Old Scores

by Whish-Wilson, David;

  Carter would need to run it up the chain. At the top of the chain would be Hogan. But Carter had been well schooled. Said it like he couldn’t help himself. ‘And you’re what, some coon-lovin’ lawyer type? Got money, obviously.’

  Swann withheld his answer, just a beat. Like Carter had strayed close. Then confirmed it. ‘That’s of no concern. We do this properly, we both get what we want.’

  ‘Yeah, a fucken lawyer. How do I get in contact?’

  ‘Do your part. I’ll be in touch.’

  Swann hung up, reversed the Statesman round the corner into the pub carpark, heard the laughter, a nice clean break on a pool table, jukebox blaring Michael Jackson’s ‘Beat It’.

  40.

  Swann dialled as he drove. He joined the freeway at Charles Street, gliding the Statesman into the right lane, Parliament House unseen on his shoulder. The northerly lanes of the Narrows Bridge were crowded with traffic, the result of a tail-ender, men and women gesticulating in the smog-haze. Beneath the bridge, the wide river shimmered in the windless heat, but Swann felt a chill when he thought of the environmental scientist, face thrust into the mud, dark water and the boots of his murderers the last thing he saw.

  Dennis Gould answered, flashing Swann out of the image. ‘Sorry, Swann, just got back. Heard the phone on the stairs.’

  ‘Dennis, I’ll be around later to explain. Drop everything. That thing I mentioned earlier. I meant to call you, but –’

  ‘I’ve got news. Spent the day at the stock exchange, with an old colleague. Foreign markets his cuppa. Some odd behaviour that I couldn’t explain, at home. Not his odd behaviour, although he has taken to wearing braces, shoes so polished they’re a danger to aeroplane –’

  ‘Dennis, I’ll be around shortly. We’ll have a drink.’

  ‘You are serious then.’

  ‘Yeah, I am.’

  Swann exited at Manning Road and checked the time. It was just gone three. The car phone rang, Swann expecting Heenan’s liquorish voice, but instead got Ben Hogan – voice of a commanding officer, blunt and contemptuous, expecting to be obeyed. ‘Turn right off Manning Road, park up by the golf club, fairway seven.’

  Swann took a long look in his rear-vision, the white Belmont crowded with suits, Hogan invisible in the back, being chauffeured.

  ‘How’d you get this number?’

  Hogan sniffed, his version of a laugh. ‘Fairway seven.’

  Rubbing it in. Fairway seven where Ruby Devine was murdered, where the consorters met their snitches.

  Swann parked up, freeway on one side, separated by a cyclone fence, vast fairways and greens before him, stands of tea-tree and marri marking the course. The Belmont pulled over seconds later, with a dramatic little skid, controlled intimidation. Swann climbed out of the Statesman, lit a cigarette and watched the four detectives exit the Holden and gather round. Hogan had ambushed him like this before, the beating he copped on that occasion a preface to being hauled to the cells.

  But there was no beating this time. The three other detectives lingered at a discreet distance. Hogan took a lean on the Statesman, ran a hand through his wind-ruffled hair, pushed up the sleeves on his jacket. ‘What the fuck do you think you’re doing?’

  ‘Here? I wonder myself.’

  ‘You don’t do anything unless I tell you. You’re not walking away from the premier’s office. I want you there.’

  Swann pulled on his cigarette, eyed Hogan with distaste, the expression returned. ‘You’re not looking too flash, Hogan, despite your threads. Feel free to unburden yourself.’

  ‘You assumed wrong, you mutt. I want you back in there. Ear to the ground. You know the rest: if you –’

  Swann flicked his cigarette at Hogan’s feet, little shower of sparks. ‘Jesus, you must be desperate.’ Hogan stepped closer; Swann could smell his cologne, the spearmint on his breath. Eyes over Swann’s shoulder, voice low. ‘Better the devil you know, Swann. You were part of it once. We’ve kept these cunts down since Adam. What do you reckon’s gonna happen if coppers like me disappear? Blokes like Leo Ajello, the Corvos and Adamos – the bikies? Right now, those pricks work for me. They know the rules; they know their place. Those bastards’ll take over – you know it. And not just them. Crims’ll flood in from everywhere.’

  ‘Tell me about Ruby Devine. You were here when it went down.’

  ‘That was a business decision. A political decision. Nothing personal.’

  ‘Personal to her three kids.’

  ‘Shut the fuck up and listen. This is my way of reaching out. With a warning. Something very bad is about to happen to you. I find myself in the unusual position of trying to intervene, because right now you’re useful. Soon as you’re not …’ Hogan clicked his fingers.

  Swann leaned closer. ‘You feeling left out? Whatever it is, buy your way in.’

  ‘I’m not worried about our premier Farrell. Normal transmission will resume.’

  Swann had to try. ‘That friend of mine. Last seen snatched by bikies. Who pulled the trigger?’

  ‘You looking for a reach-around too? I know Gould wasn’t killed. I know he’s back in his hole. For now …’

  ‘You seem to know plenty. You need to be specific about what you don’t.’

  ‘Time will come. Believe me.’

  Hogan stepped away and snapped his fingers again. The three detectives arrived so sharply Swann had a thought – not just working for Hogan. Protecting him.

  Another snap, and the nearest detective pulled a Ziploc bag from his jacket. Inside was a dull grey shape. Exhibit A. The pistol used to shoot Trevor Dragic, and the shell casings.

  *

  Swann drove to Stormie Farrell’s on autopilot, barely noticed the passing streetscapes, the air becoming cooler as the Statesman glided into the bank of shade by the river. Hogan had thrown him, and visiting Stormie and Janey on Marion’s request would give him time to decide.

  The Thunderbird was still there on the limestone ridgeline, as were the charred remains of Stormie’s earlier tantrum beside the driveway. Swann saw a curtain shiver, but otherwise no sign of life. No rockabilly or laughter, no fantasy road trips. Even seasoned drinkers like Stormie had to come down sometime.

  Swann reached the top of the driveway and was about to take a step around a strange barricade of assorted furniture – upturned chairs, desks, a couch – when he looked down and saw the ankle-high fishing line catching the light. The fishing line was taut and led in both directions to an empty banana box weighted by bricks. Swann walked closer to the box nearest the front door. The line passed through the handles of the box and went vertically up to the roofline. Placed there was a precariously balanced sherry bottle – Stormie’s idea of an early-warning system.

  Swann stepped over the trip-wire and raised a fist to knock. Stormie yanked the door back, took Swann’s arm and pulled him inside. His eyes were fierce, and a bit watery with the effort.

  ‘That coward is back in the picture, Swann. And I blame you.’

  Swann followed Stormie down the corridor and into the kitchen, newly gutted to make the perimeter of tables and cupboards that stretched across the back porch, looking out over the backyard.

  ‘Too old to fill sandbags. Lack a bloody Bren gun too. Owen gun’d do me in a pinch. Cover that whole fence line if the meathead comes over it.’

  Swann didn’t know what to say. Stormie stood before him, expression of a rabid Jack Russell, smears of Kiwi boot polish on the backs of his hands, his cheeks and forehead.

  Janey entered the kitchen from the bathroom, looked drawn and spooked, exhausted.

  ‘Janey, what’s going on?’

  ‘I told you what’s going on, Frank,’ Stormie cut in.

  Jane moved to Stormie’s side, put a hand on his shoulder. ‘I can speak for myself, thanks Stormie. Reckon I know what this looks like to Mr Swann. Bit weird.’

  ‘You got me,’ Swann agreed.

  But Stormie wasn’t having any of it – raised a hand like a commando on pa
trol. ‘I’ll tell you what’s going on. Janey here called a friend, lady of the night, works the park down there on Beaufort Street. Apparently that dog-faced runt ex of hers is back, asking after Janey. He’s heard that you took her out of the battered women’s place. Reckons you might be her new man. Jealous as hell. Been going round to all the girls with your description. Offerin’ ’em a twenty for a name. Only a matter of time before one of them girls twigs, puts you in for a quick fix of the old morphia.’

  Swann looked to Janey for confirmation, who gave a little nod, sniffled. ‘So you’ve decked this place out like the bloody Alamo, just in case he gets my name? This isn’t what Janey needs, mate.’

  ‘There’s the thanks I get. What’d I say, Janey, eh?’

  Swann looked to Janey again. ‘What’s he on about?’

  Janey went to speak, but Stormie got in first with a rhetorical clenching of his fists. ‘Are there any fucken men left? Are there? Any? If you’d finished that prick off, Frank, we wouldn’t be here. I did you a large, mate, and this is the thanks I get.’

  ‘Janey?’

  ‘I didn’t give Stormie the number. He’s got this call-back thing on his phone. He called Mel, my mate, back, and told her to spread Stormie’s name around, and to give this address.’

  Stormie grew an inch, and his face went hard. ‘You don’t run from scum like that, Frank. You invite ’em in for a friendly cuppa, say “sugar”, and blow their fucken lights out.’

  Swann shook his head. ‘This friend of your’s, Mel, she reliable enough to remember the message, pass it on?’

  Janey gave a quick shake of her head, so quick that Stormie didn’t see it. Swann tried to hide his relief. Janey, going along with Stormie’s theatrics, although Swann didn’t doubt his intent. He took out a pen and wrote the number of the car phone, and passed it to Janey. ‘Call me on this, anytime. And Janey, please call in to Marion, let her know how you’re doing. She worries.’

  Janey threw her arms around Swann, just as quickly detached herself, well used to the presence of a possessive boyfriend. Swann said again, ‘You need anything, call me.’

  Stormie rocked on his heels. ‘Fucken Bren’d be alright. Owen’d be handy too. Yeah, nah, too much to ask, isn’t it? Bit of logistical support from the great man.’

  Swann left them to it. If what Janey’s friend Mel said was correct, Janey wouldn’t be safe at Swann’s home. He’d have to talk to Marion about it, find somewhere new for Janey to hide out.

  41.

  Swann knocked on the door of Gould’s apartment, inserted the key and opened the door. Gould looked at him, noticed the lack of a bottle, made a face. Swann followed him into the lounge room, made a face of his own. He pulled back one of the heavy curtains; the block of smoky light illuminating the carpet laid with piles of paper, overturned ashtrays and coffee mugs. But Dennis Gould was immaculately dressed in a blue pinstripe with polished shoes and crisp white shirt, freshly shaved and barbered.

  ‘Must’ve made an impression, Dennis. Taken years off.’

  ‘They wouldn’t let me in the front door if I didn’t look the part. Stockbroking’s all about image, Frank. Half the blokes on broking desks round the world don’t have a clue, but they make sure to look good, sound good, smell good. Speaking of which – you wanted me to stop working, but you didn’t bring any booze.’

  Swann opened his jacket, took out a half-bottle of Jameson. Gould saw Swann’s holstered pistol and, as he did whenever he saw a gun, shivered. Swann cracked the cap and passed the bottle. Gould drank the shoulders off, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, huffed out some fumes, crossed himself.

  ‘What’s the problem?’ he asked.

  ‘Word’s out that you’re back. Hogan knows.’

  ‘I only popped out for an hour.’

  ‘It’s not that. Hogan always knew. Somehow.’

  Gould’s searching look broken by another swig. ‘This is one of those gigs, isn’t it? A step behind, always.’

  Swann nodded. ‘Doesn’t feel like I’m working the inside, that’s for sure.’

  ‘That’s kind of what I wanted to show you. The second tender, Hercules Construction. Like I told you earlier, Hercules is the umbrella company for more local firms – pretty experienced, although not to the scale that Exetar has accomplished. Ticks all the boxes re directors, subcontractors, et cetera, nothing untoward. Seems to be plenty of liquidity and potential for taking the next step. Conlan is listed as their premier financier, but when I made a few calls, turns out that Conlan’s pulled the plug on their money, yesterday. You want some?’

  Swann shook his head at the bottle. He was having trouble maintaining interest in Gould’s research, thinking instead of Hogan’s motives for wanting him near the premier. But the whisky had set a fire in Gould’s eyes that Swann didn’t enjoy seeing. Dennis Gould was either working, or drinking, and once he stopped working and started drinking there’d be no sense out of him, so he let him ramble.

  ‘That was unusual enough for me to investigate. Conlan’s bank, you’ll remember, was financing each of the tenders. Whoever wins, the Burswood development will be built using Conlan money. So why pull the plug on Hercules? I visited my friend at the stock exchange. He hadn’t heard, so we looked at recent transactions on the market. Turns out someone’s buying shares in Hercules, significant transactions. Sure you won’t join me?’

  Swann watched Gould drain the bottle, toss the empty onto the couch, at a loss now with his hands, looking around for more. ‘Go on, Dennis. I’m following, just.’

  ‘Small chunks of Hercules stock but overall in big volumes.’

  ‘We know who’s buying?’

  ‘That’s the thing. More trades the past two days than in the past year. Got my mate excited. Like he’s missing out on something. Forgot I was there. Started following the company names, making calls. All roads leading back to London. Took a long time and a lot of calls to trace the shell companies, registered all over the place, but enough to get a clear picture. One way or another, all of the companies are part of the Handos PLC empire, owned by one Graham Greylands.’

  ‘Grim Greylands, even I’ve heard of him.’

  ‘Because he’s a notorious bastard. Gold mines. Pharmaceuticals. Brewing. Rumours of funding mercenary-driven coups in Africa. You name it. And the obvious question –’

  ‘Why’s a big wheel like Greylands buying into a local construction entity?’

  ‘Precisely. We don’t know. We may never know. But what we were able to ascertain, with a few well-placed calls to London brokers, is that Maitland Conlan’s Exetar, as part of its worldwide shopping spree, has been buying up big in Handos. Very big. And of course leveraged by his brother.’

  ‘So it’s payback. Greylands is buying into an Exetar competitor? And Conlan hears, pulls the finance on it.’

  ‘Exactly. To what end Greylands is stalking Exetar, I don’t know –’

  ‘Maybe that is the end. Swinging dicks. But why doesn’t he buy Exetar directly? Surely he’s got enough backing.’

  ‘Frank, that is the bloody question. The question. Perhaps he knows about the organised crime influence we uncovered, or something else about Exetar that we don’t? Either way, the amount he’s bought into Hercules, it’s what’s called a poised position. Not a majority ownership, but not much more needed.’

  Swann understood. ‘If Hercules gets the tender, he buys himself across the line, takes a majority interest. If not, he flogs what he’s bought, no harm done.’

  ‘Exactly,’ Gould said. ‘So, what do you want me to do about it? I mean, focus on?’

  Gould’s wringing hands, desperate for a drink. It couldn’t hurt. It wouldn’t make any difference to Swann. ‘Look at Exetar again. Try to find out what Greylands knows. But be careful. Hogan and Quinlivan are together in Exetar, at ground level. So look higher up. If Hogan knows you’re here, others might.’

  ‘But Trevor Dragic. He’s out of the picture, right? For good, yeah?’

  Swann
nodded. ‘Yeah, for good.’

  42.

  It was near midnight when Swann headed out of the city, radio tuned to the classic station pre-set when he’d taken the Statesman. He knew the call from Hogan was coming. He had something that Hogan wanted in the sunken Mercedes as possible leverage, but Swann needed that material to get the Trackers clear. He didn’t want to go near the two bodies, not at night, not with Hogan watching him. He dialled the East Perth Lockup as he drove, kept the classical music in the background, good cover for a lawyer type. Got Carter on the line, in the middle of his shift. Carter confirmed that the deal was on, wanted to see some of the contents of the Mercedes. Swann declined, strained his voice; the conviction needed to be quashed, the father released from Fremantle Prison, otherwise no deal. Would call again tomorrow. If no progress, Swann was going to the media with the whereabouts of the bodies, the Mercedes, the documents.

  Windows down, Swann could smell the lingering heat in the eucalypts of the Kings Park bushland; no sound but the purring V8 engine and the sharp notes of a violin, working around a cello. Swann let himself relax into the seat, could smell the river now, briny and warm. The car phone began to ring, and Swann pushed aside his jacket, heavy with two firearms, lifted the receiver. It was Terry Accardi.

  ‘That meeting tomorrow. I’ve got some interesting news that might, well … persuade you to rethink your earlier decision. Tomorrow morning, at the usual?’

  Swann agreed, planted the phone into its cradle, continued west away from the black acres of river and the darkened ridge of Mt Eliza. It would be good to pass everything onto Accardi, let him take it from there. There was self-interest involved, too. If Hogan framed Swann for Dragic’s murder, even if the case didn’t fall to Accardi, he would be in the right position to make crucial evidence go missing, namely the gun and shell casings. By insisting Swann stay in the picture, Hogan had also put Swann in the frame to help Accardi. It would be the young detective who Swann tipped off about the Grednics’ skeletons, if necessary.