Swann held the glass of Emu Export to the porch light. His first drink in many months. The lead poisoning had at least got him off the cigarettes, something his daughters had nagged him about for years. Every other time he’d tried to quit smoking it was just as bad as coming off the drink – sleeplessness, cold sweats, nightmares, ridiculous mood swings. He’d learnt to control his drinking but didn’t think that he could do the same with the tobacco. It was either smoke or not smoke.
Marion touched her glass of moselle to his beer, put her feet over his knees. It was another hot night and they were on the back porch watching the moon rise. Because it was hot, Swann had made them cheese and salad sandwiches for dinner. Marion was tired after a long day supervising an East Perth health clinic that treated street people. The dog snored under her chair, and despite the early hour Swann found himself yawning. Marion had sore feet from being on the move all day, and Swann took one of her feet and put it in his lap, began to knead the instep as she liked him to do.
They’d almost had an argument over dinner. On the table between them was the front page of the Daily News, including the article written by Louise’s friend Maddie. She had done solid work. Her article, which continued onto page three, detailed a long history of sexual assault and sex murders in ports frequented by the US Navy, across five continents. She included the names of correspondents in Mombasa, Hamburg, Okinawa, Yokohama, Subic Bay, Lisbon, Naples, Lima, Manta, Sydney, who each quoted specific crimes and their links to US sailors. It was a damning article, and while it didn’t explicitly suggest that the US Navy was culpable in allowing sexual predators to serve under the flag, the fact that so few of the assaults had resulted in convictions implied that there were serial rapists and murderers currently in the navy who’d never been brought to justice.
‘I know that look,’ Swann said when Marion finished reading the article, not meeting his eyes.
She ignored him because it was a stupid thing to say. Marion worked with victims of sexual assault and domestic violence. These were crimes perpetrated by individuals, but often in an institutional setting, which allowed the perpetrators opportunity and cover. Whether it was a church, school, reformatory, prison or branch of the military, she knew the added damage when the needs of the institution to protect itself were prioritised over the needs of the victim.
Swann was angry at himself for feeling defensive. ‘I’m helping Webb find an AWOL sailor. A man who if proven guilty will cop it.’
‘You don’t know that,’ she replied. ‘Look at how few of those crimes have been solved.’
There was nothing Swann could say, because it was true. They had raised three daughters together. He shared her anger at the evidence that predators were getting away with murder, literally, by hiding behind the uniform. No doubt Webb had seen the article. He would have some explaining to do.
Both of them heard the front gate open. The dog awoke and looked into the darkness, growled. Swann stroked her ears and waited. If it was family or friends they’d know to come down back, but it was the doorbell which rang. The dog barked and bolted inside the house, pausing only to make sure that Swann was following before doubling the volume of its barking.
It was Tremain, the gold miner, standing in a puddle of light beneath the frangipani. For whatever reason, he waited there instead of the porch. Swann looked past him into the shadows. Tremain’s was an old trick used to lure someone outside, prior to their being shot. Swann had put those days behind him, but you never knew.
‘What do you want?’
‘I tried calling you. A dozen messages.’
Tremain hadn’t asked Swann to leave the house. Swann stepped onto the porch.
‘I gave you free advice,’ Swann said. ‘Told you not to contact me.’
Tremain reached down to the Gladstone bag at his feet. Swann measured the distance between them, tensed. The bag that Tremain lifted was heavy, and clanked. Swann got ready to move.
‘I know,’ Tremain complained. ‘But your man told me to make the drop. I did as he asked, but that was before the bullets started flying. Got out of there by the skin of my teeth. Never made the delivery. Can’t do it, Swann, cut of the cloth and all that. It’s not me. Your man didn’t leave me a number. I had no choice but to come here.’
Swann listened to the shakiness in Tremain’s voice. Nerves, adrenalin, exhaustion – Swann didn’t care.
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, Tremain. You’ve got to leave.’
Tremain looked close to tears, or collapse. His whole body slumped. ‘I know, Frank. I know you got to say that. But your man –’
‘What man, Tremain? There’s no man.’
Tremain looked at him in the eye for the first time, tried to understand, but wasn’t able. Lowered his head again. ‘I tried, Swann. Tell him that. But then the bullets started flying. Like a fucking war zone. They let me out before the coppers came. Dozens of them. TRG. An army of coppers. And me, with this bag, like your man told me to do.’
‘What’s in the bag?’
Tremain put the weight of the bag on his thigh, pulled the zipper. Gold. Ingots and kilo bars. More gold than Swann had ever seen.
‘You’ve been had, Tremain. There’s no man. And I don’t know anything about coppers or a shootout.’
Tremain appeared to believe him, which only made him more upset. ‘You haven’t seen it? It’s on the news. I was right in the middle of it …’
Tremain tried to control his breathing, began to lay it out for him: the older man who claimed to work for Swann, the demand that he make payments to The Nongs on someone else’s behalf, the machine-gun fire aimed at the clubhouse gates.
Tremain had been taken advantage of again. Not much Swann could do about that – the businessman was a goldfish in a shark-tank. But someone else was out there, using Swann’s name to make fraudulent deals. That couldn’t stand.
Tremain’s description of the old man didn’t match, which meant that Swann would have to lay eyes on him.
‘Next time he calls, tell him that you tried to make the payment. What you just told me. But that he needs to do it. That you need to meet him. Then call me.’
Tremain thanked him and withdrew into the shadows. Swann called him back. ‘Do you have a lawyer?’
Tremain nodded. ‘My cousin. He’s a barrister.’
‘First thing tomorrow, make a new will. You don’t have a wife or kids, right? Make sure that the will specifically states that in the event of your death, all of your assets including the company, mine and lease go toward a charity of your choice.’
‘A will?’
‘That’s what I said. Make it a children’s charity, like Telethon. Make sure that the assay results et cetera are all in the documentation, as well as a description of your tormentors. I don’t know what you’re caught up in now, but if there’s nothing to be gained by taking you off the map, then a new will and last testament might keep you alive. Otherwise, your current beneficiaries will just inherit your problems. Certain people might assume that your beneficiaries will be easier to deal with than you are.’
The idea that Tremain might be knocked because of his sudden wealth didn’t appear to surprise him. He nodded and backed into the darkness. Swann returned inside and the dog followed him into the lounge room. Swann saw the messages on the answering machine, which he’d muted earlier. He turned the TV on and waited for the picture to emerge out of the static, fiddled with the arms of the antennae until the image was clear. He sat on the couch, let the dog onto his lap, who began to try to lick his face.
When the advertisements for the new Holden Commodore ended, the screen went bleached red and a male voice emerged from the silence.
‘That was a gunshot,’ was all it said. A strap of text at the bottom of the screen stated ‘Possible bikie gang-war erupts in Bayswater’. The grainy home-video image became focussed on a driveway and garden, the picture bouncing as whoever carried the camera went toward the street. ‘Definitely a gunshot,’ the male voice said again, before what sounded like a jackhammer began and the camera shook as its citizen operator ran to hide behind a parked car. Between gunshots you could hear the sound of heavy breathing and beeping where expletives were dubbed out, the voice of an older man inside the nearest house calling for the cameraman to return inside. The camera focussed on a white van parked up the street, then zoomed closer onto the driver window where a rifle barrel could be seen resting on the wing mirror, recoiling as the bullets fired in a steady stream.
‘Oh shit,’ said Swann as Marion joined him at the couch. ‘That’s The Nongs’ clubhouse.’ Chips of red brickwork spurted into the air as the strafing went across the front wall, then bashed on the fortified steel doors, shredding the bushes either side of the gates. The automatic gunfire continued until either the clip was empty or the combatant became bored. It was then that Swann saw the tattoo. The gunman straightened the barrel over the wing mirror and his left forearm became exposed. It was only a moment, but Ralph Cord’s tattoo of a lynched man was so distinctive that there wasn’t any doubt, even as the barrel withdrew and the van lurched forward, then sped toward the first corner where it exited the picture.
The live feed that replaced the footage showed dozens of police vehicles and TRG officers down the dark street, lit only by the strobing of the cherry tops and the bright glare inside the forensic tent. Television station vans were parked further down the verge, where local citizens crowded outside the perimeter tape. The young woman doing a piece to camera held her ear and introduced a live cross to a munitions and firearm expert, former SAS Captain Tom Stanley. Stanley said that he’d reviewed the footage and could state categorically that the weapon used was an M16A2 automatic rifle, going on the barrel form and the front sight post, as well as the three-round burst-fire facility demonstrated in the footage. Ejected shells were clearly hitting a spent case deflector, something only incorporated on the latest model. While the weapon resembled the AR-15 semi-automatic rifle distributed by various manufacturers worldwide, the automatic rifle in the footage was, he said gravely, used solely by the US Marine Corps. He had never seen one in civilian hands before, or heard of one being sold on the black market. Manufactured by Colt, it wasn’t offered for sale by international arms dealers either, so far as he was aware, giving the US Marine Corps a technical advantage in the field. When asked where an Australian criminal might source such a weapon, the ex-SAS captain took a moment to consider his answer. ‘You will only find that weapon on US military bases, or, because it’s used by the Marine Corps, on US Navy vessels that carry marines, such as aircraft carriers and larger battleships.’
Swann couldn’t believe what he was hearing. The ex-soldier had been reluctant to say it, but the inference was clear. The use of the M16A2 directly coincided with the USS Carl Vinson’s arrival in port. It was no surprise when Swann heard the front gate creak on its hinges. He peered behind the curtains that gave onto the front yard. Webb stood there in his civilian uniform of chinos and polo shirt, baseball cap pulled low. He lifted a finger to Swann in a desultory salute. The sea breeze gusted and flapped at his trousers, revealing a bulge at his ankle where a sidearm was strapped.
Outside, Webb smoked a Camel and stared up at the night sky.
‘How many are you missing?’ Swann asked.
Webb exhaled a long blue stream. ‘Between you and me? Six. We’re missing six.’
‘Not between you and me. Not anymore. I know who the shooter was. We need to get Cassidy involved.’
Webb nodded. ‘Did you know there’s a bloke in a car across the road, watching your house? You’re under surveillance. Have you checked your place over lately?’
Webb meant bugs – the reason he was standing away from the house.
Swann walked to the front gate, saw the little glow of a cigarette in the Ford Falcon across the street. Opened the gate and heard the Ford growl to life. He watched as Detective Sergeant Dave Gooch pulled from the kerb, flicked his cigarette onto the road, little sparks carried on the wind like fireflies. Instead of heading up the street, however, Gooch swung the wheel, tyres squealing as he turned toward Swann, who had to step back to avoid getting hit. Gooch was only stationary for a second before he reversed back across the road, kept the Ford idling with his lights on high beam. Swann shielded his eyes, made ready to jump away, but Gooch put her in gear and roared up the street.
Webb was at Swann’s shoulder. ‘What was that about?’
‘Nothing. Something else. No idea. All three of those things.’
They watched the Falcon’s tail-lights disappear left at the junction.