Martin rushes forward. Harley Snouch is alive, breathing steadily. A lump the size of a golf ball is growing low down on the back of his skull, but there’s no blood. Martin gingerly moves the shotgun away before turning him over, pushing him into the recovery position on his side. ‘Jesus, Codger. You could have killed him.’
‘And he could have killed you.’ There is nothing even approaching regret in the old man’s voice.
‘What the fuck was all that?’ demands Jack Goffing, rushing up to them, a coiled earpiece still hanging from his collar. ‘He had a gun?’
‘That one there,’ replies Martin.
Goffing picks up Snouch’s shotgun and disarms it. ‘Is he okay?’ ‘Who knows? Concussion for sure. Lasting damage, maybe. But for now, he seems fine. Breathing and pulse are okay.’ As if to confirm this diagnosis, Snouch groans.
‘I think he’s coming round,’ says Goffing. ‘Let’s tie the arsehole up.’
They drag Snouch into a sitting position, and Martin ties him, hands secured behind his back, to the workbench.
‘Let’s have a look at this desk,’ says Goffing, leaving Codger to watch over Snouch.
It’s not really a desk as such. It’s a clean piece of laminated board, attached by counter-sunk screws to the top of the workbench: a large clean space for Snouch to work under the light of the angle-poise lamp. Martin and Goffing don’t have to look far; the evidence is laid out before them. There’s a letter from a firm, Excelsior Genealogy, confirming it’s able to conduct DNA testing. It says it can certainly compare two samples for paternity and includes two testing kits and a return address. The letter is written on the company’s letterhead, russet branding within a green logo representing a family tree.
And next to it, on the desk, is a second letter, on identical letterhead.
Dear Mr Snouch and Ms Blonde,
Thank you for availing yourselves of the services of Excelsior Genealogy. We are pleased to report that our technicians were able to extract robust samples of DNA from the two specimens provided and were able to make the comparison requested.
We can confirm, with a 99.8% degree of confidence, that Mr Harley Snouch is NOT the father of Ms Mandalay Blonde.
However, after further investigation, we can also confirm you are closely related. With a 98.5% degree of confidence, we can report Mr Snouch and Ms Blonde are half-brother and half-sister, sharing a common father and different mothers.
We trust this information is useful to you both. Please don’t hesitate to contact us if you require any further information or testing.
Yours sincerely,
Arthur Montgomery
Chief Analyst
Excelsior Genealogy
The letter is not yet signed. There is a blue fountain pen on the desk beside it. Snouch must have been preparing to deliver the coup de grace when they interrupted him.
The men read the forgery again, Martin trying to imagine the effect it would have had on Mandy.
Goffing speaks first. ‘Pretty impressive. But half-brother and half-sister?’
‘Yes. Perfect. Not only clears Snouch of raping the mother, Katherine, it frames his father, Eric. The father who, Mandy and I were informed just this morning, disinherited Snouch and bequeathed Springfields to Mandy. Reading this, Mandy would think old Eric was a bastard and most likely raped her mother. Sweet revenge for Harley; even as he shifts the blame, he creates a scapegoat. And Mandy would feel sorry for him, perhaps feel a sibling bond—maybe cut him a share of the inheritance. Like I said: perfect.’
Snouch groans. Martin moves back towards the door, rips a bottle of mineral water from the cling wrap, returns, and empties it over the forger’s head. It has the desired effect: Snouch groans again, coughs and opens his eyes.
Martin crouches down, his face just inches away from Snouch’s. He waits until he’s sure Snouch is fully conscious, fully aware that he’s tied up and at their mercy. Martin holds the forged letter where Snouch can see it. ‘I have your handiwork, Harley, which I’m going to show to Mandy. I have your DNA sample, which we are going to test. For real. And I have news: your father’s lawyers—Wright, Douglas and Fenning—have confirmed Mandy is the sole heir to Springfields and all that goes with it.’ He can see the comprehension in the conman’s eyes, the bitterness and rising bile. ‘I’m going to tell the police where to find you. They’ll want you to testify against the Reapers and their drug operation. Unless the Reapers find you first. Sounds like fun. My advice? Fuck off while you still can and never come back.’
‘Should we untie him?’ asks Goffing.
‘Fuck that,’ says Codger Harris. ‘Let the coppers have him.’
THE THREE MEN DRIVE IN SILENCE, LOST IN THOUGHT, NOT EXHILARATED BY the unravelling of Harley Snouch, but turned reflective by his demise. Behind the wheel, Martin ponders the prodigal son despoiling his own heritage. He imagines Snouch enduring prison in Perth, dreaming of better days ahead, being released, shedding his assumed identity, learning of his father’s death, anticipating his inheritance—only to receive nothing; the lawyers at Wright, Douglas and Fenning tight-lipped and duty-bound, telling him he’d been disowned and nothing more. He’d been let go, set adrift, no longer his father’s son. Winifred Barbicombe had known of the conviction in Perth; the will had been redrawn shortly before Eric Snouch’s death. Perhaps the jail sentence for fraud had been the last straw.
And so Harley Snouch had left prison with nothing. He returned to Springfields, only to find his erstwhile birthright deserted and vandalised, left open to the elements, his neighbours pilfering water. And so he squatted, lost for a time in despair and self-pity, drinking too much and growing increasingly embittered. In truth, a derelict. And yet he must have retained some hope, some ambition. He closed the doors, cleaned the house, stopped his neighbours siphoning water. And then they came to him, the priest and the publican, offering money for water. The money was welcome: money to live and money to restore the house. And something else; the implicit acknowledgement of title, that possession equalled ownership. They gave him money because they believed the water was his. It was the acknowledgement he needed. Gradually the derelict became more of an act and less of a reality.
Martin is aware this is nothing more than speculation; he can never know the inner workings of Snouch’s mind. But that makes it all the more fascinating. He wonders what Snouch felt when he first saw Katherine again after all those years. Remorse? Hope? Love? Or something altogether more calculating? And then one day, peering out from the wine saloon, Harley Snouch saw the daughter, his daughter, Mandalay Blonde, a woman now, back to care for her dying mother. Did he somehow learn the truth of his father’s will or was he simply smart enough to work it out? The money from the dope was useful, but nothing compared with the accumulated wealth of the Snouch dynasty.