Shore Leave

by David Whish-Wilson

  ‘This is the man we’re looking for, in connection to the murder two days ago of Francine McGregor. She was last seen alive with this man. We want anyone who has seen him to contact the police. Do not try to engage with him. Do not harbour or shelter him. We have reason to believe that this murder behind me is linked to the first. Our investigations are ongoing. The identity of the deceased woman has yet to be established. She appears to be between twenty and twenty-five years old, with bottle-blonde hair and black nail polish. She is wearing a metallic singlet and black leather skirt and boots. Anybody who can help identify her please contact the police. She is without identification, money, or car and house keys.’

  Cassidy passed the picture of Bernier to the most senior journalist, Brian Hunter, who’d just arrived, still panting from his exertions. Hunter took the picture but didn’t put it away.

  ‘Brian,’ Cassidy continued, ‘I want the midshipman’s name and photograph shared with every media outlet that asks for it.’

  Hunter nodded to the eager faces around him.

  Cassidy cleared his throat. ‘But in the meantime, if you have any further questions about the midshipman in that photograph, then I suggest that you address them to Master-at-Arms Steven Webb of the USS aircraft carrier Carl Vinson over there, beside Frank Swann, who many of you will know. That is all.’

  Cassidy turned on his heels and went back to his grim task. Webb took Swann’s elbow and made to leave, but Swann shook his head. They were surrounded and it wouldn’t be right to run away. Webb clenched his jaw but he took off his cap and squared his shoulders, looked into the faces of the dozen men and women leaning toward him.

  26.

  Devon Smith placed the final breakfast plate, smeared yellow with congealed yolk, in the tray and pulled the handle. The brushed steel box engaged the dishwasher electronics and began to churn. Steam seeped from the edges and condensed on the box. The steam reeked like a dumpster and Devon wiped his face on a clean tea towel, tossed it into the scullery wash-basket. Somebody the same rating as him would come later to collect the towels and dishcloths. Someone else whose career in the US Navy had gone the way of Devon’s.

  It was late Sunday afternoon, and thirty-six hours since Devon had slept. He’d forced himself to eat cereal when he returned to the Vinson, five minutes before he would be declared AWOL. He’d walked back from the skinheads’ house on the hill above the port to where the Vinson was moored. He had anticipated the time it’d take but not the armed guards searching everyone returning from shore leave. Devon didn’t have any contraband so had nothing to worry about. He got changed back into his uniform in an abandoned storage shed on the docks. Two Shore Patrol officers gave orders to six or seven underlings who made the returning sailors line up before entering the gangway, patting them down and firing questions. The men returning at this hour were the lucky ones who’d gotten laid, and none of them complained, just stood there with half-smiles and bleary eyes while the sun rose above them and the cement expanses of the dock began to radiate heat.

  Devon took his place in the line, opening the neck of his rucksack for inspection. He’d gifted the final Glock to the skinhead leader, Barry Brown’s nephew, whose full name he’d learned was Antony ‘Ant’ Wallace. It was the only time the tall guy showed anything in his eyes, which grew large with appreciation. Devon showed him how to eject the magazine and clear the breech of its cartridge. ‘I don’t want nothing from you guys,’ Devon added, just in case they thought he had an ulterior motive. Some of the other skinheads were already eyeing his haversack, in case it contained more treasure. ‘I just want to help out. Uncle Sam wants to help out. There’s hundreds of thousands of guys like me stateside. We got to reach out to each other, before it’s too late.’

  ‘Too late for what?’ one of them asked. He was a skull-head with piggy eyes and the posture of a doorman; menace in his poise even when stood quietly against the wall, arms folded against his chest. His knuckles were skinned and his wife-beater was stained with what looked like gravy, or blood.

  ‘The apocalypse of the white race. Perhaps you guys, where you live. It’s a small city, a long way from everywhere …’

  Ant Wallace took exception to that. He scoffed, sneered, sighted down the Glock’s barrel at the ocean across the highway. ‘Except that you Yanks keep bringin the frontline here,’ Ant said. ‘AIDS and VD and whatnot. You just told me the last port you visited was in black Africa. And now you’re here, same dicks been dipped in black ink, puttin AIDS in our women.’

  Devon couldn’t argue with the logic, but didn’t understand why the Australian wasn’t seeing the bigger picture, forcing Devon to repeat himself. ‘Well, like I said. I was in the brig that whole Kenya shore leave. For insubordination. Got thirty days for speakin back to a nigger officer.’

  It was a lie, but they didn’t know that. Devon hadn’t been in the brig and he hadn’t been in trouble for insubordination. He’d been late for his shift three days in a row.

  Devon’s words didn’t appear to have any effect. He’d tried to play the role of the brash US sailor but it hadn’t worked. Soon as he started on with his tales of fighting in ports, or telling them stories he stole from his father’s life, their eyes glazed over and they shared looks that made Devon feel even more on the outside. There was something dangerous about their silence, too, as though there were secrets behind it that involved him. Which was impossible. They hadn’t known that he was going to contact them. Bringing out the Glock had changed things but not as much as he expected. They still wore that worked-up look like they’d been out fighting, when according to Ant Wallace they’d spent the night around the fire ‘sinking piss’. They took turns hitting up the crank until the packet was gone, their needles laid out on the dirt next to their cigarettes and car keys. It was only when the sun rose and some of them started dozing on the old couches around the fire that Devon nodded to Ant and indicated that they should go inside.

  Ant followed Devon up the stairs into the house. The feeling of Ant behind him made the hairs on Devon’s neck stand up. It was in the kitchen that they drank glasses of water and Devon splashed water onto his face. He leaned closer to Ant and whispered his plan, watching the Australian’s face and hoping for signs of excitement or gratitude, of which there were none – just the same cold stare.

  When Devon Smith approached the front of the queue leading onto the Vinson it became clear that the navy police were merely looking for uniform code violations. Devon knew that most of them were police back on civvy street, and he wondered if they resented turning their hand now to checking the square knots of sailors’ neckerchiefs. One by one the men fronted the Shore Patrol sailors and showed their neckerchiefs and were allowed on board. Devon hastily retied his own neckerchief and made it neat and square. He felt like a fool for doing it but couldn’t risk another infraction, no matter how minor. He stood to attention in front of the Hispanic policeman who, because he was a senior rank, and also an asshole, made Devon salute. While Devon’s hand was still at his forehead the officer showed him a picture of a black sailor and asked if he’d seen him on shore leave. Devon acted like the question itself was insulting, and the spic officer glared and nodded Devon toward the gangplank. There was just time to change out of his uniform into his service coveralls, eat breakfast and get to the scullery. He wasn’t looking forward to hearing about how much booty Lenny and Marcus had hit or being questioned about the size and quality of Australian cock. It was going to be a long day. All Devon had to do was get through it and secure some shut-eye, then catch his bunk-mate Scully when he returned from his shift in the armoury.

  27.

  Swann led Webb up the beer-smelling stairs of the Brass Monkey and onto the second storey where the floorboards creaked beneath carpet laid during the gold rush ninety years earlier. Back then, the second storey was a brothel; now the old rooms were used for storage and offices. Swann knocked on the door of the furthest room on the north side. As he’d hoped, he heard the gruff voice o
f Richard Hand, the unfortunately named hotel manager, telling him to come in.

  Hand was perched over the open window leading onto the alley. Cassidy could be seen below conferring with a forensics officer, standing over the murdered woman. The contents of the garbage bin were being spooned into ziplock bags, clearing the space around the woman prior to her removal. Hand got a surprise when he turned and found Swann inside the door, rather than one of his bar or cleaning staff.

  ‘Swann. What the fuck?’

  Hand was a handsome man in his forties, still sporting a quiff of blond hair. His face shone with the moisturiser he’d just applied. The open jar of Pond’s cream sat next to a lit cigarette on the desktop laden with bills, invoices and orders.

  ‘Nasty business,’ Swann said. ‘You been watching the whole time?’

  The question wasn’t an accusation but Hand’s reply was testy. He screwed the lid on the moisturiser and put it in the top drawer. ‘Since I got in, about an hour ago. Why?’

  ‘No reason. Dick, this is Steve Webb. He’s an investigator with the US Navy.’

  There wasn’t space in the room for Webb to do anything except lean around Swann and show his face. ‘Sir. Thanks for seeing us.’

  ‘Seeing you? Not like you asked first.’

  Webb looked a little shocked. Swann angled his head and Webb stood back into the hall. ‘I’m assuming it was one of your staff found the poor woman. That’s your row of bins, no?’

  Hand put his elbows on the desk, took up his cigarette and rolled the glowing end into a point of fire. ‘Yeah, sure is. They got Kylie in a paddy wagon somewhere. What do you want?’

  ‘Before Cassidy gets up here and asks the same questions, I want to speak to your bar staff who were on duty last night. Or, even better, you call and ask them, put the phone on speaker. We’re looking to ID the murder victim.’

  Hand took a good hit off the cigarette and flicked it over his shoulder, out into the alley. ‘I don’t have to speak to you, Swann. Those days are over. Why the fuck would I?’

  Swann was prepared. He took out the twin hundred-dollar notes that he’d extracted from Webb’s wallet, held them up. Webb hadn’t needed convincing. Cassidy had publically shamed him, and by extension the US Navy. He was now on the outer and needed a way back in.

  ‘Give ’em here.’

  Hand swiped the notes and put them in his desk drawer. Squinted at the duty roster beside him and squared up the phone. Lifted off the handset and punched the numbers.

  Dick Hand let them out into the alley by way of the pub’s back door. They were now inside the police tape perimeter and Swann walked toward Cassidy with the note held up. Some of the journos down the far end of the alley noticed and raised their cameras. Cassidy pulled out his handcuffs and strode to cut the distance, his hand on the revolver at this hip.

  ‘You’re under arrest, Swann, for impeding an investigation. The Septic Tank can leave, but you’re –’

  Swann stopped and waited. When Cassidy was in his face and reaching to turn him to the wall, Swann offered him the note. ‘The young woman’s name is Jodie Brayshaw. She lives alone in a flat at the Bayswater address there. I just spoke to a barman who knows her well. He noticed her drinking with two friends and three white sailors before midnight. He then noticed her talking to a black sailor in the corridor leading to the toilets, beside the cigarette machine, just after last orders. He said hello to her and she replied. She didn’t look scared. He didn’t get a good look at the black sailor and wasn’t able to identify him as Bernier because it was too dark, although the man’s size and height are a rough match. The barman’s name and phone number are there too. Do you want it or should I give it to the journos?’

  Cassidy relocked the bracelets, put them into their pouch on his belt, reached for the note. ‘If Bernier’s at this address, and he resists, I don’t want your Yank copper mate getting in the way. Wait until we’re gone before heading there yourself. You got it?’

  Swann put up his hands, nodded, retreated back to where Webb was smoking, looking up at Dick Hand in the offices above them, his face shining in a box of sunlight, pale fingers on the lintel, enjoying the show.

  28.

  Tony Pascoe took a long draw off the oxygen bottle. The taste was metallic and he knew that it was near empty. He could feel the blood in his head, a simmer rising to a boil. He had been sitting in the van for fifteen minutes, watching the spectacle while trying to calm his breathing.

  Pascoe’s plan of taking Jared Page by surprise might succeed, but would also mean the end of his life. Page’s security was discreet but couldn’t be ignored. The adrenalin in Pascoe’s bloodstream was a response to the imminence of his death, should he choose to cross the street and enter Page’s restaurant; ‘Big Salty’ a reference no doubt to the businessman’s opinion of himself as an alpha predator.

  Pascoe didn’t recognise the two men in tan suits who lounged behind separate tables. They were stationed out of earshot of Page but close enough to come to his aid should it be required. Page sat at what was probably his favourite table in the corner near the plating station. The restaurant was only half full, but the two elderly waiters were busy rushing from the customers to the steel counter where the hands of a chef could be seen adding garnishes and wiping plates.

  Pascoe had no trouble identifying Jared Page. Once Mark Hurley had pointed him out in the society pages of the shared prison newspaper, attending a fashion opening, a young blonde on his arm, Pascoe had seen him in the pages on a weekly basis. The same jet-black hair with a widow’s peak, the same crow-eyes and cynical grin. Always fashionably dressed. A thin dark man who made up for his lack of stature with conspicuous displays of wealth, on his wrist, on his fingers, in the suits and ties that he wore. He was among the wealthy now but still carried the bad-boy attitude that had gotten him there.

  Pascoe was interested to see how it went down, and he was rewarded for his patience. A young man in loafers and a cheap jacket entered the restaurant and took a table. He didn’t acknowledge Page or the waiters. One of the bodyguards got up and went into the kitchen. One of the waiters returned with a paper doggy bag folded at its mouth. He passed it to the young man who nodded and made for the door. The bodyguard resumed his seat, looking at his nails.

  Pascoe knew that Mark Hurley was another such young man, also on the string. When he was busted with the drugs that ensured him a long sentence, those drugs were destroyed. Unfortunately for young Hurley, however, the drugs hadn’t been paid for. When he was imprisoned, his debt to Page remained, but with five years of punitive interest added to the principal. Hurley now owed Jared Page something in the order of two hundred thousand dollars.

  Thus far, Mark Hurley’s father was in the dark, but if Mark didn’t come up with the money soon, then Page’s heavies would be put onto him. If Hurley Snr chose to cover his son’s debt then he’d lose his house, and likely his business too. This was how Jared Page had acquired so many assets over the years. He owned a trucking company and dozens of commercial properties alongside his mining interests.

  Hurley had always suspected that Page put him in. Hurley was a heroin addict and at that age, a fool. He didn’t see the way things would go for him. Cocaine was a rich kid’s drug, and he enjoyed the dealing lifestyle until he found himself in Fremantle Prison. Now he had little choice but to return to a dead-end life, a trap of Page’s making.

  Pascoe took a final hit off the oxygen bottle. It echoed as he inhaled. The bottle was empty now. He closed his eyes and calmed his breathing. This was the moment where everything he’d done in life reached its culmination. He said a silent prayer to himself, apologising to the women he’d loved and then left, the two sons he’d never known. The world wouldn’t miss him, but that didn’t make it any easier.

  The moment had come. Without opening his eyes, he reached under the newspaper beside him and felt the crosshatched grip of the modified flare pistol, now a sawn-off rifle. He had one shot. There was no point waiting until Page
returned to his home in nearby Subiaco. His goons would see him to his door. They would clock Pascoe as he entered the restaurant, too, but as an old man dressed in painter’s clothes – a harmless worker wandered in off the street. By then it would be too late for them. Pascoe would pretend to be the man he’d once been, young and strong and storming a bank, voice loud, power in his movements.

  29.

  Darkness wasn’t far away and Swann followed the convoy of unmarked Fords and Commodores, cherry lights flashing without sirens, to the Bayswater Bridge rendezvous where they were joined by a TRG van. Cassidy was in the lead vehicle, no doubt formalising a strategy to be enacted when they reached Slade Street. So far Cassidy had maintained radio silence, but that would soon change. Each of the police vehicles had left the crime scene separately, some heading into the city and others turning north toward Mount Lawley, but had met again at the servo just inside the Bayswater Bridge. This was Cassidy being old-school, and Swann admired him for that. Plenty of other detectives would have leaked word to the gathered press in the hope of getting their picture on the front page – that flash-lit moment as the suspect was led to the waiting panel van. Instead, and justifiably worried that the press might get there before them and alert Bernier, Cassidy had put policy before self-promotion.

  ‘What do you think Cassidy’s problem is?’ Swann asked. ‘He’s onto something more than a suspicion of Bernier’s guilt.’

  Webb was unnaturally still. He’d finished talking into ‘the brick’, the Nokia Cityman mobile phone that was the first Swann had seen, allowing Webb to communicate with the Vinson by way of the ship’s own cell tower. He was careful not to talk too much, using formal code to designate what Swann presumed to be procedures and protocols. This signalled to Swann that despite Webb’s earlier cheerfulness there was a developing trust issue, which led to Swann’s question as soon as he hung up.