Old Scores

by Whish-Wilson, David;

  The stolen Falcon was where he’d left it, parked in the driveway of an abandoned fibro house. Foley crouched in the shadows of a peppermint gum and watched before approaching. He re-hotwired the ignition and reversed onto the quiet street and headed north of the river.

  *

  Foley hid in the wattle scrub beside Mostel’s apartment building and looked for a way in. He could see the river shining under moonlight down the hill, the lights of prawners in Crawley Bay, and their voices carried in soft flutters on the wind. It was a twenty-storey block with each floor broken into four apartments. Each apartment was framed by a large concrete balcony, with no spaces between. The front door was well secured and covered by a security camera. This visit he wanted to enter and depart without being clocked.

  An apartment on the second floor was dark, whereas the rest were illuminated. He could see the shadows of their inhabitants pass across the high glass windows and doors. Foley worked out which apartment it was and checked the carpark – the bay for apartment seven was empty. Very quietly, he stayed in shadow until he returned to the garden bed beneath the first balcony. If he stood on the ground-floor balcony he could just touch the base of the second. He reached a hand into a rainwater drain-hole and made sure there was circumference enough for him to turn his wrist. He walked his feet up the building wall until he was horizontal with the base of the second-floor balcony. The pressure on his trapped wrist was tremendous – he took one more step sideways and now all of his weight was on his forearm. He slung a leg over the balcony and withdrew his wrist and pushed himself over the lip and onto the cool slate floor of the second storey. As he’d expected, the sliding door leading on to the balcony was unlocked. He pushed it back, slipped inside the heavy drapes and moved to the front door.

  It had been a guess, but a good one. Exiting the emergency stairwell onto Mostel’s fifteenth floor, he saw the sisal-plaster tiles of the corridor ceiling laid in large square blocks, resting on painted steel framework. The building had ducted air-conditioning, which necessitated access to a roof-space – something he counted on in most of his bank robberies. There wasn’t anything handy in the corridor for him to climb on. He tested his weight on the brass box containing the buttons to operate the lift, and it held. With one foot on the brass box he pushed up the nearest sisal tile and climbed into the dark. Remembering the floorplan of the second-storey apartment he’d entered, he clambered along the framework until he crossed onto a concrete load-bearing wall that took him directly above Mostel’s apartment. The bearing wall was dusty and the space was two-foot high, but sufficient for him to crawl on hands and knees over to the wall closest to the balcony. The wall was thicker than those separating the rooms, and farthest from the bedrooms and kitchen. Below him, he could hear the sounds of jazz music and canned laughter. The occasional murmur. Foley looked at his watch. It was just gone midnight. He lay on his back and rested.

  Foley woke at the first sound of morning voices. He was dehydrated and cold but that didn’t matter. He made sure to drink as little as possible before a job – there was nothing worse than a painful bladder, and the cold kept him from sleeping too long.

  The voices below him were harsh. A man abusing a woman. A woman nagging two teenage children, one boy and one girl, to get ready for school. Everything the woman asked of them, the children said no, or swore about. The woman shouted and the man shouted. Sometimes all four of them were shouting at once. Foley couldn’t help compare Mostel’s family with his own dear ma and her uncontrollable sons, each of whom out of agreement at least pretended that their mother had the final say.

  Foley looked at the luminous dial on his watch as the last voice left the apartment. He rolled onto his knees and crawled across the bearing wall onto the framework fixing to the plasterboard ceiling, moved stiffly over the wires and aluminium ducts towards the ceiling manhole. It was hinged and lockable, but the lock wasn’t set. Foley felt around the edges of the cover with his hands, brushed his knuckles on something leather. From his pocket he took out his torch and grunted with satisfaction at the sight of the leather satchel, just to one side of the cover. He put the torch in his teeth and opened the satchel. Traveller’s cheques. A passport – Mostel’s face but a different name. More fake ID. A Harrowgate Bank safety deposit box key. A little velvet bag that he could feel contained diamonds. And cash, paper-banded, denominations of fifty and twenty – looked like thousands. Foley put the lot back into the satchel and clicked back the manhole cover and dropped his head and shoulders down into the room, peering like a reverse periscope until he was sure the lounge room was clear. He dropped the satchel onto the leather couch below and spat on his hands and wiped them of dirt – he didn’t want smudges on the manhole. Very carefully, trying to keep the dust down, he slipped his legs through the manhole and, with his clean fingers, rested the manhole on his shoulder, dropped the twelve feet onto the couch, and heard the manhole click shut above him.

  Foley ignored the small terrier that raced in from the balcony, began yapping at his heels. He checked that the manhole looked clean and that no dust had followed him onto the couch. He checked his watch and smiled. He was hungry, and needed the toilet, maybe even a shower. Foley didn’t know what kind of shit Mostel was into, but no man who made an honest living ever had a false passport and diamonds in a getout-of-town bag, ready to run. There would be a safe here somewhere too, he was sure of it. He didn’t have the tools to break it open, but would try his luck on the tumbler combination. But first, a feed. No doubt Mostel kept a well-stocked kitchen. Foley wanted to leave no trace of his visit, but that wouldn’t stop him filling his belly and getting cleaned up. The dog was now nuzzling his leg. He knelt down and scratched its ears, saw that it was called Ruth. The dog followed him over to the kitchen, a hopeful look in its eyes.

  24.

  The morning had gone smoothly. Neither the premier nor Heenan had mentioned yesterday’s surveillance device, and Swann hadn’t raised it either. The premier had agreed with the arrangement Swann proposed, setting Stormie Farrell up with a full-time carer. Marion had a young woman called Janey Simpson in mind. Janey was a resident of the battered women’s sanctuary on Pakenham Street in Fremantle, but her ex-boyfriend was still in the picture, and Janey didn’t feel secure there. Swann had gilded the lily – failing to mention that Janey had finished only the first year of her nursing traineeship. Her main role was to keep Stormie out of trouble, and to call Swann if anything brewed. Swann had a feeling that the two would get on well. He promised the premier that he’d drop Janey around to Stormie that evening, get her settled in.

  In the meantime, Dennis Gould had called him at the crack, the first arrows of light piercing the faded curtains. Gould had found something of interest, deep into the first tender. Something worth a look at.

  Swann let himself in with his key, and found Gould pacing his apartment, listening to loud classical music as he smoked and scratched his belly. His only concession to sleep or relaxation since Swann last saw him had been to remove his trousers. His pale hairless legs glowed in the semi-dark, the same off-white as his undies. He saw Swann standing in the doorway and waved, nearly tripping over a coffee mug.

  Swann sat at the kitchenette and waited for the onslaught of staccato sentences and bad breath. ‘The first tender, Exetar, is Maitland Conlan’s largest company, acquired two years ago. Very solid history, prior to that. Projects delivered on time and on budget. They did the harbour at Port Hedland and pretty much built the mining towns of the Pilbara. Had their first big break constructing the infrastructure around the Kwinana aluminium refinery, then two of the office blocks on the Terrace, but this would be the biggest undertaken so far.’

  Swann had leaned so far back against the kitchenette that he was wedged in a corner. Gould’s eyes were wild and over-focused, dried spittle at the edges of his mouth, breath foul. Swann put a hand on Gould’s forearm to stop the younger man crowding him further. ‘So far so predictable. And yet?’

  ‘The cont
ractors they’ve identified are proven performers, and mostly from companies recently bought by Conlan for Exetar. Which has allowed him to cut costs – simplifying admin and project managers, et cetera. Prior to Conlan buying them, all of the companies were well established, so no evidence there’s phoenixing, although I haven’t looked at the recent financials yet. Most of the company managers look solid too – in fact I’ve met most of them personally, back when I was broking. Mostly local. Nobody too suspicious. I’ve run backgrounds on them all, no bankrupts, no convictions. A few have been major donors to the Liberal Party, but a few have also donated large to the current mob. Hedging their bets …’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And yet. When we get down to the level of subcontractors. The itty bitty jobs – suppliers of porta-dunnies, safety officers, crane hire, donga hire, site fencing, liquid waste removal, et cetera – there was a name that you’ll remember – running a small outfit that does site security. Might have no bearing on the value of the tender, but … Gary Quinlivan.’

  Swann had no space to shrink in surprise, but he made the right face. ‘I thought he was dead.’

  ‘We all did. Want a coffee?’

  Swann nodded.

  Gary Quinlivan. Smack dealer and smuggler, flew the route that Clifford and Welsh were now getting hanged for flying. Son of a judge. Best schools, millionaire then bankrupt at twenty-one. Part of a gold consortium run by bent cops, dodgy bookies and Northbridge identities Leo Ajello and Tommaso Adamo, that ended in a gunfight killing one cop and one bookie. Arrested at the scene and went missing from the East Perth Lockup. Was widely presumed to have been murdered by Benjamin Hogan, then a senior consorting detective, for the crime of knowing too much.

  Four years had passed. ‘We know where he’s been?’ Swann asked.

  ‘No, but I’m dying to find out.’

  The kettle boiled, a gust of wind bashed the curtains, collecting half of the papers lain in a grid across the floor, scattering cigarette ash from the tea-saucers.

  ‘Me too, but we’ll have to tread carefully.’

  25.

  Des Foley pulled the sliding door that led onto the second-floor balcony and waited until his eyes adjusted to the light. He wasn’t alone in the apartment – a cleaner who’d left the front door ajar was vacuuming in the next room. He slipped out onto the balcony and looked over the gardens that rose to the edge of the native scrub fronting Kings Park. His backpack was crammed with food taken from Mostel’s apartment – canned fish, pastrami, four types of cheese, different biscuits and dried fruit and nuts – good for a week’s rations, and the best way to avoid spending time in shops where he’d be recognised. Leaning over, he dropped the backpack onto a woolly bush that sank upon impact. Foley followed the bag over and landed on the jarrah-bark mulch around the garden. He remained in a crouch until the pain in his ankles subsided and hoisted the backpack and headed towards the sheltering bush. It was then that he saw them – saw that they’d seen him too. A big man in leathers, perched over a trail bike too small for him, helmet on. And a young man in an Alpha Romeo sedan, sunglasses and pink shirt, parked up the street facing the river.

  Not coppers.

  Foley fingered the butt of his pistol and headed for the bush. He heard the dirt bike rev and kick into gear. The scrub was thick with wild oats and juvenile sheoak, creeping ground shrubs that he stepped over as he pushed himself deeper into the park. He’d watched the helicopter from Mostel’s balcony, doing a grid search over the one thousand acres of the park – an obvious place to look for him, camped in the scrub. That the coppers were looking but not asking told him they’d forced a media ban on the local newspapers and stations – for how long he didn’t know.

  Foley made the crest of the hill and waited in a stand of bull banksia. He could hear the trail bike gunning up the path and looked around for something heavy. There weren’t any rocks or branches so he took out his gun and clicked off the safety. When the bike was near he stepped towards the path and aimed, and when the bike turned the corner he stepped closer and shot the rider three times in the chest. The noise of the .22 was lost in the strafe of the two-stroke engine that died as the rider slid off the path and rolled into the grey dirt and was still. Foley knelt on the man’s back and searched the sky for the chopper and looked down the path for the Alpha driver, who’d have to be on foot. With his pistol pressed into the man’s neck, he searched his pockets and came up with a facsimile mugshot of himself, taken from his last stretch in Pentridge. Whoever got the photograph had connections. It was the most recent photo of Foley in existence, although two years old now. Had to have come from the police wire. The man regained consciousness and started to groan. Foley pulled off his helmet and turned him over. The bullets from the peashooter had lodged in the man’s chest, done the .22 pinball inside his ribcage, hadn’t exited. He might live or he might die, depending upon luck.

  Foley was wild at himself for getting seen. That the coppers weren’t watching the Mostel apartment meant that the bastards didn’t know the connection – for now. The man beneath him was no kid – a bikie in his forties. Foley unzipped his leather jacket and saw the Junkyard Dogs patch on the denim vest inside and put two and two together. Mostel had put his name on the street. The young Ding in the Alpha was most likely a scout for someone like Leo Ajello – to put a tail on him until Foley led him to his hide-out, bring in the big guns to do the execution.

  The leather satchel of diamonds, cash and passports. Putting money on the street. Whatever Mostel was up to, it was big.

  The bigger the better – meant he had more to lose.

  Foley began to strip the bikie of his leathers, his boots. The two men were roughly the same size. The bastard could crawl to the main road in his jocks, or die trying. Foley zipped himself up and put on his backpack and lifted the bike. He flipped the leather seat and saw the butt of a sawnoff .303. He gunned the bike and took off down the path, away from the Alpha driver and along the empty hiking trails that led over to the Subiaco side of Kings Park. He exited the park near Rokeby Road and slipped into the traffic headed to Karrakatta Cemetery, the army barracks and the coast road that would take him south to the river, and home to Coolbellup.

  26.

  Swann parked the Statesman in the cool shade of a peppermint tree. Apart from the line of verge trees planted down Royal Street, this part of East Perth was unrecognisable. Gone were the old tenements and coke-covered industrial buildings, the alleys of tin and weatherboard, the old paperbarks that fronted Claisebrook canal. The water itself was fenced off, too polluted for children to play in. The Exetar-run building site was vast and laser-levelled, the grey dust rising in flumes that hung in the air as trucks carried contaminated soil away from the demolished power station. Swann took out his binoculars and recognised the trucks belonging to the cartage haulers trucking up the freeway all night, delivering infill to the redevelopment site on Burswood Island. The trucks were unmarked but the drivers wore the same uniform of grey shirt and cap. Swann panned the binoculars across the building site and zeroed in on a shipping container perched on jarrah sleepers against the nearest fence. It was a site manager’s office with the words security handpainted across each of the walls. An old Landrover was parked nearby under a jerry-rigged hoochie strung up on steel poles. The donga was air-conditioned and had phone lines attached and nobody had entered or departed in half an hour.

  Swann lit a cigarette and climbed out of the Statesman and wandered over to the nearest fence, parted the wire and slipped onto the site. He stood outside the security office and listened. Inside, a man was talking on the telephone. The voice was posh Australian with a hint of Queen’s English. The voice’s owner was speaking to a stockbroker, that much was clear. The names of mining companies Swann had never heard of and quantities of shares.

  Ten years ago, a site manager speaking to a stockbroker would have been unlikely – but everyone was on the bandwagon now. Just this morning Swann had waited in line at his local deli while
Brendan, the deli owner, and an older man in a bus driver’s uniform had discussed which shares were hot. It sounded to Swann like mug punters talking horses.

  But the voice in the donga lacked the mug punter’s excitability. It was him giving advice to the broker, rather than fielding tips. The quantities of shares were large.

  Away to his left, Swann watched a Toyota utility with a flashing orange cab-beacon head towards him. He knocked on the flimsy door of the donga and stepped inside.

  Gary Quinlivan. Even with his back turned, it was the same young man Swann had thought murdered: the same expensive clothes and freshly barbered neck, hair combed in a side part but quiffed and gelled, his leather-soled brogues up on the desk.

  Quinlivan didn’t turn around but raised a one-minute finger. ‘Your time, close of London exchange … yes … that’s local time ten pm. Fax me the orders if they hit five pence. Otherwise, we’ll speak tomorrow. Thanks Benny.’

  So Quinlivan was talking to a British broker about transactions involving tens of thousands of pounds on a shitty line sent out from a handpainted shipping container on a dusty Australian building site. You wouldn’t know it from the look on his face. He clocked Swann, and there was a little flicker in his eyes, but the old confidence remained. He was wearing pinstripe suit trousers and red braces over a starched white business shirt, no tie. This was the man who, in his early twenties, carried kilos of smack strapped to his body from countries where the penalty for doing so was death. Became a dealer for Leo Ajello, selling to the rich kids in the western suburbs. Last seen being escorted out of the lockup by two uniformed police, into a divvy van driven by Ben Hogan.