‘Or I tell Mandy Blonde all about Terry McGill. And it becomes the next cover story for This Month.’
Snouch shrugs, as if unbothered by the threat. ‘Mate, I’ve got nothing to hide. I rang Foster to get Swift to back off, to leave town before the spooks and the coppers got him. I wanted him away from Mandy.’
‘Why?’
Snouch’s voice loses its untroubled tone and turns earnest; Martin hears an undercurrent of passion. ‘You know the answer to that—the guy was a predator. He was rooting her, he was rooting Fran Landers, he was into a widow down in Bellington and was grooming more. Mandy might not be my daughter, but her mum once meant a great deal to me. I wanted him out of town and out of her hair.’ He pauses, shakes his head. ‘But I was too late, wasn’t I? That boy of hers, Liam; he’s Swift’s, isn’t he?’
It’s Martin’s turn to smile. ‘But you didn’t need to ring Foster. You knew who Flynt was, what he’d done. And thanks to you, so did the authorities. The police would have arrested him soon enough.’
‘Don’t be so sure. We’re talking Canberra here. Bureaucrats and arse-covering. They’d already convened a meeting to work out how to minimise the damage. I wanted to make sure.’
‘No. I think you wanted to make sure Swift was gone, but the dope-growing operation wasn’t endangered. You wanted Swift gone, Foster compromised and the money still flowing. That’s how I see it.’
Snouch pauses, but doesn’t deny the allegation. ‘Who cares how you see it? It hardly matters now.’
‘Listen, Harley, I don’t know if you realise this, but you’re a great story. A cracker. The conman who conned ASIO, even as he helped run a hydroponic dope operation. That’s a yarn for the ages. It’s also a yarn that would make life very difficult for you, so you don’t want to piss me off.’ Martin scrutinises his adversary’s face, seeing residual defiance but also comprehension: Martin has him where he wants him. ‘But it doesn’t have to be like that. We can help each other.’
Snouch is receptive. ‘Go on.’
‘I’ll see Mandy undertakes the DNA test. But I want some information in return. First, was Swift a paedophile? You told me he was. You followed him around, spied on him, knew he was sleeping with Mandy and Fran and some widow in Bellington. Is the child abuse allegation accurate?’
Snouch considers his options before replying. ‘No. I didn’t see any evidence of that. Make no mistake, I wanted the guy gone, I wanted him away from Mandy, so I’ve got no reason to defend him. But I saw no evidence of that.’
Martin thinks it has the ring of truth to it. He knows the conman wouldn’t hesitate to lie if it helped his cause, but also that lying would be risky when Martin has him at such a disadvantage.
Now he and Landers have both exonerated Swift.
‘One more thing. You were the invisible man; you saw things others didn’t. Do you know why Swift shot the men at the church?’
Snouch shakes his head. ‘That I can’t tell you. I never saw it coming. It’s batshit crazy. But he did the same thing in Afghanistan, you must know that by now. Sometimes things don’t need a reason; they just happen.’
He smiles and offers his hand. Without thinking, Martin shakes it.
‘Thanks for coming, Martin. I know you don’t like me, I know you don’t trust me, but believe me, I have Mandalay’s best interests at heart. Whatever I’m doing, I’m doing for her. Please don’t publish what you know; it could end up hurting her more than it hurts me.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘Trust me, Martin. When the DNA results come back, when she learns I didn’t rape her mother, she won’t want me turned into fodder for your shit sheet. Let it go.’
Martin nods, but looking past Snouch, the angle-poise lamp catches his attention. It seems somehow incongruous, here in the machinery shed. The desk, the computer, Harley Snouch’s spotless hands. Terrence Michael McGill. Five years. Master forger. ‘What’s on the desk, Harley?’
‘House plans. Some rough ideas about rebuilding.’
‘Great. Mind if I have a look? Mandy might be interested.’
‘No, mate. They’re just rough ideas. I’ll give her a look when I’ve got something more concrete.’
‘Oh come on, Harley. Don’t be bashful.’ Martin walks past him towards the desk. And as he does so, he sees for the first time a flash in the man’s eyes: a flash of panic. It brings a small grin to his own face, some satisfaction; in the game of verbal brinksmanship he has somehow come out on top.
‘Hey, Martin?’
Martin turns, but the retort forming on his lips is stillborn. Harley Snouch is holding a shotgun, and he’s pointing it at Martin’s chest. Dread falls like a guillotine, the smugness draining from Martin, leaving his guts hollow and filling with fear. The muzzle of the gun is just metres away, black and full of menace. Snouch’s grip is steady, his eyes determined; there is nothing of the shakes or desperation of Shazza Young. He’s three metres away, now he steps closer; he can’t miss, the barrel a cobra poised to strike. All he has to do is pull the trigger and Martin will be shredded, reduced to ragged flesh, blood and terminal pain. ‘Maybe you don’t need to look at the desk, Martin.’ His voice is measured, almost serene. ‘This is my property, and you’re trespassing.’
A thought comes to Martin through the paralysing fear. He remembers the wire, Jack Goffing listening in from the car. Do ASIO officers carry guns? ‘A shotgun, Harley? Really? What are you planning to do, shoot me?’ Even to his own ears, his voice sounds thin, a threadbare attempt at bravado.
‘Why not? There’s a sign on the gate warning trespassers of exactly that. I’m within my rights.’
‘No you’re not. This isn’t America. Besides, I’m not alone. Jack Goffing is in the car.’
‘What’s he doing there?’
‘He didn’t want to come in. Reckons he can’t stand the sight of you.’
Snouch smiles. ‘I bet he can’t, the idiot. I’ve got him by the short and curlies.’ He pauses to think momentarily, reassessing the situation. ‘Maybe I don’t have to shoot you after all; maybe we can come to an arrangement.’ Martin nods, keeping his focus on Snouch, even as he catches movement behind the man out of the corner of his eye. Martin desperately wants to look, to see if Goffing is armed, but he knows that Snouch is watching him, that he will see Martin’s eyes shift, that he will turn and shoot. And if he kills the ASIO man, he will certainly kill any witnesses.
‘So what is on the desk?’ asks Martin, trying to hold Snouch’s attention. ‘What’s so sensitive?’
Behind Snouch the figure of a man moves closer, into focus, but it’s not Jack Goffing. It’s Codger Harris, armed with Shazza Young’s shotgun. Martin’s knees threaten to buckle, his bladder to release, even as he fights to keep control, to match Snouch’s gaze and hold his attention, even as his mind is screaming fight or flight, even as the adrenaline pumps out through his bloodstream. Someone is about to die, and there’s a good chance it’s going to be him: three men, two shotguns, and he’s the one without a weapon. Even if Codger has reloaded Shazza’s shotgun. Where the fuck is Goffing? Still Martin maintains eye contact with Snouch, searches for something to say to keep the gunman looking at him. Codger keeps advancing, calm and assured, deftly flipping the weapon around so he’s holding it by the barrel with both hands.
Snouch, sensing trouble, reading more than fear in Martin’s face, begins to turn. But he’s too late. Codger has already begun swinging the gun, a scything arc. The stock crashes into the side of Harley Snouch’s head. The impact is sickening; he collapses. Martin cringes, fearing a shotgun blast, but the gun hits the floor without discharging.
‘I’ve been waiting thirty years to do that,’ says Codger Harris.