by Alan Carter
At some point the Lake King cops arrived and eased the tyre lever out of his grip as a dark stain radiated out across the white salt lake.
EPILOGUE
Thursday, 22nd January, 2009. Late afternoon. Perth, Western Australia.
There was someone in his room. He could hear it. Soft rhythmic breathing and the occasional rustle of fabric. Stuart Miller’s skin, already raw and tight beneath the gauze and bandages, tingled with fear. It wasn’t a nurse or auxiliary, they usually announced themselves and clattered about regardless. He was the tetchy blind man in number 7 and he knew their strategy was to smother him with their good-natured life-goes-on noises. This morning they’d announced a new bunch of flowers had arrived. They read the card out to him: Get Well Soon. Tim Delaney & Colleagues. South Australia Police. The personal touch, very nice. The flowers smelt sweet and cloying.
It wasn’t a doctor either. They usually introduced themselves too and got straight down to business asking stupid questions about how he was feeling today and then moving on without really hearing the answer. Like shite again, thanks Doc.
It wasn’t Jenny, he knew her smell and her trembling fearful touch of his hand and sometimes he thought he could almost taste the tears he knew were running down her face. So who was it?
‘Who’s there?’
A soft clearing of the throat and a rustling of movement in the bedside chair accompanied by a sharp intake of breath.
‘Sorry. My name is Philip Kwong.’
So it was a doctor, probably a young med student or intern, come to gawp at the English Patient.
‘Come to check my blood pressure?’
‘Actually, Stuart, it’s Detective Senior Constable Philip Kwong. Some people call me Cato.’
The voice had firmed up, gained five years or so, maybe a bit of a chip on his shoulder. That was more like it. Cato?
‘Like in The Pink Panther?’
‘That’s right.’
‘I used to love that. He was always ambushing his boss, leaping out from behind the curtains when he least expected it.’
‘That sounds about right. By the way Greg Fisher says hello, we shared a ward in Esperance together for a few days.’
Miller nodded, his guess had been right; the visitor was nursing an injury. ‘Fisher’s a good lad. The only one who listened to me. How’s he doing?’
‘He’ll be fine. No permanent damage.’
Miller heard the last few words trailing off apologetically. He changed the subject and injected some brightness into his voice to reassure the visitor. ‘So, have you found Arthurs then?’
‘Yes.’
Stuart Miller’s pulse quickened, it had been a rhetorical question and he was expecting a no. ‘Tell me more.’
‘He’s dead. I killed him.’
‘Bastard.’
‘Yeah, I suppose he was.’
‘I meant you.’
‘What?’
‘Ever read Moby Dick?’
‘The first few chapters.’
‘Well I’m Captain Ahab and you’ve just gone and killed my fucking great white whale.’
So Cato Kwong told Stuart Miller his story, including the bit at the end about the bludgeoned near-dead body of a young woman found in the boot of Davey Arthur’s stolen Nissan. The baby on board was unscathed although a bit dehydrated. The mother would spend the next three months in intensive care and, perhaps mercifully, may remember nothing of her ordeal.
‘So it was that same bloke from the caravan, Mather,’ said Cato.
‘Yes.’
‘And he killed Jim.’
And Christine and Stephen Arthurs. And the four members of the Chapman family in Adelaide, jeez he couldn’t even recall their names. And Vicki and Shelly Munro. At least Brian Munro now had his wish; Arthurs was dead. Miller sighed and shifted his weight in the bed.
‘Can I get you anything? Water or something?’
Miller shook his head. ‘No, ta. So that bloke you had in the frame for Jim. What happens to him?’
‘The case is being quietly dismantled as we speak.’
‘That would please that little bull terrier boss of yours no end.’
A derisive snort. ‘He’ll survive, he always does.’
Miller paused. ‘I don’t suppose Arthurs ever told you why?’
‘Not really, he bragged about his gizmo. Called it his signature on a work of art. But we did pass on your family history notes to Northumbria Police and they found some stuff out.’
Cato told him all about Davey being committed to a hospital, the shock treatment the brain-damaged war hero father. It made as much sense as any in trying to pin down the MO.
Miller sat on the thought for a moment and smiled. ‘CK. I think I might have cracked it.’
‘Who was it?’
‘Not who, where. Cherry Knowles was a mental hospital just outside Sunderland. If the ECT was playing havoc with Davey’s memory maybe he wanted the tattoo to make sure he’d never forget.’ Miller sipped from his cup. ‘Looks like Delaney’s profiler was right.’
‘What?’
‘Mad as a cut snake, as you Aussies say.’
They said their goodbyes.
‘Thanks for dropping in, son.’
‘All part of the service.’
Stuart Miller heard Cato Kwong’s footsteps recede down the corridor. He was weary. Closing his eyes he drifted off and dreamed about the 1973 FA Cup Final: a sea of red and white, Ian Porterfield’s match-winning volley on the half-hour, Jimmy Montgomery’s miraculous point-blank double-save, Bob Stokoe racing across the pitch in his brown trilby and little Bobby Kerr lifting the cup for Sunderland. And for the first time in nearly thirty-five years he didn’t wake up in a cold sweat.
It was still light when Cato Kwong walked out of Royal Perth Hospital. He saw his reflection in the sliding door and realised he looked more like an escaped patient than an official visitor. The sky was blue, the sun was still high and the concrete shimmered. Listening to the same flattened vowels and singsong rhythm of Miller’s accent, it was easy now to see how Jim Buckley drew his conclusions about Billy Mather being Davey Arthurs. Cato shuddered at the sudden recollection of the spreading red stain on the salt lake and wondered how long it would take for his bad dreams to go away.
He rolled up his copy of the West, bought out of his own money and cryptic crossword completed on the train journey from Freo. The headline was about the shock closure of the Ravensthorpe nickel operation due to the global financial crisis: so much for the fifty-year mine. From boomtown to ghost town in the blink of an eye and the counting of a bean. It was far worse than the rumour mill could ever have imagined. A photograph on the front page showed graffiti on the town sign; somebody had sprayed ‘NO’ in front of ‘Hopetoun’. Apparently the first for the chopping block were the foreign guest workers, now surplus to requirements and set for the next flight home. Concern was expressed for those plucky battling locals who had set up shop to service the boomtown and how they would fare now the bottom had dropped out of their market. Cato suspected that the Keith Stevensons and Jimmy Dunstans of this world would always find a way to turn a buck somehow, somewhere.
Cato thought about hailing a taxi for the journey home to Fremantle. Driving was out of the question with a badly broken arm and his neck still in a brace. At least he was able to breathe again without it hurting too much. He opted for a stroll over to the Northbridge food halls for a laksa and then the train home again. Cato switched his mobile back on and it beeped with three waiting messages. The first an SMS photo: Tess and Melissa on Mount Barren with the long white stretch of Four Mile Beach, blue Southern Ocean, shimmering Culham Inlet and a hazy Hopetoun behind them in the far distance. Tess was laughing and Melissa was attempting sultry but couldn’t pull it off because of the mischief curling the edges of her mouth. Underneath were the words:
Wish u were here?
Cato sniffed the fumes from the rush-hour cars grinding past on Wellington Street and texted his rep
ly.
Yes
Next a characteristically terse greeting from DI Mick Hutchens.
Call me – worth your while
Cato sighed. He was enjoying his time off, even if it was enforced and painful. It would take another four to six weeks for the broken arm to mend and about the same time for internal affairs to conclude that his killing of Billy Mather was indeed self-defence. He needn’t make any rash decisions about quitting or returning to Stock Squad until then. But he was intrigued by the ‘worth your while’ bit and Hutchens no doubt knew he would be. He dialled the number, it rang once.
‘Cato mate, how’s the arm?’
‘Good thanks. You rang?’
‘Heard the whisper?’
‘I’ve given up rumour-mongering for Lent. But go on, humour me.’
‘Stock Squad is for the chop. You’re all dead meat.’
Puns like that and Jim Buckley in his grave less than three months.
Cato shook his head in disgust. ‘Go on.’
‘Budget cuts across the board plus an epidemic of kiddie-fiddlers up north and volume crime in the electorates. The likes of you chewing straw and talking about the weather in Mukinbudin is a luxury we can no longer afford, mate.’
‘Thanks. Is there a point to this?’
‘Tetchy, tetchy. Not so relaxed back in the big city are we? Look, got an offer for you, mate. The game is afoot, change is in the air, and I’m in charge of it. You’ll be needing a job.’
Hutchens outlined his plan. Help downplay Mather’s candidacy for the Buckley killing and keep quiet about his early reservations about Justin Woodward. In short, help cover Hutchens’ arse yet again. In return, Bob’s your uncle, a job in Hutchens’ new squad. As plans go it was desperate and stupid.
‘Could be the making of you, mate.’
Or the undoing, thought Cato. Step Forward. ‘No, I’m not going to help brush Billy Mather under the carpet. He was the one that killed Jim Buckley, not Woodward.’
‘But the little prick will sue the arse off us! I’ll be back up shit creek again. Fuck’s sake,’ whined Hutchens.
‘You’ll think of something.’
The silence at the other end of the phone was deafening. It was broken by a petulant sigh. ‘So, is that a yes or a no?’
‘What was the question again?’
‘Can I depend on you to keep your mouth shut at least until I take care of the Woodward fiasco?’
‘No.’ said Cato. It felt good.
‘Fuck’s sake, come and work for me anyway. It’s that or the scrap heap and no cunt else’ll have you.’
Cato scratched his chin with a spare finger. ‘When do I start?’
The final message was another text, this time from Jane, his very soon-to-be ex-wife.
Can we talk?
Good question. He didn’t know the answer to that one. He did know that he wanted Jake to be happier somehow so he texted back
Sure
then pocketed his mobile and started walking. He had plenty to ponder so he unravelled his iPod and scrolled down to some walking-and-pondering music: a Schubert impromptu. Cato’s arm throbbed in protest at the memory of the movements it took to play this particular piece. He wondered if he would ever play the piano again.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Prime Cut was shortlisted in the 2010 Crime Writers’ Association Debut Dagger Award as a manuscript titled Chinese Whispers.
I would like to thank the following. Jamie Steele – who makes the best coffee in Hopetoun and is a man of impeccable character. Georgia Richter and Wendy Jenkins for keeping me on the straight, narrow, grammatical, and correctly punctuated. In particular Georgia for those suggestions that helped me out of a few deep dark holes. Early readers Ron Elliott, Peter Pritchard, Tess McGinty (my mother-in-law) who said ‘it was very nice dear but maybe a few less F words’, and my brother Brian who put me straight on a few matters of Sunderland football history and local language and customs which I’d forgotten in my long years of exile. Many who remain nameless who shared their insights into small-town life, the universe and everything.
There are some divergences from the real Hopetoun in the text: the boomtown colour-code of orange and yellow fluoros is a figment of my imagination; there is no breakfast restaurant overlooking Murder HQ; and the prisoner lock-up arrangements are pure artistic licence.
All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
