Shore Leave Page 5

  Swann took a swig of lukewarm tea and capped the thermos, dropped it on the floorpan. ‘I’m ready. You ready?’

  ‘I don’t see anything in the water.’

  Webb had received the courtesy call from the chief of the CIB, relaying the news that he needed to get down to the park. The matter was in relation to a US midshipman. The CIB chief hadn’t mentioned anything about a homicide or forensics squad. Swann and Webb tried ten minutes ago to enter the crime scene but were waved back by a surly uniformed constable too young to recognise Swann.

  ‘Oh no.’

  Webb’s voice carried the full horror.

  Down on the shoreline, the two forensics staff in waders floated out a corpse from among the reeds.

  It was a woman, a civilian, facedown.

  ‘What the hell?’ Webb hissed. ‘Who’s the senior detective? Why was I called here?’

  Swann felt sick in his stomach. ‘How many female navy staff on shore leave, last night?’

  Webb shook his head. ‘I don’t know. Forty? Fifty?’

  ‘Let’s go down there.’

  Webb looked ashen as he climbed out of the car. The police photographer began taking pictures of the woman’s corpse, following the pointed fingers of the tallest forensics officer and using his zoom for the finer details.

  A taped perimeter had been set, but Swann and Webb wandered down to the three detectives who this time turned to watch them come. Swann recognised one of them, an old-stager by the name of Mike Cassidy – not an enemy, but not a friend either, judging by Cassidy’s reaction. Swann thrust out his hand and introduced Webb.

  Cassidy looked away from Swann to the river, where the two forensics staff were gently cradling the young woman, lifting her towards the plastic sheet on the shore. Cassidy made the sign of the cross, wiped a hand over his rough brown chin. As an afterthought, he introduced Swann to his two peers, ignoring the American officer. Swann shook their hands and nodded in turn. They were British imports, part of the new recruitment drive, with clear blue eyes in faces undamaged by the sun.

  The five of them watched the body placed upon the plastic sheet, wet strands of hair concealing her face.

  ‘Is she American?’ Webb asked tentatively. ‘I don’t recognise her.’

  ‘No, she isn’t,’ replied Cassidy, looking for Webb’s reaction. ‘She’s a local.’

  ‘Then I don’t mean to intrude, or step on toes,’ Webb said quietly. ‘But do you mind telling me why I’m here? I was told that it had something to do with a naval serviceman.’

  Cassidy grinned like a wolf. ‘There was a witness. Last night, walking her dog. An old woman but with good eyesight. Said she saw a sailor here, canoodling with a young woman, who had an Australian accent. This morning doing the same walk, she saw the body.’

  ‘Did she describe the serviceman?’

  ‘She did. Big tall American negro. Scar on the left side of his face. Shiny scar, reached from his ear to his mouth.’

  ‘I’d like to speak to the witness, if possible.’

  Webb couldn’t possibly have wrung more politeness out of his words, but Cassidy wasn’t impressed. ‘No, you bloody can’t.’

  Swann cleared his throat. ‘If this is what it looks like, Cassidy, then you’re going to need access. Webb here is going to be your liaison.’

  Webb looked uncomfortable. ‘That’s not entirely true,’ he said. ‘A potential felony crime like this will need to be investigated by a NISCOM special agent.’

  There was more, but Cassidy lacked the patience. ‘But? Spit it out!’

  ‘Our resident special agent flew out this morning, back stateside, to complete some training. It’ll take days for a replacement to be sent here from HQ. So yes, it’s me for the time being. Liaison, and able to assist with –’

  ‘You’re not assisting with anything, my American mate. Not if I can help it.’

  Swann lowered his voice. ‘Webb is an ex-cop. He can be of help.’

  Cassidy looked Swann up and down. ‘Never too far from trouble, are you?’

  There was a lot of history in that statement – history that Webb and the two Brit detectives weren’t privy to, but Swann let it slide.

  ‘I never had a problem with you, Cassidy.’

  Cassidy didn’t hide his contempt. ‘What’s your role here? Working for a foreign power? You helping the Septics do what they always do? Hold, delay, cover up until they set sail again? By which time it’s too late? I’ve still got two unsolved rape cases on my desk from when I worked sex crimes – the last time these pricks were in town.’

  ‘Now hang on, fellas.’ Webb put a hand between them. ‘There’s only so much we can –’

  Swann looked hard at Webb. ‘Is that true?’

  Webb shook his head. ‘That wasn’t the Carl Vinson. I can assure you –’

  The American fell silent at the look on Swann’s face, who stared at the murdered woman being carried past them on a sling.

  The riverbank was steep, and Swann hadn’t been able to see her clearly until now. He felt his stomach tumble. It was Montana. Swann had last seen her at Kerry Bannister’s brothel on South Terrace, after the weirdo had taken her hostage.

  There was a clear ligature mark on her neck. Her eyes were open, and bloodshot. Her face was throttled blue, teeth bared.

  ‘I know her,’ said Swann. ‘I saw her a couple of days ago. I don’t know her real name. She works in a Fremantle brothel, for KB.’

  Every detective in the force knew who KB was, but Cassidy was having a deal of trouble believing Swann.

  ‘When did you see her last, exactly?’

  ‘The night before the Vinson arrived. I’ll give you a full statement.’

  ‘How helpful of you, Swann. Course you bloody will.’

  ‘The midshipman,’ Webb said. ‘Tall, strong, African-American with a scar on the left side of his face. I think, we think, we know who it is. His name is Charles Bernier. He’s currently AWOL.’

  Charles Bernier was the man they’d searched for earlier at the Seaview Hotel, who’d left his wallet stuffed in the mattress.

  ‘That’s why you were called here,’ spat Cassidy. ‘Start speaking.’

  Webb was about to speak until he saw Cassidy cross himself again as Montana was slid into a nylon body bag, the sound of the zipper ugly in the still air.

  12.

  Des Ryan sprawled his long legs over the pine coffin he’d made for himself, a dusty pillow supporting his back, watching Pascoe prepare the lathe.

  ‘It’ll never fucken work.’

  Pascoe laughed. ‘Oh, it’ll work. This flare gun is an antique. Made of iron.’

  Ryan finished with his makings, put the packet of White Ox on the floor and gave fire to the racehorse-thin rollie at his lips. It was cool and dark in the shed where Ryan traditionally spent most of his time. Pascoe had already established that Ryan’s wife, Leonie, had died five years ago of a stroke. No fairness in that – not when Pascoe remembered her as fair and fit-looking, compared to the leather-skinned skeleton beside him now. As though reading his mind, Ryan tapped ash and repeated himself. ‘I’ll say it again, Tone, you look pretty good for an old bloke.’

  ‘And I’ll say it again, that’s the difference no sunlight makes. You still lie on the beach in your jocks, all hours of the day? You’re supposed to be Irish.’

  ‘Black Irish mate. Or just black. Either way, take a compliment why don’t you? Even if it’s from a bloke who hasn’t had a root in five years. Unlike yourself.’

  It was like the sixty years since they’d first met as boys were merely a week or two ago – Des Ryan reverting to the humour of their childhood.

  ‘And I told you I’m done for,’ Pascoe replied. ‘A few months at the outside. These blades sharp?’

  ‘Course they’re sharp, Paz. What else I got to do? You gonna move in with me?’

  Pascoe shook his head, tightened the lathe blade and turned the crank. He’d been called Paz all his life until about a decade ago, when e
ven the screws started calling him Tony, in deference to his new status as a geriatric.

  ‘I haven’t been arrested for nine years,’ Ryan continued. ‘They won’t trouble you here.’

  ‘What was that for? The last arrest?’

  Ryan’s charge sheet was nearly as long as Pascoe’s own, although he’d only done shorter stretches. He’d gotten away with the serious stuff, including being Pascoe’s driver at the armed robbery that put him away for what amounted to a life sentence. When things had gone south inside the central Perth bank, and Pascoe and his partner Ben Davey were trapped and outgunned, Ryan had wisely escaped in the stolen Torana, torching it south of the power station. Ryan wasn’t there to see Davey get shot down, or the security guard bleeding on the faux-marble floor.

  ‘Makin an arse of myself. Dispute with a dickhead over the back fence, decided to settle it with me shotgun. Just to scare ’im, of course. That’s the problem with getting old and your reputation fading to nothin, the weasel had no worries dobbing me in. Though the judge took pity on me, gave me community service planting trees in Kings Park. Beats breathin the stinkin air of Three Division like all the other times, I’ll say that for it.’

  ‘I’m ready, flick the switch.’ Pascoe nodded toward the powerboard that was piggybacked with double adaptors and cords splayed everywhere. ‘Bloody fire risk in here. You ever think about getting power laid out from the house?’

  Ryan pinched his rollie, tossed it through the door. ‘The next owner, whoever that is, can do it. While they’re busy wiping out the memory of me an Leonie. Knockin down the house and whatnot. Makin it fit for habitation by yuppies and their kids.’

  Des and Leonie Ryan hadn’t been able to have children, which was a sadness they carried their entire lives. Des dealt with it by joining up with the infantry, like most of his friends, including Pascoe, before being sent off to North Africa for the war. He’d seen and done terrible things over there, but he reckoned he got the good end of the stick compared to Leonie. She was a loving woman who died carrying the disappointment of never having a child to love.

  Ryan flicked the switch and the old lathe came to life. In the bracket facing the blades was a length of solid iron pole, used by fencers and road workers to loosen the ground before digging. Measure twice and cut once. Pascoe remeasured the inside mouth of the flare gun’s barrel with a pair of steel callipers. Once he’d shaved off the outside of the pole to the required width, the next step was to bore a precise hole down its centre. Des Ryan’s shotgun had been confiscated by the police, but he still had his .303 rifle and plenty of ammunition. The gun was registered, and so unsuited to Pascoe’s purpose. He didn’t want his plan to boomerang on his old friend. The new barrel would be bored to carry a .303 cartridge. He wouldn’t worry about rifling the barrel, so to make the bullet spin accurately on its passage from flare gun to living body. He planned to shoot the gun once, close in.

  True to form, Des hadn’t even asked Pascoe why he’d broken out so close to his release, or what the weapon was for.

  Des Ryan was old-school.

  ‘If you don’t want to live here, despite me needin the company, you’re welcome to come and die here. After you’ve finished doin what you need to do.’

  Pascoe knew that one day in the coming months he was going to drown when his lungs filled with fluid. It wasn’t going to be pretty, and he thought about Des’s offer. Des would do the right thing and help him along, if that’s what Pascoe wanted. Pascoe grinned. ‘Might do that. I get to go quick, and you get to blow a hole in my head, like you always wanted to do.’

  13.

  Swann pulled the Brougham into his drive, parked two feet ahead of the hanging bottlebrush. Wattlebirds nested up there in the foliage and liked to paint his car with streaky shit.

  Webb had been silent until they reached Fremantle, weighing his options. ‘Swann, what did he mean by trouble following you around? You understand, in the circumstances, I’ve got to limit our exposure to potential –’

  Swann had nodded and turned into the street. ‘A colleague of Detective Sergeant Cassidy’s, and a good friend of mine, a kid I always thought of as a son, was helping me on a case a few years ago, got murdered over it.’

  Swann let it hang there, hoping that the answer would be sufficient to Webb’s needs. He had no desire to get involved in Montana’s murder, although because of the diagnosis made on the Vinson, he felt a degree of gratitude that he’d repay with assistance, if needed. But Webb didn’t comment, and so Swann asked his own question. ‘The rape cases that Cassidy mentioned. What he was hinting at – the US Navy running off before an investigation was complete – that standard procedure? Because, if so –’

  ‘I’m not aware of the details, Swann, but I can promise you, never on my watch. It’s been known to happen, I won’t lie, especially in countries where the gaols are atrocious and the legal system’s a bad joke. It’s highly likely that there weren’t actual suspects, in which case no commander is going to linger in port for the duration of a drawn-out investigation. You’ll appreciate that US Navy vessels are sitting targets when in port, for terrorists and protestors. But in return for … fair treatment in the matter before us, I’m happy to follow up on Cassidy’s cases through my own channels, if that’d help smooth the waters.’

  Swann had never served in the armed forces, but he’d done fifteen years as a beat copper and detective, before returning to uniform as a superintendent. Webb’s answer was persuasive, but once again there was something in his tone that made Swann wary. Webb was a policeman with a duty to uphold the law, but he also had an institution to protect, an institution that served the most powerful and wealthy nation on earth.

  Webb wanted to speak to Kerry Bannister before Cassidy and the other detectives arrived, and so they’d driven straight home. Swann had agreed because Montana was one of Kerry’s staff – a young woman whose life had been stolen. He wanted Kerry to hear the news from a friend, rather than from Cassidy.

  The day was still hot and the street trees on South Terrace drooped. Swann approached the brothel’s side entrance. He could hear the sailors talking before he turned the corner, noticed Webb straighten up his uniform, place on his officer’s cap. There were five rooms inside the brothel and ten sailors waiting outside. Those in groups smoked and chatted among themselves while the few men who were alone leaned on the wall and stared at the clear blue sky. It was a narrow entrance, and when Swann moved to pass the group of four sailors at the head of the line, a strong arm reached out and barred his way. Swann looked into the sailor’s eyes, waiting for the response as the sailor recognised Master-at-Arms Steven Webb beside him. Webb cleared his throat, the man gulped, dropped his arm, stood away. When Swann and Webb didn’t move along, the young sailor reluctantly saluted, as did the others.

  ‘As you were,’ Webb said formally. ‘Although I think you need to find something else to do.’

  The sailors looked at each other, started to leave.

  Swann led the way into the brothel. ‘You didn’t want to ask them about our missing sailor?’

  Webb paused inside the front door. ‘They were all white, Asian or Hispanic. They likely wouldn’t know, and besides, they’re fresh on leave as of oh eight hundred this morning. I could smell the soap powder in their clothes. You sure about this, Swann? I’m having second thoughts. Those detectives will be here any minute. You sure that coming here won’t put Cassidy’s nose out of joint?’

  Swann shrugged. ‘It might upset Cassidy, although at this stage your investigations are separate. You’re trying to track an AWOL sailor. He’s trying to track down a murderer. We don’t know if your man was with Montana, and even if he was, his being seen with her is still circumstantial evidence. Would you mind waiting here for a minute? Kerry doesn’t know that Montana is dead. Better she hear it from me.’

  Kerry Bannister was as tough a person as Swann knew, but the news made her reach for Swann’s arm as she slid to the desk. She sat there, legs sprawled, tear
s falling down her weathered face. ‘Oh, the poor dear. The poor, poor girl.’

  Swann crouched beside her. Down the corridor, the rooms were all occupied. It was a Federation building with solid brick walls but from Kerry’s office you could hear every creaking bedspring and murmur. She’d told him previously that the women didn’t mind the Yanks – most of them were polite and all of them were generous. Some of them just wanted to talk to a woman, smell a woman, hold a woman.

  He wondered if the missing sailor was such a man, or whether he was the other kind.

  Now Kerry looked up to him, wiping her eyes. Swann waited for the question. He’d broken similar news to dozens of people over the years – mothers, fathers, husbands, wives, and children. First came the shock, then the cruel pang of hope.

  ‘You sure it was her, Swann? Could it be some other woman? Plenty of ordinary women tart themselves up when the Yanks are in town.’

  Swann shook his head, squeezed Kerry’s hand. ‘I got a good look. It was her. She have family, a partner here?’

  ‘She’s from Sydney. Came over for a month, two years ago, then stayed. Don’t know much about her family. She’s into men, only. Got regulars, but never seen her with a steady partner. Montana … her real name’s Francine McGregor.’

  Kerry looked over Swann’s shoulder. Swann turned, and there was Webb, where he wasn’t supposed to be. Webb’s posture was appropriately apologetic, hat at his waist. He’d combed his hair again.

  They knew each other. Part of Webb’s job was communicating with local madams in every port, making sure that his men behaved.

  ‘What’re you doin here?’ she asked him.

  Webb made to answer, but Swann held up a hand. ‘What time did … Francine work until last night? You see her leave with anyone?’