Line of Sight

by David Whish-Wilson

  The yellowed light had taken on a distinctly orange pall, and smoke shrouded the water ahead. The ferry lurched, then began to ease towards a small jetty, their destination of Guilford, according to the commentator, an old settlement now part of the eastern suburbs. Children fishing drew in their lines and pulled their feet back from the edge. The commentator threw a rope and leapt enthusiastically off the ferry, followed more slowly by Partridge and the other passengers.

  Then his lunch host was at his side. ‘Your Honour?’ Bill Standard was the National Party MP for Wagin, a large seat in the wheatbelt region. He was tall and rangy and his handshake was firm. ‘Great to meet you. Thanks for coming out here, know you’re busy. Car’s this way.’ He waved an arm.

  ‘Sorry about the smoke,’ he continued as they walked across to a Ford LTD parked illegally, engine still running. ‘The kids are always lighting fires on the weekend. It’s not my suburb this time; it’s away at Lesmurdie, thank God. Though the damn easterly’s got hold of it. We’re all hoping the sea breeze will come in early, push it back into the hills. Anyway, got air conditioning, hop in!’

  Partridge eased himself onto the chilled leather upholstery while Bill Standard made his half-circuit around the car.

  The Fremantle cemetery was a short drive from the hospital. Swann bought an iced coffee at a deli on the way and swallowed two more painkillers. He didn’t realise he was headed to the grave of Marion’s father until he found himself there.

  George Monroe was buried in the Anglican section. He hadn’t been a religious man but when he was dying he and Swann walked down the cemetery hill to have a look at the place. Swann held his arm as he puffed and wheezed his way between the rows of graves, through the Orthodox section with its ornate plots, inverted-looking crosses, Cyrillic writing and large headstones. The Catholic section was just as well tended – a great deal of money had been spent on the graves there. Marble headstones and tombs, gold and silver inscriptions, pictures of the Virgin Mary.

  They came to the Protestant section. The area was not cared for. Low cement headstones, many fallen or cracked. Not a single flower or sign of remembrance on any of the graves. A rusted sprinkler lay on its side.

  ‘All right, here’s me,’ George chuckled. ‘This is where I belong.’

  He paused under an old gum tree where no grass grew, which seemed to comfort him. ‘Get me under a tree if you can, otherwise it doesn’t matter. But tell Marion no fancy coffin. Just a pine box.’

  On the way back to the car George tried out epitaphs. ‘How about “I’d rather be here than in Bunbury”?’ he suggested, and wheezed with laughter. Bunbury was his first posting as a young constable and he’d hated it. Bunbury was where his wife had died.

  And there, now, was the inscription, at Swann’s feet. It had been a large funeral, with bagpipes and kilts and some funny speeches from friends. At the wake the priest got drunk and disgraced himself by touching someone up. The bagpipe player squawked in the suburban backyard as the party went on until dawn.

  Swann stood looking down at the grave, his fists clenching. George Monroe had guided him, back when he was wild and needed a guide. He’d explained to Swann the difference between justice and the law, had told him that the law was merely force translated into words. That beyond this frontier of words there was only terror and fear and the purity of the decisive act. That murder was itself the truth, beyond the frontier.

  The bastards had threatened Swann’s family. He had no idea whether Louise was alive or dead.

  He remained standing there, at his father-in-law’s grave, head bowed. He sought the protection of a ghost, but that did not make him feel vulnerable. On the contrary, he felt a fierce strength grow inside him, locking his heart and mind and body together.

  The crematorium was tucked away just behind the cemetery gates. People were milling around outside, men in black suits and plain ties, women in dark skirts and hats. Swann lit a final cigarette before he went in, concealed from the mourners by a stand of tea-tree.

  He checked the listing at the entrance. There was a blank space where Debbie McGinnis’s name should have been, alongside the allotted time, which allowed only fifteen minutes. After that the schedule was full for the rest of the day – fifteen cremations in all.

  Inside, within the panelled walls of the crematorium, Swann was the only person there, except for Debbie in her unvarnished box. He took a seat as a young woman in a grey suit entered from a side door. She seemed surprised to find him there; was about to say something then thought better of it. She stood by the coffin and waited, hands crossed in front of her. Then she checked her watch, looked across to where the flowers for the next service had been piled on a table. She glanced back at Swann and checked her watch again, impatient to pull the silver lever.

  It would have been more honest to give Debbie to old Abraham and his hospital incinerator, he thought. Let her pass into flames with all the other garbage. The empty crematorium seemed crueller. The organ silent by the wall. The woman in grey scratching her nose.

  Swann saw Donovan Andrews even before he came in. He was peering through the stained-glass windows behind the altar, talking to someone standing alongside. His companion entered first. High heels clattering on the tiled floor. A strong smell of Juicy Fruit chewing gum. Both Andrews and his girlfriend lifted their sunglasses when they noticed him. Marcia from Dubbo was caught with her mouth open, gum flattened on her tongue. In her mini-skirt and heels she looked exactly like an off-duty prostitute. She closed her mouth and began chewing again.

  Andrews came towards him but Swann shook his head and the pair moved on down the aisle. The woman in grey stared at them as Marcia broke loose from Andrews and took some flowers from the table to place on the coffin.

  ‘Can I see her?’ Marcia asked.

  The woman frowned. Shook her head solemnly.

  ‘She was my best friend. You don’t even know who she is, do you?’

  The woman blushed and bit her lip. She looked like she wished they’d leave. Checking her watch a final time she moved her hand closer to the lever.

  ‘Do you want to say anything? About your best friend?’

  ‘Yeah, sure.’ Marcia turned back to the coffin. ‘You sleep well, sister. Leave it up to me an’ Donny. We’ll get the bastards —’

  ‘Babe,’ Andrews urged, ‘just say goodbye.’

  Marcia bent and caressed the coffin, kissed it. The woman pulled the lever and the coffin dropped down, began to trundle away on slow rubber tracks towards the furnace.

  Swann intercepted them outside the main door. ‘What the hell was that about?’ he asked Andrews.

  ‘Jus’ paying our respects. Marcia and Debbie was mates, is all.’

  She pushed him in the side. ‘That’s not all. Debbie was the reason I come over here. She looked after me back east. I’ve been looking for her everywhere. Thought she’d moved on again. Nobody told me she was dead.’

  ‘How did you find out?’

  ‘This morning’s paper, of course. Picture of a girl who drowned yesterday identified, picture of two others. I recognised Debbie as one of them right away. Didn’t give her name, but said where she was going to be cremated. Front-page story. You’re in it too. In the headline.’

  ‘Don’t believe everything you read.’

  ‘I don’t. I believe Donny. Says you’re no pervert.’

  Donovan Andrews was fidgeting, looking nervously over at the front gates. As far as Swann was aware, Marcia was the first person Andrews had confided in about his relationship with Swann. Andrews was understandably anxious about being seen with him, but there was more to it than that – he looked like a bashful son bringing home his first girlfriend.

  ‘Don’t look so surprised, Mr Policeman. Donny told me all about you this morning, when I told him I knew Debbie. He told me how he knew you. How you’ve been helping the girls. Looking out for us. Putting it on the line for Ruby. That time you came to the kennel and bashed Mitch, I didn’t know who you were.
If I did I would’ve talked to you.’

  ‘I appreciate that, Marcia. But don’t be talking around other people.’

  Andrews took her arm. ‘Babe, let’s go,’ he said.

  ‘No, I ain’t goin’ anywhere. You didn’t have to come, I told you that. But I’ve made my decision. Mr Swann, I wanna help, maybe some of the other girls too. There’s Michelle done in, and rumours about Trace now. I can tell you about the pigs at the kennel, what I heard them say to Mitch, what I seen there.’

  Donovan Andrews was so desperate to leave that his keys were shaking in his hand. Swann looked around at a new crowd of black-suited mourners. One of them, he had no doubt, had been watching out for him, watching the front gate.

  Marcia was waiting for his response, looking at him with the wide eyes of a defiant child. Swann was afraid for her, proud of her, ashamed of himself. This was what it had come down to – a teenage girl and a drug-addled snitch.

  The milling crowd parted for a hearse. ‘You still have that money?’ he asked Andrews, who nodded, tapping his pockets.

  ‘Then if you two really want to help me, don’t go back to the boarding house. Get on the BSA and head to Darwin. I’ll find you when I need you. And most important of all, in the meantime keep your traps shut, and I mean shut.’

  Whatever it was in Swann’s voice, the urgency, the care, the anger, made Marcia grab him by the lapels of his jacket, pull him down and kiss him on the cheek. A daughter’s kiss, and he didn’t want her to let go.

  ‘Now, get lost. Quick.’

  Donovan Andrews didn’t need telling twice. He took Marcia’s hand and they strode off like lovers eloping.

  Partridge yielded to another slice of sweating cheese from the platter. He was being force-fed by Bill Standard’s granddaughter and he didn’t have the strength to resist. Four-year-old Melanie had him in a stranglehold. Her knees dug into his thighs as she leaned back to test his expression.

  Standard’s house was in Kalamunda, in the hills overlooking Perth. While the exterior was impressive – architect-designed, no doubt – the interior was a little too garish for Partridge’s taste, and he’d immediately agreed to lunch on the balcony.

  ‘Mmm, delicious. Thank you, Melanie. That’s enough for now.’

  For the hundredth time Standard said, ‘Leave his Honour alone, Melanie,’ but she reached immediately for another piece of cheese while Standard glared at a fly in his beer.

  Partridge shifted in his seat and repeated, ‘It’s probably about time I was getting back.’

  ‘They won’t be long now.’

  Having offloaded Melanie on the men, Standard’s wife and eldest daughter had taken the car into town. Standard wouldn’t hear of the judge taking a taxi to the ferry; to allow that as a host would be rude, he insisted.

  Partridge had turned down several other invitations from politicians in Perth, but had accepted Standard’s because his was one of the names the PI had lifted off the radar. His bluff manner and cheery smile, his large gestures and loud voice were part of the naïvety he projected, the lack of guile. He appeared to talk off the top of his head, even as Partridge was aware of being measured, lured into some kind of response.

  Then suddenly Standard changed tack. ‘You know,’ he said, ‘my friends in the police are furious. Their reputation has been dragged in the mud by this fellow Swann. It’s bloody ugly, to say the least. You can imagine how it is in a place like Perth – everybody who matters knows everybody else. But that doesn’t mean we mind our own business. On the contrary, here the common good means an awareness of what is in all our best interests. Troublemakers tend to stand out for that reason.’

  On the surface of it, Bill Standard was an undistinguished backbencher, but the PI had described him as a muckraking facilitator who worked both sides of the fence. What both sides of the fence had in common was the economic prosperity of the state, as Standard himself put it, a bipartisan merging of official and private interests wherever possible.

  ‘This great state,’ he told Partridge without irony, ‘is wide open for business.’

  According to the PI, Standard was the go-to man for people who wanted something done, or not done. People who had the money but lacked the means. It seemed that Standard could, on behalf of his cronies, get motions passed in parliament; he could get projects fast-tracked or shelved with a single phone call. He could arrange for journalists to undermine or shore up reputations. He could guarantee blocs of council or party votes, get branch members elected or disendorsed. His power was entirely the result of the relationships he cultivated and the information he collected.

  Standard refilled his beer and topped up Partridge’s glass. ‘There have been rumours, unreliable I’m sure, that you’re considering complaining about the scope of the royal commission to the governor, in effect going over the premier’s head.’ He ploughed his balding scalp. ‘Now, I know this is unlikely, after all the evidence undermining Superintendent Swann’s credibility as a witness, but the uncertainty is taking its toll.’

  Partridge could scarcely believe what he’d just heard. The man looked like he’d merely asked for the time of day. He drew himself together. ‘Beyond the fact that the governor is on holiday in Europe and therefore unavailable, I’m sorry, I can’t possibly discuss —’

  ‘Of course, of course. But it would be reassuring to hear your position on the matter. My friends would be very pleased to hear what you have to say. Very pleased and grateful. Like I said, this state is wide open —Ah, look who’s here.’

  Partridge made to stand, believing Standard’s wife had returned, but his relief turned to dismay when he saw Police Minister Sullivan appear from the kitchen, wearing shorts and thongs and grinning over the top of a freshly opened stubby. His entrance onto the balcony made Melanie finally desert Partridge’s lap and run after the dog.

  ‘Des, how good to see you. Take a seat.’ Standard shook Sullivan’s hand with mock formality and the minister rounded the table, holding out his hand to Partridge.

  ‘Your Honour.’

  ‘Minister.’

  Sullivan gave Partridge’s hand an effete squeeze, a sarcastic gesture. ‘Don’t worry, your Honour,’ he said brightly, ‘this isn’t an ambush.’ He turned to Standard. ‘Didn’t know you had company, Bill. Thought you might be up for some fishing on the river. Got some you-beaut Jap lures. Drives the flathead crazy. Pity the blowies don’t mind them either. You like fishing, your Honour?’

  ‘On occasion. But not for many years.’

  ‘Probably just as well. That black mud can get a wee bit stinky this time of year. Doesn’t rain much, of course, the river doesn’t get flushed.’

  Sullivan sat down and swigged on his beer, smiling. He put on a BBC accent. ‘And how do you like our little burgh, your Honour? First impressions?’

  ‘Beautiful, thank you.’ Partridge didn’t believe for a moment that Sullivan had merely dropped in. He was enjoying himself too much, as was Standard, looking out over the view now, but alert. Both of them were putting on a show. They were too clever to be direct, but there was scorn there in the playing up of the class differences, the fake curiosity, the schoolboy mockery, and now the deliberate crudity of Sullivan’s gestures, scratching at his stomach, which was threatening to spill out onto the wooden seat.

  ‘Well, here we are,’ Sullivan said in his normal voice, but Partridge heard an edge in it.

  He let the silence build. Sullivan’s eyes took on a subtle malice, reading Partridge with the knowing stare of an ex-policeman.

  It was the minister who finally broke the silence. ‘I’m aware you had a meeting with the premier recently,’ he said. ‘And that you requested he broaden the terms of reference of the commission.’

  ‘That’s correct. He refused.’

  ‘Of course he did,’ Standard put in, the contempt in his voice taking Partridge by surprise. ‘This is our state; we shouldn’t even be in the bloody Commonwealth. Our state, our business. And our money.’

 
Partridge observed him calmly. The acidity of Bill Standard’s manner was offset by the comical puffing up of his lanky body. He looked like an aged schoolyard bully.

  ‘What Bill is trying to say, your Honour, is that you’re not half the man the premier is. You didn’t serve in the war, did you?’

  ‘No, I didn’t see any action.’

  Standard and Sullivan laughed together. ‘I can tell,’ Sullivan said. ‘I can tell that just by looking at you. Bill and I were on the Kokoda Trail.’

  ‘I lost a brother-in-law and a cousin in PNG, but I fail to see the significance.’

  ‘They some of those coward Victorians they had to force to go up there, were they?’

  ‘What’s your point?’

  The minister smiled again but his eyes were set hard. Partridge knew that look all too well.

  ‘It was tough up there, wasn’t it, Bill? We didn’t take prisoners. We didn’t take a single one. You understand what I’m saying, your Honour?’

  Partridge gave them nothing beyond his placid courtroom face, curious to see where this would go.

  ‘But back to the matter in hand, your Honour, irrelevant as it may be. Now that the premier has said no to your request, now that Superintendent Swann is, shall we say, fucked, may I inquire as to your intentions in seeking a widening of the terms of reference?’

  Partridge was surprised by how well he was feeling. The imperative of not showing weakness before these two carnivores overrode all else. He cleared his throat. ‘Were they to be broadened, I’d most likely start by bringing in a team of my own investigators, impartial and experienced.’

  He ignored Standard’s snort of derision and locked himself deep into Sullivan’s stare. ‘Having done this, I’d requisition the financial records of all serving detectives, past and present, who have worked in the Consorting Squad, those who have had dealings with the madams of the larger establishments. And once my teams are out working, why not have them look at the financial records of the fraud, armed robbery, drug, liquor and gaming squads too?’