Line of Sight

by David Whish-Wilson

  ‘How long are you on nightshift?’ he asked Terry.

  ‘Another couple of weeks, then I’m not sure. I’m going to try and get up there tonight, if they’re called out. They’ve got to get sloppy some time.’

  The first whispers of police involvement in Ruby Devine’s murder had surfaced with the news of her execution, then hardened into belief after word got out about her tax debt and threats to name names. The secrecy that cloaked the investigation only reinforced the rumours of CIB involvement, but officially the gossip was blamed on Swann’s inquiries – an excuse, he knew, for the way he’d been nobbled.

  Immediately after he started asking questions the counter-rumours appeared – he’d had a nervous breakdown, he’d had an affair with a younger colleague, Marion had kicked him out …

  Only one of these stories was true.

  ‘I checked the missing persons register for yesterday,’ Terry was saying. ‘Nothing there.’

  ‘Stats from the dayshift?’ Swann asked.

  ‘A rape in East Vic Park. Two skinheads bashed a bog kid down in Rockingham, used a star-picket – brain trauma. Pack of bogs attacked some skinheads in Hay Street, one broken arm and a fractured skull. Plenty of domestics. A stabbing at the blacks’ camp in Coolbellup. Some old Slav killed and ate his son’s carrier pigeons in Spearwood, charges dropped. The usual.’

  ‘Thanks, Terry. Tomorrow.’

  Swann hung up and walked past the pool, noticing for the first time the old barbeque in its murky depths. Punctured mattresses and broken bottles and a single blowfish down there too, the blowie darting about its filthy aquarium, looking up at him with angry black eyes.

  He lit a cigarette and checked his watch. At six-thirty he had a meeting with Reggie Mansell, and the state of Reggie’s nerves meant he wouldn’t wait if Swann was late. Reggie always feared the worst, which was probably the only reason he was still alive. He’d taken to carrying his passport and enough cash to last him a month in Bali, Hong Kong or Kuala Lumpur.

  Swann knew this because Reggie had urged him to do the same, should things deteriorate.

  But it was too late for that.

  Harold Partridge leaned back in his plush leather armchair and loosened his tie. While his tea steeped in the pot, he cast his eyes over his office. Sherwood-green walls with heavy velvet drapes. A landscape in muted colours depicting, he had been told, Bluff Knoll, which to him resembled the crags of the Scottish Highlands that he and Margaret had first seen on their honeymoon, back in 1925. A display case containing a small club that resembled a shillelagh, gifted to the first governor of the Swan River colony, James Stirling, by native tribesmen in 1830. Afghan rugs on the polished hardwood floor, and a butter-coloured leather couch on which sat a chain-smoking Wallace.

  Partridge cleaned his eyeglasses with a tissue while his personal assistant poured tea into three cups.

  ‘Two sugars, please, Carol,’ he said quietly.

  ‘I remember, your Honour,’ she said. ‘Although you used to prefer coffee, with cream.’

  ‘Doctor’s orders, I’m afraid. Blood pressure.’

  ‘And your headache – is it better?’

  Partridge nodded, smiled. ‘All fine, thank you, Carol.’

  She placed two mounded teaspoons in his tea, one in her own and handed him his cup. ‘Best cure for a headache there is, in my opinion.’

  Wallace looked quizzically at them both. ‘You know each other, then?’

  ‘Carol worked as a stenographer in the Victorian Supreme Court when I was first appointed,’ Partridge said. ‘That would be, what – fifteen years ago, Carol?’

  ‘Your memory’s as sharp as ever, I see.’

  He gave a quick laugh. ‘We missed you,’ he went on. ‘One day you were there, the next you were gone.’

  ‘Yes, I was swept off my feet. As you say, one day I was Carol Bleaney, the next Carol O’Halloran. One day Anglican, the next a Catholic. One day a girl from Doncaster, the next a married woman from Doubleview.’

  It was Carol who’d met him at the airport on the weekend, apologising for the taxi they took to his hotel – his personal driver had called in sick. He remembered her as a talkative young woman, but middle age and motherhood seemed to have softened her features and quietened her somewhat. Having briefed her as to the nature of his recent illness – a simple case of influenza complicated by old age – he’d allowed her to take charge of his affairs at the hotel. She’d been most helpful: fielding his calls, organising his paperwork, even sourcing painkillers when his supply was depleted.

  Sipping his tea, he resisted the desire to close his eyes. His arms were heavy and his neck ached, but not nearly as much as his head. He felt worse than he had yesterday, despite the pills Carol had administered at lunch. He was grateful that she didn’t seem to mind the silence that settled over the room, a balm to his nerves after the day in court. It was flattering that the government had offered the services of the main room of the supreme court for the duration of the commission, but its hard surfaces and sharp edges made for an acoustic nightmare. Every scrape and creak carried harshly from the floor, along with Wallace’s voluble declamations. He was clearly a man who admired the sound of his own voice, and the silence now seemed to make him uneasy.

  The QC looked relieved when a knock on the door gave him the opportunity to stand up. He retrieved a typed list from his paralegal, which he handed to the judge.

  Partridge read over the names of the next day’s witnesses. They were exclusively senior members of the CIB and uniformed police, some of them retired.

  ‘I notice Superintendent Swann will not be speaking tomorrow,’ he commented.

  ‘No, your Honour. I wanted to fully establish the context —’

  ‘Who will be appearing for Superintendent Swann, Mr Wallace? Is he known to you?’

  ‘Superintendent Swann will be representing himself.’

  ‘May I ask why? Every one of the witnesses today was represented by a police union barrister.’

  Wallace stroked his moustache and considered his reply. ‘Your Honour … the union has refused to represent Superintendent Swann in this matter.’

  ‘Oh? And why is that? He’s a serving member of the police force, isn’t he? Albeit on sick leave.’

  ‘Yes, he is.’ Wallace drank his tea in loud gulps, wiping his lips with a folded handkerchief, avoiding eye contact.

  Partridge waited until the silence forced Wallace to meet his eyes.

  ‘Well?’

  The QC made an uncomfortable face, lit another cigarette and exhaled before answering.

  ‘Your Honour, by now you will be aware that Superintendent Swann is regarded by his peers with a mixture of pity and contempt. He hasn’t any evidence to support his allegations. If he had, it would already have been reported to a public well versed in such rumours, equally eager to believe —’

  ‘Rumours of which kind, Mr Wallace?’

  ‘Are we really to deal in rumours here?’

  ‘Humour me, please.’

  Carol, who had been staring down into her teacup, stood, her eyes wide. ‘I’ll just go and re-boil the kettle,’ she said, taking the silver tray.

  ‘Yes, do. Thank you, Carol.’

  Wallace waited until she’d left the room before replying. When he spoke it was with a lack of enthusiasm. ‘The rumours, you have to understand, are legion.’

  No career-minded Melbourne barrister would behave in such a fashion, of that Partridge could be sure. It was equally certain that no Melbourne barrister would dress so informally while still in chambers. Wallace had changed out of his courtroom suit into flared trousers and a broad-collared shirt, unbuttoned over his chest.

  ‘As you are aware, Mr Wallace, I’m new to your state. I would appreciate your take on the relevance of Superintendent Swann’s allegations regarding prostitution in Western Australia, as understood by the man on the street.’

  Partridge drank his tea and listened to Wallace recount with reluctance the ‘common k
nowledge’ of the Perth citizenry vis-a-vis prostitution, which suggested a long history of corrupt liaisons. The QC’s eyes remained directed at a point beyond Partridge’s head, and the judge looked instead at Wallace’s discarded courtroom suit, hanging off the door like a marionette.

  Wallace stopped talking, stubbed out his cigarette and looked pointedly at his gold wristwatch, stroking his sideburns and moustache. The man’s unwillingness merely confirmed what Partridge had suspected – that not only was the QC acting under instructions other than his own, he was protected.

  He arrived on the evening plane from Sydney. He remembered November as a time of hot mornings and cool nights, the southerly blowing strong off the ocean, but outside it was still hot and smoky. He could see the burning hills beyond Kelmscott, where he’d lived as a boy. He’d started a few fires himself back then, with his elder brother. Now he lit a cigarette as he waited in the queue for a taxi.

  He expected to stay no more than a week. He’d told his wife he’d be away for a month, because after the job he intended to head north for some fishing with a mate he hadn’t seen in a decade. They would hire a boat in Dongara and make their way up the coast to the Abrolhos Islands, where the Spanish mackerel were thick this time of year.

  He watched the smoke of the fire through the smoke of his cigarette and thought of the boyhood fire that had got out of hand – he’d only survived because of the blue-rock cave he and his brother had colonised. It was low and cramped but they’d made shelves for their canned food and firewood and porn. The mouth was hidden by a wax bush that burned away in the fire. They cowered inside while it roared down to the foothills, where they heard parked cars explode in the heat.

  They decided to hide until it was safe to return home. In the meantime they ate cold baked beans and masturbated until some torches found them out, and then were ordered down the hill to be interrogated by the firemen. His brother had talked their way out of that one, and it wasn’t the first time. He was later killed in Vietnam by a captured claymore mine that was used against his company. They never found his body because he’d been turned into a red mist.

  The taxi queue wasn’t moving. He looked at his watch. The plan was to stay on the boat and troll offshore for mackerel and kingfish, hopefully shoot a few sharks that could be lured to the boat. He hadn’t taken a holiday in years, and a few weeks’ fishing was just what he needed. This was going to be a high-profile killing and it wouldn’t pay to leave the state too quickly.

  He didn’t anticipate any problems with the job; he knew the person concerned. The only difficulty would be the lack of sleep while he kept an eye on his man. He’d been cutting down over the past weeks, to the point where he only needed a few hours a night. To keep his resilience up he decided to quit the queue and walk into town, wire himself a car along the way.

  Bistro Gregorio was on a quiet corner across from the Esplanade. As he’d done since he was a child, Swann paused to watch the seagulls spooling around the street lamps, hunting moths, haloed by dust and the purple night.

  He kept to the darkness as he entered. Reggie was at his usual place by the toilet door, away from the windows but within nodding distance of the bar, where Greg had already poured Swann a neat Jameson. He slid it ironically down the counter.

  Swann pointed with his chin to the record player set up behind the bar. ‘Haven’t heard this before.’

  Greg winced. ‘It’s Herbie Hancock. You know, jazz fusion.’

  Swann took a mouthful of whiskey to hide his smile. He liked to bait Greg but he had to be careful, sensitive as the man was. Greg was a piano player, occasionally tinkling the ivories over by the fire. He used to play a lot of Oscar Peterson, Nat King Cole and Duke Ellington, although lately his tastes had veered towards the modern, something that seemed to have made him prickly and defensive. The last time Swann was in here a drunk had asked Greg the same question – ‘Who’s playing?’ – and when Greg said, ‘Chick Corea,’ the man wondered aloud whether they were playing those instruments or hitting each other with them. Greg had flat out refused to serve him another drink.

  Swann and Reggie never ate in the bistro, but it was private and quiet and Greg was the last barman in town who poured large measures straight from the neck. Swann took his whiskey over to Reggie, who pushed out a chair so he could join him in observation of the front door.

  Reggie was a strange bloke but Swann was used to him. He no longer noticed the bright orange hair that grew like an exotic weed on his great spherical head, or the large blue eyes that watered constantly in their pouches. Reggie had the creamy skin of a child, and during the harsh summer days could be seen slouching about town in long sleeves and a lady’s drooping hat. He was a rich boy from Dalkeith, and his one remaining affectation from his time as a lawyer was the range of dicky bows in eyesore stripes and comical spots, all from fine English tailors. His shirts were gravy-stained, his belts crimped and twisted, his trousers too small and his shoes scuffed and cambered with age, but his silk dicky bow was always clean and shining beneath the third of his chins.

  ‘Getting any sleep, Reggie?’ Swann opened, as always.

  ‘Not since last Saturday, on the couch at Mother’s after a bottle of her cooking sherry.’

  ‘How is the old dear? Did it work with her licence?’

  ‘Yes, it did. Thanks for that.’

  Swann had had a word in the ear of a clerk at Traffic, and so somewhere out there was a 93-year-old with a renewed licence and a powerful Brougham. He was glad he wasn’t driving as much these days.

  ‘Quite a performance from Barlow today,’ Reggie said. ‘I thought they’d take a more subtle approach. Then I saw this.’ He tossed the evening paper on the table, headline up: ROYAL COMMISSION TO FIND SWANN MENTALLY UNSTABLE.

  Swann held out his hand, palm down. It shook only slightly.

  ‘Good,’ said Reggie, although he didn’t sound convinced.

  After Louise’s disappearance, after the murder of Ruby, after Swann had broken off all contact with Helen, it had been Reggie who sat there night after night and listened. And when, frustrated by the lack of investigation, Swann started making statements to the media to try to provoke a response from Ruby’s killers, he and Reggie had decided to work as a team, constructing a campaign of insinuation to keep the issue in the public mind.

  For a while it had worked. A superintendent of the West Australian uniformed ranks making public allegations of police corruption caused such a furore that eventually the government was forced to call a royal commission. Witnesses had come forward who’d initially stayed away, followed by others claiming they had been told by certain police officers to keep quiet. But Swann and Reggie’s optimism that justice would be done had faded with the announcement of the commission’s terms of reference.

  Swann flipped the newspaper over. ‘It’s not far from the truth, anyway. You call them?’

  ‘Sure. I called the subeditor. Asked him what happened to the notion of “without fear or favour”. The mighty fourth estate.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘He told me he’d been pressured on what line to take by the new editor, the Victorian bloke they brought over. Reckons they’ve been warned by the premier and the police minister, and Barlow – no more tit. They publish anything beyond verbatim material from the commission, it’s no more mother’s milk from the police.’

  ‘No more tales of crime and punishment, eh? Half of that paper comes straight from Barlow’s mouth.’

  ‘And every second headline.’

  Greg had turned up the music. Swann gave him a nod of thanks but the barman looked sceptical.

  ‘I’m starting to feel like a voodoo doll.’

  ‘When it comes to self-pity, Swann, you’re not in my league.’

  There came now the inevitable pause whenever they met in the bistro. The two of them weren’t what could be called friends, and Swann had no idea what Reggie thought of him personally – a bit rough around the edges, perhaps, a bit tight around the mou
th, a copper to his boots. But Swann admired the ex-lawyer because he was without doubt the most stupidly courageous person he’d ever met – and he had met a few.

  Reggie’s secret was a vast network of insiders, spread throughout every institution you could name. Swann had his own stable of informers but the quality of the relationship was different. He’d learned long ago that some people had a need to snitch to someone more powerful. It was the classic master–slave relationship. When they informed to Swann they put their lives in his hands, fulfilling some urge that went way beyond self-interest.

  Reggie’s people worked along different lines. He had been to jail to protect some of them, had been bashed and shot at and had turned down bribes, and everybody knew it. Everybody knew that if you had something to say – something important, on the record or off – then the quiet, crazy, brave Reggie was your man.

  ‘Got anything on the judge?’ Swann asked.

  ‘He’s clean as far as I can make out. A straight arrow, right back from his student days.’

  ‘How will he play it, then?’

  ‘No angles. Father and father-in-law were both judges. He’s an institution man, born to it. Never rocks the boat, never controversial, never puts a foot out of place.’

  ‘That’s why all the clichés, eh?’

  ‘Exactly. Smooth as a river stone.’

  ‘I get the picture. But Partridge and Swann …?’

  ‘Birds of a feather?’ Reggie forgot himself and smiled, showing his bad teeth. He immediately plugged the hole with a mouthful of whiskey. ‘He’s just retired from the Vic Supreme Court. He’s all they had available.’

  Swann shrugged. He nodded to Greg – two more for the tab.

  ‘Anything from your boy in blue?’ Reggie asked.