‘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.
‘Actually, 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?’