by Tony Black
‘Do you know that guy?’ said Eddie, gesturing at JT.
‘Yeah… no… I only met him once. He’s a friend of Clay’s. Like you.’
Bec wasn’t sure why she’d said all that or why she suddenly felt so flustered. Senior Constable Eddie Boulton had asked her out on what could only be described as a date, and from the moment she’d seen him pull up in the car park beside her, she’d felt like a tongue-tied teenager. Sure, Eddie was handsome, with his short-cropped blonde hair, tanned complexion, and solid frame. She thought of him as a modern update of the clean-cut Californian surfers she’d seen in those old Elvis Presley movies. But that wasn’t what was making her lose her cool. Was it just the idea of going on a date? Of a man being obviously interested in her? How long had it been? Six months? A year? She thought back to the last time she’d been with someone. It was a beach in Laos and—
‘Are you OK?’ said Eddie. A silence had arisen while she’d been lost in her thoughts, but before Bec could respond, a young waitress arrived. Her name tag said ‘Sally’ and she asked them if they would like to order drinks.
They both ordered light beers – it was a work night, after all – and set about perusing the menus. Sally had returned with the drinks and taken their meal orders.
‘You know, I’ve never actually eaten here,’ said Eddie as he gazed out at the river, which shimmered in the late afternoon sun. ‘Lots of coffees and beers here, but never a meal.’
‘If it’s any consolation, me neither. I only picked it because it’s one of the few places I’ve been to since I came to the area.’
‘You live in Koroit, yeah?’
‘Yes.’
‘I hear there are some good restaurants out there, too. Maybe next time…’ Eddie trailed off and the silence rose again.
Bec sipped her light beer before trying again. ‘What about Port Campbell? I’m sure it’s another nice spot on the Shipwreck Coast.’
‘Oh, yeah, sure is. Although I just moved back to Warrnambool. Reassigned.’
‘Really? Is that a good thing or a bad thing?’
‘Good thing. I was getting a bit over the whole small town cop thing.’
‘Sounds like a TV series.’
Eddie laughed. Bec was warming to him, feeling more at ease. The pressure had been taken down a notch with one laugh. ‘Yeah, it’s not as glamorous as a TV show. You do lots of miles and deal with the same drunks every Saturday night. And on weeknights, it’s the same fighting couples.’
The words tipped Bec’s mind back in time, to Dublin, to an angry mother, to her cowering father, trying to protect young Bec but too afraid to stand up to the vicious woman he’d married, to the police arriving and going again, solving nothing. Bec quickly squashed it all back down again and took a large swig of her light beer. Ireland was a long way away, and home was Koroit now. The two places didn’t have to co-exist in her mind, unless she let them.
‘Surely it’s not always that bad,’ she said, trying to keep the conversation flowing. ‘Policing a place like Port Campbell must have its upside.’
‘It’s a nice town. I got to do a lot of surfing on my days off. But usually you’re not doing the type of police work that made me want to be a cop in the first place.’
‘Not catching enough bad guys?’
‘Something like that.’ Eddie sipped his light beer and gestured out to the decking where she had sat with Clay over a week ago. ‘I have to admit, what Clay was talking about the other day, about the cops not fully investigating that drowned girl, that kinda stuck in my craw a bit.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘Well, for starters, that’s exactly the kind of case I’m talking about, that’s the stuff that made me become a cop. And that’s why I think he’s wrong, with his little hints about there being a cover-up. Every police officer down here is busting for a case like that. Why would they sweep it under the rug?’ His face turned to a frown, little creases lined his forehead, as he thought about what he’d just said. ‘You’d have to be a pretty bad person to do that. I guess I don’t want to think the worst of my colleagues.’
‘Do you think Clay might be onto something?’ The conversation interested Bec now, the Kerry Collins case had a hold of her because she’d seen another family in pain and felt for them.
‘I hope not. I don’t think so. I don’t know. I just know that I was the first at the scene when that girl washed up and if I knew it was a murder, and if it was my case, I’d move heaven and earth to find out who did it.’
‘You’re a good cop,’ Bec reassured him. ‘I hope they’re all good cops.’
Eddie shook his head, and the lines on his forehead receded. ‘I’m not that good a cop. Do you know what I did today? All day I dealt with domestics, husbands and boyfriends going off at their wives and girlfriends, and vice versa. It gives you a pretty dim view of people after a while. I had some dark thoughts today that don’t make a good person, let alone a good cop.’
Bec’s mind again drifted back to her childhood. The screaming, the hiding. The funeral. She hadn’t thought about that stuff for a long time. She didn’t want to think about it now, but it was always there.
She sipped on her light beer and screwed up her face. ‘This tastes like horse piss, let’s get a bottle of wine,’ she said.
‘A bottle?’
‘Yeah, you only live once, after all.’
‘OK, looks like we’re making a night of it.’
Eddie hailed the waiter.
Chapter 16
After two days of testing phone calls, one after another, Clay decided Mark Webster’s tip-off about Fullerton blackmailing Swanson was likely to remain an unrealised fantasy. It was an interesting theory, but it relied on facts that remained elusively hidden. No matter how hard he tried, every phone call only retold him what he already knew.
No one would talk on the record and anything off the record wasn’t worth knowing. He’d started with Dave the construction worker, who’d given him the names of some aggrieved coworkers. It was enough to build a solid follow-up to his article from Saturday, but nobody had worked high enough up the ladder to have any real dirt. They were all just construction workers, and the occasional site foreman – not exactly the kind of Fullerton Industries players that would be privy to the corporate politicking Clay was looking for.
After spending almost two whole work days exhausting Dave’s contacts and Dave’s contacts’ contacts, Clay decided to take another tack. He called Liz Fitzgerald.
Liz was Wayne Swanson’s former communications manager, a position she’d held for twenty years until she’d quit a couple of elections ago. She insisted on meeting in person and Clay had happily agreed. He liked Liz, she was a fast-talking, heavy-smoking, hard-drinking dynamo, and the pair had shared a few encounters of varying kinds a decade ago, back when Clay was tipping thirty and Liz was closer to forty. Naturally, she wanted to meet at the Hotel Warrnambool in the smokers’ lounge. Clay paid for her usual, a gin and tonic, with a slice of lime, not lemon, and placed it in front of her, alongside a pint of beer for himself. They both pulled out a smoke and Clay lit Liz’s for her before lighting his own.
‘Thanks, sweetie,’ said Liz, her voice husky from her pack-a-day habit. ‘Happy Australia Day!’ Clay noticed she was on a lower milligram cigarette than she’d smoked ten years ago. For what little that’ll help, he thought, probably as effective as drinking diet Coke instead of real Coke if you’re trying to lose weight.
Liz was finally starting to look old, Clay realised. Her dyejob was more obvious, the crow’s feet longer. She was still attractive for her age, and in reasonably good shape, but her habits were catching up with her. Her skin had the smoker’s tawny tinge and Clay could make out the subtle glow of broken capillaries beneath her foundation. He gazed past her shoulder and assessed his reflection in the polished glass wall behind her. The lack of sleep didn’t help, but he didn’t appear to be faring much better than Liz with his own habits, he discovered.
‘So
what did you wanna talk about, darl?’ she said, sipping her G & T. ‘Something juicy, I hope.’
Clay smiled. ‘The juiciest. I wanna talk about your old boss, Wayne Swanson.’
‘That old prick!’ She let out a raucous cackle, followed by a hearty cough. ‘What do you wanna talk about Wayne the Wanker for?’
‘’Cos I think he’s up to some dodgy business.’
‘That’s nothing new, darl. Wayne Swanson was the minister for transport, infrastructure, and dodgy business when I worked for him. That bastard couldn’t lie straight in bed. You name it, he probably did it.’
‘Anything he could get blackmailed over?’
‘Why? You wanna make a quick million?’ Liz chortled again, followed once more by another practised cough.
‘Not me. Someone else.’
Liz’s demeanour changed. ‘Are you serious?’
Clay nodded and took another drag, watching the expressions wash one by one over the ex-staffer’s face.
‘I’m not surprised,’ she said finally.
‘That he’s being blackmailed?’
‘Absolutely. That’s if it’s true, of course.’
‘So you don’t know if what I’m hearing is true?’
‘Like I said, it wouldn’t surprise me. But how would I know if he’s being blackmailed? I haven’t worked for him these last six years.’ She puffed on her cigarette and her eyes narrowed. ‘What’s this all about, anyway?’
Clay told her what Mark Webster from the Sydney Morning Herald had told him the day before, about the airport deal, the strange timing of it, the rumours. Liz listened in silence, sipping her G & T and inhaling and exhaling her Peter Stuyvesant Classic with steady regularity.
When Clay had finished, Liz shook her head. ‘I can’t help you, sweetie. On the record, off the record – I don’t know anything. And anyone who does ain’t gonna say.’
‘If you had to guess?’ Clay knew he was reaching.
‘That’s the problem… there’s too many things.’ Liz threw her hands up. ‘He took kickbacks of one kind or another from the minute he walked into Parliament, but no one will speak against him because he used to share the rewards around. His colleagues, his staffers, we all benefitted from his ill-gotten largesse from time to time. Hell, even I got taken to dinner once in a while, or got some pricey gifts the odd occasion. He’s a generous man. Everyone knew he was getting it from somewhere that wasn’t exactly legit, but no one had the balls to say “no”. I mean, this is politics we’re talking about. That’s how politics works.’
‘What about sex?’
‘That’s a little forward – you could at least buy me another drink!’ Liz was lost in a storm of laughter and coughing. Clay felt his cheeks flush, but concentrated on taking a long sip of his beer to hide his embarrassment.
‘Funny, ha ha,’ he said as Liz’s sputtering died down. ‘I meant Swanson. Could he be blackmailed over sex stuff?’
Liz took a lengthy drag on her Stuyvesant and her expression became sterner. ‘I don’t know, darl. Doubtful. He used to be a bit grabby at times, back in the day. God knows I had my arse slapped on a couple of occasions. So did a few of the other girls in the office. But it never went any further, at least not around here. That was a long time ago, though. He cleaned up his act as the times changed and the term “sexual harassment” entered the office vernacular. He went from being a slapper to a leerer. If you wore a short skirt or a low-cut top around the office, you could feel his gaze on you. You’d catch him staring at times, but that was it. It wasn’t anything worthy of blackmail.’
‘He’s married, right?’
‘Yeah, for what it’s worth. Lesley Swanson is her name. Silly cow. I couldn’t stand her. I don’t think Wayne can, either. Doubt they’ve even slept in the same bed in the past twenty years.’
‘If he’s not getting laid at home, is it likely he’s getting laid elsewhere?’
A sly smile walked across Liz’s face. ‘Something on your mind, soldier? You sure this is just a business call?’
Clay glanced at his watch. ‘It is after 6 p.m., so technically I’m off the clock,’ he said. ‘But let’s stay focused here, Liz. Is Swanson the type to have an affair?’
Liz took a long drag and exhaled. The smoke wafted slowly across Clay’s face. ‘I sure wouldn’t put it past him,’ she said finally. ‘But now that you mention it, you’ve reminded me of something – prostitutes.’
‘Really?’ he said, unable to keep the excitement out of his voice.
‘Calm your farm, sweetie. It wasn’t confirmed. They were just rumours. There used to be talk that Swanson was partial to the occasional hooker, especially when he was up in Canberra, but that’s all it was – talk. Either he was really careful or it was just scuttlebutt. No one knew then, and I don’t think anyone will now. A good prostitute’s not gonna rat out a well-paying John. And he’s too clever to get caught, believe it or not.’
Clay deflated again. He tried not to show it, but he knew Liz had clicked on.
‘Oh, don’t be so disheartened, darl,’ she said. ‘These guys are good at what they do. They lie, they cheat, they do their little deals, and at the end of the day, they dance and dodge and say the right things so nothing sticks to them and people re-elect them. And Wayne Swanson is one of the best dancers and dodgers there is. I’ll be taking a very long sleep in the Warrnambool cemetery before he gets caught out, I can tell you that.’
Chapter 17
Clay and Liz had dinner in the bar and a couple more drinks together before Liz said goodnight.
‘I can’t handle as much midweek drinking these days,’ she said by way of an excuse, and gave Clay a peck on the cheek as she departed.
Clay checked his watch. It was 10 p.m. Food service was long finished and those that remained were the seasoned drinkers still celebrating Australia Day. A large group of musicians and artists Clay knew were hanging around in the smoker’s lounge. Some itinerant workers clustered around the pool table. The bar was lined with familiar-looking suits and less familiar-looking professional types. A couple of the tables were full – a group of twenty-somethings yelling over the top of each other when not looking at their phones, an increasingly drunk collection of middle-aged women squawking louder and louder, some randoms in casual attire minding their own business and chatting quietly over large glasses of wine.
He thought about calling Bec to see what she was up to, but decided to leave her alone. Maybe he should call Eddie and tell him what JT had said about Kerry Collins getting hired to work on a boat the night she went missing. Nah, that can wait, he thought. Maybe he could call Gabby… nah, probably best to let that wait a bit, too. Maybe you should just go home, said a little voice inside his head. Don’t have another pint. Just walk home. Go to bed.
Clay took a deep breath and headed out the door. The night air was cool, with a gentle sea breeze, enough to make him wish he’d thought ahead to bring a jacket, even though his apartment wasn’t far. He moved a few steps down the street from the pub door and pulled his nearly empty cigarette packet out of his shirt pocket.
He heard the door open behind him as he popped a smoke between his teeth and took the lighter from his pocket. The streetlights gave everything an orange glow as he flicked the flint wheel. The flame grabbed at the end of his cigarette and another orange glow emerged.
‘Can I borrow a light?’ An abrupt voice, full of confidence but lacking charm, came from behind him.
Clay turned and saw two men, neatly dressed, coming toward him; they’d just exited the pub, the door still swinging on its hinges behind them. One of the men had a shaved round head to match his roundish body, the other man was a slightly taller rectangle of solid mass, but with slicked-back black hair. The one with hair had a cigarette partway to his lips. Clay handed him the lighter. ‘Sure thing, mate,’ he said. Deep in his guts, he didn’t like the look of these guys. There was no humour in their eyes, which seemed odd for two guys leaving a pub at 10 p.m. on a Tuesday. And on Au
stralia Day, no less.
Slicked-hair guy took the lighter and lit his smoke. The round guy watched him. Not a word was spoken, which made Clay feel uncomfortable enough, but what really got to him was the fact that Slick looked Clay right in the eye as he pocketed Clay’s lighter.
Clay forced a grin, a pained one, and let a small exasperated laugh sneak out. ‘That’s fine, keep the lighter.’ He turned to head for home.
‘Mr Moloney.’ There was that charmless yet cocksure voice again. And dammit, they know my name, this cannot end well.
Clay turned back around. ‘Yeah?’
‘We have a message for you.’ It appeared to be the round guy with the brusque voice after all, not the smoker.
‘Couldn’t text it? Email, maybe?’
‘Whatever you’re digging for, you ain’t gonna find it, so maybe save yourself some pain and grief and give it a rest, hey?’
Something at the back of Clay’s brain told him to run, but four pints said otherwise. He dragged on his cigarette in a way he thought might pass for nonchalance, and exhaled the smoke into the cool night air. ‘What the hell are you talking about?’
‘If you’re too dumb to understand this is a warning, then perhaps we can beat it into you. Would that make things a little clearer?’
‘Oh, my God,’ said Clay, hamming up the fake exuberance. ‘Are you guys… hired goons?’ He let his face light up like a kid’s at Christmas. ‘What a great day! I’ve always wanted to meet hired goons!’
It was a split-second move and Clay was doubled over. Too focused on the round guy, Clay hadn’t seen the dark-haired rectangle step forward and land a quick jab in his stomach.
Clay attempted to suck in air, his smoke falling from his fingers and onto the asphalt footpath. ‘You son of a bitch,’ he squeezed out between gasps.
‘Is the message clear?’
Clay made himself stand up straight, panting. ‘So,’ he managed. ‘Let me get this right. You want me to stop digging for information.’ His breathing was becoming easier, air flowing back into his lungs like the false bravado he could feel filling up his brain. ‘And even though I’m apparently not gonna find this information, someone deemed it worthwhile to send you two handsome chaps along to warn me about looking for said information. Which I’m apparently not going to find. Now, doesn’t that seem a tad redundant to you two? I mean, if I wasn’t going to find the information anyway, then—’
