‘Yeah. We raped them.’
There are no tears in Jamie Landers’ eyes; no tears for the dead girls, no tears for himself. No remorse. Martin knows he should probe further, extract the awful details, the timeline of depravity, the abominations that occurred in the Scrublands. Landers is ready to tell him, wants to tell him, and he knows the readers will want it too: a glimpse inside the mind of a teenage killer. It’s what journalists do, even if many of the details are too abhorrent to publish. It’s part of the job: witness the worst the world has to offer, then sanitise it for public consumption, make the events somehow explicable and twice-removed. But Martin feels sick in the stomach.
He takes a deep breath, considers why he’s interviewing Landers. He’s fallen so easily back into the habits of the journalist, homing in on the confessional. He knows his former colleagues would give their eyeteeth to secure it, but feeding the news cycle is no longer his priority. The girls are dead, Newkirk is dead, Jamie Landers is fucked in the head. Does he really want to wallow in such evil? It’s not going to help him and Jack Goffing—an exploration of Jamie Landers’ twisted mind will do nothing to advance their investigations.
So he changes tack. ‘Jamie, the priest, Reverend Swift—did you and Allen tell Sergeant Walker that he had abused you?’
Landers’ face lights up. A smile. ‘Yes. Ha. That was me. I made that up.’
‘You made it up? It wasn’t true?’
‘Shit no.’ A look of contempt. ‘As if Allen and me would let him touch us. No fucking way.’
‘And he didn’t abuse anyone else? Any kids?’
‘Not that I know of. But you know, he was a priest. They do that sort of shit.’
‘So why make the allegation? Did it have something to do with the girls?’
Landers nods. ‘Yeah, that’s it. You’re smarter than you look. He found them, or he found something. He was suspicious, but not of us. He warned us not to go out to the Scrublands, said something bad had happened out there. To be careful.’
‘He warned you?’
‘Yeah.’
‘So what was the idea? Were you going to frame him for the murders?’
‘Nah. We were going to kill him.’
Martin stares at the young man, struggling to comprehend this new horror, but Landers merely smiles back, as if he’s just said something very witty.
‘Can you explain that?’ asks Martin.
‘I tell you, it was my idea. Allen was never that smart.’
‘What were you planning?’
‘Isn’t it obvious? We’d set the scene, told the cops he’d abused us. We were going to lure him somewhere and shoot him. With one of his own guns. Then we’d tell the police he’d tried to molest us again, that we fired in self-defence. That way, if they found the bodies in the dam, they’d think it was him as well. We’d be home free. Beautiful, hey?’ The boy is smiling again, proud of his scheming.
‘You think anyone would have believed that?’
‘Everyone would have believed it. He was a priest.’
Martin considers that claim for a moment and surprises himself by concluding the scheme might well have worked. He continues, ‘There was a call to the police, Jamie. An anonymous call, to Crime Stoppers a year ago, not long after you killed the German girls. It was a tip-off that there were bodies in the dam at Springfields. The story was in the paper the other day. I thought it must have been Swift.’
‘Nah, that was us. Part of the set-up. Although we didn’t say the dam, just that the girls were dead and their bodies were somewhere in the Scrublands.’
‘Shit,’ says Martin, not knowing what else to say.
But Jamie is on a roll now, happy to talk, happy to boast, happy they’ve moved on from the torture and murder of the girls. ‘In the end, we didn’t need to do anything. He went mental, mad cunt, and killed everyone at the church. Then his copper chum shot him. So we let it go. We figured the longer the bodies were in the dam, the better. Less evidence. And if they did get found, then they’d blame him, or that old rapist, or both. We told ourselves we were in the clear.’
‘That’s pretty amazing,’ says Martin, feeding the kid’s ego.
‘Pretty cool, hey?’
‘Yeah,’ says Martin. ‘Pretty cool. But listen, you told Sergeant Walker that Swift molested you—is it true he told your dad and your dad believed it?’
‘Yeah. Dumb and dumber.’
‘You saw him, didn’t you, the morning he died, before he went to St James?’
‘My dad? Yeah, I did.’
‘What happened?’
‘He was in a fucking flap, I tell you, him and his mates, but especially him. Spitting chips. Funniest thing you ever saw. He was ranting on about killing the priest. Allen and me were cacking ourselves.’
‘But he didn’t really intend to kill him, did he? They didn’t take guns to the church.’
‘No. Mum turned up. I think she’d been to see him, to see Swift. Said he was leaving town, that Dad didn’t have to do anything. He calmed down a bit after that. He pulled me aside, demanded I tell him the truth, whether Swift had abused us or not.’
‘What did you say?’
‘I told him it was bullshit. That Allen and I were just getting back at him.’
‘For what?’
Landers doesn’t respond, doesn’t seem to want to.
‘For what, Jamie?’
‘For being a superior cunt, for thinking he was better than us.’ The assertion has the ring of truth to it, at least part of the truth. Martin lets it go.
‘Okay. So what happened then? With your dad?’
‘Well, he calmed down. I thought they were going to go hunting and that was the end of it. Allen was going with them, to make sure they didn’t go anywhere near where we’d finished the Krauts or near the dam at Springfields. But then, I don’t know, Dad got kind of happy, started laughing. He said something to Mum, I don’t know what, but he was laughing and she was crying. The prick. And then Dad and his mates went to the church anyway.’
Martin considers this. Why did Landers go to the church? His wife Fran had told him Swift was leaving, his son Jamie had told him Swift had not abused him after all. So why go? Martin looks at Landers; he can’t think of any reason the boy wouldn’t be telling the truth. ‘You’re worried about your mum, hey?’
That brings Landers back to earth. He deflates, eyes cast downwards. ‘Yeah. She doesn’t deserve this.’
‘What about your father, Jamie? Swift killed him.’
‘Best thing he ever did.’
‘Kill your father?’
‘Too right.’
‘Why?’
‘You don’t need to know.’ Landers gets to his feet, starts pacing, suddenly menacing. Sitting on the floor, Martin feels vulnerable, Landers stalking the cell above him. He starts to get up, finds it difficult. One of his legs has fallen asleep, pins and needles running down his thigh and into his calf; his stance is unsteady. He recalls what Jamie said about the Germans: I liked being the one doing the hitting for once.
‘Was he violent, Jamie? Did he hit you? Did he hit your mum?’
Landers’ eyes turn volcanic. His fist comes from nowhere, Martin swaying his head at the last moment, turning it into a glancing blow. But it’s enough for his knees to buckle. ‘Robbie!’ he calls as he falls. ‘Help! Robbie!’ Landers is standing over him, seething, fists clenched, but not moving, not lashing out. The cell door opens and Martin is pulled up and out.
‘You all right?’ asks Robbie, leading him back into the main station, into the kitchen.
‘Yeah, I think so. He blindsided me.’ Martin touches his left cheek where Landers connected. It’s tender to the touch and beginning to swell.
‘Let me take a look at it,’ says Robbie, sitting Martin down. ‘It’s not cut, but you’ll have a decent bruise. I’ll get you some ice. You want to press charges?’
Martin shakes his head. ‘What’s the point? Rape and murder. He’ll be inside for years.’
Robbie gets some ice cubes from the freezer, wraps them in a tea towel.
‘You heard?’ asks Martin.
‘I was listening,’ says Robbie.