Bad Seed

by Alan Carter

  ‘No school today?’ said Cato.

  ‘Don’t go to school. Go to TAFE.’

  ‘Right. No TAFE today?’

  ‘I’m sick.’

  ‘Sorry to hear that. You’ll have heard the news about Emily Tan then?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You don’t seem very upset that your girlfriend died a violent death.’

  ‘Ex-girlfriend,’ said Mum.

  ‘Is that right, Zac?’ said Cato.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Since when?’

  ‘Last week.’

  ‘When last week?’ said Deb Hassan.

  ‘Thursday, Friday.’ A shrug.

  ‘Why’d you finish?’

  Another shrug and a yawn. ‘Got boring.’

  ‘Who finished it?’

  ‘Me.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ said Cato. ‘Still it must be a bit of a shock even if you weren’t an item anymore.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘An item.’ Cato glanced at Mum who was playing with her smartphone. ‘I’ll try a direct question. Are you sad or shocked by Emily’s murder?’

  Zac flinched at the word. ‘S’pose. Yeah. Sucks.’

  Try to contain your grief, thought Cato. ‘What are your feelings for Emily?’

  ‘Nuthin. She’s dead now isn’t she?’

  ‘Do you hate her, Zac?’ asked Deb Hassan.

  Another shrug. ‘Nah.’

  Hassan unfolded a piece of paper and showed it to him: a printout from last night’s Facebook tribute page. ‘So why did you say, among other things, “U got yours fucking slut”?’

  A smirk. Charming.

  ‘She was pregnant. Was the baby yours, Zac?’ asked Cato.

  That wiped the smirk off his face. Even Mrs Harvey bothered to look up from her phone.

  7

  Cato found Lara Sumich sitting at his desk and Deb Hassan found James Blond sitting at hers. They all adjourned to a meeting room down the corridor.

  ‘How’d it go with the boyfriend?’ said Lara.

  ‘We’ve invited him and his mum in for another chat first thing tomorrow. They’ll probably be lawyered up.’ Cato sipped from a water bottle.

  ‘Reckon he did it?’

  ‘He’s a self-absorbed little prick like most teenagers but, first impressions, he seems a bit puny and low energy. Mass murder requires a bit too much effort for this kid. He gets his aggro out on the internet, doesn’t even have to leave his bedroom.’

  ‘Amen to that,’ said Deb Hassan, who had a fourteen year old.

  ‘Meantime, what’ve you been doing?’ said Cato. ‘Any progress?’

  ‘Been trawling Matthew’s phone and financial records and internet use.’

  Cato had already done that. Yesterday. ‘Anything new?’

  ‘Well, in addition to calling her nasty names by text last Friday …’

  ‘Which he reckons was just a little tantrum, nothing to worry about. He wanted an advance on his allowance.’

  ‘Not surprised. He’s living way beyond his means and has debts left, right and centre.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Yep. One name in particular stands out. Not known for his patience and understanding.’

  ‘Go on then, dazzle me.’

  She did, and Cato was duly dazzled.

  The Inquiry was winding up for another day. Another day of pale, angry, shattered young men who’d suffered as boys at the hands of the missing warden Peter Sinclair. The man was a beast, no doubt about it. Another day of accusations of cover-ups and whitewash, of finger-pointing at local school principals, social workers, councillors, and police officers. Hutchens’ name kept popping up. Another day of Burke QC harrumphing.

  Hutchens had been slipped a note from the young woman assistant to the ex-judge presiding over the Inquiry. You’re on tomorrow morning.

  ‘About time,’ he muttered under his breath.

  He wanted this over and done with.

  Hutchens shoved the note in his pocket and took the lift down to the foyer. He checked his phone messages: Cato wanting to give him an update, DI Pavlou wanting to keep him in the loop, Mrs Hutchens checking his availability for a dinner date. Various brass, or their minions, looking for reports, budget estimates, policy feedback, stats, agenda items for upcoming meetings. The tightness was there again in his chest. Hutchens reached into his briefcase, found what he was looking for, and shoved the angina spray up his nostril.

  ‘Stressful times?’

  Andy Fucking Crouch.

  ‘Still here, Andy? Bowling club shut for repairs?’

  Crouch tittered. ‘Won’t be long now. Better get home and iron my shirt. I’m up tomorrow. Just before you, apparently.’

  Hutchens realised now what lay behind the smirk. ‘Surprised you can remember that far back, Andy.’

  ‘Don’t need to, mate. I kept a diary.’

  Matthew Tan owed money to GFC Loan & Savings Pty Ltd, a company owned by prominent Northbridge identity Guy ‘Guido’ Caletti. The ‘F’ in GFC stood for ‘Federico’ apparently. Lara, James and Cato paid him a visit. As ever, Northbridge had a Jekyll and Hyde personality. On a hot summer weekend night you could be forgiven for thinking you’d just wandered into Dante’s inferno, but on a winter’s day, if you managed not to see the junkie whores scratching their goosebumped arms and nursing Coke Zeros at a recently hosed kerbside table, the place had a soiled normality about it. Like a vicar harbouring a secret.

  Guido was sipping Turkish coffee in a little place called The Cazbar down a side street near Cinema Paradiso, a couple of henchmen at a table nearby. An immaculate white polo shirt stretched across his broad chest, his black leather jacket was draped across an adjacent chair. The West was open on the table in front of him – election news. Caletti tutted and shook his greying ponytail disapprovingly.

  ‘I thought we were better than this.’

  Lara signalled for extra coffees, flashed her ID to anybody who was interested, and pulled up a chair. ‘Something bothering you, Mr Caletti?’

  He flicked a finger at the newspaper. ‘This race to the bottom. Competing to see how badly we can treat asylum seekers. Tents on Castaway Island for fuck’s sake. They’ll be promising to spit in their food next. Pathetic.’

  A Perth gangster with more humanity and political insight than a Federal political leader; it gave you pause for thought. Cato sat back, happy to let Lara run this show. A few minutes of introductions and small talk followed. Then Caletti said, ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘Matthew Tan,’ said Lara. ‘A client of yours.’

  ‘What kind of client? I have diverse business interests.’

  ‘He owes you money. Eighteen grand.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Are you seeking redress?’

  ‘I’m always diligent in my business dealings.’

  The coffees arrived. Lara ignored hers. ‘Are you pursuing him?’

  ‘I probably am but I’m not the micro-managing type unless it’s really necessary. I have highly trained and very competent staff to deal with that.’ He nodded in the direction of his henchmen. ‘In the scheme of things, eighteen grand is not a huge amount. We’ll probably pursue the usual legal channels if and when the default clause kicks in.’

  ‘I think that was some time last week,’ said Lara.

  Caletti smiled. ‘No concrete boots around here, officer. I keep paperwork, receipts, all of that. I file my tax returns and pay up on the due date.’ He nodded towards the newspaper again. ‘This nation needs to grow up and move beyond stereotypes.’

  Lara appraised him for a moment before standing to go. She patted the chair beside him on the way out. ‘Nice jacket, Guido.’

  His eyes were back on the newspaper. ‘This about that nasty murder then?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Hoping I’m your man, eh?’

  ‘Enquiries are continuing.’

  ‘Don’t waste your precious time and resources on me. I’m not worth it.’ He turned a page.
<
br />   ‘Thanks for the advice,’ said Lara.

  Cato decided to speak up. ‘The crossword.’ He pointed at Guido’s paper. ‘Are you keeping that?’

  Bad story leaves uncle wanting more. Cato was halfway through Guido’s donated cryptic when he took a call on his mobile on the way back to Freo. He was in the back seat, James and Lara in front. They’d opted for Stirling Highway, the freeway would be chockers at this time of day. Passing the old Swan Brewery, the river was chopped by the wind and a bank of clouds hung over the western sky. It was his sister Mandy phoning, wanting him to drop by.

  ‘Dad’s asking for you.’

  ‘Me?’ Cato wasn’t used to specific attention from his father. Mandy usually got that. ‘Is he okay?’

  ‘Yes, you’re his son, remember?’

  ‘Any idea what it’s about?’

  ‘Dunno. Maybe he wants to give you that birds and bees talk you missed out on.’

  They agreed a time about an hour hence, traffic permitting. Cato tapped the biro on his teeth. Bad story leaves uncle wanting more. Four and eight. Poor relation.

  ‘Much as I’d like to, I can’t see Guido being involved in this,’ said Lara from the front seat.

  ‘No,’ said Cato.

  ‘But Matthew’s still a bit on the nose, no doubt about that.’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘We need to find a way into him. I’ll check with the DI, see if she’s got any ideas.’

  ‘If you like,’ said Cato.

  ‘Everything okay with you?’ Part challenge, part genuine inquiry.

  ‘Yep, all good.’

  But it wasn’t. Plenty bothered him. The investigation had already become unfocused, swampy. The tail was wagging the dog. Lara seemed to have promoted herself to his equal. That was probably his fault because he’d let her. And strangely he already missed DI Hutchens. There was something about his prodding and goading and mind games that helped keep Cato on his toes. Under DI Pavlou and Major Crime he felt like he was being jerked along on a leash just to show him who was in charge. Stuff that. If they wanted division of labour and demarcation lines, they could have them.

  They pulled up in High Street outside the cop shop and Cato headed down the road for his Volvo. ‘Freo Squad meeting, tomorrow at eight,’ he said. ‘See you both then.’

  When Cato arrived at Mandy’s house he was surprised to find his father sitting up in an armchair in the lounge room sipping at a cuppa and tackling what looked suspiciously like a crossword. In his mind, since the news of his dad’s death sentence, Cato had consigned the man to seeing out his last days in bed and communicating by hand taps from the depths of a coma.

  ‘Dad,’ said Cato. ‘Good to see you up and about.’

  Jack Kwong looked up. ‘Eight across, “postman’s sack”.’

  ‘How many letters?’ said Cato, knowing the answer already.

  ‘Hundreds!’

  Cato grinned on cue. ‘How’s your day been?’

  ‘Had worse. Did your sister mention I’m going to die soon?’

  ‘Yeah. Bugger.’

  ‘That’s what I thought. Did you hear the one about the two Aussie soldiers in the trenches?’

  ‘Go on,’ said Cato.

  ‘One’s been there for months, haunted look, shell shock and that. He says to the new bloke, “Did you come here to die?” The newcomer shakes his head. “Nah mate, I came here yesterdie”.’

  Mandy delivered a cuppa to Cato, rolled her eyes at Jack and retreated.

  ‘You were asking after me,’ said Cato.

  ‘Was I?’

  ‘Mand reckons.’

  The old man studied the crossword for a moment, frowning in concentration, panic flitted across his face. He looked up and smiled. ‘Buggered if I know what that was about.’

  ‘You were probably wanting to let me know you’d be leaving everything to me.’

  ‘Nah, I said that to Susie earlier.’

  Jack put his head back and closed his eyes. Cato leaned over and took the cup out of his hands. The old man was whispering something. Cato leaned in closer to hear. For all he knew these could be his father’s dying words.

  ‘Champagne,’ he said. ‘Champagne.’

  8

  Thursday, August 8th.

  It was a poorly attended squad meeting. Lara and James, although notionally attached to the Freo office and obliged to show up, had been called out somewhere. DI Pavlou was at a meeting at HQ, and DI Hutchens was off prepping for another big day at the Inquiry. Two others had called in sick; winter flu was working its way through the squad. That left Cato, Deb Hassan, Duncan Goldflam, Chris Thornton, and a couple of civilian data wranglers. There was plenty of yawning, fidgeting, sniffles, coughs and phone-checking going on. Deb Hassan reported that Zac Harvey’s mum had declared herself a responsible adult even though her son was already eighteen. They would be in later that morning with their lawyer. Apparently Mrs Harvey was not happy. Bring it on, thought Cato. Deb also reported that the Emily Tan Facebook tribute page had been taken down overnight.

  ‘Trolled into oblivion,’ said Deb. ‘A new one has sprung up, though. “Zac Harvey Is Innosent” – with an “s” instead of a “c”.’

  ‘Lovely,’ said Cato.

  Next up, Chris Thornton summarised the sitrep on the door-to-doors. In short, everyone was asleep and didn’t hear a thing. CCTV and traffic cameras were still being trawled to confirm or deny Matthew Tan’s account of his movements and so far his story stacked up. His and his girlfriend’s cars were spotted in various places within the timeframe stipulated. It looked like she had indeed dropped him off at Port Coogee not long after midnight to pick up his BMW and they’d driven in loose convoy back to her place in Shelley. There was still no sign of the phantom vandal and architecture critic.

  Duncan Goldflam stepped up. ‘We’re gradually thinning out the forensic soup. About half of the trace samples we took can be attributed to the key family members including Matthew, who has already confirmed he was there that day. So far we can’t put him in any of the bedroom murder scenes.’

  Cato looked down at his notepad. His action list looked pitiful. He was meant to come up with something at the end of this meeting to rally the troops, renew their focus, pump energy into the investigation. All he could think of so far was: keep at it, the truth is out there somewhere. Rah, rah, rah.

  ‘There are about half a dozen other significant – as in probably recent and strong – traces which we now need to investigate and eliminate,’ said Duncan.

  That was more like it. ‘Any of those in the bedrooms?’

  ‘Yes. One cluster in the master bedroom.’

  Cato felt a quickening in his blood. ‘A recent, strong trace of someone, not a family member, in the master bedroom?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Goldflam. ‘And, as far as I know, they don’t have a cleaner. Maybe a tradie or something? Or maybe the killer.’

  Cato’s list now had an excited little asterisk on it.

  Zac Harvey was wearing the same shirt as yesterday. Mrs Harvey was dressed for success and domination in a dark, conservative contour-hugging office suit and killer heels. Their lawyer was some bloke from Armadale with a nervous squint, a nondescript man who seemed to merge into the background of the grey-painted interview room. Cato figured Mrs Harvey intended to do most of the talking. He decided to set her straight.

  ‘Thank you for coming in, Isaac. You’re welcome to stay too, Mrs Harvey, as an observer, but this interview is with Isaac and his official legal representative.’

  ‘Whatever,’ said Mrs Harvey.

  Deb Hassan was busy checking the recording equipment. She announced the usual preliminaries and nodded for Cato to kick off.

  ‘So Isaac, we’d like to go through those matters we discussed with you yesterday and have it all on record. Okay?’

  ‘Does he have a choice?’ said Mrs Harvey.

  Cato ignored her. ‘Is that okay and clear with you, Isaac?’

  ‘S’pose.’

&n
bsp; ‘Is that a yes?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Great. Mr …’ Cato checked his notes. ‘Terhorst. You’ve had enough time to consult with your client? You’re comfortable with proceeding?’

  There was a clipped and timid ‘Yes’. Cato didn’t think he’d ever come across a nervous South African before.

  ‘I’m not,’ said Mrs Harvey.

  ‘Then feel free to wait in reception,’ growled Cato.

  Mrs Harvey pursed her lips and shot Cato a glare. She would have been one of those mothers that teachers hate. Cato took Zac Harvey through the last week or so: the break-up – acrimonious and one-sided he reckoned; the last time he saw Emily – just all this crying and shit; and finally his comments on the Facebook page – another smirk. Cato presented Zac and the lawyer with another printout just to remind them it was all on record.

  ‘Not a nice thing to say about somebody who’s just been murdered. Why did you do it, Isaac?’

  ‘Joke. Didn’t mean anything.’

  ‘That’s your idea of funny?’

  A shrug. ‘So you don’t like my sense of humour. No law against it.’

  Mrs Harvey smiled. Her son was holding his own. The lawyer looked like he’d found a nasty piece of gristle in a favourite pie.

  ‘Were you aware that she was pregnant?’

  ‘Nah. Any idea whose it is?’

  ‘We’ll be seeking a DNA sample from you to try and answer that question.’

  ‘Not without permission, you won’t.’ Mum sniffed.

  Cato turned to the lawyer. ‘Your client has admitted leaving those abusive and threatening comments on the Facebook page. In fact there are laws against that for which I am willing here and now to arrest him. At that point he can be required, by force if necessary, to provide a DNA sample. Alternatively he can continue to cooperate and assist us in our investigation into this dreadful crime. Would you like some time to consult further?’

  ‘Don’t bother,’ said Zac. ‘I get it.’

  Andy Crouch had put on a suit and tie, shaved, and brought some kind of order to his wispy white hair. He still had the look of a coffin-dodger though, his skull almost visible through his semi-transparent skin. He managed not to meet Hutchens’ steady gaze. So what’s he got in that fucking diary of his? thought Hutchens.