The general store is closed. Of course it’s closed. After the arrest of Jamie Landers, will it ever reopen? Martin walks back towards the T-junction. There’s no sign of life at the Oasis Bookstore and Cafe, none at the wine saloon, none anywhere else. It’s Thursday, but it’s still too early for Riversend’s surviving stores to open. At least the service station on the highway is trading, offering newspapers and an approximation of coffee: Nescafé self-serve, the granules rattling as Martin spoons them into a white foam cup, filling it with boiling water from an urn, milk from a two-litre container. It tastes the same way he feels: ordinary.
He sits on a white plastic chair at a white plastic table, cheap outdoor furniture brought inside for the summer. Inevitably Riversend is on the front page again: Carrie O’Brien’s long-lens photo of Jamie Landers at the crime scene in the Scrublands. BLUE-EYED PSYCHOPATH says the headline. Martin reads D’Arcy’s stories dispassionately, the news report supplying the facts, the colour piece supplying the emotion. D’Arcy does them both well, but it all seems like a very long time ago, not yesterday afternoon. Riversend has experienced new dramas since then; new questions have emerged. Martin looks up from the papers, as if trying to spot an answer lurking in the petrol station.
Instead, through the door barges Doug Thunkleton. ‘Hi, Martin. Fancy seeing you here. How are you?’
‘Oh, you know. Disgraced.’
‘Huh?’
‘Never mind.’
‘Oh, right. I get it. Listen, Martin, about that—I want to apologise. You know, what happened in Bellington. It wasn’t my angle; the chief of staff pushed it.’
‘Right.’
‘Angie Hester. Sounds like you know her.’
Angie? An image of a dark-eyed woman comes to Martin, the memory of a brief assignation, but nothing more.
‘Don’t know what you did, but she sure has it in for you. The news director is apoplectic. Reckons it will take forever for our reputation to recover. He’s sacked her.’
Martin feels a barb of guilt: guilt for whatever it was he’d done to the woman, and guilt for not remembering what it was. ‘What about you?’ he asks Thunkleton.
‘I went along with it, so I have to wear some of the grief. But I’ll survive. I just wanted to say sorry.’
There’s contrition in Thunkleton’s manner and Martin finds himself offering solidarity of a sort. ‘I saw the suicide blonde story. You get shit-canned by your editors?’
‘Did I what. Bunch of fucking desk jockeys. Not that I didn’t deserve it. Some of it. But I won’t be getting a pay rise this year, put it that way.’
The two men sit in silence; Martin suspects it’s an unusual experience for Thunkleton. He’s right; the television reporter stands up, nods his apologies again and leaves.
A moment later he’s back. ‘Thought you might want to see these. Late editions.’ He hands Martin the latest Melbourne newspapers, The Age and the Herald Sun. The front page of The Age is given over entirely to another of Carrie O’Brien’s photographs, taken as Vandenbruk’s officers helped Robbie Haus-Jones from the inferno of the Commercial Hotel. The men are in silhouette, rimmed by fire, the flames brought closer by the length of the lens. There is something vaguely Christ-like in the posture of Robbie, his arms draped across the shoulders of his rescuers, his legs buckling beneath him. The headline is emblazoned onto the photo: DEATH TOWN HERO SAVED, with only enough room for the first few paragraphs of D’Arcy’s story.
The hero of Riversend, Constable Robert Haus-Jones, has been saved from a fiery death as yet another remarkable day of high drama unfolded in the embattled Riverina town.
The young police officer, who saved countless lives when he shot dead homicidal priest Byron Swift close to a year ago, again put his life on the line, rushing into the town’s burning hotel to ensure no one was trapped inside.
Haus-Jones was saved by fellow officers after he became disorientated and affected by smoke as the fire tore through the century-old landmark.
The dramatic rescue came just 24 hours after Robert Haus-Jones saved the life of a young child moments before alleged backpacker murderer James Arnold Landers allegedly attempted to butcher the boy.
The fire, believed to have been caused either by an electrical fault or deliberately set by vandals, moved through the structure at astonishing speed, trapping Haus-Jones.
The story continues inside but Martin doesn’t bother turning the page. D’Arcy would have been racing against time to get the story to print, only just making the late edition. But that doesn’t save it from being wrong: there was no one in the Commercial Hotel; there was no one to save. Just a fire, upstairs, engulfing the apartment of Avery Foster. Not caused by an electrical fault, not when the power was disconnected months ago; not caused by vandals, not with Allen Newkirk dead, Jamie Landers in custody and the place wrapped in crime scene tape.
Martin remembers Robbie’s face; he remembers his hands. And he remembers telling the young policeman about the undisturbed flat. What had Robbie imagined up until that point? That Foster’s widow had cleared out all the records? Not an unreasonable assumption if she had known what her former husband was up to. Not an unreasonable assumption if Robbie Haus-Jones had known what her former husband was up to. If he had known…
Fuck. Robbie. What an idiot.
Back at the Black Dog, Jack Goffing is sitting outside his room, smoking a cigarette. They nod to each other, but don’t speak. Martin hands Goffing the papers, eliciting a wry grin.
‘So he’s a hero, is he?’
‘Apparently.’
‘You told him about what we found?’
‘Enough. Yesterday, after I talked with Jamie Landers.’
‘You going to publish the truth?’
‘You think I should? There’s a bloke wants me to write a book. Offering hard cash and easy redemption.’
‘Sounds promising.’
‘Yes. I’m filled with enthusiasm.’
Goffing smiles at the ironic turn of phrase. Martin offers him tea, makes them a cup each in his room and brings them outside.
‘So where is he?’ Martin asks. ‘Robbie?’
‘Down in Melbourne. Burns like that need specialist care.’
‘Will they charge him?’
Goffing shrugs. ‘Montifore’s gone, taken Landers back to Sydney. Homicide have their man; they won’t give a shit about Robbie. And the brass like the idea of having a hero. They don’t have that many.’
‘What about Vandenbruk?’
‘That’s a different story. He probably hasn’t worked it out yet, but he will. If Robbie knew about the drugs, if he was taking backhanders, if he didn’t tell Herb Walker what he knew, then Vandenbruk will crucify him. You can ask Vandenbruk yourself. He’s down at the cop shop but he’ll be back in a moment. He wants you in the loop.’
‘Me? Why?’
‘They’re raiding the Reapers. Started before dawn. Here, there, everywhere. Adelaide, Melbourne, Canberra. Half the towns in between. They’re wrapping it up, pulling in the Mr Bigs. Robbie’s heroics will be washed away by lunchtime. The media’s been tipped off; they’re all over it.’
‘So why does he want to talk to us?’
‘Not sure. It’s not his show. He’s senior, but not in charge. I think he wants to know why Walker died.’
‘He’s blaming himself?’
‘I would, if I were him.’
Martin sits next to Goffing, sipping his tea and looking up at the sky. He knows that somewhere in the world there must be clouds; there have to be. Somewhere it is raining; somewhere it is pelting down. There will be floods and landslides and hurricanes and monsoons. Somewhere. More water than you can imagine, more water than you could ever want. Somewhere, but not here. Here there are no clouds and no rain. The drought can’t last forever; he knows it, everyone knows it. It’s just become hard to believe.
Claus Vandenbruk arrives, ushering them into Goffing’s room, bringing his surly manner with him, shutting it in with them when he closes the door. Martin finds it hard to imagine Vandenbruk and Walker were ever best mates: Walker was always laughing, patting his belly with satisfaction; the ACIC investigator is a man without a smile, a hair’s breadth from rage.
‘Okay. The raids are going well. We’ve got just about everyone we want and the evidence already looks compelling, but I need to tie up loose ends here. So, Martin, I need to know everything you know. Dick me around, and you won’t believe how much shit I can drop you in. Help me, though, and I’ll help you.’
‘How can you help me?’ asks Martin, trying not to sound intimidated.