Bad Seed

by Alan Carter

  ‘Shanghai?’

  ‘It’s in China. Thought you’d know that.’

  ‘That expensive education of yours wasn’t wasted. What about him?’

  ‘He’s a really bad guy and we need to stop him getting on that flight before we’ve had a word.’

  ‘Do we have just cause?’

  ‘Murder good enough for you?’

  Cato read up on Francis Tan’s business dealings on the way out to the airport. He was in the back of a Commodore squeezed between Lara Sumich and a muscled blond called James who didn’t like talking. The driver could have been James’s twin: they had a lot in common – blond, dumb. In the front passenger seat was Lara’s boss, Detective Inspector Sandra Pavlou. She had cropped dark hair and the physique of a runner. Cato recalled her from the Academy, a year ahead of him. They’d recognised each other as that year’s over-achievers. Somehow Cato had since got waylaid on the road to success.

  Tan Enterprises had signed up to a joint venture with Golden Endeavour Holdings which had offices in Shanghai, Macau and Perth and was registered in Nauru. Francis Tan was the front for a number of major land acquisitions in the state’s South-West and Great Southern, along with strategic investments in smaller iron ore mining ventures in the Mid- and North-West and some luxury developments along Perth’s urban sprawl. So far, so good – Properties R Us. The main mover behind Golden Endeavour was Li Tonggui, or Thomas Li as he was also known. The ACC thumbnail was big on innuendo, small on detail.

  ‘Are you guys serious?’ said Cato.

  DI Pavlou twisted her head to acknowledge his presence. ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Li comes over as a cross between Alan Bond and Fu Manchu.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘But he has no criminal history, no convictions, no dodgy paper trail, and the company he keeps seems to be respectable enough, as business empires go.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So what’s our reason for stopping him going about his apparently lawful business?’

  ‘He’s on a watch list.’

  ‘Whose list? Why?’

  ‘Have you been taking anything in from the intelligence brief? ACC says he’s bad.’

  ‘Is there something I’m missing, something I’m not being told?’

  ‘Yes,’ said DI Pavlou.

  The driver dropped them outside the international terminal and they marched in while he parked up.

  They caught up with Li in the Kris Lounge waiting to board a flight to Singapore. They’d had a bit of trouble getting past the woman at the door given that they didn’t have boarding passes or Kris Lounge memberships. Li was medium height, tubby and affable, and seemed bemused by DI Pavlou and her entourage. He gave Cato a funny look too. He conferred in Mandarin with his PA, a striking Chinese woman of indeterminate age, and agreed to assist DI Pavlou with her enquiries and catch the next flight. The PA went off to make alternative arrangements and they all adjourned to a private room in the Kris Lounge.

  As they were settling into their chairs, DI Pavlou took a call on her mobile.

  ‘Your PA was quick off the mark, Mr Li,’ she said after she hung up.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Your lawyer will be here in thirty minutes. Wonders if we’d mind waiting.’

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘Not at all.’ A door opened and a tray of coffee, sandwiches and nibblies was brought in. ‘If your PA ever decides to leave maybe you could send her my way,’ said DI Pavlou, munching on a smoked salmon canape.

  ‘I doubt you could afford her.’ He reached for the coffee pot. ‘Shall I be mother?’

  The lawyer actually took forty minutes. Maybe he needed the extra ten to check himself in the mirror. He arrived looking immaculate and smelling a little of man make-up. His name was Damien and Lara seemed to already know him.

  ‘This had better be good,’ he said briskly, checking his watch. ‘Mr Li’s flight is boarding now. He should have been on it.’

  The time had passed amiably enough. Li had been engaging and entertaining in his small talk, commenting on everything from the weather, to the upcoming Federal election, the prospects for the Dockers in the footy finals, and fishing. He enjoyed fishing out deep and pulling in the big ones. DI Pavlou had nodded, she liked doing that too.

  ‘Glad you could join us, Damien.’ DI Pavlou turned back to the client. ‘We really do appreciate you sparing us a few moments, Mr Li.’

  ‘My pleasure.’

  Cato wasn’t sure what he was doing here. The show was DI Pavlou’s. Lara Sumich had adopted the role of protégé. James Blond and his driver twin had retired to the other side of the door to chew on sausage rolls and watch some sport. Cato really wasn’t needed and he certainly, at this stage anyway, had no issue with the product.

  ‘We’re investigating the murders of the Tan family. Of course you’ll know Francis Tan, your business partner.’ Pavlou took a sip of coffee.

  ‘Terrible business. Yes, terrible.’

  ‘How well did you know Mr Tan, beyond your business dealings?’

  ‘Not very well. I have joint venture partners all over the world.

  Francis was one of many. We had dinner or lunch together sometimes. We did business trips together down south and up to Geraldton. He was a very professional but also a very private man.’ Li’s English was confident and fluent. He also spoke Cantonese, Mandarin, German, Spanish, Portuguese and French. The ACC thumbnail mentioned an education at London School of Economics and six years in a private equity bank in Hong Kong before returning to his home base in Shanghai.

  ‘How did you come to be business partners?’

  Damien leaned in. ‘Is this relevant to your inquiry, Inspector?’

  ‘Of course. We’re trying to build a picture of Mr Tan so we can work out who killed him and his family and why.’

  ‘I’d be looking at Mad Matt, the son,’ said Damien.

  ‘You seem very familiar with the case and the family?’

  ‘Perth’s a small town. Am I a suspect now too?’ Damien earned himself a sharp look from Li and pulled his head in.

  Pavlou enjoyed the moment. ‘Not yet, but we’re following several lines of inquiry.’ Back to Li. ‘So how did you become acquainted with Mr Tan?’

  Li thought about it. ‘A mutual friend, I believe. An associate in Shanghai.’

  ‘Name?’ said Pavlou.

  Li gave it, along with contact details.

  ‘And what made Tan a good fit for your business, Mr Li?’

  ‘He was well connected, honest, reliable. And he had a history of delivering good results.’

  ‘Until recently,’ said Pavlou.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘He failed on the land acquisition deal in the Great Southern. He’s been haemorrhaging his own capital for the last couple of years. He’s gone off the boil, hasn’t he?’

  Clearly Major Crime had already been doing some digging over the last forty-eight hours while Cato plodded along with small picture stuff and DI Hutchens dealt with baggage from his past. Pavlou’s crew should have been in from day one, Cato conceded. And maybe this was why he was along, to watch and learn.

  ‘Mr Tan was having some liquidity issues, yes,’ said Li. ‘And he had some bad luck with the FIRB.’

  ‘The what?’ said Cato.

  ‘Foreign Investment Review Board,’ drawled Damien helpfully.

  Pavlou cast Cato a glare and he got back in his box.

  ‘Cost you a packet too, didn’t it?’ said Pavlou.

  ‘That’s a matter of commercial confidence.’ Li smiled and checked his watch.

  ‘Mr Li’s next flight is due to board soon,’ said Damien. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Plenty, but we won’t delay you any further. When are you due to visit us again, Mr Li?’

  ‘I’m usually over this way every fortnight or so. Contact my PA, Celia, in the Perth office if you’d like to make a further appointment.’ He shook hands. ‘But promise you won’t try to poach her.’

  Pavlou g
rinned. ‘Wouldn’t dream of it.’

  ‘So what were they trying to prove?’

  Hutchens’ voice was slurred. A red wine too many? Cato didn’t blame him under the circumstances. He’d just updated his boss about the evening run with Major Crime. On the way back from the airport DI Sandra Pavlou had professed concern for the level of pressure Hutchens must be under.

  ‘If nothing else, that it’s bigger than we can handle alone, boss,’ said Cato. ‘Just looking into Tommy Li would be an industry in itself.’

  ‘They’ve got nothing on him. They interviewed him, wasted everybody’s time, and let him bugger off to China anyway. What’s their grand plan if he decides not to come back now he’s been tipped off that the authorities are looking at him? Smart as.’

  ‘Maybe, but they’re in as from tomorrow, apparently.’

  ‘Sounds like they’ve been in all along; and they’ve got such an exemplary record with all the big cases haven’t they? Not.’ A rustle and scrape on the phone and the clink of bottle against glass. ‘Who’s running the overnight?’

  ‘Deb Hassan.’

  ‘Good. She’s worth ten of the Armani Brigade any time. Keep me posted.’

  It was close to midnight by the time Cato made it to bed. The good thing about the wintry weather was that next door tended to keep their Jack Russell, Madge, indoors. He knew he owed the dog his life after its incessant yapping once warned him of an intruder but it wasn’t easy holding the truce. Except in winter. His phone went.

  ‘Are you on Facebook?’ Deb Hassan.

  ‘Yeah, I’d been counting all my friends and I was just falling asleep.’

  ‘Sorry. Check out Emily Tan’s tribute page.’ She gave him the directions to it. His laptop was snoozing on the kitchen table. He would have liked to be doing the same.

  ‘Found it.’ He could see immediately what she was on about. ‘Trolls.’

  ‘The techs are on to it so no need for us to wade through the sewer, not tonight anyway. Still, I thought you might want to know and I can put somebody on to follow it up in the morning.’

  ‘DC Thornton’s your man. It’s right up his street.’

  She chuckled. ‘Sleep tight.’

  But Cato knew he wouldn’t. Sewers were right up his street too.

  6

  Wednesday, August 7th.

  The Incident Room at Freo cop shop was standing room only. Hutchens’ crew were there plus Major Crime, Forensics, some specialist IT techies, a couple of accountants from Fraud, and a bookish-looking man who didn’t introduce himself but stuck close to DI Pavlou. Cato guessed he was Australian Crime Commission. Even Headline Hannah was there, oblivious to her surroundings and talking into her phone headset – an air traffic controller without a tower. DI Hutchens still ostensibly ran the show but he had a faraway look and DI Pavlou was itching to get on with things.

  ‘We’re blessed,’ said Hutchens, with a desultory sweep of an arm. ‘Resources and expertise coming out of our ears. And we have a number of lines of inquiry.’ He prodded the photo of Matthew on the whiteboard. ‘Matthew: spoilt son with a bad temper.’ A glance towards DI Pavlou and a finger to another name on the board. ‘Thomas Li: shady business partner. He took a big hit when Tan senior blew a deal. Not happy apparently.’ And a new one from overnight. ‘Zac Harvey: boyfriend of the daughter, Emily, and probable cause of her pregnancy. He trolls for Australia.’ Hutchens turned from the whiteboard to face his fans. ‘Thank goodness for Facebook, best crime-detection tool since fingerprint powder. Dickheads used to boast about their deeds to a few mates in the pub, now they put it on the internet with a photo and a signature. Sweet.’

  DC Thornton put up a tentative hand. He’d briefed Cato earlier and been given the go-ahead to raise the matter. ‘Something else has emerged, boss.’

  ‘Yeah?’ said Hutchens.

  ‘A bloke round the corner from the Tans’ house woke up that morning after the murder and found his jet ski had been vandalised.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Somebody had spray-painted “WANKER” on it in orange fluoro.’

  ‘What’s his point?’ A low titter around the room.

  ‘Well I checked with the Neighbourhood Watch team and there’s been a handful of incidents in the same area over the last month.’

  Thornton listed them. An advertising billboard had been smeared with faeces, possibly human. An architect’s sign had been defaced with the words “HOW HARD IS IT TO DRAW A BOX?” and a wall beside one of the main entry roads to the development had been graffitied with “ABANDON HOPE ALL YE WHO ENTER HERE”. Clearly somebody had a grudge against the place; maybe it was DI Hutchens?

  ‘So what’s the theory?’ said Hutchens. ‘Is our man escalating from petty vandalism to wholesale slaughter?’ Another titter.

  ‘No,’ said Thornton. ‘But he, or she, might have been loitering with a can of spray paint around the time of the murders but feels unable to come forward in case we bust them.’

  ‘Good point,’ conceded Hutchens. ‘Check the CCTV for any anarchists. Failing that maybe an early morning raid on Murdoch Uni? Ten a.m. should be fine.’

  More mirth. Even Duncan Goldflam was grinning. ‘We could get some DNA from the faeces. We might get a hit on the shit.’

  Hutchens restored order before things got too out of hand but gave Chris Thornton a passing thumbs up. Hutchens, Pavlou, and the ACC Mystery Man had been locked up in the DI’s office since dawn. Cato, as 2IC Investigating Officer, hadn’t been invited. He suspected a carve-up of Yalta proportions. Hutchens introduced DI Pavlou to the throng even though everybody knew who she was.

  ‘As some of you may already know, I have a pressing previous commitment with the judicial process so it’s in the best interests of this case that it’s handled by a focused and experienced leader with plenty of time on her hands.’ Hutchens thumbed in Pavlou’s direction. ‘Here she is.’

  ‘Thanks, Mick,’ said DI Pavlou, checking her watch. ‘You should be able to make the eight forty-seven. Don’t let those bastards grind you down, mate.’ Hutchens left in a new huff. An exchange of winks between Pavlou and Headline Hannah. The A-Team was now in charge.

  Pavlou then announced the results of the carve-up. Major Crime and ACC would follow the Thomas Li thread exclusively. Got that? The domestics, Matthew the Bad Son and Zac the Troll, would be pursued by Fremantle with a Major Crime finger in each pie. The fingers were DSC Lara Sumich and DC James ‘Blond’ Maloney. Forensics and the techies would continue to do their specialist boffin thing. DC Chris Thornton would collate everything into the system with the assistance of some civilians: a dream job for a budding warehouse manager. DI Pavlou was in charge and no initiatives were to be taken without her blessing. Her eyes rested on Cato as she said that. So did Lara Sumich’s. They’d been talking.

  The meeting broke up and Pavlou summoned Cato, Lara, and James Blond into her office. She’d set up camp at Hutchens’ desk, the photo of Mrs Hutchens now blocked by a bigger one of Pavlou’s husband and kids.

  ‘All of that sit well with you, Philip?’

  ‘Sure,’ said Cato.

  ‘Everybody seems to still call you Cato around here.’

  ‘Yeah, it stuck.’ She would know. She was at the Academy when it kicked off. He seemed to recall her nickname then was The Velvet Hammer. It too had stuck.

  ‘Do you mind?’

  ‘No,’ he said.

  ‘I’ll go with Philip, or your rank, as the situation demands. You can call me Boss.’

  ‘Right. Thanks. Boss.’

  ‘Here be Dragons.’

  ‘What?’ said Deb Hassan.

  ‘It’s what they used to say on the maps when they didn’t know what was over the horizon,’ said Cato.

  ‘Who? When?’

  ‘Explorers. A long time ago.’ They were driving around a new-build suburb at the southern end of the freeway. According to the street directory it didn’t exist yet. The satnav had never heard of it either.

  ‘
Good place for a troll to hide,’ said Hassan. ‘Maybe there’s a whole community of them out here. Waiting. Watching.’ She crossed her eyes and stuck out her tongue. ‘Trolling.’ She pulled over to the kerb and Cato rolled his window down to speak to a passing mum with stroller. The wind whipped up dust and sand, black clouds loomed.

  ‘Endeavour Boulevard?’ he said hopefully.

  ‘Second left,’ said the woman without stopping.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Cato.

  ‘Where do you reckon she was going?’

  ‘Mmm?’

  Hassan nodded her head back at the mum. ‘No bus stops. No shops. Nothing.’

  ‘Friend? Fresh air?’

  ‘She might have been a troll. Off to a meeting.’

  ‘Next left,’ said Cato.

  Zac Harvey’s house was one of just four completed in the street. An off-the-peg Tuscan villa with a boat on a trailer in the driveway, blocked in by a powder-blue turbo ute. The doorbell went ding-dong. A dog barked. A woman answered the door.

  ‘Yes?’ She was somewhere in her forties and dressed for the gym.

  ‘Mrs Harvey?’ said Cato.

  ‘Yes?’ Her face didn’t move. Maybe it couldn’t.

  Cato showed his ID and introduced his colleague. ‘Is Isaac home?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘We’d like to talk to him.’

  ‘What’s he done?’

  ‘Is he home or not?’ said Deb Hassan. ‘We need to talk to him, either here or at the police station. We’re investigating the murder of his girlfriend.’

  ‘Ex-girlfriend,’ said Mrs Harvey, turning her head. ‘Isaac, sweetie. Visitors.’ She walked back down the hall. ‘You’d better come in then,’ she said over her lycra’d shoulder.

  They sat in the lounge room: lots of glass, straight edges, gadgets, and a view of a bleak, recently turfed backyard. The dog, a tan staffy, was shivering against the wind and scratching to be let back in, leaving muddy paw prints on the glass.

  ‘Bernice! Stop!’ snarled Mrs Harvey. The dog stopped and looked sad.

  Zac Harvey made his appearance. The boy from the framed photograph on Emily Tan’s wall. He was a good-looking kid. He yawned a lot and kept tossing his head to keep the blond frullet out of his eyes.