by Chris Hammer
‘I haven’t spoken to them, if that’s what you mean. They’re the Rebels or the Reapers or something. Here, I took a snap.’ Martin searches through his phone, finding the blurry shots of the bikies riding down Hay Road. ‘Here.’
‘Reapers. Well, fuck me.’
‘What’s so significant about a few scruffy blokes on motorbikes?’
Goffing is shaking his head. ‘No, Martin. The Reapers aren’t a few scruffy blokes on motorbikes; they’re serious shit. An outlaw gang, more like organised crime. Based in Adelaide. Drugs, extortion, armed robbery. What are they doing here? Do you know where they stay?’
‘No. Don’t know if they do stay. The only bloke who looks anything like a bikie around here is a vet named Jason who lives out in the Scrublands. Has the bike and the look, but I didn’t see any colours.’
‘You know his surname?’
‘No idea. Has a girlfriend called Shazza. Sharon. Why, what is it?’
‘Don’t know. Give me an hour or two. I need to make some calls.’
Jack Goffing returns to his room and closes the door behind him. Martin is left standing alone, listening to the distant hum of motorbikes. He’s still standing there when the phone in his own room rings, a jangling discordant sound.
He answers it. ‘Martin Scarsden,’ he says tentatively.
‘Martin, it’s me, Mandy. Can you come round to the bookstore? I need your help. It’s kind of urgent.’
MARTIN AVOIDS HAY ROAD, TAKING THE BACK LANE BETWEEN THE ABANDONED supermarket and the petrol station to reach the Oasis. He’s greeted at the back door by Mandalay Blonde, her smile radiant. She’s holding Liam as she answers the door, but places the boy gently at her feet before reaching out to Martin, kissing and holding him.
‘Martin, thank you so much. You saved his life. You know that, don’t you?’
Martin is unsure how to respond: is it gratitude or affection? ‘I saved Jamie Landers as well.’
‘Hush. That’s neither here nor there.’
‘How is he? Liam?’
‘Remarkably good. Tough little fellow. The cuts were superficial, thank God. No stitches. Just need to stop him pulling off the dressing.’
On the floor, the boy has pushed across to Martin’s feet and has begun pulling at his shoelaces, fascinated by their complexity. Mandy bends and lifts him up. ‘Come through, there’s someone I want you to meet.’
She leads the way through the house and into the bookstore. She’s happy, he can see that, her feet almost floating above the floor. It makes him feel glad.
In the bookstore, sitting in one of the armchairs near the Japanese screen, sipping a cup of tea, is a rather proper-looking woman. She looks almost elderly, possibly in her seventies, but her dress is professional, her hair is dyed and her posture is erect. Half-moon glasses give her some of the appearance of a librarian, except the frames look too expensive.
‘Martin, this is Winifred Barbicombe. She’s a lawyer.’
‘Pleased to meet you, Mr Scarsden,’ the woman says, shaking hands but remaining seated. ‘Please take a seat. We’d like you to witness some documents, if you’d be so kind.’
Martin looks to Mandy for guidance and receives a glowing smile in return. He takes a seat, as does Mandy, the boy on her lap.
‘I’m a partner in a Melbourne law firm, Wright, Douglas and Fenning. For as long as I can remember, which is quite some time, and for as long as anyone can remember, which is even longer, Wright, Douglas and Fenning have provided legal advice to the Snouch family of Springfields. We first acted for them in the nineteenth century.’
‘I see,’ says Martin, though he doesn’t.
The lawyer continues. ‘In a few short weeks, Mandalay will turn thirty years old, at which time she will inherit Springfields and a considerable portfolio of investments, including shares, bonds and property—including many properties in Riversend, such as this one. A considerable fortune, in fact.’
Mandy shrugs, expressing her own surprise at this turn of events, her eyes alight at her change in fortune.
‘Would you be willing to witness some documents for her?’ asks Winifred Barbicombe.
‘Yes. Of course,’ says Martin. ‘So who has bequeathed all this? Eric Snouch?’
‘That’s correct.’ The lawyer places the first of a series of papers on the coffee table between them, and Martin signs and dates it with Winifred’s elegant fountain pen.
‘What about Harley Snouch? He’s Eric’s son, isn’t he?’
The lawyer’s expression is impenetrable. ‘He will receive an allowance. Generous enough; considerably more than unemployment benefits.’
She places more papers on the table, but Martin leans back, pen in hand, his curiosity alive. ‘Did Katherine Blonde know Mandy would inherit? Mandy says she urged her to have her house in order by the time she reached thirty. She must have known something.’ Martin glances at Mandy; her smile has been replaced by the stillness of concentration.
‘Well, not from us,’ says Winifred. ‘Eric Snouch was adamant about that: he wanted it kept secret. But perhaps he said something to Katherine before he died. I simply don’t know.’
‘He remade his will shortly before he died?’
‘That’s right.’
‘But why keep it secret?’
‘I don’t know. Perhaps he was worried Mandalay was still too young and too wild to be informed she was coming into money. Perhaps he didn’t want Harley to know.’
‘But Harley must have asked—I mean, when his father died. Didn’t he ask you, your firm, what was happening with the estate?’
‘Constantly.’
‘And what did you tell him?’
‘Nothing.’
Mandy has lost her serenity. She’s holding Liam close. ‘Ms Barbicombe—Winifred—is it true? Is Harley Snouch my father? Did he rape my mother?’
For a moment, the professional facade falls from Winifred Barbicombe’s face, exposing some of the human underneath, sympathy written in her eyes. But only in her eyes; her voice retains its professionalism. ‘I’m sorry, my dear. We acted on behalf of Eric Snouch and his family on a number of matters that are protected by lawyer–client confidentiality. I can’t comment on such matters.’
‘So I’ll never know?’ Mandy whispers.
The lawyer seems unsure how to respond; instead it’s Martin who intercedes, seizing this unexpected opening. ‘Mandy, I haven’t mentioned this before, but I spoke to Harley Snouch. He denies paternity. And rape. He wants you both to undertake a DNA test to establish the truth once and for all.’
Mandy looks at him, looks to Winifred Barbicombe, seeking advice. Martin feels annoyed with himself. Is he trying to help Mandy, or is he trying to appease Snouch and assuage his threat of defamation? He really needs to think more before he speaks, weigh his words, like Jack Goffing.
Winifred Barbicombe responds. ‘I’m not sure what I can advise. But rest assured, no matter what such a test of DNA might reveal, it will not alter the effect of Eric Snouch’s will or provide Harley Snouch with grounds to challenge it. Springfields, and all that goes with it, is yours. If you wish to go ahead with the test, that is entirely up to you.’
Mandy nods her understanding.
‘Now, there are more papers to sign. Mandalay first, then Martin.’ There is silence as the paperwork is completed, the earlier lightness of mood weighed down by the spectre of Harley Snouch. Martin knows he needs to warn Mandy about Snouch, his duplicitous nature, but that can wait until the lawyer has left. The last paper signed authorises Winifred Barbicombe and Wright, Douglas and Fenning to act on behalf of Mandalay Susan Blonde, soon to be mistress of Springfields and sole owner of the Snouch family fortune.
Winifred Barbicombe gathers the papers, snaps the cap back on her fountain pen and places them into a slim leather briefcase. She stands, shaking hands formally with Martin and more warmly with Mandy. ‘It is a pleasure to meet you and an honour to represent you, my dear. If we can help in any way, call me. And if H
arley Snouch should menace you, tell me straight away. I’ll have a restraining order slapped on him before he knows what hit him.’
Mandy looks uncertain, still coming to terms with her new status.
Martin takes the opportunity to ask a question. ‘Listen, before you go, can you tell me how Harley Snouch got the markings on his hands? They look like the sort of tattoos prisoners give each other.’
The solicitor looks grave as she responds. ‘As I said, we have acted for the Snouch family for many years. There is no statute of limitations on lawyer–client privilege. However, I can inform you that Harley Snouch has never been convicted of any crime in any Australian court.’
‘I see,’ says Martin, feeling deflated. ‘Thanks.’
‘Nevertheless, you are a journalist, are you not?’ the lawyer continues, the suggestion of a smile on her lips.
‘That’s right.’
‘There’s a fascinating story you should look into when you have a spare moment. A court case. A conman named Terrence Michael McGill, convicted and imprisoned in Western Australia some time back. Released just two years ago.’ The smile has extended to her eyes, twinkling above her half-moon glasses. ‘Now I must be getting along. A pleasure to meet you both.’
It’s left to Martin to show Winifred Barbicombe out. Mandy remains rooted to the spot, the joy of her windfall gone, replaced by a look of anguish. Martin moves to her. On the floor, Liam recommences his exploration of Martin’s shoelaces.
‘You were right. I thought there must have been a mistake.’ There’s a quaver in her voice. ‘He was never convicted. He didn’t go to jail.’
Martin reaches out, places a hand gently on her shoulder. ‘No. It doesn’t mean it didn’t happen, just that he didn’t go to prison.’
‘But Mum said he did.’ Martin can see the pain in her eyes, knows she’s doubting her beloved mother, questioning Katherine’s motives. ‘What should I do?’ she asks.
‘You should think about taking the DNA test.’
She doesn’t say anything, just bends down and lifts Liam, holding the boy close.
‘Can I use the phone?’ asks Martin.
She nods, thoughts elsewhere.
Bethanie Glass answers her mobile immediately. ‘Martin, is that you?’
‘Yes, how’s it going?’
‘Great. Did you see the front page? We killed it. Thanks to you. I even got a herogram.’
‘That’s great. Well deserved.’
‘Have you got something new?’
‘No, not exactly. Actually, I’m ringing to ask a favour.’
‘Anything. I owe you big time.’
‘Can you search the archives for me? I’m looking for anything you can find on a Terrence Michael McGill convicted in Western Australia in the past ten years or so. Released from prison about two years ago.’
‘Sure. Who is he?’
‘I’m not sure. But if there’s a story in it, I’ll see you get a slice of it.’
‘That’s good enough for me. What’s the best number to get you on?’
‘This one or the Black Dog. And email me any clippings.’
When he emerges from the office, Mandy and Liam have returned to the kitchen. She walks across and kisses him. ‘Thanks Martin.’
‘For what?’
‘For being halfway decent.’
He’s not sure how to respond. The old Martin would have gone with the moment but, then, the old Martin was not halfway decent.
‘I’m going to take the test,’ she says.
‘That’s probably for the best. But please don’t trust Harley Snouch. Check the DNA if you want to, but he’s more than just a harmless derro.’
‘What is it? What have you found out?’
Martin tries to think it through before he responds, trying to find an easy way of telling her about Julian Flynt, his murderous record and Harley Snouch’s role in exposing him. But before he can formulate an answer, there’s a knock at the kitchen door, hard and insistent.
‘Jesus,’ says Martin. ‘It’s probably some journo trying to cadge an interview.’
But when he opens the door a crack, it’s no journalist; it’s Jack Goffing, despondency gone, urgency back.
THE ASIO MAN HURRIES HIM OUT INTO THE BACKLANE, ENSURING THERE’S NO one to witness their conversation.
‘It’s the Reapers,’ Goffing states baldly.
‘The bikies?’
‘Yep. The federal coppers didn’t have anything, or weren’t telling me if they did. Same with the state plods. Don’t know nothing about nothing. But the Australian Criminal Intelligence Commission does. I got lucky, talked to the right person. The ACIC has been running a long-term surveillance operation targeting the Reapers, probing their criminal structure. I was right: organised crime.’
‘But what’s the Reapers’ connection with Riversend?’
‘Don’t know. Yet. One of their senior investigators, a bloke called Claus Vandenbruk, is on his way down to liaise with us; he’s chartered a light plane to get him into Bellington.’
Martin blinks, trying to keep up. Such sensitive information, obtained so quickly. ‘They’re running a covert surveillance operation? Into a bikie-run crime syndicate? And he tells you about it over the phone?’
‘Well, I’ve got clearance. That’s a start. But here’s the thing: thirty-five years ago, Claus Vandenbruk and Herb Walker were at the police academy in Goulburn together. And later, best men at each other’s weddings. Lifelong mates.’
‘Shit. Do you think that’s where Walker got the information on the phone calls?’
‘Vandenbruk isn’t saying.’
‘And Vandenbruk now feels responsible for his death? That’s why he’s willing to help?’
‘He’s not saying.’
‘He doesn’t have to. Great. When does he get here? When can we talk to him?’
Goffing places his hand on Martin’s shoulder, as if to restrain him. ‘Listen, Martin. On that score, it’s probably not a good idea for you to meet him.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘Because Vandenbruk, like everyone else in law enforcement, thinks you drove his best mate to suicide. And you’re a journalist. It’s surprising enough he’s willing to trust ASIO, even with my clearance. He’s only talking because he thinks I might be able to tell him something useful.’
‘You didn’t tell him we were working together?’
‘I certainly did not, and neither should you. I’m going to drive down to Bellington and pick him up. If we run into you, don’t be too familiar with me, okay?’
Martin has little choice but to agree, grateful that Goffing is keeping him in the loop; he could easily have kept Vandenbruk and this new information to himself. Martin wonders why he hasn’t. ‘I guess that makes sense.’
‘Good. Now while I’m gone, there’s something you can do to help.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Jamie Landers. He wants to talk to you.’
‘Landers? Why? Is he still here?’
‘Yeah, they’re driving him out this afternoon, after they take him out to the Scrublands and film him recreating what happened. Don’t know what he wants to talk to you about—maybe he just needs to get it off his chest.’
‘And Montifore, the police, they’re happy with that? He’s been charged; it’s sub judice. If I published it could threaten a fair trial, undermine their case.’
‘Yes, you’d be done for contempt. So don’t publish, not until after he’s convicted. That’s what they want. He’s going to plead guilty, probably won’t take the stand. This way, once he’s put away, they can get it on the public record, just how depraved he and his mate were, what a great job they did to catch him. It’s a way for them to thank you and to help me. And to get the acknowledgement they want.’
The cell is cool, relatively cool, one of two holding cells connected as an afterthought to the back of the Riversend police station, like a converted garage. The brickwork of the interior walls has been rendered smo
oth by multiple coats of green enamel paint; the concrete floor is bare. There’s a cantilevered bed with a thin mattress and a scratchy blanket, a stainless-steel toilet with no seat and a matching washbasin. The ceiling is high, too high to reach even standing on the bed, with an indestructible light fitting. Its glow is supplemented by natural light filtering in from a grille high in one wall.
Jamie Landers is sitting in the middle of the bed, staring at the opposite wall, when Martin is escorted in by Robbie Haus-Jones. Landers turns and looks at Martin blankly, but doesn’t speak. Robbie tells Martin to yell if he needs anything and locks the door behind him as he leaves. A flash of memory comes to Martin—Jamie advancing, knife in hand, murder in his eyes. Suddenly the cell feels very small.
‘Hi, Jamie. You wanted to speak to me?’
‘I guess.’ Landers’ face is expressionless. If any emotions are playing out inside his mind, none are evident to Martin. Perhaps he’s been medicated. Martin hopes so.
There’s nowhere for Martin to sit, not unless he wants to sit next to Landers or perch on the rim of the toilet. Instead, he eases himself down onto the hard concrete floor. His eyes are below those of Landers. He feels uncomfortable, at the mercy of the killer, but hopes his submissive position may put Landers more at ease. He swallows with difficulty, reassuring himself that Robbie is listening outside, that the constable is just a cry away. He has his notebook and pen; the police haven’t allowed him his phone.
‘I’m told you confessed,’ says Martin.
Landers nods. ‘Yep.’
‘That’s a good thing to do, Jamie. It makes it easier for the families.’
‘Have you seen my mum?’ Jamie looks up, his eyes suddenly focused.
‘No. Not yet.’
‘Tell her I’m sorry, will you? That I didn’t mean to hurt her. I’d never hurt her.’
‘Is that why you wanted to see me?’
‘They won’t let her see me. Can you help? Help her in to see me?’ The numbness has gone from Landers; Martin can hear the pent-up emotion in his voice. He transcribes the words. He wasn’t expecting this: compassion from a psychopath.