Bad Seed

by Alan Carter

  Across the road from the squat redbrick that was Clancy’s Fish Pub, skateboarders sought refuge from the bitter wind against the graffitied wall of the long-abandoned Woolstores. They checked Cato out, decided he wasn’t of interest, and continued their rolling and flipping. Inside, Des O’Neill was surveying a blackboard with its array of boutique ales with absurd names. He settled on a stout called Black Plague. Cato, head still wobbly from the pepper spray, went for a pilsener. They also agreed a cone of hot chips would go down well, and retired to a table near a fire. After some harmless banter about the weather, the election and the footy, the chips arrived and they got down to business.

  ‘So how did you and Franco come to be partners?’

  ‘Partners is probably overstating it.’ O’Neill dipped a chip in some aioli. ‘It wasn’t a formal thing at first, we just found ourselves working together on a number of projects. We enjoyed each other’s company.’

  ‘Yeah?’ said Cato.

  ‘You seem surprised. What would a cool, sophisticated Chinese yuppie have in common with the likes of me? Am I guessing right?’

  ‘To be honest, yeah.’

  ‘Tell you the truth I wondered the same myself at the start. Is he slumming? Is he taking the piss? It took a while to find the man behind the smirk.’

  ‘And you did? Find him?’

  ‘I think so.’ O’Neill drew from his pint of stout and winced. ‘Fucking liquorice.’

  ‘You did well. I’ve known him for twenty-odd years and never got near.’

  That drew a chuckle of recognition. ‘Francis just wanted someone to take him seriously. To wait for his jokes to run out, see what he had left. Me, I had all the time in the world.’

  ‘What did he have left?’

  ‘He had a real passion for this country, for the land, it was deeper than anything I’ve come across before or since. He loved the place: the bush, the desert, the ocean, the people, the history.’

  ‘Franco?’

  ‘Yep. Your mate was a true-blue patriot.’

  Cato shook his head. ‘Bullshit. He was a cynic. He was having you on.’

  ‘Well if he was, it was the longest, drawn-out, most boring joke in history. He kept it going for most of the ten years I knew him.’

  ‘But all that time he was trying to sell this place he “loved” to his Chinese mates.’

  ‘What’s wrong with that? The land is turning to dust in front of our eyes, farms going down the dunny everywhere you look. When Francis travelled around this state he saw opportunities for growth, for renewal, for partnership. The people he knew have bucketloads of cash and are crying out for wide-open spaces. They’re after clean land to grow clean food because where they live is pretty much stuffed.’

  ‘It all sounds very noble.’

  ‘You’re not convinced? Neither was I for a long time. As far as I was concerned it was just a profit grab, asset-stripping vulnerable cockies who had the bailiffs at the door and nowhere else to go.’

  ‘Until?’

  ‘Until nothing. I had no real problem with asset-stripping and profit-grabbing. I’m a businessman. I was happy to let him peddle his schtick if that’s what sealed the deals. But one day I realised he actually believed in it.’

  Cato’s pilsener was slipping down surprisingly well, the headache had gone. ‘Go on.’

  ‘There was a farmer down south. A couple of thousand acres, god knows how many sheep. The wool and lamb prices had gone through the floor. The animals were starving, all rib, no meat. The bank was demanding the keys to the place. The next-door neighbour, a so-called mate for life, had his eyes on the farm and was trying to nail the poor fucker for a fraction of what it was worth. The bloke was past caring. Francis could have had it for a song. Instead he offered over the odds, more than his Chinese partners had budgeted, and found the difference himself by mortgaging his own house.’

  Hence the move from the river view mansion on Preston Point Road to Port Coogee, guessed Cato. Saint Francis, who’d have thought it? ‘And where did you fit in?’

  ‘It was my job to soften up the cockies for takeover while Francis got the financial backing from China. Sweet as.’

  ‘So mainly rural deals, then?’

  ‘For the most part. Also did the odd block of luxury flats here and there.’

  ‘Any enemies along the way?’

  ‘People who might want to kill him, you mean?’

  ‘Yes.’

  A long thoughtful draw from the pint of liquorice. ‘I could say no, nothing worth killing for, but people get topped for fuck-all these days, don’t they?’

  ‘Anything stand out, particularly over the last, say, twelve months? A ripped-off farmer or something?’

  ‘As I said, Francis was a kindly soul. Maybe too kind. He tried not to rip off any poor cockies. Me? I’m not so sentimental.’

  ‘You didn’t do it, did you?’ said Cato with half a smile. ‘Kill him?’

  ‘Now that would be a really stupid thing to do, wouldn’t it? He was my cash cow.’

  Lara had kicked off her shoes and her work gear, luxuriated under a hot shower, then slipped into her jimjams and thick woolly bedsocks. Not the most romantic and alluring of get-ups, she knew, but it was winter and she felt comfortable enough to do this with John. She was putting together some pasta when he came through the door. His face dropped. Had she miscalculated badly? Was the nanna gear a no-no?

  ‘Everything okay?’

  ‘You didn’t get my message?’

  No, she didn’t.

  ‘I’d booked our favourite restaurant.’

  ‘Sorry sweetie. I’m stuffed,’ she said. ‘Besides, dinner’s on now.’ She was trying not to pout at being taken for granted and he was obviously putting on a brave face about something.

  ‘No worries.’ That smile of his warmed the room.

  They ate, chatted about the day, and when it all threatened to slip into something too homely and domestic they retreated to the bedroom for a glorious fuck.

  As the heat subsided he propped his head on an elbow, face deadly serious. ‘I’ve got something I need to say to you.’

  Uh-oh, here it comes, she thought. Maybe she’d been wrong all along. She’d thought John was different. With the odd exception she’d always chased the same kind of man: mad, bad and dangerous to know. A showman like her father. A showman like those buskers working the weekend crowds in Fremantle. A fire-breathing juggler to light up her night. But in the morning all that remained was singed sheets and a bleak aftertaste of stale paraffin. Then came John, leaving his tricks at the front door and bringing only his passion and sincerity into the bedroom. But now this.

  ‘John?’ she said, bracing herself.

  And that’s when he produced the engagement ring.

  It didn’t take Mundine long to follow through. Hutchens received a text as he was settling down with a glass of merlot to watch News 24 while Mrs Hutchens prodded the roast.

  5K wd be a good start

  Hutchens texted back.

  fuck off

  Another one came through. A photo this time. It was of the front of his house, with Mrs Hutchens doing some gardening. The bloke was asking for a slap. Hutchens would be happy to give him one.

  OK lets meet

  Another picture. A pornographic image and the caption: Suck mine

  Little psycho. Hutchens turned his phone off and answered the cooing call to dinner. ‘Coming, love.’

  ‘Work?’ she said, sliding a plate of lamb and vegies his way.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Your phone. Buzzing like billy-o.’

  ‘Yeah, turned it off now, trivial stuff.’

  She looked concerned. ‘Any more chest pains?’

  ‘Nothing to worry about, Marj. I’ve got the spray.’

  ‘That’s not the point. You used to only get them now and again. Now it’s pretty much every day. You need to get to the doctor.’

  He reached across and squeezed her hand. ‘I will, love. Another week
or two and this will all be out of the way.’

  ‘Another week or two and you might be dead.’

  ‘Okay, I’ll call tomorrow and make an appointment.’

  The home phone went. Marjorie picked it up. He could hear the yelling from where he was. She handed the phone to him, pale. ‘It’s for you.’

  It was Mundine. ‘You turned your phone off. Don’t fucking ignore me again, fat man! Ever! You hear?’

  13

  Tuesday, August 13th.

  Cato was called into DI Pavlou’s office first thing. She must have heard about his chat with Des O’Neill and wanted to slap him down.

  ‘Morning, Philip. Coffee?’

  There was a plunger of freshly brewed on her desk and a spare couple of mugs. Was it some kind of trap? ‘Sure, thanks.’

  She poured him some and pointed at a plate of biscuits. ‘Help yourself.’

  There was a knock at the door. Lara joined them, flushed and happy, and dragged up a chair. She was offered coffee too but showed them all her herbal tea. Finally James Blond, hair still wet from the rain and a smell of recent lycra and bike oil about him.

  ‘Something come up?’ said Cato.

  Pavlou was beaming. ‘Indeed it has. Lara, tell him.’

  ‘I’m engaged.’ She flashed her ring.

  ‘Lovely, congratulations,’ said Pavlou. ‘But I meant the ACC news.’

  ‘Right.’ Lara reddened. Cato found it cute, he smothered a smile. ‘The passenger list from Mr Li’s flight into Perth immediately preceding the Tan murders.’ She dispensed copies to the assembled throng. ‘The ACC ran a check on his fellow travellers and got a result.’ She referred them to a name highlighted on the list. ‘Yu Guangming is known to the Chinese authorities and has a violent criminal history, including murder.’

  ‘Don’t the Chinese normally execute people who’ve done that kind of thing?’ said Cato.

  ‘His history isn’t formally on the record. He’s never actually been caught and convicted of anything. It’s what they believe he has been involved in. He also seems to have some kind of protection at a higher level.’

  ‘And this is a Chinese government agency sharing this with you?’

  ‘No. It’s via our AFP liaison office in Beijing and their Chinese counterparts.’

  ‘Friend of a friend of a friend.’

  ‘Now, now.’ Pavlou’s happy face was slipping.

  ‘Okay,’ conceded Cato, ‘let’s assume this unofficial portrait of this guy has some substance. What’s his connection to Li?’

  And that’s where it got interesting.

  Cato retired to his office. He had to admit even he was beginning to buy the Major Crime line that Tommy Li had questions to answer about the Tan murders. Approaches would now be made through various diplomatic and other channels to set up an interview with him. Apparently they’d already sussed out his Perth office and, according to them, he wasn’t due back in Australia anytime soon.

  ‘But I thought he told us he was usually over here every few weeks?’ Cato had reminded Pavlou.

  ‘Change in plans, shifting priorities,’ said Pavlou drily. His sudden unavailability added to their suspicions.

  So why had Cato now been brought into the loop? Was Pavlou feeling confident and therefore more benevolent? Who knows? Chris Thornton popped his head around the door.

  ‘Sarge? Got a moment?’

  Cato followed Thornton to a workstation with two large video monitors with split screens. There were various angles and locations and frozen images of a car: Matthew Tan’s BMW.

  ‘Why the ongoing interest?’ said Cato. ‘I thought Matthew had alibis for that night, and his journey home had been corroborated by the cameras?’

  ‘He has,’ said Thornton. ‘Half a dozen friends, happy to swear in court that he was with them during the relevant hours, plus CCTV in a couple of bars to back him up.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So I got one of the civilians to run through Matthew’s story one more time and cross-reference it to the supporting evidence. It was a paperwork housekeeping thing really, part of putting him on the backburner. Neatly boxed off until and unless something else comes up to put him back in the frame.’

  Cato could only marvel at the anal qualities of Thornton’s record-keeping but he really hoped the bloke would get to the point soon. ‘And?’

  ‘Look at this.’ Thornton grabbed a mouse and clicked some keys. ‘His car follows girlfriend Lily’s through the lights on Hampton and South. They’ve gone past amber and Matt triggers the bad-boy camera. There’s extra illumination from the big Shell servo on the corner.’ He froze the frame.

  Cato squinted at the blurred image. A small shadowy bump where there shouldn’t have been anything. ‘There’s somebody in the back seat?’

  ‘Looks like it.’

  ‘And your theory is?’

  ‘The murderer hitches a ride out of Port Coogee in Matt’s Beemer. But is he a stowaway, or is Matt in on it?’

  ‘Tell me,’ said Cato.

  Thornton zipped forward towards the end of Matt’s journey back to his girlfriend’s house in Shelley. CCTV in a servo on Leach Highway catches him buying some cigarettes. The cameras in the forecourt aren’t directly on the car. It’s half in and half out of shadow and small on the edge of a wide frame. ‘It’s like he knew where to park, isn’t it?’ said Thornton.

  ‘You’ve got a suspicious mind.’

  Thornton grinned. ‘He makes sure he goes into the servo shop to buy something and the camera gives him an alibi. But look at this.’ Thornton zoomed the picture in to the parked car in the distant background. On the blind side, away from the camera, the rear passenger door opens and a shadow hops out and merges with the rest of the darkness.

  ‘So we still can’t tell from that whether Matt is in on it.’

  ‘No, sarge. But worth another chat you reckon?’

  Hutchens had received notification from the Inquiry registrar that proceedings would reconvene on Monday week as the presiding judge had been called away on pressing family business. Could he confirm that he had received appropriate legal advice and would he be able to continue as per the said schedule? Yes, he just needed to kill David Mundine first. Hell, they were going to try and pin Sinclair’s death on him, he may as well do Mundine too and get his money’s worth. So he had about two weeks up his sleeve for dealing with the prick. He’d also fixed a doctor’s appointment for later that day, there’d been a cancellation and he didn’t have much else on – apart from a murder inquiry, a growing backlog of cases from assault through theft to a peculiar upskirting charge in a local department store. Oh, and being stalked and blackmailed by a sociopath. Things were closing in and his chest seemed tighter by the minute. Marjorie was right, he might not see the next two weeks out. But maybe a catastrophic heart attack was a better prospect than jail.

  He needed to get a grip. The lawyer had said just blank them, they can’t prove a thing. What’s the worst that could happen? An adverse finding by the Inquiry and an administrative slap on the wrist? Cato and Major Crime were responsible for the Tan murder case. They could worry about that. The backlog? That never went away. Really the only urgent matters were his chest pains and David Mundine. He dropped by the office to see Cato.

  ‘I hadn’t realised I was so popular.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Everybody wants to talk to me, today.’

  ‘Enjoy it while it lasts,’ Hutchens sniffed. ‘What’s happening with the general backlog?’

  ‘I’ve farmed out most of the volume stuff to the neighbours over at Murdoch.’

  ‘Good work. Happy are they?’

  ‘Do we care?’

  ‘Not really. What was the upskirting one about?’

  ‘A bloke got stopped in some boutique on South Terrace taking photos up the skirts of the mannequins.’

  ‘Is that illegal?’

  ‘Dunno. Murdoch are on to it. They specialise in saddos.’

  Cato updated Hutchens
on the Matthew Tan line of inquiry and on Tommy Li and his mystery flying partner.

  ‘When are you going to see Matthew?’

  ‘Later today.’

  ‘Good. Keep it to yourself. See if we can steal a march on Edna Average.’

  ‘What do you think about the Li thing?’

  ‘To be fair, if I was in Pavlou’s shoes I’d be doing a little dance as well. So what’s the plan? Invite Li in for a chat next time he graces these shores?’

  ‘Far as I can tell they’re aiming to pay him a visit.’

  ‘She’ll like that. Apparently the shopping in Shanghai is to die for.’

  ‘That was cheap and unworthy, if I may say so, boss.’

  ‘Sorry.’ He wasn’t.

  ‘Any developments at your end?’

  ‘No,’ said Hutchens. He paused. ‘What?’

  ‘You don’t look well. Everything okay?’

  ‘Nothing to worry your pretty little head about.’ Hutchens saw he’d gone too far. ‘Thanks for the concern. All will be well in the fullness of time, Cato mate.’ He mustered a reassuring smile.

  He left Cato and retreated to a vacant workstation to check his emails. Two hours until his doctor’s appointment.

  When Cato and Chris Thornton pulled up at the Shelley house there was no sign of Matthew’s BMW but Lily’s i30 was in the driveway. Cato went to ring the bell and found the front door ajar.

  ‘Hello?’ There was a yap. The yellow-bowed poodle was home. ‘Lily?’

  No sound apart from the yapping dog. Cato pushed open the door and stepped across the threshold.

  ‘Lily? It’s me, Philip Kwong. Fremantle Detectives.’

  The dog seemed unsure whether to yap, whine, or growl. It sounded like it was coming from upstairs. There was a trail of blood spots on the stair carpet.