‘Who else has figured it out?’
‘No one, as far as I’m aware. Why would they? Only a few others know Snouch was the one who fingered Swift, who revealed he was really Julian Flynt, and they all think he was motivated by altruism. Unless they heard the St James intercepts, they’d have no reason to think he was really trying to eliminate Swift and get a bigger share of the drug operation.’
‘That wasn’t what was motivating him,’ interjects Martin, and then realises too late he’s played into the policeman’s hands, essentially confirming that Snouch had indeed conned Goffing. Jack gives him a withering look.
Vandenbruk smiles without warmth and turns to Martin. ‘I’m going to play you the tape from the church and possibly feed you a bit of information on the Reapers, if you need it. But there are things I need in return, guarantees. I don’t want to be mentioned. I don’t want people to know I gave the telephone number to Herb and I don’t want it known that the ACIC tampered with Telstra’s database. Okay?’
Martin says nothing, Goffing says nothing, but Martin can see by the look on the ASIO man’s face they’re both thinking the same thing. He’s arse-covering.
Martin asks, ‘Why did the Commission tamper with the database?’
Another flash of temper and another pause to control it, fuse sputtering. ‘Because we were in the middle of a major intelligence operation, involving hundreds of investigators and years of work. We didn’t want it derailed by a random shooting by a deranged priest. If homicide got wind of it, the whole force would have known, and if the whole force knew then the whole world would know. The operation could have come crashing down.’
Martin sees an opportunity to probe further. ‘Protecting the operation must have seemed pretty important. Your old mate, Herb Walker…He put Byron Swift in a cell after allegations of paedophilia were levelled at him, but someone in Sydney ordered him released. Was that you?’
Vandenbruk is back on his feet, fuse alight, again threatening to explode. The effort to control himself has him hissing his response. ‘No, it fucking well was not. It was someone on the task force, I now know that much, and if I ever find who it was, I’ll break their fucking neck. Now, you want to hear the tapes or not?’
‘Sure,’ says Martin, again taken aback by Vandenbruk’s hair-trigger temperament.
‘So we have a deal?’
Martin looks at Goffing, but the ASIO man is staring at the floor. Vandenbruk has them where he wants them. ‘Yes. We have a deal,’ says Martin.
‘Good.’
Vandenbruk pulls out his phone. ‘I can’t give you a copy, so listen carefully.’
There’s the sound of a phone ringing, a crackle as it’s answered.
‘Avery, it’s Byron. This is fucked. I need to take Mandy with me.’
‘Byron, slow down, slow down.’
‘I can’t slow down. She comes with me, okay?’
‘Look, we talked it through. You agreed. What’s changed?’
‘Craig Landers. It was him.’
‘The guy from the general store? What do you mean it was him?’
‘Him and his gang. That crime scene out in the Scrublands, that one I told you about, the blood and the women’s underwear, it must have been him. And his mates. Not the Reapers.’
‘What? How do you know this?’
‘His wife warned me they were gunning for me. She came here in a panic, saying they were animals. Then he shows up—Craig—as good as admits it. Came to the church. Said he knew I was leaving. Said once I was gone, he’d be coming after Mandy and his wife and anyone else he fancied. I can’t leave her here. You didn’t see what I saw in the Scrublands. He’s deranged. They’re animals. She’s pregnant.’
‘Pregnant? To you?’
‘Yes, to me. Who else?’
‘For fuck’s sake, Julian. Some fucking priest you are.’
‘So can I take her with me or not?’
‘Yes. Take her with you. Get her out of harm’s way. But remember who you really are and what’s at stake. I’ve put my neck on the chopping block for you, you know.’
‘All I want is to get her and the kid to safety. After that, they’re on their own. They don’t have to know anything else.’
‘Okay. Well get going then.’
‘I will. After church.’
A crackle. The recording ends.
Martin looks at Goffing; the ASIO man returns his gaze. There’s not a lot to say.
‘Okay, here’s the second one, a few minutes later. But remember, in between the two, Foster has received a call from Russell Hill. We have the metadata, but we were tapping the church phone, not Foster’s, so there’s no recording.’
Goffing nods, reliving his ignominy. ‘It was Snouch. He called Foster.’
‘Right. And this is Foster calling Swift.’
The sound of a phone ringing.
‘St James.’
‘Byron, it’s Avery. We’re busted.’
‘What?’
‘I just got a call from Harley Snouch. He knows who you are, what you did.’
‘Snouch? That cunt. What does he want? More money?’
‘Nothing. He’s told the cops and he’s told ASIO. They’re on their way.’
‘What? Why’s he done that?’
‘It doesn’t matter. Leave. Leave now. Forget the girl, forget the church service. Just go. Take your guns and go.’
‘I can’t. I can’t just leave her. Landers is an animal.’
‘For fuck’s sake, Julian, you can’t help her, not anymore. Get the fuck out of there. Now. Leave Landers to me.’
A burst of static and the line is dead.
The heat is rising although it’s still only nine-thirty in the morning and the sun is a long way from its zenith. A light southerly has come up, bringing some small respite, but Martin isn’t fooled. The temperature, already in the high twenties, will climb much higher. He might be acclimatising to the dry heat, but no one acclimatises to forty degrees.
A group of locals stand across from the hotel, pointing and muttering, their faces creased with disbelief. Martin sees Luke McIntyre with a couple of other lads around the same age. He gives the boy a wave.
A late-model SUV glides past, a BMW with Victorian plates. It pulls in to the kerb, front in, ignoring the signs. A well-dressed couple get out, the man with a bulky camera. He starts taking photos while his wife collects selfies on her phone. Christ, thinks Martin, sightseers. Come to witness the town of death, collect happy snaps and anecdotes for their next dinner party.
The locals look askance, melt away into the smattering of stores that have opened.
Inside the Oasis, there are more tourists at the counter, ordering coffees and asking directions to St James. Mandy is taciturn, working the machine, her brow furrowed and her lips pursed. Martin wonders why she bothers, the heiress to Springfields. She sees him and offers a guarded smile, but behind the welcome he can see the concern in her eyes. She makes him a coffee without his asking and hands it to him.
He takes a seat, amusing himself and Liam while he waits, reaching through the bars of the playpen, building towers from multi-coloured blocks for the boy to destroy with sweeping arms and chortling joy. Such simple pleasures. Eventually the interlopers leave and they’re on their own, just the three of them.
‘Martin, what is it? Has something else happened?’
Martin raises his eyebrows, admiring her perceptiveness; she already knows him well enough to read his mood. There is no easy way to say what comes next, so he doesn’t try to embellish it. ‘I know who Byron Swift was, Mandy—who he really was.’
The weight of his words stops her for a moment. Then she moves to the door, locks it, turns the sign to CLOSED. She returns to her coffee machine, begins to make herself a cup, giving her hands something to do before finally responding. ‘So was your article true? He was in Afghanistan? A soldier?’
‘Yes. His name was Julian Flynt.’
‘Julian?’ she says. ‘Julian,’ she repeats, testing it aloud. ‘Julian. Julian Flynt.’
‘Mandy, it’s not good.’