by Chris Hammer
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.’
‘And the Reapers? How come Jason Moore has no money if he’s growing dope for them?’
‘Because they’re ruthless. Utterly ruthless. My guess is that Flynt could hold his own, with his guns and his military training, but once he was gone, the bikies sidelined Avery Foster and took over the operation. Any money the orphanage or anyone here was getting would have dried up pretty quickly.’
‘What a bunch of charmers. Sounds like they’re going to get what’s coming to them. Anything else?’
‘Yeah—here,’ says Goffing, pulling an envelope from a pocket and handing it over.
‘What’s this?’
‘It’s from your girlfriend. Mandy. Said your Herald colleague Bethanie rang, told her you needed to see it.’
‘Did you open it?’
‘Of course I did. I’m ASIO.’
Martin opens the envelope, extracts a single sheet of A4 paper. It’s a newspaper clipping. The headline reads: CONMAN GETS FIVE YEARS. He scans the lead paragraph.
The master forger behind one of Western Australia’s most brazen corporate frauds, Terrence Michael McGill, has been sentenced to five years prison with a three-year non-parole period…
Next to the copy is a small head-and-shoulders photograph of a man, his identity blurred by the low quality of the printout. But there’s a red circle drawn around it, together with a handwritten note: Harley Snouch, beyond doubt—Mandy.
‘Let’s pay him a visit,’ says Martin, feeling his emotions stir, a mixture of satisfaction and indignation and something altogether more volatile.
MARTIN DRIVES, CODGER NAVIGATES, GOFFING THINKS.
‘Turn right here,’ interjects Codger from the back seat.
‘Actu
ally, pull up here first,’ says Goffing.
Martin complies.
‘Listen, this stuff about McGill. That and the dope growing. Snouch can no longer blackmail you. If he threatens to sue, you can just throw it back at him. You’re out from under. But I’m not. He still has me by the balls for letting him into ASIO. I’ll wait in the car.’
‘You don’t want to hear for yourself?’
‘I do. I want you to wear a wire. I want to hear and I want to record.’
‘A wire. Are you serious? Lock picks, latex gloves, wires; what else do you carry around in that bag of tricks of yours?’
‘Oh, you know, the usual. Tracking devices, X-ray specs, truth serum.’
‘Very fucking funny.’
Some minutes later, Martin drives into Springfields, with Codger next to him in the front seat and Goffing lying low in the back. The wireless transmitter is pinned under his collar, a thin wire circling behind his neck. There is no sign of life, but in the stillness of the day, there’s the low hum of a generator. Snouch must be about somewhere. Martin’s mouth is dry. He drinks some water and pauses to compose himself, to put the events at Jason’s behind him. He drinks more water before leaving the car, but the dryness remains. He gets a sixpack of bottles from the boot.
He crosses the yard, enters the gloom of the machinery shed. Three fans hang rotating from the roof, pushing air around the space. The shed is not cool, but the concrete slab has retained some of the overnight chill and, combined with the fans, it’s not the oven of Codger’s shanty. Martin walks further in, spotting Harley Snouch seated at the far end of the workbench, concentrating over some work. Martin calls out. ‘Harley.’
Snouch looks up, alert, springing to his feet and coming over. ‘What do you want?’
‘Thought I’d bring you out some water.’ Martin holds up the bottles in their cling wrap.
‘Thanks,’ says Snouch, moving forward and taking the bottles. ‘Thanks. That’s good of you.’ He’s wearing khaki shorts, a singlet and sandals. He’s also clean: his face is washed, his hands are spotless, his eyes are clear. And wary.
‘Mandalay says she’ll do the DNA test,’ says Martin. ‘Thought I’d come and tell you.’
‘Is that right?’
‘Yeah. I persuaded her it was a good idea. Didn’t take much persuading.’
Snouch smiles, relaxes a little. ‘Excellent.’
‘How does it work?’ asks Martin. ‘The test?’
‘I ordered a kit. Got it here somewhere. She takes a swab from inside her cheek, I do the same, we send them off and the lab compares them. Easy for them to tell if I’m her father or not. It’ll take a week or so. I can give you her vial, if you like. She can take the swab and you can drop it back.’
‘Okay. But why don’t you take your swab here, she can do hers back in town and I can post them off for you both?’
Snouch smiles, as if recognising something familiar. ‘That’s an excellent idea. Let me get the kit. You can be my witness. Wait here.’ Snouch walks deeper into the shed, past the old Mercedes, its tyres now pumped up and the paintwork freshly washed, to the far corner of the workbench. Now Martin’s eyes have adjusted to the dim light of the interior, he can see that the far end of the bench is more like a desk, with a laptop, a printer and an angle-poise lamp. Snouch returns with two small styrofoam boxes, each containing a clear plastic vial shaped like a miniature test tube, with a screw lid. Snouch cracks the lid open on one of the vials. Attached to it is a thin shaft, like a cotton bud. Snouch guides the shaft into his mouth, running the end around the inside of his cheek, then carefully inserts the shaft back into the vial and tightens the lid.
‘There you go, nothing to it. She rubs it around the inside of her cheek, same as me, then seals it back in the tube. Label it, put it in the box and post them as soon as you can. Keep them in the fridge until you can send them, just to make sure. There’s some paperwork that needs to go in the box too. I’ve done my bit; she’ll need to do the same.’
Snouch has a form. He’s already filled in his name; now he signs it, passing it to Martin to witness. Martin prints his name in black letters, signing and dating the form in the required place. While he does so, he wonders at Snouch’s confidence. He had all the paperwork ready to go, the two DNA test kits, everything. He must have been sure that Martin would comply with his wishes, sure that Mandy would agree. The thought irks Martin: does Snouch believe him to be so pliable?
Snouch hands him another piece of paper. ‘Here’s Mandy’s form. You can witness that too. I’ve already spoken to the lab and I’ve also written a covering letter, setting out what we’re seeking. You and Mandy can read it if you like. I’ve signed it. She can sign it as well, but it’s not necessary. I’ll pay the bill, or we can go halves if she can spare the money. It’s five hundred bucks all up.’
Martin takes the boxes and forms. ‘You seem very confident of the result.’
Snouch smiles, betraying just a hint of indignation. ‘Of course I am. I was there, remember. I know what happened.’
‘Okay. I’ll see she gets it. And this means we’re square, right? No more defamation threats?’
‘I guess. But no more about me in the paper, okay? Nothing. Good, bad or indifferent, I don’t want to see my name in your shit sheet again.’
‘And not your photo either,’ says Martin.
Snouch’s eyes bore into him, the alertness back. ‘What does that mean?’
‘Well, someone might recognise you. Terry.’
Snouch smiles knowingly, not thrown off balance in the way Martin might have expected; instead a sly grin concedes the point. ‘Very clever, Martin, very clever.’
‘So tell me, Harley: why did you ring Avery Foster from ASIO headquarters and tell him you knew that Byron Swift was really Julian Flynt?’
Snouch blinks at that, as if calculating how much more Martin might know. But when he replies, he does so with confidence. ‘That prick Goffing been telling tales out of school, has he? You should tell him to back off, or I’ll let his boss know what happened.’
‘Fine by me,’ bluffs Martin. ‘Do what you like to Goffing; he’s not my concern. But I still want to know why you rang Foster.’
‘Or what?’
‘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?’