Swann pulled the Brougham into his drive, parked two feet ahead of the hanging bottlebrush. Wattlebirds nested up there in the foliage and liked to paint his car with streaky shit.
Webb had been silent until they reached Fremantle, weighing his options. ‘Swann, what did he mean by trouble following you around? You understand, in the circumstances, I’ve got to limit our exposure to potential –’
Swann had nodded and turned into the street. ‘A colleague of Detective Sergeant Cassidy’s, and a good friend of mine, a kid I always thought of as a son, was helping me on a case a few years ago, got murdered over it.’
Swann let it hang there, hoping that the answer would be sufficient to Webb’s needs. He had no desire to get involved in Montana’s murder, although because of the diagnosis made on the Vinson, he felt a degree of gratitude that he’d repay with assistance, if needed. But Webb didn’t comment, and so Swann asked his own question. ‘The rape cases that Cassidy mentioned. What he was hinting at – the US Navy running off before an investigation was complete – that standard procedure? Because, if so –’
‘I’m not aware of the details, Swann, but I can promise you, never on my watch. It’s been known to happen, I won’t lie, especially in countries where the gaols are atrocious and the legal system’s a bad joke. It’s highly likely that there weren’t actual suspects, in which case no commander is going to linger in port for the duration of a drawn-out investigation. You’ll appreciate that US Navy vessels are sitting targets when in port, for terrorists and protestors. But in return for … fair treatment in the matter before us, I’m happy to follow up on Cassidy’s cases through my own channels, if that’d help smooth the waters.’
Swann had never served in the armed forces, but he’d done fifteen years as a beat copper and detective, before returning to uniform as a superintendent. Webb’s answer was persuasive, but once again there was something in his tone that made Swann wary. Webb was a policeman with a duty to uphold the law, but he also had an institution to protect, an institution that served the most powerful and wealthy nation on earth.
Webb wanted to speak to Kerry Bannister before Cassidy and the other detectives arrived, and so they’d driven straight home. Swann had agreed because Montana was one of Kerry’s staff – a young woman whose life had been stolen. He wanted Kerry to hear the news from a friend, rather than from Cassidy.
The day was still hot and the street trees on South Terrace drooped. Swann approached the brothel’s side entrance. He could hear the sailors talking before he turned the corner, noticed Webb straighten up his uniform, place on his officer’s cap. There were five rooms inside the brothel and ten sailors waiting outside. Those in groups smoked and chatted among themselves while the few men who were alone leaned on the wall and stared at the clear blue sky. It was a narrow entrance, and when Swann moved to pass the group of four sailors at the head of the line, a strong arm reached out and barred his way. Swann looked into the sailor’s eyes, waiting for the response as the sailor recognised Master-at-Arms Steven Webb beside him. Webb cleared his throat, the man gulped, dropped his arm, stood away. When Swann and Webb didn’t move along, the young sailor reluctantly saluted, as did the others.
‘As you were,’ Webb said formally. ‘Although I think you need to find something else to do.’
The sailors looked at each other, started to leave.
Swann led the way into the brothel. ‘You didn’t want to ask them about our missing sailor?’
Webb paused inside the front door. ‘They were all white, Asian or Hispanic. They likely wouldn’t know, and besides, they’re fresh on leave as of oh eight hundred this morning. I could smell the soap powder in their clothes. You sure about this, Swann? I’m having second thoughts. Those detectives will be here any minute. You sure that coming here won’t put Cassidy’s nose out of joint?’
Swann shrugged. ‘It might upset Cassidy, although at this stage your investigations are separate. You’re trying to track an AWOL sailor. He’s trying to track down a murderer. We don’t know if your man was with Montana, and even if he was, his being seen with her is still circumstantial evidence. Would you mind waiting here for a minute? Kerry doesn’t know that Montana is dead. Better she hear it from me.’
Kerry Bannister was as tough a person as Swann knew, but the news made her reach for Swann’s arm as she slid to the desk. She sat there, legs sprawled, tears falling down her weathered face. ‘Oh, the poor dear. The poor, poor girl.’
Swann crouched beside her. Down the corridor, the rooms were all occupied. It was a Federation building with solid brick walls but from Kerry’s office you could hear every creaking bedspring and murmur. She’d told him previously that the women didn’t mind the Yanks – most of them were polite and all of them were generous. Some of them just wanted to talk to a woman, smell a woman, hold a woman.
He wondered if the missing sailor was such a man, or whether he was the other kind.
Now Kerry looked up to him, wiping her eyes. Swann waited for the question. He’d broken similar news to dozens of people over the years – mothers, fathers, husbands, wives, and children. First came the shock, then the cruel pang of hope.
‘You sure it was her, Swann? Could it be some other woman? Plenty of ordinary women tart themselves up when the Yanks are in town.’
Swann shook his head, squeezed Kerry’s hand. ‘I got a good look. It was her. She have family, a partner here?’
‘She’s from Sydney. Came over for a month, two years ago, then stayed. Don’t know much about her family. She’s into men, only. Got regulars, but never seen her with a steady partner. Montana … her real name’s Francine McGregor.’
Kerry looked over Swann’s shoulder. Swann turned, and there was Webb, where he wasn’t supposed to be. Webb’s posture was appropriately apologetic, hat at his waist. He’d combed his hair again.
They knew each other. Part of Webb’s job was communicating with local madams in every port, making sure that his men behaved.
‘What’re you doin here?’ she asked him.
Webb made to answer, but Swann held up a hand. ‘What time did … Francine work until last night? You see her leave with anyone?’
Kerry answered, looking at Webb. ‘She worked the four-to-midnight. Didn’t see her leave with nobody.’
Webb took something from his shirt pocket, leaned into the room. ‘Did you see her with this man yesterday afternoon, or last night?’
Swann looked at the photographs of Midshipman Charles Bernier, broken into four frames – hat on, hat off, front view and side view. His name and rank were handwritten at the base of the image. Big dark eyes and cropped hair. The glazed-looking scar that stretched from his ear to his mouth.
It took a moment for Swann to register what Webb had done, or hadn’t done. Back at the river, he hadn’t supplied the photograph to Cassidy, despite the witness statement identifying Francine McGregor with an African-American sailor who wore the same distinctive scar.
Kerry sniffed, shook her head. ‘No. He wasn’t here yesterday. But I do recognise him. He was here last time. I got a good memory for faces. Why? What’s he done? He got anything –’
‘We don’t know, Kerry,’ Swann said. ‘So he was here two years ago when the Vinson was in port. With Francine? He one of her clients?’
‘Yeah, he was. She was new then. Don’t remember anything other than that.’
Swann asked Kerry where Francine lived. Webb wrote down the address.
There was a long male sigh in the closest room, followed by relieved laughter.
‘Kerry,’ Swann asked, ‘did Francine ever work off the clock?’
‘Not that I know of. She wouldn’t be working here if I caught her, but being straight, it’s possible she took a shine to one of her blokes.’
‘If she did, or if she wanted to meet a client, a regular. Not for business, but for fun, where would she go?’
Swann knew the answer, picturing the single room upstairs in the Seaview across the road, its slashed mattress that contained Bernier’s wallet.
‘Tom rents out short-time singles. You know that.’
The door to the nearest room opened. Swann looked at his watch. Five seconds before five o’clock, the flushed-looking sailor making use of every moment, leaving the buttoning of his smock and the tying of his neckerchief until he was outside. In the context of what’d just happened to Francine McGregor, the sight angered Swann. He felt like wiping the satisfied look off the sailor’s face.
The sailor saw Swann’s expression and the smile slid away. He made a perfunctory salute to Webb and scampered for the door. Behind him, one of the new young women who Swann didn’t know emerged from the room, a shawl draped over her bare breasts and shoulders, making for the toilet. She was a redhead with a hard face that scanned Swann and Webb. It wasn’t until she saw the tears on Kerry’s face that her eyes softened.
‘Dakota,’ Kerry said. ‘We got to close up. Knock on all the doors. Get the blokes dressed and outta here, then lock the front door. We got to have a meetin.’