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  Tremain put the handset on the desk, planted his palms flat and took a deep breath. ‘The shopping centre. Five-minute drive, end of the street. Outside the deli.’

  Swann wanted to bring in Cassidy, the only way he could maintain some control of the situation. Cassidy was no friend, but would play it straight. Swann had done nothing wrong. The death was an accident.

  Swann didn’t know what Tony Pascoe’s involvement was in Tremain’s problems and he didn’t want to know.

  A hand reached for his wrist. Pascoe’s grip was surprisingly strong. He pulled the gun toward his face and Swann didn’t stop him. ‘You may as well shoot me now.’

  Swann twisted the gun away, stood above Pascoe, who gripped his ankle.

  ‘Get talking,’ Swann said. ‘The gunshots could’ve alerted someone. I might not need to make a call.’

  Pascoe nodded. ‘And what are they goin to find? You with a pistol, and a dead copper.’

  ‘It is what it is.’

  Tremain had picked up on something in Pascoe’s voice. He came around the desk, stood behind Pascoe, and looked Swann in the eye. ‘Listen to him, Mr Swann. Please. It was an accident.’

  ‘I was here too. That’s why we call it in.’

  ‘No.’

  Tremain’s voice, finally, had gravel in it. ‘He was going to shoot you dead. He made me call you. He even dug a grave out there, in the courtyard.’

  Swann stepped around Pascoe, looked out through the smudged windows in their blistered frames. Against the far wall of the courtyard was a long-neck shovel, beside a hole that looked deep. Big mound of grey sand piled at its head. Tremain was telling the truth. Swann’s fingers clenched on the pistol grip as the anger rose in him.

  ‘He deserved what he got,’ Tremain said to Swann’s back. ‘It was him and Page who’ve been standing over me. I told you about it. Page does what he does because Gooch protected him. Without Gooch …’

  Tremain’s voice trailed off. Swann shook his head. ‘You think Gooch is the only one Page’s kicking up to?’

  ‘Yes, I do. They went to school together. Page told me that. Boasted about it. How he used to make Gooch fight for him, right back to primary school. Gooch won’t be missed. I followed him one night. I fantasised about killing him. He lives alone. No wife or kids.’

  Swann watched the sun rise through the higher branches of the tuart outside the office wall. Three crows sat in the tree, watching him.

  ‘That’s where you’re wrong, Tremain. Gooch will be greatly missed. He’s a CIB bagman. You know what that means?’

  ‘So he’s disappeared, taken some money and run away?’

  The growing desperation in Tremain’s voice didn’t betray the truth of his words. It was a plausible scenario.

  ‘Who knew that Gooch was here this morning? Who knew that he was standing over you?’

  Swann assumed that the order to run a play on Tremain had come from higher up in the CIB, but he could be wrong. It could have been Page. It was possible that Gooch wasn’t kicking anything back.

  ‘Nobody knew. It was Page who put Gooch onto me. It’s Page who wants my lease, my gold.’

  Swann listened for sirens, or a helicopter. The sound of TRG boots on the gravel outside. Nothing.

  ‘You know he’s right.’

  It was Pascoe, standing now, one hand supporting him on the desk. The oxygen mask was off, a thin red spittle on his lips.

  Tremain was right. Swann could call it in, bring Cassidy to the scene. He would be cleared of any involvement. But he wouldn’t be clear. Gooch’s colleagues in the CIB, the remnants of the old purple circle, they would believe what they wanted to believe.

  Pascoe could be trusted. Tremain was the problem. If he ever talked, then it would be even worse for Swann. Concealing a murder. Disposing of a body. It would mean years in gaol.

  Swann was exhausted. He pointed the pistol at Pascoe, indicated for him to move closer to Tremain. ‘Start talking,’ he said, but his eyes were on Tremain, who was staring back defiantly, eager to prove himself. For the first time in many months, perhaps, Tremain was seeing a way out.

  Pascoe spoke in a clear, even voice. The story of breaking out of gaol to execute Jared Page was believable. Tony Pascoe was a dead man walking, and had no reason to lie. He had just saved Swann’s life, and it nearly cost him his own.

  ‘I remember you,’ said Swann. ‘You ran with my stepfather, Brian Hardy, back in the day.’

  ‘He was no friend of mine. We drank together. He was my inside man on the docks. We did some jobs, until I found out he was a dog. Why he was never sent down.’

  Swann nodded. His stepfather had boasted that Tony Pascoe was his friend, but when Brian brought Pascoe home with him one night, both of them drunk, Pascoe hadn’t been impressed when Brian started ordering Swann’s mother around, demanding that she fix them dinner. Pascoe was a wanted man, named as a suspect in an armoured car robbery out on the Great Eastern Highway, another thing that Brian boasted about – how Pascoe was sheltered by the community that he’d grown up in. How he still drank in the local pubs, went to watch the Bulldogs play on Saturday afternoon, right outside the walls of the prison where he spent so much of his life.

  But now Tony Pascoe was dying, warily watching Swann, free for the last time.

  Tremain pointed to the desk and Swann nodded. Tremain opened the Gladstone bag, heavy with ingots. He said to Pascoe, ‘Take it. For what you just did. Pay off your man’s debt. Plenty more where that came from.’

  Pascoe shrugged, looked at Swann, waiting for his decision. Swann looked down at Gooch’s corpse, his arms spread out like he was falling, needing to break his fall. Outside, the three crows in the tuart began to caw. Swann glanced a final time at the grave Gooch had dug for him, nodded to Tremain. ‘He needs to be buried. Then his car needs to be driven to the airport, parked there.’

  ‘I can do that,’ said Tremain. ‘I’ll do it right away.’

  Swann stared hard at Tremain, saw that he meant what he said, some wire in his voice. He turned the safety on the Browning, stowed the pistol in his jacket.

  57.

  The skinhead, Antony, pulled to the kerb on a hillside above the port. Devon looked over his shoulder at the Vinson, stolid and grey among the multicoloured container ships at berth. He judged that he was a half-hour walk from the docks, most of it downhill. The skinhead snapped his fingers and brought Devon back.

  ‘You got to put this on,’ he said. ‘Supposed to have worn it since North Freo.’

  It was a black canvas sack, covered in burrs of grass seed and grey dust.

  ‘C’mon, Aussie,’ Devon said. ‘I already told you, I’m on your side here. No need for this. I can be an asset. I got you them guns, didn’t I?’

  The man’s green eyes caught the light, seemed charged with purpose. He took up one of the Glocks, which rested beside the sawed-off in the driver’s side door. ‘I take you in there without it, it’s gonna be me wearin it.’

  Devon picked up the sack, opened its mouth. It smelt like fish bait. He did as he was told, pulled it down onto his shoulders, the handcuffs clacking.

  The car engaged gears and whirred as it climbed the hill. Devon’s ears popped. The van turned into a drive, drove across what sounded like gravel, and then soft dirt, the tyres snaking. A shadow fell across his hands – he could feel the absence of burning sun. The sound of birds squawking and crickets chirruping. The skinhead got out and came around Devon’s side, opened the door and guided him. They walked across what Devon realised was rubble. His boots ground over it and his knees were unsteady. Then they were on some wooden stairs, creaking. He could hear muffled voices ahead. A door complained on its hinges and then they were inside a cool room whose floorboards were angled toward the rear wall. Another door opened, and Devon was thrust forward, nearly lost his balance.

  ‘Here he is,’ the skinhead said, his voice more assertive than before. ‘I had to knock the bloke guarding him. Got his pistol, and a shottie.’
r />   ‘Yer first kill, Ant. Come an’ have a line, son.’

  ‘Yeah, I will.’

  Devon couldn’t see, but even through the bait-stinking sack he could smell bacon grease and rotten garbage. His stomach rumbled and he realised that he hadn’t eaten since yesterday morning.

  ‘Take that thing off ’is head. See what we got here.’

  The sack was ripped off and Devon winced under the harsh fluorescent glare. He’d expected some kind of older man to match the voice, which carried a leader’s authority, but he got a shock. It was an older man alright, but one so ugly and mean-looking that Devon couldn’t hide it.

  ‘Aw fuck, you see his face?’ the older man said. ‘Nearly shit himself.’

  ‘You do look like a cat’s arse, Ralphie,’ said another man, entering from the next room. He didn’t look much better, in fact they looked like brothers. But where the man sitting at the table was dressed in jeans and a blue wife-beater, tattoos all up his arms and shoulders, his brother wore chinos and boots, a tight black tee, clean arms. Where the seated man’s hair was wispy and red, his face cratered with acne scars, the man watching him from the doorway had short combed red hair and a clear complexion. But they both shared those mean blue eyes.

  ‘He give you any trouble, Ant?’ said the seated man.

  Ant put his nose to the kitchen table and snorted up the line of speed. He shook his head to settle the rush, wiped his nose. ‘Nah, they had him cuffed. He’s harmless, Ralph. Reckons he’s gonna work for us, somethin like that.’

  It was a question, and Devon was ready. ‘That’s right. I got you that Glock. Then I got those M16s. I can get more, you give me the chance. I told you last time that back home in the States I’m in with white power. Grew up with it. I can’t go back to the ship. I’m done with that life.’

  ‘You didn’t tell me shit, mate. Never seen you before. And don’t talk to me about those M16s. The fucken trouble you’ve caused me. Us.’

  ‘He heard the news on the way over,’ added Ant.

  The man Ralph got up, spat into the sink, sat down again. Wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘We do need your help, mate. But not in the way you might think. You got us into this trouble, and you’re gonna get us out. You wanna know how this story ends?’

  Devon didn’t like the way this was headed. The door was open behind him. All he had to do was run, but the reptile eyes of the seated man caught his glance. The man reached for a carving knife on the table, shook his head.

  ‘This is how it ends, mate, at least for you. You shouldn’t have killed that bikie fuckhead back there, and with those M16s all over the media, they’re soiled goods – more trouble than they’re worth. To smooth it over again with The Nongs we’re giving ’em back their guns, their money, and you, who just murdered one of their own. No hard feelings, son. It’s just business. We’re gonna tell ’em you killed their man, then you got away, came to us, fellow Nazis. As a peace offering, we’re giving you back. We apologise for shooting up their clubhouse, offer to make amends. They take out their frustrations on you, probably with a blowtorch. You deny everything but they don’t believe you. We all live happily ever after, except you. The End.’

  Ralph’s brother slow-clapped, nodded toward Ant, who was ready with the sack. Devon tried to kick out, turn away from the strong arms, but he was thrown to the ground, his cuffed hands taking the weight, thrust above his head and straining his shoulders. He was wrenched to his feet, the sack placed onto his neck, then frogmarched deeper into the house. He heard a padlock click, felt a wash of cool air. They were putting him in a basement, or a cellar. He was walked two paces forward, then thrown down some steps. His head hit the dirt, dazing him. He heard boot-steps behind him and he was dragged across rough stone. A chain was fed through his handcuffs, a padlock clicked shut. The footsteps disappeared, up the stairs. The doors closed. Devon pulled the sack from his head, but it was no use. The room was darker than any place he’d ever been.

  58.

  Tony Pascoe followed Frank Swann’s Lincoln-green HK Brougham, past the Karrakatta Cemetery and army barracks, turning west at the showgrounds toward the coast. Pascoe followed at a discreet distance, aware that Swann was giving him the opportunity to disappear into the suburbs.

  Pascoe thought hard about that.

  Gooch was dead. Pascoe hadn’t meant to kill the copper, but Gooch had wrenched sideways at a crucial moment, pushing off the desk, exposing his windpipe to the taut sinews inside Pascoe’s elbow, crushing it and effectively taking himself out.

  Gooch was the first man that Pascoe had killed outside of the war. It didn’t feel good, even though Gooch was a bent copper who lived by the sword.

  Pascoe told himself this as he watched Swann’s Brougham turn left down Salvado Street, past the SAS Barracks toward the Fremantle port. He told himself that he’d intervened to save Swann because after the detective shot him he was going to shoot Pascoe, although this wasn’t true. As a detective, Gooch would certainly want the credit for bringing Pascoe back to serve his term.

  Pascoe had intervened purely out of instinct. What happened had happened, and now he was free again, albeit his wings had been clipped. Swann had smiled grimly when Pascoe asked for the Browning pistol, shaking his head in response. Outside, Swann had searched Pascoe’s van, discovering the adapted flare gun under the driver’s seat. He confiscated that, too, saying that despite his bad feelings toward Jared Page, a man who he’d crossed swords with over the years, he didn’t want another murder on his conscience.

  Now Pascoe was unarmed. Swann could have taken the bag of gold ingots for himself too, but he didn’t. Pascoe put the Gladstone bag on the passenger floorpan, covered it with old newspaper.

  They were on the coast road, sandy beaches to their right and train tracks to the left, hard sun reflecting off the wide blue ocean that was still as a pond. Ahead was the port, a tanker breaching the twin moles and moving out toward Gage Roads, big as an island beside the tugboats, tinnies and cruisers that skimmed across the water. Behind the gantry cranes was the raised bridge of the Yank vessel, satellite dish turning and catching the light. Behind that was the port city where Pascoe had grown up; his earliest memories of watching his father head off to work with his stevedore-hook hanging off his belt; his mother returning home from the Mills & Wares factory smelling of hot biscuits.

  Swann’s Brougham indicated to turn right beyond the prison walls, toward the hospital. He raised a hand to signal his goodbye. Pascoe did the same, kept driving.

  59.

  Webb was waiting for Swann in his driveway, talking into his brick, glancing at his watch.

  Swann was still shaken by what had happened at Tremain’s office. The first bullet Gooch fired had passed through Swann’s shirt, two inches from his ribcage, six inches from his heart. It’d left a finger-sized circular hole, front and back. If the old man, Pascoe, hadn’t intervened then Swann would already be in the sand, six feet under. He could feel its weight on his chest, taste it on his tongue. Instead, it was Gooch in the sand, buried by Tremain.

  Swann pulled into the drive, saw the dog rise groggily to her feet in the shade, begin to wag her tail. All Swann felt like doing was holding onto Marion, taking to their bed under the ceiling fan.

  Swann took off his sunglasses and folded them, climbed from the car. He had to pretend like nothing had happened. Another secret to bury deep, like all the others. ‘Any news?’ he asked.

  Webb nodded. ‘That was the CO. We’re leaving port tomorrow eve, latest the morning after.’

  Webb’s voice was apologetic. He knew what it looked like.

  ‘Your man Cassidy called earlier,’ said Webb. ‘Overnight, there have been a series of what look like mischievous, even malicious, tips from the public about Bernier. I say public, but they’ve established that they were made from the same public phone box, here in Fremantle, by the same man. Even so, they need to be followed up. Sightings of Bernier in nine suburbs north of the river and east at the h
ills.’

  Crank calls, thought Swann, pointing to the shade on the front porch. Marion wasn’t home yet and the house was locked. He didn’t bother opening up, certain that they’d be heading out soon. At the very least Webb could be his alibi for the next few hours. Swann took a seat and patted the dog, ran his fingers through her silky ears, let Webb finish his run-down.

  Webb put the brick on his lap, lit another Camel. ‘Your Federal Police have been helpful. Set up a personal liaison officer for me. They’ve done a title search on the Cord brothers, come up with nothing. Last addresses have been raided. They’ve had eyes and ears on the organisation the Cords belong to for months. There has been plenty of telephone traffic about the rifles since the news broke in the media. Lots of threats against some of their persons. Putting their own people out on the street. Only communication with the biker club – basically an apology. The Federals suspect that the Cords are operating on their own.’

  ‘Increases the likelihood of them handing the weapons back,’ said Swann. ‘Too hot, even for Ralph Cord.’

  ‘But if the APM, the bikers and State and Federal Police are looking for the Cord brothers and they still haven’t been found, it tells me that they’re holed up, not moving. We need to find that place. Any ideas?’

  ‘One. One idea. Don’t know what to do if it fails. You have a spare packet of American cigarettes?’

  Webb nodded toward his briefcase. ‘Yes, several. Why?’

  ‘We’re going to visit someone.’

  The look on Webb’s face told Swann that he was shocked by the condition of the prison. The sun was fading as they walked toward the cell blocks. Swann’s friendship with veteran turnkey Tony McIlroy, who lived up the street from Swann in an old limestone cottage, had gotten them into the prison outside visiting hours.

  Lee Southern’s father, Daniel, had been alerted to their arrival. Swann could see him outside 3 Division, chatting with a screw and watching them come. The limestone walls built by convicts loomed above them, casting shadows over the paths framed by limestone rocks.