Pascoe stowed the pistol under the newspaper that had his mugshot on the cover. He was out of oxygen but he still had the asthma puffer. He gave himself a couple of good blasts and wheezed in the chemical-tasting air. If Pascoe had an attack now, then he would suffer the death he most feared – slowly and painfully choking out, suffocating while his lungs haemorrhaged and his heart burst. He took another hit off the asthma inhaler and tried to calm his heartbeat.
Nobody in the street had seen the pistol in his hand. Neither had the bodyguards in the restaurant or Jared Page, who was holding court now with a middle-aged man in a suit while Mark Hurley stood and waited, hands at his waist like a chastened schoolboy.
Two sets of people had entered the restaurant while Pascoe had his eyes shut. Pascoe didn’t recognise the man in the suit, whose body language said victim or supplicant, alongside another man who did look familiar. Pascoe sifted the face through his memory and came up with the name – Dave Gooch of the CIB branch. Gooch was a detective sergeant in armed rob when Pascoe was arrested those nineteen years ago, one of three arresting officers who’d then stolen most of the takings from the botched robbery, when only Pascoe had made it out of the bank. The bank said one hundred and fifty thousand and the newspapers concurred, but only fifty thousand was recovered and presented as evidence in court.
Pascoe didn’t care about that. He’d do the same in their position. What made it hard to stomach was that they’d beaten him for two days, pretending to extract the whereabouts of the missing money. Then they verballed him by presenting Pascoe’s unsigned ‘confession’ at the trial, stating that Pascoe refused to tell the court the whereabouts of the missing money. Pascoe’s accomplice Ben Davey had wounded a security guard before being shot dead himself, and Pascoe took the full punishment for the crime. The appearance of holding out on the missing money and Davey’s violence meant that Pascoe received the harshest sentence ever handed down to an armed robber. Pascoe hadn’t cared about that either. Davey wasn’t part of his regular crew, but Pascoe took responsibility for hiring the young hothead. He’d gone to the trouble of unloading Davey’s sawn-off before they’d gone in, but somehow Davey reloaded again between leaving the car and entering the bank.
What nobody else knew was that the guard was their inside man. He’d told them where the alarm buttons were and who knew the safe combination and who didn’t. Which of the banded notes in the tills contained dye packs and the temperaments of each of the tellers. Pascoe hadn’t told his young accomplice about the guard, in case they were caught and the kid spilled. In those days police interrogations always involved beating and torture, something for which the Armed Robbery Squad was famous. And that was Pascoe’s big mistake. The guard had overcompensated for his complicity by acting up during the robbery, presumably to protect himself from the suspicions of the armed-rob detectives, thinking that he was safe. The kid had lost his nerve and fired, seriously wounding the guard. Everything changed in that moment. It mightn’t mean anything to people outside the trade, but Pascoe had built up a reputation over the course of his lifetime of being a smart and staunch armed robber, something that was blown when the guard went down. The kid fired the shotgun, but Pascoe had organised the robbery. It was on him – the guard’s shooting and the kid’s death at the hands of the police.
The memory of the slain kid and Detective Sergeant Dave Gooch working Pascoe over with a phonebook and a gloved fist brought on the sense-memories of the beating he took that day. Pascoe’s heart fluttered like a small bird in his chest. Every now and then it missed a beat, and he felt a hot charge of shock flood his body. He knew that he should return to Fremantle and get more oxygen, but there was the matter of Mark Hurley.
Pascoe couldn’t do the job now, not with the kid in there, newly released on parole. He watched Gooch and Page round on the suited man, smirking and poking him while Hurley stood and waited his turn. Gooch and Page were clearly enjoying themselves. There were no other customers in the restaurant now and their gestures were theatrical. Gooch slapped the table and the suited man flinched. The man clearly didn’t know the rules. Pascoe would never flinch around men like Dave Gooch or Jared Page, which would just spur them on. Better to take the slap or the punch than give them the satisfaction. And just like that, it was over. The suited man was forced to shake Page’s hand. He stood and was led to the door by Gooch, who ushered him out onto the footpath. Gooch followed him but they went to their cars separately. The suit drove a white Mercedes sedan while Gooch climbed into a silver LTD with mud on its rims.
The two vehicles drove away and Pascoe turned his attention to Hurley, now seated at the table with Page. Hurley was trying hard but whatever Page was saying at him, barely even bothering to meet his eyes, was bad enough news that his shoulders sank and his head bowed. There was a moment when Hurley raised his right hand and shouted something, which made the bodyguards pay attention, but he soon enough returned to his resigned posture while Page talked. Then the meeting was over. Hurley too was forced to shake Page’s hand before being waved to the door. The bodyguard turned the open sign, locked the door and dimmed the lights in the room. Page could no longer be seen. Tony Pascoe had missed his chance.
He watched Hurley stride down the footpath opposite, away into the gloom. He turned the ignition and set the course for home. He was just about to pull away when he heard tapping on the passenger window. It was Hurley, who’d doubled back. Pascoe leaned over and cracked the door, but didn’t invite Mark in. He kept his eyes straight ahead while Hurley crouched on the footpath below window level. ‘I saw you there, before I went in. I know what you’re planning to do. I want to thank you, but –’
‘You should get lost,’ Pascoe said. ‘You never saw me.’
Mark Hurley’s voice wasn’t as he remembered it. Gone was the humour and enthusiasm. He sounded broken.
‘You don’t understand, Tone. Things have changed. What that meeting was about. Page has sold my debt. He’s sold all the debts owed to him. He’s got something else on.’
Pascoe felt his heart tumble again. He saw that his knuckles were white on the wheel. ‘Sold it to who?’
‘The Nongs. For a fifty-fifty cut.’
‘It must be big, whatever he’s got on.’
Already, Pascoe was working the angles. He couldn’t take on The Nongs, the state’s most notorious bikie gang. Not the biggest, but certainly the heaviest. Pascoe had served time with plenty of Nongs over the years. They had it good with the guards and no prisoners messed with them. He could remove their leadership group, but others would take their place. Mark Hurley’s debt would stand.
‘Whatever it is, it has something to do with that bloke they had there, before me. I could hear everything and they didn’t care. They were all over ’im. Page and that copper. That’s the reason Page’s offloaded his debt-collection goons. They’re all going to be working for the guy in the suit, the one they were threatening.’
‘The guy have a name?’
‘Tremain. They kept calling him that. I dunno who he is, some kind of gold miner.’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘They were talking about shares in his company. Equal shares. Classic standover. They let ’im keep his naming rights, but that’s about it. The copper said, the company stays Lightning Resources, but we come on as directors. Equal share of profits. Like I said, they didn’t even care I was listening.’
Pascoe averted his face from the kid, didn’t want Hurley to see the struggle for breath. Pascoe’s body was warning him with little bolts of shock that every breath might be the last. He took a long while to fill his lungs. When he did, he yanked up the three-on-the-tree gearstick. ‘Who are you going to be paying at The Nongs? Who precisely? Where and when?’
‘I got to go to the clubhouse, every Thursday at five. Pay the sergeant-at-arms.’
‘Yeah, I know him. He going to give you product?’
‘Every Thursday, five o’clock. Takes my money and gives me more gear. But you
don’t need to be –’
‘I do, son. And now, it’s goodbye again. We never met and we’ll never meet again. You keep doing what you need to do. I’ll do the same.’
‘Sure, Tone. It’s just …’
Pascoe dropped the handbrake, gently lifted the clutch until the engine engaged. ‘Now walk off. I can’t pull away till you leave.’
Hurley shut the passenger door, tapped the side of the car as he wandered back into the darkness. Pascoe lifted his foot and rolled the van through a turn. The restaurant was empty now, just the glow of fridge lights while the kitchen-workers behind the service counter flitted to their tasks.
33.
Swann could sense Maddie’s reluctance in her shortened step and the way her arms became stiff against her ribs, holding the notebook. He couldn’t blame her. It was a normal sight for local residents but he could see how the line of sailors snaking out the brothel front door looked sinister from a distance. The men were quiet under the weight of the silence in the suburban street, passing cars illuminating them for a moment before they were once again shrouded in darkness.
Gone was the earlier joviality from the first two days in port. The navy didn’t advertise the duration of its stays ahead of time, not even to its own sailors, for fear of providing an opportunity to terrorists. Every sailor on board the ship had already been granted leave. The sailors at the brothel now were on their second night’s leave, but many of them had already blown most of their money on their first night out, which explained the difference in attitude. Those men who genuinely wanted the company of women to cheer themselves up would still visit the bars and clubs, but those low on money or who solely wanted sex chose to visit the town’s brothels instead.
Swann led the way down the side entrance, turning to make sure that Maddie was alright. He wasn’t sure what she expected, but it obviously wasn’t the tipping of Dixie cups, or the ‘hello, miss’ that most of the men gave her as she walked past. Louise was still at home, not wanting to crowd Kerry’s small office and not wanting to wait in the lobby with the sailors. Swann would deliver Maddie back home after the interview.
In the lobby, Swann’s young apprentice Lee Southern looked up from his newspaper. He wore his regulation jeans, boots and tight blue Bonds tee-shirt. Lee held up the front of the Daily News and showed them the picture of Charles Bernier that took up most of the page. The headline in capitals. WANTED, was all it said.
‘Your work?’ Swann asked Maddie, who was staring at the dark floral wallpaper and antique lamps sporting red bulbs that gave the room a hearth-like warmth.
‘Yes. Some of it. I filed it this morning.’
The natural grit in her voice was subdued, but Swann didn’t worry about that. Kerry Bannister would read her discomfort and put her at ease.
Swann knocked on Kerry’s office door. The rooms along the hall were hushed except for the occasional creak, the running of a tap and the occasional whisper.
‘Come in,’ came the reply.
Swann opened the door and saw that Kerry was reading the same newspaper, her Dame Edna reading glasses perched on the bridge of her nose, a rollie dangling from her lip. She had a bottle of white cooling in an ice bucket.
Swann made the introductions, adding that Maddie had written the article that Kerry was reading, knowing that this would impress her. Kerry waved Maddie into a seat across the desk, pushing aside the unfinished Bulldogs scarf that she’d been knitting for the past five years, the two needles there as insurance in case things got out of hand. Maddie didn’t know that the steel knitting needles were weapons and smiled at the scarf, accepted the offer of a glass of white. Swann could see Kerry sizing up Maddie as the potential writer of her life story, something she’d often talked about as long as she didn’t have to write it herself.
Before Kerry started speaking, Swann cleared his throat. ‘Kerry, that driver’s licence you took off the creep the other night. You still have it?’
‘Course I still have it, Swann. Just let me …’
Kerry rummaged in her desk and drew out a child’s pencil case with the letters DANIEL spelled out in cardboard insert letters. She worked open the stiff zipper and poured the lot onto the desk.
‘The rogues’ gallery. He was a ginger, was he not?’
‘He was.’
Wrapped around each licence was a piece of paper beneath an elastic band, listing the date and offence of the man whose identification was confiscated.
‘Frank Drury,’ she began to recite. ‘Tried to do a runner. November sixteen, nineteen seventy-seven, sorted by Daniel … Thomas Kilpatrick, refused to pay because he couldn’t get it up, sorted by Daniel … Gerald Kimpton, tried to steal Jacinta’s knickers, sorted by Jacinta. Here it is. Mr Dennis Cord. February second nineteen eighty-nine. Locked himself in with Francine. Sorted by Frank Swann, and his chainsaw.’
Kerry passed over the licence. Maddie looked at him strangely. ‘Sorted by chainsaw? My God.’
‘More than subtle intimidation was called for, young lady,’ said Kerry. ‘Why I called an ex-walloper. Though no blood was spilt.’
‘The Francine that he locked himself in with. Was that Francine … McGregor?’ Maddie asked.
Swann nodded. The man’s silence and quiet menace had stayed with him, but he didn’t want to say that in front of Maddie, not yet at least. He turned to Kerry. ‘You didn’t give this to Cassidy, any of the other Ds?’
‘They didn’t ask about it. I didn’t think of it, either. As you know, we’ve been grieving …’
Kerry waved an arm at a photograph of Francine that Swann hadn’t noticed, pinned on the wall beneath a picture of John Gerovich flying for a mark. Stapled to the photo was a single rose, and what looked like a poem. Maddie lifted her notebook, asking permission to write. Kerry nodded, her eyes shining as she looked at the photo; Francine holding a cat next to her face, the cat licking her cheek.
Maddie was busy drawing the photograph and flower.
‘Did Francine say anything about the man after I left?’ Swann asked. ‘Did he ask her any questions?’
Kerry’s eyes never left the photo while she sipped on her wine. ‘No. Wait on. Yes. Did she have a boyfriend? Just the usual stupid stuff.’
‘Take this with me?’
Kerry nodded and Swann pocketed the licence. ‘Maddie, I’ll be across the road in the pub. Come over when you’re done. Otherwise, thanks, Kerry.’
Swann patted Lee Southern on the shoulder as he left. The line of sailors hadn’t moved, the same looks of boredom and frustration on the same faces.
The pub was quiet except for some regulars that Swann acknowledged with a nod before taking a stool. He looked at the ice-frosted taps and for the first time in many months felt like a cold beer, although he decided against it. Old Tom wasn’t too particular about cleaning the pipes. His draught often carried the odour of rotten eggs.
Tom shuffled out from his office and gave Swann a little smile that showed his teeth; Tom’s version of a bear hug and kiss. He nodded to the taps but Swann shook his head.
‘Tom, you seen this man before?’
Tom took up the spectacles tied with fifty-pound fishing line around his neck, put them on his nose. He nodded, then waited a beat, then smiled again.
‘Ok, Tom. When?’
Tom frowned with the effort of forming words out of the great silence behind his eyes. ‘He stay here a long time. Last year. Mr Cord.’
‘Any problems with him?’
‘No. He was quiet man. Released prisoner. Always pay rent on time. Eat here. Sleep here. Watch footy. Play Rose Tattoo on jukebox.’
‘Can you show me the dates he stayed here? Which room?’
Tom nodded, relieved from the task of speaking. Scratched his gut. He went into his office and came back with a ledger book, put the glasses on his nose and held the page close to his face. After he’d flicked through half the ledger he put it down on the counter, pointed a fat finger at a name.
Cord had stayed in the r
oom, like Tom said, for nearly a year. Strange, because Swann didn’t remember seeing him in the neighbourhood. He stayed in room four, which Swann knew had a view over the street to the Ada Rose. Swann was just about to shut the ledger when he remembered the other man he’d seen last week, another man with the edge of recent prison time on him, coming out of the shower and walking over to room four. Swann flicked the pages until he found the most recent entries. There it was. Cord. Not Dennis, but Ralph Cord. Swann pointed to the name and Tom leaned over, nodded, and paused until it was clear he’d have to speak.
‘Yes. Cord. Not quiet. Also red hair. Many problems. The brother.’
Swann looked at the dates. Ralph Cord had checked out the day Swann had seen him, after a month’s stay. The same day that Bernier and Francine went missing. Had the same air of menace as his brother.
34.
The CO’s eyes had sharpened when Devon volunteered to work the cocktail party at the racecourse. It was a tradition dating back to the Second World War that senior officers of large USS naval vessels entertained local dignitaries while in port. The public relations exercise was made even more important by the news that one of their servicemen was wanted for murder.
Devon Smith didn’t know or care about any of that. He wasn’t familiar with the wanted man, Charles Bernier, who worked maintenance on the higher decks. There was, however, plenty of shit talk in the mess and in the berthing room about what the negro sailor had done to the two women. Most sailors talked about the crimes with disgust on their faces. Many of them had sisters, wives and girlfriends, and sex murders were a threat to them all. For others, Devon suspected, it was also the case that the murders didn’t assist their getting laid when on leave, not the black ones at least. It was a bad situation for everyone.
Not that Wiggs, the galley CO, picked up on Devon’s anxiety about his plan. It was Wiggs who’d made the pronouncement that Devon never leave the scullery. He was a man used to underlings kissing his ass, however, and after a moment of suspicion he took Devon’s volunteering for the position of galley-hand as a sign that maybe, just maybe, Midshipman shitkicker Devon Smith was showing a bit of initiative.
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