The Swan Island Connection

by Dorothy Johnston

  Sharon was awake and waiting for him. He told her everything was fine. He had another twenty and there’d be more to come.

  FIVE

  In the early morning mist, on the last day of winter, Bobby McGilvrey lay curved in the shape of an elongated comma. His body appeared to have shrunk until it was little larger than an infant’s.

  Chris Blackie stood over the dead boy. Tears ran down his face and he didn’t think of wiping them away. Olly Parkinson stood a little further back, with Max by his side. It was Max who’d found Bobby. Asking to be let out early, he had gone, not to the back, but the front door, and then run to the street. He’d been insistent when Olly had tried to deter him. Max had led Olly along the path they usually followed when Olly walked Bobby home. When they got to the railway yard, Max had run ahead. A few moments later, he’d begun to bark, but by then Olly already knew that something was badly wrong.

  Bobby lay curled like a seahorse, like a puppy.

  Olly had seen, without touching, the red marks round his throat, the way the boy lay facing Swan Island. He’d seen as well — he could not have missed it — Max’s lead lying in the grass not three metres away. Max’s lead usually hung on the back door of his cottage. If it had been taken and used as a murder weapon — if indeed this was Max’s and not one that looked the same — then it must have been taken while he was walking Bobby home the night before. They’d left Max in the cottage, as they sometimes did. Olly had had no reason to check that the leash was there when he got back. Bobby had taken it with him when he’d walked Max after school, and so far as Olly was aware, had replaced it on its hook.

  These details passed through Olly’s mind as though someone else was thinking them. He could not bear to look at Bobby for more than a split second. Beside him, Max sat so upright and still it was hard to believe the dog was breathing. Olly wanted to go home and check on the lead, but Chris had told him to stay where he was.

  When Chris had knelt to feel for a pulse, he’d noted that Bobby’s wrist was stiff and cold. He’d been dead, Chris thought, for eight or nine hours.

  Chris and Anthea secured the area while they waited for the CIU. After exchanging a few words, Anthea ignored Olly. Her face was completely drained of colour; even her lips were white.

  Chris took several phone calls, then turned to Olly.

  ‘Did Bobby say anything to you about going out again last night?’

  ‘No,’ Olly replied in a voice Chris hardly recognised. ‘I think that’s Max’s lead.’

  ‘When did you last see it?’

  ‘Yesterday afternoon.’

  ‘Where were you last night?’

  ‘After walking Bobby back? At home.’

  Chris shook his head. He didn’t care who saw his tears. He couldn’t begin to fathom what had happened.

  Detective Inspector Ferguson was overweight, but not by much; his footballer’s muscles were just beginning to turn to fat, his brown eyes heavy-lidded. Chris registered the reserve behind them, while the inspector took in the crime scene with slow movements of his head. It didn’t take Chris long to pass on what little he knew.

  There was talk of practical details, including the address and names of Bobby’s parents. Chris was asked what he knew about Bobby, but producing an accurate summary was beyond him. He floundered and his tongue went thick.

  Ferguson raised his eyes towards Swan Island, emerging above the pale green and yellow seagrass in the clearing mist. He was listening to Chris, and yet listening to someone, or something else as well.

  The two sergeants who accompanied the inspector were, at first glance, similar to look at, shirt collars shortening their necks, jacket cuffs long on their wrists, as though it was important to show as little flesh as possible. Chris was aware of his own hastily pulled-on uniform.

  Their names were Shaw and Haverley. Haverley was the only one who seemed moved by Bobby’s death. The scene of crime team was expected any minute. Inspector Ferguson glanced in Anthea’s direction; he’d introduced himself and ignored her after that. Ferguson looked Olly up and down; so far he hadn’t questioned him, apart from ascertaining that he’d found the body.

  Chris was told to take one of the sergeants and set up an incident room at the station. Extra computers would be coming in the van. He was walking towards his car, preparatory to leaving, when an army vehicle approached the bridge on the island side and made its way across. As it came closer, Chris saw that it contained two men, a driver in uniform and a single passenger.

  The tall man who unfolded himself from the front seat was dressed in a plain dark suit, his demeanour grave. There was nothing to make him stand out, but Chris knew a representative of the secret services when he saw one. Over the years, he’d become used to watching them at a distance, passing smoothly through the checkpoint and over the bridge. It was rumoured that the current Director of ASIS fancied himself a bit of a James Bond, and liked to come down for machine gun practice at the weekends.

  Ferguson made a rocking motion with his hand, indicating to Chris to get on with it. As he backed his car away from the bushes, Chris caught the inspector and the tall man in his rear vision mirror. Their heads were close together, their faces and expressions hidden.

  Sergeant Haverley helped move Chris’s things into the small second office, which the two constables would share. Chris was aware of the sergeant taking in the lavender beds and roses at the front of the station, the old-fashioned ER and crown next to the front door. His body felt numb, while his mind jumped from one detail to another. Once he’d done all he could, he left Haverley talking on the phone in the front office, and went to the back of the station, to the small kitchen, where he stood staring at the electric jug as though it had come from Mars.

  The detectives had driven down from Geelong CIU. Chris wasn’t sure if they’d be going back to Geelong to sleep. He wasn’t even sure whether all three detectives lived in Geelong, but told himself dully that he would find out soon enough.

  Anthea joined Chris in the back office, approaching so quietly that he scarcely heard her. She was still very pale, and looked as though she’d lost five kilos in the last few hours. She’d arrived within minutes of his call, eyes wide with disbelief. Chris wondered if she thought Olly should have phoned her first. He wondered at her scrupulous behaviour at the railway yard, and Olly’s stiff acceptance of it.

  Phones rang at the front of the building and there seemed, to the two uniformed officers for whom the station was a second home, to be a sudden onrush of vehicles and men.

  Chris wanted to ask Anthea what she made of the tall man in the army vehicle. They’d seldom talked about the island or what it was used for. He felt protective towards his assistant, as though, embedded in the horror of the morning, were facts she needed to be aware of for her own sake. But then, he thought, what else could matter now that Bobby was dead?

  He knew that if he asked Inspector Ferguson about the appearance at the crime scene of an ASIS officer, he’d be reprimanded, reminded of his place. Yet his place was here. A child had been murdered on the patch of earth for which he was responsible. Chris wished he’d never come back, that he was at that very moment floating down the Nile. If he’d stayed away, would Bobby still be alive?

  It looked as though Ferguson might have to run a murder investigation with the most highly trained snoopers in the country looking over his shoulder. Yet why were they interested? Why had it taken so little time for that man to turn up?

  A killer had come after Chris once and had almost drowned him. Standing with his hands on the railing of the station’s back verandah Chris recalled the vertigo, the plunging sense of failure as Jack Benton kicked him in the back and held his head under the water. What he felt now was similar to that; yet he’d been rescued, his life had been saved. It was too late for anyone to rescue Bobby. Chris knew the conviction that he was in some way to blame would be with him till the day he died.

  Anthea sat down on one of the wicker chairs they kept on the veranda
h. Tears fell and she made no attempt to brush them away.

  ‘Olly would never hurt Bobby. Never.’

  Chris put his arm around her. He couldn’t think of anything to say in response.

  He sensed the dammed up words beating against the back of Anthea’s throat. He sensed that she was desperately trying to convince herself.

  SIX

  Avis McGilvrey had decided that a black dress was right for the occasion, or else she’d put it on that morning as her daily wear. Chris believed she’d gone to the wardrobe after Sergeant Haverley’s phone call, and chosen it as suitable. Bobby’s father was on his way home, Avis informed them, as though she was doing them a favour. Chris had been told to take notes while Haverley questioned Bobby’s parents.

  To the news of her son’s murder, Avis offered them a blank expression, hands clasped in her lap — relaxed hands, Chris noted, skin smooth over the knuckles.

  He had some idea what to expect, from his conversations with Avis over the welfare of her children, but still he was shocked.

  ‘When was the last time you saw Bobby, Mrs McGilvrey?’ Sergeant Haverley asked.

  ‘Last night.’

  ‘What time did Bobby come home?’

  ‘Bout ninish.’ Avis glanced to one side, and Chris realised that she was looking for someone to confirm this.

  ‘Did you hear him go out again?’

  Avis shook her head.

  ‘What time did you go to bed?’

  ‘Round ten.’

  ‘And your husband, Phillip?’

  Avis looked surprised.

  After a short silence, Haverley asked, ‘Am I to understand that you didn’t hear your husband come in?’

  ‘When I get to sleep, I sleep real good.’

  ‘Did your husband come home last night, Mrs McGilvrey?’

  ‘Well, he was here this morning, wasn’t he?’

  Haverley threw Chris a look, while Chris kept his expression neutral.

  ‘And this morning?’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘Please tell me what you did this morning.’

  Again, Avis looked surprised. ‘We got up and had our breakfast. Phil has to leave early to get to Corio.’

  ‘What time would that have been?’

  ‘Before seven. I’m all confusion,’ Avis said. ‘You come in here and tell me Bobby’s dead, then ask me about breakfast. What happened to my son?’

  ‘He was found early this morning at the railway yard. Can you tell me if Bobby was in the habit of going out at night?’

  Avis reached behind her to a coffee table and opened a pack of cigarettes. Haverley looked as though he’d been calculating how long it would be before she lit up.

  They regarded one another through the smoke. Chris spoke for the first time. ‘Did you notice Bobby wasn’t here this morning, Mrs McGilvrey?’

  Avis blew out of the side of her mouth and said, ‘Sharon gets the breakfast started.’

  ‘And Sharon never said anything about Bobby being missing?’

  ‘She knows not to disturb me in the mornings. Sharon’s a good girl.’

  Sergeant Haverley frowned at Chris, who took this to mean that he should leave the questions to him.

  The sergeant went on building up a picture of the family’s routine. It was clear that the boys got themselves off to school every weekday morning with their sister’s help, before she left for her job at the bakery.

  ‘Is that where Sharon is now?’

  Avis shrugged.

  ‘Have you phoned your daughter?’

  ‘I thought that was your job.’

  ‘Good Christ,’ said Haverley, as soon as they were away from the house.

  Chris drove while the sergeant sat frowning in the passenger seat, sucking in his bottom lip, taking no note it seemed of his surroundings, until they turned a corner and were suddenly in front of the security gates and check point blocking access to Swan Island.

  Chris was driving slowly, since the bend was a sharp one. He glanced across at the sergeant, who looked back over his shoulder with a deeper frown.

  Inspector Ferguson was outside the station, stepping from a car which Sergeant Shaw had been driving. He waved Haverley over, then said, ‘Wait here constable. We won’t be long.’

  Chris watched the detectives drive away. He wanted to find Sharon, but did as he was told.

  Half an hour later, Chris was standing to attention in the front office, answering Ferguson’s questions.

  ‘Oliver Parkinson — tell me what you know about him.’

  ‘Olly’s a quiet, reserved man,’ Chris began. ‘I —’

  ‘Just a few facts, constable.’

  Chris said that Olly worked from home, ‘computing work’, then hesitated again, wondering how to put the next part.

  ‘Bobby’s home life was pretty dreadful. I had the idea that Olly could take Max, Bobby’s dog, for a while. This was after some young ruffians tried to set fire to him.’

  Ferguson’s expression was impatient. Chris knew it was coming out all wrong.

  ‘The routine was that Bobby went there after school, to Olly’s cottage, took Max for a walk, then Olly gave him a meal and helped him with his schoolwork. Bobby had been wagging school, well, for years actually —’

  ‘Spare me the social work, Blackie.’

  Chris swallowed and said, ‘Then Olly walked Bobby home.’

  ‘That’s what happened last night?’

  ‘To the best of my knowledge, yes.’

  ‘The dog lead, where was that kept?’

  ‘I couldn’t say for sure.’

  ‘But in Parkinson’s house?’

  ‘Well, yes. Sir, was it Max’s lead that was used to strangle Bobby?’

  Ferguson ignored the question. ‘How many people knew about this arrangement?’

  ‘With Max? Well, me and Constable Merritt. Then, I guess, anybody Bobby or Olly had told.’

  ‘Which is to say the whole bloody town.’

  Chris said, ‘I know Olly was in the habit of leaving his back door open.’

  ‘With expensive computer equipment sitting there waiting to be nicked?’

  Tears came to Chris’s eyes again.

  Ferguson allowed himself a small smile. ‘A word of advice, Blackie. In the future, leave social work to those mugs who are trained for it.’

  Chris blinked. ‘What about Bobby’s father, Sir?’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘He wasn’t there when DS Haverley and I called round.’

  Chris wanted to ask if he could be present when Phil McGilvrey was questioned, but thought that, if he put it as a direct question, the inspector might snap at him.

  ‘Sir, Sergeant Haverley will tell you that Bobby’s Mum — well, she wouldn’t know if a bus ran through the house.’

  ‘They’ll all be questioned, constable,’ Ferguson said with quiet satisfaction.

  The back office was too small to accommodate two people comfortably, and now it was stuffed with files and boxes as well.

  Chris didn’t need to tell Anthea that he liked having an office to himself. She glanced at him almost with dislike when he moved his chair to the other end of the table.

  None of the McGilvreys had ever had a conviction. Chris went back through the records and was unable to find even a drunk and disorderly.

  Sergeant Shaw came to the door to impress on the two constables that they were on no account to answer any media inquiries. No details of how the body had been found were to be passed on. The sergeant spoke as though they were children who might get up to mischief once his back was turned. He watched Anthea, who kept her head down.

  After Shaw left, Chris tried to think calmly. The lead could have been stolen from the cottage while Olly was walking Bobby home. But by whom? Whoever it was had to be familiar with Olly’s and Bobby’s routine; he must have watched and waited for his opportunity. Why? Who would want to kill a ten-year-old boy?

  ‘Did you hear Max barking last night?’ he as
ked Anthea.

  ‘No. And if you’re about to ask if I heard Olly going out again, the answer to that is no as well. I saw Olly and Bobby setting off at about a quarter to nine. I was putting my bin out. Max wasn’t with them. I didn’t hear Olly coming back.’

  ‘Olly told me Max asked to be let out first thing this morning, as though he knew something was wrong. But by then Bobby had been dead for hours. Why didn’t Max raise the alarm last night?’

  ‘He’s a dog. He isn’t Superman.’

  Still, Chris thought, it was a point which cast doubt over Olly’s version of events, and Anthea must be aware of that as well.

  He said, ‘Where money was concerned, Bobby saw himself providing for his younger brothers. If he’d been five years older, he could have got a job, and that part of the problem would have been taken care of.’

  ‘Provide for them by stealing?’

  ‘He was getting cash from somewhere. I don’t know if he was stealing it.’

  ‘I thought Sharon had a job.’

  ‘At the bakery, on the minimum wage for a sixteen-year-old.’

  Anthea said, ‘Perhaps I should resign.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ Chris said sharply.

  Both of them flushed an angry red. Anthea bit the inside of her cheek.

  Chris was too confused and miserable to bandy words around. Long moments passed before he said, ‘It was me who brought Olly and Bobby together.’

  ‘You can’t be blamed for that.’

  ‘If this damned community looked after its kids better, if everything wasn’t so —’

  Before Chris could finish his sentence, Sergeant Shaw poked his head around the door again and told Chris to drive him back to the McGilvreys.

  Chris wasn’t sure if he was expected to stay in the car, but when they got there, Shaw made it clear that he wanted him to take notes again. In the short drive to Wharf Street, the sergeant hadn’t said a word, but Chris had the strong impression that his response to the murder was unfeeling, that his thoughts were elsewhere.

  Phillip McGilvrey stared at his work boots as though the answers to Shaw’s questions were embedded in the toes.