‘You’ve been here by yourself since Sunday?’ asks Codger. ‘You poor thing.’
She nods. ‘Ran out of water yesterday. I was about to walk to Snouch’s. But I didn’t want to leave in case…’ She sobs, fighting tears. ‘In case he comes back, in case they let them go.’
Martin looks at Codger, sees the concern writ large on the old man’s face. He looks at Shazza, sees her stubborn hope. ‘Shazza, listen: Walker is dead. They think he committed suicide. That same night. Sunday. But there’s no news about Jason. He could be okay.’
But the news about Walker is too much for the woman. She breaks down completely, openly weeping, despairing for the fate of her partner.
Gently, moving slowly, Codger goes to her, takes the shotgun, breaks it open, removes the shells and lays it on the ground. He holds his arms wide and Shazza falls into them, like a child comforted by her grandfather. Martin watches this unfold without seeing; his mind is throwing up scenarios one after the other, trying to find one that makes sense. Jason growing dope but not making any money. Swift implicated; giving money to Jason. The Reapers, abducting Walker and Jason. Driving Walker to suicide? Killing him outright? Holy shit.
Into the silence, emphasised by Shazza’s weeping, another sound insinuates itself: a car. A car coming closer. Martin walks around to the side of his rental, picks up the shotgun. What did Codger do with the shells? Never mind. He snaps it shut, thinking maybe he can use it as a bluff.
A final wave of sound and the car comes over the rise into the broken yard. Jack Goffing is driving. He and two other men get out, one in his fifties, the other in his twenties, in the telltale dress of plainclothes policemen. The younger man is holding a handgun, out of its holster, pointing at the ground. He looks like he means business. Martin carefully puts the shotgun down, raises his hands, leaving no room for mistakes.
‘Are you Sharon Young?’ asks the older man, ignoring Martin and Codger.
Shazza nods.
‘Good. My name is Claus Vandenbruk. I’m a police officer. Your partner Jason Moore is helping us with our inquiries. He wants you to know he is alive and well.’
Shazza says nothing, surrendering entirely to tears, Codger supporting her.
‘You Scarsden?’ the cop barks, looking bluntly at Martin.
‘That’s me.’
‘You been over there?’ The policeman tips his head in the direction of the burnt-out dope shed, not taking his gaze from Martin as he does so.
‘Yeah. I had a look.’
‘What’d you see?’
‘A burnt-out machinery shed.’
The cop smiles menacingly. ‘Good for you. You work out what’s been going on?’
‘Yeah. Marijuana. Must have been quite a crop. Tapping into the water from Springfields.’
‘Clever lad. You thinking of publishing that?’
Next to Vandenbruk, Goffing is shaking his head, signalling to Martin to say no.
‘Any reason why I shouldn’t?’
‘Hundreds. Including being charged with obstructing a police inquiry. Your choice.’
‘Then I won’t. Not a word. Not yet. But when the time comes, when you bust open the Reapers, I want the inside running. Agreed?’
A flash of anger passes across the policeman’s face, and one of dismay across Jack Goffing’s. ‘Who said anything about the Reapers?’
‘I did. What do you think I’m doing out here? Do we have a deal or not?’
The young policeman, standing off to one side, places his handgun in its holster, reaches behind him and removes some handcuffs from his belt. ‘You want me to cuff him, boss?’
But Vandenbruk shakes his head, eyes still boring into Martin’s, looking as if nothing would please him more than wading into the reporter, boots and all. ‘No,’ he says eventually. ‘Here’s the deal, Scarsden. You tell me everything you know. Everything. In return, I don’t arrest you here and now. And if it suits me, if it suits the investigation, we’ll tell you what’s happening. When the time comes.’
‘Fair enough,’ says Martin.
‘Goodo then. Was Herb Walker your source?’
‘It’s okay, Martin,’ interjects Jack Goffing. ‘Claus knows you weren’t responsible for Walker’s death.’
Martin shakes his head. ‘I don’t reveal my sources. Including you—when the time comes,’ he says, parroting the policeman’s words. ‘What do you know about Herb’s death?’
The policeman’s face is hard to read, not because it’s devoid of emotion, but because there are so many to see: anger and amusement, disgust and grief, eddying back and forth, one after the other. Finally, disgust wins out.
‘He didn’t suicide. The Reapers killed him. Waterboarded him, but fucked it up. He had a heart attack, so they drowned him. Stupid cunts.’ And he spits into the ashes at his feet.
‘How do you know that?’
‘That’s for me to know, not you.’
‘And the Reapers? You’ll arrest them?’
‘Arrest them? They have no idea the amount of shit that is about to come down upon them. Forget the rest; they killed a cop. We’re setting the raids up now with the feds and state coppers. They’re fucked six ways to Sunday.’
‘I can report that? When it happens?’ asks Martin.
‘Mate, the whole world will be reporting that particular shitstorm. But you breathe a word about it before we’re done, and you’ll be as sorry as Sisyphus. I’ll see to it myself. And breathe a word about Jason Moore—ever—and you risk having his blood on your hands. Got that? Ever.’
‘So why tell me?’
Vandenbruk pauses. Another emotional squall passes over his face, leaving him more subdued. ‘Because you’re here, because you know. And Herb trusted you. Stupid bastard. Now let’s get out of here; I don’t want to be around if any of those bike-riding bastards show up. We’ll take your car, Jack. Sharon can come with us. You okay riding back with Scarsden?’
Goffing nods, looking somewhat taken aback by the policeman’s presumption.
Codger helps Shazza over to Goffing’s commandeered rental. Before she gets into the car, she takes one last look around her devastated property. But in her eyes there are signs of hope; her man is alive.
The car pulls away, leaving the three of them to watch it go.
‘We haven’t met,’ Goffing says to Codger. ‘I’m Jack Goffing.’
‘Hello, Jack. Everyone calls me Codger. Codger Harris.’
‘Pleased to meet you, Codger. Do you mind giving Martin and me a moment in private?’
‘No worries,’ says Codger and he shuffles away towards the ruins of the house.
Martin waits until he is out of earshot. ‘What did Vandenbruk have to say?’
‘The Criminal Intelligence Commission has been running surveillance on the Reapers for almost two years. The bikies are Adelaide-based, but have been extending their influence into the east coast. They’re moving members into Canberra, setting up a chapter; the anti-consorting laws are weaker there. Meanwhile, they’re putting drugs into country Victoria and New South Wales, carving out new territory. Crystal meth, ecstasy, dope. They’ve been using Riversend as a staging point. Byron Swift was in on it. That and growing dope out here. That’s why he put a phone line into St James: to coordinate it.’
‘So that’s where he and Avery Foster were getting the money for the orphanage? Marijuana?’
‘Looks like it. Spend a bit of time in Afghanistan and hashish becomes a non-issue very quickly. It’s nothing compared to the rest of the shit going down over there.’
‘Dope maybe. But ice? That’s no laughing matter.’
‘You’re telling me. But that’s what Vandenbruk said. Swift put the phone line in. Maybe it was just intended to sell the dope, but the Reapers definitely started using the church as a staging point for hard drugs. The ACIC has been monitoring the number, running surveillance on the dope shed, the lot.’
‘So that’s where Herb Walker got Avery’s phone number? From Vandenbruk?’
‘That has to be right. But go easy there. Vandenbruk is like a grenade with the pin out. He reckons he got his best mate killed; he seriously wants to do some damage to someone. Make sure it’s the Reapers, not you.’