. ‘Okay. What do you want to know?’