by Alan Carter
Terhorst patted Cato’s shoulder and walked towards his car. ‘I’ll arrange for Harry Lewis to come back to Ravensthorpe then?’
Cato nodded, flipped open his phone, scrolled the number for DI Mick Hutchens and took a deep breath.
Hutchens was due in Hopetoun by late morning, midday at the latest. He’d instructed Cato to say nothing to any news media; they were expected to be all over it within hours. They’d been able to hold back the tide on Flipper but nobody doubted that this story was going to spread, and quickly. Besides, this was now a real job and a priority. Cato knew Hutchens well enough by now; the man would be at battle stations and relishing a major highprofile inquiry. If anyone was to front the cameras it would be him. He would be bringing a handful of his team from Albany and half a dozen others were flying down from Perth Major Crime later today.
‘We’ll fingerprint, DNA, and flog the whole fucking town if we have to.’
His last words as he slammed the phone down on Cato. A dead cop, all stops would be pulled out, even for a bloke that Hutchens himself had called a useless fuckwit only two days earlier. But now it was different; Buckley was family. This was going to be a circus, Cato realised gloomily as he snapped his phone shut.
Seven-thirty. The locus was now taped off and secured. Greg and Tess were erecting a tarpaulin over that part of the jetty with the help of the two uniforms from Ravensthorpe: Biddulph and Abbott. Entry to and from the whole groyne area was now blocked by Tess’s car and a couple of the hapless security men borrowed from the mine. A statement had been taken from the fisherman who found the body. The motel had been instructed not to clean Jim Buckley’s room and to keep it locked until further notice. There was no more to do until the Mick Hutchens Circus hit town. Cato knew his chances of having any further connection with either the Flipper or Buckley cases were practically zero. Jim Buckley, no longer just a gruff, frustrating pain in the arse. He glanced down at the lifeless body: Jim Buckley, now a murder inquiry.
‘Not small is it?’ Greg Fisher observed as he secured the last tarpaulin guy rope to a railing.
‘What?’ said Cato, coming out of his deep, dark place.
‘The rock.’
Cato looked at it, thought about Buckley’s height and size. ‘No.’
‘They’d have to be reasonably strong.’
Cato turned away from him. ‘Let’s leave the detecting to the grown-ups, mate. They’ll be here soon enough.’
Greg appeared hurt. Cato felt guilty for a moment but thought better of it. This wasn’t a job for fragile egos, you couldn’t afford that until you got into management. Tess finished tying up her corner of the tarp and gave Cato a reproachful look. She looked like shit.
‘Big night last night?’ Cato asked, cupping his hand to his mouth in a drinking gesture.
Then Tess’s hands were at his throat and she was in his face, tears welling in her eyes.
‘Shut your hole you smug bastard. You’ve failed here. Why don’t you just fuck off home.’ Greg tried to tug her away but she shook him off. ‘Tell your mate Hutchens and all the other bent mongrels from Perth: we don’t need your kind of help.’
Cato walked away, face as dark as yesterday’s clouds.
Greg caught up with him at The Deck Cafe, the one place left that he and Buckley had not got around to trying. Cato didn’t need the coffee from the Taste of the Toun; he already had a bitter taste in his mouth and Justin’s Snak-Attack was closed. Normally it would have been open by now for the mine managers’ early shift takeaway cappuccinos, but not today. So it was The Deck. Cato was at a table outside, his face lifted to the early morning sun and his eyes closed. If he left them that way, and didn’t think too much, he could almost be in paradise. When he opened them he saw Greg Fisher studying him.
‘Yes?’ he said irritably.
‘I used to dream about you.’
Cato wasn’t sure where this was going. ‘Yes?’ he said again.
‘You were on the recruitment poster at the Careers Expo. When all me mates were saying, “Fisher’s joining the monarch” and calling me “coconut” and “sellout” I’d think about you on that poster. Even in my sleep. You’d talk to me, say, “Don’t listen to them dickheads, Gregory”.’
Cato smiled for the first time that day.
Greg was still standing up, looking down at him. ‘“Step Forward”. That’s what it says on the recruitment poster. “Step Forward”. But on the day we need you to take charge you walk away. What’s going on?’
Cato swallowed his first smile of the day. Greg nodded to himself, point made.
‘Tess is having trouble with her daughter, Melissa. We pulled over a car last night. Melissa was in it. She’s fourteen.’
Cato was all ears, he didn’t even know Tess had a daughter, never mind a troublesome one. But then again why would he? They hadn’t spoken meaningfully since he left her. ‘Go on.’
‘She was with a mate and three blokes, high as a kite on eckies and alcopops. The blokes had GHB, eckies, grog, and a video camera. They had plans.’
Cato’s blood thumped in his ears. ‘Is she okay?’
‘Yeah, Tess got a fright though.’
‘Where are they now?’
‘Ravy lockup.’
‘Charges?’
Greg shrugged impotently. ‘Possession. Dangerous driving. You know the score, it’s hard to keep people locked up on something as vague as “Evil Intent”. Likely to be released this morning.’
‘Not before I have a word with them. Stay here. You and Tess keep the scene secure and wait for Hutchens. I’ll be back later.’
Cato took his coffee with him and jumped into the Stock Squad four-wheel drive.
He didn’t know why he was tearing up to Ravensthorpe to confront the sleazebags. It had nothing to do with him. Maybe he wanted to do something to show he cared about someone other than himself. Do something? Like what? Maybe he just wanted to hit somebody. Maybe he just wanted to get out of town for a while, away from Tess Maguire, away from Jim Buckley, and away from his own failures. Maybe he couldn’t stop thinking about his damn self after all. He switched on the radio as a distraction and hit the search button until he got some reception. The Four Tops – ‘Walk Away Renée’.
Step Forward – Walk Away.
Young Fisher had landed one on him. He found Classic FM and settled into some cello. The sun rose higher over waves of yellowflowered canola, cabbage-whites danced on the soft morning breeze. The sky was now virtually cloudless. Wagtails, wattlebirds and currawongs flitted and swooped among the roadside gums. It was a great day to be alive. Had Jim Buckley made an enemy in the pub? Not hard to these days: too many drinks, a nudge, a wrong look, winning at pool when you weren’t meant to, being in the wrong place at the wrong time. This was the golden age of the one-punch killer. Buckley stuck out like a sore thumb as a cop; he knew he did and thrived on it. Put him in a tutu and pink wig and you’d still clock him for a walloper. Had someone recognised him, somebody with an old grudge? Buckley had a reputation. He never backed down, never shirked a fight, sometimes happy to start one if he thought it necessary, or if he was in the mood. Cato needed to speak to the pub manager and patrons. He stopped himself. DI Hutchens and his team would have all that well covered.
Was it anything to do with the last few days? They weren’t getting anywhere with Flipper as far as they could tell. What else? They hadn’t been involved in the fight at the mine, that was all over by the time they arrived. Tess had taken him off in her car, what was that all about? Was that where she got the oil on his past, from Buckley? Maybe, probably, but was it germane? Cato smiled, Buckley’s word. Germane. Then it hit him.
I’ve clocked him.
Justin. Snak-Attack.
Is it germane to your floater?
A face from the past, dealing in speed and ecstasy. That’s what was found in the car last night with Tess’s daughter. And GHB: was Justin back in business and branching out into the date-rape drug? Justin Woodward. Closed for business this mor
ning and yesterday morning, missing the trade from the early shift. Why? Big night? Lie in? Done a runner? Woodward, not answering Cato’s question about who or what he was hiding from. Justin’s look of relief when they were called away to the fight at the mine. They hadn’t had a chance to revisit Woodward to find out what all that was about. Was he connected to the sleazebags and the car full of drugs? Was that what got Jim Buckley killed? Cato was looking forward to his chat with the boys in the Ravy lockup.
Stuart Miller hadn’t slept a wink. Jim Buckley’s midnight call was a bolt from the blue. Jim had been convinced that Davey Arthurs was there in Hopetoun. He would do a bit of checking this morning and then they’d bring Arthurs in. The worst he could be was wrong. Miller had tossed and turned all night; Jenny had finally given up on him and retreated to the spare room for some quality sleep. His gut was churning; what if it really was Arthurs after all this time? He chuckled at the irony of a plodding time-serving old bastard like Jim Buckley nabbing the prize. Miller checked his watch; heading for midmorning. Had they made their move on the man who might be Arthurs? He texted through to Buckley: trying not to sound too desperate and readying himself for disappointment.
how’s it going? stu
In the meantime he was en route to Bunbury, a forty-minute drive away. Detective Tim Delaney had phoned back with a number for a Brian Munro, the brother of the woman who had survived an Arthurs attack only to commit suicide a few years later. Stuart had rung the number, still not knowing the name of the dead woman; Brian Munro had provided it anyway – Vicki. They were due to meet in half an hour. Munro’s wife would be out shopping and the kids had long since left home. Point taken; this was just between the two of them.
Brian Munro lived in a spacious two-storey new building overlooking the Indian Ocean. The house had been designed so that the bedrooms were downstairs and the kitchen and family room were upstairs, opening out on to a wide balcony equipped with a huge barbecue. It was a house designed around the view and the lifestyle afforded to its inhabitants. It was probably worth not much short of two million. The temperature had dropped from its uncomfortable midweek highs, freshened by overnight rain. Out on the choppy sea a couple of kite surfers skimmed across the spray. Munro stepped out on to the balcony from the kitchen bearing a tray with cups, milk and a coffee plunger. He was around forty-five with a slight build and the bookish look of a librarian or academic. In fact, according to Tim Delaney, he was a sharp businessman with half a dozen hospitality companies dotted around the South-West. And, Delaney had added unnecessarily, not to be underestimated.
Munro quickly got to the point. ‘So what do you want to know and why?’
Miller wasn’t sure how much ignorance he should come clean with, so he gave Munro a bit of his own history dating back to that day in May 1973. As his story unfolded he could see Munro relaxing and accepting him for what he said he was.
‘You sound a lot like him. The way you talk. Of course we didn’t know him as Davey or Derek. To us he was Bob.’
‘Bob?’ This was a new one to Miller.
Munro nodded. ‘Bob Kerr.’
Miller nearly choked on his coffee. Arthurs had adopted the name of Bobby Kerr, Sunderland FA Cup captain. The sentimental little sadist, talk about tarnishing a fond memory. He explained away his splutter as a mistimed cough.
Munro took a sip from his own cup. ‘Do you want to see a photo of Vicki?’
‘Sure.’
They put down their coffees and went into the open-plan living area. On a shelf unit, housing mainly home entertainment gizmos and DVDs, there was a row of photographs. Miller spotted her immediately: the twenty-something year old in her graduation gown in a photo taken in 1986, before she met ‘Bob’. Long blonde hair and a knowing smile, a dead ringer for the girl on the mantelpiece in Sunderland. Arthurs himself was no catalogue model and a good ten to fifteen years her senior. What did she see in him?
‘Vicki’s first marriage had fizzled out. No spark. She said Bob made her laugh, not just the funny accent, apparently he had a great sense of humour.’
Munro gave a short bitter laugh. He pulled out a heavy thick binder with more photos and flicked through the pages.
‘This is her after that bastard finished with her.’
Miller tried not to flinch. The upper right hand side of her head had required major reconstructive surgery. It had left her horribly disfigured and, by the look of the photo, blinded on that side too. Miller drew in his breath sharply.
‘When did this happen?’
‘Nineteen ninety-eight, February, they’d been together about four years by then. They were talking of finally getting married later that year. They already had a child at that point. Shelley, three.’
Miller didn’t want to but he knew he had to ask, ‘Did she ... the little girl...?’
Munro’s sad shake of the head and brimming eyes said enough.
Miller pushed on, hating himself for it but determined to know. ‘How come Vicki survived?’
Munro pulled himself back together. ‘The bastard didn’t hit her hard enough and his little electric gizmo didn’t work. Must have blown a fuse or something. Who knows? The police at the time also speculated that he may have been interrupted, a knock at the door maybe.’ Munro closed the photo album and put it back on the shelf. ‘It destroyed her. She pretty well died then anyway, the day he took away Shelley. Vicki was half blind, disfigured, brain-damaged. She could no longer talk or walk properly. That nasty mad fucker needs to be put down.’
Miller nodded. ‘The newspaper mentioned a sighting of him in 1998?’
‘We gave the police a description at the time. We did have photographs of him, well Vicki did, but he took them, along with the negatives.’
Clearing up after himself, learning from the Sunderland and Adelaide crimes.
‘The sighting?’ Miller pressed.
‘It was towards the end of that year. Vicki was still in hospital, she spent nearly nine months in there one way or another. One day she looked out of her ward window and there he was down in the car park, just standing and staring. Maybe looking for a chance to finish what he started. She told the police but they weren’t able to find any trace of him. One even suggested she might have imagined it.’
‘The description you gave, that’s what’s been in the papers recently?’
‘Pretty much. We gave more detail at the time but I suppose the main thing they’re interested in now is what they need to make up the photofit.’
‘Anything that you thought was important that didn’t appear in the recent press reports?’
Munro scratched his chin then fingered the sleeve of his shirt. ‘There was this tattoo, a crude thing he’d done himself, the letters “CK”. As he told us his name was Bob Kerr we assumed it was a family member.’
Miller grimaced; that at least nailed for him that Arthurs and Chapman and Kerr were the same man. But who was CK?
‘Anything else?’
Munro shook his head. ‘I remember Vicki saying something strange to me one day after it all happened. She said she used to try to ask him about his past, his early life as a kid. And he used to always say he didn’t have a past. But that’s not really useful for identifying him is it?’
Miller didn’t know what to make of it. Munro was looking at his watch; maybe Mrs Munro was due home soon. Miller had one last thing he needed to know.
‘Vicki’s suicide, when was that, what happened?’
‘It was just over a year later, early in 2000. One night she climbed up the lookout tower just back up the hill there and jumped off. We found her the following morning.’ He choked on his words. ‘I didn’t even know she’d gone out.’
‘No doubts about the cause of death? Definitely suicide?’
Munro looked pained at the very idea. ‘As I said, she died inside the day her daughter was taken. She was an empty shell after that. Besides, she pinned a note to herself.’
‘What did it say?’
Munro sh
rugged irritably and checked his watch again. ‘It said, “Had enough. Vicki.” Speaking of which...’
It was time to go. As Munro ushered him out the front door he murmured, ‘I said it to Delaney and I’ll say it to you. We don’t want to talk to you people again. Either do your jobs and find him or close the book, so we can too.’
They shook hands and Miller turned to leave.
‘But...’ Munro breathed deeply and Miller turned back. ‘If you do find him, do me a favour and kill the bastard. Or God help me I will.’
The scenic lookout tower atop Marlston Hill stood twenty-five metres high. From it you could see Brian Munro’s house, Bunbury port, Koombana Bay, most of the city, and the Indian Ocean. The spiral concrete staircase left Miller straining for breath after the climb. The parapet was nearly chest height on him. He looked down at the concrete car park below. How and why would a half-blind, brain-damaged and movement-impaired woman come all the way up here one night, clamber over the high parapet and chuck herself to her death? There must be easier ways of topping yourself. Or did she have help from Davey Arthurs? It wouldn’t have been beyond Arthurs to squeeze a suicide note out of her or forge her handwriting, nobody was going to be looking too closely at it.
Maybe Vicki Munro did do it all by herself but if she didn’t and Arthurs was involved it raised two new issues about him. First, he was becoming very meticulous at covering his tracks and second, he was no longer restricting himself to his usual method of killing.
‘They’ve gone.’
‘What?’
‘Gone. We let them go about an hour ago. Bailed for a court appearance at a later date. Got their IDs and driving licences and all that. Well-behaved, polite blokes, considering.’
The Ravy desk sergeant, Bernie Tilbrook, was fresh back off a week’s holiday, fishing and camping over at Bremer Bay on the far side of the national park. He had a farmer’s red tan and a well-fed face, ripe for impending retirement. He liked to see a bit of good in everybody, generally. All this Cato gleaned from a bit of introductory Stock Squad–style country banter.
Cato growled. ‘Considering what?’
