The Swan Island Connection

by Dorothy Johnston

  Chris waited patiently, then said ‘Edward Yates’s phone — don’t you think it’s odd that he didn’t leave it in his car?’

  ‘Odd?’

  ‘His wallet’s missing too.’

  Yu looked annoyed. ‘Will that be all, Mr Blackie? I really don’t have anything to add.’

  ‘What do you think happened to the phone?’

  ‘I’ve no idea.’

  ‘I suppose, if he was planning a long swim, a phone might not survive, even wrapped in oilskin. Do you think Yates was planning a long swim?’

  ‘I told you, I have no idea.’

  Chris felt annoyed with himself. He hadn’t found out much, and he’d put Yu on his guard. But then, Yu had already been on his guard, and there was one point he could follow up.

  Driving down the Mornington Peninsula from Brighton to Sorrento, taking the car ferry across the bay — Chris stayed below decks in his car so he wouldn’t have to face the swell — he congratulated himself on having made a sensible decision. He felt some urgency about getting back to Tom.

  The light in the ferry’s cavernous interior was dim, though outlines and shapes were discernible. All the surrounding cars were empty, the passengers enjoying themselves on the upper deck. It crossed Chris’s mind that, owing to his phobia about the open sea, he was making himself an easy target once again.

  He sat in his locked car staring at his hands. As Yu had quickly pointed out, the waters round Swan Island were much too shallow for a boat like his. But Chris had wanted to watch the businessman’s reaction. His boat was also too big to have been brought in close to the Lonsdale pier at night, which didn’t mean that Yu hadn’t made the trip in a smaller craft.

  There were security cameras all around the Queenscliff harbour. But why shouldn’t officers stationed on Swan Island be photographed setting off on a recreational fishing trip? Where was the harm in that?

  The trouble was that, even if Tom could get hold of the CCTV footage; even if he was lucky enough to find film showing Yu in the company of Leonard Charleston or Major Briggs, it wasn’t proof. Not proof, Chris told himself, as car drivers began clunking down the steps, unlocking doors and starting engines, but it would be worth trying to get hold of it nevertheless. He should have thought of the CCTV cameras earlier.

  Chris called by the harbour. It was a quiet time at the popular seafood restaurant, between the lunch and dinner clientele.

  The manager wasn’t there. Chris asked a young woman if she’d mind checking a booking made in the last few weeks by a Mr Yu.

  The young woman looked doubtful. Chris said, ‘If another customer comes in, I’ll wait. And I’d like a kilo of mussels, please, to take home.’

  That would be some cover for her, if anyone asked her what he wanted.

  Nobody else came in and Chris congratulated himself on having picked a good time.

  ‘Here it is,’ the young woman said, after a few minutes. ‘A table for six.’

  Chris thanked her and gave her a generous tip, along with payment for the mussels. Of course Yu’s guests could have met him at the restaurant. They mightn’t have gone anywhere near his boat; but something told Chris this was not the way it had happened. Yu would have wanted, in fact needed, to impress them.

  ‘The good thing is,’ Tom said, ‘that chaps become jealous of their territories. Those fellas at the harbour reckon harbour security is their business, not Swan Island’s.’

  ‘They refused to hand over the film when Charleston asked for it?’

  ‘Right, mate. Bonus points.’

  Chris thought it likely that Charleston would get his way eventually. The resistance put up by harbour security would not last long.

  He asked the crucial question softly. ‘Did they let you watch it, Tom?’

  Tom grinned around his cigarette. ‘With three of the blighters breathing down my neck.’

  Chris didn’t ask who from the harbour authority had insisted on being present while Tom viewed the CCTV footage. He didn’t need to know their names, just as he didn’t need to know what excuse Tom had used. Tom would have given them Mr Yu’s registration details. Someone would have done a search and shown Tom the relevant few minutes. Chris said with satisfaction, ‘You can hide a lot about a man, but not sticking out ears.’

  ‘An aurally augmented person,’ Tom agreed, and repeated his earlier suggestion. ‘He could have worn a beanie.’

  ‘A major in the army? A man in his position?’ Chris paused. ‘Aurally augmented?’

  ‘You know, like Big Ears in the Noddy books. Enid Blyton was accused of discrimination, so they had to refer to his friend Big Ears as aurally augmented.’

  ‘They?’

  ‘The teachers. Whoever. Noddy and Big Ears in the sack together. They had to fudge all that.’

  ‘In the sack is right,’ Chris said, aware of a pulse beating in his neck.

  Tom was leaning over the end of the jetty with a cigarette hanging from his mouth. It was as though his elbow joints were fixed onto the railing.

  Chris thought the coastguard officer would make a good statue. ‘Did you ever try to quit?’

  ‘You’re an insulting little shit, you know that Blackie? You should be genuflecting every which way.’

  ‘Oh, I am,’ Chris said.

  Though he now had Major Briggs and Yu together, the film could be destroyed, or the connection claimed to be a purely social one.

  ‘When you brought the body in, where was Yu’s boat then?’

  ‘Outside the harbour.’

  ‘But close enough?’

  Tom nodded. An expression of disgust passed across his face.

  ‘And Briggs and Charleston were watching you?’

  Tom nodded again.

  Chris had said nothing to him about the cocaine, and Bobby’s part in selling it; he didn’t know how much Tom had guessed. Now was the time, if he was ever going to. He was reluctant to destroy the image Tom had of Bobby, but then he told himself not to be a fool. Whether or not Tom was aware of exactly what Bobby’s business had entailed, he must have guessed that it was illegal. He’d known for a lot longer than Chris had, and he’d protected Bobby by his silence.

  Had Griffin meant to kill Anthea, or had the attack been a warning? Did the hotel manager enjoy beating women? Oh Anthea, Chris thought, why did you go walking on your own at night? Was it because, after all our talk about hidden microphones, you suddenly couldn’t bear to be shut up in your flat? Were you hearing Olly’s scales, thinking of Olly in his cell?

  ‘Why did you phone me first Tom, from out there on the water?’

  ‘Call it an insurance policy Blackie, for a man with riddled lungs.’

  FORTY-THREE

  Chris recognised the address in West Geelong. It was the site of another botched exercise dreamt up for the trainees on Swan Island.

  Anthea had busied herself doing some research to while away the time in hospital, and the exercise had made the newspapers. It had not been as big a fiasco as the Sheraton Hotel, but a fiasco nevertheless. The plan had been to practise an abduction, but whoever was in charge got the house wrong, and instead of breaking into number 21 Autumn Street, they’d stormed into number 23. The occupants, a couple in their sixties, had been terrified. In the scuffle, the man had lost his trousers.

  Chris wondered what the man whose role it had been to act the part of the abductee had been doing while his fellow trainees broke into the house next door. Presumably he would have heard the shouts of protest — the door being smashed in, a woman’s scream? Had he sat tight at number 21, perhaps asking himself if the plans had been changed at the last minute? Had he run to help?

  Neighbours and members of the public had complained. Chris recalled Tom’s story about Phillip Island. No ASIS officer involved in the Geelong incident had been named; in this, the media had stuck to the rules. Perhaps the officers who’d been directly involved were gone; on the other hand, perhaps they’d weathered the bad publicity. How many scandals added up to one scandal
too many?

  Chris picked up the key to the house in Autumn Street, having told the estate agent that he was interested in renting it. He was amazed that he seemed to have got away with the lie.

  The house was a renovated workman’s cottage, larger than either his or Minnie Lancaster’s. The dark wood of the hallway smelt of floor polish. There was no dust anywhere; it was immaculately clean.

  Chris stood in the doorway of the living room. Nothing was out of place, but there wasn’t much to keep in its place. A sofa and two armchairs looked as though no one had sat on them since they’d left the furniture warehouse. Chris sniffed again. That polish smell was still there, though the living room was carpeted.

  A phone and answering machine stood on a small table by itself. Chris pressed a button and heard a voice he didn’t recognise saying he was sorry he wasn’t there to take calls at present, and please leave a message. There were no messages, but he had not expected any.

  A flat screen television was the latest model. On the coffee table were several fishing magazines. Chris thought that was a nice touch.

  One bedroom was empty; in another was a double bed, a small table with a reading lamp, an empty chest of drawers.

  Chris pulled all the drawers out, then moved the table and looked under the bed. He almost expected to see a Gideon’s Bible, so closely did the room resemble an anonymous motel.

  No phone on the body and no wallet either. Although Brian’s opinion was that the phone had sunk, and Chris agreed that this was the most likely explanation, it was also possible that someone besides Brian had found it.

  Mr Yu and his companions had not known about the cigarette packet. Neither had Griffin. If they had, it would not have been left for Brian to find.

  Tom had spoken to Mr Yu on the radio the day that Yates had drowned, and the skippers of the other boats as well.

  Had Yates been swimming for Yu’s boat? Had he phoned Yu and told him what he intended? Perhaps Yu had said, ‘Sure. I’ll pick you up.’ But why would Yates believe him? And how would he know the businessman’s name and mobile number? Chris doubted whether even Stellar knew those details. Yet the explanation fitted with Yates’s mad dash along the pier. It made sense that he’d been swimming to someone. Why ditch his phone and wallet then? Because half way to Yu’s boat the truth had hit him? Yu’s boat was staying where it was and, in that wild sea, he was going to drown.

  Chris searched the house for something obvious and ordinary, something there’d been no need to remove because it’s presence would excite no interest.

  He stood just inside the back gate, scanning empty flower beds. In a laundry cupboard he found an old, folded blanket. He lifted it to his nose and smelt soap powder, then took it outside to a stronger light, where he discovered a few hairs that might have belonged to a German Shepherd. He wondered if the purpose of the blanket had been to avoid leaving dog hairs on the sofa. He wondered how often Griffin had the dog in the house.

  Chris re-folded the blanket and replaced it. Hidden cameras might be filming him. Would there be one in the laundry? He stared down at his hands in their thin rubber gloves. They reminded him of fish bait — it was the colour and the shape. He shut the back gate behind him and walked along the lane.

  The day looked like developing into the first really warm one of the spring. Spring was often like that, proffering a few warm days around the equinox, so that people shrugged off jackets and stretched their shoulders. Then it would blow like buggery all through October, wind straight off the Antarctic.

  A dog like that would be noticed coming and going.

  It was a different experience, door-knocking in a suburb of Geelong that he scarcely recalled even visiting before. He’d grown too used to seeing familiar faces, hearing familiar voices, being able to pick who had a genuine wish to help, and who was hiding something.

  An elderly man two doors down had seen the German Shepherd several times.

  ‘Lovely fellow.’

  ‘And his master?’ Chris asked in a neutral voice. ‘Would you mind describing the man who was with him?

  The neighbour was obliging; he wouldn’t mind at all. He took in Chris’s uniform and looked up and down the street. There’d been more than one man and the neighbour had seen them more than once. One walked with a limp. The other was an older man, grey-haired.

  ‘He looked like a soldier. Actually, they both did.’

  ‘Please go on.’

  ‘I was fetching my mail. The one with the limp — he had the dog on a lead — seemed annoyed about something. The other one, well, he was distinguished-looking, but I couldn’t help noticing his ears. It’s funny what you notice, isn’t it?’

  Chris agreed that it was. ‘Did you notice what kind of car they came in?’

  The neighbour looked thoughtful. ‘The man with the limp was driving. The dog got in the back.’

  ‘Did you happen to notice anything about the number plate?’

  ‘Not the actual number, no. But there was a coloured stripe along the side. I remember that because it was unusual.’

  ‘What colour was the stripe?’

  ‘Green. You know what happened here a few years back,’ the neighbour said.

  Chris murmured a general assent.

  ‘The Ethridges were a lovely couple. Frightened out of their wits. It’s a wonder they didn’t both have heart attacks.’

  Again Chris murmured his assent. Before finding the neighbour two doors down, he’d knocked on the door of 23 Autumn Street, but there’d been no answer.

  ‘They moved to Portland, to be near their son and grandchildren. They’d been talking about it anyway. There’s a young lawyer living there now. She’s hardly ever home.’

  Chris let the neighbour talk. He hadn’t been at home on the day of the break-in. He sounded both relieved, and disappointed to have missed out on the excitement.

  Chris pressed buttons on his phone.

  ‘Do you recognise this man?’

  ‘He was here,’ the neighbour said cautiously. ‘Not that day, but the next one. I saw him going into number 23. Who are you? Are you one of them?’

  ‘No,’ Chris said. ‘I work at Queenscliff police station. I’m’ — for a second the phrase refused to come — ‘tying up a few loose ends.’

  ‘That boy who was murdered?’

  Chris indicated his phone. ‘You’re sure this man was here the day after the exercise?’

  ‘Exercise you call it? Someone could have been seriously hurt. Why do they need to do their exercises here?’

  Chris was not about to try and explain. ‘What was he doing when you saw him?’

  ‘Going in, like I told you. I only saw him for a second.’

  Chris did not query the neighbour’s memory. And Leonard Charleston was memorable, for his height if nothing else.

  ‘The police were here too. Could you describe the police officers for me?’

  The neighbour raised an eyebrow, with an expression which said: don’t you coppers talk to one another?

  ‘There was a big fellow. Looked to be in charge. Rugby shoulders on him.’

  ‘Rugby?’

  ‘A rugby forward, you know. I’m from New South Wales originally. Never took to AFL.’

  ‘The sports you played when you were young stay with you.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘In uniform?’ Chris asked mildly.

  ‘Not that one. There were some that were. Blocked off the street. But this was after, mind you. Too late if one of them fellas got a bit trigger happy. Too late for us, I mean.’

  Chris scrolled through photos. ‘The officer in charge?’

  ‘That’s him.’

  When the neighbour said he had to go, Chris thanked him for his time.

  He made his way to the hospital, wondering if it had happened by chance that Inspector Ferguson had been sent to Autumn Street after the botched abduction. Was the inspector already acquainted with Charleston? Charleston might have asked for him.

  Anthe
a shook her bandaged head from side to side, a smaller bandage now. She said that, if the results of her latest scan were normal, she’d be allowed to go home tomorrow.

  Chris tried to look encouraging, but he was thinking that, back in the unit overlooking Swan Bay, his assistant’s safety would once again become his responsibility.

  ‘Let’s go for a walk.’ Anthea smiled at the surprise on Chris’s face. ‘Just up and down the corridor. I’m not made of sugar, you know. I’m not going to melt.’

  While they walked, Chris gave an account of what the neighbour had passed on to him, then said, ‘I found these.’

  Anthea looked up from the plastic bag containing the dog hairs to Chris’s face, then along the corridor, which was, at that moment, empty of staff and patients.

  ‘So Griffin was there?’

  ‘Fairly often I’d say.’

  ‘In a safe house belonging to ASIS?’

  Chris nodded.

  ‘And the neighbour was sure when you showed him the photo? He recognised Charleston straight off?’

  ‘Didn’t hesitate.’

  ‘And Ferguson the same?’

  ‘Yes.’

  They wondered aloud about whether the two had been acquainted before Ferguson was sent to Autumn Street. Anthea said, ‘It doesn’t really matter, does it? Whatever happened before, they knew each other afterwards.’

  ‘Ferguson would have done what Charleston wanted, in terms of playing down the botched abduction.’

  ‘And Charleston would have known who to ask for when he was told of Bobby’s murder. But why give him the detective he wanted? What influence does Charleston have with the CIU?’

  ‘He could have argued that matters of national security were involved.’

  Anthea looked sceptical. ‘And Briggs was there, with Griffin?’

  ‘The neighbour saw them getting in a car together.’

  ‘The blue Falcon?’

  ‘Major Briggs’s car.’

  ‘What—’ Anthea shook her head and seemed about to comment on their nerve, appearing in public like that, in Autumn Street in daylight.