The barrister Swann’s clients had hired was brought over from Melbourne; the evidence was compelling. The silk couldn’t believe the notguilty verdict, his ego offended. True that he’d done a great job on Dragic and his claims of bankruptcy – the money-trail Swann had uncovered there in black and white. But Justice Roberts had been unmoved. It wasn’t until the case moved to the civil court that Swann’s clients had a win, the burden of proof lessened and the younger judge willing to countenance fraud and criminal intent on Dragic’s part. He had ordered the assets Swann uncovered to be seized. The look on Dragic’s face was priceless. Bail set at a hundred thousand, pending an appeal. Dragic’s skipping bail leading to the forfeiture of everything.
Swann caught it, the little nudge from Conlan, hand on Cathy’s lower back, pushing her towards Justice Roberts. She looked at Swann at the same time Conlan did – his face a sneer. The launch throbbing to life. Some of the protesters on shore had begun swimming out, to cheers from their friends.
31.
As soon as Swann took out his car keys, the men emerged from the midday glare. Three detectives: two in the regulation trousers and boots and white shirt, tie askew and sleeves rolled; the other in a full cotton suit with ridiculously padded shoulders. It was the third man who badged Swann: narrow blue eyes, sunburnt nose, lips glistening in the brightness. ‘Major Crimes. We’d like you to accompany us to Central. A little chat. Purely voluntary at this point.’
The detective was young for his rank, clearly a Hogan acolyte. Didn’t move like a bash-artist, didn’t have the eyes for it either. Nearly eight years since Swann had quit the force; a new generation coming through. This kid would have been in uniform back then – privy to the stories about Swann but not a player in the hunt.
‘Undercover among the Pinocchio’s crowd are you, son?’
The kid didn’t bite. ‘Like I say, purely voluntary at this point. We’ll follow you.’
Swann was curious. A few years ago, a trip to the cells beneath Central would have been a death sentence. The detente of late – it was worth testing, although there was nobody to witness Swann’s departure with the Ds.
‘Alright, let’s go.’
They followed in a cream unmarked Commodore; three big men in a small-nosed car. The first thing Swann did was call home on the car phone. Left a message for Marion on the answering machine, triggering the recorder in the roof-space. Told her what he was doing, gave the rego of the Holden, the name of the detective on the badge, description of the other two, made a show of letting the Commodore passengers see the phone.
He parked in the bays inside the complex, the concave building looming above, locked the Statesman and dropped the keys into the gap between windscreen and bonnet. If anything happened to him they would have to tow the car away, drawing attention.
Swann lit a cigarette, squared up and waited, the three men emerging from the underground carpark snapping on sunglasses, straightening ties and moving in a sleek wedge, cotton suit at the front.
He walked past Swann and signed in at the front desk while the other two stood away. Ten years ago Swann was superintendent of uniformed police, and this was his station, his little kingdom – a couple of hundred coppers answering to him alone. The young detectives would know this, everything else communicated from Hogan’s point of view – Swann sticking his nose into the CIB’s affairs after Ruby Devine’s murder, putting at risk the lucrative kickbacks from the brothels, bookies and casinos, trusted drug dealers, green-lit bank robbers and car rebirthers – generating a total weekly income far in excess of a senior detective’s yearly salary. Even when it was shared among a couple dozen Purple Circle Ds, it was still one of the best-paid jobs in the state. The crown had fallen into Benjamin Hogan’s lap; for two years now he’d been head of the CIB.
Hogan emerged from the lift and ran a hand through his golden hair, pushed up the sleeves of his black linen suit – looked more like a French actor than a hard-nosed cop.
The old enmity there in Hogan’s smirk, his easy posture. A wave of his hand towards the open office just inside the secure doors. Last year, a kid had blown the lobby apart, bombs strapped to a vest, his head found in the parking lot. The year before that, the TRG had been called to dispatch a kid in the lobby with a shotgun, a mental patient, gunning for death by cop, which is what he got – ninety-three bullets from eleven different handguns.
Hogan’s choice of meeting room made Swann even more curious. It was deliberately public, the office beside the busy dispatch room. Not an interrogation room, but a security camera in the corner, a simple desk and plastic chairs. The other three detectives loitering outside, in case Swann went for Hogan, not the other way around.
Hogan sat at one end of the table and Swann parked himself at the other. Both of them lit cigarettes, stared. Hogan getting in first.
‘Good job taking down Dragic. I always hated that ape. Too greedy, even by my standards.’
The inference: Hogan had let it happen. Swann waited for him to continue. ‘You would have heard he’s put money on the street. All the way from fucking Yugoslavia.’
‘I heard. Obviously got the exchange rate wrong. Whatever the Macedonian currency is, two thou’ Aussie, well …’
Hogan grinned. ‘We thought about doing a whip-around, put some cream on the biscuit.’
‘But?’
‘I don’t know, Frank. Seems to me like things are working out. You’re out there, doing your thing, got your fibro shack down there in Freo, livin’ like a crab under a rock. I’m head of the company. Got more pressing concerns …’
Hogan looked to his perfectly manicured nails, scuffed them on the palm of his hand. ‘And you came, today. Of your own accord. Sign of maturity. Sign of things to come, I hope. You’ve positioned yourself well, under the premier’s wing. I respect that in an adversary.’
Both of them trained interrogators, everything happening off the script. The false warmth in Hogan’s voice, the easy posture.
Swann cut to it. ‘What are you offering me? Before we get to the threats.’
Hogan laughed, genuine mirth in his eyes. ‘Like I say, a worthy adversary. The answer – Dragic. A mutual foe. Shit under my shoe. Public nuisance. And the latest bloke to want you dead. But different to the others, I’m sure you’ll agree.’
‘You both hired mutts to do it.’
A moment of concern in Hogan’s eyes, unsure whether his men had checked Swann for a wire. A measure of his imperiousness, the caution brushed off. ‘I’m sure if Riley had really wanted you dead, that bomb would’ve done its job.’
‘He tells you everything, doesn’t he?’
‘As you know, behind the smelly rags he’s an A-grade snitch. I can forgive his moments of … sentimentality. But Dragic, like I say, is a different kind of human stain. And those Albanians he’s with. Nasty cunts. Which is why I called you in. Before this gets … well … Albanian.’
‘Get on with it.’
Hogan sniffed. ‘To business, then. What I want, is for you to leave young Gary Quinlivan alone. No more visits to the Exetar building site. That boy’s going to make me very rich. Life is good, Frank, but you know the old Pommy saying – one does get so tired of the taste of champagne. I’m a man with ambitions, so keep your fucking nose out of my business.’
‘And in return?’
‘I let you in on a little secret. About the money on the street. The measly two thou. That’s just a set-up, a line without a hook. You knew Dragic would come after you, and look how well a paltry figure put you at ease. In fact, the figure is far higher, as I understand it. In the order of fifty thousand, and it’s not on the street. Those Slavs aren’t like us, Frank. Basically, they’re fucking animals. The money, the fifty thousand is for your wife, or one or more of your daughters. A real bash, rape and bury-deep job. So deep you’d never find them. Never know who, or how. Frank?’
The deal was on the table, and Hogan had no need to play the cop, offering Swann a way out of his fix. But Hogan
was a trained liar, and Swann could see that the mockery in his eyes was genuine – the look you give a crim after he’s been outsmarted, tricked into giving it up.
‘Who’s he given the job to?’
‘Same bloke previously employed to snuff your mate, Dennis Gould. A patched Junkyard Dogs rider.’
So Hogan also didn’t know that Gould had been spared. ‘You got a name?’
Hogan sneered. ‘Nup. And before you think it – you can’t go around killing off a whole bikie club. Swann, I know you’d do it, but I won’t allow it.’
‘How do you know I’d do it?’
Hogan laughed. ‘You crazy prick. You got away with killing my boss. You’ll never be forgiven for that. Though it gave me the opportunity years before my time.’
So Hogan didn’t know about that, either. Swann never pulled the trigger on Casey. He didn’t know who did, and cared even less.
Hogan patted a hand on the desk, laying it out. ‘But I can give you Dragic. That mutt’s not in Macedonia. He’s afraid of flying. Dumb bastard’s in Wanneroo. He’s waiting for the job to be done. And when it’s done, when he’s through watching you suffer, he’ll move on you too. Don’t look so surprised, Frank. You bankrupted him, after he’d gone semi-legit, after I told him to stay in the smack trade. Just when he had the sniff of a reputation, something to make his dad proud, you took it away from him. You know his dad made the poor cunt eat pigeons when he was a kid? When the other kids were down the park playing footy, poor little Dragic was down the swamp shooting pigeons for dinner. It’s there on his juvie charge sheet, you should have a look at it sometime … discharging a .22 rifle in a public place.’
Swann stood. ‘Address.’
Hogan grinned. ‘Just so happens, I’ve got it written, right here.’
‘I don’t want it written. Tell me.’
Hogan held up the slip of paper, the smile on his face like he was reading a joke from a Chinese cracker. ‘Wattle Grove Smallholdings. It’s a market garden on Wanneroo Road. Cabbages, caulis, broccoli and the like. The stupid prick’s even planted dope in a tomato crop, to get himself going again. And watch the dobermans. They’re hungry looking. And Swann: Gary Quinlivan and Exetar. Keep out of my fucking business.’
Swann nodded. The play was straight enough on the surface. But like the surface of Hogan’s eyes, bright with reflected light, what lay beneath was a mess of shadow.
32.
Swann drove in a daze, the clear spring sunlight and the commuters going about their normal routines, the council workers lopping street trees and the children coming out of school. Hogan might be lying, or he might be telling the truth. One minute with Dragic, face to face, and he’d know which. The Statesman kept to a steady seventy, Swann not wanting to be pulled over, or delayed by anyone or anything. The throwaway pistol and his registered side-arm lay on the seat beside a box of shells. He smoked with the window down, playing the angles. Hogan obviously wanting him to kill Dragic, for reasons of his own. Hogan would then have the option of taking Swann down, or at the very least, owning him forever. Or maybe the threat against his family was a ruse; Hogan bringing Swann and Dragic together in a likely violent confrontation to further his own ends. The same result, assuming Swann came out on top: Swann down for murder, or owned by Hogan.
The cop in him was already drawing alibis, plausible denials, but his blood was too hot, pounding in his cheeks, the pressure of its circuit through his head audible above the engine, the street noise. Whatever the play, it was over. If it was true that Dragic had paid to kill Marion, or one of his daughters, then whatever happened next, Swann was out of the game. Corporate types hiring bikies to go the bash was one thing, ordering the murder of a shareholder troublemaker another. Both came down to business. But the murder of innocents?
Swann wanted to call Marion and the children, but he didn’t want to alarm them, implicate them in what happened next. Better to do the necessary, whatever it took, even though it was Hogan pulling the puppet-strings, expecting Swann to proceed directly to the address. Instead Swann dialled Gould, who everyone thought was dead – a ghost who wouldn’t be traced. Gould deserved to know, had been spared by good fortune, but that luck was about to end. ‘Start packing, old mate. This time for a long haul. I’m on the way to see Trevor Dragic. If you don’t hear from me in an hour, then scarper, don’t look back …’
‘No need for that. I still haven’t unpacked from last time, or washed for that matter. But Frank – the Exetar train’s taking off. Trucks hijacked, a murder this morning – environmental consultant found floating in the river, just off Burswood. Clear signs of a hostile takeover, from the bottom up. What do you think about –’
‘Don’t worry about Exetar. Just get ready to leave. One hour. I’m nearly at the address.’
It was like talking to a child. ‘I agree. Exetar’s a scratch – clear evidence of organised crime influence. I’ll start looking at the next tender. Hercules Construction. But also – I got a line on Calhoun, the owner of the security company Quinlivan’s occupying. Details forthcoming …’
Swann let him go. The sun was falling to his left, the warm burn on his face and forearm, wind gusting over the limestone hills and the smell of swamp creeping through the remnant bush. The city left behind – now came large allotments with handpainted signs and dirt driveways, giant tuart and marri by the roadside; ploughed earth and market gardens, greenhouses and Vietnamese women in conical hats and bright scarves. Swann saw the sign ahead – Wattle Grove Smallholdings, letters scrawled in red paint over a grey jarrah plank, the dusty road winding through wattle and banksia scrub.
He drove past the turnoff and looked for somewhere to park, away from the road and invisible from the farm. Two hundred metres ahead, a little cutaway edged into a stand of sheoak and wattle. On the rise above were six giant granite blocks piled into a pyramid and painted like dice; white surfaces with black markings – a warning to those on the Bindoon Road. The road was empty of traffic. Swann pulled across and eased the Holden over the dry crust of dirt and gravel, parked inside a natural cover of wattle. The Statesman would still be visible from the road, but only if you were searching. He cut the engine and patted the dash, crossed himself for good luck, tested his hand for the shakes, swallowed nothing from a dry mouth. He’d never killed a man in cold blood. He’d never had to torture a name out of a man and, if that name emerged, kill the man. Wrap the man in a blanket and drive the man far away. Bury the man where he would never be found. A sequence of events that was not the ending, but just the beginning.
One thing Swann held to – if the contract was legit, and if the name emerged, and if Dragic was killed, the second man would fall away. He’d proved that by letting Gould go. If Dragic was dead, then there was no contract, no point in the shooter moving forward. That thought got Swann out of the car, the two pistols and the box of shells in his jacket pockets, peaked cap pulled low.
Over the sagging strings of wire, into a nursery field with red-turned earth skirted by grey sand, pudding rocks and limestone rubble. The homestead lay across the fields, sprinkler turning over an acre of tomato plants. Even from a distance Swann could see the unnatural green of the marijuana buds, tall over the green fruit. There was no cover towards the front of the property, so he continued along the brushline, expecting dogs at any moment, his .22 throwaway loaded in his gun hand – the sound of a .22 not unusual in an area plagued by rabbits. From the back of the homestead an array of sheds and shipping containers fronted the bush, gave him cover to approach the house. Silence and a sense of dread; ears tuned to the slightest anomaly; cicadas like jet planes, instincts humming with the strain, eyes charged with an electric focus. What he hoped: Dragic to see him coming and they go at it – self-defence. What he hoped: no others in the house. No witnesses, or potential victims. Still no dogs. Swann edged towards the back of the house and tested the screen door, unlocked. He eased it with his foot. No dogs, or sounds within. The screen door hinges, he could see the shine o
f grease. Nudged the door open and slipped inside, let his eyes adjust, the smells of paprika, boiled cabbage, bacon fat, dog. Gun hand leading, room to room. Heart flipping like a fish. Tinnitus buzz of blood in his head, the roaring silence. Finally, the lounge room. Could see the back of Dragic’s dyed black head, tilted, reclined in an easychair, looking out over the fields, his investment. Still no dogs. The sound of flies. Swann smelt it. Old blood. Like pig iron; sweet rust. He followed the wall around the chair, saw the bullet hole in Dragic’s eye; seeping jelly and blood, the other eye staring at him. Dragic’s bare feet, impossibly white against his black jeans, black carpet, pool of velvet-black blood. Three toes severed on his left foot; secateurs nearby, bubbles of blood where his toes used to be.
A controlled crime scene. A disciplined killer. No sign of unnecessary beating; the minimum amount of torture to extract information. Nothing personal. No exit wound in the skull – clearly a .22, probable multiple shots in the same eye socket.
Almost as though Swann had done it himself.
But the job only half-done. Hogan’s work. Hedging his bets. It was Swann he wanted, not Dragic. Drug-dealing thugs turned businessmen were a dime a dozen since the mining boom. Dragic was someone who didn’t play the game; impatient, incompetent – lacked the temperament – Swann had proved that in court.
This was Dragic’s punishment, and Swann’s reward – also a punishment, but also an opportunity.
Hogan’s law.
If Swann walked away, Hogan’s men would come for him. The false money Dragic put on the street, motivation enough for Swann to murder him. And Hogan would have a trump. Swann didn’t know what – except that he would have it.
The only course of action, to follow through, as though the murder was his. Another step towards the body, and he may as well have killed Dragic. Expecting sirens. Were they watching from the road? Back outside, the smell of the ocean riding the sea breeze, the banksia woodland whispering; the gloaming light feeding on the shadows, illuminating every object, sharp and distinct, watchful even. The sound of his boots on the gravel, inside the sheds. An old blue tarp. A shovel. Keys in a Datsun ute.
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