Swann had slept well, head buried beneath his pillow. Not once did he awake to the heaving in his stomach or the acid in his gills that sent him staggering toward the toilet. He ate a breakfast of dry toast and coffee and felt well enough to walk the dog into Fremantle. Mya trotted beside him at her odd angle, leading with her left shoulder, the kelpie in her breeding showing through.
It was another hot morning. The easterly wind blew over him and brushed the ocean flat between the new groynes, built for the defence of the America’s Cup. The local sailors had gone down four–nil to the Americans, but the race had kickstarted a home-renovation boom whose echoes he could hear in the streets around him: angle grinders, nail guns, bench saws and cement mixers.
Swann had slept so well that the sound of the aircraft carrier USS Carl Vinson entering the port, guided by tugs and the blasting of foghorns, hadn’t woken him. He saw a group of US sailors on the pavement outside the Italian Club, looking at a street map. They were lost, but when an elderly Italian woman dressed in black passed them, they looked to their feet. Swann could guess, and he saw the relief in their faces as he approached. They were all young, the oldest perhaps twenty, each wearing their summer whites complete with bell-bottomed trousers, Dixie-cup hats and black neckerchiefs. Swann’s friend on the Carl Vinson, Master-at-Arms Steve Webb, had told him that according to legend, the neckerchief referred to the Greek myth where a drowned sailor needed a place to hide a coin, so to pay the ferryman to cross the River of Styx.
‘Sir, we were looking –’
Swann nodded gravely, which made the young midshipman swallow hard. Mya got busy sniffing at the freshly laundered legs that gathered around them, most of the young men looking off into the distance.
Someone had scrawled Aiderose on the top corner of their map. Someone else had tried to scratch out the phallus and breasts drawn alongside the address. Swann didn’t try and correct their spelling.
‘Keep going along this road until you come to Ada or Rose Street, then turn left. You’ll find it across the road from the Seaview pub, which should be open. And, word to the wise, your Shore Patrol puts an undercover officer in the Seaview, just to keep an eye. So behave yourselves.’
The story about an undercover patrolman was a lie but Swann was inundated by thankyou sirs, and wide smiles. The Yanks, they were nothing if not polite – merely one of the reasons they so impressed local women accustomed to the regular blunt, broke, Australian male.
Swann left the men and turned into the city streets. The truth was that he felt uneasy about pointing the sailors in the direction of the brothel. In a perfect world, there would be no brothels and no prostitutes, but Swann had lived long enough to observe the laws wax and wane with regards to the various prohibitions. From his experience, making the sex trade illegal just put more women in danger.
Everywhere Swann looked, American sailors in a variety of uniforms milled about on the footpaths, talking to taxi drivers and buying souvenirs while they still had money. The aircraft carrier was in port for two weeks to carry out maintenance. This news wasn’t widely known due to security concerns, not even by the sailors and officers themselves, but Swann’s Shore Patrol friend had given him the full story. He’d hinted in a letter that Swann’s services would certainly be needed.
Swann’s usual dog-walking routine was to skirt the town and take in the Fremantle docks, where he’d grown up as a wharf-rat, hanging around the ships and scrounging food and coins off the crews from all corners of the world. The USS Carl Vinson, however, wasn’t like most ships. It was part of a nuclear-powered fleet whose presence in Australian ports was fiercely opposed by local activists; Swann’s eldest and youngest daughters, Louise and Blonny, among them.
Instead of heading to the port, Swann turned south, toward his home. Marion would return from her shift midafternoon, when they’d head to the beach to cool off. During his lay-off from work, Swann was teaching himself to broaden his cooking beyond the regular meat-and-three-veg that he’d grown up with. Tonight he planned to make lasagne and a green salad. Maria at the local deli would give him instructions on the lasagne, and Swann’s neighbour Salvatore had already taught him how to make a standard meat sauce. Swann likely wouldn’t eat, but hoped that today might be when his appetite kicked back in. Either way, between that and the latest novel he’d cracked into on Marion’s recommendation – David Ireland’s The Glass Canoe – it’d fill the hours before she returned home.
The Mercedes SE sedan in Swann’s driveway was a first. A first for the street, too, and possibly the suburb. Its owner wasn’t inside the car and Swann scanned the front seats, saw some manila folders and the hilt of a hunting knife wedged in the leather upholstery. Swann’s neighbour, Salvatore, waved his hose across the garden bed planted exclusively with roses. He normally waited until dusk to water his roses, which he laid before candlelit altars to the Virgin Mary in each of the rooms of his house. Like many people Swann knew, Salvatore was haunted by something from his past, and like most people, too, he didn’t want to talk about it. Sal was naked to the waist and scratching at the tattoo of Jesus Christ on the cross that began at his belly and finished at his neck and shoulders. He had obviously heard Swann’s gate creak open and was keeping an eye. He nodded his head toward Swann’s front porch, shaded by the large flowering frangipani.
At the first creak of the gate, the visitor sprang from the porch. Swann knew who it was already, but was surprised by the size of the man. He’d never met Paul Tremain, although he knew him as one of the hundreds of mining speculators trying to climb the greasy pole.
Tremain was short and wiry, wearing a tight blue suit and an artificial tan. His dyed black hair was combed in a ruthless side part. His large blue eyes sat above a long nose and a fleshy mouth. His jaw was small and his chin was dimpled. His striding down the drive reminded Swann of the studied poise of the Terrace legal eagles, headed into court. Tremain stopped at precisely the length of the dog’s leash, and thrust out his hand.
Swann dropped the leash and Mya scampered to Tremain’s legs, began to paw at his knees, offering her head for a scratch. Tremain couldn’t help himself – despite the dusty paw prints on his immaculately ironed trousers, he reached down and fondled her ears, genuine affection in his eyes. Dogs were fair judges of character, and Swann accepted the precisely calibrated handshake of their generation and went to the porch. The day was heating up and his scalp was sweaty. He kicked off his thongs. Tremain sat in the chair opposite, Mya nudging his shins for a pat.
‘I know who you are, Mr Tremain, and about your situation, but I’m not taking on work right now.’
‘So I’ve heard. But I’ve tried everyone else –’
‘I know. That’s why you’re here, but like I say …’
Swann wafted his hands. Mya moved from Tremain and began to sniff around Swann’s shopping.
‘Some advice then. Of course I’ll pay for your time. Whatever you ask.’
Tremain sat forward and nervously worked his hands, saw what he was doing, forced himself to be still. Swann sighed. ‘Who’s at the mine site? Who’s doing your security?’
‘Chemex. They’re the third firm I’ve hired. Same result.’
‘You need to go offshore. All of the locals work at the behest of the CIB. Their licences, you understand. Who in the Gold Squad?’
‘A Detective Sergeant Dave Gooch.’
There was nothing to say, except for the look in Tremain’s eyes – he genuinely didn’t understand. ‘Let me guess,’ Swann said. ‘After the early thefts from the site, Gooch was made aware of the first shipment from Kal to Perth. The one that went missing.’
‘Yes. Every ounce of it. Near eighty thousand dollars worth. Every cent promised to my creditors.’
‘Did you know that Gooch has a gold mine, just shy of Leonora? That he has a part-share in three or four leases with Tommaso Adamo?’
Tremain’s face flushed with blood. He’d tried to remain calm, but was beyond that now. ‘Yes, I did know that, actually. I’ve done my research. But seriously? This is nineteen eighty-nine, not eighteen eighty-nine. What are you saying? That I’ve struck the big one, but that every bit of it is going to be taken from me? That I have to sit down there myself in the depths of the earth, seven days a week, with a shotgun, just to keep what’s mine?’
‘That’s not a bad idea.’
Tremain opened his mouth, the sneer written on his face, but thought better of it. He closed his eyes, kept them closed, swallowed his anger.
‘Go offshore, you say.’
‘Yes. But even then. The temptation, you understand. The threats. The isolation. The opportunity. It’s likely that even were a licence to be granted to an overseas firm, that it’d have certain … conditions. Delays in approval, that sort of thing. I’m assuming you need to act fast?’
‘Fast. Yes. The beauty of the strike is that there’s near twenty million, according to the geologists, in the one vein. That’s unheard of. It doesn’t need crushing, or separating. You can carve it out with a hammer and chisel. Which is the problem.’
Even as they were speaking, reflected heat radiating off the drive, honeyeaters chirping in the frangipani leaves, Swann didn’t find it hard to imagine Tremain’s workers right at that moment working the vein, stealing for themselves and for Gooch and his higher-ups.
‘You need to close it down. Fill it in. Cap it with a mountain of cement, until you’ve got the situation –’
‘That’s no good. The vein is near the edge of my lease. The only useful thing that Gooch told me is that if I don’t get it out soon –’
‘Your neighbour will drill across.’
‘Yes.’
‘Have you been approached by a potential partner?’
‘Yes, many, every step of the way. I’ve told them no. Was that foolish?’
‘Depends who they are. Has Gooch –’
‘Yes.’
‘Unless you want Gooch to take over the whole thing, you need to find someone at a level of government. A minister. A senior public servant. Have you thought about that?’
‘I’ve had meetings with them all, to complain.’
Swann put his hands on the wings of his chair, made ready to stand. His stomach was churning again. The garden was right there, but he didn’t want Tremain to see him sick. The dog read his movements and rose on shaking legs.
Tremain, however, remained seated, his eyes elsewhere. He snapped out of it when Swann finally stood. ‘But how would that work? Wouldn’t there be a conflict of interest, especially after the recent scrutiny of the government doing business with the Conlans? Talk of a Royal Commission?’
‘There are ways. Speak to your accountant.’
‘I will. Thanks for your time. What do I owe you?’
Swann shook his head. ‘Advice is free. Sorry I can’t help.’ The churning in his guts had become minor spasms, now short violent convulsions. Swann leaned over the garden and threw up his coffee, holding back the dog by her collar.
When he was finished, Tremain thrust his hand out, his eyes striving for the right note of commiseration. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t realise you were unwell. You’ve been through a lot.’
He sounded genuine, which saddened Swann, because it was precisely the reason that Tremain was being robbed blind.