The boxing gym was crowded. A few old boys from the docks were sparring in the ring, beer guts and padded arms belying their fitness and desire for the contest. A couple of Noongar kids in their high-school uniforms took turns on the speedball, looking shyly around when they mucked up the rhythm. A mixed group of boys, girls, men and women stretched on the mats near the floor-to-ceiling mirrors, preparing for the one-hour boxing class taken today by Lee Southern and Blake Tracker, who were chatting while putting on their wraps. Blake was taller than Lee and his skin was darker, but they were wiry and lean, and looked like brothers.
Lee Southern glanced up and Swann nodded him toward the door. Lee elbowed Blake and they collected their trail of wraps and stepped through a group stripping down, putting watches and wallets in hats and bags.
‘Gerry coming in?’ Swann asked Blake.
‘Don’t think so. He was in last night. Asked me to take the class.’
‘Think you could call him? I need you two tonight, couple of hours at most.’
Blake Tracker shrugged, but his face expressed reluctance. ‘He’s goin fishin. That black bream spot over in Bicton, near the baths.’
‘What about you two? Can you help?’
Blake nodded. ‘Sure.’
Lee began unwinding the wrap on his left hand. ‘No probs. Though I’m on shift at Kerry’s place later.’
Swann walked over to the makeshift boxing ring. Craig Little took his eyes off his sparring mates and watched Swann come. Craig was a big man, a maritime union rep and ex-boxer. He was thirty kilos overweight but could spar fifteen rounds and barely break a sweat. He had the face of a thug but Swann knew him as a generous and decent man. Little and his union mates had donated half of the gym’s equipment. Swann spoke to him for a couple of minutes until the round-buzzer sounded and the two sparring men joined them. They agreed to leave off training and run the night class. Swann thanked them and when he returned to the door, Blake and Lee were ready to go.
Swann parked the Brougham under a streetlight and spread the map on the bonnet. The Fremantle Doctor was strong from the south and he had to place both hands on the map. In the car, he’d run through what Lee’s father had told him, and what they’d discovered in the Fremantle Gaol visitors’ book for the months September 1988 – February 1989. Ralph Cord’s only visitor during that time was a woman named Rose Cord. She was so well-known to the guards on the Friday day shift that she didn’t leave an address or show ID. Swann had asked Tony McIlroy to see if he could retrieve the visitors’ books for the first months of Cord’s stretch, back in July 1986. This was important because there was no Rose Cord listed in the White Pages, which meant that Cord was possibly her maiden name. Births, Deaths & Marriages was closed for the day and wouldn’t be accessible until tomorrow morning – the same time Tony McIlroy hoped to retrieve the earlier visitors’ books from the locked cabinet in the prison superintendent’s office. In the meantime, Swann decided to hit the streets and knock on doors.
He finished pointing out to Lee and Blake the streets that they planned to cover. Webb talked on his brick to the Federal Police liaison, filling them in on what they’d learned. Swann went and popped the boot of the Brougham, took out his .38 S&W snubnose, checking the cylinder before flicking it closed. Webb had a pistol on his ankle.
Swann decided that Webb and Blake should cover the street nearest the prison, while Swann and Lee would canvass the streets higher up the hillside. The pistol and revolver was insurance in case they knocked on the wrong door, and were recognised.
Webb finished his call. ‘All their surveillance teams are on three different APM houses in the northern part of the city, and a small ranch on the other side of the range which they’ve been watching for some time. Live training exercises have occurred there and the idiots have built army-style obstacle courses and whatnot. They can’t spare any personnel. They also suggest not telling the local detectives what we’re doing, due to leaks. Apparently your biker friend has put a fifty-thousand dollar price on information leading to the capture of Cord and his gang, something my liaison believes will be too enticing to pass up for some of the locals.’
Swann talked them through the spiel. They were to work opposite sides of the street and knock on every third door and say that they were locals who lived on the other side of Hampton Road, giving Swann’s address if asked. They had found a purse with no identification except a library card. A few days ago an old lady had doorknocked the street asking if anyone had seen her purse. The old lady’s name was Rose, and she said that she lived across from Hampton Road. Did they know a Rose, an old lady who lived nearby? If a house was identified then they were to meet at the end of the next block and take a close look together. If necessary, call in the Feds.
They split up, and Swann and Lee climbed the hill until they reached Swanbourne Street. It was one of the longest streets in Fremantle and straddled the ridgeline of the limestone hill that peaked at the war memorial before descending south. The view from its highest point covered both the Fremantle Gaol and beyond to Gage Roads and across Cockburn Sound. If Ralph Cord’s reminiscence of sighting his uncle’s rifle into the Fremantle Gaol yards was correct, it was unlikely from Swanbourne Street, due to the distance, but there were several positions where the line of sight allowed for a view inside the prison. Swann and Lee leapfrogged their doorknocking, coming up empty by the time they reached the intersection of Stevens Street, where they waited for Webb and Blake Tracker to complete the same length of Bellevue Terrace. If neither party had any luck, the plan was to retrace their steps together along Solomon Street, which was between the two.
Swann and Lee walked down the hill to the corner of Stevens and Solomon. Lee smoked a cigarette under the streetlight, looking down over the city. Blake and Webb should have reached the rendezvous point by now. Swann was thinking about heading down to Bellevue Terrace when he heard the throaty chuckle of a muscle car coming over the ridge behind them. He guessed correctly that it was a Monaro, the Holden turning down from the top of the hill, its headlights off. Swann nodded to Lee Southern. It was too late for Lee to hide himself but Swann stepped into a driveway, hid himself behind a bougainvillea that broke over the driveway wall. He heard the car approach and peered around the corner. The Monaro slowed while the driver, who Swann recognised as Barry Brown, took a good long look at Swann’s comrade. It occurred to Swann that Lee looked like a skinhead with his tight jeans, boots and cropped head. Swann took out his revolver and let it hang beside his thigh. When the Monaro pulled to a stop, Swann moved out of the shadows. Four car doors opened. Swann covered the distance quickly, cocking the .38. Barry Brown saw him coming and put up a hand. The three other men, who Swann didn’t recognise, paused beside the open car doors. Two of them carried baseball bats, the other a claw hammer.
‘He’s with me,’ Swann said.
Barry Brown rested his sawn-off shotgun on the doorsill. His pupils were dilated and his jaw was clenched as he looked Lee over. Suspicion in his eyes and in his voice. ‘You sure about that, Swann? I never seen him before. I know why you’re here and who you’re workin for. You haven’t cut any deals with these bonehead fucks have you?’
At that range, one blast from Brown’s shotgun and Lee Southern would be atomised from his boots to his neck. Swann uncocked the .38 and returned it to the back of his belt. Barry Brown nodded and drew the shotgun inside the car.
‘We’ll be on our way then,’ Swann said. Lee Southern finished his cigarette and ground it beneath his toe. The kid hadn’t flinched or panicked in the slightest.
‘Tell Riley I’ll be calling him,’ Swann said. ‘Don’t want any crossed wires on this one.’
Barry Brown smiled. ‘You do that. He’s been trying to get hold of you. Has an offer.’
Swann heard footsteps behind him and turned. Blake Tracker and Webb rounded the corner off Bellevue. Webb knelt and reached for his ankle. Swann shook his head.
When the bikies were gone, the twin-barred tail-lights of the Monaro crossing Hampton Road toward the hospital, Swann began to speak. ‘The leak. Someone from the prison, most likely. Told Riley what we were looking for in the visitors’ books. Either a guard or another prisoner.’
Lee shook his head. ‘It’ll be one of the screws. My father wouldn’t disclose anything you said to another crim. Not if he knew I’m involved.’
Swann nodded. ‘Either way, we need to get Cord’s auntie’s address, before Riley’s men. Webb, can I use your brick? You three make a start on Solomon Street. Every second house. I’ll catch up.’
Swann dialled The Nongs’ clubhouse as the three men turned down Solomon and began to canvass. Riley picked up on the third ring.
‘Not on this number,’ he replied. ‘Try this one, and give me two minutes.’
Swann memorised the number, hung up and waited. After a couple of minutes he dialled the number. Riley sounded harried.
‘Glad you called, Swann. I need you.’
‘I just ran into Barry Brown. He says you have an offer for me.’
Riley was silent, meaning he was weighing up whether to share. ‘Yeah, I got the tip from a screw. Said you’d been looking through the old visitors’ books, for an auntie Cord who lived near the prison.’
‘What of it?’
Riley chuckled. Swann heard the hissing of a lighter, Riley drawing a cigar to life. ‘I also heard that the Feds have put a tap on our phone. Legitimised because of the APM involvement. I can do without it.’
‘Nothing I can do about that, Riley.’
‘Maybe, maybe not. Just wanted to ask whether you’d be interested in me returning those Yank weapons to you, should I come across them in the course of my enquiries.’
‘Of course I would. What do you want in return?’
‘You won’t see it in the media, but we’re having our own funeral, Viking-style, out in the desert next week. A fallen comrade, Ted Mangles, killed in the line of duty.’
‘My condolences. But get to the point.’
Riley described Ted’s execution at the hands of one of Cord’s men. He described the Yank sailor, Devon Smith, the one responsible for selling the M16s to the APM, taken captive. After raiding an APM house, Riley’s men had left the sailor there, setting up a hidden surveillance camera that captured what happened next. Riley told Swann about the call from Cord – the offer of turning over the weapons and the sailor, who they’d blamed for Ted’s murder, to a trusted intermediary.
‘So this Devon Smith, the sailor. You don’t have an interest in him, or the weapons? You’ll return them both?’
Riley laughed. ‘Too right. Call it a civic duty, Swann.’
‘You mean, it’ll get the Fed surveillance off you. Who’s choosing the intermediary? You or Cord?’
‘Leave that to me, Swann. None of your business. I’ll contact you once it’s done.’
Swann thought about that. It wasn’t good enough. Too many things that could go wrong. A shootout between Riley’s thugs and Cord’s gang, for one thing, with the US sailor in the crossfire. Swann didn’t like it, but he’d have to trust Riley until he thought of something better.
‘I’ll run it by the Yanks. When is this handover organised for?’
‘Soon as possible, Swann, unless we find them first.’
Swann hung up and looked over the black ocean, marker buoys winking out in Gage Roads, the smaller lights of fishing vessels beyond Rottnest and Carnac islands. The sea breeze had dropped and a cold easterly had begun blowing off the desert. It was going to be another hot day. Swann began to trudge up the hill after the others. His legs felt heavy and his hips ached. He was winded by the time he reached the war memorial, where Webb, Lee and Blake were waiting on him. No luck. Many of the street’s residents were asleep. Some of those who were awake hadn’t answered their doors. Those who had come to the door didn’t know anything about an old lady. It was too late to canvass the streets further south.
Swann thanked Blake and Lee. He offered to drive them home but Lee needed to get to Kerry’s brothel, to work the door. As they walked to his car, Swann told Webb about Riley’s offer. Webb had the same misgivings, although there was nothing they could do. First thing in the morning they needed to get the records from the prison, before Riley’s bikies, and if that turned a blank then get a marriage certificate for a Rose Cord from Births, Deaths & Marriages, followed by a title deed search from Landgate. Swann drove Webb to the port, refusing his offer of a nightcap aboard the Vinson.
One message on the answering machine. Swann could hear Marion out on the back deck, listening to early Stones while waiting for him.
Swann pressed the button. There was something about Tremain’s voice, a tentativeness and strain that told Swann he wasn’t alone. ‘Swann. This is Paul Tremain. I’ve got some bad news. Jared Page was here a few minutes ago, with two of his men. He’s looking for Gooch. Gooch had told him that he was coming to check on me. I told Page that Gooch was never here. Page then mentioned you. Your role in all this. Said that Gooch had been following you, but that you hadn’t taken Gooch’s advice and kept –’
The tape ended. Swann was glad that he hadn’t been around when Tremain had called. Page had been listening when the call was made, to try and gauge Swann’s response.
Gooch was gone, but Page was going to be a problem.
Swann thought about calling Paul Tremain, but that wasn’t smart. He didn’t want to leave any kind of record. Page may or may not have found Gooch’s body, but either way Page couldn’t kill Tremain. He needed him alive, at least until he signed over the Lightning Resources lease.
Tremain wasn’t built for any of this. Swann had to hope that his instinct for survival had kept his mouth shut. If Gooch’s colleagues in the CIB were alerted to his disappearance by Page, then they would search Tremain’s office, find the body in the patio yard.
Swann considered giving the flare gun back to the old bank robber, so that he could kill Page as planned, but that wasn’t a smart play either.
Swann would have to think on it. Something would have to be done.