Line of Sight

by David Whish-Wilson

  Bill Standard was silent now, matching the stillness of Sullivan.

  ‘But why stop with an examination of the financial records? Bookies and stockbrokers would need to be interviewed, as potential money-launderers. Land deeds would be searched, along with private and commercial deeds and trusts taken out in the names of family members – and leases taken out for mining purposes too, of course. Directorships of companies would need examining to see whether or not any detectives had diversified their interests into that realm of private enterprise. Assuming that anything had come of the investigation thus far, I imagine that I’d also want to speak to the heads of interstate and international companies, to determine whether kickbacks had been solicited for the right to operate in this state – you see the model I’m working with here? The same model the Consorting Squad has allegedly used over the years to regulate but also profit from illegitimate business. I’d have to see how it might have spread into other areas.’ Partridge stopped, looked in turn at the two men facing him.

  Standard laughed viciously. ‘You’re fishing in a dry river there, son.’

  ‘Perhaps.’ Partridge smiled at them both. ‘Perhaps,’ he repeated, ‘but that would be just the beginning, I can guarantee you. One thing leads to another, as they say. Another area I’d be focusing my attention on is taxation, seeing as it was the unfortunate Mrs Devine’s tax bill that seems to have started this whole affair. Personally, I’d be interested to see how her murder might have been related to the current investigations into these Bottom of the Harbour tax rorts I keep hearing about – a loophole first discovered in Western Australia, as I understand it, but now part of a much larger system of fraud. With links to the more nefarious sectors of the national banking system, shonky government investment, organised crime …’

  The combative postures of Sullivan and Standard had fallen away now. Both of them were sitting back in their seats, eyes afire. Partridge had seen that look in court many times over the years – the calmness that comes over the violent man who’s been exposed, condemned, brought low, but who preserves his dignity by a belief in certain revenge. Partridge had been partly fishing, sure enough, but now had little doubt that the insult he’d done these two was felt deeply; his bluffing had cast light on the truth.

  The silence endured. Beneath the balcony a crow moaned.

  ‘Leaving us, your Honour? Or has a woman walked into the room?’ Sullivan sneered. But he had the look of an animal who’d lost its prey.

  It was always three times round the track with someone like Ray Hergenhan. Not until Sunday morning did the significance of his invitation to bash him become clear to Swann.

  It gave him no pleasure to see that he was right. In twenty-four hours Hergenhan had changed from proud crim to something the prison system was designed to make of him – a broken man. All his defiance was gone and he could barely meet Swann’s eye. He sat on his bunk and stared at his feet, cradling a small contraption that Swann had hoped never to see again.

  ‘You really going to use that?’ he asked.

  Hergenhan closed his hand around the mousetrap – a device consisting of two nails wrapped in a tightly wound elastic band, the whole fixed by a second, thinner band. Once swallowed the thing worked its way down into the stomach, where acid ate away the weaker band until the trap sprung and the nails cut into the stomach wall.

  The mousetrap was a brutal and potentially deadly means of getting out of prison and into hospital, requiring an operation to remove the nails and staunch internal bleeding.

  ‘Where’s your cellmate?’ Swann asked when he got no reply.

  ‘They moved him for good. Back to 2 Div where he belongs.’

  ‘So you’re all alone.’

  ‘Yep.’

  Swann lit Hergenhan a cigarette, handed it to him. ‘Talk to me,’ he said.

  Hergenhan grunted. ‘How about this? Not one fucker on this planet’s gonna miss ol’ Raymond when he’s gone.’

  ‘Come on, Ray.’

  Hergenhan tried to mock his self-pity but only frowned. ‘You know how it is – you’re in here long enough, you can see the future in every bastard’s eyes. That mongrel head screw of 4 Div has been lookin’ at me funny. Yesterday he walked past with one of the other screws, joking how it’s nearly time to take out the garbage. Pair of fucken dogs.’

  ‘I know you want to get out of here, Ray. And why you need to. So talk to me.’

  Hergenhan nodded slowly. ‘I’m gonna tell you the truth, detective. Out of respect, you understand? But for fuck’s sake, treat me like a man in return. None of that shit about getting me out of here. That’s just salt in the fucken wounds. I’ve gotta make my peace, okay?’

  Swann agreed by remaining silent.

  ‘So, the truth. The fucken truth, detective, and nothing but the truth. I’m only telling you this outta respect, like I said. All those other bastards saw me for what I was – stone-cold, man, stone-cold. Just tried to take advantage, use me, never tried to change me.’

  ‘I get it, Ray.’

  ‘The truth is I had nothing to do with the murder of Ruby Devine. And I don’t know who did it either, beyond the fucken obvious.’

  ‘So you were played, Ray?’

  ‘Fucken oath I was. But you know, a killing like Ruby’s – in here, it’s good for the rep. I never said I didn’t do it.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘We had a falling out, Casey and me. We were tight for a while there, but all things must end. Not that it’s gonna do you much good. My word against his and all that.’

  ‘What was the thing you had going with Casey?’

  ‘The fucker good as green-lit me. I’ve been doing armed robs for him for years. Everything was sweet. But then he came up with this new bullshit idea. Wanted me to deal for him. Never has trusted the dings, has Casey. Can’t control them enough. Wanted me to distribute for him instead, as the front man, in weight too, but I refused. Front man in that business is always the fall guy. He thought I was stupid enough to want the cash and take the hit when the bust came. It don’t mean much to a mongrel like Casey, but I’m armed robbery, not fucken drug dealing – that stuff is for dogs and curs. Specially after I seen what it did to my dad. Got a back wound in the Korean War, never got off the stuff. So I told Casey to stick it up his arse and next thing I know I’ve been fitted up for an armed robbery. Wasn’t even one of the ones I did. Then he’s spreading rumours that it was me who knocked Ruby. And here we are.’

  ‘No disrespect to your reputation, Ray, but I never figured you for Ruby.’

  ‘Course not. Any bastard knows you do a hit for the cops, you’re next. And I liked the woman, anyway.’

  ‘When did you last see her?’

  ‘When she was mouthing off, just before they got her. She wasn’t involved in the heroin. Not her style. Some other stuff about Sullivan that I didn’t want to hear. She was always worked up about something, was Ruby.’

  ‘Worked up about what?’

  ‘Last time I saw her it was about a dodgy cheque she got passed. From some john.’

  ‘That sounds familiar. When was this?’

  ‘Few weeks before she was done in. I’ve done debt collection for her in the past. Ruby asked me to track the fucker down. I did but I took my time and meanwhile she asked someone else.’

  ‘Was it a company cheque?’

  ‘Yeah, it was. Only reason I took the job on. The cheque was signed by a John Stewart. Know how many John Stewarts there are out there? But it had a company name on it.’

  ‘Which was?’

  ‘I dunno … began with C. Carmichael, something like that. Carmichael Enterprises, Pty Ltd, maybe. I told Ruby it was goin’ to be a fucker to track down, but I was lying. Easy as, that kind of thing. Every company’s listed in Company House, over there on the Terrace. So one day I come back to Perth from where I was hidin’ out from Casey, I needed money, right? Went down to Company House, looked it up, there was John Stewart listed as one of the company directors, so I w
rote down his address, went after him, but there was no sign of the fucker. Some Chinese grandpa answered the door. I went through him, knocked him about a bit, had a poke around, but there was nothing there to link the address with a John Stewart. I still needed the money, so I went to Ruby to tell her to follow it up with her madam friend.’

  ‘What friend? Who are you talking about?’

  ‘Easy up. Annie DuBois. She was also listed as one of the company directors. Not just that company but a couple of others too.’

  ‘Did Ruby know about that before you told her?’

  ‘Nup, don’t think so. Not from her reaction.’

  ‘What kind of companies were they?’

  ‘No idea. Doesn’t tell you that, the list. Anyway, like I said, I’d taken too bloody long by then, Ruby reckoned, and she’d already gone to a mate instead.’

  ‘And who was that?’

  ‘Annie DuBois’ boyfriend, some Jew calls himself a tax agent. Scam-artist, more like it.’

  ‘Solomon Sands.’

  ‘Yeah, him. But when I told Ruby about Annie’s name on the list of company directors it made her angrier than shit for some reason. Dunno why.’

  ‘And that was the last time you saw her?’

  ‘Too right. I didn’t like that big sign on her back saying shoot me. I even told her to shut her trap. She got stuck into me then – boy, was she mad. I left. Not that I got far. Casey got me. Waited until after she’d been knocked to shanghai me back in here. That’s when the rumours started about me doing Ruby.’

  Out on the mesh walkway, steel doors began to slam, vibrating along the length of the block.

  ‘Fucken lockdown. Here we go.’

  Swann stood up and tossed his cigarettes and lighter on the bed. ‘Give me the mousetrap.’

  Hergenhan passed it over. ‘Wasn’t gonna use it anyway. Found it slid under the door this morning, one of my caring mates looking out for me, eh? Wouldn’t make any difference if I did use it. Bastards aren’t gonna let me go to the infirmary. They want me here alone.’

  ‘I hope you’re wrong, Ray.’

  ‘Either way, I’m not gonna give the bastards the satisfaction of doing it meself. See you in hell, copper.’

  When Swann first started out as a policeman it struck him as strange how many crims believed in hell. It didn’t seem strange any longer.

  Swann took the chalky path down the limestone hill from the prison to the hospital.

  Jacky seemed better this morning, although she still looked like she’d been dragged a mile behind a car. But her good eye was clear and fierce.

  Swann sat down beside her bed. ‘Anybody been to visit you since yesterday?’ he asked.

  ‘Apart from the doc? Just Annie DuBois. That girl’s not afraid of anything. You go to the funeral?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘You come to tell me you done that other thing?’

  ‘No,’ and he put his hand up before she could interrupt. ‘About your friend Annie – she’s the one who suggested you come back to Perth, isn’t she?’

  ‘Yeah. She was cut up this morning when she saw me, let me tell you. She’s hard but —’

  ‘She’s not just hard, Jacky, I think she’s the one who arranged this.’

  Jacky fell silent. Then, ‘She did this to me?’

  ‘I believe so, yes.’

  ‘But why, for fuck’s sake?’

  ‘Same reason she wanted you back in town. To find out what you know.’

  ‘What I know about what? I don’t know anything!’

  ‘That’s why you’re still alive. Though anybody can see they went too far. Maybe Annie didn’t plan it like it worked out.’ He filled her in on what Ray Hergenhan had told him, and when he was finished she made a sound in her throat like a stick breaking. Her right hand started to spasm.

  ‘I don’t know if what Michelle said about Cooper dipping into Ruby’s trust account was right,’ Swann went on, ‘but I think Annie would have wanted her to say it. Sands and Cooper are competing for the same business.’

  ‘You think it was Annie had Ruby done as well?’

  ‘I doubt it. If she thought Ruby was onto her she’d have buried her in the hills. Made her disappear. But whoever killed Ruby left her body in public as a message for others. Meaning she wasn’t the only one to know things. A warning to all the mugs in all the other scams the cops are running. To keep their mouths shut, or they’ll know what to expect.’

  The tears in Jacky’s eyes had begun to fall. Swann took her hand, which was still trembling. Electric jolts coming down her arm.

  ‘Do you reckon Annie put Michelle up to claiming she was the babysitter?’ she said.

  ‘Might have. Maybe she gave her the idea as a way to tap some money. We’ll never know now.’

  ‘I don’t get it. Why was she killed, then? If she was doing what she was told?’

  ‘No idea. But she must have known something … seen something.’

  ‘How’re you gonna make this right, Swanny?’

  ‘I’ve got enough, I think, to pass on to somebody else, somebody who I reckon will follow up, just in case those rumours about me are true.’

  ‘Don’t talk like that. You get him before he gets you. You gotta live. For your daughters, your family.’

  ‘Yeah.’ He stood and looked down at her. Jacky was going to be badly scarred but she was already on the mend. She passed him her hand, which he squeezed a final time. Then he leant and very gently kissed her forehead.

  She closed her eyes to hide her tears.

  ‘I have to go. But if Annie DuBois comes again, not a single word. The only reason you’re alive, remember?’

  ‘Yeah, I should be grateful to the bitch.’

  ‘She’ll get hers.’

  ‘She’d better, Swanny. Ruby was my life. This is what’s left.’ She indicated her broken body. ‘Annie’s gotta pay. Otherwise I don’t think I can …’

  ‘Next time I come it’s to get you out of here, okay?’

  She nodded, the tears streaming down her face now, daring to believe him.

  He had no trouble finding the launch. It was said you could map the rising fortunes of Donald Casey’s career by tracing the yacht clubs he’d joined as things got better. The Royal Perth Yacht Club, where he now moored his monstrous vessel, was the pinnacle of a long social climb. It sat right alongside the University of Western Australia’s sandstone buildings and snapping pennants.

  He found Casey cut-polishing his beloved boat. He was concentrating so hard he didn’t notice Swann clamber on his pain-sharpened joints from the dock to the bow and then edge around the cabin. The jetties around them were quiet, most of the moorings empty.

  Casey had his back turned to him. Swann saw the heavy shape beneath the towel on the padded seat and picked it up, cocked the hammer of the single-barrel Remington.

  Casey jerked round, then stood up slowly. ‘Well, well,’ he said. ‘I’ve been expecting you. How you feeling?’

  Swann inspected the weapon in his hands. ‘Sawn-off 12 gauge – bit dramatic. You alone?’

  ‘I kick the tarts out at dawn, before they start to stink.’ Casey wiped the sweat from his top lip. ‘What can I do for you, Swann, you fucking delirious idiot?’

  ‘Where is it?’

  Casey laughed, chin-nodded at the cabin. ‘By the galley, in the oilskin.’

  ‘Come in with me.’ Swann pointed the sawn-off towards the open door, followed him in. On the galley table and the seats around it were baskets of long-life groceries. Crates of canned food and cartons of beer were stacked against the cabin walls.

  ‘Planning a holiday, Casey? Enough food here for a month.’

  ‘We’re all due a long holiday, come tomorrow. Some of us longer than others.’

  He ignored the threat. Indicated to Casey to sit, then reached into the oilskin on the bench and extracted his service .38. Still loaded. No bullets missing.

  But there was something else there too, on the floor by the bunks. A pyramid
shape with a plastic shower curtain draped over it.

  ‘You’re shitting me.’ Swann backed deeper into the cabin and lifted the curtain. A stack of gold bars, three by two wide at the base, pressed deep into the carpet. Each one a London Good Delivery Bar, weighing 12.5 kilos.

  ‘Thought she was sitting low in the water. You going to make a deposit somewhere on your holiday, Casey?’

  ‘Fuck off, cunt.’

  ‘Crank her up. Let’s go for a ride.’

  ‘What for?’ Casey’s eyes fixed on the gold, not the gun pointed at him. ‘You fish-brained fucking moron.’

  ‘Keep it up, it’ll make it easier.’

  He followed Casey upstairs onto the console. The key was in the ignition. Casey turned it and the engine throbbed to life.

  ‘Where’re we going?’

  ‘Downriver.’

  Casey stood with as much dignity as he could muster behind the wheel of his launch. Swann could tell he was hung-over – an alcohol sweat was coming off him. The DI eased back the twin sticks and reversed into the channel between the empty jetties, then nosed out onto the wide brown water. He stayed under the speed limit and waved obligingly to other boats.

  Swann kept out of sight of potential witnesses. As long as he didn’t move, his bruised body caused him no great pain. His chief discomfort was the weight of the shotgun in his hand. A dull ache had settled into the bones of his wrist and spread up into the strap of muscle over his shoulder.

  Casey was refusing to answer any questions but that didn’t matter. It wasn’t Swann’s questions that were important, or even Casey’s answers. There could be only two reasons why Casey hadn’t had him knocked off yet. Either he wanted Swann to sit out the royal commission in fear of his life, or he wanted him to come at him beforehand, to confirm that he had nothing.

  Swann manoeuvred a cigarette from his packet one-handed and lit it. The silence suited the moment. The sunlight, the breeze, the pleasure boats on the water all mocked him. The wheeling seagulls in the wide blue sky were ridiculous and unlikely. He felt like a child with a toy gun in his hand.