And so the plan evolved, following the death of Katherine Blonde. Everyone who had known the truth, everyone who had lived through the events three decades before, was dead: Eric Snouch, Katherine Blonde, Herb Walker’s predecessor. He’d outlived them all; he alone knew the truth. And from that seed grew his audacious plan. He spent his marijuana money on repairing Springfields, a gift to Mandy, a symbol of his devotion, even as he schemed to win it back. But she rejected him, repelled him, resolutely taking the side of her mother. And worse was to follow: the priest made his move on her, with his good looks and callous charms. Snouch watched it unfold: Mandy falling for Byron Swift, confiding in him, alerting him. Snouch needed Swift gone, and so he spied, learning his secrets, seeking out leverage, looking for a weakness—and finding it.
Martin wonders why he didn’t simply inform on the drug operation, get rid of Swift that way. But no, that would have destroyed his only source of income, risked his own arrest as an accessory and invited reprisal from the Reapers. Instead, he worked out that Swift was an imposter, a wolf in sheep’s clothing. And so the trip to Canberra, to tell the authorities. Martin thinks of how audacious it was to walk into ASIO with his far-fetched story of a soldier impersonating a priest. Had he been surprised by its success, that the intelligence service believed him? Maybe, maybe not. For if he were a conman, a confidence trickster, a man used to acting, to performing fiction on the stage of real life, then such a gambit would not be beyond him. It was brazen, yet he had little to lose and everything to gain. The worst the authorities could do was kick him out without listening; he wasn’t risking arrest or violent retribution. Audacious, but wasn’t that the hallmark of all great conmen: selling the Harbour Bridge, impersonating royalty, salting goldmines? And it had worked; ASIO was co-opted, the priest was exposed. And it was the same with the DNA ploy: if the cards had fallen only slightly differently, then it too would have succeeded.
Martin is brought back to the here and now. They drive into Codger’s property, entering across the cattle grid, past the remaining cow’s skull on its pole, the smell of the dead cattle appalling in the still air, and on to the house. Codger taps him on the shoulder before climbing out. ‘Good show, young fellow. You’ve sorted him out once and for all.’ Martin smiles, wishing him well.
Goffing gets out too, has a few quiet words to Codger, no doubt emphasising the need for discretion, at least for a day or two. Martin sees Goffing hand him something. Money, most likely. Goffing and Codger shake hands, and then the ASIO man climbs back into the front seat. Martin puts the car into drive and swings it around, the track back to the main road now familiar to him. And as he drives, he thinks.
The bodies in the dam must have come as a shock to Snouch, threatening to derail his plans. Had he been tempted to leave them undisturbed while he worked towards conning Mandy? His opportunity was approaching; the window was opening. The destruction of the homestead must have been devastating, but it spawned an unexpected outcome: something had softened in Mandy after the fire; perhaps news came to Snouch that she was relieved he had survived, the first tentative sign of a possible reconciliation. So he created a new character: concerned citizen. He called Goffing and the police, reported the bodies, perhaps hoping to win credit from the authorities—and credit from Mandy. Surely she would feel even more compassion for him: first his home burnt down, then the horror of finding the bodies.
Martin smiles. The plot was good but Martin hadn’t read the script. His wildly inaccurate reporting in the Fairfax press all but accused Snouch of murder at a time when he might have expected praise. Mandy’s opinion of him grew worse, not better. Snouch must have been furious: held in custody, questioned by police, as Doug Thunkleton and his colleagues gleefully repeated Martin’s calumny. Snouch could indeed have sued Fairfax for defamation, sued and won. But the process would be slow, too slow. He must have suspected the inheritance could be settled before the case was resolved; Mandy could have sold up and moved on before the case even went to court. And Fairfax has good lawyers—they could destroy him, revisiting the rape allegations, uncovering his past as Terrence McGill, arguing he has little reputation left to slander. That would hardly win over Mandalay Blonde. So instead of suing Martin, he coerced him into helping. He could see Martin was becoming close to Mandy; he probably knew they had slept together. Martin nods to himself as he drives: Snouch had determined he was the best chance to get to her.
So Snouch acted, as quickly as he dared, manipulating Martin, rolling the dice; the conman stepping onto the stage once more, a bravura performance, the audience in raptures. The DNA testing was a brilliant idea, a plot device to rewrite the narrative. The lab was no doubt genuine, the tests real, but the results would be posted to him. He’d destroy them and present the forgery to Mandy, exacting revenge on his father at the same time. It would have had no legal standing, couldn’t be used in court, couldn’t alter Eric Snouch’s will. But it didn’t need to. Martin considers Mandy’s likely reaction and decides it would have worked: she was too generous in spirit, too willing to believe the best in people, too desperate to discover some decency in this world. Too eager for her childhood dream of reconciliation to come true. Martin shakes his head; the melodrama would have played out, the curtain falling, the audience cheering for more.
‘Martin?’ says Goffing, gaining his attention. ‘Thanks.’
‘For what?’
‘Snouch.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You know what I mean.’
And Martin does. They should have brought Snouch in, handed him over to the police. They’d caught him perpetrating a fraud. Moreover, he was a beneficiary of the drug operation and potentially a valuable witness as Claus Vandenbruk and the police built their case against the Reapers. But instead Martin had warned him off, told him to flee. Snouch no longer threatened him, but he could still destroy Goffing’s career.
‘Don’t mention it,’ says Martin.
‘I owe you one,’ says Goffing. ‘You tied the knots. How long before he works his way free?’
‘Probably already has.’
The sun is setting as they leave the crooked dirt tracks of the Scrublands, emerging into the clearing, past the letterboxes and out onto the bitumen highway, the straight black line from Hay to Riversend. The headlights are on, already taking effect in the fading light. The scrub, untouched by fire this close to town, rushes past as Martin accelerates, glad of the speed after the slow going of the Scrublands. They crack open the windows, the car’s velocity gifting some coolness to the warm air. The trees come to an end and they drop ever so slightly, down onto the flood plain, the sky open, the first stars evident. And then Martin sees it: a glowing aura, like a second sunset. ‘What’s that?’ he asks, arousing Goffing from his own reverie. ‘Fire,’ says Goffing.
The Commercial Hotel is well alight by the time they make it back to town. Half the top storey is on fire, flames spewing out of windows, the verandah a swirling blaze of orange, smoke and embers spiralling skywards; a bonfire gone awry. Martin slews the car into the kerb on the far side of the road, niceties of reverse parking forgotten. The pub is screaming its distress: shrieking metal, exploding glass, roaring flames. The smoke is tainted: not the clean eucalypt-scented destruction of bushfire, but the industrial exhalation of an incinerator, stinging his eyes and clouding his vision.
Errol Ryding is there with his volunteers, their tanker gleaming in the firelight, water streaming from two hoses into the building. Townspeople are gawking from a safe distance, pointing and muttering; the media are pressing closer, camera crews and photographers lost in the moment, in thrall to the flames and the imagery, careless of their own safety.
Martin rushes over to Errol, standing stoic beneath the bronze Anzac. The statue is uncaring, back to the conflagration, reflected flames rippling across its back like flexing muscles. ‘Errol, what happened?’
‘Who knows? Just went up.’
‘Can you save it?’