Zero at the bone, p.13
Zero at the Bone, page 13
Hogan would be expecting Swann to visit Percy. He couldn’t linger. He nodded goodbye but the old soldier wasn’t finished yet.
‘While yer here,’ Percy spat, ‘you should speak to my neighbour. The same thing. But Bernie Isaacs, Hogan’s old chum. Hogan’s Heroes, they could call this fucken ward. Speak to him. I told him about you. Nothin’ to do with the jewels, but might be some work in it.’
Swann peeled back the curtains along their silent tracks, and saw that a man the same age as Percy Dickson was in the next bed, no more than a few feet away, listening. His grey hair was neatly combed in a side part, but he had the same haunted look. His jaw was broken, and fixed with steel plates. One of his forearms was in a cast. Defensive injury.
Swann glanced at the chart hung on the rail, just as the man began to speak, stiffly, through plated teeth.
‘My name is Peter Henning. I’m the Chief Veterinarian at Ascot, Belmont and Gloucester Park. I want you to help me. I was bashed, in the Ascot car park. I’ve told the police, and there will be a steward’s inquiry, of course, but . . . you see . . .’
Swann listened while the man laid it out, precisely, in great detail. So Bernie Isaacs was working the insurance companies, just like Tommaso Adamo. Just like Hogan, with his facilitating the jewel theft, his ongoing links to the drug trade, managed by Adamo and Marrone. Isaacs, Marrone, Adamo and Hogan – all of them directors of Rosa Gold, all of them prepared to burn everything they owned, take down anyone who threatened them. Whatever was going on with Rosa Gold, it was important enough to have Sullivan sniffing at the closed door, trying to get in. It wasn’t like the directors of Rosa Gold to work in the open, to take these kinds of risks. Disorganised crime, nobody wanted it, unless the money was worth it.
23
The scrub on the edge of Mount Eliza smelt of aniseed and baked dirt, the smog rising off the freeway. Swann sat on a park bench and waited for Donovan Andrews. The sun had gone behind the cenotaph and the Esplanade was cast in shadow. At the foot of the Barrack Street Jetty a crowd had gathered, dressed in colonial-era clothes. The men wore britches and the women bonnets. Somewhere amongst them was the Prince of Wales – the future King of Australia – invited to participate in the re-enactment of the first landing at Mounts Bay. Swann had seen photos of him in the morning paper, getting kissed by a beautiful model, down at the beach. Unsurprisingly, Prince Charles didn’t look like he minded.
Swann smoked a cigarette while he waited, could hardly taste it, staring at a skiff making its way through the chop towards the breakwall, canvas sail, passengers in their old-fashioned clothes. A cheer went up from the crowd on the foreshore, and then something else, booing, jeering from a megaphone. From the trees by the Supreme Court came a group of Nyungar, a couple of dozen, moving quickly across the open ground. Police met them from the riverbank and soon they were outnumbered, surrounded. One carried a flag, another a scroll. They tried to get to the Prince but were kept back, as the booing and shouting continued. The skiff reached the shore and two men dressed like soldiers carried an older man in a triangle hat through the shallows to the beach. The Union Jack fluttered at the back of the skiff, the Aboriginal flag flew in the midst of the mob, planted in the grassy bank.
The commemoration party were forced to retreat within the police cordon to where Mounts Bay had once lapped at the city, before it was filled with dirt, reclaimed for the freeway. When Swann was a child, Langley Park was an occasional airstrip and the foreshore was lined with jetties and shanty-town allotments, the river still a major source of transport down to the Fremantle port. The East Perth power station had burned a brown coal smear, heavy industries stinking up the Claisebrook Creek, sewerage outlets at Burswood turning the river green with algae. The top end of Hay and Murray streets were filled with run-down tenements, whole families to a single room, East Perth the same.
Swann turned at the sound of Andrews’ Gold Flash growling over the lawn towards the bench, where he cut the engine and kicked down the stand, hoisting off his full-visor helmet. Oblivious to the palaver on the foreshore, he slapped Swann on the shoulder, slumped onto the bench and showed his palm, smirking.
‘My info done you good, detective.’
Swann placed the bills into Donovan’s fingers, immediately secreted in his leathers.
‘Goes without saying, Don.’
‘Jesus, what happened to your face?’
‘What I wanted to speak to you about.’
‘Ah, shit. My info didn’t do you so good?’
‘Nothing to do with that, Don. Something else.’
Andrews looked around, nervous. ‘You know Marrone knocked one of Hogan’s fizzes here a couple months ago? Bloke Hogan was feeding stuff to from the drugs locker. Found burned in his car over there, melted like a black crayon.’
‘Don’t worry, there’s nothing to link me, or you.’
There was a tang of sweat on Andrews, unwashed leathers and sockless feet in his boots. Donovan shook his head and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, burped a little. ‘There’s a weird vibe about, is all. That fucken fire, took out half of Little Italy. Somethin’s goin on. Biggest thing in years, nobody’s even talkin’ about it. Cops or robbers. Happened two days ago, now it’s like they already forgot.’
‘That’s what I wanted to talk about, Don. You hear anything about that fire, I want to know. I also want you to keep your radar on Hogan, and Tommaso Adamo. Leo Marrone. Bevans and Isaacs. Farquarson.’
‘Jesus, detective, I’m happy for the reward, but you were in the force . . . last time, you had the uniform behind you.’
‘You offering me advice now, Don?’
There was a hardness in Swann’s voice that he hadn’t intended, the copper trait of putting blokes like Donovan in their place.
Andrews shrugged, let it go. ‘For the same reason you used to give me advice, detective. You can pretend we’re still fizz and copper, and that’s all . . .’
Andrews’ concern came from a good place, his voice like a child’s.
‘I’m just keeping an eye on something,’ Swann answered. ‘Surveillance. My bread and butter now.’
‘I’m just sayin . . .’
‘It was different back then, Don. Forget it.’
Andrews nodded, but he didn’t look convinced. Swann stared down over the city, where the evening shadows cast by the buildings loomed like grasping arms. The black hole in Little Italy was still smouldering, a city block loaded with burnt timber and drifts of grey ash and cinder, wafting about on the sea breeze. Traffic up the Terrace and off the freeway over the Narrows Bridge, commuters returning to the suburbs, and flocks of seagulls headed the other way, back from the coast and the council tips, thousands gathering on the broad field of grass, settling in for the night.
Exactly what he should be doing.
Swann would like to take his own advice, and forget it. Forget all about it. Seemed to him, watching the colonial skiff setting off from the seawall beneath the bluff, that Donovan Andrews was right, and that the city was good at forgetting.
Gould’s apartment smelt no better than on Swann’s last visit. Mildew, ash and dirty washing. Gould and Reggie sat on the couch across from Swann, both nursing a neat Jameson, pointedly ignoring the damage to his face. Swann had explained the reason for his beating without telling them about Dickson’s crippling – he didn’t want to trigger Gould’s anxiety.
Swann had just called Marion to tell her he wouldn’t be home. He also told her to expect a visit from the coppers, some tossing of their things. He made no mention of his injuries, or when he would return. The last thing he wanted was for Hogan to take him at home, put his family at risk. If Swann’s car wasn’t parked in the street, Hogan was likely to seek him elsewhere. In the meantime, Swann needed time to work out a plan, find a way into Rosa Gold.
Gould had been working the phone, digging up information on Gary Quinlivan, the unknown quantity on the board. Swann listened to Gould speak, but it wasn’t easy to concentrate, or keep his eyes open.
‘Gary Quinlivan,’ continued Gould, ‘was pursued for debts over a real estate development in Yanchep, in 1977. Investments totalling some million and a half dollars. Some of the investors claimed to be family friends. Declared a bankrupt. Settled out of court, in the end.’
Reggie coughed, sat forward. His blue eyes shone even in the diminished light. ‘Shouldn’t really be a director of Rosa Gold if he’s a recent bankrupt.’
‘Indeed,’ said Gould bitterly. ‘But who’s watching, right?’
Reggie patted him on the forearm, eyeing his nephew’s withered leg. The two of them had met a couple of times, as Swann had hoped.
‘The question then becomes,’ Reggie said, ‘what specific talent does Quinlivan bring to the table? Why is he useful?’
Dennis Gould sipped his whiskey. ‘Perhaps his expertise is purely financial?’
‘But this is different from a pump and dump, isn’t it?’ Swann said. ‘If what we’re hearing is correct, then all of the other directors are scrambling to raise serious money. We know how the others make their cash, but what about Quinlivan? If he’s an equal partner, what’s he doing to raise the same kind of stake?’
‘Family money?’ Gould ventured.
Reggie shook his head. ‘I know old Judge Quinlivan. He’s well-to-do, but not rich, and something of a philanthropist. Besides, I heard that his son is still in disgrace after fleecing family friends. Once bitten, and all that . . . I doubt the Judge would be giving his son a red cent.’
‘Is the Judge someone we could go to?’ Swann asked. ‘If he’s as straight as you say, then —’
Reggie shook his head. ‘Perhaps, when the time is right. But thus far it’s all legit, despite the company young Quinlivan is keeping. If what I’m hearing is correct, then Rosa Gold is looking to shape itself into a genuine mining enterprise.’
‘But the fires?’ Gould asked. ‘The bashings. The jewel thefts . . .’
‘The birthing pains of frontier capitalism, Dennis. Still, there’s something odd going on.’
After Dennis Gould had phoned his contacts in the broking houses, and heard that there was nothing current on the wire about Rosa Gold, not even rumours, Reggie had called one of his old friends, now the CEO of one of the largest mining companies in the world – Plantagenet Lewis Australia. PLA had been in the gold business since the beginning, the bastard child of young English aristocrats who’d come out in the 1890s to seek their fortune. PLA still ran one of the largest gold concerns in the world, the Super Pit in Kalgoorlie. They owned mines in South Africa, in the United States and Canada, in the Philippines, in Papua New Guinea and Irian Jaya.
The conversation between Reggie and the CEO, Barry Nichols, had been polite and familiar, until Reggie mentioned Rosa Gold. Nichols had gone silent. Then he became suspicious, and angry. Who was Reggie working for? What had he heard about PLA and Rosa Gold? The call had finished with Nichols advising Reggie to keep out of it, or their friendship would suffer.
Swann laid the map of the Rosa Gold stake on the coffee table. The total area was some forty square kilometres, about eighty kilometres west of Big Bell, near Cue, six hundred kilometres north-east of Perth in the heart of the granite mulga country. Reggie wrote down the coordinates of the stake and the claim numbers of the adjoining stakes. Further details would be kept at the Ministry of Mines. It would be worth discovering, given the tone of Barry Nichols’ reaction, whether or not some of the adjacent claims had changed hands recently – whether Rosa Gold was buying up the nearby land or whether other, larger predators were on the ground.
Swann had one last question for Dennis Gould. ‘You’ve been involved in raising venture capital for new mining operations, and for turning them into publically listed companies. Assuming that Rosa Gold wants to keep the company in private hands, and bring the mine into operation with their own funds, how much are we talking about?’
Gould’s glass was empty but he didn’t reach for the bottle. ‘That would not only be unusual, but almost impossible, depending on the size of the deposit. If it’s a small deposit, then a few million. The drilling alone costs a fortune, then there’s the equipment when the mine goes into operation. Transport. Permits. Gifts to public servants, ministers. Staff costs. It’s why most companies go public, to try and secure sufficient funds. But if the deposit was large, in terms of estimated ounces in the ground, and this would depend upon the assay results coming in, to get a big mine up and running would cost more money than Rosa Gold could afford, rich as they are. That’s another reason most companies go public, to not only raise sufficient funds but to share around the risk, should the mine not pan out as indicated.’
Swann lit a cigarette and took it in. ‘So if Rosa Gold hasn’t gone public at this point, then they must be absolutely certain that the claim is a bonanza. Which means I need to get my hands on the assay results, to confirm.’
‘Good luck,’ Gould replied. ‘The assay lab is part of the Perth Mint, and equally secure. The big companies use armed security to transport their cores to the lab. And once there, the security is the same. Armed guards. Cameras, you name it. The mining industry runs on discretion, and confidence in discretion.’
‘And rumours, and gambling,’ Reggie added.
‘Yes, those too. Although sensible money likes to keep them to a minimum. And the Rosa Gold directors seem to be doing a capable job of keeping things quiet. But as Max Henderson’s wife, shouldn’t Jennifer have copies of the assay results?’
Swann shook his head. ‘She only knows that her husband thought it was a three million–ounce mine. Rosa Gold was Max Henderson’s baby. I get the feeling she was against the whole thing – kept her distance.’
‘Good instincts, as it turns out.’
Dennis Gould stared down at his ruined leg, evidence of the truth of his last statement. Reggie patted his forearm again and refilled his glass, didn’t offer the bottle to Swann.
Swann wasn’t drinking because he still felt dizzy, had a fierce headache. His left eye had swollen shut, and the bridge of his broken nose ached. Several of his ribs were bruised, possibly fractured. He stood up, got the staggers, braced himself on the back of his chair until the dizziness passed. Reggie noticed, but said nothing, passed Swann the folded map and his notebook, and accompanied him to the door. ‘My place. My spare bed. Your car to get us there.’
Swann waited while Reggie said his goodbyes to Gould. In the morning, Swann would call Marion from Reggie’s place. And then he would call Jennifer Henderson. He needed to find Garth Oats.
24
There was no use trying to sleep any longer. Swann sat up on the couch and put his head in his hands. The old fears had reawoken during the night; the fizz of nerves in his chest, the racing of his mind; the voice in his ear telling him what he already knew. Headed down the path that Gould had gone, of doubt and self-pity. Swann knew where it led. Didn’t want to go there again.
The most effective thing was to focus on your enemy.
But how to bring Hogan, Adamo, and the others down?
Swann pulled on his trousers and T-shirt, rolled his shoulders. The first slivers of light pierced the venetian blinds. Reggie’s dog, Mutt, followed him into the kitchen where Swann drank water from the tap. Mutt wasn’t a mutt but a pedigree British bulldog, who’d won shows before Reggie had rescued her from his dead sister. Mutt’s body trembled with age and anticipation. He filled Mutt’s steel bowl with water and stood while she drank, the sounds of her tongue sloshing through the largely empty house. Clearly, Reggie had already started the process of divesting himself of property. His once crammed apartment now felt like a hotel room, functional and bare. There were noticeable blank spaces on the walls where paintings had hung. Afghan carpets were missing. Mutt knew something was going on, and trailed Swann back into the living room while he slipped on his socks and shoes.
The phone rang, and it was Marion. Right away he could tell. ‘That woman’s been calling again,’ she said, her voice pinched.
‘Enough,’ Swann said.
So far Hogan had no reason to connect him to Jennifer Henderson, but there was every chance that Swann’s phone was now bugged.
But Marion continued to talk over him, her voice rising in pitch, and he realised it was too late. If Hogan had been listening, he would already know. ‘Three times already today. The first two, I told her you weren’t here, to not talk about her business, to give me her number and I’d call her back, but she just hung up. It was dawn, and she was drunk. Said she wanted to know whether you were okay, the concussion, the beating. It was news to me, I said. She told me that she was worried about you. I told her I didn’t want to hear it over the phone. She told me she’d meet me. I told her I didn’t want to meet her. That I’d pass on her message. So here I am, at the phone box on the corner of Market Street, in my thongs and happi coat, haven’t even brushed my hair . . .’
The image deliberate, to remind him.
‘It’s not her fault. She doesn’t know the rules.’
But by calling, Jennifer had put Marion in danger. Marion had her own contacts in the force, and she would use them if anything happened to Swann. She would put herself in the same position Swann was in now.
‘There’s a question I wanted to ask you. You mentioned your clients in the burned-down tenements. Can you contact them? It needs to be done discreetly.’
‘They’ll be living rough, or in nearby boarding houses. I can track them down. Anyone in particular?’
‘I’ve heard about a young woman, a housing-reform activist, an anarchist.’
‘Mattie – she’s an everything activist. Burn the bra, ban the bomb, give it all back. This is sounding serious.’
‘She claims to have seen something on the night of the fire, to have photographs. You need to tell her to shut up. And you need to hide her somewhere. Take her to Brett’s, or better still, tell her to piss off over east.’
