‘What you’re doing here. Why you came down with the cops, even before the bodies in the dam were identified.’
Goffing shrugs again. ‘Sure. It’s not such a big deal.’ He sits back down, reaches for another cigarette, thinks better of it. ‘A lot of what we do nowadays is terrorism-related. Back in the day, during the Cold War, it was all counterespionage and keeping an eye on the commies. We still do the anti-spy stuff, lots of cybersecurity and so forth, but terrorism is the growth area. My unit is involved with monitoring communications between Australian extremists and jihadis in the Middle East, in particular the movement of foreign fighters and Australian money. In the months before St James, we picked up a trail of money being sent from Australia to Dubai and then disappearing. We suspected it was being funnelled to Islamic State or the Taliban or any one of a number of other extremist groups. There were a couple of key words picked out of the ether: Swift was one, Riversend was another. I mentioned this before; it’s why, when Snouch turned up, I gave him the time of day.’
‘I see,’ says Martin. ‘Except instead of going to Muslim extremists, the money was probably going to a Christian orphanage.’
‘Yeah, looks like it now.’ Another shrug. ‘We all make mistakes.’
‘But why come down here a year later when the bodies turned up at Springfields?’
‘Snouch rang me at the same time he called the coppers. After he found the bodies. Don’t know why. Probably wanted me to vouch for him. I immediately thought there might be a connection with Swift’s shooting spree, that it might have to do with the money flow. I half expected the bodies in the dam to be young Muslim hotheads, or informants, or God knows who. Not German fruit-pickers, that’s for sure.’ The men sit in silence, pondering. ‘I think we need to go after Snouch,’ says Goffing. ‘He’s the key.’
‘I agree. But how can we?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, he has you over a barrel for letting him use ASIO resources to identify a former special forces soldier. And he’s threatening to sue me for defamation and destroy what’s left of my career.’
Goffing shakes his head. ‘He’s up to his eyeballs in something. I wish I knew what it was—that way we could threaten him straight back.’
‘I swear those are prison tattoos on his hands, but we’ve both run checks. Mandy’s mother accused him of rape, but there’s nothing. No records, no evidence.’
There’s little left to say. The two men are immobilised, their frustration mounting with the arc of the sun. It’s getting hotter; soon the car park will be unbearable. Goffing lights another cigarette. Half-a-dozen cockatoos fly over, screeching raucously, complaining at the injustice of another day without rain, another baking day in western New South Wales. And now, into the silence left by the cockatoos, a new sound, a vibration felt before it’s heard, the guttural roar of approaching thunder.
‘What’s that?’ asks Goffing.
‘Motorbikes,’ says Martin.
The noise comes closer and the two men stand and watch as four bikies, riding two abreast, ease by along the highway. The four horsemen of the apocalypse, vacationing in the Riverina. The noise bounces this way and that, filling the town with its presence. Martin and Jack Goffing watch them pass, and then follow their progress by sound alone as they change down gears and turn into Hay Road, the growl of the engines reverberating this way and that off the shopfronts. The sound is retreating when Goffing speaks. ‘Bikies. Here. They look like the real deal.’
‘Yeah, I’ve seen them before. They pass through now and then.’
‘Seriously? Out here? The most boring landscape in the world to ride a motorbike. Why?’
‘How would I know?’
‘You’ve seen them before, you say. Do you know who they are?’
‘I haven’t spoken to them, if that’s what you mean. They’re the Rebels or the Reapers or something. Here, I took a snap.’ Martin searches through his phone, finding the blurry shots of the bikies riding down Hay Road. ‘Here.’
‘Reapers. Well, fuck me.’
‘What’s so significant about a few scruffy blokes on motorbikes?’
Goffing is shaking his head. ‘No, Martin. The Reapers aren’t a few scruffy blokes on motorbikes; they’re serious shit. An outlaw gang, more like organised crime. Based in Adelaide. Drugs, extortion, armed robbery. What are they doing here? Do you know where they stay?’
‘No. Don’t know if they do stay. The only bloke who looks anything like a bikie around here is a vet named Jason who lives out in the Scrublands. Has the bike and the look, but I didn’t see any colours.’
‘You know his surname?’
‘No idea. Has a girlfriend called Shazza. Sharon. Why, what is it?’
‘Don’t know. Give me an hour or two. I need to make some calls.’
Jack Goffing returns to his room and closes the door behind him. Martin is left standing alone, listening to the distant hum of motorbikes. He’s still standing there when the phone in his own room rings, a jangling discordant sound.
He answers it. ‘Martin Scarsden,’ he says tentatively.
‘Martin, it’s me, Mandy. Can you come round to the bookstore? I need your help. It’s kind of urgent.’
MARTIN AVOIDS HAY ROAD, TAKING THE BACK LANE BETWEEN THE ABANDONED supermarket and the petrol station to reach the Oasis. He’s greeted at the back door by Mandalay Blonde, her smile radiant. She’s holding Liam as she answers the door, but places the boy gently at her feet before reaching out to Martin, kissing and holding him.
‘Martin, thank you so much. You saved his life. You know that, don’t you?’
Martin is unsure how to respond: is it gratitude or affection? ‘I saved Jamie Landers as well.’
‘Hush. That’s neither here nor there.’
‘How is he? Liam?’
‘Remarkably good. Tough little fellow. The cuts were superficial, thank God. No stitches. Just need to stop him pulling off the dressing.’
On the floor, the boy has pushed across to Martin’s feet and has begun pulling at his shoelaces, fascinated by their complexity. Mandy bends and lifts him up. ‘Come through, there’s someone I want you to meet.’
She leads the way through the house and into the bookstore. She’s happy, he can see that, her feet almost floating above the floor. It makes him feel glad.
In the bookstore, sitting in one of the armchairs near the Japanese screen, sipping a cup of tea, is a rather proper-looking woman. She looks almost elderly, possibly in her seventies, but her dress is professional, her hair is dyed and her posture is erect. Half-moon glasses give her some of the appearance of a librarian, except the frames look too expensive.
‘Martin, this is Winifred Barbicombe. She’s a lawyer.’
‘Pleased to meet you, Mr Scarsden,’ the woman says, shaking hands but remaining seated. ‘Please take a seat. We’d like you to witness some documents, if you’d be so kind.’
Martin looks to Mandy for guidance and receives a glowing smile in return. He takes a seat, as does Mandy, the boy on her lap.
‘I’m a partner in a Melbourne law firm, Wright, Douglas and Fenning. For as long as I can remember, which is quite some time, and for as long as anyone can remember, which is even longer, Wright, Douglas and Fenning have provided legal advice to the Snouch family of Springfields. We first acted for them in the nineteenth century.’
‘I see,’ says Martin, though he doesn’t.
The lawyer continues. ‘In a few short weeks, Mandalay will turn thirty years old, at which time she will inherit Springfields and a considerable portfolio of investments, including shares, bonds and property—including many properties in Riversend, such as this one. A considerable fortune, in fact.’
Mandy shrugs, expressing her own surprise at this turn of events, her eyes alight at her change in fortune.
‘Would you be willing to witness some documents for her?’ asks Winifred Barbicombe.
‘Yes. Of course,’ says Martin. ‘So who has bequeathed all this? Eric Snouch?’