Swann led Webb up the beer-smelling stairs of the Brass Monkey and onto the second storey where the floorboards creaked beneath carpet laid during the gold rush ninety years earlier. Back then, the second storey was a brothel; now the old rooms were used for storage and offices. Swann knocked on the door of the furthest room on the north side. As he’d hoped, he heard the gruff voice of Richard Hand, the unfortunately named hotel manager, telling him to come in.
Hand was perched over the open window leading onto the alley. Cassidy could be seen below conferring with a forensics officer, standing over the murdered woman. The contents of the garbage bin were being spooned into ziplock bags, clearing the space around the woman prior to her removal. Hand got a surprise when he turned and found Swann inside the door, rather than one of his bar or cleaning staff.
‘Swann. What the fuck?’
Hand was a handsome man in his forties, still sporting a quiff of blond hair. His face shone with the moisturiser he’d just applied. The open jar of Pond’s cream sat next to a lit cigarette on the desktop laden with bills, invoices and orders.
‘Nasty business,’ Swann said. ‘You been watching the whole time?’
The question wasn’t an accusation but Hand’s reply was testy. He screwed the lid on the moisturiser and put it in the top drawer. ‘Since I got in, about an hour ago. Why?’
‘No reason. Dick, this is Steve Webb. He’s an investigator with the US Navy.’
There wasn’t space in the room for Webb to do anything except lean around Swann and show his face. ‘Sir. Thanks for seeing us.’
‘Seeing you? Not like you asked first.’
Webb looked a little shocked. Swann angled his head and Webb stood back into the hall. ‘I’m assuming it was one of your staff found the poor woman. That’s your row of bins, no?’
Hand put his elbows on the desk, took up his cigarette and rolled the glowing end into a point of fire. ‘Yeah, sure is. They got Kylie in a paddy wagon somewhere. What do you want?’
‘Before Cassidy gets up here and asks the same questions, I want to speak to your bar staff who were on duty last night. Or, even better, you call and ask them, put the phone on speaker. We’re looking to ID the murder victim.’
Hand took a good hit off the cigarette and flicked it over his shoulder, out into the alley. ‘I don’t have to speak to you, Swann. Those days are over. Why the fuck would I?’
Swann was prepared. He took out the twin hundred-dollar notes that he’d extracted from Webb’s wallet, held them up. Webb hadn’t needed convincing. Cassidy had publically shamed him, and by extension the US Navy. He was now on the outer and needed a way back in.
‘Give ’em here.’
Hand swiped the notes and put them in his desk drawer. Squinted at the duty roster beside him and squared up the phone. Lifted off the handset and punched the numbers.
Dick Hand let them out into the alley by way of the pub’s back door. They were now inside the police tape perimeter and Swann walked toward Cassidy with the note held up. Some of the journos down the far end of the alley noticed and raised their cameras. Cassidy pulled out his handcuffs and strode to cut the distance, his hand on the revolver at this hip.
‘You’re under arrest, Swann, for impeding an investigation. The Septic Tank can leave, but you’re –’
Swann stopped and waited. When Cassidy was in his face and reaching to turn him to the wall, Swann offered him the note. ‘The young woman’s name is Jodie Brayshaw. She lives alone in a flat at the Bayswater address there. I just spoke to a barman who knows her well. He noticed her drinking with two friends and three white sailors before midnight. He then noticed her talking to a black sailor in the corridor leading to the toilets, beside the cigarette machine, just after last orders. He said hello to her and she replied. She didn’t look scared. He didn’t get a good look at the black sailor and wasn’t able to identify him as Bernier because it was too dark, although the man’s size and height are a rough match. The barman’s name and phone number are there too. Do you want it or should I give it to the journos?’
Cassidy relocked the bracelets, put them into their pouch on his belt, reached for the note. ‘If Bernier’s at this address, and he resists, I don’t want your Yank copper mate getting in the way. Wait until we’re gone before heading there yourself. You got it?’
Swann put up his hands, nodded, retreated back to where Webb was smoking, looking up at Dick Hand in the offices above them, his face shining in a box of sunlight, pale fingers on the lintel, enjoying the show.