He leant under the dash and brought the ignition wires together. The Valiant started with a jolt and as he turned on the headlights and put the shift into reverse he glanced once more at the passenger seat, saw not the ghost of the dead woman but the spectre of himself as he might have been.
Swann stared at himself in the bathroom mirror. His eyes had a hideous intensity in the morning light, brought on by the pain, but his face was unmarked. He pressed his ribs one by one, working down from his collarbone to find the source of shooting pain. There was nothing broken but his ribs were heavily bruised. The painkillers he took when he woke had helped, as had a mouthful of vodka from a near-empty bottle.
Twisting carefully in front of the mirror he saw that the flesh around his spine was crosshatched with boot marks. The area around his kidneys was the colour of blood. There was asphalt ground into the palms of his hands.
Crawling into his room last night he was glad they’d taken his revolver – it would have been too easy to drive it under his chin and end the pain, which was coming in waves, causing him to break out in a sweat. He had vomited then, and felt better for it. Had lain on the tacky carpet in the foetal position and taken slow control of his breathing. The nausea rose again as the pain subsided. He spent the next hour in the bathroom, curled inside the shower stall, face pressed against the tiles, cold water on his head when the pain got too much. When he made it to bed he dreamt he was in court. His hands folded on the table before him like a schoolboy, waiting to be told to stand and speak, not knowing what he was meant to say.
He put on a crisp white shirt, tucked it into clean trousers, tightened the belt. He had lost weight. The shirt too sagged a little. He had to sit on the bed to tie his laces.
Outside, an easterly was blowing and it was too hot for a jacket, but he wore one anyway to conceal his empty .38 holster. Taking his gun was insult on top of injury, and he needed to get it back. The likelihood that they’d use it to frame him was high. That they would use it to shoot him was even higher.
He felt like escaping. He wanted to be with Marion and his daughters, wanted to lie down among them and hold them safe, but he knew that once home he would never get up.
Gingerly he put his damaged hands on the wheel of the Holden, headed through the quiet streets. The suburbs were like a silent dream – a family packing the car for a trip to the beach, towels slung over shoulders, dog scampering between sunburnt legs; an old man on his verandah absorbed in the paper, sunshine wreathing his nut-brown head. Swann pulled onto Stirling Highway and headed west towards the prison.
Hergenhan turned the polaroid of Michelle over and licked it, then stuck it to his forehead. ‘Can I keep this? It’s always nice for a fella to have a snap of his girl.’
Swann stared at him, but there was nothing in his face. ‘You know, Ray, what Michelle proposed to Jacky, it’s still possible.’
‘Hard to spend money when you’re locked up, not to mention when you’re dead.’
‘I can do something there.’
‘Hard to do things if you’re dead yourself, detective.’
Swann shifted his aching body. ‘All we need is a signed statement. Something I can take to the royal commissioner. If it’s good you’ll be looked after.’
Hergenhan whistled sarcastically but his eyes were interested.
‘And I’ll get you out of here, like I said. You can make a new start.’
‘And how do you propose to do that? Gonna hoist me out in a helicopter? Dig yerself a tunnel? Buy the head screw a new house?’
‘That depends on what you give me, Ray. The royal commission’s got the power to get you moved somewhere safe, if you turn witness. And immunity if you follow through. A new face. A new life.’
Hergenhan frowned, thought about it. Both of them knew he’d be the same fuckup wherever he went, but the offer was clearly worth considering.
‘Why didn’t you tell me Michelle was babysitting for Ruby the night she was shot? I could’ve helped. It might have saved her life.’
‘Don’t know what you’re talking about there. I don’t know about Ruby Devine, but I wouldn’t trust Michelle around my kids. She wasn’t the responsible type.’
‘Did she say who she saw at the house on the night?’
‘Wouldn’t want to fib now, would I?’
‘We both know Casey had Michelle killed. And you’re next – sooner, when he finds out you’ve approached me with a story.’
‘Nah, mate. See, that’s where you’ve got it wrong. Michelle approached you with her story. And now she’s dead she can’t talk no more. Got nuthin’ to do with me.’
‘You think Casey will see it that way? You’re no better off than me. Soon as you’re no more use you’re finished.’
‘Oh, I’m a useful kinda fella, detective. Always have been, always will be. Lucka the Irish, mate.’
‘Something my father-in-law once told me, Ray – how it all works. Everything you can see passes away, everything you can’t is permanent.’
‘What? What the fuck is that supposed to mean? He some kind of fucken preacher or something? You’re madder than they say, you know that?’
‘You know what it means. And you know exactly why I’m saying it. Casey’s screwed up. He reckons he’s bigger than the game. That’s why you’re so afraid of him. That’s why everybody’s afraid of him.’
‘I ain’t afraid.’
‘No, I’m the one who’s not afraid. I know about Pat Chesson’s girls muling, some of them washed up on beaches – another one just yesterday. And Michelle put down like a dog. You know Casey was behind that, and I know who’s been protecting him, higher up.’
‘Yeah? Well, maybe you do, but I don’t know anything about any of it.’
‘You know that once all this hits the media you’re a loose end. You’re history.’
‘Nah, I was just mouthing off, trying to liven things up.’ Hergenhan’s words were hollow and he knew it. He sat back and stared at his hands. When he looked up his eyes had lost their heat.
‘Tell you what, detective,’ he said at last. ‘Supposing I was interested, how about I made you a deal? If you’re still alive one month after the royal commission, and you’ve got the readies, and you’ve got me a new face, I’ll tell you what I know.’
‘That’s not much use to me right now, is it? And without me you won’t last that long.’
Hergenhan nodded gravely, with the kind of face he might use in court. ‘You could be right. But if I help you now and then you’re dead next week, I’m in the same boat, aren’t I? It’s a gamble either way.’
Swann shook his head and stood to leave, but Hergenhan was up off his bunk and blocking the doorway.
‘Get out of my way, Raymond.’
Hergenhan didn’t budge. He tried to sneer but there was desperation in his eyes. ‘I look under that shirt, you’re all black and blue, right?’
It was instinct for Swann to hide his injuries, instinct for Hergenhan to notice.
‘Last time I’m telling you. Get out of my way.’
Hergenhan loomed over him, fists bunched. ‘You know why I ain’t backin’ you, detective? Cos I don’t trust you. You used to have a reputation, man. I heard you’d gone all foreman material, but fuck me.’
Swann stepped into Hergenhan, could smell him now. On a good day he could take him, but not today. Hergenhan was right about that. He put everything he had left into his eyes, but it wasn’t going to be enough.
‘Times have changed, Hergenhan. So have I.’
‘Not in here they haven’t. Law of the jungle, mate. No way I can trust you to protect me. You’ve lost your touch. Truth is, I miss the old Swann. The one who would’ve had me up against the wall by now, goin’ the bash. Where’s he gone? I heard what you did to Mitch Davey, the dobbin’ bastard, but it don’t seem possible looking at you now. What about me? You haven’t showed me the respect I deserve. Haven’t even laid a hand on me.’
Swann felt the power in his arms, his body telli
ng him what to do. Left jab to the ribs, grab the hair and bring up his knee. But first he needed to step back.
Hergenhan made it easy for him, took a step away. Swann saw the guard at the same time as Hergenhan sensed him, billy club turned out, eyes on Hergenhan’s neck.
‘I’ll see you in a month,’ said Swann.
‘See ya before then, I reckon.’
Swann had always hated hospitals. Entering one was like entering a bad dream – the pickled smells and strip lighting, the eerie comic undertones.
Jacky was in the smallest room in the farthest corner on the highest floor of Fremantle hospital, the room usually reserved for wounded criminals under guard. Swann showed his badge to the nurse at the desk, but the guard’s seat was empty. There didn’t appear to be any plainclothes around either. No guard and no detectives meant that Jacky was no use to the police.
He closed the door behind him. Jacky lay propped up on a wall of pillows. She’d been beaten to the point of death; her face was like a demented sunset. Oily red ridges and violet knots overlaid the dark grain on her cheeks and jaw. Her scalp was stitched like a baseball; her left ear looked like a gnawed bone. One of her eyes was an exploded red marble, the other swollen and closed.
He could see she was doped to the eyeballs – Reggie had made sure to tell the doctor about her habit, to up the regular morphine dose. He could feel the remnants of violence in the room, an invisible threat that fed into his own bashing the night before. It made the palms of his hands itch and his shoulders tense. He felt the blows still raining down on both of them. He had taken a savage beating but it was nothing like this.
He pulled a chair up to the bed, in line with her good eye.
She had watched him come towards her. ‘Give me a ciggie, Swann? They won’t let me.’
He looked down at her wrists, bandaged where the bastards had opened her veins, and shook his head. ‘You don’t look like you can manage one.’
She blinked like a lizard. ‘Then help me.’
He lit a cigarette and put it between her mangled lips. She manoeuvred them around the filter but couldn’t form a proper seal. Somehow she managed to smile. ‘Lot to be said for a finger in a dyke,’ she croaked.
‘Heard that one before, Jacky.’
She tried to laugh, made a keening sound instead. ‘One of Ruby’s sayings.’
‘Yeah, it was.’ He reached into his shirt pocket. ‘You up to looking at a few pictures for me?’
‘Sure, if I can see ’em.’
He held one up level with her eye. ‘You know this girl?’
She looked, then closed her eye. When she reopened it she nodded, swallowed. ‘That’s Debbie. Debbie McGinnis. What happened?’
‘She was washed up on a beach twelve months ago, still a Jane Doe. They’re cremating her tomorrow.’
‘You set that straight, Swanny. She’s Debbie McGinnis, North Shore girl gone mental. She one of the two I told you about?’
‘Looks like it. You know when she came west?’
‘Yeah. A bit after me, but I didn’t see her much. Her airs and graces put plenty of us girls offside, plenty of blokes too. Makes some blokes uneasy, using girls from their own class.’
‘She have any family who need to know?’
Jacky tried to shake her head. ‘She was never a runaway. But she didn’t have anyone who cared.’
‘What about this one?’ He held up the polaroid of Michelle’s roommate.
Jacky didn’t react at all. She lay perfectly still, silent. Barely breathing.
‘Jacky?’
When she exhaled it was with a hard sob. She bit down on it. ‘Jesus. That’s Trace. An old mate of mine. We’re the same age. Started out together, even locked up together for a while. Redfern girl. We was lovers for a bit there too.’
He reached for the box of tissues beside the bed and spoke gently. ‘Last night she also washed up on a northern beach. Just like the others.’
‘Christ, you’ve got to do him, Swanny. You’ve got to do him.’
He made no reply. But he squeezed her hand, a kind of promise. Her skin was cold and dry, and she appeared to have shut down completely, mid-breath. Jacky was about as tough as they got, but she was frightened.
Swann felt so tired he wanted to put his head on the bed and sleep. He placed Jacky’s hand back on the blanket and left.
He found Mitchell Davey in a public ward in the southern wing. The beds around him were empty and Davey was shirtless above the tucked sheets, his ribs strapped. Tattoos flowed red and green and blue over his shoulders. A painted bird up one arm, a shark across his chest, naked dancer down the other arm. An Iron Cross on his neck. One of his wrists was plastered and over his head he wore a gruesome steel frame, vice stems pressed into his skull, bolted into his jaw.
It was cool in the ward but Davey was sweating with the pain, his forehead beaded with silver. When he caught sight of Swann his eyes widened and he grappled for the call button on the sheets. The exertion forced his tongue through his missing front teeth.
Gently Swann flicked away the call button and put his finger to his lips. Smiled. His own ribcage and back were aching, making it hard to hold the smile. He put his gravel-rashed fingers on Davey’s throat, which was unshaven and cold, and felt the rapid pulse there. The raised veins. There was froth on Davey’s lips.
Swann held the carotids down and counted to ten. When Davey started to struggle he pressed down with his elbow into his broken ribs, felt the legs kick then settle. Just as Davey started to pass out he lessened the pressure and let him gasp for air. Then he did it all over again, taking Davey right up to the point where it would end, lessening the pressure and bringing him back.
He removed his fingers and leant right over him, face to face. Davey gasped again. There were tears in his eyes.
Swann held up the polaroid of Tracey. ‘There she is, you see?’ he hissed. ‘Look at her. Look at Tracey!’ Keeping his voice low.
Davey looked. A minute passed.
When Swann spoke it was in a whisper, right at Davey’s ear. ‘Who did you give Tracey to? Where did you take her?’
Davey tried to speak but no words came out.
‘What? Didn’t quite get you.’
Davey spluttered through his broken teeth, nasal and whiny. ‘Casey, and Shervo. I took her to Casey’s yacht club.’
‘You go out with them on the launch? You see what happened?’
‘No, I swear. I —’
‘But you knew what was going to happen, didn’t you?’
Davey closed his eyes. ‘Yes.’
‘The heroin – they still using your girls?’
Davey kept his eyes closed, whispered, ‘No.’
‘So how’s it brought in now?’
Davey clenched his broken jaw, body twitching with the pain. Swann put his hand back on the man’s throat, found the carotids and began to press. Watched the eyes open wide and fade to black. Brought him back again.
‘I’m still here, Davey. Never going to leave you now.’
Davey fought to catch his breath. ‘I don’t know,’ he got out finally. ‘Something to do with Mick Isaacs, the horse trainer. And a vet. Importing Indo furniture. But I’m not involved.’
Swann leaned closer. ‘Who did Ruby? Give me the name. And don’t say Ray Hergenhan.’
The sweat made Davey’s face shine like plastic wrap. The spit on his lips had turned pink. ‘I’m not fucking suicidal. I’m not gonna ask – they’d have to kill me.’
‘Who’d have to kill you?’
‘You know who.’
‘Say it.’
Davey swallowed and closed his eyes again. ‘Casey.’
‘Louder.’
‘Casey.’
‘You’re on tape now, Davey,’ Swann lied. ‘I own you, you understand? I’ll be back later, let you know what you can do for me.’
By the time Partridge had completed the short walk from his hotel to the ferry terminal his shirt was drenched in sweat. He wiped his ha
ndkerchief across his forehead, noticing with alarm the number of flies attached to the shoulders of the woman before him in the queue. He could see blue and green tints in the black mass.
He reached a tentative hand over his own shoulder and cringed as a cloud rose above him. He was tempted to return to the comfort of his hotel, but the queue had moved and it was his turn at the counter. He bought his ticket and clambered across the rocking walkway onto the Swan River ferry.
He took a seat on the starboard side, away from the sun, but this meant that the hot easterly wind was in his face. The river was the colour of beer, its surface creamy with bubble-shaped jellyfish. There were hundreds of them, the smaller ones on the froth, the larger ones drifting in the murk.
The commentary started when the engine did. Tourists in floppy hats and shorts and sandals listened to an acne-pitted man with one hand on the ceiling rail, the other wielding a microphone. His eyes scanned the audience and lingered rather obviously on the bare legs of a teenage girl. When the man’s eyes met his own Partridge looked away to the foreshore, receding now in the sculpted wake.
It was time to take his medicine. Partridge felt in his shirt pocket for the jar of nitroglycerine tablets, loosened the cap and tipped two onto his palm. He swallowed them, tasted the residue in his mouth, carbonate and something bitter. The rocking of the ferry made him sleepy and he dozed for a while, before the microphone roused him.
When he opened his eyes again they were far upriver. The white light over the water and trees seemed to have yellowed. The liver spots on his hands seemed to glow against his skin. The fervent commentary plugged his ears.
He didn’t know whether it was because he hadn’t slept well or because of the lingering effects of his illness, but there was an unreality about the weatherboard houses crowded together on the narrowing banks. They were identical, painted the same pale green. On the bank a group of children were swinging on a rope and playing in the mud. Their egg-white chests contrasted with their nut-brown arms, scabby knees and sunburnt noses. They stared dumbly at the passing ferry as though it were an expeditionary vessel and not an hourly venture.
Line of Sight Page 18
