‘He lost it, hit me when I suggested his father had been abusive. Is that true?’
Robbie nods, eyes more sad than angry. ‘Ask any country cop. Domestic violence is half of what we do. It’s endemic.’
‘So he was violent? Craig?’
‘Sure. Drought like this, times like this, heat like this. The pressure builds up; throw in a bit of grog and tempers become hair-trigger. I’m not excusing it, but that’s life for a lot of women. In the bush and in the city. Craig Landers beat his wife from time to time when he was in his cups. So do a lot of men.’
‘Did you intervene?’
‘I locked him up a couple of times. Talked to him. But after that, you really need to be guided by the women. No good going further if they don’t want you to; it might achieve nothing more than inciting another beating.’
‘Jesus.’
‘Welcome to my world.’
‘And Jamie? Did Craig beat him as well?’
‘Couldn’t say. Jamie never said anything; Fran never said anything. But that doesn’t mean it didn’t happen.’
‘Well, something fucked him up, that’s for sure. Did you hear what he said in there? About the backpackers?’
‘That’s nothing. You should hear the full confession. What they put those girls through. It’s not human, makes your skin crawl. Montifore is insisting on counselling for the lot of us.’
Robbie pauses and Martin takes the opportunity to change subject. ‘Hey, there are a few other things I’d like you to help me with. Off the record.’
Robbie shrugs affably. ‘Sure. Montifore’s commandeered my office, but we can talk here.’
‘Remember that first time we met, when I interviewed you at the police station. You said that you and Byron Swift had been friends. You remember that?’
‘Sure.’
‘You just heard what Jamie said, that Swift warned him and Allen that something bad had happened out in the Scrublands. Did Swift ever say anything to you?’
Robbie is unable to meet Martin’s gaze, staring at his hands as he picks at his nails. ‘No. No he didn’t.’
‘Any idea why not?’
‘Not really. I guess he didn’t want it made public for some reason.’
‘Walker told you his theory, didn’t he? That Swift was an imposter. It wasn’t his real name.’
Robbie looks at him then, eyes intense. ‘Is it true?’
‘I think so, yes.’
‘Who was he then? Do you know?’
‘A former soldier. He was wanted by the authorities. I’m guessing that’s why he didn’t tell you. He knew you’d arrest him.’
Robbie nods, as if endorsing Martin’s interpretation. ‘And you intend publishing this?’
‘I do, as soon as I find someone who’ll run the story.’
Robbie stares at him, hesitating before speaking again. ‘Did Harley Snouch know? Byron’s last words. Was that what he was trying to tell me?’
‘I think maybe it was.’
Robbie just shakes his head, as if in disbelief. Or in despair. ‘Shit. Harley Snouch knew, Herb Walker worked it out. Just poor dumb Robbie Haus-Jones left in the dark, sucked in and spat out.’ He shakes his head again. ‘I’m going to look the right fool when your story comes out. Fuck me.’ A third shake of his head. ‘But thanks, Martin. Thanks for telling me. For warning me.’
‘Sorry. There are a couple of other matters. I keep seeing bikies riding through town. What’s the story with them?’
‘The Reapers? No idea. They stay down in Bellington. There’s a pub there they like, owned by a former member.’
‘So not around here?’
‘No. No bikies around here.’
‘What about Jason, out in the Scrublands?’
‘Jason? He’s not a bikie. He’s an invalid with a Yamaha.’
Martin nods. ‘The publican—Avery Foster. You knew him?’
Robbie frowns, looking confused by Martin’s question. ‘Sure. Everyone knew him. He served behind the bar most lunchtimes, most nights. Can’t say I knew him well, though. He was a pleasant bloke, but quiet for a publican. Not prone to banter.’
‘Accepted by the community?’
‘Oh yeah. People were happy someone was trying to make a go of the pub.’
‘Was he mates with Byron Swift?’
The frown deepens. ‘No. Not particularly. I don’t think Byron went to the pub much. He wasn’t up here that often. But maybe he did. I know Foster donated some money to our youth group, so they must have known each other somehow. Byron organised that. Either that or Avery got wind of what we were doing and decided to help off his own bat.’
‘He killed himself; am I right?’
‘Yes. It wasn’t good. Put a shotgun in his mouth and pulled the trigger. Down by the river. One hell of a mess. I should tell Montifore’s counsellors about that while I’m at it.’
‘Do you know why he did it? Did he leave a note?’
‘No, no note. But the reasons were pretty clear. His wife had left him. She’d never liked it here, never fitted in. The week after the shooting at St James, she packed up and headed back to the city. You can understand why. And he was out of money, so they say. The drought. It’s tough times, Martin. Desperate times.’
‘What happened to his body? His affairs?’
‘Why are you so interested in Foster?’
‘I think he may have known Swift’s real identity.’
‘What? How?’
‘They were in the military together.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘Jack Goffing and I, we broke into his apartment over at the Commercial.’
‘But the pub’s empty. The wife cleared everything out.’
‘Not everything. Goffing’s on his way to Bellington to pick up a criminal investigator.’
OUTSIDE THE POLICE STATION THE DAY GROWS HOTTER, A HIGH - PRESSURE system suspended above eastern Australia like a spiteful god, banishing clouds and forbidding moisture. Martin can feel the sun on his bare skin like a physical assault, as if the hairs on his arms might catch fire like the mulga of the Scrublands. The temperature must be approaching forty. He’s been here for more than a week and he’s yet to experience a cool day, yet to see a cloud. The only variation is the wind: too much and there’s the risk of fire, too little and there’s no relief whatsoever. Today is windless.
Across the road, in the shade of a tree, the gaggle of media, beaten down by the heat, come alert at the sight of him. A couple of photographers notch up some lazy frames, more out of boredom than interest: he’s yesterday’s story. The media will get a doorstop with Montifore, then the spectacle of Landers at the Scrublands crime scene, recounting his atrocities. Then they can be on their way, the story that drew them to Riversend, the murder of the backpackers, resolved.
A thin figure of a man, wearing moleskins, riding boots and a light linen shirt, breaks away from the group and makes his way towards Martin. D’Arcy Defoe, dressed the part.
‘Martin.’
‘D’Arcy.’
They shake hands.
‘Looks like I got here in time to turn around and go back again,’ says D’Arcy.
‘Sorry to inconvenience you.’
Defoe laughs. ‘Yeah. I reckon you did it on purpose.’
Martin smiles. His rival has always possessed an easy line in banter.
‘For what it’s worth, Martin, I think you have been most shabbily treated. Most shabbily. Our management is a disgrace—but you already know that.’
‘Thanks, D’Arcy. I appreciate it.’
Defoe flicks his head in the direction of the police station. ‘Any developments?’
‘No, not a lot. Jamie Landers has confessed to everything. He isn’t holding back. It’s not going to be much of a trial; very open and shut, I should think. The coppers are going to drive him out to the bush to film him taking them through it.’
‘I know. They want a media pool.’
‘You going out?’
‘Yeah. I don’t think there’s any news left to wring out of the yarn, but that could provide some useful colour. If I can hack the heat. Is it always this hot?’
‘Yep.’
‘Listen, Martin, if you don’t mind me asking, what are you still doing here?’
‘Not sure I know myself. Just want to see it through to a conclusion, I guess. My last story, and all that.’