by Alan Carter
Lara grimaced. ‘What a seedy way to go: a toilet cubicle in the bloody Birdcage.’
‘My nanna used to always say you should choose your friends wisely.’ Graham shook his empty glass at Lara. ‘Your shout.’
Cato spent the afternoon chasing down witnesses from the Birdcage, arguing with whoever was manning the phones at the Student Guild about matters of privacy versus law enforcement, cross-referencing new names against the offender database, and adding all new information into the emerging timeline. It was solid coppering but he felt like a cog in the machine and resented the fact that he was answerable to the less experienced and, in his view, decidedly dodgy Lara Sumich.
Cato’s mind returned to Gordon Francis Wellard. The man had got under his skin. Every day you came up against hard cases, sociopaths and predators. Unsurprisingly, nearly all had tickets on themselves, an arrogance and sense of entitlement way beyond their real worth. Wellard was no exception: he attributed no value to anyone or anything except himself and, in Cato’s view, Boom Town was breeding a whole lot more like him. Depending on which school they went to, some of the psychos would end up in Casuarina, others in the high corporate towers of St Georges Terrace.
FINDERS KEEPERS. What game was Wellard playing with Shellie now? Over a year had passed since the last incident of this nature, menacing letters posted by one of Wellard’s saddo acolytes. Why was it happening again and who was helping him out this time? It could be a threat; a claim over what Wellard considered to be his property. The apparent antipathy towards Cato might be real or just another game. Wellard had been eyeing everyone keenly out in the bush that day. Whatever he thought he saw, it was certainly high on his agenda now, if only as a tactic. And he’d added Cato to his list of playmates.
The pendant, the note and the envelope had all been sent off for forensic tests. Cato wasn’t going to try to second-guess the outcome. The previous batch delivered a year ago by Weird Billy left enough traces to lead right to his door. Had Wellard and his outside associate, whoever that was, learned their lessons since then? On the matter of the accomplice, there had been no phone calls or prison visits or recent releases that linked to Wellard. Was Shellie in danger from this person? Short of organising a round-the-clock guard, which was unfeasible and unlikely from a bean-counting perspective, the best they could do was cross their fingers and make sure she locked her doors. Cato was tempted to log back into the system and look up everything he could find on Wellard. He resisted: it would be easy to get obsessive and the bastard was already commanding more attention than he deserved.
‘Fuck, that was nice.’
They were in Lara’s apartment overlooking the Round House at the West End: old Fremantle, new money. It hadn’t taken much longer to get Colin into bed. Another couple of beers at the Sail and Anchor, a loosened button, some eye contact. Graham enjoyed his sex and was upfront about it, even skilful here and there. There was something else about him that was less tangible yet still tantalising, a quiet self-confidence and a sense that anything was possible, no limits. Maybe he could take her places she’d never been before. Like a job in Gangs or Major Crime.
She rolled off and lay beside him, head propped on her hand. ‘I like your idea of inter-departmental liaison, Detective Sergeant.’
‘My pleasure ma’am. Are you always this diligent?’
‘Consummate professional.’
Graham reached over to the bedside table and checked the time on his mobile. He seemed to be satisfied with what he saw.
Lara let her fingers wander. ‘How long are you going to be around for?’
‘As long as it takes.’
As he rolled towards her again she saw something in his eyes. Was it just intense concentration on the job at hand, or was there an element of calculation? Not for the first time that day she wondered: did the DI really call you over to help us out, or did you invite yourself? She clawed at his buttocks and drew him in.
7
Sunday, January 24th. Morning.
To some ears it sounded repetitive and to others restful, even meditative. For Cato, the Bach Prelude offered a promise of resolution, of homecoming. He went to the outer reaches of the keys and, just as it seemed the pattern would collapse into chaos, he returned to the fold. In some moods that same piece could induce vertigo, a sense of teetering on the edge of the unknown. The upright Kawai had recently been tuned by an old Hungarian from out Willeton way and, in playing it, Cato felt like a dear friend had returned to him. He wound down from the piece and sat back, Sunday-morning relaxed.
For the second night running, Cato hadn’t slept well. Madge had barked for a full hour after he got home. The owners were either out, deaf, or oblivious. Cato had gone into the backyard, grabbed the hosepipe and squirted it over the fence. It didn’t work, Madge just yapped all the more. In bed, Cato had been too hot and all the fan did was move around the dead, warm air. As far as he was concerned, the lie-in today was well deserved. It was eight-thirty and he had made up his mind to do big fat nothing.
There was a rap at the front flywire. It was Madge’s master, Felix something or other. Cato dug deep for his neighbourly face.
‘How you goin’?’
‘Great. Yeah. Cool.’ Felix tugged at the grey soul patch under his lip and gestured towards the piano. ‘Um, any chance of keeping it down a bit, dude?’ He nodded back towards his own house. ‘We’re in the middle of a yoga session. Bit distracting.’
Cato knew it was more than his job’s worth to headbutt Felix. Just then Madge waddled up the path behind her master, wagged her tail and squatted against Cato’s geraniums.
‘How about we make a deal? You keep your dog quiet at night and I’ll play the piano at a more convenient time?’
Felix picked Madge up and hugged her to his bosom. ‘I only asked. Sorry to have disturbed you.’ He retreated huffily down the path with his striped Bali pants flapping in the strengthening easterly.
Cato couldn’t help himself. ‘Dog Act, 1976: read it.’
So much for making friends and diverting suspicion, thought Cato. Madge panted over Felix’s shoulder. It looked like a smile.
Lara Sumich frowned down from her balcony. Fremantle on summer Sundays was the pits. All those tourists, and the bogans from the burbs, clogging the streets. She hated it. She’d woken early, gone for a run, done the grocery shopping and cleaned her apartment. Colin Graham didn’t stay over. He would have been back in the arms of his new wife by midnight. Lara had felt strangely abandoned after he left. It wasn’t how she’d planned to feel.
For the last couple of hours she’d been wading through the cesspit of Detective Constable Santo Rosetti’s double life. He’d put on a very good performance as a low-life junkie loser for the last two years. All that his parents knew about his unkempt appearance and weight loss was that he was doing some special plain-clothes work and they were not to worry about it. His comings and goings at home had been increasingly erratic. Sometimes they went weeks without seeing him. Santo had not only kept his parents in the dark, he’d fooled Lara too and that really pissed her off.
She remembered her first encounter with him over a year ago. It was not long after the transfer from Albany to Fremantle and she was keen to get some early runs on the board after the Jim Buckley murder case had collapsed. Santo had been picked up for selling mull to some kids in Timezone. If losers have a certain sour smell, then he reeked of it. Lara was onto him immediately; cajoling names out of him, worming into his mind the painful price he would pay for dobbing in those same names, and then drawing him back in with her offer of protection.
‘I’m the best friend you’ve got, Santo. Those guys’ll put a blowtorch to your nuts as soon as look at you.’
‘You’re not doing so bad yourself, Detective.’
She’d played him beautifully, or so she thought. Santo had fed her regular titbits ever since: who the players were, who was working for whom, who was ripping so and so off, who was taking deliveries and when. She’d mad
e a few worthwhile busts and helped him out with a few nods and winks to uniform colleagues whenever he got arrested for doing something stupid – which was quite often. He was always pathetically grateful and eager to please. And she had been sucked in, big-time.
Had those dobbings been strategic, or just expendable crumbs from Santo’s table? What kind of undercover hotshot, as Colin Graham hinted Santo was, allowed himself to keep on getting arrested for blatant stupidity? That was no way to win the trust of the big players in the drug league and work your way into a useful position with them. Something clenched at her gut. Maybe they weren’t the target. Maybe she had been, all along. And if Santo had been targetting her then who, of his colleagues, was also taking an interest? Colin Graham? He certainly acted like he knew everyone’s secrets. No, it couldn’t be her. There were other cops out there a lot worse than Lara. She was getting paranoid; time for some fresh air, sunshine, and the great outdoors. Late afternoon. The bogans should be heading home to the burbs soon.
Cato nursed a flat white at an outside table at X-Wray Cafe. He was surly and sleep-deprived. He checked the time on his mobile and made up his mind to have an early dinner followed by an early night. After several false starts he finally caught the eye of one of the uber-confident waiters, ordered a pasta thing and another coffee, and returned to his cryptic. Six down – Colourful catch leads nowhere. Easy. Red Herring. After Felix the dog man had left, Cato had phoned Shellie Petkovic to update her on the investigation into the mystery package and the prison conversation with Wellard. He wasn’t obliged to be so attentive, it wasn’t in his job description, but Shellie’s desolation was hard to ignore. He’d recommended she keep her doors locked, just in case.
‘Why?’
‘Wellard’s accomplice knows where you live and is trying to scare you.’
‘I’m not scared.’
‘Why not?’
A pause. ‘Keeping the game going, that’s what Gordo’s about. Harming me physically would bring it to an end.’
Cato hoped she was right. ‘All the same,’ he said. ‘Look after yourself.’
She’d thanked him, her voice a thousand miles away.
The sun was dimming and the breeze had picked up. The Sunday afternoon coffee and cake crowd was being replaced by dreadlocked groovers waiting for the evening live-music session. The poster showed an angelic young woman with a nose stud and an acoustic guitar. Her name was Ocean Mantra. Cato feared the worst and hoped his pasta would hurry up. Twelve across – Agent of fate seems in trouble.
‘This seat taken?’
Cato looked up. It was Lara Sumich. Fremantle was like that, for all the crowds and hubbub it was hard not to come across a familiar face. Hopetoun on steroids. He folded his paper. ‘Help yourself. I didn’t think Sunday evening acoustics would be your scene.’
She sat down and a waiter instantly appeared. Funny that. She gave her order. ‘What do you think my scene is?’
Cato pondered the matter for a moment. ‘You’ve got me.’ He waved his hand at the assembled braids and face-piercings. ‘But this didn’t figure.’
Lara drank some water. ‘You were wrong, Mr Kwong.’
They sat in uncompanionable silence for a few minutes, then Cato’s pasta arrived. Lara told him not to wait so he dug in. ‘How’s it going with our Birdcage Slasher? You and DS Graham getting along?’ he said.
‘Like a house on fire,’ said Lara.
‘Any progress?’
‘Of sorts.’
‘Not into shop talk, are you.’ ‘Au contraire, tell me about your old friend Colin.’
Cato took another mouthful of linguine. An agenda was a given with Lara Sumich: checking out the background of her new colleague was to be expected. What was in it for Cato to help out? Nothing. ‘Good bloke,’ he said.
‘Ambitious?’
‘No more than the rest of us.’
‘I hear he’s in line for DI soon.’
Cato wiped some pesto from the corner of his mouth. ‘Then you know more than me.’
Lara’s fruit juice arrived. She gifted the waiter a smile and he retreated with a swagger. She closed her lips over the straw and sucked briefly. ‘Hutchens was forced to have him. Part of the deal to keep Major Crime and Gangs from taking over the case.’
Cato shrugged. ‘It happens. Hutchens is big enough to take care of himself.’
‘So you don’t think Graham’s got any other agenda then?’
‘I think Col’s got bigger fish than us to fry. Either way it’ll keep our DI occupied and that’s no bad thing.’
‘I’m sorry if you’re pissed off about the Rosetti line-of-command issue. That was Hutchens’ idea, not mine.’
‘Yeah?’ Cato peered at his pasta.
‘And we are on the same side after all,’ she reminded him.
‘Right.’
‘So how’s it going with your missing body case?’
‘Nowhere fast. He’s wasting our time and doing the mum’s head in.’
‘She’s the ex-wife, that right?’
‘Right.’
Lara sniffed. ‘Sounds like the mum needs to choose her friends more carefully. Some people are born victims.’
‘Thanks. I’ll tell her next time I see her.’
There was a commotion at the far end of the cafe. Raised voices, scraping chairs. ‘Sounds like somebody’s Green Left subscriptions are overdue,’ said Cato, looking to extricate himself from an uncomfortable conversation.
Lara reached inside her shoulder bag and fished out a taser. ‘Must be well overdue, one of them has pulled a knife.’
Cato had neglected to bring his taser or gun with him. Sunday afternoon. Off-duty. X-Wray Cafe. Silly really. The only useful looking weapon close to hand was Lara’s table order number – made out of metal and about a foot long with a bit of weight to the base. It would have to do – at least it was Number Seven, lucky in Chinese numerology, symbolising togetherness. Cato took a last scoop of pasta and they both headed over to do their duty.
‘Police. Drop the knife and lie down or I will use the taser.’
Tables and chairs scraped and a space opened up around them. The guy with the knife was young, African background, he had a wiry muscularity and a calm, determined expression. The others were three white kids with that dressed-down affluent student look: the tongue studs would disappear soon after their graduation and a good job beckoned. They were terrified, scrambling across each other to get out of the way. Lara produced some ID from her pocket. ‘Police. Drop the knife now.’ She levelled the stun gun at the young man’s chest.
His eyes seemed to welcome this new challenge. Cato edged around to try to get behind him. That’s when it kicked off. Cato had never seen anybody move so fast. The African held up a chair to shield himself from the taser and lunged at Lara with the knife. The taser darts missed their target, one sticking in the bottom of the chair, the other ricocheting off and hitting one of the students. The blade connected with Lara’s arm and she yelped as a gash opened up. She lost her balance and fell. Cato swung his Number Seven hard and low and connected with a kneecap. The African grunted and smacked the chair into Cato’s face, stamped on Lara’s head as he skipped past, vaulting the railings into the street. Disoriented by the blow, Cato scrabbled for his mobile and called in a description and direction to the police hotline. No way was he going to catch him; the horse had bolted.
Cato helped Lara to her feet. The stomp had produced a cut lip and the beginnings of a black eye. Her arm would need stitches. Cato had received a hefty whack to the side of the face with a chair leg but it hadn’t broken the skin. The waiter appeared from the kitchen, confused by the scene of disarray during his absence: upturned tables and chairs, customers cowering in corners. He spotted the number in Cato’s hand.
‘Number Seven? Your lentil burger.’
Lara announced that her taser was missing.
Meanwhile, Cato had just worked out that last crossword clue. Agent of fate seems in trouble. Seems
in – an anagram. Nemesis.
8
Monday, January 25th. Midmorning.
There was an alert out on the African and the missing taser. According to the students, none of whom claimed to have met him before, one moment it was laughs and jokes and all cool together – the next it was like, Saw III or IV, or whatever, dude. Other witnesses from the cafe had overheard a racial insult and an accusation of theft. The students hotly denied it but maybe they weren’t as laid-back as they claimed to be. Lara Sumich had six stitches in her arm, a black eye and a puffy lip. She was ensconced with the returned DS David ‘Molly’ Meldrum, doing a handover on the Rosetti case. DS Colin Graham was over by the water dispenser taking everything in and acting bored. Cato had a bruise and scrape on the left cheek.
‘What’s going on around here, Cato?’
‘Boss?’
Hutchens waved vaguely at Lara, at Cato, at everything. ‘The stuff with Lara; bloody Col Graham hanging around like a bad smell, Wellard, Rosetti, mad Africans. The lot.’
‘Monday morning blues?’
Hutchens didn’t seem amused. He shepherded Cato into his office. ‘Take a squiz at that.’ He slung a thin, glossy A4 booklet across the desk. The front cover had a photo of a smiling Anglo nuclear family on the lawn in front of their modest McMansion. It was titled Safer Streets Initiative.
Cato didn’t like the look of this at all.
‘The Premier is concerned, Cato. Baffled. He can’t work out why we’re not all happy little vegemites, if we’re all so rich from the mining boom and riding the storm of the global recession, blah blah blah. Instead there’s all this rage, unkindness and thuggishness on his streets. That...’ Hutchens poked the report with his stubby forefinger, ‘keeps the poor bloke awake at night.’
Fair point. Cato sometimes succumbed to the same thoughts himself. Every weekend there was a catalogue of glassings, stabbings, road rage, out of control suburban parties. The preceding weekend was no exception. Your average West Australian was statistically far more likely than most other true blue Aussies to end their night on the town in an induced coma from a king-hit. Welcome to Boom Town.
