Swann sat in the carpark of the Perth Central Police Station and waited. He had worked in this building for twenty years and risen to the rank of superintendent of uniformed police, responsible for several hundred men and women before he turned whistle-blower and put a flame to his career. He didn’t miss the institution, although his years of training were ingrained in him – the reason he was there in the carpark, waiting for Cassidy to return.
The brig of the USS Carl Vinson had been empty except for three white sailors and one black sailor awaiting charges for minor crimes. Cassidy still didn’t trust Webb, and Swann couldn’t blame him for that. The location of Jodie Brayshaw’s Datsun so close to the aircraft carrier was a convincing piece of evidence, especially the presence of Bernier’s brand of cigarettes and Jodie’s distinctive purple lipstick in the ashtray. Cassidy had done what Swann would have done – rolled the dice. The problem was that he came up empty, and as a result had lost Webb’s trust.
Cassidy had tricked Webb by saying that they’d discovered a makeshift camp in Kings Park, scattered with cigarette butts, in the context of enquiring about the brand Bernier smoked. Cassidy at that point felt sure that Webb had taken Bernier on board the Vinson, knowing that each sailor was scrutinised upon returning to ship – there was no way that he might have slipped past. Cassidy was under a lot of pressure, and it was showing. That was the problem with being a senior detective in the CIB, who’d been promoted on merit and not because of how much money he earned or what he knew about others – Cassidy was tolerated but hardly trusted. And then there was the media pressure, with the two murders leading every radio and television bulletin and monopolising the front page of the dailies. The media was doing its bit to advertise Bernier’s image and other pertinent details, but according to Cassidy there was a developing political problem as many weighed up the economic benefits of the Americans in port set against issues of public safety. It was the hottest topic on talkback radio. According to Webb, last night two black American sailors had been assaulted in Fremantle by local youths and kicked to within an inch of their lives. In the meantime, Cassidy had men and women at the airport, the bus and train stations, asking around in the city’s pubs, markets and restaurants, undercover police in the parks and nightclubs, uniformed police canvassing Jodie Brayshaw’s neighbourhood, and detectives questioning her friends, work colleagues and family. The investigation was large and as a result, thinly spread.
Which was where Swann came in. He had mentioned to Cassidy the Cord brothers renting at the Seaview Hotel, the younger brother being present when Francine and Bernier were staying there. Cassidy’s junior detectives were looking to interview Cord, but so far hadn’t been able to track him down. The fact that both brothers had lived there straight after gaol wasn’t unusual in a hotel that routinely housed parolees, but Cord might have been a witness, and Swann offered to locate him. The elder Cord brother had spent time with Francine the day before she went missing. It wasn’t the fact that both brothers were ex-convicts that interested Swann, although it might be significant. It was the quiet menace he’d sensed when observing them. Neither had spoken, but the memory of both men stayed with him, in particular the look in their eyes, lit by something smug, confident – more than the regular hatred of authority.
Swann watched Cassidy grow larger in his wing mirror. On top of everything else, being seen with Frank Swann would do Cassidy no favours among his peers, and he was careful, looking around the carpark for observers. He leaned down and placed a folder in Swann’s lap, still warm from the photocopier. He looked harried, but determined. ‘Dennis Cord did his time for aggravated sexual assault. It’s in there. Found a girl asleep outside the pub up in Seabird. Raped her, and when she awoke, shut her up by bashing her. Ralph Cord just got out after a three-year stretch for aggravated assault. He’s ex–Junkyard Dogs. Kicked out of the club, would you believe, for being too racist. Took issue with another club member who he suspected of being part-Aborigine. Got a tattoo on his forearm of a lynched black, which didn’t go down too well. Never handed back his patch.’
‘Lovely family. Please tell me there are only two brothers.’
‘Only the two.’ Cassidy tapped the roof. ‘Got to go. The minister’s reached into his pocket. We’re announcing a hundred thousand reward for information relating to the McGregor and Brayshaw murders. The minister, the commissioner, me. TV tonight.’
‘There’s a coffee stain on your tie. Might want to change it.’
Cassidy looked down his nose at the stain, shaped like a head on the silver and blue striped tie. ‘Smart-arse. Thanks. And by the way, thought you might like to read this, page three.’
Cassidy reached into his jacket and withdrew a folded Daily News, dropped it in Swann’s lap, turned and left. Swann looked at the picture of the Brayshaw crime scene, over another headshot image of Bernier, appearing every bit the proud new recruit in his pristine whites, a dutiful confidence in his eyes, the black neckerchief tied with a square knot, now marked with a superimposed red arrow.
Swann turned to page three, saw the sketch done by Maddie of Francine and her cat, the rose and poem. Instead of a description of Kerry Bannister, and her brothel, as he expected, the piece started with, ‘My guide is Frank Swann, ex-detective and superintendent. Mr Swann grew up in the streets of Fremantle, employed first as a newsboy before graduating to working as a runner for the brothels on Bannister Street, taking orders for sly grog, condoms and cigarettes. Mr Swann takes me to the Ada Rose brothel, where he’s a good friend of the proprietor, Ms Kerry Bannister, a formidable woman in her sixties with a sharp sense of humour. The pair met when Frank Swann was a ten-year-old sly-grog runner and she was a prostitute in a brothel called Aphrodite’s …’
Swann folded the paper and tossed it onto the seat beside him. It wasn’t a problem, Maddie saying all that, although Swann was going to have to be clear with her about what was, and wasn’t, on the record. She had asked him the questions on the walk to the brothel, and he’d answered them, not realising that he was part of the story.
Still, Kerry was going to like the trip down memory lane, despite the sad circumstances, with the piece going into some detail about her history. Maddie had been respectful and matter-of-fact rather than sensationalist, and Kerry’s portrait of Francine McGregor gave a good picture of the complicated person behind the worker in the oldest profession.