Scrublands

by Chris Hammer

  Goffing nods. ‘Yep.’

  ‘What a bunch of plods,’ says Vandenbruk, shaking his head. ‘Okay, go on.’

  ‘My impression is that it was still a pretty small-time operation. Then Byron Swift turned up, and he and the publican, a bloke called Avery Foster, bankrolled a big shed with a hydroponic operation and started supplying the Reapers. Jason was getting some money and, once he showed up, so was Harley Snouch, who claimed he was the owner of Springfields. But most of the profits were being sent offshore, to an orphanage in Afghanistan.’

  Vandenbruk, who has been nodding, ticking off a mental checklist, looks to Goffing again. ‘Jack? Is this right?’

  ‘Yeah. Remember? I told you on the drive from Bellington. Swift was an alias. His real name was Julian Flynt, a wanted war criminal. From what Martin and I have uncovered, Flynt knew Foster from Afghanistan. They were sending money to the orphanage.’

  ‘How do you know this?’

  ‘We found evidence in Foster’s flat. Upstairs in the pub.’

  ‘Upstairs? Where the fire was?’

  ‘That’s right. We were there the night before last.’

  ‘Fuck. Really?’ It takes Vandenbruk a moment to consider the implications of that, a moment more for the penny to drop. ‘Did either of you tell Haus-Jones about the flat?’

  Martin hesitates, but Goffing has no such qualms. ‘Yeah, he knew.’

  To Martin, it’s like watching a fuse burn down. He looks on as Vandenbruk fights for control, his face swelling red with anger, before he rises to his feet, pacing, detonation imminent, starting to vocalise, filling the air with expletives. And abruptly lashing out: the explosion, a single punch, driving his fist through the Black Dog’s thin plasterboard wall, driving it through up to his elbow. ‘Fuck,’ he says a final time, investing the word with all his pent-up venom and fury. Martin and Jack exchange a glance. Vandenbruk withdraws his arm, brushing off white flakes of plaster, then turns to them, his temper coming back under control. ‘Did you find any evidence in the flat that Haus-Jones was involved with the drug op?’

  ‘No,’ says Goffing. ‘None.’

  Vandenbruk nurses his hand, takes a deep breath. ‘My men risked their lives getting him out.’ He reflects on this, his fury slowly subsiding. Eventually he calms down enough to resume his seat, giving his head one last shake, more from sorrow than anger. ‘You think he was trying to suicide? Take the evidence with him?’

  The thought hadn’t occurred to Martin. He exchanges another look with Goffing. ‘Sorry. No idea.’

  ‘Okay. Go on then, Martin. You were talking about the drug operation.’

  ‘Sure. It seems everything was travelling along smoothly until this time last year. Then Swift shot five people dead and got killed by Robbie Haus-Jones. Swift, or should I say Flynt, was former special forces and not easily intimidated. But once he’d gone, the Reapers saw an opportunity and moved in, squeezing out Avery Foster. He was still getting some money but probably not all that much; the Reapers were taking the lion’s share.’

  ‘Okay, you two saw Foster’s flat. Jack, was there any evidence he was planning to kill himself?’

  ‘Not that we saw. On the contrary: the place looked like he’d just walked out for a minute. There was no note, nothing like that. His dinner was still on the table.’

  ‘So you think the Reapers killed him?’ asks Martin.

  ‘Don’t know,’ says Vandenbruk. ‘But we’ll definitely be adding it to the list. Who decided it was suicide, then? Constable Haus-Jones?’

  Goffing looks to Martin. ‘I guess so.’

  ‘Okay. What else can you tell me about the dope operation?’

  ‘Not a lot; I think that just about covers it,’ says Martin.

  ‘Good,’ says Vandenbruk, leaning back, appearing to come off the boil for the first time. ‘There’s a couple of things you should know. First, like I told you earlier, Herb Walker didn’t commit suicide; the Reapers killed him after they found him at Jason’s. You need to correct that when the time comes. Second thing, that story you ran in the Sydney Morning Herald, that he had ignored the tip-off about the bodies in the dam, he was outraged. Fucking furious. You know why?’

  Martin looks contrite, nods. ‘Jamie Landers told me yesterday. Said it was he and Allen Newkirk who rang Crime Stoppers. But he said they didn’t mention the dam, just said the girls were dead and their bodies dumped in the Scrublands. That’s hundreds of square kilometres.’

  ‘Correct. And even then, Herb didn’t ignore it. It wasn’t his patch. Scrublands is north-west of Riversend; Bellington is forty minutes south of Riversend. He asked Constable Haus-Jones to check it out.’

  ‘He told you that?’

  ‘He did. The day he ended up dead. The day I gave him the phone number Swift had called.’

  ‘Avery Foster’s number?’

  ‘That’s right. So, Martin, when you revisit this story, I want you to set the record straight; Herb Walker didn’t suicide and he didn’t neglect his duty.’

  Martin agrees, chastened. ‘Of course. It’s the least I can do. But you should know, my colleague, Bethanie Glass, she was told the Crime Stoppers tip-off specifically referred to the dam. It wasn’t us who made him the scapegoat.’

  Now there is no temper visible on Vandenbruk’s face, just a steely gaze. ‘Who was her source?’

  ‘She doesn’t know. It came through police PR. From somewhere high up.’

  ‘Jesus wept,’ says Vandenbruk, shaking his head in a mixture of disbelief and disgust. ‘They do that to him, shaft him, then when he turns up dead a day or two later, they eulogise him, call him a hero.’ Now the temper is returning, the fuse reset. ‘Well, fuck me, Martin, you make sure you put that in print.’

  ‘You have my word.’

  ‘Good,’ says Vandenbruk. ‘Now here’s the deal. I’m going to keep Jack’s little fuck-up out of the investigation—the bit where he got played by Snouch in Canberra. No one needs be the wiser.’

  Martin glances at Goffing. The ASIO agent is staring at Vandenbruk, his face white.

  ‘You know?’ Goffing asks.

  ‘I worked it out. After I heard the intercepts, I checked out the metadata on Avery Foster’s phone. Just like you did. It was Snouch who called Foster from Russell Hill.’

  ‘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.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  And so he does. First the good: the elite soldier, the leader of men; then the bad: the captive of the Taliban, the traumatised survivor; and finally the ugly: the rogue soldier, the killer, the war criminal. The fugitive. Mandy listens without comment, without movement. Only a quiver in her lip betrays her feelings.

  ‘He was a killer?’ she asks. ‘He was always a killer,’ she says, answering her own question.

  Martin wants to go to her, to comfort her. But not yet. ‘There’s more, Mandy. Avery Foster, the publican—he knew Flynt in Afghanistan. He was a chaplain there. He probably helped get him out, hide him here.’

  Mandy leaves the machine, coffee unfinished, and takes a seat, her perfect features troubled, like ripples in water. ‘It was an act? Being a priest was an act? I can’t believe it. He was too…I don’t know…too good at it.’

  ‘He was a priest. He was ordained—under a false name, but he was ordained. And I don’t think it was an act. He and Foster were sending money to Afghanistan, to an orphanage. I think they were trying to make amends, an act of atonement.’

  Mandy is blinking, her distress seeping out. ‘You’re going to write all this, aren’t you?’

  Martin nods. ‘I will. And if I don’t, someone else will. The authorities know. It will come out at the inquest, probably before.’

  ‘I trusted him, Martin. I loved him.’ She’s looking directly at him, directly into his eyes. ‘Is that why he killed those men? Because they discovered who he was? Was he that evil?’

  ‘No, Mandy. I don’t think they had any idea he was Julian Flynt.’


  ‘Then why?’

  ‘I’m close. I think I might get there. But I need your help.’

  ‘My help? How?’

  ‘The diary.’

  ‘Oh, Martin.’ She seems to collapse then, as if a weight has come down upon her. She no longer meets his gaze, but looks at the ground and then, after some time, at Liam, lying on his back, playing with a block and mouthing noises to himself. Martin stands, moves across to her, crouches down and takes her hands. Finally she looks at him and speaks. ‘The diary proves that Byron was with me, here, the night the backpackers were taken. The police needed to know. They thought he’d killed them. But I knew it wasn’t him, that the real killer was still out there, that he might kill again. I needed to show them.’

  Martin squeezes her hand. ‘It was the right thing to do, Mandy. The right thing. The police were wrong; you were right. It was Jamie Landers.’ He pauses, but then presses on. ‘But why rip out the pages? What were you hoping to protect him from?’

  She looks a little surprised. ‘Byron? I wasn’t protecting him. He was dead. It couldn’t hurt him.’

  ‘Who then?’

  ‘Robbie.’

  ‘Robbie Haus-Jones?’

  ‘Robbie.’

  Martin thinks of the young constable, hands red, face blackened. ‘Why, Mandy? What did you write in the diary?’

  She closes her eyes, bites her lips, bracing herself. ‘Robbie worshipped Byron. He was kind of infatuated with him, maybe in love with him. Byron and I used to joke about it. If the police had read that, their ridicule would have been merciless.’

  ‘True. But that’s not all, is it? Maybe it’s enough to rip out the pages, but it’s not enough to get arrested over, to risk prison, to risk separation from Liam. There must have been more.’

  Mandy’s eyes are locked on his. ‘Byron told me. Not that he was Julian Flynt, he never told me that, not about being in Afghanistan, but other things. He said people were growing drugs out in the Scrublands, selling them to a bikie gang. He was helping them, acting as an intermediary, stopping the bikies from robbing them. And that last time I saw him, before he went to the church, when he said he was leaving and couldn’t take me with him, he told me that if there was any trouble after he left, I should go to Robbie. He told me Robbie knew what he was doing. Robbie was shielding Byron. That’s what I ripped out.’