Shore Leave Read online

Swann looked over the balcony to the concrete apron that fed onto the carpark. That would be a lethal fall.

  ‘You sure neither of them were American? There was another white sailor here. He left a fake name with the manager.’

  ‘Everybody does that. It ain’t a crime, is it?’

  Swann pursed his lips. ‘No, it isn’t.’

  ‘But they were locals. The swearin, you see.’

  ‘Did you get the feeling they knew each other?’

  ‘I got the feeling they wanted to kill each other. Couldn’t tell you anything else. The guy who got the better of the other bloke. Choked him out. He cleared off in his white Holden ute. An HZ it was. Burning oil. Slow to start and blowin black exhaust. Rings must be goin.’

  Swann knew already that the injured man had been interviewed by the detectives, before being taken to Fremantle emergency with head wounds and concussion. Swann would get to him later.

  ‘You didn’t see a bloke up here, round the same time? He was shorter than you. Looked like a miner or fisherman. Red hair and a ginger beard. Handy-looking.’

  ‘That sounds like the fella made off in the HZ.’

  ‘He ever come back? You ever see him after that?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Last question. I know that the door at the bottom of the balcony stairs, sometimes it’s left unlocked. Means that anyone can come up here, without being seen in the bar. Do you know if it was unlocked the night before the fight took place? The night the sailors were staying?’

  The fisherman scratched his hairy belly, wouldn’t meet Swann’s eye. ‘Might’ve been. Sometimes, people come up here … I dunno.’

  People like the fisherman’s dealer.

  ‘I can’t remember. Been a bit of a blur, mate, this past week. Got one more week left, before I head north again.’

  Swann shook the man’s hand, could feel callouses formed by hauling rope, thanked him and moved to the next door, knocked twice.

  Swann’s wife, Marion, and his eldest daughter, Louise, were seated on the front porch, drinking beer from tall glasses. Louise’s partner, Karen, and another young woman Swann didn’t know, drank glasses of iced water. Swann leaned over and kissed the crown of Marion’s head. Louise stood and Swann squeezed her in a hug. She smelt of cigarettes and cocoa butter. He stood back and took her in, a couple of weeks since she’d last come to dinner. She wore cut-off denim shorts and a tank top, thongs on her feet. Her black hair was cut short, just like she wore it as a girl. Spray of freckles on her nose. Clever, mischievous blue eyes. Louise worked in the public service as a lawyer, the first in either Swann or Marion’s family to go to university.

  ‘You remember Karen?’ Louise asked.

  ‘Sure I do,’ Swann said, smiling. ‘Good to see you again.’

  Karen nodded and smiled, but didn’t meet his eyes. Swann hadn’t made up his mind about Karen. Louise loved her, but she was older, much older, and she rarely smiled. On the few occasions she came to dinner, her eyes constantly wandered around the house, always seemed to be making judgements, didn’t appear to like what she saw. She worked part-time as an academic and as a staffer for a state MP. Swann knew that Louise’s instincts were good. He supposed that his reservations were the normal ones due to a father wanting to see his children happy.

  ‘Dad, this is Maddie. She works for the Daily News. The reason we’re here. And also, because Mum told us you have something good to tell us?’

  Swann gave Maddie a small wave. He sat on the arm of Marion’s chair. He told them about the diagnosis made on the Carl Vinson, the likelihood of a cure. Karen knew the story of how he’d sustained the shooting injuries, and he assumed that Maddie did too. ‘Should be able to start on the medication soon, all things being well. Can I get you another beer, more water?’

  Louise and the two women shook their heads. Swann was waiting for it, was ready when it came. After all, Karen had looked disgusted when he’d mentioned the Vinson, and Maddie was a journo.

  ‘Dad. You and Mum don’t need the money. But you’ve got your notebook in your pocket. You’re still sick.’

  Swann tried not to feel defensive. One thing about his family, whenever Marion or Louise challenged him, it was always with his best interests at heart. ‘That’s something me and your mother will talk about. No offence to Karen and Maddie.’

  Marion squeezed his hand, a suggestion to continue. ‘It’s only temporary. And I’m just a liaison. Just legwork. I promise.’

  ‘Dad, Maddie’s been working on a story. The story about the murdered prostitute –’

  ‘Her name was Francine.’

  Maddie took out her own notebook, held it up. Swann nodded.

  ‘Do you have a surname for her?’ Louise asked.

  ‘McGregor. MC, with no a.’

  ‘Maddie’s also writing about the sexual assaults, last time a US Navy ship was in port.’

  ‘That wasn’t the Vinson, or so I’ve been told.’

  Now Maddie spoke up. She had a good voice for the trade – deep and clear. ‘Mr Swann. Can you confirm that … Francine, was in the company of a US sailor, before she was murdered?’

  ‘You know that already.’

  ‘But can you confirm it? For the record.’

  Swann looked to Louise, who looked right back at him. ‘No, not for the record. Sorry.’

  Karen cleared her throat. ‘Because you’re working for the Americans?’

  Swann ignored the contempt in her voice, caught the brief look of hurt in Louise’s eyes. ‘Well, yes, I suppose I am. We’re trying to locate an AWOL sailor, who might have nothing to do with Francine’s murder. If he does, he’s going to cop it, I promise you that.’

  Maddie leaned forward, tried to restore the ease lost by Karen’s comment. ‘Thanks, Mr Swann. Sorry for the questions. I’m getting nothing from the US media advisor. But I think it’s in the public interest, if you know what I mean.’

  Swann nodded, because it was true. Louise stood and embraced him, whispered in his ear. ‘Sorry, Dad, but it’s important.’

  Swann looked into his daughter’s eyes. ‘Yeah, it is,’ he said quietly, looking to Maddie. ‘You’ll get more details from Kerry Bannister around the corner. That’s where Francine worked. Tell her I sent you.’

  Maddie smiled at Swann and Louise, put away her notebook.

  20.

  Pascoe had tried to get away but Des wouldn’t let him. Insisted that he come next door for dinner. While it was being prepared, Pascoe had fallen asleep, worn out by his labours. He’d woken up the next morning, nearly midday, on a mattress on the Sannyasins’ back deck, hooked up to his oxygen bottle. He must have fallen asleep again because he was still there now, seated in a verge-collection armchair, pergola roof and ceiling fans turning slowly. Mosquito nets wrapped above more day beds in the corners. What he thought was incense burning on a nearby fire-pit turned out to be sandalwood sticks, broken from branches of the stuff, piled in the parched backyard. Des was inside chatting to the cooks, who were working up some vegetarian chow that smelt good. There were five of them living in the house, two men and three women. One of the women, whose name he couldn’t remember, had helped him move from the bed to the armchair, remarking upon the prison tattoo that Pascoe had done on himself, rubbing her fingers over his wiry forearm, correctly recognising the Sanskrit symbol for Padma. She was the first person he’d met who understood its significance, beyond its translation as Lotus.

  ‘You’ve been through a lot,’ she said, looking into his eyes. ‘But risen above it. Like the lotus flower, sitting on the muddy lake water.’

  Pascoe didn’t know anything about her guru’s teachings, but she was practising acceptance, right there. He smiled.

  ‘You’re dying, aren’t you?’ she added. ‘I’m a nurse. Des asked me to get more oxygen, which I’m happy to do.’

  Perhaps it was the sandalwood, or the kindness in her eyes, but Pascoe was momentarily lost for words.

  ‘Your lips are bluing,’ she said. ‘Stay o
n the bottle for a while. Dinner won’t be long.’

  Pascoe did as he was told, kept the mask over his face. He could hear Des cackling in the kitchen. A funny pairing, earnest middle-class kids like the woman and her friends, and a hard case like Des Ryan, but there it was.

  The young woman returned with a plate that she placed in his lap. Vegetarian food, which was all that he ate. Curried pumpkin and chickpeas. Saffron rice. A couple of puri. Black dhal.

  Pascoe removed his mask and took up his spoon while Des and the young hippies sat on stools around him, eating and watching him eat.

  Sat Prakash, the bearded bricklayer, began reminiscing about his time on the Rajneeshees’ Oregon ranch where he was a sworn member of the commune peace force. He’d trained at the Oregon police academy in his maroon uniform, learned to shoot and make arrests. On the commune he carried a .44 S&W Magnum as his sidearm, strapped to a hip holster. Learnt how to shoot Uzis and shotguns. Trained others to do the same. They were peace-loving folk, he said, but not the kind to turn the other cheek. They all laughed about it now. None of them wore the orange, maroon, pink or purple. There was no need for any of that.

  As darkness fell and more of their friends arrived, Pascoe kept to his armchair, at a distance from the dancing and drinking crowd who’d gathered on the deck. Beside him was the young woman who’d given him the pill. ‘It isn’t medicine,’ she said. ‘It’s a drug formerly used in psychotherapy, called MDMA. Always been a bit of a community secret, but good for occasions such as this.’

  Pascoe swallowed the pill and the woman drifted off to her friends. Soon, he felt himself melt at the margins of his body and mind. He felt the music. A creamy warmth rose up inside him that made him smile, despite wearing the mask. There was Des Ryan, on the dancefloor with the others, doing the rockabilly moves of their youth while women gathered around him and clapped. Pascoe closed his eyes, still smiling, let the warmth overwhelm him.

  21.

  Francine/Montana’s full name was Francine Amy McGregor. DOB 15/05/64. Last known address in Darlinghurst, Sydney, but born and raised in Applecross, Perth. Some juvie arrests for possession and shoplifting. In Sydney, for soliciting and possession of heroin.

  Her mother had died around the time Francine first migrated across the country to its biggest city. Francine was listed as Mary McGregor’s only child. If Francine had inherited money there was no sign in her one-bedroom flat, in nearby Hamilton Hill.

  Swann pulled away the police tape from across the doorway of flat number seven. Behind him, he could smell the tannic waters of the nearby wetlands. The strong scent of tea-tree, algae and waterlogged paperbark.

  Swann knocked out of formality, knowing the flat was empty. Cassidy had already told him that there were none of Bernier’s prints inside, or anybody else’s besides Francine’s for that matter. It was odd that Francine hadn’t brought the sailor back to her home, if their relationship was more than business. The block of flats was quiet this time of night, the same hour that Francine had likely met Bernier at the Seaview Hotel. Swann turned the key Cassidy had left him and entered the incense-heavy atmosphere of the main room. He flicked the lights and scanned the kitchenette, with its three stools set along the formica benchtop, the washed dishes in the drying rack, covered with a tea towel. In the sitting room was a couch and television, a record player with a banana box full of vinyl. He knelt and flicked through them, out of interest. Found one of his daughter Louise’s punk band, from back in the late seventies. It was their sole release before the band broke up. Louise played bass and there she was, with two other young women and the only male in the band, Justin, the lead singer. They were sitting on the rocks of South Mole, all of them in black, storm clouds above their heads. Two of the band members were now dead – the drummer from a heroin overdose and the lead singer, Justin, from suicide.

  Swann looked around the walls of Francine’s apartment. It felt like she’d only just left, and was soon to return, reminding Swann even more of how lucky he was. There was something about being a father of daughters that terrified him. As an ex-cop who’d often been in the position he was now, looking over the possessions of a murdered woman, usually from a domestic violence incident, it was impossible to pretend that he could keep his daughters safe, however much they were in his thoughts. They were all street-smart – he and Marion had given them that at least – but being wise to the nature of men hadn’t saved Francine. So much came down to luck.

  Swann began to work the room, looking for the letters, aerograms or telegrams that Cassidy hadn’t been able to find. There was nowhere at the Ada Rose for Kerry’s workers to store personal items, and even if there was, given Kerry’s rules about meeting clients off-duty, it wasn’t the place for Francine to keep correspondence that might compromise her position there.

  Swann went into Francine’s bedroom. He could see that her drawers and cupboards had been gone through – some of them still out and the wardrobe doors ajar. Swann skimmed through the hanging dresses in mostly primary colours and looked through her shoes, finding nothing. Swann knelt at the chest and started pulling out the drawers, placing them on the floor beside him. Sure enough, there it was inside the gutted chest: a stuffed manila envelope stapled to the back surface.

  When Swann entered the flat he’d noticed the jemmy marks around the front door lock, the fact that the lock-face was loose. Letters had no financial value to a thief, but they were personal enough for Francine to decide that they needed securing. Swann pulled away the envelope and tipped the dozens of aerograms and cards onto the floor. He opened them all and placed them in order, starting with the oldest, sent by ‘Charlie’ a mere three days after the Vinson had last been in port. Bernier was a regular correspondent, writing fortnightly and then monthly throughout the two years of his absence. He wrote in a spidery hand, much like Swann’s own, that suggested someone who didn’t write much. He was forthright in his expressions of desire for ‘Frannie’, both physical and emotional. The most recent letter was dated a month ago, postmarked Mombasa, Kenya. It described how he’d secured shore leave among the first group allowed to leave the Vinson in Perth, and that he intended to book a room at the Seaview on that first night, just like they’d done last time. How he would buy wine, candles and flowers. He didn’t know how long he’d be in port and so wanted to see her as much as possible. He wrote a short, rhyming poem that was nakedly sentimental, describing her eyes, the softness of her skin and the smell of her hair. To Swann, it didn’t sound like a man using confected charm to get what he needed.

  Swann drove home through the empty streets, the manila envelope on the seat beside him. The nausea he still felt was made worse by his fatigue, the fact that he hadn’t slept. He thought about where Midshipman Charles Bernier might be hiding, aware that Cassidy had gotten word out to the train stations, airport and bus stations to keep an eye out, while Webb was monitoring the Vinson in case Bernier returned to base. Bernier’s description and picture hadn’t yet been published, and Bernier’s name hadn’t been formally released – a compromise that Webb and Cassidy had arrived at together. The arrangement would hold until Bernier was either captured or more evidence linking him to the crime could be secured.

  There weren’t many places for Bernier to run. If he didn’t know anybody except Francine, and had nowhere to hide, it was always possible that he’d show himself at night, hoping to find a woman to take him home. If he was Francine’s killer, then that woman was in danger. Swann, Webb and Cassidy had to make sure that didn’t happen.

  The dog was waiting for him at the front gate. Swann knelt and rubbed her ears while she wriggled closer to him. She was cold and he let her follow him inside. There was a message on the answering machine, which he’d turned to its lowest volume.

  Swann pressed the button and the red light ceased blinking. He leaned down so that he could hear without waking Marion. The caller didn’t leave a name, but Swann recognised the voice. It belonged to Detective Sergeant Dave Gooch of the Gold S
quad, warning Swann to keep away from Paul Tremain and Lightning Resources, or there would be problems.

  Swann clenched his jaw. Perhaps he hadn’t been clear enough with Mr Paul Tremain. He could see why a man in Tremain’s position might want to use Swann’s name, spread false rumours that Swann was on the Lightning Resources payroll, but that didn’t mean Swann would be giving the businessman a pass.

  He pressed his finger and the message was gone.

  22.

  Devon Smith put his hand to his jaw and pried it open, made sure to feel the hinges stretch. The headlights of the Monaro illuminated the ocean road lined with silos and shipping containers, the giraffe-looking crane structures hulking over the port ahead. He lit the last cigarette in his packet of Luckies. He always chain-smoked when he got his head up.

  Barry Brown yawned beside him, rolled his neck and kept the chugging V8 on course, windows down to keep himself awake. He hadn’t drunk, snorted or smoked a thing. He was on shift, and it was Devon that he’d been working. It’d taken a lot of pleading for Barry Brown to agree to take Devon to his nephew. Barry wanted Devon back on the Vinson, to get preparations underway. He was worried that Devon might make some kind of side deal with the skinheads once the introduction was made.

  Brown cautioned Devon that he’d hear about it if that happened, but didn’t know that there was one more Glock in Devon’s haversack. They were a light weapon, and ever since he was a child Devon had been schooled to keep himself armed. Most sailors carried a switchblade when in port, despite the weapon being illegal. This was tolerated because US sailors were targets for thieves and terrorists. It didn’t seem right that the fighting men of the most powerful military in history should go unarmed in public, especially in foreign countries.

  ‘Just around the corner.’

  The headlights dipped as the Monaro cut across train tracks and began to climb a stone hill. The moon was above them. Devon could smell the ocean and freshly watered yards. Dogs barked as they turned into a dead-end street, passing small factories and warehouses, a wrecker’s yard and a brewery that loomed like a church in the semi-dark. Barry Brown double-clutched the Holden as they passed an old bungalow built onto the top of the hill, making the engine roar. They swept around the cul-de-sac at the end of the street and returned to the bungalow.