by Alan Carter
‘At the most it’s a coincidence, Stuart. But my money is on mistaken identity.’ He made a show of taking Miller into his confidence, two old cops together. ‘Between you and me, mate, we’ve got someone in the frame for this. We just need to tidy up some loose ends. Give us a few days.’
He patted Miller’s arm, an off-you-go-now gesture. Off Miller went.
Hutchens’ phone rang. He listened for a moment, a grin spreading across his face. ‘Right, cheers, we’ll get someone over straight away.’ He thanked the caller, put the phone down and smiled at Lara. ‘Fancy a drive? Albany. They’ve got a Freddy Bataam sitting in the lockup. They’re wondering if we’d like to talk to him.’
Freddy Bataam, hopefully the last nail in Justin Woodward’s coffin. Lara Sumich picked up her car keys and almost skipped out of the room, ponytail bouncing with joy. Hutchens knew the feeling.
24
Tuesday, October 14th. Midafternoon.
‘This is totally unacceptable.’
Amrita Desai shook her head in disgust. Jessica Tan nodded hers in grave agreement. Cato Kwong and Mark McGowan served up a pair of benevolent smiles. Guan Yu absorbed everything and gave little away. It was getting crowded in the interview room, and hot; the air conditioning was on the blink. A freestanding fan had been brought in but it was playing havoc with the paperwork on the table. Through the small, high window a shaft of light from the late afternoon sun fell across the scene: two on one side of the table, three on the other. Cato had just done the preliminaries for the interview and the young, bright-as-a-button Legal Aid lawyer from Albany had immediately put her protest on the record.
‘I repeat, this is totally unacceptable.’
She was referring to the previous interviews with Guan Yu, conducted without legal representation.
‘Shall we proceed?’ DC Mark McGowan clicked his biro tetchily and raised his eyebrows to the assembled company. He was outnumbered: he was the only Anglo in the room and he probably wasn’t used to it.
Guan nodded eagerly in response. He was sandwiched between the two women. He wouldn’t have had such proximity to the female of the species in months. The heady aroma of the women’s perfumes charged the air in the small stuffy room. For all the perversity of the situation, Guan Yu looked like he was beginning to enjoy himself. Cato took stock of the situation, sensing the day slipping out of his grasp.
He took them back to the beginning of Guan’s story and asked him, yet again, to talk about that Thursday night, Hai Chen’s payday, and what went on around the campfire. Again Guan stuck to the script. When he got to the part about the description of how he killed Chen, the lawyer stepped in.
‘No, no, no. We need to stop. I need to consult with my client.’
Cato gritted his teeth. ‘Haven’t you already discussed this? You had two hours with him before we commenced the interview.’
‘Two hours consultation and preparation for an interview that could result in a murder charge? Really, Detective Kwong.’
‘But he’s already described this scene to us at least twice.’
‘Without any legal advice.’ Amrita Desai tapped her pen on the tabletop for emphasis.
‘He declined it.’
‘He’s Chinese. He hardly speaks any English.’
‘He had an interpreter,’ McGowan chipped in.
‘That doesn’t mean he, or she...’ a finger flick towards Jessica Tan, ‘understood his legal rights.’
‘They were read to him before we started.’ McGowan’s voice was rising.
‘Legalese. How can you know whether he really understood the meaning and implication of the words Ms Tan translated to him?’
Cato glanced at Jessica Tan. She was looking a bit miffed. She probably thought she’d done an okay job, now her ability as an interpreter was being questioned by this ... lawyer.
‘Interview suspended, 5.12p.m.’ Cato nodded to McGowan. They picked up their things and headed for the door.
‘As I’ve said before, we believe the taser was accidentally discharged during a struggle and I must stress the officer involved was following procedure. There was a clear indication that the young man presented a danger to himself and to others.’
DI Mick Hutchens had been ambushed by the media pack outside the Major Incident Room at Hopetoun town hall, the camera lights casting an eerie glow on his hunted face.
A question from the crowd: ‘Was it not possible for two adult police officers to subdue him in any other way? Did the situation really require the use of something capable of giving a fiftythousand volt electric shock to the little boy?’
Mick Hutchens held out his hands and gestured downwards trying to calm the throng. ‘The matter is being investigated and the officer has been transferred to other duties. Until we have all the facts I am unable to comment any further.’
‘So Sergeant Maguire is being disciplined then?’
‘That’s not what I said.’
Tess Maguire picked up the remote and killed the TV. Whatever weasel words Mick Hutchens used, the reality was that, yes, Sergeant Maguire was being disciplined. Stood down from normal duties pending the outcome of the inquiry; that was the upshot of her summons to the town hall today. Tess had remained calm and surprisingly untroubled when Mick Hutchens informed her that Sergeant Paul Abbott would share his week between Ravensthorpe and Hopetoun to plug any gaps in Tess’s routine duties. Given that Hopey was crawling with cops anyway you wouldn’t get away with dropping a lolly wrapper these days. A part-time replacement for a full-time Tess, that pretty well summed up how useful she was in the job right now.
She felt good. The morning swim had reinvigorated her in more ways than one. The job sucked and she didn’t need it. The kerbside confrontation with Kerry was also revealing. She was now flavour of the month around town because she’d fulfilled their deep craving for rough justice – on a little kid, for Christ’s sake. Much as he might have deserved it over the years, zapping kids wasn’t actually her job. Tess was aware that she was part of a creeping fashion for using the taser as a first resort of domination and punishment rather than as a means to defuse genuinely dangerous situations. No, Senior Sergeant Tess Maguire wasn’t fit for duty and she was the first to admit it. Working out a healthier relationship with her daughter was infinitely more important right now. Working out a healthier relationship with herself came even before that. She would never be able to do so until, one way or another, she got Johnno Djukic out from under her skin. Now she had all the time in the world to think about how to do exactly that. Suspended. Perfect timing.
‘Doesn’t look like Billy Mather to me.’
Greg Fisher peered at the newspaper clipping Stuart Miller had given him. He’d remembered the story from the previous week. The picture hadn’t registered then and didn’t now. They were sitting in Stuart Miller’s car parked out on the groyne in the same spot he’d spent his cramped and uncomfortable night. Miller had gone in search of the young plod immediately after leaving the town hall; the kid had mentioned something about funny accents. Fisher wasn’t available until late afternoon so Miller spent the intervening hours bringing his notebook up to date. The record of his inquiries and observations was a backup. If he had the heart attack that had been threatening these last few years he didn’t want this work wasted and yet another chance lost to nail Davey Arthurs, even if it meant Detective Tim Delaney getting all the credit. The notebook was in the glove box, next to his heart pills.
The sun was dropping over the Barren Ranges in the national park, casting an orange and pink glow over the world. The sea rippled in the soft evening breeze. A handful of anglers cast hopefully off the end of the jetty for a feed of herring. Further in the hazy distance, tiny silhouetted figures fished for bigger prey from the beach. It was as peaceful as a postcard. Both men ignored it. They were mesmerised by the horror perpetrated by Derek Chapman aka Davey Arthurs aka Bobby Kerr. But was he also Billy Mather?
Greg Fisher shook his head and handed the clipping bac
k to Miller. ‘I can’t see it.’
‘But you said he had an accent like mine and Jim Buckley said he’d spoken to someone that night in the pub, he thought it was Arthurs. Look again, go on, please.’ Miller pushed the clipping back at Fisher.
‘Mate, I’m sorry, I don’t think they’re the same man.’ Fisher was losing patience. Miller asked him again to describe Billy Mather. He sighed heavily and did so. ‘About one seventy-five tall, grey close-cropped hair and beard, blue eyes, skinny.’
Miller double-checked his mental maths; centimetres to feet and inches, the height still fitted Arthurs, and the eyes. Even if the photofit had made him plump instead of skinny, why couldn’t Fisher see it?
‘The nose...’ Greg pointed out, ‘Billy Mather’s nose isn’t that big. His ears don’t stick out. The whole shape of the face.’ Fisher tapped the photograph and shook his head emphatically. ‘If it’s him he looks nothing like he looked thirty years ago.’
Miller folded the newspaper shut. ‘Neither does Michaelfucking-Jackson. Where does Mather live? I want to see him for myself.’
Greg Fisher checked the clock on the dashboard. ‘Six-forty, I’m off duty.’
Miller looked up and grinned. ‘So what are we waiting for?’
‘My client has prepared a statement which I have been instructed to read on his behalf.’
Cato Kwong closed his eyes, folded his arms and sat back in his chair. The confession and miracle result on the Flipper case was about to disappear into thin air. Mark McGowan glowered across the table. Amrita Desai moistened her crimson lips and commenced reading. Cato nodded slowly; in many ways he’d seen it coming as soon as she walked through the door. Her client was a simple man, she was saying, his command of English was severely limited, he was not adequately informed of his legal rights nor appropriately cautioned about the implications of anything he might say. Consequently he now retracted his previous statements. The lawyer handed a copy to Cato.
Mark McGowan exploded. ‘The fucker admitted to it twice. He walked out of the crowd and asked to be cuffed. Nobody forced him. Nobody tricked him. This is fucking bullshit.’ He slammed his hand down on the desk.
Guan Yu and Jessica Tan jumped. Amrita Desai looked slightly disapproving.
Cato added his own warning glance before turning back to face Desai. ‘Is your client prepared to answer any further questions?’
‘Of course, he is willing to assist in any way he can.’
Cato turned to Guan Yu. ‘Tell me what happened on the Thursday night when Hai Chen collected his money. Tell me how he died.’
‘I do not recall,’ came the translation.
25
Tuesday, October 14th. Mid evening.
‘Likes his bloody peace and quiet doesn’t he.’
Stuart Miller had been in Hopetoun for just under twenty-four hours. He hadn’t showered or shaved for nearly two days. His face was grizzled by grey stubble. His clothes were beginning to assume a life of their own. They had called in at Greg Fisher’s house so the younger man could change out of his uniform and marked car and into jeans, T-shirt and an unmarked, battered fifteen-year-old Hilux. Miller had noticed a beautifully maintained 1970s Land Rover glide by while Fisher was inside getting changed. A real classic, unlike this rust bucket.
The ute’s suspension was shot to hell but at least it was, if required, four-wheel drive. According to the lad, some sections of the gravel road out to Starvation Bay could develop axle-shearing potholes almost overnight from a good rain. Potholes or not, the journey was playing havoc with an arthritic trapped nerve in the small of Miller’s back. He hadn’t expected Billy Mather to be living forty kilometres away along an unsealed road. He was tired, smelly, hungry and in pain.
Greg Fisher swerved as a roo crashed through the bush and across their path.
‘Bit of a hermit our Billy. Free spirit. The outback is full of them.’
He was clearly enjoying himself. And why not, maybe he was about to be a key player in unlocking a thirty-odd year old murder mystery. Does a young lad’s career prospects no end of good. And if not? Well it was a nice night for a drive, clear and still – but bloody bumpy. Miller grimaced as the ute fishtailed round the turnoff to Starvation Bay.
A nearly full moon flickered across the surface of the Southern Ocean. There was a gentle breeze punctuated by the scratchings and twitterings of animal nightlife. The light was on in Billy Mather’s caravan. They pulled up and hopped out, Miller standing tall and arching his back to ease out the kinks, cramps, and aches. A washing line fluttered gently. A folding card table and a frayed, oldfashioned canvas deckchair sat under a makeshift tarpaulin awning strung between the caravan and an adjacent gum tree. The card table was marked with coffee cup rings, a pair of well-worn thongs beneath the deckchair. There was a smell of recent cooking: meat, eggs. Something else, Miller couldn’t place it.
He was uneasy but not sure why. Was it just that he was out of practice? He glanced around and then through the trees just a few metres away he noticed it: the classic old Land Rover he’d seen earlier in town was parked nearby. Coincidence – or had Mather been following them? Owt or nowt? His unease grew. There was no sign of any other life in the camping area. No campervans, no grey nomads. Billy Mather obviously had the place to himself. So why hadn’t he appeared at the approach of Greg Fisher’s rumbling and wheezing out-of-condition ute?
Greg called out. ‘Billy. You in? It’s Greg Fisher. The cop from Hopey, remember?’
Nothing. Maybe he was asleep. Miller tapped on the door. They waited. No reply. Fisher looked at Miller and shrugged. The curtains were drawn in the windows. Miller tried to look through a gap. He could see a stove and sink, some plates and cups, unwashed. No sign of Billy Mather. A mournful bird sound rose from the trees followed by a rustle and flutter. That smell teased his nostrils again, what was it?
‘Try the door?’ said Greg.
Miller turned the handle. As the door swung open there was a rasping, scraping sound and the smell got stronger. Miller realised too late what it was. Gas. The caravan exploded.
Miller lay on his back, paralysed. His clothes were on fire, his face raw. Flames crackled and spat in the darkness. His eyes felt gummed together, everything blurred. He couldn’t hear or see Greg Fisher. He became aware of a presence near him, the scraping of a foot, somebody crouching down, breath warm in his ear.
‘You know mate you seem very familiar. I never forget a face, me.’
A clicking noise, it was the snapping of fingers, the sound of remembering.
‘Detective Sergeant Miller? That it? Aye, thought so. Saw your picture in the Sunderland Echo kept it in me scrapbook for yonks afterwards.’
Miller tried to speak.
‘Sorry, didn’t catch that, bonny lad. Hey that’s a lovely car you’ve got by the way. Sticks out like a sore thumb around here though. You can spot a stranger a mile off.’
Miller could smell burning flesh and realised that it was him.
‘So how did you find me? Was it all down to Wonder Boy over there? Him and his trick questions about the lights on the boat ramp? They were none of my business, that’s why I said nowt. That’s what people never learn. Mind your own business and you canna gan wrang.’
Miller didn’t have a clue what he was talking about. He just wanted the pain to stop. There was the noise of an engine in the distance. Davey Arthurs started to move away. Miller clawed at his arm. He felt a pat on his shoulder.
‘No marra, you just rest yourself there. I’ll be back in a minute.’
26
Wednesday, October 15th. Dawn.
Cato wrinkled his nose. The air was acrid with the stench of smoke, melted rubber and plastic. Charred clothes hung from a bizarrely intact washing line in a grotesque mockery of the devastated scene. DI Mick Hutchens and his forensics man, Duncan Goldflam, were deep in conversation. A tie-less and shirt-sleeved Mark McGowan was taking notes from a bewildered grey nomad and his distressed wife. Lara Sumich looked lik
e she hadn’t slept; she’d driven the three or four hours from Albany and gone straight to the scene. For all that, she seemed to be buzzing. Now and then she would catch Cato’s glance and lock on for an unsettling second too long. Lara was interviewing the caravan’s owner, a shell-shocked, grizzled old hermit called Billy. Blue and white tape secured the area around the still-smouldering remains of the caravan. Cato Kwong didn’t really know what he was doing there. As far as he could tell he was surplus to requirements. Maybe they wanted him to help with a grid search or to make the coffee.
Across the millpond serenity of Starvation Bay, wispy orange and pink–tinged clouds fanned across the brightening sky, heralding sunrise over the carnage. A fire truck tended by Hopetoun volunteers was damping down. Recent heavy rains had helped ensure that the flames hadn’t spread. Such a conflagration didn’t bear thinking about. A fire investigator was on the way from Albany and more were on standby in Perth if required. Arc lights still illuminated the scene for the photographers and forensics team. The ambulances were long gone: one was headed for the airstrip to meet the Flying Doctor for emergency airlift to Perth, the other to Esperance Hospital, a two-hour drive east. Tess Maguire was accompanying the patient in the Esperance-bound ambulance. DI Hutchens had hardly paid her or Cato any attention. He clearly already had plenty on his plate.
Cato surveyed the scene from beyond the tape and tried to make sense of the little he knew. Greg Fisher and an older man, Jim Buckley’s brother-in-law and apparently a Pommie ex-cop according to Hutchens, had been found seriously injured on the ground in front of a burnt-out caravan owned by one William John Mather. That was him over there, being interviewed by Lara. Cato knew him as the one Fisher had interviewed about boat movements in connection with the Flipper case. The stalled Flipper case that would have to revert to the hard slog of painstaking investigation now that Guan Yu’s confession was withdrawn. History was repeating itself and Cato was not learning from it.
