The Swan Island Connection Read online

  Peter seemed tired; there were purple circles underneath his eyes. Perhaps he’d spent a sleepless night. Perhaps he regretted approaching the police.

  When Anthea asked what they’d done after their action was aborted, he said, ‘We went home.’

  ‘Were you followed?’

  ‘Who’d follow us all that way on the water?’

  Chris could think of several answers.

  ‘So you paddled back to Edward Point, loaded up the kayaks and went your separate ways?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘And next time?’

  ‘What next time?’

  ‘The next time you met. You would have discussed what went wrong and who betrayed you.’

  ‘Fran and Alex live in Melbourne,’ Peter said, as though this was sufficient reason not to meet again.

  ‘What conclusion did you reach?’

  ‘We didn’t — we didn’t reach any conclusions, and I wouldn’t use the word betray.’

  ‘What word would you use?’

  ‘They might have seen us coming.’

  ‘It was dark and there are no buildings close to the beach where you were intending to land.’

  Peter didn’t seem to have an answer to this. He frowned and looked miserable.

  It occurred to Chris that the young man might have come knocking on his door for any number of reasons, and that a wish to help find Bobby’s killer might be the least of these.

  ‘How did you get to Edward Point the first time?’

  ‘By car. Me and Sef have both got roof racks.’

  ‘Why there?’

  ‘It’s isolated. No lights, and the nearest house is half a kilometre away.’

  ‘But much further to paddle.’

  ‘We weighed that up and decided it was worth it. We came to a collective decision. That’s the way we work. We always talk things through.’ Peter paused and licked his lips, then continued in a firmer voice, ‘You have to understand that we weren’t indiscreet. Why on earth would we give away our plans to a child?’

  ‘That first time, Bobby followed you back to shore. What happened then?’

  ‘We had something to eat. Bobby was obviously hungry.’

  ‘And talked while you were eating?’

  ‘Not about anything important. We’re not fools.’

  ‘But you did agree that it might be worth asking him about the tides and currents.’

  ‘He knew the bay, so yes.’

  ‘Did you tell Bobby that day that you were planning to go out again at night?’

  ‘Twilight.’

  ‘Twilight, then.’

  ‘More or less.’ Peter looked uncomfortable.

  ‘Didn’t it occur to you that a boy of his age wouldn’t be allowed out at night, to take part in an escapade like that? Plus, Bobby had to paddle all the way from Queenscliff to meet you. He had no car to get to Edward Point.’

  ‘He was thrilled to be asked. “Awesome,” he said. As to the distance, I offered to pick him up on the way through.’

  ‘But he refused.’

  Peter nodded reluctantly. ‘As to what you were getting at just now, none of us had anything to do with Bobby’s murder. That’s unthinkable. But I feel bad about it. I feel as though we failed him in some way.’

  ‘How?’

  Peter shook his head. He seemed unable to put the reason into words.

  ‘If you were caught, you could have been arrested on terrorism charges.’

  Anthea spoke mildly, but it was an important question, one the protestors would surely have discussed.

  ‘We’re not terrorists. It was to have been a peaceful protest. No damage or vandalism. Certainly no violence.’

  Chris pictured Peter in court. He’d crack under pressure; he was already cracking.

  As part of their preparation, Peter and his ex-girlfriend had gone to the Esplanade one Sunday afternoon. They’d sat by the bamboo in the beer garden and watched the soldiers drinking.

  ‘Wasn’t that taking an unnecessary risk?’ Chris asked, deciding it was time he said something. ‘What if one of them recognised you?’

  ‘Why should they? Anyway, we thought we had that covered by Emma coming with me. She’s not even a member of our group.’

  Anthea asked for Emma’s full name and contact details.

  ‘We’re not against them, you know, not as soldiers,’ Peter said. ‘We’re against the war.’

  Even after the reception they planned for you? Chris felt like asking, but didn’t.

  To the question of whether Peter had seen Bobby at the Esplanade that afternoon, the answer was a decisive no.

  Anthea sat in the passenger seat and closed her eyes. She seemed to Chris to have lost more weight in the last hour, to be light and insubstantial in the darkness.

  His assistant wasn’t the sort of woman who eased men into saying what they felt, though Chris knew that, back there with Peter, she hadn’t missed a thing. Anthea paid attention; he could rely on that. He began to relax a little, and the tension in his shoulders eased.

  He wondered how the sergeants were spending the evening, and what the inspector was doing in Melbourne. He thought it likely that Ferguson knew Peter Aaronson had come knocking on his door, in which case it was stupid not to have reported the visit straight away. His subterfuge could provide an opportunity for trainee spies to practise their surveillance techniques. In spite of how he felt, the prospect made him smile.

  Anthea opened her eyes and stared into the rear vision mirror.

  ‘We weren’t followed to Torquay,’ she said. ‘And I’m no expert, but I’m pretty sure we’re not being followed now.’

  Chris glanced across. Anthea said she’d examined her flat for microphones and cameras. He told himself he shouldn’t be surprised that she was ahead of him there.

  ‘Of course, the fact that I didn’t find them doesn’t mean much.’

  Chris took a deep breath and tried to explain how his worst fear, now the worst had happened, was that something termed ‘the national interest’ or ‘the integrity of our armed forces’ would over-ride all other considerations.

  Anthea listened in silence, but her silence was eloquent. Chris knew she’d been through the same arguments with herself, and had drawn the same conclusions.

  He wondered aloud if those soldiers waiting on the beach for their private confrontation with the protesters had been let off with a warning. What had they done next? He wondered if Inspector Ferguson had been fully briefed about the protest and its outcome. Didn’t it rather muddy the waters when the inspector was supposed to be going after Olly, not getting side-tracked into what the soldiers had been up to?

  SEVENTEEN

  The two constables set off early the next morning.

  If Sef had been older, more experienced, he might have refused to let them in, or asked to speak to their superior officer.

  The young man’s sleekness, his smooth olive skin and broad facial features marked him as an islander. His family came from Tonga, he said, after he’d offered to make coffee.

  Anthea drank her first few mouthfuls gratefully, appreciating the flavour and the warmth. If Peter had rung to warn Sef, then Sef gave no indication. Neither did he seem in any kind of hurry. He worked part time at a health spa, he said, explaining why he was at home on a weekday morning.

  ‘My Dad was a policeman in Nuku’alofa, as well as a lay preacher. The church won out,’ Sef said, making a wry face, fixing Anthea with level, dark brown eyes.

  Anthea returned his gaze neutrally, while Chris asked, ‘Is that what your father does now, in Australia?’

  ‘During the week, Dad works for a construction company. He preaches on Sundays.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘I’m a Christian,’ Sef said with a stubborn lift of his chin.

  When asked about the rest of the group, he said, ‘Pete and I are members of the same congregation. The others live in Melbourne.’ He spoke as though a city address and religion were somehow incompati
ble.

  The house where Sef lived was further along the coast from Torquay, an old house, out of reach so far of the new developments. Chris noted that it was a fair way to drive to Peter’s church and that to all appearances both young men lived alone.

  ‘Ending the war is what’s important to us,’ Sef said decisively. ‘Do you know it’s been going longer than the Second World War? Longer than Vietnam.’

  Chris didn’t say that Peter had already made that point. He let Sef talk about Afghanistan and how their group had formed.

  Sef looked pleased with himself for someone in his predicament, too pleased with his view of the world and what was wrong with it. Chris guessed he didn’t share anything like Peter’s remorse over Bobby, but neither did he get the feeling that Sef was angry with Peter for having come to him.

  Sef confirmed that two of the kayaks were his; he and Peter had each lent a kayak; the other two had not had much experience with them. But they’d learnt quickly, and the bay was safe. Chris let the irony of that statement go. Sef didn’t seem to notice.

  ‘It doesn’t take much skill to stay upright and paddle a couple of kilometres.’

  ‘Not even in the dark?’

  ‘We’d practised and we knew the way.’

  ‘That’s where Bobby came in,’ Anthea prompted.

  Sef agreed that Bobby had been keen to help. ‘Pete thinks the detective who interviewed us has already made up his mind.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘Pete says he knows who’s guilty.’

  ‘None of you four?’

  ‘Of course not!’

  ‘Did it occur to you that Bobby was in danger?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But a boy of his age should have an adult with him. Isn’t that what you thought?’

  ‘Bobby attached himself to us,’ Sef said firmly. ‘We talked it through and decided that, so long as we didn’t discuss any operational details in front of him, then it was okay. It was obvious that the kid was neglected and lonely.’

  ‘When you saw Bobby the first time, when he paddled up to you, did you get the impression that he knew you were coming, that he was waiting for you?’

  ‘I did wonder about that. So did Alex.’

  ‘Alex was sceptical about Bobby’s motives?’

  ‘I wouldn’t put it like that. We wondered, that was all.’

  Everything concerning the ‘action’ had been agreed on in advance. No objection, or alternative viewpoint had been too small to be considered. All had been ‘worked through’ until each of the four was satisfied. Of course these discussions had taken place outside Bobby’s hearing. Sef was definite about that.

  ‘What about Peter and his girlfriend going to the hotel?’

  ‘Ex,’ Sef said. ‘We thought it wouldn’t be a bad idea to watch the soldiers, see how they behaved.’

  ‘Did Peter see Bobby that afternoon, at the hotel, or anywhere about?’

  ‘We don’t lie to each other, Constable Blackie. You won’t catch us out that way.’

  Chris could have argued, but he chose to ask another question. ‘Did Peter know that you and Alex were uneasy about Bobby?’

  ‘We weren’t uneasy. Don’t put words in my mouth. Look. We’re not so optimistic as to believe our soldiers are going to be sent home from Afghanistan tomorrow.’ Sef spoke as though Chris was being unnecessarily obtuse. ‘Bobby was hungry. You should have seen him hop in when we invited him to share our picnic.’

  ‘What did you talk about?’

  ‘At the picnic? Food.’ Sef nodded semi-defiantly. ‘Offering the boy positive role models couldn’t do him any harm.’

  Chris felt sick at heart, then asked himself if this wishful thinking had been so very far removed from his own.

  ‘Did Bobby mention the name Olly, or Olly Parkinson to you?’

  ‘No. The sergeant asked us that as well. I’ve never heard of him.’

  Chris asked a few more questions, then thanked Sef for his time.

  A slight detour brought them to the M1, and from there it was a straight run, three lanes all the way to Melbourne.

  Chris kept expecting his phone to ring and to hear Shaw’s voice demanding that they turn around. Since it didn’t, he was content to lean back in the passenger seat while Anthea negotiated city traffic.

  Anthea’s eyes shone dangerously underneath her cap. She looked at Chris sideways as they were coming off the Westgate Bridge. ‘I still think of this as my place, you know.’

  Chris was surprised to recall that he’d spent close to eight years in Melbourne. Now it felt completely foreign to him.

  He said, ‘You should come back and do your detective training.’

  Anthea looked alarmed, before she took it as a joke. ‘Become a man in a suit?’

  They laughed. Chris said, ‘You’d be good at it.’

  ‘The suit part, or the detecting?’

  ‘Both.’

  Anthea went red and bit the inside of her cheek.

  ‘So what do you make of that picnic?’ Chris asked.

  ‘Bobby was busy wolfing down the sandwiches. They’re sure they didn’t discuss the date and landing place in front of him.’

  ‘Then how did he find out?’

  ‘Oh, from one of them,’ said Anthea. ‘I don’t think it would have been that hard.’

  They talked about the group’s decision-making process, and what was happening to it now. Chris said he’d be willing to bet it had collapsed; which was not to say that Sef hadn’t been on the phone to warn Alex and Francesca.

  But what had any of the four to hide? An indiscretion which had led to their protest being aborted? They could try again, try something different. The failure of one action hardly provided a motive for murder. Anthea agreed with Chris’s impression that Sef had by and large been telling the truth. He couldn’t remember everything; it had been three months ago.

  Both Alex and Francesca lived in inner suburbs. They would most likely be at work. Chris debated whether or not to phone ahead, then decided that whatever element of surprise he still had up his sleeve was worth keeping.

  When he got out the street directory, Anthea told him it was a disgrace not to have a GPS. Chris studied suburban maps with his head bent to hide his smile at her outrage, which was exaggerated, but sincere. If he told her that he was too old to change, she would answer, ‘Rubbish’, and then, ‘look at what we’re doing now.’

  Chris prided himself on having a good sense of direction, but these narrow streets full of heavy traffic were not his thing at all.

  There was no answer when they knocked on the door of the small, cream-painted weatherboard they’d been given as Alex Mellion’s address. The cottage reminded Chris in some ways of Olly’s, though without the vine and fruit trees.

  Two kids’ bikes were propped against the front wall, chained to each other and a verandah pole. A family man then, or sharing with a family.

  When Anthea said they could come back in the afternoon, Chris nodded. They’d try Francesca first.

  Here they struck lucky. Francesca Poulson was heading home from the bus stop on the corner of her street, weighed down by three cloth shopping bags.

  ‘I know who you are,’ she said, when Chris stepped forward to introduce himself and Anthea.

  Francesca invited them inside, but did not look pleased about it; in fact she looked as though she wished the bus had dropped her off ten minutes earlier, and she’d had the sense not to answer her door. He realised that curiosity about the only woman in the group had been bubbling away beneath the surface ever since he’d heard her name.

  Francesca was a good-looking woman, dark-haired and dark-eyed, in her mid thirties, Chris guessed, which made her more than a decade older than Peter and Sef. The age discrepancy might be interesting. Chris wondered if he was looking at the group’s unacknowledged leader.

  He sat down without being invited, and Anthea did the same. When Chris glanced at her and shook his head slightly, Anthea left her notebook i
n the pocket of her uniform. Francesca would, far more readily than the two young men, challenge their right to be there, and refuse to answer questions unless they managed to put her at ease.

  Francesca tossed brown curls back from her shoulders, and regarded Chris with steady eyes, though Chris noticed the half moons of fatigue beneath them. She told him she’d been on night shift — she was a nurse at the Alfred — and asked if they could make it quick.

  She was clearly used to uniforms and hierarchies, and had taken in all there was to learn about theirs, including their low rank, at first glance.

  ‘To save you the trouble of asking, I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t take a stand against the war.’

  Chris nodded gravely at this pronouncement. While he asked questions about Bobby, Francesca continued to watch him in a candid and assessing way. She confirmed Peter’s and Sef’s stories, describing Bobby as ‘a smart kid’.

  Bobby had not betrayed their intentions to the soldiers for the simple reason that he hadn’t known what these intentions were.

  ‘And afterwards?’ Chris asked mildly.

  Quick on the uptake, Francesca understood that he was asking about vengeance.

  ‘I know Peter went to you,’ she said. ‘I thought he shouldn’t have, and told him so. We had nothing to gain by it. We’ve done nothing wrong.’

  If Francesca had been suspicious of Bobby’s motives in approaching them that first afternoon off Edward Point, Chris saw that she wasn’t going to admit to that suspicion now, not unless backed into a corner, and perhaps not even then. On the other hand, it wouldn’t hurt to push a little.

  ‘Who else could have given you away?’

  ‘We could have given ourselves away. We never knew whether there were night patrols, or where. We knew there were night training exercises, but again, we had no idea of the details.’

  ‘Did you ask Bobby about them?’

  ‘Why should we? How would Bobby know?’

  Chris had no intention of attempting to answer this. He could have asked Francesca what she knew of the stories that had accumulated over the years; the rumours and jokes about botched exercises. If the group had spent any time at all in Queenscliff, some of these stories would have reached their ears. But perhaps they were irrelevant, a side track he could not afford to spend time exploring.