Shore Leave Page 21

  As they got closer to the cell block, the sound and smell of caged men grew stronger. The stench of shit buckets, foot odour and stale sweat. Radios blaring from open windows that provided the only circulation in the building. Cage doors rattled, men shouted. They all lived with a sixteen-hour lockdown, and yard time was over.

  ‘Place is fucking medieval. No offence.’

  Swann didn’t disagree. He glanced at the nearest tower where the guard on duty cradled a rifle, watching them. As senior warder, Tony McIlroy was part of the officer cartel that administered overtime, and ghost-shifts to those guards who played the game. He was a good friend to have, but Swann was glad that he wasn’t under McIlroy’s watch. Part of playing the game meant meting out punishment when it was ordered, and looking the other way when something more than punishment was required.

  ‘Is that our man?’ Webb asked.

  Clearly he wasn’t impressed by Daniel Southern, wearing tight stubbies and thongs, his bare torso lathered with sweat. Swann had given Webb the bare bones. He had already met Lee Southern at Kerry’s brothel and at the gym. Lee’s father was in for a short stretch this time, for dope possession. He was a Vietnam veteran and the ex-leader of a paramilitary survivalist group out of Geraldton, who made their money from dope plantations and gun-running. This was also the first time that Swann had met Lee Southern’s father. Lee had told him that his dad had changed, and Swann hoped this was true, if only for the kid’s benefit. Lee saw his father once a week, on Friday afternoons, and never missed his appointment. He often returned to the boxing gym directly from the prison, and his mood was always good.

  ‘Give one packet of smokes to the guard. We’re talking to Daniel Southern outside, so there’s no perception of collaboration or snitching. It’s a big favour.’

  Swann and Webb shook hands with the guard, a short, sturdy middle-aged man with tattoos on his knuckles and a grey goatee beard, and then with Daniel, who paid close attention to Swann. Webb passed them both a packet of Camels, then offered them a cigarette from his own packet. The guard held his out to Daniel Southern to light, then stepped away to give them privacy.

  ‘Thanks for seeing us,’ Swann said, meeting Southern’s scrutiny with the same measured stare. ‘It won’t take long.’

  ‘Take your time, mate. My cell’s on the eastern side. I haven’t seen a sunset in six months. Lee’s told me a lot about you.’

  It was a question, and Swann nodded. ‘He’s a good kid. A real good kid.’

  Swann’s compliment carried a subtle proprietorial tone, wanting to see Lee’s father’s response, who just shrugged, played along. ‘No thanks to me. It’s good you’re giving him work. Good that he’s keeping up his training, at your gym.’

  ‘He pretty much runs the place. The local kids look up to him.’

  Lee’s reading of his father was correct. Swann didn’t know what Daniel Southern was like before, except by reputation, but the news that Lee was making a contribution clearly made him proud.

  ‘What did you want to see me about? Mullins there just told me that it wasn’t about Lee, so not to worry.’

  ‘No, it’s not. Got a question about a bloke who just got out. Whose sentence overlapped with yours, shared the same division. Ralph Cord.’

  Southern’s lip curled. ‘Yeah, what about him? I don’t keep the same company I used to. No interest in a mutt like him. I’ve been participating in a painting class. Most of the class is Aboriginal. He didn’t like that.’

  ‘We’re looking for him. You’ve probably heard the news. So are half the coppers in the state.’

  ‘What’s that got to do with me?’

  ‘He’s in the wind. No fixed address. Holed up somewhere. Just wondered if he talked about a place. Off the record.’

  Daniel Southern thought about it, glanced at Mullins, his warder. Sharing information about another prisoner, even to a civilian like Swann, wasn’t a good look.

  ‘We weren’t on speakin terms, if you know what I mean. Not after he found out I was part-black.’

  ‘He ever get any visitors?’

  ‘Yeah, he did. An old sheila, every Friday, same time as me and Lee’s visit. She always had money put on his gratuities. I think she was his aunt. Remember him telling the screw who escorted us down there. Boasted about putting in orders for big dollars on his grats. Said that she lived up on the hill behind the prison somewhere. As a kid he used to look through the scope of his uncle’s rifle, see the little men working the prison gardens, the screws at their business. I remember it because it was an odd thing to say. I remember thinking, who fuckin cares? Same thing the screw probably thought. But that was Cord for you. Always runnin his mouth, even when he had nothing to say.’

  ‘He say what her name was, or what street she lived on?’

  ‘Nah, he didn’t care about anything but the grats money, my impression.’

  Swann looked to Webb, who’d been listening closely. It was good information, and likely something that the Feds had missed. They could check the visitors’ book on the way out.

  Swann put out his hand. ‘Thanks. See you when your time’s up.’

  Southern looked sceptical, but nodded. ‘Keep an eye out for my boy. Make sure he finishes school.’

  ‘Will do.’

  Swann nodded his thanks to the guard, and they turned toward the main entrance where the sun laid golden fingers upon the highest walls. He glanced over his shoulder and saw that Mullins and Southern were sharing another cigarette, watching the sunset come down, the light in the compound softening; mauve and purple tracers illuminating the white cell block walls.

  60.

  The cellar was so dark that Devon would make out what he thought was a solid shape in the blackness only to reach out and find that it was more nothing. He had two metres of chain he could work with, crawling on his hands and knees, patting the floor of smooth caprock and compacted limestone. Empty bottles and sardine cans. Spent plastic cartridges from a shotgun. A box full of old newspapers.

  Devon took one of the bottles back with him to the floor-bolt, placed it there for later. He planned to break it and use it as a knife, if needed. Then he went back to searching, quiet as possible, trying to listen to the conversations above him. No light came through the floorboards but he could hear muffled words. He was distracted by the smell of something rotten every time he reached the end of his chain, away against what he thought was a wall. It smelt like something dead that’d been there a long time. Mummified rat carcass or something. He couldn’t reach whatever it was and didn’t really want to.

  It was so dark that he became disoriented, had to retreat to the floor-bolt fixed into a concrete block, try and work out which direction were the steps and the door that he’d entered, which direction was the pile of bottles and the bad smell. He worked out that if he completed circles around the concrete block holding the leash at different lengths, then he could at least cover the area within the circle. He did so until the chain was at its fullest length, crawling around the block like a hooked fish until he identified the bad smell again. Within the circle he retrieved an old wrench, a couple of torch batteries, three rusty nails and a heavy paper bag containing what he thought might be cement, although it tasted like lime. There was nothing for him to stand on. There were no walls that he could dig into. There were the newspapers that he could set alight, but they’d taken his cigarettes and zippo.

  Devon sat on the concrete block and tried to focus on the voices he could hear above him. The voice of the ugly man, Ralph, was loudest, because he appeared to be arguing with someone whose responses couldn’t be heard. It was most likely a telephone conversation, because the others had gone quiet. Devon followed the sound of boot-steps as one man moved through different rooms, but most of the sounds came from directly above him, which he assumed to be the kitchen. Devon stood on the concrete block so that he could hear better, but found that in the complete darkness it was hard for him to keep his balance. He spread his feet further, putting his
hands out in case he fell. It was so dark that if it weren’t for gravity he wouldn’t know which way was up, down or sideways. He was groggy from landing face-first on the cellar floor, and he’d torn the ligaments in his left shoulder. He tried to raise his cuffed wrists above shoulder-height but the pain was terrible.

  The man who’d been walking through the house returned to the kitchen. When the man finished dragging a seat, it was easier for Devon to hear. It was their leader, Ralph, describing the telephone conversation.

  ‘… Course I told him. He said, why’d he buy back something he’s already paid for? It was worth a try, I guess. He wanted to come here, collect both the guns and the Yank. You heard my reaction to that. I know these pricks. They’ll wipe us out. So I told him that I’d leave them somewhere, call and tell ’im where, but he reckons that’s too unsafe. And that the pigs are watchin him like he’s got forty-inch tits. I suggested a middleman. Someone he trusts. Give ’im the guns and the cash, the Yank …’

  There was more scraping of chairs and Devon missed what came next, but Ralph’s response was clear.

  ‘Yeah, he bought it. I told ’im the Yank turned up here, told us what he’d done to Ted Mangles, in detail. Knowing the … delicacy of our negotiations, I immediately put ’im in custody. A peace offerin. They’d only just found the dead fucker, you could hear ’em in the background, buzzin round like little bees. Riley swallowed it alright.’

  Even through the floorboards, Devon recognised the voice of Ant, who’d shot the biker. He’d been ruthless and efficient during the shooting, but there was something else in his voice now. Devon could guess the reason behind his questions. Ant would want everything nailed down. If word ever leaked that he’d been the shooter, rather than Devon, he was looking at a slow and horrible death.

  ‘… never you mind, Antony. I’ve got to call back later, to find out where we make the drop. Two-man team. Me and my brother. We hand it all over, our problems go away. Then we return to Plan A.’

  Devon didn’t know what Plan A was, and he didn’t care. He had to find a way to escape before he was handed over to the biker leader, Gus Riley. Devon knew that he wouldn’t be believed, even under torture. The bikers would assume that he’d shot Ted and made his escape, went looking for the only people who’d take him in, his fellow travellers in the white power movement. They would assume that Devon had somehow got Ted’s gun off him. They had no reason to believe otherwise.

  It was then that Devon heard the sound. Earlier, he thought he heard a grunt, but when it was followed by silence he’d assumed that it came from above. But now he heard it clearly – ragged breathing, rapid and urgent – the sound of someone coming awake to find that the nightmare was real.

  ‘Who there?’ came the voice.

  An American voice.

  Black voice.

  Plan A.

  Devon got down off the concrete block, peered into the darkness, prepared his voice to speak.

  61.

  The boxing gym was crowded. A few old boys from the docks were sparring in the ring, beer guts and padded arms belying their fitness and desire for the contest. A couple of Noongar kids in their high-school uniforms took turns on the speedball, looking shyly around when they mucked up the rhythm. A mixed group of boys, girls, men and women stretched on the mats near the floor-to-ceiling mirrors, preparing for the one-hour boxing class taken today by Lee Southern and Blake Tracker, who were chatting while putting on their wraps. Blake was taller than Lee and his skin was darker, but they were wiry and lean, and looked like brothers.

  Lee Southern glanced up and Swann nodded him toward the door. Lee elbowed Blake and they collected their trail of wraps and stepped through a group stripping down, putting watches and wallets in hats and bags.

  ‘Gerry coming in?’ Swann asked Blake.

  ‘Don’t think so. He was in last night. Asked me to take the class.’

  ‘Think you could call him? I need you two tonight, couple of hours at most.’

  Blake Tracker shrugged, but his face expressed reluctance. ‘He’s goin fishin. That black bream spot over in Bicton, near the baths.’

  ‘What about you two? Can you help?’

  Blake nodded. ‘Sure.’

  Lee began unwinding the wrap on his left hand. ‘No probs. Though I’m on shift at Kerry’s place later.’

  Swann walked over to the makeshift boxing ring. Craig Little took his eyes off his sparring mates and watched Swann come. Craig was a big man, a maritime union rep and ex-boxer. He was thirty kilos overweight but could spar fifteen rounds and barely break a sweat. He had the face of a thug but Swann knew him as a generous and decent man. Little and his union mates had donated half of the gym’s equipment. Swann spoke to him for a couple of minutes until the round-buzzer sounded and the two sparring men joined them. They agreed to leave off training and run the night class. Swann thanked them and when he returned to the door, Blake and Lee were ready to go.

  Swann parked the Brougham under a streetlight and spread the map on the bonnet. The Fremantle Doctor was strong from the south and he had to place both hands on the map. In the car, he’d run through what Lee’s father had told him, and what they’d discovered in the Fremantle Gaol visitors’ book for the months September 1988 – February 1989. Ralph Cord’s only visitor during that time was a woman named Rose Cord. She was so well-known to the guards on the Friday day shift that she didn’t leave an address or show ID. Swann had asked Tony McIlroy to see if he could retrieve the visitors’ books for the first months of Cord’s stretch, back in July 1986. This was important because there was no Rose Cord listed in the White Pages, which meant that Cord was possibly her maiden name. Births, Deaths & Marriages was closed for the day and wouldn’t be accessible until tomorrow morning – the same time Tony McIlroy hoped to retrieve the earlier visitors’ books from the locked cabinet in the prison superintendent’s office. In the meantime, Swann decided to hit the streets and knock on doors.

  He finished pointing out to Lee and Blake the streets that they planned to cover. Webb talked on his brick to the Federal Police liaison, filling them in on what they’d learned. Swann went and popped the boot of the Brougham, took out his .38 S&W snubnose, checking the cylinder before flicking it closed. Webb had a pistol on his ankle.

  Swann decided that Webb and Blake should cover the street nearest the prison, while Swann and Lee would canvass the streets higher up the hillside. The pistol and revolver was insurance in case they knocked on the wrong door, and were recognised.

  Webb finished his call. ‘All their surveillance teams are on three different APM houses in the northern part of the city, and a small ranch on the other side of the range which they’ve been watching for some time. Live training exercises have occurred there and the idiots have built army-style obstacle courses and whatnot. They can’t spare any personnel. They also suggest not telling the local detectives what we’re doing, due to leaks. Apparently your biker friend has put a fifty-thousand dollar price on information leading to the capture of Cord and his gang, something my liaison believes will be too enticing to pass up for some of the locals.’

  Swann talked them through the spiel. They were to work opposite sides of the street and knock on every third door and say that they were locals who lived on the other side of Hampton Road, giving Swann’s address if asked. They had found a purse with no identification except a library card. A few days ago an old lady had doorknocked the street asking if anyone had seen her purse. The old lady’s name was Rose, and she said that she lived across from Hampton Road. Did they know a Rose, an old lady who lived nearby? If a house was identified then they were to meet at the end of the next block and take a close look together. If necessary, call in the Feds.

  They split up, and Swann and Lee climbed the hill until they reached Swanbourne Street. It was one of the longest streets in Fremantle and straddled the ridgeline of the limestone hill that peaked at the war memorial before descending south. The view from its highest point covered both the Fr
emantle Gaol and beyond to Gage Roads and across Cockburn Sound. If Ralph Cord’s reminiscence of sighting his uncle’s rifle into the Fremantle Gaol yards was correct, it was unlikely from Swanbourne Street, due to the distance, but there were several positions where the line of sight allowed for a view inside the prison. Swann and Lee leapfrogged their doorknocking, coming up empty by the time they reached the intersection of Stevens Street, where they waited for Webb and Blake Tracker to complete the same length of Bellevue Terrace. If neither party had any luck, the plan was to retrace their steps together along Solomon Street, which was between the two.

  Swann and Lee walked down the hill to the corner of Stevens and Solomon. Lee smoked a cigarette under the streetlight, looking down over the city. Blake and Webb should have reached the rendezvous point by now. Swann was thinking about heading down to Bellevue Terrace when he heard the throaty chuckle of a muscle car coming over the ridge behind them. He guessed correctly that it was a Monaro, the Holden turning down from the top of the hill, its headlights off. Swann nodded to Lee Southern. It was too late for Lee to hide himself but Swann stepped into a driveway, hid himself behind a bougainvillea that broke over the driveway wall. He heard the car approach and peered around the corner. The Monaro slowed while the driver, who Swann recognised as Barry Brown, took a good long look at Swann’s comrade. It occurred to Swann that Lee looked like a skinhead with his tight jeans, boots and cropped head. Swann took out his revolver and let it hang beside his thigh. When the Monaro pulled to a stop, Swann moved out of the shadows. Four car doors opened. Swann covered the distance quickly, cocking the .38. Barry Brown saw him coming and put up a hand. The three other men, who Swann didn’t recognise, paused beside the open car doors. Two of them carried baseball bats, the other a claw hammer.

  ‘He’s with me,’ Swann said.

  Barry Brown rested his sawn-off shotgun on the doorsill. His pupils were dilated and his jaw was clenched as he looked Lee over. Suspicion in his eyes and in his voice. ‘You sure about that, Swann? I never seen him before. I know why you’re here and who you’re workin for. You haven’t cut any deals with these bonehead fucks have you?’