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  Kerry answered, looking at Webb. ‘She worked the four-to-midnight. Didn’t see her leave with nobody.’

  Webb took something from his shirt pocket, leaned into the room. ‘Did you see her with this man yesterday afternoon, or last night?’

  Swann looked at the photographs of Midshipman Charles Bernier, broken into four frames – hat on, hat off, front view and side view. His name and rank were handwritten at the base of the image. Big dark eyes and cropped hair. The glazed-looking scar that stretched from his ear to his mouth.

  It took a moment for Swann to register what Webb had done, or hadn’t done. Back at the river, he hadn’t supplied the photograph to Cassidy, despite the witness statement identifying Francine McGregor with an African-American sailor who wore the same distinctive scar.

  Kerry sniffed, shook her head. ‘No. He wasn’t here yesterday. But I do recognise him. He was here last time. I got a good memory for faces. Why? What’s he done? He got anything –’

  ‘We don’t know, Kerry,’ Swann said. ‘So he was here two years ago when the Vinson was in port. With Francine? He one of her clients?’

  ‘Yeah, he was. She was new then. Don’t remember anything other than that.’

  Swann asked Kerry where Francine lived. Webb wrote down the address.

  There was a long male sigh in the closest room, followed by relieved laughter.

  ‘Kerry,’ Swann asked, ‘did Francine ever work off the clock?’

  ‘Not that I know of. She wouldn’t be working here if I caught her, but being straight, it’s possible she took a shine to one of her blokes.’

  ‘If she did, or if she wanted to meet a client, a regular. Not for business, but for fun, where would she go?’

  Swann knew the answer, picturing the single room upstairs in the Seaview across the road, its slashed mattress that contained Bernier’s wallet.

  ‘Tom rents out short-time singles. You know that.’

  The door to the nearest room opened. Swann looked at his watch. Five seconds before five o’clock, the flushed-looking sailor making use of every moment, leaving the buttoning of his smock and the tying of his neckerchief until he was outside. In the context of what’d just happened to Francine McGregor, the sight angered Swann. He felt like wiping the satisfied look off the sailor’s face.

  The sailor saw Swann’s expression and the smile slid away. He made a perfunctory salute to Webb and scampered for the door. Behind him, one of the new young women who Swann didn’t know emerged from the room, a shawl draped over her bare breasts and shoulders, making for the toilet. She was a redhead with a hard face that scanned Swann and Webb. It wasn’t until she saw the tears on Kerry’s face that her eyes softened.

  ‘Dakota,’ Kerry said. ‘We got to close up. Knock on all the doors. Get the blokes dressed and outta here, then lock the front door. We got to have a meetin.’

  14.

  The GTS Monaro coupe was Devon Smith’s kind of car. Barry Brown gave him the specs as they drove north across the river. Beside them in port was the Carl Vinson, looking like a floating shoe in the glare coming off the water.

  ‘Gotta 308-cubic-inch V8 under the bonnet. All the LS features – chrome rings and four headlights, bonnet and boot standard paint-out and a bigarsed rear window. You really never heard of the Monaro? Designed and built here in Australia – the best muscle car ever put rubber to road.’

  Devon Smith had to agree. He’d grown up peering over the dash of his father’s Barracudas, Camaros, Caminos and Panteras as they headed out to the desert for a run. Every time his father was locked away, it fell to Devon to reluctantly sell the car and take his father the cash, to get it put on his commissary. The Monaro had that same deep chuckle when it idled, like a purring lion.

  Barry put his foot down as they turned past some gas silos and blocks of shipping containers onto the coast road. The light and the beach and the port reminded Devon of home.

  The Aussie biker was the same age as Devon’s father, although unlike his father, the beer-gutted and moustachioed man beside him didn’t mind conversation. He’d happily filled in some missing information about how he’d met Devon’s father, back stateside. Barry Brown rode with a local outfit called The Nongs. He wasn’t in his colours but instead wore the universal Harley tee-shirt, biker boots and oily jeans. The biker clubs in this Australian state were homegrown and unaffiliated, although that was changing. Barry had travelled to California, where it all began, to do some research about possible allies. He’d partied in the main, but one night at an Angels clubhouse in San Diego he’d met Devon’s father. Devon Smith Snr wasn’t a patched member but had been there since the beginning, had served time with plenty of the hierarchy and shared the same politics. Barry was put onto him, as a gesture of goodwill, because of his trade in guns. Barry returned to Australia with the promise of contraband sometime in the future. That time had arrived.

  Devon hadn’t talked much. Back outside the dive bar, before Barry Brown climbed into the Monaro, he’d stared across the roof at Devon, who was waiting for the door to be unlocked. The stare was long and hard. Devon knew that stare – it was the look of a man breaking through another man’s eyes. Devon knew that Barry Brown saw beyond the pasty skin and tattoos. The scars on his face and arms. The attitude of fuck-youall surliness in his eyes.

  Barry Brown’s face settled into the same look Devon’s father gave him in every prison visiting room and when he got out of gaol. The same look of disappointment, and knowing.

  So when Devon asked the question, ‘Hey man, where the Nazis at in this burgh?’ his voice reedy above the throaty roar of the Monaro accelerating along the coast road, he wasn’t surprised by the answer. His game was already up.

  Barry Brown smirked, like he was in on a private joke. ‘There’s a fair few of ’em in the city. Runts, mostly. Pommies.’

  Devon didn’t know what that meant but he assumed faggot. Despite himself, he began to talk. How some of what he was doing related to the Aryans back home. Kind of like what Barry had been trying to foster in California. Build the network, the movement.

  Which made Barry smirk again.

  ‘You think that’s funny?’

  Devon’s tone was a provocation, but he was clearly so unimpressive that the biker didn’t bite, at least not hard.

  ‘Your business is your business, son. I got me own tribe, me own colours. I’m a simple man. For me and me brothers, it’s The Nongs versus the rest. I might be white, but that don’t mean I feel kinship with some pasty fucking German or Norwegian or Pommie, ’less he’s gonna be my brother and wear the colours. Righto, let’s get this over with.’

  The Monaro pulled into a parking lot with a view over the ocean. Kids out there on a reef break riding shortboards, hands shielding eyes as they watched for the next set.

  ‘Show us what you got.’

  Devon lifted the haversack and opened its neck, began to extract the Glock pistols one by one, all ten of them, and then the magazines.

  He began the spiel. ‘Glock second-generation safe-action. Polymer framed for lightness. Short recoil for repeat shooting. Ideal for concealed carry. Self-loading. Takes a nine-millimetre parabellum. Got the rail for adding laser sights, or a torchlight.’

  Beside him, Barry Brown snorted, lit up a cigarette. ‘You come all this way to get yourself murdered, son?’

  ‘What? No, sir. I –’

  ‘Just cos we live way over here, other side of the world, you think we’re fucken idiots? That’s not a second-gen model. That’s the original seventeen. Hasn’t got the checkering on the front and rear straps, or on the trigger guard.’

  ‘No sir, it ain’t. My father told me –’

  Barry Brown gave him that stare again, breaking him down, again. Saw that he was telling the truth.

  ‘Yeah, he struck me as a shady fucker. But what kinda dog sends his son into a rip-off gun deal without tellin him?’

  ‘I didn’t know, sir.’

  ‘I can see that. Though your payday
just got cut in half. I was promised second-generation seventeens. You’re lucky I’m givin you anything.’

  Brown took out a roll of crisp Benjamins. ‘Ten grand, now five grand. Take it and get the fuck out.’

  It occurred to Devon that he didn’t know how to tell counterfeit money from real, which only added to the shame.

  Barry Brown wasn’t going to ask him again. He was putting the pistols in a leather bag, the cigarette dangling from his lips.

  This wasn’t how Devon imagined it’d play out. First, they’d do the deal, then he’d be invited to the clubhouse, to celebrate. Then, cashed up and partied out, he’d head off to find his people, the others of his race who’d welcome him.

  Brown had finished stowing the pistols. He flicked his cigarette out the window. Devon mustered the last of his pride. ‘I can get more, if you want. AR-fucking-fifteens. Maybe an M-sixteen. But only if the price is right.’

  Brown looked him in the eye. He lit another cigarette and watched a seagull float down in the sky, threatening to land on his polished bonnet. Brown beeped his horn and the seagull arrested its flight, cut and turned over the cliff’s edge. ‘Why didn’t you say that right off, son? But that’s above my pay grade. I’m gonna have to run this up the chain.’

  Devon kept his eyes level. ‘I got nothing better to do. Take me to your president, right now, and we’ll talk.’

  Brown smiled, but his eyes said – so, you want me to make you feel important.

  ‘Alright, I can do that.’

  Barry Brown cranked the ignition and the Monaro roared to life. As they reversed onto the coast road, Devon whispered to himself, ‘I ain’t no punk, no sir.’

  15.

  Old Tom passed Swann the roll of keys. He leaned forward and scratched his nose.

  Webb craned his neck to listen. For such a big man, Tom had a very quiet voice. ‘They was here, Frank. Not in room six, but the detective asked for the keys.’

  Tom put his hands flat on the bar. His work was done. Swann would have to spell it out.

  ‘Tom, what were the police called for?’

  Tom thought about it, his big brown eyes fuzzy with confusion. Hadn’t he just said that? ‘There was a bloke in room three. Anglo man. He got fighting with a young bloke in room one. Another Anglo man. Still haven’t cleaned up the blood. The coppers wanted to check all the rooms.’

  Tom drew in a deep breath, his verbosity exhausting. He gave Swann a shy smile and nodded.

  ‘So the police being here had nothing to do with any navy personnel?’

  Tom put up his hands and backed into the shadows.

  Swann picked up his soda water and drank it down, crushed ice in his teeth, felt the shards slide down his neck. Webb drank the shoulders off his stubby of Export, not hiding his distaste. He opened his wallet.

  ‘You let that warm too long,’ Swann said.

  Webb frowned. ‘I bought it a minute ago.’

  ‘That’s a minute too long. Now you can taste it. My buy.’

  Webb nodded, pushed the stubby away.

  ‘Tell me though,’ Swann said. ‘Why didn’t you show Cassidy and the other dees the photograph of Bernier? I know you value mutual respect between the Shore Patrol and local authorities, especially in a case like this. You trying to get Cassidy offside?’

  A hint of anger in Webb’s blue eyes, some clenching of the jaw. Product of being an officer, Swann presumed – not used to being queried, or asked inconvenient questions. ‘There’s history, Swann. Nothing to do with Cassidy, but from my experience of other organisations, other ports, other jurisdictions … our men are innocent until proven guilty.’

  ‘I understand that. The history. But if you get to Bernier first, what are you going to do? He’s still only a suspect. Hand him over, or take him back onto the Vinson? Which is American sovereign territory.’

  Webb played along. ‘I’d advise him of his rights under Australian law. Secure him a lawyer. Hand him over. I do it all the time.’

  Swann looked over Webb’s shoulder. ‘Looks like your hearts-and-minds opportunity just arrived.’

  Webb turned and watched Cassidy and the two younger detectives climb out of the new-model Commodore, lifting jackets from seats. Cassidy straightened his tie and corrected his shoulder holster, as did the others, before heading down the side entrance of the brothel. They returned a minute later, stood looking about the street, taking off their jackets and wiping sweat from their faces. Kerry Bannister had locked the front door and wouldn’t be opening it for anyone.

  ‘All yours,’ Swann said.

  Webb stood and moved to the entrance, taking out the Bernier photograph. It was hot in the bar but even hotter outside. Webb straightened his cap and crossed the street, Cassidy watching him come. They talked for a few minutes. Civility in their postures, until Cassidy looked across at the Seaview. He placed the photograph on the Commodore’s bonnet and wrote Bernier’s details and Montana’s real name and address in his notebook. The three detectives and Webb crossed the street. Cassidy’s face when he entered the pub was puddled red with the heat. He rolled his cuffs and took out a ten-dollar note, passed it to the youngest detective.

  ‘Frank Swann,’ said Cassidy. ‘One step ahead, as always. Can I buy you a drink?’

  ‘Off the grog, Cassidy. Just headed home.’

  ‘Yes, on that. Could you please do me the favour of staying here for a bit? Want to talk to you, when we get back from the room upstairs. A personal favour.’

  Webb shrugged like he didn’t know, then held up the roll of keys. The four of them traipsed up the creaking stairs. They returned five minutes later. Old Tom was snoring in his office. The youngest detective peered down the bar.

  ‘You’ll have to serve yourself,’ said Swann. ‘Just keep a tally.’

  Across the road, another group of young sailors stood on the footpath, took their bearings from the Seaview and headed down the brothel’s side entrance.

  The young detective passed three stubbies over the bar, placed the ten note on the till and rejoined them. Tom snuffled away in his office. The three policemen cracked their beers and took long swigs. Cassidy looked to Webb’s stubby. ‘Sure you don’t want another one?’

  Webb glanced at Swann. ‘Thanks, but sure.’

  Cassidy nodded. ‘Frank. I just learned that you’re crook. Not surprising, really. And that you’ve only been helping Officer Webb as a favour. I want you to keep doing that, on Webb’s dollar. We’ve established some trust, but he trusts you more than he trusts me. That right, Steve?’

  ‘True enough, Mike.’

  ‘So, you’re already in the middle of it. We don’t know what it is yet, but, as more comes to light …’

  ‘Our first priority,’ said Webb, ‘is to find Midshipman Charles Bernier. Then we’ll know what it is.’

  ‘You got good reason to say no,’ said Cassidy, wiping froth from his lips. ‘Given recent history. I’ve told Webb, Smart and Moylan here some of that story. But I want you on point, Frank. Webb does too. Just as a liaison, until we locate Bernier.’

  Swann hadn’t emptied his stomach for more than three hours. Something about the promise of a cure, helping his symptoms. Right at that moment, part of him wanted to feel sick, so that he could walk away. But Francine had worked for Kerry, and he felt obliged to follow through, at least for now. On top of that, Swann never thought that he’d see the day when a Western Australian CIB detective would make a peace offering to him, let alone ask for his help. Despite himself, that mattered.

  ‘I can do that,’ he said. ‘But first I need to see my GP.’

  Cassidy looked relieved. Webb squeezed his shoulder. ‘From what I just heard, Swann, it’s a miracle that you’re still alive. Can’t believe you never told me about all that – the Royal Commission, contracts out on you, bad cops and gangsters wanting you dead. Gonna have to start calling you Serpico Swann.’

  Cassidy nearly choked on his beer. ‘For Swann’s sake, Steve,’ he said, ‘please don’t do tha
t.’

  Swann avoided Webb’s gaze.

  It had never felt to him like he’d defeated the men who’d tried to kill him, most of them dead now.

  Just outlasted them.

  16.

  The lathe was noisy and obstreperous, its motor shorting every few minutes, although it did the job. The iron on the outside of the rod peeled easily enough; it was the coring that took time. So much time that Ryan fell asleep on the coffin, a dead rollie hanging from his lips, the transistor radio plugged into his ears. He had a smile on his face that made him look like the boy Pascoe remembered, dreaming of jockeying a Melbourne Cup winner, coming from five lengths back with a furlong to run, the crowd bringing him home.

  The length of tempered iron had been cored to the width of a .303 cartridge. Pascoe took it off the lathe and slipped a cartridge down its mouth. It was a snug fit – not too tight or loose. The problem was fitting the new barrel inside the flare gun’s existing barrel. He could use the single-point lathe to carve a thread onto the outside fitting of the new barrel and an internal thread on the flare-gun barrel, but it’d take time. If the bloody thing shorted out during either operation then the ratio of distance to the spindle rotation might be compromised, and then he’d have to start from the beginning with another length of iron.

  Pascoe took a long draw on the oxygen bottle. One alternative was to groove out an internal thread and use superglue to fill the grooves and hold the barrel inside. After all, the way Pascoe had planned it, he’d only need to test the weapon once, and use it once before throwing it away.

  Better to do it right. He took another lungful of the cool sweet oxygen and put the bottle aside. Ryan had told him that he could get more, if needed. No call to ration what he had.

  Pascoe worked out the gearing of the lead screw and put on his safety glasses. He was working in his jocks because of the heat, and his slack muscles were silvered with sweat. He turned on the lathe and got to work.

  An hour later, both parts were threaded. Pascoe wiped the internal barrel with an old rag, used a rod to push the rag inside the flare-gun barrel to remove any shavings. He began to screw in the iron barrel, lubricated by spit. It fitted perfectly, and the length was right.