by Alan Carter
When Tess arrived she found Jai sitting on a high stack of chairs in a corner beside the broad beans that were germinating in recycled milk cartons. He was pressing a pocketknife against his own throat. Most of the kids had gone home apart from a handful galloping around the playground just outside. They were making more acceptable after-school animal noises, oblivious to Jai and his knife and his throat. He was humming and swinging his legs. He seemed unaware that he’d pricked himself and that a tiny trickle of blood ran down his neck. His eyes never left the teacher’s and he was trying hard not to smile but couldn’t help himself.
Tess nodded towards the teacher and walked in. Outside, Greg Fisher was shooing the kids away from the playground and off home. Other teachers, unaware of what was going on, were wondering about the sudden police presence. Fisher shooed them away too. Tess sat on the corner of a desk a couple of metres away from Jai. Behind his head, blutacked to the window, the class photo – a mixed mob of kids squinting at the camera. There he was, second row, third from left, the dark red vertical scar on his upper lip helping to mark him out from the crowd. The Disaffected Youth of Hopetoun. On a good day you could read him as a shy kid desperately in need of friends, fun and a fair go. On a bad day, like today, he looked dark and malevolent, an ugly stain on the childhood innocence around him.
‘Hello Jai, what’s happenin’?’
He rolled his eyes and gestured towards the knife. ‘Duh. What do you think?’
Tess acted like she’d only just noticed it. ‘Oh yeah, the knife. So, what’s this all about Jai? What’s going on?’
‘Her.’ He chin-pointed in the direction of the teacher.
‘Mrs McLernon?’
‘She prefers Muzz.’
Tess grinned and rolled her eyes too, co-conspirator with Jai. ‘Okay then, Muzz. What’s Muzz McLernon been doin’?’
‘Givin’ me the shits.’
Ms McLernon looked out the window, expression unreadable.
‘Not again.’ Tess turned an accusing eye on the teacher. ‘What’s she gone and done this time?’
‘Said I was making noises. Disruptin’, shit like that. She’s a fucking bitch. Always pickin’ on me.’
Ms McLernon sniffed and drummed her fingers on the desk.
Tess nodded in apparent agreement. ‘I reckon. So what’s with the knife? How does that help?’
‘Gonna kill meself. Sick of this shit.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Yeah.’
You and me both, thought Tess, there had to be better ways of spending your day than dealing with dipsticks like the Stevensons. Like, for instance, stalking your former tormentor. She’d tailed the Djukic minibus convoy all the way down the Hopetoun– Ravensthorpe Road until the mine turnoff. There they’d parted company, for the time being. John Djukic occupied all her waking moments (and too many of her sleeping ones) and she wished he didn’t. A soft breeze rustled a photocopied word-sleuth from a nearby desk; it fluttered to the floor at Tess’s feet. It looked like it was about the weather. She could make out some of the words ringed in yellow highlighter: THUNDER and LIGHTNING.
‘I’ve got a better idea.’
‘What?’ His dark little eyes narrowing.
‘Remember that time I took you kids for a ride in the van? Siren, all that stuff?’
Jai sneered, that was obviously for little kids. Three months ago he’d been rapt, a bit of hearts-and-minds stuff from the new cop in town, but not good enough, not any more. Jai found the monotone he was looking for.
‘Wow. Cool.’ He gave her the finger.
Tess was losing patience; eleven years old and already she could see the man he would become, a vicious, manipulative coward, like bloody John Djukic.
‘Have you seen how these work?’ She took the taser off her belt and held it out towards him.
Jai’s eyes widened. He said it again but this time he meant it. ‘Wow. Cool.’ Hypnotised, he leaned forward.
Tess pulled it back from him. ‘You need to put the knife down first though, Jai. Hand it to me, eh?’
Jai lowered the knife and reached out for the stun gun. ‘Can I have it now?’
‘Sure.’
Tess started to pass it over. He snatched at it and there was a brief clumsy struggle as Tess tried to hold on to the taser and get the knife off him. Then Jai Stevenson yelped and dropped like a stone.
Greg Fisher popped his head round the door and took in the scene: a little boy groaning on the floor, Tess clipping the taser back on to her belt.
‘Shit Sis, did you just do what I think you just did?’
‘You did what?’ DI Hutchens’ good day was turning bad.
‘Tasered him, sir.’ Tess Maguire looked down at her feet. She wondered vaguely about the chances of an earthquake in Hopetoun tearing open the floor in the town hall and swallowing her up.
‘He’s eleven fucking years old.’
No. Hutchens was the one tearing up the floor and swallowing people whole. Tess scratched her nose, she didn’t know whether to burst out giggling or break down sobbing.
‘Twelve next month, sir.’
‘He’s still a fucking kid,’ hissed Hutchens.
‘He had a knife, he was a danger to himself and others. It just kind of went off accidentally. Anyway I only had it on warp factor two.’
Hutchens breathed deeply. ‘Why today, Tess? Why today?’
She studied a spot high on the wall behind him.
Hutchens closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘Is he okay? Up and about again?’
Tess brightened. ‘Oh yeah. His mother came to fetch him. Right as rain now, bit shaken maybe.’
‘Well he would be. Fifty thousand volts.’
Hutchens mobile trilled, a Hawaii Five-O ring tone. He listened for a moment.
‘No fucking comment.’ He snapped the phone shut. ‘Channel Nine wants to know if the tasering of this eleven year old kid had anything to do with the murder of Jim Buckley.’
Cato looked up from his file. ‘Are we ready?’
Suspect and interpreter nodded in unison. Cato announced names, times, dates and places for the recording. It was 5.30, the sky outside still bright. Guan Yu had been cautioned and had confirmed through the interpreter that, for the moment anyway, he was waiving his right to have a lawyer present. The interpreter, Jessica Tan, had stepped off the plane an hour ago and was sharp, efficient and ready to roll. Cato knew the type, he’d gone to school with lots of them. Confession time: he was one of them. Conscientious, always did their piano practice, always did their homework. Always did everything very, very well – except in his case. Jessica Tan looked about ten years younger than Cato. He wondered idly if she was related to the Tans from down the street where he grew up. Probably not; anything less than doctor, dentist, or lawyer was abject failure for those Tans. Interpreter? Not a chance.
They went through the basics about Guan Yu. Age twentyeight and married with one child, a daughter. A home address in Chengdu, Sichuan Province, China. A welder by trade, he had been in Australia for about six months. His contract was for a year. He had been recruited to come to work in Australia by Hai Chen who was also from Chengdu.
‘Mr Guan, today you told me you killed Hai Chen.’
Jessica repeated it to Guan Yu who already half-understood. He nodded his confirmation, adding a clear ‘Yes’ for the recording at Cato’s insistence.
‘Tell me what happened.’
A deep, shaky inhaling of breath from the other side of the table, Guan speaking, Jessica almost simultaneously translating.
‘It was Thursday. We had all been working on the pipeline again.’
Cato thought back to the projects lists on the contractors’ websites, the desalination plant pipeline for the mine.
‘Ten days without rest, long hours. Dawn to nearly dark.’
Cato nodded at him to go on.
‘We were sitting around the fire. Eating. Tired. Ready to sleep. It was already dark.’
�
�Who is we? How many? Their names?’ prodded McGowan.
Guan Yu obliged: five people, the rest at the toilet block or already asleep. He gave their names and they were written down with spellchecks courtesy of Jessica Tan. Cato cursed silently. He was quite happy to leave this nailing of detail for a later run-through. He didn’t want Guan’s train of thought derailed. He whispered to that effect in McGowan’s ear and was answered with a curt nod.
It transpired that Thursday night was dues-paying night. That figured, Thursday being payday. Hai Chen was the gangmaster. He had organised the Chinese end of the hiring in return for a commission from the contracting company, SaS, and a percentage fee agreed with each of the hired men individually. Chen had the best English, acting as a go-between from day one. On Thursday nights he collected fifty dollars cash from each of his fifteen Chinese workmates.
Mark McGowan frowned. ‘Fifteen? But there are only seven or eight people in the Paddy’s Field vans. Where are the rest?’
Jessica translated. ‘They live in two more vans at Barren Pastures.’
McGowan did the mental maths. Seven hundred and fifty a week on top of Chen’s own wages. He whistled softly. ‘Not bad.’
Cato gazed at Guan Yu. ‘How much do you make in a week?’
‘Five hundred.’ Guan nodded, sticking his thumbs up. ‘Good, yes?’
McGowan snorted. ‘McBurger’s wages.’
Cato glared at him and turned back to look across the table. ‘So you were giving Chen ten per cent every week?’
‘Yes.’
‘Go on. Thursday night was pay night for Mr Chen.’
‘I did not have the money.’ Guan Yu looked down at the table.
‘Why not?’ McGowan again, sitting back low in his chair, arms folded.
‘I don’t know.’
‘What kind of answer is that?’ McGowan snapped.
‘I needed it for my family.’ Guan’s eyes were filling up.
Cato leaned forward, a picture of sympathy. ‘So what happened then?’
‘He chastised me, loudly, in front of the other men. He slapped me.’
Jessica Tan finished the translation by mimicking the slapping gesture they had all seen already from Guan. The clock ticked on the wall. A phone rang in an office nearby. Cato waited for Guan’s breathing to steady.
‘What next?’
‘He was walking away from me, laughing and insulting me, waving his money in the air...’
Jessica Tan flicked her wrist back and forth, a loads-a-money gesture. Guan Yu said something and flicked his finger across his throat. Jessica Tan provided the translation.
‘I cut his throat. I bled the fat greedy pig.’
21
Monday, October 13th. Late afternoon.
Tess Maguire stood outside at the window for a moment and surveyed the scene. Melissa lay on the couch staring at Deal or No Deal without seeming to take any of it in. The TV volume was way up, it wasn’t like it was a quiet show anyway, and Tess had heard it halfway down the street. iPod wires trailed out of her daughter’s ears and four bottles of Lemon Ruski lay dead on the floor at her feet. The kitchen screen door rattled open.
‘What the hell is this?’
Tess was home relatively early by her standards. It had been a short if tumultuous day. She’d stalked Johnno Djukic; tasered an eleven year old and probably would face assault charges from his parents; been carpeted by some fuckwit from Albany and ordered to take the rest of the week off and, quote, ‘Sort your bloody self out.’ They seemed to think she had a problem with anger management, that maybe she wasn’t completely rehabilitated, would perhaps benefit from some more counselling. Anger-fucking-management? Dickheads. She looked over at her daughter. Now this.
‘Turn that crap off. Put those bottles in the bin. Have a shower and smarten your bloody self up. I want you back out here in ten minutes. We need to talk.’
Melissa rolled her eyes. Didn’t bother moving anything else.
Tess tried again, louder. ‘Did you hear me?’
Not even a shrug.
Tess stormed over and stabbed the TV off then turned on her daughter who was busily feigning boredom and indifference. Tess wanted to punch her. She leaned forward with her hand out, Melissa flinched. Tess yanked the earphones out, grabbed the alcopop bottles and flung them in the bin.
‘Okay we’ll talk here. Now, what’s going on?’
‘Nothing. Leave me alone.’
Melissa finally moved. She jumped up and stormed into her room, slamming the door behind her.
‘Melissa. Come back here.’
A shriek, sounding like it emanated from the depths of hell, came from the other side of the door.
‘Fuck. Off.’
The door flew open and Tess was astride her daughter on the bed, face crimson with rage, head roaring and a hot mist fogging her vision. One hand was bunched around Melissa’s collar, the other pulled back in a fist.
‘Mum!’ Melissa’s eyes were wide with terror. ‘Mum, stop!’
The spell broke. Tess looked down at the terrified face below her. She lowered her fist. ‘Oh God, Mel. I’m so sorry.’
Melissa’s face crumpled. She looked about four. ‘Get out. Please just get out.’
Tess got up and left, utterly desolate; not knowing how to come back from what she’d just done.
‘Show me how you cut him. Which hand was the knife in?’
Guan Yu waited for the translation, he looked at Jessica Tan, seeking guidance. She flicked her hands uncertainly, she was an interpreter not a lawyer. Cato stood up and got Mark McGowan to join him. He stood behind McGowan, reaching around with his left arm to secure him, then bringing his right hand across the neck in a slicing motion.
‘Like this?’
Guan Yu shook his head. Cato released his victim.
‘So show me. Here. Mr McGowan is Hai Chen.’
McGowan crooked his finger at Guan encouragingly. Guan Yu rose to his feet giggling nervously and went to stand behind McGowan. Cato gestured for him to proceed. The self-confessed killer stepped forward reaching with his left hand to grab McGowan by the hair, gently.
‘This man very big, tall, Chen not so big.’ Guan let go of McGowan’s head.
Cato asked his colleague to crouch a little. ‘Better?’
Guan nodded, ‘Yes, a little more please. Good.’
Guan stepped forward again, grabbing the back of McGowan’s head with his left hand and driving the thumb side of his right fist into a spot just below McGowan’s right ear. He mimicked the withdrawal of the blade and another stabbing motion into the front of the neck and a wrench back towards the original wound. If Guan Yu was having any scary flashbacks to that night of blood and terror, his face didn’t reveal anything: he could have been slicing Peking duck on a slow night in Chinatown. Mark McGowan crossed his eyes, clutched his throat and poked his tongue out in schlock horror. Jessica Tan couldn’t suppress a nervous titter. Guan Yu joined in the macabre mirthfest with a high-pitched hee-hee of his own. Cato calmed them all down. He kept Guan and McGowan in their positions.
‘What happened then?’
‘He fell down. Dead.’ Guan Yu was coping remarkably well without the interpreter.
‘How do you know he was dead?’
This time Guan waited for Jessica to translate, and Cato waited for the response.
‘Maybe he didn’t die immediately. He made noises. Gurgling. Moaning. Maybe it took a few minutes. A lot of blood.’
‘Did anybody see this?’ McGowan, with pen poised over his notepad.
‘Of course, everyone must have seen it.’
‘What did they do?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Nothing?’ Cato double-checked with Jessica.
‘Nothing.’
‘Nobody tried to help him?’
‘No,’ said Jessica for Guan Yu. ‘We all hated him, we all watched him die.’ Cato Kwong checked his watch. It was dark outside now, just the wrong side of eight. It was clear that every
one was getting tired. Jessica Tan’s translations were taking longer, brains were seizing up, McGowan was yawning for Australia. An infusion of the disgusting coffee from the cafe down the road had done nothing for anyone’s spirits or tastebuds. Pushing on would be counterproductive but Cato was desperate to know, at least in brief, how Hai Chen went from being dead in a field twenty kilometres inland to dismembered flotsam on Hopetoun beach. As far as he could tell, Guan Yu appeared not to have any ready access to a car, never mind a boat. Cato smiled encouragingly at Guan and the interpreter.
‘We will take a break very soon. Just a few more questions for today.’
They nodded for Cato to proceed. Guan’s nod looked less enthusiastic, he seemed to be getting bored with confessing to murder.
‘So you watched him die. What happened to the body after that?’
‘We covered him with a...’ Guan and the interpreter struggled for the word, ‘a tent sheet...’
‘A tarpaulin?’
‘Yes, tarpaulin, and we left him for the night. I was going to bury him in the morning.’
‘So you left it overnight. Covered in tarpaulin?’ Nods. ‘Then what, you went to sleep?’
‘No, we sat around the fire and drank whisky. Lots of whisky.’
As you would, with a dead body a few feet away, thought Cato.
‘And in the morning you buried the body?’
Cato tensed; if the answer was yes then how did it end up on the beach? Guan Yu shook his head. Did he magically conjure up a fourwheel drive and a boat? Did somebody help him? Was Cato on the verge of wrapping up the mystery of Flipper?
‘No.’
‘No? Why not?’
Guan Yu scratched his neck and gave a little embarrassed cough. ‘Hai Chen was gone.’ No room at the inn. Stuart Miller smiled wearily at Pam the Fitzgerald River Motel receptionist and flicked his wallet shut. He couldn’t believe how long the drive had been: hours and hours, nearly nine of them in fact. Admittedly he had got lost on the back roads of the southern wheatbelt taking what – he had been assured by the guy at the Albany Highway roadhouse – would be a really good short cut. It had turned out to be a winding, sign-less, kangaroo-strewn nightmare. Now he was here, it was dark and he was exhausted and hungry. The motel was full and the cafe was shut. Welcome to Hopetoun.
