‘They’re not here?’
Anthea shook her head. ‘What is it? What’s the matter?’
‘Come over the road.’
They walked further this time, passing by the bench under the black lighthouse. Anthea listened without comment, and asked only one or two short questions.
Chris thought about what would happen if he handed the cocaine over to Inspector Ferguson. He’d be handing over Brian Laidlaw as well. He could claim to have found the cigarette packet himself; he was reasonably sure he could carry off that amount of pretence; after all, he knew the currents and the beaches better than any of the detectives. But why decide to tell the truth and then immediately follow with a lie?
Chris knew that Brian was relying on him to shield him from any further dealings with the police. The cast of Brian’s face, his stance, his reluctance, his anger — all of this had plainly said that he wouldn’t have approached Chris at all unless he believed that that would be the end of it as far as he was concerned.
The old man would not be able to complain, would have no basis for complaint, if Ferguson or Shaw interrogated him. Chris wished he could respect the pair just a little more.
What reason would they have to be gentle? From their own perspective, they would have every reason not to be. Brian’s feelings would not be considered at all. Shaw would insult him, as he’d insulted every potential witness so far; Brian’s testimony, simple enough in itself, would be turned inside out.
Griffin might have been watching from one of the hotel’s front rooms and identified the Hyundai as it crossed the bridge. Either Yates had been granted leave, or else he’d been ‘allowed’ to leave the island unchallenged because his superior officers wanted to see where he was running, and to whom.
THIRTY-FIVE
There were some advantages to living in the same house all your life. Cubby-holes and hideaways hollowed out as a small boy remained underneath it, overgrown and covered with old bricks and spiders’ webs. Chris put on his gardening pants and a pair of gloves. He tied a hanky round his nose and took a rag to wipe away as much dust as he could. He couldn’t help thinking of Bobby under the coastguard office, while Tom sat inside it, smoking and intent.
Chris reminded himself, as he crawled on all fours and coughed, that under someone’s house was an obvious place to look. He held his torch in one hand, then balanced it against a foundation block while he removed bricks one by one. And there was the hollow, just as he remembered it, holding a match box and a coil of string. Chris opened the match box. It was empty. He couldn’t remember why he’d put it there, or what he’d hidden in it. His parents would no doubt have known of his hiding-place; parents knew these things. But Bobby had been a cleverer boy than he had, with far more at stake.
Chris debated separating the cigarette packet and its contents, then decided against it. He’d wrapped them in tinfoil, then a bit of hessian. Carefully, he replaced the bricks one by one. His torch was dim and he made a mental note to buy new batteries next time he was at the supermarket.
He reassured himself with the thought that no one knew he had the evidence except Anthea, Brian Laidlaw and the chemist, and no one but himself knew where he’d hidden it. While it remained in his possession, he could continue figuring out what to do.
The station remained empty of detectives. The two constables ate their lunch-time sandwiches on the back verandah, Chris glancing up every now and then as though the grass had ears.
He recalled Griffin losing his temper on the road that ran past Celia Erwin’s gate, Griffin shouting into his phone about having to set up another drop.
Anthea folded up her wrapping paper. ‘He’ll be looking for some sign that we’ve stumbled on the drugs,’ she said.
‘And then?’
‘Then the fat will be in the fire.’
They laughed too long and loudly, as though to make up for having to be cautious. Chris had never felt so personally the truth of the saying that laughter cleared the air.
After school that afternoon, Chris arranged chairs in a semi circle and took his time to study each boy’s face. They’d said nothing about being questioned again. Neither had their parents objected, for which Chris felt grateful. One mother had looked like insisting on being present, but he’d talked her out of it by assuring her that her son was not in any trouble.
The remnants of Stuart Hocking’s gang hadn’t been back to the Esplanade since Bobby died. They shook their heads solemnly as they denied it.
‘Those cars from the army base,’ Chris said, careful not to single out one boy in particular, ‘What colour number plates do they have?’
‘Same as ours,’ said Damien.
‘Idiot!’ hissed Jason. ‘He’s blind, Sir. Colour blind.’
Chris glanced at Damien, who went red, but did not deny it.
Jason said, ‘There’s different stripes down the side.’
‘What colour stripes?’
‘Green and yellow.’
Chris was aware that the smallest of them, Simon, was sitting braced and tense, eyes down, both feet flat on the ground.
‘Do you know what the stripes are for?’
‘It’s for officers. In the army, Sir.’
‘Which colour is for sergeant?’
Damien looked confused.
Jason said, ‘The yellow one.’
‘And green? Do you know what green is for?’
‘It’s —’
‘Shut up, idiot!’
‘Be quiet Jason,’ Chris said. ‘I want to hear what Damien has to say.’
‘It’s for high up officers. Majors and Colonels.’
‘Who told you the green stripe was for high-ranking officers?’
Damien looked worried.
‘Bobby told you, didn’t he?’
The boys’ silence was sufficient confirmation.
‘How did Bobby know?’
‘He made up stuff, Sir,’ Jason said in a disgusted voice. ‘He was a liar and a thief.’
‘Did any of you challenge him about it? Bobby, I mean.’
Silence again. Chris guessed that Stuart had been the one to challenge Bobby. As leader, that would have been his right.
Damien burst out, ‘They’re Commandos, like in America! They only choose the bravest, and they have to prove themselves. Only the toughest and the best!’
Jason looked even more disgusted. He kicked the leg of his chair and half got up. Chris told him to sit still.
‘Bobby was with you at the Esplanade.’
‘He never was!’
Jason lunged at Damien, who ducked. Simon scraped his chair backwards, feet still flat on the ground.
Chris went on asking questions, but he’d learnt what he needed to. He warned Jason, then dismissed them.
When Stuart Hocking was around, he would have made sure that any tips went to him. He would have acquired illicit packets of cigarettes and shared them. He would have regarded the trainees as his property. Any potential rival would have been promptly squashed, but Chris was satisfied none of the boys knew about the cocaine.
He walked them around to the front and watched them getting on their bikes, then turned to stare at his hollyhocks and roses, asking himself another question. Why go to all that trouble to get rid of half a gram of cocaine? Perhaps Yates’s plan had not been to dispose of it; perhaps he’d been about to blow the whistle on Griffin as a supplier of illegal drugs. What had happened between leaving the island and that dash along the pier? And where had Yates been heading, if he’d changed his mind?
Not to my police station, Chris said to himself. To a higher authority, someone of sufficient rank to over-ride Inspector Ferguson. No, Chris thought, this explanation didn’t ring true either.
He wished again that he could get hold of Griffin’s phone and find out who the hotel manager had called when his tyre went flat on a country road.
While Chris was busy with the boys, Anthea drove to Torquay to meet Emma Hutchins, Peter Aaronson’s ex-girlfriend.
She took a photograph of Edward Yates with her, hoping that Emma’s memory was good.
Emma didn’t hesitate. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘He was there.’
‘Can you tell me about the group of soldiers?’ said Anthea. ‘Anything that comes to mind.’
‘Well, the beer garden was pretty full. They were drinking heavily, but none of them got loud or obnoxious.’
‘And this man?’ Anthea indicated Yates.
‘Like I said, he was one of them. I memorised them all because I knew that that’s what Pete was there to do. That one didn’t stand out. I can’t remember anything about him in particular.’
Emma worked in one of Torquay’s trendy cafes and had arranged to meet Anthea during her break. They were sitting in Anthea’s car. Emma had immediately lit a cigarette. Anthea understood that, for her, the break meant a chance to smoke.
‘You knew there was an action planned,’ she said. ‘Did Peter mention a date?’
Emma shook her head and blew smoke out the window. ‘Pete takes all that stuff so seriously.’
Emma had so far avoided meeting Anthea’s eyes. Anthea knew why Peter had taken his ex-girlfriend with him to the beer garden. A young man drinking alone for several hours would have drawn attention to himself; a young couple weren’t nearly so conspicuous. She guessed that Emma understood this, that she’d wanted to be with him, and been glad of the excuse.
‘Did you notice anything else about the group? Please try and remember.’
Emma’s shrug said: what’s to notice? She chewed her left thumbnail and inhaled again.
‘Fit,’ she said. ‘Muscled up.’
‘With all that beer, they would have been making regular trips to the men’s.’
Anthea expected Emma to laugh, or make a face, but she stared as though the comment triggered a memory.
‘One of the guys, when he came back — not this one —’ Emma lifted her chin towards Yates’s photo — ‘I saw him pat the front pocket of his jeans. Like, the others were watching him, and he nodded, and then he like looked at us as though he knew who we were, and nodded at the others again.’
It was something, Anthea thought; not proof but something. She was not surprised to receive confirmation that Peter’s flimsy cover had been seen through. It would have amused the trainees to conduct their business under the anti-war protestors’ eyes.
Anthea questioned Emma about who had gone in and out of the men’s toilets, but, apart from that one instance, Emma couldn’t recall.
When she asked if Emma had seen Bobby McGilvrey at the hotel, Emma shook her head decisively, as though this was the question she’d been waiting for and she had her answer ready.
Anthea thanked her for her time, and wrote down her mobile number. ‘If anything else occurs to you, please call me.’
Watching Emma stride away — she had a long-legged, confident stride, though she had not struck Anthea as a confident young woman — Anthea thought it likely she would toss the number in the nearest bin.
Peter Aaronson’s eyes brightened when he opened the door and saw that Anthea was on her own. When she’d rung ahead to say there were a few loose ends they’d like to tidy up, Peter had suggested meeting at his flat. Anthea could understand that he would not want her turning up at his office. He’d told her he could spare half an hour.
Anthea sat down on a straight wooden chair with her back to the lounge room window and took out her notebook.
Sergeant Shaw had made him go over and over it, Peter said. He really didn’t have any more to add.
The sergeant had wanted to know what Bobby had said about Olly Parkinson, but Bobby hadn’t talked about his friends. He hadn’t talked much at all. If he was asked a question he answered it, that is, if he knew the answer. If he didn’t, he just shook his head.
When Anthea asked about Francesca, Peter said defensively, ‘Fran liked Bobby.’
‘Go on,’ Anthea said softly.
‘That first afternoon, when we were carrying the kayaks up from the water, Fran introduced herself to Bobby and started chatting to him.’
‘She gave him money.’
‘Only twenty dollars.’
‘Why?’
Peter shrugged. ‘She felt sorry for him, I guess.’
‘Did it occur to you that Bobby wanted to make sure you were seen and recognised on your practice run?’
‘Why would it? Of course not.’
‘But you paddled close to the island.’
‘Not that close. And Bobby didn’t choose the route, we did.’
Anthea took out her photograph of Edward Yates. ‘Emma identified this man as one of the group.’
‘He drowned. It was an accident! I was at work when it happened. I don’t know anything about it.’
‘No one’s accusing you, Peter. But he was one of them, that day at the beer garden.’
‘I don’t know if he was on the beach waiting for us. It was too dark to see.’
‘It would be logical though, wouldn’t it?’
Peter said, ‘Those men are being trained to fight in an immoral war that can’t be won. That’s logic for you.’
Anthea said calmly, ‘Do you remember anything else about the beer garden?’
Peter didn’t answer immediately. Finally, he said, ‘There was one — he bought more rounds than the others. Em and I counted, not that we really thought it mattered. He had this logo on his t-shirt that we tried to figure out. SIO STELLAR RN.’
SIO might stand for Secret Intelligence Organisation, thought Anthea, or Senior Investigating Officer. RN stood for Royal Navy. Stellar meant star. Sink In Ordure — that felt right. Good work, Merritt, Anthea said to herself. A brilliant bit of de-coding.
‘Some bikies came in,’ Peter said. ‘They blocked our view for a while. When they moved, I noticed one of them coming out of the men’s. One of the soldiers, I mean. Em noticed him too.’
‘Which one was that?’
‘The one with the stellar t-shirt.’
‘What did he do?’
Peter described the soldier patting his pocket and looking their way.
‘Did anybody else go into the men’s while you were watching?’
‘Well, they must have, mustn’t they? We were there for hours and they drank a lot.’
‘What about Bobby?’
‘Bobby wasn’t there. I already told you. I wouldn’t have forgotten that.’
‘Did you hear a noise above your head and look up at any time?’
‘What kind of noise?’
The landing window had been both above and behind them. People seldom looked in that direction unless they had a specific reason, or had been trained to do so.
‘When you were leaving, what happened then?’
‘I’d paid each time we ordered, so there was nothing to do but walk out.’
‘By the main entrance?’
‘We were glad to be going.’
‘You thought it had been a waste of time?’
‘More or less.’
Anthea felt a pang of sympathy for Emma and hoped she realised, by now, that Peter was a lost cause.
‘Were you hungry?’
‘Well, yes, as a matter of fact. We hadn’t felt like eating at the pub. The food was over-priced. We bought fish and chips and took them down to the pier. Then we drove back to Torquay.’
‘Was there anybody on the pier you recognised?’
Peter frowned, trying to remember. ‘There was one guy who looked a bit familiar. He was talking on his mobile. He walked away from us, out past that covered bit. It sounded like he was arguing with someone.’
‘Describe him for me.’
‘Not a big bloke, but well built. Not young. Maybe forty? Hard to say. Brown hair. Short as the soldiers,’ Peter added, as though close-cropped hair was a kind of affectation. ‘Oh, and he walked with a bit of a limp.’
Anthea was careful to keep her voice neutral. ‘Did you hear anything he said?’
‘We weren’t paying attentio
n. I’m surprised I remember that much, actually. He stared at us before he moved away.’
Of course he did, thought Anthea. The fact that Griffin had been on the pier at that time might mean something, or it might not. Griffin could have followed Peter and Emma to see where they went. If so, he must be very confident. But Griffin was supremely confident, Anthea was sure of that.
After Anthea had summarised the two interviews for Chris’s benefit, Chris said, ‘I wonder if Bobby did paddle back to Queenscliff after the picnic. Maybe someone picked him up.’
The two constables had met outside Anthea’s block of flats, and were walking along the low cliff top. Chris noted that Anthea took care not to look in the direction of her neighbour’s cottage.
‘The staff at the Esplanade must know,’ said Anthea. ‘Some of them. Or guess.’
Chris hadn’t mentioned Minnie’s name, and he didn’t want to now. That was one of the things about stepping out of line, he told himself. You made decisions, but you had no fall-back. He had Anthea, but he was afraid for her.
He still hadn’t decided whether to take the cigarette packet to Inspector Ferguson. His conscience told him that he should, but he was afraid the evidence would ‘disappear’.
Minnie could be sacked tomorrow. There were few employment opportunities for middle-aged women in Queenscliff. Shop and café owners liked decorative young things in the summer; the fact that hiring them cost less was an added bonus. In the winter, they managed without extra staff.
‘Bobby leaves the drugs in the men’s,’ Chris said. ‘The time and place is pre-arranged. If he’s caught, there’s nothing to tie him to Griffin. Griffin has only to act shocked and horrified. Who’s going to believe the kid? Using Bobby separates Griffin from his customers as well. He probably makes sure he’s not even on the premises.’
Anthea nodded, thinking of that phone conversation on the Queenscliff pier. ‘What about the money?’
‘Probably the same in reverse.’
‘An awful lot of money for a child to handle.’
‘He wouldn’t have cheated Griffin. He would have known the consequences.’
Both Chris and Anthea fell silent, contemplating this. Bobby would have respected Griffin as an organiser and drug-dealer, but would not have been afraid of him, reasoning that he had plenty of information on the hotel manager that he could either sell, or barter.
The Swan Island Connection Page 18