The Swan Island Connection Page 8

  Suddenly, she wanted no more than to hold him. It seemed ridiculous that she could not. She longed to stroke those muscles that had seemed to melt beside her on the bed, and yet were hard and durable, to feel that deep inwardness which had been making a place for her alongside.

  Anthea slept, then woke sweating and afraid. She felt her pillow. It was wet, so she must have been crying in her sleep.

  She got up and made herself a pot of tea, wrapped a blanket round her shoulders and took it out onto the balcony. The air smelt fresh and sweet. She breathed in deeply and felt better.

  She was surprised to see a line of yellow in the east. How quickly it was widening and growing stronger. She must have slept for longer than she’d thought. And now there was activity next door. A light came on in the front room and Anthea thought she heard the radio. Or perhaps it was Olly talking on the phone. She looked over to the east again, her mind floating on the seagrass, in that first flush of golden light, poised above the shallows rich in sea life.

  The shoreline was forever bloodied, yet there’d been no blood. That elastic childish skin had scarcely been broken. Summer would come and the seagrass would carry — lightly, oh so lightly — the laughter of children.

  FIFTEEN

  It had been after eleven and Chris had been brushing his teeth, hoping he’d be able to get some sleep, when there’d been a knock on his front door.

  ‘I’m not in charge of the investigation,’ he told the young man who introduced himself as Peter Aaronson. ‘I’m not even a detective. Why have you come to me?’

  The young man licked dry lips. Chris had the impression that he’d prepared a speech, but all he said was, ‘I’m sorry about Bobby.’

  Chris asked Peter in. He seemed too agitated to sit down. Chris wondered who had seen him arriving. He decided to make hot chocolate. It was cold enough, and the warm milk might help Peter to calm down.

  Peter followed Chris out to the kitchen, stood to attention, then burst out, ‘It’s not just that Australian soldiers, yet again, are being sent to fight an unjust war that isn’t any of Australia’s business! It’s the civilians being bombed, the children being murdered. And how long have Australian soldiers been in Afghanistan? Longer than Vietnam!’

  Chris murmured a response that might have been taken for assent.

  Peter would not have been born when Australian troops were finally pulled out of Vietnam. Perhaps his father had been sent there as a conscript.

  He strode around the kitchen as though it was his self-appointed stage. But he didn’t look at anything, nor did he look at Chris for long. His few glances were sharp and accusing; they darted away as quickly as they landed. Chris felt hot, then cold; he realised that he was holding his breath.

  He busied himself at the fridge and cupboard, removing milk and drinking chocolate, switching on the stove, calming himself with a routine that kept his hands occupied while he tried to think.

  Peter looked too jumpy to hold his drink without spilling it.

  Chris led the way to the living-room, where he switched on the heater and a low wattage lamp.

  Peter sat with both hands round his mug. He wasn’t wearing a coat. Had he come by car? Chris hadn’t heard one pulling up.

  He raised his head and told Chris, in an angry, though less urgent voice, that Sergeant Shaw had questioned ‘the four of us’, speaking as though Chris must know who he meant. Shaw had been aggressive, and they’d been afraid of what they said being twisted, but they were terribly upset about Bobby.

  Chris didn’t ask if Peter had been delegated, or was acting on his own, though he was curious about this. In spite of being persuaded to sit down, Peter still looked like a colt about to break his lead rope. Chris thought that he could not be more than twenty.

  When he said, ‘You’re named for Christ. Does that mean anything to you?’ Chris replied, ‘Not any more.’

  Peter nodded, as though this was enough of an answer to satisfy him for the present. He said, ‘We needed someone with experience, someone who knew the tides and currents.’

  The plan had been to paddle to Swan Island in the middle of the night, where ‘the four’ would land, hopefully without detection, and make their way to the electricity generators.

  ‘We expected to be caught.’ Peter swallowed and then licked his lips. ‘We were prepared for that. It would have been an important statement against the war, to cut the power supply even for an hour.’

  When Bobby first approached them, it had seemed like providence.

  ‘God’s grace,’ Peter said, then jumped forward in his story. ‘They were waiting for us. I saw the reflections off their guns. We shone our torches on them. There were — I don’t know how many. We turned around. We didn’t try to land.’

  ‘How did Bobby help?’ Chris asked.

  ‘We needed to practise. Not by going all the way to the island, of course. But to get a feel for the way, how long it would take and so on. We launched off Edward Point. It was a Sunday afternoon, three months ago give or take a week. Bobby was there, on the bay. He paddled up to us.’

  ‘Alone?’

  ‘I never saw Bobby with anybody else. He was fast in that little kayak of his. Believe me, we never put any pressure on him. He was keen to help.’

  Peter looked guilty, then sad. Bobby had explained the currents in that part of the bay, and had gone with him and Sef — ‘two of the kayaks are Sef’s’ — when they’d done a practice run a second time, at nightfall.

  ‘It wasn’t really dark, more twilight. We thought it would be a good idea to familiarise ourselves with landmarks, know what lights belonged to what buildings. We never talked to Bobby about what our intentions were.’

  ‘But Bobby guessed.’

  ‘How could he?’

  Instead of answering, Chris asked another question. ‘Do you think Bobby told the soldiers? The ones who were waiting for you?’

  ‘Why would he do that?’

  For money, Chris thought. He also thought the answer was obvious. He said, ‘You must have suspected, afterwards. Did you ask him?’

  ‘We never saw Bobby again.’

  ‘You’re saying you didn’t. What about the others?’

  Peter jumped up and began pacing again. He bumped the coffee table. Chris picked up the mugs, then told himself not to fuss.

  He decided on another question. ‘How many times did Bobby go with you to Swan Island?’

  ‘Not to,’ Peter said, frowning because he’d already made this point. The frown made him look petulant and childish.

  ‘The first time you met by accident, and the second time was prearranged?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  Accident my foot, Chris thought, though he’d used the word deliberately to see how Peter would react.

  ‘How did Bobby seem to you? What were your impressions?’

  Peter shrugged as if the question hardly mattered now.

  ‘Were you surprised to find him alone on the bay?’

  ‘Not really. He seemed at home out there.’

  Peter went red. Maybe one of the others had queried what a ten-year-old was doing kayaking on his own, and what his motives in approaching them might be. Clearly Peter hadn’t. But perhaps he was being unfair. Questioned about himself, Bobby would have said very little, and that little might well have been lies.

  ‘How much did you pay him?’

  Peter coloured again, angrily this time. ‘Francesca —’ he began.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Francesca gave Bobby — I think it was twenty dollars.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘The first time we met.’

  Chris wondered what Bobby had done, or offered to do, to make Francesca think of paying him. ‘What did the soldiers do?’ he asked.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘They were waiting for you on the beach. You turned back. What did they do then?’

  ‘They laughed.’

  ‘Laughed?’

  ‘Yes. It �
�� their laughter echoed on the water. It was —’

  Again, Peter hesitated, this time looking around him, as though only now realising that he was in a stranger’s house.

  ‘Was what?’ Chris asked.

  ‘Horrible.’

  ‘Were you frightened?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Chris thought he understood one reason for the young man’s hesitation. He’d been caught up in the glamour and the fantasy — a night raid, secret landing on the island — switching off a generator, proof that they had come and gone unseen — four anti-war protestors a match for combat troops in training for Afghanistan. Who had they been kidding?

  Chris showed Peter to the door, first making sure that he knew where to find all four protesters.

  He poured himself a second mug of chocolate, then sat down to tease out what he had been told. These young fellows, he thought, broke the law with impunity and had their justifications worked out pat — but Peter was obviously shaken and remorseful; that hadn’t been put on.

  Nevertheless, Chris suspected him of lying by omission.

  He hadn’t felt hungry since he’d seen Bobby’s body; the thought of food had made him feel like throwing up. And what he felt now was not exactly hunger, not exactly physical, though he drank as though preternaturally thirsty.

  His hands shook as he opened his notebook and began to write, feeling as though there was some sort of scaffolding inside him, the preparation for a building, without that building having yet come into existence. The empty spaces between struts and planks and bits of wood, whose purpose might soon be apparent, caused drafts and eddies, colder than the wind blowing in from the Southern Ocean.

  SIXTEEN

  Next morning, Chris and Anthea bent their heads together over a copy of the post mortem. Chris was surprised that Inspector Ferguson had made it available to them. Then he felt bad that his opinion of the inspector had reached such a low point that he suspected Ferguson of deliberately withholding information.

  Bobby McGilvrey had died between 9.00 and 10.30 pm on the night of August 30. He had not been sexually assaulted. There were no signs that he’d tried to fight off his assailant. The body had not been moved after death, but lay where it had fallen. The cause of death was strangulation. Bobby had been small for his age, but otherwise healthy. His left arm had been broken four years ago. There were cuts and bruises on his shoulders and back, but none were less than a week old.

  If Bobby had been approached by a stranger, he would have tried to run away unless he thought the stranger had something for him. The strongest possibility was that his killer had come up behind him and got the dog lead round his throat before Bobby was aware of what was happening. The railway yard was full of places where a man, woman, or another child could have hidden and waited for their chance.

  No footprints had been identified at the yard apart from Olly’s and Bobby’s, and those made by the police. There were masses of blurred, vague prints, photographs of which were being studied, along with Bobby’s clothes. The lead was definitely Max’s.

  Chris was waiting for an opportunity to tell Anthea about Peter Aaronson’s visit; he didn’t want to speak about it while there was a chance of being overheard.

  He’d let pass the opportunity to go straight to Ferguson and tell him. When Chris thought about what this implied, it frightened him, but his resolve stayed firm. Let’s see what today brings, he told himself; I’ll give myself until the end of the day. He recalled Sergeant Shaw’s sarcastic remark about spot-lighting. If it hadn’t been for that, he thought.

  Chris listened to the rise and fall of voices in the front office, heard the phone ringing, the inspector giving orders, one sergeant cocky and superior-sounding, the other’s voice so low it reached him as no more than a murmur through the wall.

  When Ferguson called them in, the two constables stood side by side, careful not to catch each other’s eyes.

  ‘Opportunity and means,’ said Ferguson. ‘Parkinson knew the little rascal’s movements better than anyone, better than his parents. The murder weapon was hanging on his door.’

  Sergeant Shaw smiled. ‘Parkinson used the dog lead on the kid, then dropped it. Didn’t even have the brains to toss it in the drink.’

  Anthea was so tense that Chris felt the air between them vibrating.

  He cleared his throat before he spoke. ‘The killer dropped the lead knowing it would soon be found. He wanted us to look no further.’

  Ferguson shifted his gaze from Anthea to Chris, his expression hovering between annoyed and condescending.

  Chris expected to be pulled into line for his comment, but the DI, after staring at him in silence for a few seconds, announced that he’d be heading to Melbourne after another interview with Olly.

  Shaw was to be left in charge, and Haverley would supervise the remainder of the house-to-house calls. There was a remote possibility that the murderer had not been local. Out-of-towners were being checked as well.

  Chris noted that nobody mentioned the soldiers from Swan Island.

  Anthea left with DS Haverley. Shaw set off in the other direction, towards the checkpoint and the bridge. Well, that figures, Chris said to himself; he gets his briefing first.

  He wondered if he was being unfair, then thought, no damn it, I’m not. The more important question was why Swan Island was involved at all. It had to be because of the trainees and their relationship with Bobby, whatever it had been. Was part of Ferguson’s brief to find out what the locals had to say?

  Bobby was buried in the small local cemetery. Many of the townsfolk turned out to pay their respects. Avis McGilvrey, dressed in black, supported by her daughter Sharon, made a convincing show of grief. The small boys held each other’s hands. The two sergeants were present, but not Inspector Ferguson. Chris, who’d positioned himself behind them, noted that Haverley avoided looking in Shaw’s direction. Griffin wasn’t there, nor did Chris recognise anybody from Swan Island.

  All heads at some time turned towards Olly Parkinson, who stood stiller than a statue with Max by his side. During the church service, before the procession to the cemetery, both man and dog had stayed outside. Chris noticed that Anthea moved a step closer to Olly and Max without looking at them, as though this one step was all the message she could send.

  Peter Aaronson lived in Torquay, a beachside town that had been small and popular with families when Chris was a boy, and was now developing madly in all directions.

  When he wondered aloud to Anthea about the folly of the step they were taking, she said simply, ‘Peter came to you.’

  They waited until dark before setting off. Chris drove. Beside him in the passenger seat, he could smell Anthea’s freshly washed hair, and knew that washing her hair was part of the effort she’d made for the funeral. He’d been surprised that Bobby’s body had been released for burial so quickly, and thought again of the body having been taken to Melbourne for the post mortem, rather than Geelong.

  Anthea sat braced, alert as some new form of exclamation mark.

  It took them forty-five minutes to get to Torquay. They hadn’t discussed what they would do if Peter wasn’t home.

  But the young man opened the door promptly, as though he’d been expecting them. He shook Anthea’s hand and said hello when he was introduced. Anthea had pulled her uniform cap low on her forehead, shadowing her face.

  Peter led them to a small, neat living-room. Newspapers lay folded on a coffee table; Chris’s glance took in The Socialist Alternative and The Christian Voice.

  Peter pressed his lips together, then eased the pressure slightly, as though consciously willing himself to make appropriate gestures, control his body language. He was dressed in old jeans and a sweatshirt.

  He worked for one of the surfing companies, he told them, drawn there by a series of steps, which Chris thought must be common to many young men who’d grown up on the coast. He’d been surfing practically since he could walk, but around his mid-teens had reluctantly accepted t
hat he wasn’t championship material.

  At school, he’d paid no more than grudging attention to any of his subjects, believing that, in his chosen future, he would have no need of them. By the time final exams came round, he was in no position to catch up on years of inattention. So he’d moved sideways into the surfing industry, where his knowledge and experience served him well.

  Why had he risked breaking the law? Anthea asked when Peter paused for breath.

  They’d decided in the car that Anthea would lead the way in asking questions, while Chris listened for anything that contradicted what Peter had already told him.

  The young man stared at Anthea as though her question was redundant, the answer self-evident.

  He said he was a pacifist, opposed to war in all its forms; a pacifist and Christian.

  Chris thought it likely that law was an abstract concept to him, one that, until very recently, had had little concrete reality.

  Anthea nodded, encouraging Peter to talk about himself.

  He implied that he was an asset to the group; athletic, at home in the water; he intimated that he and Sef were the group’s core members, and that the Swan Island action had been their idea. It had come up when they’d been discussing ways to draw attention to the combat training.

  ‘What did you and Bobby talk about?’

  ‘The bay, the currents.’

  ‘What did Bobby tell you about himself?’

  ‘Not much,’ Peter said, with a glance at Chris.

  Chris wondered what Sergeant Shaw had asked him. Peter had talked about the sergeant’s manner, not the substance of his questions.

  Anthea tried a different tack. ‘What did Bobby tell you about his family?’

  This time, Peter’s manner was abrupt. ‘Nothing,’ he said.

  ‘And you never thought to ask?’

  ‘He talked to Alex and Francesca more than me.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘The first day. At the picnic.’

  While Anthea gently probed for details, Chris made up his mind to see Alex and Francesca the next day, if he could.