The Swan Island Connection Read online

  First published by For Pity Sake Publishing Pty Ltd 2017

  www.forpitysake.com.au

  10 8 6 4 2 9 7 5 3 1

  Copyright © Dorothy Johnston 2017

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission. For permission contact the publisher at [email protected].

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  This edition © For Pity Sake Publishing Pty Ltd

  Book design by Ryan Morrison Design www.ryanmorrisondesign.com

  Cover art by John Cozzi

  Ms. Johnston’s portrait by Lindsay Kelley — www.lindsaykelleyphotography.com.au

  Printed in Australia by Griffin Press — Accredited ISO AS/NZS 14001:2004

  Environmental Management Systems Printer.

  National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication entry

  Johnston, Dorothy, 1948- author.

  The Swan Island connection / Dorothy Johnston.

  9780995363281 (paperback)

  9780995363298 (ebook)

  Johnston, Dorothy, 1948- Sea change mystery

  Murder--Fiction.

  Murder--Investigation--Fiction.

  Detective and mystery stories.

  Queenscliff (Vic.)--Fiction.

  Praise for The Sandra Mahoney Quartet

  ‘Detective Sergeant Brook, making cheerful capital out of terminal illness to fast-track police department procedure, is one of the most unusual and attractive characters to hit the Australian crime scene in years.’

  The Adelaide Advertiser

  ‘An artfully seductive crime story with a denouement which is chilling, fast and furious.’

  The Age

  ‘A class act.’

  The Weekend Australian

  ‘A realistic setting, a strong storyline, plausible and affecting characters and writing of sensitivity and strength.’

  The Sunday Age

  Praise for Dorothy Johnston’s literary fiction

  ‘An awesome talent’.

  The Australian

  ‘What I like most about One for the Master is its passion and its mystery.’ Australian Book Review

  ‘Johnston achieves the difficult double feat: she creates and maintains a convincing physical world, and yet transcends it through a lovely and original imagination.’

  The Sydney Morning Herald

  Praise for Through a Camel’s Eye

  ‘The characters and description of the town provide a wonderful sense of place which amplifies Queenscliff in all its glory.’

  Ann Byrne, Sisters in Crime

  ‘Johnston spins an intriguing tale that keeps us wondering whether the crimes (murder and the theft of a camel) are connected or not — but you’ll have to read it yourself to answer that question.’

  Whispering Gums

  ‘Dorothy Johnston stands with the best of Australian crime writers, her exquisite sense of people and place as evocative and compelling as the elegance of her plots.’

  Sara Dowse, author of ‘As the Lonely Fly’ and ‘West Block’

  Praise for The Swan Island Connection

  ‘Dorothy Johnston has delivered an intriguing blend of social observation and crime fiction in her latest novel set in Queenscliff, Victoria. The story is spliced with a sharp sub plot involving the nearby training base for the Australian Secret Intelligence Service. Another strong contribution to the reputation of the nation’s novelists.’

  Brian Toohey

  While this novel is set in real places and references some actual events, all characters are entirely fictitious. Any resemblance to any person, whether living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Also by Dorothy Johnston

  Through a Camel’s Eye

  The Sandra Mahoney Quartet:

  The Trojan Dog

  The White Tower

  Eden

  The Fourth Season

  Tunnel Vision

  Ruth

  Maralinga My Love

  One for the Master

  The House at Number 10

  Eight Pieces on Prostitution (short story collection)

  For my sister, Judy Johnston

  With grateful thanks to those who have helped in the writing of this novel, my family and the team at For Pity Sake.

  CONTENTS

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Thirty-Five

  Thirty-Six

  Thirty-Seven

  Thirty-Eight

  Thirty-Nine

  Forty

  Forty-One

  Forty-Two

  Forty-Three

  Forty-Four

  Forty-Five

  Forty-Six

  About the Author

  ONE

  Queenscliff 2009

  All children were a mixture of innocence and guile, Chris Blackie thought, but the innocence had been squashed out of Bobby McGilvrey unnaturally young. Chris Blackie, senior constable in charge of the small, some would say redundant Queenscliff police station, was in the habit of qualifying his impressions and his thoughts. He did so automatically; and for the last four months he’d lived mostly in his own company, with only himself to talk to and share impressions with, apart from the small practicalities of daily life. He’d been travelling in countries where, though everyone who dealt with tourists had at least a smattering, English was not a language in which they chose to express themselves. Though politeness ran deep, he’d too often watched the pained expression with which some poor river guide attempted to follow what he was trying to convey. He was sensitive enough not to continue inflicting embarrassment, so he’d given up. He wished now that he’d kept a diary, but it was too late for that.

  Rivers of the World, he could have called his trip, and the irony would have been apparent to no one but himself. He’d become fascinated by the Nile, and though planning only to make a stopover in Egypt on his way to Europe, he’d ended up staying in Africa for almost the whole of his leave.

  Now Australian rivers looked like trickling drains and Chris was back on the Barwon, a river he’d ignored for most of his life, trying to work out what to do about Bobby McGilvrey.

  There’d been a dolphin in the estuary for almost two months. It happened from time to time that dolphins, seals as well, came upriver to fish; but none, in his memory, had stayed so long. Familiarity had led to mischief. Some boys had stoned the
dolphin, then tried to run it down with a boat their ringleader Stuart Hocking had ‘borrowed’ from his father. Dealing with the incident wasn’t Chris’s problem thankfully, since Barwon Heads was in the next municipality. But Bobby and the gang lived in Queenscliff, and it was to Chris that Bobby had reported the attacks.

  In retaliation, the gang had threatened to kill him. This was not surprising. Bobby was a loner who did not appear to be afraid of making enemies. He did what he pleased and took orders from no one, so far as Chris could tell. He looked young for a ten-year-old, skinny but strong in the arms and legs. He’d been paddling about on the bay and the river in his small red kayak since he was six. He’d rigged up a trailer for the kayak out of a discarded pram and carted it about behind his bike the way other kids carted surf boards. Chris believed he’d stolen the money to buy the kayak. He could pass off the death threat as children’s chatter, but something told him he had better not.

  Bobby McGilvrey was not a boy to give away information, and there were aspects of the business with the dolphin that he was keeping to himself. Chris identified with the child’s reserve, but this identification resided in a part of himself that he did not wish to examine closely. Examining uncomfortable emotions had been a large part of the reason for his extended leave, and he was aware that he’d returned with only a small amount of introspection having been achieved.

  Bobby appeared without his bike or kayak, his dog Max walking close to heel.

  When Chris said hello, Bobby regarded him solemnly and did not return the greeting. ‘I’m worried about Max,’ he said.

  Max was a kelpie cross, swift as brown lightning and Bobby’s only regular companion. The boys he’d dobbed in over the dolphin had threatened to kill Max as well.

  Chris knew that Bobby’s house had no proper yard. The back gate was falling off its hinges, and even if it hadn’t been, the fence was falling down as well. The boy wasn’t allowed to bring his dog inside. His father, who’d also threatened to kill Max if he found him in the house, was far too ready to use his fists on his children. Chris had been round there with a social worker more than once.

  After reporting the beatings, Chris had alternately tried to persuade and shame Phil McGilvrey into treating not only Bobby, but all his children decently. He knew that none of his attempts had had the desired effect. He also knew that for Bobby to be put in foster care, away from Max, would be a worse punishment than being punched around by his father.

  ‘I could keep Max at the station for a while,’ he offered.

  ‘Max wouldn’t stay there. He’d come looking for me.’

  ‘I could tie him up.’

  Bobby looked thoughtful, considering the risks.

  Chris said, ‘I expect Stuart and his gang will forget about it after a while.’

  He was about to add that boys did get sick of whatever torment they happened to be fixed on; something new always came along. But Bobby’s look of scepticism held him back.

  ‘Leave it with me,’ Chris said. ‘I’ll work something out.’

  After a moment’s hesitation, Bobby nodded and called Max to heel.

  He walked away without looking back.

  Next morning, a Saturday, Chris was enjoying a mug of tea on the station’s back verandah when he heard shouting and a dog barking wildly. He hadn’t forgotten about Max, but he hadn’t considered the problem an urgent one either.

  Max charged up the road pursued by a bunch of boys, their leader out the front, whooping and yelling, waving a flaming branch.

  Chris opened the gate and Max ran in.

  ‘You lot, in my office,’ he told the boys.

  He tossed the burning bit of wood into a damp garden bed, kicked earth over it and stamped it down.

  Chris locked the five boys in — not strictly legal, but they deserved to be frightened and he wasn’t having them run away. He and Bobby spent the next fifteen minutes soaping petrol off Max; they had to rinse and rinse to get rid of the stuff, and though they used warm water, Max would not stop shivering. Chris gagged on the smell, but Bobby, working with careful concentration, seemed oblivious.

  He spoke only when necessary. ‘Be careful not to get soap in his eyes, Mr Blackie.’

  The boys were subdued by the time Chris got to them. He made them dictate separate statements while he typed. None were allowed to hide behind silence, or their leader. He made each one spell his name, though he already knew them all. These were boys who’d thought it would be fun to stone a dolphin and set a dog on fire.

  ‘I could arrest you for animal cruelty.’

  ‘You wouldn’t, Sir!’

  This was the youngest, Simon Lee. Though they were all between ten and eleven, Chris knew Simon’s age from talking to his parents. They’d been nervous and apologetic when Chris had delivered his warning.

  At a hiss from Stuart Hocking, Simon lowered his eyes to the floor.

  The others shuffled and looked sideways, while Stuart stared defiantly at Chris.

  ‘You can’t arrest us. We’re minors.’

  ‘Just try me,’ Chris said.

  He talked to them about multiple offences while Stuart affected boredom. Another hour or so and he would break that pose, Chris thought; but he had better things to do. He printed out copies and made each boy sign his name on all of them.

  Chris would not necessarily have thought of Olly Parkinson as the one to help out with Max, but when he happened to bump into Olly outside the small supermarket, it seemed a sensible solution.

  Olly hadn’t lived in Queenscliff for long, and Chris had come into contact with him mainly as his assistant constable’s boyfriend. He knew that Olly’s cottage had a secure yard and that Olly worked from home. He was a keen kayaker and Chris had often seen him on the bay.

  When Chris raised the problem of Max, Olly looked thoughtful.

  He’d seen Bobby out kayaking, and they’d said hello to one another. Chris tried to indicate that this was a good start. Most newcomers, unless they went around with their ears gummed up, got to hear things pretty quickly; Queenscliff was that kind of town. Olly had heard about the incident with the dolphin on the Barwon.

  ‘It wouldn’t be for long,’ Chris said. ‘They’ll get tired of picking on Bobby and move on.’

  ‘You say this gang poured petrol on the dog and were about to set him alight? That sounds serious to me.’

  Olly raised dark eyes and waited for Chris to respond. Chris had the feeling that he’d be prepared to wait for however long it took. Olly was the kind of man who did not rush others, and could not be rushed himself.

  He was graceful and athletic. A woman passing with a pram turned back to look.

  Olly seemed unaware of her appreciative glance, or perhaps he was just good at hiding what he felt.

  ‘I threatened them with children’s court,’ Chris said. He was about to add that, when it came down to it, they were a bunch of silly boys. But did he believe this of Stuart, though he might believe it of the others? He sensed that Olly would be put off by any excuses he might make for the gang. He didn’t want to make excuses, but hoped that the threat of taking them to court would be enough.

  When Olly said he’d think about it, Chris nodded, keeping his expression neutral.

  Olly looked older than his assistant by at least five years. The few times Anthea had mentioned him, she hadn’t hinted at the age difference. Chris wasn’t surprised that she’d said very little. She knew he’d disapproved of her former boyfriend, left behind in Melbourne.

  Chris said thank you, watched Olly walk away, and told himself he’d done his best.

  TWO

  Olly Parkinson and Anthea Merritt sat drinking a pre-dinner glass of champagne on Anthea’s small balcony. Olly did not ask what the occasion was. It had been a pleasant surprise, as he got to know his neighbour, to discover that Anthea produced small occasions for celebration, that she had the gift of making ordinary evenings special. He feared the loss of his privacy, but this fear was gradually being replace
d by pleasure in Anthea’s undemanding company, pleasure in the feel and touch and smell of her, the way his days were coming to be shaped by anticipation of the night ahead.

  Anthea never asked unwelcome questions. She wasn’t at all his idea of a police officer. She laughed and flushed when he told her this, not quite pleased, but not offended either. He wondered what he would have to do in order to offend her. She never pushed him, or appeared, apparently by accident, when he was on his way somewhere. She’d said she’d been hurt by a relationship that had ended not so long ago, and that her appointment at Queenscliff had been taken up reluctantly. But she seemed to have accepted where she was and to be making a life for herself in the town.

  Somehow or other, Olly had found himself on Anthea’s balcony sipping champagne as the sun went down, and one thing had led to another. Olly didn’t like to think about his past, and he refused to ask himself: what next? He simply enjoyed the quality of the food Anthea prepared, or that they prepared together, and the company, both in bed and out of it.

  Anthea bent forward to light two candles. She asked Olly if he felt like eating outside, or preferred to go in. It was cool but windless on the balcony. Olly could smell the seagrass. From time to time he heard swans honking, very faintly. He noticed how the candles, perhaps because he had got used to the twilight, perhaps because his senses were more alert than usual that evening, played over Anthea’s strong features. She wasn’t smiling; indeed her expression might have been described as grave; yet there was a glow to it, a kind of promise or assurance that he couldn’t name and didn’t want to, yet felt drawn towards.

  ‘Let’s stay out here,’ he said. ‘Do you want any help?’

  Anthea shook her head. This was already their custom when they ate at her place. Olly would do the washing up.

  She served linguine with roasted eggplant and capsicum in a spiced tomato sauce, and they ate for a few minutes without speaking, except for Olly’s murmured praise.

  A gunshot bounced over the water, echoing, fooling the ears, producing sensations that, while clearly auditory, seemed visual as well.