Old Scores

by Whish-Wilson, David;

  The kid shrugged. Swann continued. ‘Where did you steal it? You remember?’

  Foley grunted. ‘And what was fucken in it?’

  The kid roused himself, eyebrows raised, fists clenched. ‘They was in the boot. An old couple, naked, tied back to back. Their faces was all purple and blue. They both dead.’

  ‘You know who they were?’ Foley asked.

  ‘Knew later. Was in the paper. Missing couple. Could never say the name. Gr-somethin’.’

  Swann filled in the rest. ‘The Grednics. Marko and Agata. Marko Grednic was Conlan’s accountant. Director on one of his property development ventures. Wanted last year for questioning by the Costigan Royal Commission, some line of inquiry about corporate tax evasion. Never made it to the stand.’

  ‘Fucken hell, Blakey. Wrong car to nick. Where’d you get it?’

  ‘Was a Merc. Never driven a Merc. Saw it parked over there in East Perth, near the cricket ground. Parked on a hill. I was walkin’ up from behind it, saw the keys sittin’ there on the back tyre. So I got in. Didn’t even start the thing. Just sittin’ there when I hear the siren – right bloody behind me. So I cranked her up and went for a tear. Over the Causeway, down Canning Highway, onto the freeway, this fucken Belmont on my arse, couldn’t shake it. I just wanted to get near home, peg it on foot. But the thing had no grunt, slippin’ clutch or somethin’. So I get near home and tried to lose the copper with a bush bash, cut into the swamp near home, lost it on a turn and pranged into a tree. That’s when the fucken boot popped open. And the copper was right there, drawn ’is gun and everythin’.’

  ‘The copper. Carter – he wasn’t gonna take Blakey in. He was gonna shoot him down,’ Foley added.

  ‘I can see why. Case of bad timing, Blake. Carter knocks off shift, goes to where he or someone’s parked the car for him. His usual job – tie up a loose end. He would’ve killed the Grednics, or been there when it was done. His next job to get rid of them. So he draws on you, you get the gun off him. Why’d you take off again in the Merc?’

  ‘The Belmont was parked some ways off, still runnin’. Didn’t know if that D was alone. So I got the Merc going again, backed her up, the boot still flappin’ open and closed. I know all those tracks, by heart. Normally I’d burn the car, but I couldn’t – just couldn’t – not with them in it.’

  ‘What did you do with the Mercedes, Blake?’

  Blake looked at Swann. His forehead beaded with sweat. The thing that he’d never told anyone else. Not his father, not his legal-aid lawyer, not his cellmates. ‘I didn’t go far. Didn’t know how many coppers would be out there, lookin’ for me. I closed the boot, drove it to Bibra Lake – there’s a jetty there. Deep water. Just buckled up and drove it off the end. Got the belt off as it sank, and swam away.’

  ‘That’s a loose end, right there,’ Foley murmured. ‘That Carter’s just a bonehead, but Ben Hogan. He wouldn’t like that. Loose end could unstitch the whole plan.’

  Swann didn’t reply. Foley was right. The question was why the car theft hadn’t come up before. The Tracker kid had been accessible, in custody. Why were they looking for the car now?

  ‘Blake, this is important. Was there anything else in the boot, apart from the bodies?’

  Blake nodded. ‘Loads of stuff. That was a big boot. Bags. A suitcase. Some cardboard boxes.’

  Foley patted Blake Tracker on the shoulder; the kid looked spent. It was time to get him home. Swann turned his attention to Foley, not knowing his plans, not knowing if he’d ever see him again. ‘Tell me about Mostel. Why you’ve been following him. It doesn’t make sense.’

  Foley shrugged. ‘Sure, while we’re getting on. Sure. But first, why you wanna know? And Blakey – do us a favour mate and go and wait outside. This is yours.’ Foley passed Blake Tracker a sleeping bag. No goodbyes. To Swann he passed the sergeant’s revolver, showed him the chamber, loaded with two.

  When Blake Tracker climbed through the weatherboards, Swann lit a cigarette and offered one to Foley, who shook his head. Old man Pickett shuffled along the corridor above them, the boards creaking. ‘He guarding you?’

  Foley shook his head. ‘Think he’s still guarding his mates, some Kokoda rathole. You get used to it. Not so different being inside, listening to blokes shoutin’ and wailin’ all night long.’

  Foley’s face was lit with a reddish glow. If he was nervous that Swann might draw on him, or disclose his hide-out, it didn’t show. Eyes patient, observant and faintly amused – two grown men in a hole underneath the house of a war-haunted veteran.

  As though reading his mind, Foley said, ‘Funny, isn’t it? Few years ago, we would’ve shot each other dead, soon as blink. How’d a bloke like you end up being a copper anyway? I didn’t know Gerry had copper mates, though it doesn’t surprise me. Sociable fella. He’d never give me up though, for any money. A proper mate.’

  Foley didn’t need to ask him – the question was implicit in his last statement. What kind of man was Swann? The kind to shop Australia’s most wanted, or be worthy of the trust of a mutual friend?’

  To put him at ease, Swann told Foley the condensed story of how he met Marion, a detective’s daughter, how at the time he could’ve gone either way. Swann guessed that Blake Tracker wasn’t one for conversation, because Foley was eager, kept prodding the story along. Swann reached the point, exhaustion weighing him down. Returned to Mostel, and Foley’s motives. By way of an answer, Foley took out a small leather satchel, showed Swann the false passports, the US currency, the US treasury bonds.

  ‘Bloke reckons he’s a bit of a player, doesn’t he?’

  Foley’s interest in Mostel was purely personal. Mostel’s response, putting money on the street – an idiot move. Big tickets on himself, trying to build a reputation. Most of Perth’s gangsters were trying to move out of drugs and gambling into corporate crime, where the real money was. Mostel moving the other way. Swann described his own interest in the man, how he fit in with the premier’s new direction. Foley nodded, took it in, prodded the dried blood on his chest, admired his new tattoo, cracked his neck. There was no need to spell it out. Common enemies make for strange alliances. They could help one another. Foley grinned. ‘Well, you know where to find me. I haven’t worked out how, but I’m gonna take that fucker down.’

  A handshake, and Swann stood, crouched over, moved towards the darkness at the edge of the house.

  38.

  The kid. Swann woke with a start, heart racing. The dream of diving to muddy depths, popping the boot of the Mercedes, skeletons launching out and grappling at his arms, his feet, holding him under.

  Swann looked at the clock – just gone nine. Four hours sleep. He heard Marion in the kitchen, beating eggs, the sizzle of butter, kettle coming to the boil. He rolled his legs over, put his head in his hands, felt the weariness as a terrible gravity. He forced himself to stand, walked down the hall, to check: Blake Tracker was still asleep in Sarah’s room, his legs too long for the bed, tangled in the doona, little snores. The puppy asleep on the floor beside.

  Swann drank two glasses of water from the tap – Marion’s eyes on his back. He kissed her, his arm draped around her hip, took the wooden spoon and scrambled the eggs. When she put her head on his shoulder, he murmured, ‘Some things I’ve got to tell you.’

  ‘I know. We’ll eat first.’

  They sat at the old wooden table, scored and stained with the marks of their children, ate everything on their plates, took their coffees out to the back porch, sat looking at the garden, the sunlight.

  Swann described it all – Dragic’s body, and what he’d done with it. Accardi’s investigation and what they’d learned about Exetar. Last night’s meeting with Des Foley and Blake Tracker, Blake’s story about the two bodies. What he planned on doing today, to end it, so that he could walk away. The wildcard what Hogan would do with Dragic’s murder – most likely make Swann back off from Quinlivan and Exetar, which he would gladly do.

  ‘It’s my rostered day off
, then I’m on nights,’ Marion said. ‘I can look after the boy. If you’re not back tonight, I’ll ask Blonny to drop around, keep him company. He has to go back inside, doesn’t he?’

  ‘When it’s safe. I’ll call.’

  ‘Drop in on Janey, will you? She didn’t phone last night. Sure it’s nothing, but …’

  ‘Will do.’

  They kissed, Marion tousling his hair, gripping his arms. A neighbour’s cat walked the fence line at the back of the yard, another’s dog began to bark. The day was getting hot. Inside, the phone began to ring. Heenan, probably, wondering where he was. Swann let it ring as he dressed, cigarette burning at his lips.

  *

  Heenan was waiting at Parliament House, sitting in the big chair. No sign of Lurch the security guard. Heenan blanched when he saw the look on Swann’s face, put down the phone.

  ‘There’s disquiet,’ he said, by way of explanation. ‘Party whip’s an underperformer –’

  ‘Not by accident, I’m guessing.’

  Heenan quit his stalling. ‘I don’t owe you anything in the way of an apology. I’ve been distracted. Actually, I’ve been working my arse off. Damage control. There are some powerful lobbyists circling. Some of the ministers, well, they’re impressionable …’

  ‘You mean they’ve been bought, on the way to being bent. Move over a bit.’

  Swann extracted the wireless wand and waved it over the desk, the ping. ‘Look, it’s a bug. Who put it there? Not for me to know. Move away from that bag of cash for a minute. Let me check that too.’

  ‘C’mon, Swann. Easy up. It’s not like –’

  ‘Heenan, I’ve always liked you. But you can see where this is headed, right? I’m giving you my notice, now, today.’

  ‘But Frank, the tenders.’

  Swann started packing up. ‘Yeah, the Burswood tenders. I’d be advising you to put a line through Exetar, for a start. A company whose security’s done by bikies. Whose site manager gets blown up. You’re too young to remember what the Conlans were like. People like that don’t change, Heenan. I would advise you to steer clear of Exetar and the Conlans, but the premier, he doesn’t know you put me on that, does he? All that bullshit about not trusting his public servants.’

  ‘Ok, you’re right. That was me. I don’t trust the public servants. But more than that …’

  ‘You don’t trust him. Your own boss. Dear leader. You want to protect him from himself. You want me to catch him out, before it’s too late. Before he or the Conlans get caught with their fingers in the till.’

  ‘Well, have you? Caught him out?’

  ‘Heenan, you don’t want to be around when it blows. And you don’t want me around it. What’s happening to your ministers just happened to me. My fate’s now in the hands of a man who’s previously tried to kill me. Don’t ask for details. I walk away now, I might get out alive.’

  Heenan slumped, wrung his hands. ‘I’m sorry for that. I understand. I’m overwhelmed. I mean, listen to this …’ Heenan reached into the bureau drawer and took out the receiver, pressed rewind. When the spool finished he hit play.

  Swann recognised the voice. An ex-premier. Asking, then demanding twenty thousand dollars for services rendered. Namely the service of keeping his mouth shut, doing nothing. The premier telling him to shove it, cool and ruthless. The next call, not so cool or ruthless. Another voice Swann recognised. A minister. Demanding a meeting. More canny than the ex-premier. Speaking in general terms, no names or figures. Promises made to people, needing to be kept. A nice donation to the party at stake. Reputations on the line.

  Swann clicked the latch shut on his Gladstone bag.

  ‘Be seeing you, Heenan. Send someone to collect the Statesman. A pity, but there you go.’

  39.

  In the Statesman, Swann cranked up the air-conditioning, enjoying his last drive. He tuned the radio, just in time for the news. Following this morning’s acquisition of the Fremantle Fuel Company from businessman Sam Mostel, for a reputed twenty million dollars, the premier was now up in the Kimberley, spruiking a diamond mine. Clifford and Welsh reportedly calm about their fate. Their execution set for two days. No sign of clemency from the Malaysian president. A car thief, dubbed the Porsche Boy, led the police on a chase overnight through the southern suburbs in another stolen Porsche, the tenth this month, police admitting they had to give up the chase – their Holdens unable to keep up. Reported sighting of Des Foley in Toodyay, camped near one of the haunts made famous by Perth’s favourite bushranger, Moondyne Joe. British pop singer Boy George and his band Culture Club to tour early next year; dates to be announced. Boy’s single, ‘Do You Really Want to Hurt Me’, here it is …

  Swann killed the radio, lit a cigarette, scrolled down the electric windows, cold air on his face, warm air on his arm, the traffic purling around Mounts Bay Road where protesters were blocking traffic again. Swann pulled over at the foot of Jacob’s Ladder, intending to U-turn, when the car phone started to ring. He lifted the receiver and parked across from an artificial lake, little family of ducks huddled in the middle.

  ‘Frank?’

  ‘Terry, how can I help?’

  Terry Accardi. Swann could hear muzac in the background, and guessed the detective was calling from a payphone in a shopping mall. ‘Frank. No time to meet, this line is secure, correct?’

  ‘Can’t be sure, Terry. I’d prefer to meet.’

  Suck of breath. Long pause. ‘No time today. That deceased person we discussed. Bruise marks on his shoulders. Some lacerations on his wrists. Not the work of our blue manna crabs, apparently.’

  Just as Swann suspected, the scientist entered the river in the shallows near Claisebrook Creek, because of the adjacent carpark. Not far to drag an unwilling man with bound wrists out into waist-deep water, hold him under until he’s dead. Unlike the scientist, his killers not privy to an understanding of the river and its currents, its placid waters away from the main channel meaning his body hadn’t drifted as they’d expected.

  ‘I’m on the way to his laboratory. Very interested to hear about his recent testing –’

  Swann cut him off. ‘We need to talk, Terry, but in person. I’m afraid I’m going to be a disappointment to your colleagues in Canberra. Competing interests have arisen. Call me when you have time.’

  ‘Understood.’ No trace of emotion, or disappointment, although Accardi would be feeling it.

  Swann drove into the city, guilt breaking the flow of his thoughts. The old mystery: how he could live with fear but not shame. His tactical withdrawal felt like a defeat, although it was the right thing.

  But first, a couple of loose ends. He pulled into the cutaway behind Fast Eddys, waited for a young man in baggy shorts and oversized gym shoes, basketball singlet and cap, feeding coins into the payphone while shouting – something about his BMX bike being stolen; knows who it was; gonna go and sort the prick out; will be late for dinner.

  Swann intervened when the kid began smashing the receiver against the red-brick wall, cursing and kicking. Swann flipped him around, looked into the hateful eyes, nasty little moustache, didn’t have to say a word. The kid dropped the receiver and shaped up, some kind of kung-fu stance. Swann ignored him, took out his change and dropped a coin, grateful to hear a dial tone. The kid backed away, pulled a little knife out of his back pocket with shaking hands. Swann stared at him but lost interest, focused instead on the ringing phone, the kid wavering now on the periphery of his vision, building his dignity back up by shouting as he withdrew, kicking bins and parked cars, going elsewhere to share his misery.

  ‘East Perth Lockup,’ came the hard voice. Swann asked for Sergeant Carter, was told he was on night shift. Try at ten tonight.

  Carter on the ten-to-six turnkey shift, meaning he’d be home and asleep. Swann returned to the Statesman, sat with his feet on the pavement, rising heat radiating under his chin, flicking though the White Pages. Carter was a common name, but Xavier wasn’t. One X. Carter of Inglewood, just up the
road.

  The house was a Californian bungalow with chunky stuccoed foundations blood-red with bore water. The stained-glass front door was recessed behind a deeply shaded porch. Xavier Carter had done well for himself. The house was built onto a long rambling block, well-maintained garden and newly cleaned terracotta tiles with little Viking curlicues on the roof-peaks.

  Swann parked under a flowering bottlebrush across the street, among the many cars whose customers were in the pub around the corner. He left the Statesman and carried the heavy paper bag containing the revolver and two thousand dollars cash across the road, down the garden path and onto the porch. He laid the parcel on the sisal mat and returned to the car.

  Carter surprised Swann by answering on the first ring, and even more by not interrupting.

  ‘There’s a paper bag on your doormat. Inside is something you lost two years ago, plus a generous incentive to forgive. I hope you can forgive, Xavier.’

  Carter didn’t answer, but he didn’t hang up either. Swann saw the front door crack, a chubby hand reach around and drag the paper bag.

  Rustle of paper, Carter’s smoker’s voice, just like Swann remembered it.

  ‘Tell the little coon that this is a good start. Even better, I bring him in. He takes his medicine, he does his time. I get to wear my detective clobber again.’

  ‘Not going to happen. Those prison guards he got one over, he made them look bad by escaping – they’ll neck him, as you know. So two things. First, you need to get the father out. No more bashing. He doesn’t know where the Mercedes is. I do. Second thing, you overturn the conviction against the son. For doing that – I tell you the location of the car. Intact. Contents in the boot. Intact.’

  Carter thought about it. ‘Takes a judge to overturn a conviction. For an Abo, I don’t think so.’

  Swann set his voice. ‘You tell your pocket-judge the charge of resisting arrest is fabricated. Come up with a story about losing the gun, about finding the gun. You get the court transcripts put away under FOI for twenty-five years. Nobody’ll ever know.’