Darkness wasn’t far away and Swann followed the convoy of unmarked Fords and Commodores, cherry lights flashing without sirens, to the Bayswater Bridge rendezvous where they were joined by a TRG van. Cassidy was in the lead vehicle, no doubt formalising a strategy to be enacted when they reached Slade Street. So far Cassidy had maintained radio silence, but that would soon change. Each of the police vehicles had left the crime scene separately, some heading into the city and others turning north toward Mount Lawley, but had met again at the servo just inside the Bayswater Bridge. This was Cassidy being old-school, and Swann admired him for that. Plenty of other detectives would have leaked word to the gathered press in the hope of getting their picture on the front page – that flash-lit moment as the suspect was led to the waiting panel van. Instead, and justifiably worried that the press might get there before them and alert Bernier, Cassidy had put policy before self-promotion.
‘What do you think Cassidy’s problem is?’ Swann asked. ‘He’s onto something more than a suspicion of Bernier’s guilt.’
Webb was unnaturally still. He’d finished talking into ‘the brick’, the Nokia Cityman mobile phone that was the first Swann had seen, allowing Webb to communicate with the Vinson by way of the ship’s own cell tower. He was careful not to talk too much, using formal code to designate what Swann presumed to be procedures and protocols. This signalled to Swann that despite Webb’s earlier cheerfulness there was a developing trust issue, which led to Swann’s question as soon as he hung up.
Webb lit a cigarette and scrolled down the window. The late afternoon was hot and bright, the smells of exhaust invading the car. Up ahead, the ridgeline of the scarp carried the last rays of sunlight reflected from windows and corrugated-iron roofs, making the heat seem worse. Webb ashed into the wind as Swann caught King William Street, making their turn right.
‘I don’t know, Frank. My guess is that through whatever channel, he’s learned that Charles Bernier has a sex crime conviction, back in Texas. What he mightn’t know, and the reason I didn’t bother sharing it with him, is that it was a stat rape charge, laid when Bernier was sixteen and his girlfriend was fifteen. The girlfriend, it must be said, was white.’
Swann nodded but didn’t reply. He followed the police convoy and turned the Brougham across traffic into Slade Street, headed toward the riverside block of flats where Jodie Brayshaw lived. Now the radio crackled to life as Cassidy directed the lead vehicle to cut its cherry lights. He ordered the TRG troopers to take up positions in the entrances, stairwells and second and third floor balconies of the five-storey block. He told the uniformed officers to keep out of sight, but to scout the carpark and nearby streets looking for a brown Datsun 120Y, registration number 6BC 456.
Swann’s knuckles were white on the steering wheel as he pulled the Holden to the kerb. They were uphill from the apartments, with a clear view of the plainclothes and uniformed men and women swarming to their task. He killed the ignition and pulled the handbrake.
‘Yeah, that might explain it,’ he said to Webb. ‘What else haven’t you told him?’
Ahead of them, Cassidy looked up the street and saw Swann and Webb, made a point of ignoring them, taking out his Smith & Wesson revolver, checking the load.
There was no contrition in Webb’s voice. ‘I didn’t share that Bernier is something of a loner. That the navy shrinks have had their eye on him. Regular attendee at Sunday services, across two denominations. Skips meals. Was treated for venereal disease three months ago, clear for HIV. Nearly failed his last physical, as a result of congenital asthma. Should be wearing glasses but refuses, out of vanity. No discipline issues. No gang affiliations. No likelihood of promotion anytime soon. He performs his role as a boatswain’s mate well enough, maintaining mechanical equipment, related to his civvy job as a diesel mechanic. He has a high IQ, based on tests done by the shipboard shrinks, who feel that Bernier’s withdrawn nature is the result of frustration at his current position, although he shows no ambition to retrain or reskill himself. When his belongings were searched there was nothing untoward, no women’s possessions or lewd material –’
‘Any letters?’ Swann asked. ‘Francine kept every letter from Bernier.’
‘No letters. I’m not sure what that means, precisely. Whether he didn’t value the relationship as much as she did –’
‘Or he didn’t want to leave any evidence of their knowing each other.’
Webb looked at Swann for the first time. Swann felt the voltage in the look but ignored it, watching the TRG troopers secure every escape route from the building while Cassidy and two other plainclothes officers crept toward the flat on the second floor, pistols drawn.
‘Do we have a problem, Frank?’ Webb’s voice was quiet, but there was steel in it.
‘Not if you share everything you just told me with Cassidy, and anything else you think might be useful to the case. Meat in the sandwich, that’s not where I want to be. I’m not taking sides. I just want to help catch Francine’s killer, Jodie Brayshaw’s killer.’
‘Fair enough.’
Cassidy stood next to Brayshaw’s bedsit, gun raised as a prequel to assuming the firing position. He nodded his head to the TRG officer in a visored helmet, who slammed an orange battering ram into the door, just above the lock. Cassidy went inside, followed immediately by three other officers. Swann and Webb waited for it, the sound of a gunshot, but there was only shouting, and then silence. A minute passed before the TRG officer returned to the balcony and signalled to his troopers to stand down, inverting a thumb before holstering his pistol.