Prime Cut

by Alan Carter

  ‘I’m thinking of chucking the job in,’ he said.

  ‘Really?’ She didn’t look like she believed him.

  ‘Really ... probably. Maybe.’

  Tess kissed him lightly on the mouth. ‘Well if you fancy being a beach bum, kept man, and occasional sex slave, drop me a line. If I haven’t found Mr Right by then I might still be open to offers.’

  ‘I might take you up on that.’

  A last little wave and that was it.

  Rain hadn’t stopped falling since Friday. Hopetoun was eerily quiet, not just because of the wet Sunday morning. It was as if the unsavoury events of the past few weeks had finally taken their toll on the town itself. The boom had revealed its festering ugly side: greed, exploitation, drugs, sleaze, and brutality. As always, prosperity comes at a price. Mostly this face never showed itself to the good citizens of Hopetoun. Just as well. Hopefully this rain would wash the past few weeks away. Maybe all Hopey needed was a nice cup of sweet tea, a cuddle and a good night’s sleep. Cato fancied a bit of the same himself.

  Keith Stevenson had made a couple of calls and Cato arranged for copies of the photofit to be scanned and emailed to Stevenson’s dodgy contacts out in the ether: nothing so far. The Ravensthorpe Motel security footage showed Billy Mather walking out within an hour of being dropped off after the fire. That was it. It looked like the Pommie Pimpernel had evaded capture yet again. Cato had tried to deliver more to DI Hutchens but more didn’t exist. Hutchens could sort out his own – what was that pet term of his? – ‘fucking dog’s breakfast’ in Albany. Cato was out of here. He slung his holdall and briefcase into the back of the Stock Squad Land Cruiser and climbed in. His mobile went. It was Desk Sergeant Bernie Tilbrook.

  ‘Message for you from Mr Stevenson.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’m fine thanks. How’s your day?’

  Cato sighed impatiently. Tilbrook, point made, proceeded.

  ‘BIG 4 Caravan Park, Esperance, under the name of Stuart Miller: Cabin 21.’

  Cato thanked him and gunned the engine.

  The young woman had just finished strapping her sleeping baby girl into the booster seat, put the shopping bags into the boot and climbed up into the driver’s side of the Nissan Patrol. It wouldn’t start. She gave a tight low scream of frustration. Her husband had said he would sort this out last week. He hadn’t, and now he was away at that bloody mine for another four days. It had rained all weekend and the streets were empty. Out on the bay, the isles of the Recherche Archipelago were either shrouded in low cloud or had disappeared completely. The water was flat and oily black. A few determined anglers fished disconsolately from the jetty. The baby was starting to stir and grumble. Cold rivulets of rain ran down the back of her neck. It was at least a three-kilometre walk into town but they were out of key supplies, like nappies. So be it. The pram had a hood, the baby would be fine.

  She was caught up in her own thoughts and hadn’t noticed the car pull up just ahead of her, a green jeep. The passenger side window was opened from the inside. An old man with a kind face said something she didn’t catch.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘I said are you havin’ a spot of bother with your car, love?’

  The old man’s eyes twinkled, he had a singsong kind of voice. He reminded her of her grandfather back in England. In no time at all he had the Nissan’s bonnet up and his toolbox out and was jabbering away.

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘I said you’ll catch your death of cold out here in this rain. Hop in the Land Rover and you and the bairn can keep dry, I’ll have this fixed soon.’

  The baby was now fully awake and beginning to whimper. She hauled her out and folded down the pram, passing it into the back seat of the old jeep.

  Cato parked down the street from BIG 4 and walked the last hundred metres. He didn’t announce his presence at reception, instead making directly for Cabin 21. Heaven knew how Stevenson’s network had found Mather, if indeed they had, but it was a society that lived by different rules and they noticed different things about comings and goings. Maybe that old Land Rover gave him away. The cabin looked unoccupied. The vehicle space was vacant but had a few fresh oil stains. Cato wasn’t game to go too close just yet. For all he knew, this place was also booby-trapped. He sneaked up to the back of the cabin and looked through the windows. The curtains were wide open. Nobody home. He went around the front, sniffing. No apparent gas odour. He unclipped his gun. A grey nomad en route to the toilet block saw the gun and halted mid-shuffle, wideeyed with fright. Cato waved his police ID, mouthing to her to keep quiet. She flapped her hands at him, clutched her cardigan closer into her chest, and disappeared into the toilets.

  Cato edged towards the cabin door, glancing in again through a window as he passed: still no sign of life, still no smell of gas. He cut to the chase and reached for the door handle. It was unlocked. He braced himself and yanked it open, wincing involuntarily. There was no explosion and no Billy Mather. Cato holstered his gun and looked around. The bedroom was a curtained-off section of the main cabin, taking up about half of the floor space. The rest was a compact kitchen and dining–living room combined. It was neat as a pin. The fridge was empty except for half a carton of reasonably fresh Hi-Lo milk. The dishes were washed and stacked. The floor swept. The holiday cabin looked the way it might at checkout time.

  Cato turned to leave, glancing in the rubbish bin on the way out. It contained the usual: fruit peelings, tea bags, eggshells. Something glittered. Cato looked closer. It was the gold under-stripes of a mobile phone SIM card. He fished it out of the bin, wiped it down, and put it into his own phone. The display, address book, recent call lists, and text messages sent and received all confirmed what he’d already guessed. It was from Stuart Miller’s phone. Cato read the text sent to Jenny Miller.

  Sorry about ur husband. Feel like have known him years.

  Lovely man. DA

  Cato didn’t need any more convincing that Billy Mather and David Arthurs were the same man. Taunting. Cruel. Cocky. Even the cabin booking was in the name of his old nemesis, Stuart Miller. He seemed to think he was untouchable. After thirty-five years it wasn’t surprising.

  ‘I think Mr Miller has checked out. Can I help you?’

  It was the park manager, alerted by the grey nomad that a Chinaman with a gun was at large. He seemed strangely calm. Maybe this was an everyday occurrence at BIG 4 Esperance.

  ‘Did you notice what vehicle he was driving?’

  The park manager nodded. ‘A green Land Rover, 1978, a real classic.’

  He had the rego too. How hard would it be to spot something like that in a town the size of Esperance?

  ‘Found it.’

  The call came from Esperance cop shop, Cato had enlisted their help to find the Land Rover. The vehicle in question was in a street about three kilometres from the centre of town. Cato took directions and arranged to meet them there.

  The street was deserted; the steady drizzle helped keep it that way. There was nobody at the Land Rover except for two Esperance uniforms. The jeep had been abandoned. Cato, still fearing boobytraps, urged caution in their approach. Having never worked in Belfast, Beirut or Baghdad none of them really knew what to look out for as telltale signs of a booby-trapped car. There didn’t appear to be any loose wires, packages taped to the underside, funny smells, or ticking noises. Cato opened the passenger door and found something that chilled him a whole lot more. The passenger seat was splattered with a few drops of blood and on the rear seat, more blood and a baby’s pram.

  38

  Sunday, October 19th. Late afternoon.

  The weather improved the further inland Cato drove. By the time he reached Lake King, three hours northwest from Esperance, the sun was dropping behind a copse of salmon gums. Pink and grey galahs hopped at the side of the road pecking the ground absentmindedly. He still had a good four or five hours left of his drive back to Perth. In Esperance the Land Rover had been taped off and Duncan Goldflam and a mi
nion were on their way over to check it out. Billy Mather was long gone. Nobody had seen what vehicle he might have used for his getaway. DI Hutchens probably had the wrong man locked up and Jim Buckley’s killer was, it seemed, a diminutive ageing Pom with an uncanny ability to disappear into thin air. And a vicious old bastard at that. Cato was finished. He needed to get back to Stock Squad, if only to type up the resignation letter he’d been composing in his mind during the drive from Esperance. He needed to get back to Perth, to his family – even if it was only shared custody every other weekend. He hadn’t worked out yet whether what he was doing was Stepping Forward or yet more Walking Away.

  If you blinked you’d miss Lake King. Hopetoun was a thriving metropolis by comparison. There was a tree-lined main street that consisted of a general store, the sports oval and the cemetery. Then it was on to the next milestone on your journey to somewhere else. He and Jim Buckley had passed through it on the way down, what was it – ten days ago? There were only really two or three routes between Perth and Hopetoun or Esperance and two of them went via Lake King. The ‘lake’ had dried up probably a hundred years or more ago leaving behind a blinding white saltpan. It was one of a chain of dry lakes snaking for hundreds of kilometres through the southern wheatbelt. It made Cato thirsty; good time for a fuel stop. He pulled in at the general store beside a four-wheel drive Nissan Patrol with tinted windows.

  It was Sunday quiet. Cato filled up and gave the windscreen a wipe with a squeegee. He triggered a loud electronic beeper as he crossed the threshold into the store. He nearly jumped out of his skin.

  ‘Gets me like that as well and I’ve been here twenty years.’

  The storeowner was perched precariously on a stool beside the checkout.

  ‘I’m Troy.’ He gave a little wave.

  Cato hadn’t seen anyone that big fit on such a small stool before, except maybe David Tahere the man-mountain Maori. This was no man-mountain. This was more like a bouncy castle with a damped down central parting and creepy kiss-curls along the fringe.

  Cato smiled like everything was completely normal. ‘G’day, Troy. Cold drinks?’

  ‘Back there in the fridge. Best place for them ey?’

  Cato found a large bottle of water and supplemented it with a can of something cold, fizzy and sugary, and a Mars Bar, and handed his credit card over. ‘See you mate. Drive safely,’ wheezed Troy.

  ‘Cheers,’ said Cato, waving the Mars Bar at him.

  The Nissan Patrol was still there. Maybe it belonged to Troy: there was certainly no one else in the store. Cato opened the driver’s door on the Land Cruiser and chucked his purchases on to the passenger seat. He held on to the lemon fizz and cracked the can open. A baby whimpered somewhere near. Was it in the Nissan? Hard to see with tinted windows. Another whimper, but not a baby this time. Someone older. Cato’s skin prickled. The abandoned Land Rover in Esperance – a pram, some blood. He cupped his eyes close up to the side window of the Nissan. The engine roared into life and the four-wheel drive reversed at high speed. The passenger wing mirror caught Cato a solid blow in his side before snapping off. The Nissan was on its way leaving Cato doubled up with what felt like a fractured rib.

  The road northwest out of town bisected the large saltpan aka Lake King. The Nissan Patrol was about two hundred metres ahead of Cato and even though he had his foot to the floor he didn’t seem to be gaining. He’d flicked on the flashing blues and reds but the Nissan wasn’t interested. Every time Cato breathed, a sharp pain stabbed through his chest. Who or what was behind the whimpering? Had he imagined it? He didn’t know who was in the car ahead. Was it Mather? That whimpering. Had he done it again?

  Heading their way about three hundred metres further on, Cato saw the orange flashing lights on a ute and behind it a roadtrain carrying what looked like a Tonka tip truck for the mine. Oversize Load was the warning sign flashing on the pilot ute. The Nissan would have to slow.

  Surely.

  It did. But Cato didn’t. He was gaining. The Nissan was now less than a hundred metres ahead and the extra wide load was still bearing down on them. With less than a truck length to go, the Nissan slowed and veered off the bitumen as the roadtrain thundered by. Now less than fifty metres behind, Cato was still flooring it as the truck-carrier loomed with horns and lights blazing. He waited until the last possible moment before swinging on to the gravel to allow it to pass.

  He could feel his back wheels sliding, the rear of the vehicle fishtailing. Instinctively he did the wrong thing and braked, spinning the Land Cruiser to face the way it had come. For a moment it seemed to float a couple of inches off the ground. There was a sickening thump at the back end and an acute awareness that he was going into a roll and he couldn’t do anything about it. Cato gripped the wheel tight and braced himself as the horizon flipped. He closed his eyes and waited to die.

  ‘Wake up, wake up, sleepyhead.’

  Cato opened his eyes. It was a beautiful sunset. One of those purpley-orangey glowing ones with wispy clouds fanning out across the sky and the bush burned into silhouette. A soft breeze whispered across the salt lake and a waning but still huge yellow moon hovered low on the opposite horizon.

  ‘Now then, son, what’s all this about?’ Billy Mather crouched above him, concerned and inquisitive.

  Cato tried to sit up and felt the stabbing pain in the side of his chest from the broken wing mirror adding to a splitting headache. He was aware of something sticky on the side of his face. Blood? ‘What happened?’ he croaked.

  ‘You rolled. Me and the roadtrain driver got you out. He’s gone to get help along with the lad from the pilot ute. There’s a police and ambulance post in Lake King. They’ll be back in another twenty minutes or so, I expect.’

  A few metres away the Land Cruiser rested on its roof, windows shattered, one wheel slowly spinning and catching the last rays of sunset. The axle must have sheared. The bull-mobile was a writeoff. Silver linings. Cato wondered if Mather remembered him from their brief encounter at the smouldering caravan.

  ‘You haven’t got me thermos have you, son?’

  Question answered.

  ‘No. Sorry.’

  ‘Nee bother. So, how did you find me?’

  Cato couldn’t bring himself to say blind luck so he kept quiet.

  Mather sighed and shook his head like a disappointed parent. ‘You and your mate, Beefy, don’t know when to stop sticking your nebs in do you? He thought he had me twigged, thought he’d play it cool. I can read you lot like a book. Fucken amateurs.’

  Beefy? Buckley, he assumed. Nebs? Cato’s head was spinning.

  ‘How did he know it was you?’

  Mather snorted. ‘Soon as I opened me mouth when he bought a round in the pub, his piggy little eyes lit up. Then I heard him on the phone out on the jetty saying, “Course it’s him, how many other bastards talk like you?” It was only later I realised he was talking to my old marra Stuey Miller.’

  ‘But why kill him? You could have just disappeared, you’ve done it before.’

  Mather shook his head dismissively. ‘Nah, things were closing in. I needed a diversion. Your body on the beach provided that. Plus there was a rumour around town about drugs. All helped to add to the confusion.’

  Cato’s guts curdled. His Chinese Whispers campaign had provided a smoke screen for a killer to hide behind. He may as well have handed Mather the rock, pointed him at Jim Buckley and said go for your life.

  Then with a jolt Cato remembered the scene at Lake King general store. The whimpering in the Nissan: who was it? Where were they?

  Mather was still in full flow. ‘Ah well, enough small talk. I’ve got to be getting on now.’ He dragged a holdall closer to him and started rummaging. Muffled metallic sounds.

  Cato tried not to think the worst. ‘Who have you got in the car?’

  Mather smiled and patted his arm. ‘No need to worry about them, bonny lad.’

  Cato started to rise but Mather pressed him back down with unexpected streng
th for a man over twenty years his senior.

  ‘Stay down, son.’

  Cato felt weak as a kitten. Was he really going to let himself be at the mercy of an old-aged pensioner? He tried wasting more time, more time for help to arrive. ‘Why do you do it?’

  Mather raised an eyebrow, ‘Do what, son?’

  ‘You know what I mean: the women and kids – bashing and electrocuting. Bit over the top doing both?’

  Mather smiled playfully. Was there a trace of pride in there too? ‘I was just seeing if it worked the first time, me little invention, just curious really. After that it just became a kind of signature. Like on a work of art. Know what I mean like?’

  His answer was actually more of a ‘how’ than a ‘why’ but the worrying thing was that Cato did know what he meant. Sometimes horror has an internal logic all of its own, like those seemingly nonsensical cryptic clues.

  ‘Bonny lass, lovely bairn.’

  ‘What?’ Cato looked up.

  Mather was flicking through a wallet. It was Cato’s. He showed Cato the photo of Jane and Jake on Rottnest.

  ‘What’s their names?’ the old man asked with childlike curiosity.

  Cato’s blood ran cold, he closed his eyes and concentrated, trying to think of a plan. When he opened them again he realised it was all a bit too late for that.

  Mather’s hand was raised high, he was holding a tyre lever. Cato could see the initials CK tattooed on Mather’s forearm but realised he was never going to get the chance to ask him about it. He managed to turn, raise his arm and take the force of the blow on his right elbow. He felt it shatter and almost vomited with the pain. With his good arm he grabbed a handful of salty gravel and flung it feebly into Mather’s face, rolling and scrambling desperately to get out of harm’s way. Mather brought the lever down on the back of Cato’s neck and shoulder. Everything went white and the shock sent his whole system into shutdown. He had to hold on. Cato knew he was just another blow or two from death, he’d read the files on what Mather was capable of and he’d seen the results of his handiwork on Jim Buckley. Three strikes and you’re out, right out. He crouched on the balls of his feet and launched himself forward, driving the top of his head into Mather’s face. He heard the crunch of breaking bone, Mather gasped and the tyre lever dropped. Cato grabbed it with his good hand and set about finishing the job.