Shore Leave

by David Whish-Wilson

  Webb lit a cigarette and scrolled down the window. The late afternoon was hot and bright, the smells of exhaust invading the car. Up ahead, the ridgeline of the scarp carried the last rays of sunlight reflected from windows and corrugated-iron roofs, making the heat seem worse. Webb ashed into the wind as Swann caught King William Street, making their turn right.

  ‘I don’t know, Frank. My guess is that through whatever channel, he’s learned that Charles Bernier has a sex crime conviction, back in Texas. What he mightn’t know, and the reason I didn’t bother sharing it with him, is that it was a stat rape charge, laid when Bernier was sixteen and his girlfriend was fifteen. The girlfriend, it must be said, was white.’

  Swann nodded but didn’t reply. He followed the police convoy and turned the Brougham across traffic into Slade Street, headed toward the riverside block of flats where Jodie Brayshaw lived. Now the radio crackled to life as Cassidy directed the lead vehicle to cut its cherry lights. He ordered the TRG troopers to take up positions in the entrances, stairwells and second and third floor balconies of the five-storey block. He told the uniformed officers to keep out of sight, but to scout the carpark and nearby streets looking for a brown Datsun 120Y, registration number 6BC 456.

  Swann’s knuckles were white on the steering wheel as he pulled the Holden to the kerb. They were uphill from the apartments, with a clear view of the plainclothes and uniformed men and women swarming to their task. He killed the ignition and pulled the handbrake.

  ‘Yeah, that might explain it,’ he said to Webb. ‘What else haven’t you told him?’

  Ahead of them, Cassidy looked up the street and saw Swann and Webb, made a point of ignoring them, taking out his Smith & Wesson revolver, checking the load.

  There was no contrition in Webb’s voice. ‘I didn’t share that Bernier is something of a loner. That the navy shrinks have had their eye on him. Regular attendee at Sunday services, across two denominations. Skips meals. Was treated for venereal disease three months ago, clear for HIV. Nearly failed his last physical, as a result of congenital asthma. Should be wearing glasses but refuses, out of vanity. No discipline issues. No gang affiliations. No likelihood of promotion anytime soon. He performs his role as a boatswain’s mate well enough, maintaining mechanical equipment, related to his civvy job as a diesel mechanic. He has a high IQ, based on tests done by the shipboard shrinks, who feel that Bernier’s withdrawn nature is the result of frustration at his current position, although he shows no ambition to retrain or reskill himself. When his belongings were searched there was nothing untoward, no women’s possessions or lewd material –’

  ‘Any letters?’ Swann asked. ‘Francine kept every letter from Bernier.’

  ‘No letters. I’m not sure what that means, precisely. Whether he didn’t value the relationship as much as she did –’

  ‘Or he didn’t want to leave any evidence of their knowing each other.’

  Webb looked at Swann for the first time. Swann felt the voltage in the look but ignored it, watching the TRG troopers secure every escape route from the building while Cassidy and two other plainclothes officers crept toward the flat on the second floor, pistols drawn.

  ‘Do we have a problem, Frank?’ Webb’s voice was quiet, but there was steel in it.

  ‘Not if you share everything you just told me with Cassidy, and anything else you think might be useful to the case. Meat in the sandwich, that’s not where I want to be. I’m not taking sides. I just want to help catch Francine’s killer, Jodie Brayshaw’s killer.’

  ‘Fair enough.’

  Cassidy stood next to Brayshaw’s bedsit, gun raised as a prequel to assuming the firing position. He nodded his head to the TRG officer in a visored helmet, who slammed an orange battering ram into the door, just above the lock. Cassidy went inside, followed immediately by three other officers. Swann and Webb waited for it, the sound of a gunshot, but there was only shouting, and then silence. A minute passed before the TRG officer returned to the balcony and signalled to his troopers to stand down, inverting a thumb before holstering his pistol.

  30.

  Devon Smith sat on his rack and thumbed through an old hunter’s magazine. On the cover was a picture of a Tennessee hog the size of a small car, surrounded by two bearded men and the dogs who’d brought it down. The men grinned like kids gathered around a birthday cake; the dogs panted behind bloody snouts.

  Mike Scully would come off shift soon, and then Devon would make his pitch. Scully was one of the lucky ones. As a storeman his responsibilities included transporting weapons up to the deck, where the men and women of the air wing undertook target practice by firing at paper targets hung over the ocean. Mike occasionally got to feel the sun on his face while he waited and watched, handing out ammunition and checking off the pistols as they were returned. Devon’s ordinary duties meant that he lived, worked and slept below deck for weeks at a time, never seeing the sunlight or taking in a view over the ocean.

  Devon had the rack closest to the floor. Mike had the rack above Devon because he was a six-footer in a bunk too short for him. If he were on the bottom rack his feet would trip up everyone as they squeezed along to the head, or the stairs that were the only exit to the berthing floors above and below. On the top rack was a Montana cowboy called Winter. Used to wide-open spaces and a big empty sky, now he slept with an iron ceiling one foot above his face. He snored and grunted and his knees cracked the ceiling when he turned over in his sleep, although he never complained. Another dope fiend who’d chosen military service over prison time.

  Devon and Mike Scully had joined up at the same recruitment intake and were both from San Diego, although back home their lives were different. Mike was a surfer from La Jolla with a steady girlfriend who he called when he had the chance. Devon on the other hand grew up south of Interstate 8, moving from house to house until he hit the Gaslamp district to live on the streets when he was fourteen.

  Devon shared the berthing room with fifty-one other men, two-thirds of whom worked the day shift. There were only a dozen or so men in the room now, some sleeping, others reading or staring at the ceiling. The room smelt so bad that he only returned there to shower, change or sleep. No matter how much deodorant or powder was used, the stink of feet never dissipated and the air was particularly stagnant in the corner where Devon was bunked. He needed to sleep but didn’t want to miss Scully, who’d return soon to change for his daily session in the gym before hitting the mess and rec areas.

  Right on cue, Devon heard the trampling of boots on the steel steps that rose through ten floors before reaching the open layer beneath deck level. Devon straightened his blankets and tried to look like he wasn’t waiting for Scully, instead setting about relacing his boots. Ten or so men began to thread their way through the different aisles and then he saw Scully, unbuttoning his shirt as he walked, bent over as usual in the low space. He saw Devon and mock-saluted, tossed his shirt onto his rack, leaned toward his stowage bin and drew out his kicks and shorts.

  ‘Hey Mike,’ Devon said. ‘See that Terminator’s showin tonight. You gonna catch it with me?’

  Scully shook his head, breaking into a grin that showed his straight white teeth. ‘Nah son, got shore leave tomorrow. Gonna work out then hit the rack, get me an early one. Don’t aim to be sleepin tomorrow night. How’d you go? You look all wrung out, son. You get some?’

  Devon had hoped to accompany Scully to the movie room, where it got so loud before the lights went down that you could talk about anything without being overheard.

  ‘Naw, bro, strike one for Devon Smith. I was doin business, though, like I told you. What I want to talk to you about.’

  Mike Scully’s smile dropped, but Devon knew that didn’t mean much. Scully was from a good home and didn’t need the money, but there was something about him that told Devon he could be worked. Scully was into the thrill, and it’d brought him trouble back home. It was Scully’s father, an ex-marine, who’d convinced his son to sign up, believing that it�
�d straighten him out. Scully had failed to get into the marines, but still had four of his five contracted years left to serve, when he was planning on working in his father’s auto yard. Scully was into cars, and they’d talked about vehicles they’d stolen for joyrides and, in Devon’s case, for breaking down and rebirthing. Scully had that look in his eye when he talked about his small-time criminal history, and Devon knew that he could play with that. Devon had an instinct for corruption that he figured had been passed down to him. You wouldn’t rely on a straight like Scully to make any serious moves, but if you had it all planned out, like Devon did, and if the excitement was there, together with a little pay-off, then you were a chance of getting your way.

  All Devon had to do was point out that the trolleys the galley staff used to transport plates and bain-marie trays between floors were the same trolleys that Mike used to transport weapons to the deck for target practice. Mike Scully had told Devon often enough that the storeroom where he worked was like a giant supermarket, and that they only did stocktake when the Vinson returned stateside. There were no cameras and the CO was quartermaster to several other kinds of store, and so was rarely in his office. They could meet in the lift where there were no cameras and switch trolleys and nobody would know.

  ‘Sit down, Mike.’

  Scully looked nervous but did as he was told. Half of the stories that Devon had told Scully were bullshit but the surfer had no way of knowing that. It was part of a seduction routine that began when Devon saw that light in Scully’s eyes, talking about stealing a cop car and setting it on fire at the beach one night. That was a dickhead move in anyone but a middle-class suburban boy’s book, but Devon had played along and laughed and bumped fists. Scully was eager for some street, and here was Devon offering him a taste.

  ‘Told you I had business last night. Look what I got here. Just the beginning, bro.’

  Devon Smith fanned out the five grand, laid it on the bed. ‘This five large is yours, you do me right.’ Devon swept up the bills and with a snap of his wrist had the money banded, ready to pass over. ‘You’re gonna party tomorrow, right? You sure are now.’

  31.

  Swann wasn’t used to injecting himself but he gritted his teeth and stuck the needle in his thigh. Pressed the plunger and wiped the denim trouser-leg to catch any of the chelate solution that seeped. Twenty-four hours since his last dose and twelve hours since he’d been sick. He hoped that there was some correlation because he’d been told the medicine took a week to have any effect. Still, he had his appetite back, drinking a bowl of soup with buttered bread before he heard the front gate squeal and the dog bark.

  It was Louise and Maddie, her journo friend. The nose of Louise’s FB Holden was turned into the drive, catching sunlight on its windscreen. When each of his daughters turned eighteen, Swann gave them the keys to a car that he’d bought cheaply and refitted inside, resprayed with original acrylic and fixed up at Gerry Tracker’s mechanics workshop. He’d taught each of his daughters how to service their vehicles every ten thousand k, swapping out the oil and petrol filter, changing the spark plugs. Louise’s white-over-green FB looked clean, waxed and polished against the harsh West Australian summers under the salty sea air.

  Swann hugged Louise and shook Maddie’s hand. She already had her notebook out and Swann waved her to a seat on the porch. Louise followed him into the kitchen where he took out a jug of chilled water and lemon juice. She had grown up eating in the kitchen and Swann caught her eye wandering over the rough surface of the small timber dining table. The table still wore the pen marks, paint splotches and carved divots from when she and her sisters had done their finger-paintings and art projects for school. Swann leaned over and kissed her ear, passed her two glasses.

  ‘Yes, I’m feeling better,’ he said in answer to the question he could see in her eyes. ‘I’ve been passing the lead out in heavy water, you could say.’

  Louise smiled and pretend-kicked his bum. ‘You look better. Some colour in your face. But you’ve got to start eating.’

  ‘Lasagne,’ Swann said. ‘Tonight, I promise. Maria’s recipe. Made it a few days ago. Froze enough to see us through a nuclear winter. What’s your friend doing here?’

  Louise followed him down the hall. ‘Nothing for the record. But I asked her to come. She’s been digging around. You’ll see.’

  Louise’s voice was gentle, but he recognised the tone in it. It was part of his daughters’ job to educate him on matters important in their lives. For Louise, that was often political matters. He didn’t always agree when he felt that his experience outweighed her idealism, but Swann saw it as one of the best things about being a father. His world kept getting bigger, rather than smaller, and his daughters had a lot to do with that.

  Maddie looked nervous, giving truth to Louise’s statement that she was there on his daughter’s suggestion. Swann poured her a glass of water and passed it over. She drank and nodded her thanks, took off her reading glasses and wiped them on her shirt.

  ‘Mr Swann –’

  ‘Please. Call me Frank.’

  ‘Ok, Frank. Thanks for seeing me. Louise thought it best that I share with you … get some idea of what you think … before I go to print.’

  ‘Maddie, I’m working for the US Navy as a liaison, and most likely, this is the last time. I don’t owe them anything.’

  ‘That’s good, Dad, because … you tell him, Mads.’

  Maddie took a deep breath. ‘Well, I started looking at the incidence of rape, assault and murder when the USS Carl Vinson was last in port. That didn’t go too far. There was a stabbing death of a US sailor by a local boy, here in Fremantle. Some fights, drunk and disorderlies.’

  ‘Yes, I remember the stabbing.’

  Maddie opened her notebook, skimmed her shorthand, and flipped a page. ‘So then I started looking overseas. Not just at the Carl Vinson, but at ports where the Americans dock regularly, or at least on a cycle. Mombasa in Kenya. Ports in Turkey, Egypt, Spain, Japan, the Philippines. I’ve put in calls and faxes to newspapers in those ports, or in those countries. I’ve got two faxes back. One from Kenya, one from Japan. In Mombasa, the last four times the US Navy has visited for R&R, there have been a total of five murders of prostitutes coinciding with the shore leave periods. The journalist, a Mrs Unis Lubembe, said that none of them have resulted in arrests. She feels that the Kenyan government prioritises the money the sailors spend over the safety of its citizens. She said that she started writing a story about the murders but it was shut down. In Japan, according to the journalist over there, this is a historical problem, with dozens of sexual assaults and murders over the past decades in cities near military bases, and only a handful of convictions. The Japanese public are aware of the issue, and it gets a lot of press, resulting in pressure on the Japanese government, but apparently there’s little they can do except formally protest. They can’t force the NISCOM – the navy’s investigative branch – to investigate. I’m still waiting on responses from journalists in the other countries.’

  Maddie lit a cigarette and stared at Swann. She was good at her job, waiting for him to ask the obvious question, reading him to see if he already knew the answer.

  ‘Anything involving the Carl Vinson? Recently?’

  Maddie looked at Louise, who nodded.

  ‘Yes, sad to say. The Carl Vinson’s recent shore leave in Mombasa, for a duration of three days, resulted in the murder of a sex worker. Reported in the Kenyan papers, but not officially linked to the US Navy.’

  ‘Was it investigated by the local police?’

  ‘That’s what I’m waiting to hear. Mrs Lubembe is looking into it.’

  ‘Please ask her to try and establish whether the murder was done by way of asphyxiation. Strangulation by ligature. If that’s the case, then your story is even more important. And I’m sorry, I didn’t know about any of this.’

  Maddie looked surprised, but Louise didn’t.

  ‘Dad, there’s something else. Maddie wants to
interview some local madams, or prostitutes. Do you think Kerry Bannister would speak to her? She wouldn’t answer the door when we went last time.’

  ‘Only one way to find out. I was headed round there anyway, to follow up on something. But tread lightly. They’re open for business, but Kerry’s brought in new workers from Kalgoorlie, Sydney and elsewhere. Most flew in last night – they won’t know anything. Her regular workers are on leave. They’re grieving, getting ready for Francine’s funeral.’

  Maddie’s pen was poised on the page. ‘Has her body been released?’

  ‘Not yet. Could be a while, I’d think. I’m trying to get that information for Kerry. I’ll let you know. Shall we?’

  Swann slipped into his boots, swallowed the last of his water. Louise and Maddie rose from their chairs and stepped off the creaking porch.

  32.

  Pascoe shouldn’t have closed his eyes, not even for a moment. There he was, flare gun in hand, in the middle of the street, looking at Mark Hurley entering the restaurant. Pascoe turned away but had to conceal the pistol from two pedestrians walking their sausage dog in the semi-dark. Fortunately, the old couple were preoccupied with the stiff-legged dog, so black and low to the ground that it looked like they were dragging a shadow behind them.

  Pascoe had gone close to doing it. He cursed under his breath as he strode to the van door and pulled it open, even though it was understandable for him to have taken his eyes off the target. He’d never killed a man in cold blood before, and Jared Page’s death would be followed by his own.