Ash Island Read online

  ‘Our man had eaten an apple and a meat pie,’ Ross says.

  ‘That’d be right.’

  ‘What about the pub?’

  ‘No. Look, the nearest pub here sells craft beers, you know? One drink would cost them practically a day’s wages.’

  ‘Our man had been drinking whisky.’

  ‘Unusual, unless someone bought it for him.’

  Harry says, ‘I noticed a rack of clothes out there, Father.’

  ‘Yes, they’re second-hand. We invite the men to take one item each if they want. Probably made in China,’ he smiles, ‘but these are export quality.’

  Ross shows him a picture of the check shirt but McCallum doesn’t recognise it.

  ‘We also offer them a beanie. We have a team of ladies across the city who knit them for us. You’ve got to imagine that you’re far from home in a foreign port and a stranger offers you something they’ve made by hand for you—something useful too, because it can get bitterly cold out there on the ocean—it’s a gesture they really appreciate.’

  Again Ross shows him a picture, this time of the orange beanie, and now recognition lights up Father McCallum’s face. ‘Now that does look like one of ours. Let me show these pictures to one of our volunteers. Three or four days ago, you say?’

  He calls in a young man from the hall, who studies the images while the priest consults his computer.

  ‘Last Friday we met one ship from Singapore and two from China,’ Father McCallum says. ‘On Saturday one from China, one from Japan and two from South Korea.’

  The volunteer peers at the image of the dead man’s face. ‘People look different when they’re dead, don’t they? Kind of preoccupied. But I think…’ He takes out his own phone and flicks through its photo album. He stops on one and shows it to the detectives, a group shot of ten Asian men together, grinning at the camera.

  ‘Him.’ He points. ‘A galley hand. I remember him because he was anxious to Skype his friend in China and he was having trouble. No English. What was his name…? Cheung, I think. It’s a common name.’

  Harry and Ross examine the picture. It might be him. Ross asks him to text him the image.

  The young man nods. ‘Okay. The picture was taken last Saturday the ninth, 10:36 a.m. in the hall here at the mission. That morning we picked up crew from a Chinese ship, the Jialing. They spent about an hour here, and that’s when I helped Cheung. Then I took them to Marketown shopping centre and left them there for a couple of hours. Some of them made their own arrangements and I can’t really remember seeing Cheung again.’

  ‘But if he didn’t make it back to the ship surely the captain would have reported him missing?’ Harry says.

  ‘You would think so, wouldn’t you?’ Father McCallum says. ‘The person to ask would be the ship’s agent. Every vessel coming into port uses one of the shipping agents based here to look after things for them. Let me see if I can find out who it was.’ He picks up the phone and makes a couple of calls, jotting notes. ‘Right, the Jialing was represented by Cork Shipping. Gerry Cork is in his office now if you want to talk to him.’

  They take the address and thank the chaplain, who shows them to the front door. ‘It’s very sad,’ he says, ‘to think that young man might have died out here. If no one claims him and he has to be buried here, perhaps we could help with the arrangements? When you think about it, almost everything we have in this country comes to us from the sea, and it’s men like Cheung that make our lives possible here. I call them the least, the last, the lost and the lonely. Men of no importance.’

  Cork Shipping is in a new building on the waterfront Honeysuckle Drive. Gerry Cork offers them seats in an office with a broad view overlooking the port. He explains the company’s role, representing the ship owners. ‘We arrange for the berthing of their ship and for the cargo they want to take on, and generally act on their behalf while the ship is in port. So if there’s any problems, we see to them. Like there was a fire on one of our ships last week, and we arranged for emergency repairs at short notice so they’d be able to return home safely for a refit.’

  He taps at his computer. ‘The Jialing, out of Guangzhou in southern China. Took on 136,000 tonnes of coal from the NRL loader for the Chongqing Power and Light Company and departed on time at 20:36 on Saturday last, November ninth. No problems reported.’

  ‘No missing crew? Wouldn’t the captain report it if someone didn’t return to the ship?’

  Cork shrugs. ‘Not necessarily. It depends how important he was. If he was one of the officers or engineers, say, regulations require that the ship would have to remain here until they found him or they flew in a replacement. But that would take time and money. If he was just an ordinary seaman and the captain could do without him, he’d want to avoid the delay. Probably wouldn’t report it and wouldn’t wait. It’s all about money, see. Yesterday I had a call from a captain to say he had a man with bad toothache and could I arrange for him to see a dentist. We phoned around and managed to get an emergency appointment at short notice. I called the captain back and told him. He asked how much it would cost and when I told him he said, “Ah, no, he don’t have toothache no more.”’

  He thinks. ‘You could talk to Customs and Immigration. They might be able to help you. That ship was berthed at the Kooragang coal terminal. They’ve got an office over there.’

  The two detectives drive around to the far side of the port and report to the customs office covering the Kooragang berths behind an impressive array of razor wire and cameras. The duty officer is processing a queue of men coming through the checkpoint and they wait until he’s finished. They introduce themselves and explain their business; he takes them into his office. Checks the computer.

  He opens another file and scrolls down the screen. ‘Cheung, you say? We had three Cheungs through here on the ninth…Hang on, we have a flag against one of them—Cheung Xiuying from the Jialing. He didn’t return through the gate that day or the next. Immigration was notified.’

  ‘So you have his passport?’

  ‘No. That stays on the ship. They’re issued with a shore pass.’

  ‘Nobody else missing from that ship?’

  ‘Nope. Did he have an accident?’

  ‘Suspicious death. Could he have been trying to jump ship?’

  ‘It happens occasionally. Without documents or money they’d need help.’

  ‘Could he have been smuggling something ashore? Drugs?’

  ‘Unlikely. They’re checked through and anyone carrying a package is usually searched. They’re not ashore for long so they don’t often carry bags. I suppose he might have brought something in on his person.’

  He offers to show them the berth where the Jialing docked. Another ship is there now, its vast orange hull streaked with rust. High above them they can see the small figures of crew at the rail watching as the loader pumps a black stream of coal into the hold. There is a huge sign on the gantry. NRL.

  Harry points to it. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Nordlund Resources Limited. It’s their coal. They have mines and estates up the valley. And they have their own coal loader and security here.’ The officer points to a man in a hard hat and hi-vis vest watching the operation from the dock. ‘They keep a pretty close grip on things.’

  ‘Are they worried about sabotage?’

  ‘There’ve been incidents—protests, environmental activists. A couple of weeks ago they blocked the shipping lanes with small boats. This is one of the biggest coal ports in the world, so it’s only to be expected. Talk to NRL’s security people about the Jialing. They may have heard something we didn’t.’

  The NRL office is in a modern glass and steel building among the coal stockpiles set back from the waterfront. Beyond a gate in the surrounding high chainlink fence they find a space in the car park and go into reception.

  Ross shows his ID. ‘We’d like to speak to the head of security.’

  ‘Mr Tolliver? You have an appointment?’

  ‘No. I
t’s important.’

  They wait while the woman phones, then tells them to write their details in the book and gives them each a pass on a lanyard.

  The man who comes out to them has the heavy build and thick neck of a rugby forward softening into middle age. ‘Officers? Jason Tolliver. What can I do for you?’

  Ross introduces them and they’re taken to an office. The desk is clear of paperwork and on the wall behind is a huge aerial photograph of the port.

  ‘The Jialing?’ Tolliver taps at his computer. ‘Yes, Customs and Immigration notified us of a missing crew member on the morning of the tenth. By that time the ship had gone. We have no further information. There was nothing else out of the ordinary—timetables were adhered to, no incidents reported. Would you like to speak to one of the people on the ground that day?’

  He arranges coffee while they wait for an older man in a uniform tunic to join them. This one is an ex-cop, Andy Flynn, who knows Ross and shakes his hand. ‘Sure, I was on that day, along with Scully and Taufa. What can I say? Nothing special.’

  He describes the procedures for men coming off the ships, confirming what the others have told them, then escorts them back out of the building. In the car park he points to a red sports car. ‘My new car. You should do what I did, Ross mate—get out while you can and find yourself a soft number like this.’ He laughs and waves goodbye.

  ‘Tosser,’ Ross mutters. ‘Always was.’ He sighs, rubbing the dressing on his hand. ‘We have a name. A man of no importance. So what the hell happened to him?’

  They drive for a while, then Ross says, ‘Anyway, what are we going to do about that slug McGilvray?’

  ‘Nothing, Ross. Don’t worry about it. You’re in the clear.’

  ‘But you’re not. He deserves to be squashed.’

  ‘Let it go.’

  ‘You’re very calm, Harry. In your shoes I’d be mad as a cut snake.’

  They return to the open-plan detectives’ office in the Newcastle police station. A couple of other cops there are standing at the broad band of windows that look out over the ocean, watching a whale breaching far out to sea. While Ross starts typing their report, Harry calls up the recording of their McGilvray interview. A drug test has confirmed that Ross was right about McGilvray being stoned, but still, there is that sudden moment of clarity in his eyes when Ross mentions the name Belltree. Harry replays it, again and again. What does he know? What does the name mean to him?

  9

  Later, towards the end of his shift, Harry seeks out Anna Demos, the constable who was with McGilvray’s wife at her parents’ house.

  ‘Oh yes, sarge, I heard there’s been trouble from that bastard. How can I help?’

  ‘I wondered how his wife was doing these days. Have you been in touch?’

  ‘No. I spoke to her sister later and she said she’d gone to a women’s refuge. Apparently she doesn’t want to talk to us, far less press charges. Her family’s furious, but what can they do? Do you think we’ll still pursue it?’

  ‘I hope so. Did the sister give you any background?’

  ‘Well…did you actually see Mrs McGilvray?’

  ‘She was on the stretcher when we arrived. I didn’t see much.’

  ‘Only it’s kind of a weird experience. She’s got a lot of tattoos,’ Harry nods, ‘including in her eyeballs.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, her eyes are bright green. It looks really creepy. It’s one of the things her family hates. They say McGilvray forced her to do it. Apparently she cried green tears for two days after it was done. She told her sister he’s got some sort of deal going with the tattoo studio and they’ve had lots of work done. The thing is, it’s really good work.’

  ‘You reckon?’

  ‘Yes. I’ve heard of the artist. She’s well known, really talented. And expensive.’

  ‘What do they do for a living, those two?’

  ‘She has a degree apparently, but no job. He works in the mines, a storeman. No criminal record, but he got off with a warning when he was a juvenile. You’ll never guess what he did.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘He stuck needles in someone’s pet rabbit. It was alive, they heard it screaming.’

  Harry shakes his head in disgust. ‘Can rabbits scream?’

  ‘Apparently yes. It’s a horrible sound they say, like a baby screaming. I’m just thankful the McGilvrays don’t have any kids.’

  ‘Did she say what kind of deal it was, with the tattoo artist?’

  ‘Something about getting free time, I’m not sure exactly.’

  He finds the tattoo studio in a side street in Islington, a blacked-out window with elaborate psychedelic lettering: Dee-Dee’s Studio. A sign on the door says Closed but there is a light on inside. Harry raps on the glass. A young woman appears, stares out at him and shakes her head, pointing to the sign. Harry holds up his ID and she sags visibly and unbolts the door.

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Just a few minutes of your time. You’re Dee-Dee Perry?’

  She nods and glances quickly up and down the street and closes the door behind him. He follows her into the room where she works and he’s struck by how clean and orderly everything is—new furniture, a framed licence certificate on the wall along with mounted photographs of her artwork. A neat sound system, fresh flowers in a vase.

  ‘What’s this about?’

  ‘Sheila McGilvray.’

  Dee-Dee’s face drops. ‘Oh. Her mother, right? She’s made a complaint?’

  ‘Her husband’s beaten her up bad. I need some background.’

  ‘He’s a pig. Is she badly hurt?’

  ‘Broken ribs, cheekbone, nose.’

  ‘He’s done this before. Sometimes she comes in here with bruises.’

  ‘Does she talk about it to you?’

  ‘No. She seems intimidated. It’s hard to get her to open up.’

  ‘And you’ve had a run-in with the mother?’

  She shrugs. ‘After I did her eyes her mother came storming in here and made a scene. I tried to tell her, what could I do? Sheila said she wanted it done.’

  ‘Did she?’

  ‘Well…Logan was at her elbow. He was really keen, choosing the colour and everything, but I did ask her straight out if she was sure, and she said yes.’

  ‘They’re regular clients of yours, yes?’

  ‘Yes, more or less every week.’

  ‘Her sister said Logan has a special arrangement with you.’

  Her eyes slide away. ‘Not really.’

  ‘Come on, Dee-Dee, I’m not here to make trouble for you, but I will if I have to. What’s the deal? Is he selling drugs through here?’

  ‘No!’ She glares at Harry. ‘I wouldn’t have that.’

  ‘But he wanted to? So what was it? He muscled you?’

  She looks away again, then says softly, ‘I’m just trying to run a business. All of us are. It isn’t just him, he has friends. But Logan really likes my art, and we came to an arrangement. No threats, no drugs, he keeps his friends off my back and in return I give him up to five hours of work a month.’

  ‘What’s that worth?’

  ‘A thousand bucks.’

  ‘Tell me about his friends.’

  ‘I can’t do that, I don’t know who they are. But they’re bad. They burned down the Rainbow Ink Emporium when they wouldn’t cooperate. There were people inside.’

  Harry gives her a card and writes his number on the back. ‘Call me if Logan gives you any trouble.’

  She studies the name. ‘Your skin looks very bare, Harry. Maybe you should let me do something for you.’

  He smiles, leaves.

  When he gets home Jenny is working with her second-best friend, the computer that talks to her, reading out to her what’s on its screen. Harry used to call it her best friend until Felecia came along.

  He kisses her and looks over her shoulder at the document she’s working on.

  ‘I’m updating my CV. I’m sti
ll getting the work from Sydney, but I’m worried they’ll forget about me now we’ve moved away, so I’m going to apply to some local firms.’

  ‘That’s good.’ Jenny does online research work for a couple of law firms in Sydney, and Harry knows how important it is to her.

  ‘Oh, and I found this brilliant app,’ she says. ‘I take a picture of something and it tells me what it is. Even reads the label out to me.’

  ‘Great.’ Harry’s sincerely pleased. One evening last week Jenny made a beef curry with a packet of dog meat rather than the beef that was defrosting next to it on the bench.

  ‘How was your day?’

  ‘Not too bad. I went to a tattoo parlour—sorry, studio.’

  ‘Oh, Harry, you didn’t.’

  ‘Just business. But you’ll have to run your new app over me to be sure. Listen, it’s my rostered day off tomorrow. I think we should take a drive up to Thunderbolt’s Way.’

  ‘Oh.’ She turns to face him. Her eyes move as if she’s searching for him.

  ‘You’d be okay with that, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘I don’t know, Harry. What good will it do?’

  ‘Something might trigger a memory, the way Ross’s voice did. It’s worth a try, surely?’ He puts an arm around her, trying to imagine what is going through her head. If he could go without her he would, but that would achieve nothing.

  10

  It is only as Kelly is driving Wendy to her final check-up at the hospital that she realises this must be the place where Donna Fenning once said her husband worked. It was about the only bit of personal information she’d mentioned; Kelly had forgotten it until now.

  ‘I don’t suppose,’ she says, ‘that in all the visits you’ve made to this place you’ve made friends with anyone who would access their staff records for you?’

  Wendy looks at her as if she’s mad. ‘Of course not.’

  ‘No, of course not.’

  ‘Why?’

  So Kelly tells her.