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The idea that Tremain might be knocked because of his sudden wealth didn’t appear to surprise him. He nodded and backed into the darkness. Swann returned inside and the dog followed him into the lounge room. Swann saw the messages on the answering machine, which he’d muted earlier. He turned the TV on and waited for the picture to emerge out of the static, fiddled with the arms of the antennae until the image was clear. He sat on the couch, let the dog onto his lap, who began to try to lick his face.

  When the advertisements for the new Holden Commodore ended, the screen went bleached red and a male voice emerged from the silence.

  ‘That was a gunshot,’ was all it said. A strap of text at the bottom of the screen stated ‘Possible bikie gang-war erupts in Bayswater’. The grainy home-video image became focussed on a driveway and garden, the picture bouncing as whoever carried the camera went toward the street. ‘Definitely a gunshot,’ the male voice said again, before what sounded like a jackhammer began and the camera shook as its citizen operator ran to hide behind a parked car. Between gunshots you could hear the sound of heavy breathing and beeping where expletives were dubbed out, the voice of an older man inside the nearest house calling for the cameraman to return inside. The camera focussed on a white van parked up the street, then zoomed closer onto the driver window where a rifle barrel could be seen resting on the wing mirror, recoiling as the bullets fired in a steady stream.

  ‘Oh shit,’ said Swann as Marion joined him at the couch. ‘That’s The Nongs’ clubhouse.’ Chips of red brickwork spurted into the air as the strafing went across the front wall, then bashed on the fortified steel doors, shredding the bushes either side of the gates. The automatic gunfire continued until either the clip was empty or the combatant became bored. It was then that Swann saw the tattoo. The gunman straightened the barrel over the wing mirror and his left forearm became exposed. It was only a moment, but Ralph Cord’s tattoo of a lynched man was so distinctive that there wasn’t any doubt, even as the barrel withdrew and the van lurched forward, then sped toward the first corner where it exited the picture.

  The live feed that replaced the footage showed dozens of police vehicles and TRG officers down the dark street, lit only by the strobing of the cherry tops and the bright glare inside the forensic tent. Television station vans were parked further down the verge, where local citizens crowded outside the perimeter tape. The young woman doing a piece to camera held her ear and introduced a live cross to a munitions and firearm expert, former SAS Captain Tom Stanley. Stanley said that he’d reviewed the footage and could state categorically that the weapon used was an M16A2 automatic rifle, going on the barrel form and the front sight post, as well as the three-round burst-fire facility demonstrated in the footage. Ejected shells were clearly hitting a spent case deflector, something only incorporated on the latest model. While the weapon resembled the AR-15 semi-automatic rifle distributed by various manufacturers worldwide, the automatic rifle in the footage was, he said gravely, used solely by the US Marine Corps. He had never seen one in civilian hands before, or heard of one being sold on the black market. Manufactured by Colt, it wasn’t offered for sale by international arms dealers either, so far as he was aware, giving the US Marine Corps a technical advantage in the field. When asked where an Australian criminal might source such a weapon, the ex-SAS captain took a moment to consider his answer. ‘You will only find that weapon on US military bases, or, because it’s used by the Marine Corps, on US Navy vessels that carry marines, such as aircraft carriers and larger battleships.’

  Swann couldn’t believe what he was hearing. The ex-soldier had been reluctant to say it, but the inference was clear. The use of the M16A2 directly coincided with the USS Carl Vinson’s arrival in port. It was no surprise when Swann heard the front gate creak on its hinges. He peered behind the curtains that gave onto the front yard. Webb stood there in his civilian uniform of chinos and polo shirt, baseball cap pulled low. He lifted a finger to Swann in a desultory salute. The sea breeze gusted and flapped at his trousers, revealing a bulge at his ankle where a sidearm was strapped.

  Outside, Webb smoked a Camel and stared up at the night sky.

  ‘How many are you missing?’ Swann asked.

  Webb exhaled a long blue stream. ‘Between you and me? Six. We’re missing six.’

  ‘Not between you and me. Not anymore. I know who the shooter was. We need to get Cassidy involved.’

  Webb nodded. ‘Did you know there’s a bloke in a car across the road, watching your house? You’re under surveillance. Have you checked your place over lately?’

  Webb meant bugs – the reason he was standing away from the house.

  Swann walked to the front gate, saw the little glow of a cigarette in the Ford Falcon across the street. Opened the gate and heard the Ford growl to life. He watched as Detective Sergeant Dave Gooch pulled from the kerb, flicked his cigarette onto the road, little sparks carried on the wind like fireflies. Instead of heading up the street, however, Gooch swung the wheel, tyres squealing as he turned toward Swann, who had to step back to avoid getting hit. Gooch was only stationary for a second before he reversed back across the road, kept the Ford idling with his lights on high beam. Swann shielded his eyes, made ready to jump away, but Gooch put her in gear and roared up the street.

  Webb was at Swann’s shoulder. ‘What was that about?’

  ‘Nothing. Something else. No idea. All three of those things.’

  They watched the Falcon’s tail-lights disappear left at the junction.

  46.

  The Aussie bikers had gone out in their cars, vans and trucks. They left the clubhouse using a secret exit into the backyard of a Chinese man who pretended they weren’t there, passing through his side gate while his family sat at dinner. The door that exited the clubhouse was furthest away from the front gate. It was a crawl-through hidden behind empty forty-four-gallon drums, emerging into the Chinaman’s back shed.

  Barry Brown and another biker named Ted nudged Devon toward the Chinaman’s front gate. More bikers followed behind them. Barry looked left and right, then crossed to his Monaro, now parked under a tree across the road. Devon was dumped into the back seat while Barry got under the wheel and two others piled in. Barry started her up and headed down the quiet street, headlights off until they hit a main road. Devon could see the reflection of the distant police cherry tops on the high walls of an apartment building. Ted, the younger biker, who wore coveralls and tennis shoes, took a CB radio handpiece from the glove box and tested it, but didn’t speak. The departure of the gang members from the clubhouse had been done with the efficiency of a military operation. Nobody had spoken and everybody knew what to do.

  It was only now that Ted broke the radio silence. ‘See you turning onto Whatley. You got visuals on Dave, Mick?’

  ‘Roger that,’ came the reply.

  ‘Proceed separately to the place. Over.’

  ‘Roger that,’ was repeated seven times.

  It was only now that Devon felt it was safe to speak. ‘I don’t know why you got me. I didn’t have nothing to do with that, back there.’

  Barry Brown was silent for a long while. ‘We’ll talk when we get there. In the meantime, don’t speak shit. The only reason those Nazi morons would shoot us up, is because they know that we have you. You mean something to them. Which means that you knew something about them stealin our money, our guns. You’ll get your chance to talk soon enough. You saw that I packed my drill?’

  Devon hadn’t seen and the thought made him tremble. He could smell the piss on his uniform trousers. For some reason, when the bullets began firing he’d assumed that the attack would clear him of involvement, that he’d be let go. Now he saw that the opposite was true.

  ‘I swear, Mr Brown. I only met them once. I didn’t tell them anything except –’

  ‘… except about our deal. Now shut the fuck up. I don’t know if anybody’s told you this before, but your Kermit-the-Frog Yank voice is hard to take. Only reason you’re still alive is because
you got some worth to those boneheads. But you open your mouth once more, I’m gonna put my fist down it, hear me?’

  Devon nodded, sat deeper into the leather seat, tried to control his shaking hands.

  47.

  Swann and Webb drove to Cassidy’s home in Doubleview. It was an old worker’s cottage built on top of the hill with a view over the distant ocean. Sheoaks whispered in the breeze. Cassidy was dressed in a three-piece suit, hair combed in a side part.

  The shooting-up of The Nongs’ clubhouse was related to the Bernier murders because Cassidy’s interview with Ralph Cord had provoked something vengeful in the ex–Junkyard Dogs bikie. The media was taking a bikie-war angle but both Swann and Cassidy knew otherwise – the tattoo in the televised footage belonged to Ralph Cord. The question was where Cord, a former black-market arms dealer, had sourced the semi-automatic weapon. From the back seat, Webb described to Cassidy how six of the weapons were missing. The M16s were kept in a secure area, accessible to a select number of staff, and it wouldn’t be long before the culprit or culprits were identified.

  Using Webb’s mobile phone, Cassidy called Central Police and put out a KALOF, a keep-a-look-out-for bulletin on the Cord brothers relating to an unnamed aggravated assault, describing them as armed and dangerous, without mentioning the American weapons. He didn’t want it getting to the media, at least not until he’d spoken to Gus Riley.

  Swann took Cassidy’s cooperation as a sign of progress, or at least of expedience. A day earlier and Cassidy would have revelled in embarrassing the US Navy. It remained unspoken that Ralph Cord’s actions were the unintended consequence of Cassidy’s own provocation.

  Cassidy and Webb smoked in silence as Swann pulled the Brougham to the kerb, fifty metres from the media circus outside the clubhouse. He was just about to crack the door when he looked in his rear-view mirror. There was Gooch’s Falcon, cutting its lights, parking behind a Channel Seven station wagon. Swann didn’t say anything. Gooch had nothing to do with the matter at hand, although he’d need to be dealt with.

  Cassidy straightened his suit, shot his cuffs, while Webb dialled the number. Swann took the phone and waited for Riley to answer. Across the road a forensics team inspected the bullet holes in the compound wall while others looked for casings in the suburban street. It appeared as though the media were packing up. Cameras were being removed from tripods, power cords rolled hand-over-arm. Swann recognised the talking heads who chatted and smoked while techs disassembled the hardware. They would wonder why Swann and a homicide detective were visiting Riley.

  Riley picked up. His voice was exaggeratedly gruff, his drawl pronounced. It was his media voice, part of the role.

  ‘Riley, it’s me. Swann. We need to come in.’

  ‘Been a long day, Frank. I prefer it when we see each other once a year, like family. Tell me what you need to tell me.’

  Swann couldn’t say that he wanted to get a reading of Riley’s face, his body language, when they told him the news. Only way to ascertain whether he knew already.

  ‘It’s about what just happened, and why,’ Swann said. ‘I’m not talking over the phone.’

  Cassidy stood beside him and nodded, drew deeply on his cigarette.

  Riley was silent for a long while. ‘Stand in front of the camera, and wave. I’ll buzz you in.’

  ‘I’ve got Detective Inspector Cassidy with me.’

  ‘Homicide. Why?’

  ‘Tell you in a minute.’

  Cassidy put out his cigarette, checked his shoulder holster. Swann hung up and passed the phone to Webb, staring down the street at Gooch, whose car hadn’t moved.

  The media pack saw Swann and Cassidy and whispers were exchanged, cameras raised onto shoulders. As agreed, Cassidy took the front position and Swann followed in his wake. Being seen with Swann wasn’t a good look for Cassidy but he didn’t seem to care, showing his badge to the uniformed police at the perimeter and ignoring the shouted media questions until they reached the clubhouse gate.

  ‘Riley’s going to mess with us,’ said Swann.

  Cassidy pressed the buzzer set into the reinforced steel gate-frame. ‘Yeah, he is,’ Cassidy agreed.

  Behind him, Swann could hear the questions addressed to his back, asking why he was there, what was his relationship to the bikie club, and what did he know about a gang war? Finally, the gate clicked open, but only wide enough for them to enter. As soon as Swann was through the gate, it closed with a thud.

  Swann led the way toward the bar and offices. The fires in drums and pits were still burning, despite the hot night. Riley was a cautious leader, and he’d made sure to clean house. Swann walked into the bar area where Riley was sitting at a table, smoking a cigar and watching the news on a wall-mounted television. Riley pointed toward it and Swann saw the footage of Cassidy and his entrance to the clubhouse a few moments earlier, the questions loud and unanswered, both of them identified by the breathless Channel Nine presenter.

  ‘You blokes looked pretty cute, standing there holding your dicks.’

  Swann nodded. ‘We figured you’d have your fun. Cassidy wore his best suit.’

  Cassidy played his part, holding out the lapels of his jacket, model-like, at the same time giving Riley a view of the .38 revolver in his holster.

  ‘Very nice, detective. But you could’ve made an effort, Swann. Same old fuckin work jacket. A la mode, Brando in On the Waterfront, nineteen fifty-four. Now, what do you want? I know it don’t take much to get a homicide cop out of bed when there’s cameras involved, but seriously Swann, I thought you were better ’n that.’

  Riley would go on all night with his passive-aggressive bullshit given half the chance. As agreed, Swann led the way with the questions.

  ‘Off the record. You got a line on who did the drive-by?’

  Riley grinned, aware that he was being read. ‘Course not. Otherwise, you think I’d be sitting here?’

  ‘Where’s everybody else? Times like this, you blokes come together, unless of course …’

  ‘You got me there. Swann – one. Riley – zero. Next question.’

  ‘Not a question. I came here earlier and spoke to you about Ralph Cord. You told me some things. Some of those things were put to Cord in a formal interview. He didn’t appear to like what he heard. You getting my drift?’

  Riley’s face darkened for a moment before he regained composure. ‘Right. I see. You threw me under the bus.’

  ‘No need to play the victim. You’re a big boy. We know where the automatic weapon was sourced, but we don’t know how, or why.’

  Riley grinned, took a huff of his cigar, blew perfect smoke rings across the table. ‘No fuckin clue.’

  He was lying, and that was all they needed to know. Somehow, Riley was involved.

  ‘Your turn to throw Cord under a bus. Tell us where he is, might save some of your blokes, some of Cassidy’s, getting shot. We both know that once he’s in custody, there’s nothing to protect him from your men.’

  ‘No fuckin idea.’

  ‘Cassidy just put out a bulletin on him. Means thousands of coppers are looking for him, dozens of detectives, and that’s before the media gets involved. I know you need to make a show of exacting revenge, but that’s a lot of coppers between you and Cord. Some of your riders might get pulled over in the process. Easier if you tell me now.’

  ‘Haven’t you heard, Swanny? We’re flush with soldiers right now, heavy riders one and all. We can take a few hits, here and there. And besides, I ain’t a dog.’

  ‘You wouldn’t be snitching. You’d be sharing a rumour with me, your old sparring partner. You change your mind, let me know.’

  Riley stood, bowed. ‘That I will. You know the way out. Remember to smile for the cameras. I’ll be watching from here.’

  In the compound yard, Cassidy moved alongside Swann. ‘I’ve got to bring the TRG into this. Can’t have our men and women exposed to either Cord or Riley’s men, unprepared.’

  ‘I understand.’ />
  ‘You think Riley’s got a secret exit from the clubhouse?’

  ‘I know he has.’ Swann thought of Gooch, out there in his Falcon. ‘But there’s a problem.’

  Cassidy listened while Swann laid it out. They reached the gate, which buzzed, shifted on its hinges. The fierce light of the camera crews hit their faces, made them wince.

  48.

  Devon Smith kept his mouth shut as the Monaro chugged along. Ted and the two men either side of Devon were practised at their trade, loading sawed-off shotguns like they were stringing fishing line, checking the Glock 9mm pistols that Devon had sold them. Rather than dwelling on the forthcoming violence they preferred to bask in their easy familiarity, the banter that Devon barely understood because of their gruff accents, the constant talking over one another and guffaws of laughter. The Holden became stuffy with the smells of bad breath, armpits and gun oil, and Devon kept quiet because he didn’t want to end up in the trunk again. So he grinned like an idiot, and pretended to understand their coarse speech, nodded along to the instrumental metal track. He tried to be invisible in plain sight, despite his handcuffs and the vial of speed that was passed around, not offered to him.

  The loose convoy that stretched ahead consisted of pick-up trucks and nondescript sedans. They broached a hill and there was the ocean, glimmering black behind the yellow lights that followed the coastline. Devon looked through the windscreen and saw the port to the south, the giant container cranes and the silos and loading yards. Behind them was the USS Carl Vinson, his home and refuge. He had always thought of the Vinson as a prison, or a vast floating zoo, but he’d give anything now to be on his rack, reading a MAD comic while listening to his walkman. He could just see the radio transmitter towers and satellite dishes on the command deck, but the Vinson might as well have been on a different planet.

  Devon knew where they were headed, and it wasn’t far away. He remembered the big red dog painted on the white corrugated sheet metal wall and the train tracks downhill, the smell of the ocean and the small industrial area. The men began to quieten as the Monaro pulled into the parking lot of a disused factory, a rusted iron scaffold-winch at its centre. The vehicles raised a chalky dust into the night air. Devon waited until the Monaro was empty before he slid across the bench seat and put his boots on the gravel. Still, nobody addressed or even looked at him. It felt like he could start walking and keep walking, right out of the carpark, down to the port and the safety of the Vinson. Devon stood, raised his handcuffs to his face, and wiped his eyes of dust.