by Alan Carter
‘Okay.’
‘Mine’s a Fat Yak. See you then.’
‘Everything okay, Col?’
‘Hunky-dory mate, why wouldn’t it be?’
‘I heard you were in a bit of grief.’
‘Lara tell you?’
‘Nah, the boss.’
‘Thought he might. Hutchens was going through my career history at the weekend. Vindictive old bastard.’
Cato felt himself flush. ‘How do you know?’
‘Mate in IT section. A real whiz, owes me favours. So, Seaview at eight?’
‘Right.’
Cato felt the lunchtime burger settle heavily in his gut. The DI might not have tracked his movements on the database but Colin Graham certainly had. Fair enough, Graham wasn’t being paranoid; somebody really was out to get him.
With difficulty, Cato put Graham and the meeting with Farmer John to the back of his mind and focused instead on Mazza, Shellie, and Wellard. He spent the next few hours collating the material needed for the prosecution brief on the Wellard murder: the CCTV footage showing the bikers all over him, the statements from said bikers, from Stephen Mazza, Corrections staff and management, and the attending medicos and associated roster logs for timings. The visitor and communication logs, the photographs, the forensic reports. It was a useful exercise. He tried to crystallise the main points that nagged. A few days before Wellard’s death, Shellie visited an old friend, Stephen Mazza, in Casuarina. Mazza was the first man to find Wellard dead after Danny and Kenny had finished with him. According to the Superintendent, Mazza seemed to be doing everything he could to stay in a prison wing where he really didn’t belong. Was that so he could stay near Wellard? Add all that together and, at face value anyway, Shellie had motive, means, and opportunity to have Wellard murdered.
Other things didn’t add up too. The stageyness of the murder, bikies posing for the security cameras, prison staff conveniently distracted, and Mazza’s calm demeanour upon finding the body. Was this an orchestrated inside hit? A nod and a wink and a look the other way wouldn’t be too hard to arrange and everyone would be reasonably confident that nobody would look too closely at the death of such a reviled character, particularly with two big buffoons taking the fall.
Shellie’s creepy letters. Was there an accomplice, somebody out there who knew what happened to Bree? Prime suspect, Gordy’s big brother Kevin, a dead man who maybe didn’t die after all.
‘All done?’ Hutchens was back from his meeting and pointing at the pile on Cato’s desk.
Cato looked at the bundle representing Shellie Petkovic’s fate. ‘Yes, but still a few loose ends.’ Among other things, he hadn’t got round to reviewing the external CCTV from Casuarina.
‘Great. It’s a start.’ Hutchens hefted it off Cato’s desk and stalked back into his office, kick-closing the door behind him.
The Sri Lankan doctor finished shining his light into Dieudonne’s eyeballs and checking his vital signs. He bowed forward to speak to his patient. ‘The results from this afternoon’s tests should be back by tomorrow morning. Apart from a slightly high temperature you seem to be doing very well. We’ll keep you in here for one more night just to make sure.’
Dieudonne could see the yellowy film in the doctor’s eyes, the puffiness of exhaustion. He smelled the breath of a man who spent too many hours indoors. The doctor patted the back of Dieudonne’s hand, made a note on the chart and whispered instructions to the nurse. He didn’t notice that he’d left his pen on the little table at the end of the bed.
‘Thank you, Doctor,’ said Dieudonne.
‘Talked to John lately?’ Hutchens had summoned Cato for the nonspecific, general end-of-day catch up.
As a rule, Cato’s boss didn’t do ‘non-specific’ and ‘general’. He always had an agenda. ‘You know I have.’
Hutchens closed his laptop and sat back, hands behind head. ‘And?’
‘Santo was looking at dirty cops.’
‘Really?’
‘Really.’
‘Graham?’
‘John retains the utmost confidence in Detective Sergeant Graham and cites his exemplary record of service.’
‘Gee, he’s really fucked isn’t he?’ Hutchens could hardly contain his glee.
Cato hid his distaste. ‘Does Lara know about any of this?’
‘Not to my knowledge.’
‘Shouldn’t she?’
Hutchens tilted his head. ‘Why?’
‘He’s now potentially a suspect in a case she’s investigating. It might help.’
‘She’s too close. He might get tipped off.’
‘If he’s theoretically capable of having one colleague killed, maybe he could theoretically do it again.’
‘Nah, Col’s a prick but he’s not a killer.’
Col, tracking their movements through cyberspace, calling up out of the blue for a beer. ‘You seem very sure of that.’
‘He hasn’t got the guts.’
‘Since when did killing require courage?’
Hutchens smiled. ‘I’ll keep an open mind. Good work, Cato, keep on digging.’ Woof, thought Cato. He assumed he was dismissed and rose to leave. Hutchens lifted a hand. ‘Been reading the brief and thinking about Shellie and those mystery packages.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Convenient isn’t it?’
‘What is?’
‘It’s just that we never did find an accomplice and we never worked out who sent those packages to Shell. But within a couple of weeks of them starting up, Wellard’s dead. What do you reckon?’
‘Still not sure where you’re headed with this, sir,’ Cato lied.
‘It’s a distraction. It’s like saying, “look over there”. And it worked. On you anyway.’
‘You reckon Shellie sent them to herself?’ Cato played incredulous.
‘How hard would it be Cato, for fuck’s sake.’
‘She put on a very good performance when she received them.’
‘Obviously. You’re her number one fan.’
‘Wellard’s done this before, his mate Weird Billy last year, remember?’
‘Maybe that’s what gave her the idea.’
Cato rubbed his eyes. He felt weary, his injury was throbbing, and he was getting a bit sick of all this. ‘There’s another scenario.’
‘Yeah, what?’
‘Wellard had a brother, Kevin. He supposedly died back in 1996 but a body was never found.’
‘Go on.’
‘There’s speculation he didn’t die.’
‘Speculation?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Who’s been doing the speculating?’
Cato decided to keep his chat with Andy Crouch a secret. ‘Me.’
‘Did Shellie tell you about the brother?’
‘Yes.’
‘And she gave you something to speculate about did she?’
‘In part, yes.’
‘Focus on being a copper, Cato. Facts and evidence. Shellie’s leading you around by your todger and it’s most unseemly.’
Cato and Colin lifted the Fat Yaks to their lips. It was ten past eight and the pub was almost empty. The Seaview was one of those bars that seemed to have survived the yuppification of Fremantle. It had kept its old name and didn’t do tapas. The Irish barmaid gave Cato his change, yawned, scratched her nose stud, and returned her attention to the soccer match replay on the flat screen. Wigan Athletic and Blackburn Rovers were grinding out an enthralling nil-all draw from the previous weekend.
‘Wouldn’t be dead for quids,’ said Colin, in answer to Cato’s inquiry after his welfare.
‘Good to hear.’
‘You? How’s the gut?’
In truth, Cato was feeling crook. His wound felt hot and tender and the gap between doses of painkillers had shortened as the day wore on. A pint of Fat Yak right now was probably not the best idea. ‘Been better,’ he said.
Colin nodded sympathetically. ‘How’s the case?’
Which one, thought
Cato, the Wellard murder, the missing teenager, or the covert investigation into you? ‘Wellard?’
‘Yeah, sounds like a real piece of work.’
‘You heard he got topped?’
‘Not much I don’t hear,’ said Graham.
‘Apaches, looks like. Open and shut.’
‘They’re the best cases when you’re flat chat and worse for wear.’
‘True,’ said Cato.
They both nodded meaningfully at this shared insight and drank some Fat Yak. On TV a player got tackled and dropped like he’d been shot. He played dead for a few seconds then got up and trotted away when the referee ignored him.
‘Lara keeping you in the loop on Santo?’ said Colin.
‘No, not really. It’s her baby. I’ve got enough on my plate.’
‘Right, yeah. Your meeting with the Trans didn’t play out then?’
‘Meeting?’
‘You and Lara, Little Creatures.’
‘I see suspension hasn’t kept you out of the loop at all, has it?’
Colin grinned. ‘The Trans get followed everywhere they go. Hutchens might not be interested but Gangs is, always. They keep me posted.’
‘Anything I need to know?’
‘We suspect Santo was in bed with them.’
‘The Trans? In what way?’
‘They knew he was a cop. They kept him on a leash, probably threatened his mum and dad with unspeakable atrocities if he didn’t play ball. He was feeding them high level intelligence on the Apaches.’
‘Is that fact or supposition?’
‘Think about it. A motley collection of skinny-arsed misfits outgunned and outnumbered by the Apaches. Yet they’ve been running rings around them for the last twelve months.’
‘Maybe they’re smarter?’
‘Wouldn’t take much,’ Colin conceded.
‘So why do you think they would have killed Santo, then? They’re ahead in the game. Bit too valuable surely?’
‘Nobody’s indispensable, Cato.’
‘I would have thought the Apaches had more motive to kill him if what you say is right.’ Cato steadied himself against the bar; either the alcohol or his wound, or both, were affecting his balance. ‘No, it doesn’t make sense.’ Cato softly belched some Fat Yak. ‘And even if the Trans did do it, where does the African fit in? He’s the one connected to the murder weapon. Yet the Trans put up a pretty good show of not knowing him at all. Strange, eh?’
‘Yeah? Maybe the African has nothing to do with it after all?’
‘Oh, I doubt that,’ said Cato as his injury throbbed. ‘I’ve been up close and personal. He’s very capable and all the evidence is starting to point his way. Now we’ve got him, Lara just needs to find out who he’s been working for and then everything’ll fall into place.’
‘Cheers to that,’ said Colin.
They clinked glasses and Blackburn had a goal disallowed.
‘This IT pal of yours,’ said Cato. ‘Would he do me a favour too?’
‘Sure,’ said Colin. ‘Anything for a mate.’
They clinked glasses again and Cato explained himself.
Dieudonne could tell from the view out of his window that he was up high. That meant he had to go down many floors to get to ground level in a building he did not know. That was the first thing. He also knew from the last two days that whenever there was a change in the tubes or wires connecting him to the machines there would be some kind of alarm noise, a beeping. That was the second thing. The third problem was the two guards outside his door. It was an interesting situation.
The alarm noise on the machines: he heard them going off all the time, not just his own but others too. The nurses got sick of it but it was their job to check them just to be sure. Dieudonne unclipped one of the wires that was monitoring his heart. The alarm sounded. He waited a few seconds then reclipped it. Two nurses came in: the young dark pretty one and the tall one with the angry eyes. Behind them was one of the police officers, looking nervous with his hand just above his gun. The nurses checked everything but couldn’t find the problem.
‘Sorry.’ Dieudonne gave them one of his smiles and they left.
By the fourth time they were muttering bad words and tapping the monitor with their knuckles. The police had grown bored and no longer cared.
By the fifth time they turned the machine off, assuring him that they would check him regularly until one of the porters wheeled in a replacement later.
After evening visiting time this floor of the hospital got a lot quieter. The tall nurse came to check his pulse, temperature and blood pressure using the old-fashioned ways because of the broken machine.
‘All good.’
‘Thank you nurse.’
‘No worries, mate.’ She turned to leave.
‘Nurse can you do me a favour please?’
‘Yeah, what?’
‘It is very hot. Can you leave the door open please? Also I am worried that you might not hear me if I get sick and the machine is turned off.’
‘Big sook, there’s nothin’ wrong with ya.’ But she checked with the police at the door and it sounded reasonable to them. The one with the red hair said it gave them a clear line of sight to keep an eye on him. So, now the door was open and the nurse would not be back for at least an hour, maybe more.
Under the watchful eyes of Red-hair, Dieudonne dozed peacefully. After a while all the lights in the ward and side rooms were dimmed and the hospital settled into overnight mode. Dieudonne pulled the bedcovers up ready to sleep. Beneath the covers he disconnected the tubes and wires. Red-hair read a magazine with Angelina Jolie on the cover while his friend, who had her back to Dieudonne, played a game on her mobile phone. It sounded like Angry Birds.
‘Coffee, Deb?’ said Red-hair.
‘Yeah. My shout or yours?’
‘Yours, tight-arse, and get me a Kit Kat while you’re on.’
‘Fat bastard.’ She stood up, checking her wallet for cash. ‘Back in a sec.’
‘Miss you.’
Red-hair was alone. He stood to stretch, did a small fart, scratched his buttocks and sat down again. This time in his friend’s more comfortable chair, which had a proper armrest. He now had his back to Dieudonne.
29
Friday, February 12th. The small hours.
Lara got the call just after midnight. She’d been in the deepest sleep she’d had for weeks. She was at the hospital fifteen minutes later. DI Hutchens was already there and Duncan Goldflam and his crew had the area taped off, marked up, and were doing their geek thing in the blue paper suits and facemasks. Cato Kwong was there too; he was pale and looked like he was in pain. He was interviewing a tall nurse with dark hair and wild eyes. On the floor outside the doorway to Dieudonne’s room there was a lake of blood. Lara knew already that it belonged to a man she had been introduced to earlier in the day, Detective Constable Aidan Murtagh. She’d made a sympathetic comment about his bloodshot baggy eyes and he’d shown her a picture of his baby daughter. On the white wall above the pool of blood was a line of crimson spray. The man’s distressed colleague, DC Deb Hassan, was being interviewed by Meldrum. There was no sign of Dieudonne.
‘What happened?’ said Lara.
Hutchens told her the basics. ‘The little bastard rammed a ballpoint pen into Aidan’s carotid artery and fucked off.’
‘Just like that?’
‘Give or take, yeah. Aidan may or may not live. He’s being operated on now. S’pose if something like that’s going to happen to you then this is the best place for it.’
‘What do you want me to do, boss?’ said Lara numbly.
‘Find Dieudonne and kill him.’
‘That an official order?’
‘Give or take, yeah.’
All the streets adjacent to the hospital were blocked off, uniforms were banging on doors and dog teams were jumping fences and scouring backyards. The chopper was hovering with searchlight and infra-red. The police radio channels were a bedlam of babble and s
tatic. Lara checked her watch: nearly 1.30a.m.. DI Hutchens and a squad from Major Crime were coordinating things from an Incident Room at Freo cop shop with a direct feed from the Mission Control street camera monitoring centre up in Maylands. Cato, Meldrum, and Goldflam’s forensic team were running the crime scene. The manhunt for Dieudonne was getting the full treatment but Lara suspected it would count for little with this particular individual. She’d linked up with a touring TRG crew and found herself seated next to Darth Vader, the same man she’d professionally humiliated at the raid on the Tran’s compound all those days ago.
‘How you doing, love?’
‘Lara’s the name,’ she said testily.
‘Dave.’ He offered a hand like a shovel. She shook it. ‘Piece of work, this bloke, eh?’
‘Yep,’ said Lara.
‘Reckon we’ll find him?’
‘Fingers crossed.’
‘That’s the spirit.’ Dave winked at his colleagues and checked his equipment while Lara looked out the window and breathed in the heady aroma of gunmetal and testosterone. Her mobile went off.
‘’Sup?’ It was Colin Graham.
‘Everything. Dieudonne’s attacked a colleague and escaped.’
‘Jeez.’
‘I know. Where are you?’
‘Home.’
‘What’s that noise in the background?’
‘Washing machine.’
‘Bit late?’
‘Tan’s a bit OCD sometimes, domestic goddess and that.’
Lara bit back an unkind comment. ‘Coming out to play?’
‘Wouldn’t miss it for quids.’
A patrol car screamed past, full lights and sirens. ‘So Gangs have been called in?’
‘Not yet, as far as I know, but I’m sure we’ll be happy to make up the numbers.’
The radio in the TRG van crackled. ‘Sighting up by Beaconsfield Primary School,’ said Dave.
‘Got to go,’ said Lara. ‘Keep in touch.’ She flipped her mobile shut and held onto the sissy handle as the ninjas took the corner at eighty. There was something funny about that phone call but she couldn’t figure out what it was. She checked her Glock as Beacy Primary loomed dark on the hill above them.
Cato popped another couple of painkillers. His gut was playing up and he felt like he was running a temperature. He’d changed the dressing a couple of hours ago when he got back from the pub. The wound that, for the last couple of days, seemed to be healing nicely was now red and inflamed. He resolved to head back to the doctor in the morning and have it checked. Besides he was already in the right place if it turned really bad. His injury wasn’t the only thing troubling him. The conversation with Colin Graham had also triggered alarm bells but the follow-up could wait. This was more urgent.
