by Alan Carter
‘Can you watch this for a moment, mate, while I take a piss?’
‘No problemo,’ said Dermot, hanging it on a hook behind the counter.
Hutchens went to the toilet, locked himself in a cubicle, and checked his Glock.
He came out, winked his farewell to Dermot, jangled his car keys and headed for the exit. Then he drove around the block and parked up just out of sight over and down the road, in the shade of a flowering flame tree dancing with rainbow lorikeets.
Dermot appeared about twenty minutes later with the backpack slung over his shoulder. He headed west down Cambridge Street and turned up a side road in the direction of West Leederville train station. Hutchens allowed some distance then followed in the car. He knew Dermot only had a half hour break so he wouldn’t have time to go far. A train to somewhere and back in that time seemed a bit ambitious. Dermot didn’t go up to the platform. Instead he headed for the pedestrian underpass. Hutchens cursed and slapped the driving wheel – Surveillance and Tailing 101 and he’d just failed. But Dermot didn’t enter the underpass, he stood and waited at the northern end. A yellow moped drew up beside him, the rider took the backpack and rejoined the burgeoning after-school traffic. Hutchens followed.
It turned out Mundine lived in a block of flats in Jolimont. It might have been one of Perth’s leafy green western suburbs but there was little sign of affluence in this run-down corner. The walls of the three-storey block were stained by the scum of bore water. There was a car on bricks under a rusting shelter. A grubby torn mattress leaned against a graffitied wall. Garbage skittered in the breeze. It was skanksville. That suited Hutchens because it was the type of place where neighbours kept their noses out of other people’s business. He put in a call to a friend and passed on the address.
By the end of the afternoon Cato’s eyes were blurring from a combination of travel fatigue and from reading and re-reading the Tan financial profile. Accountancy wasn’t one of his strong points and he couldn’t see anything that jumped out as a clear indicator of malfeasance on the part of Des O’Neill. The spreadsheets were as cryptic as any crossword. All that remained was the coincidence of timelines. During the same couple of years that Francis Tan started going downhill, Des O’Neill was heading up. And making friends with Yu Guangming, a violent man who had been at the crime scene on the day of the murders and left his semen inside Genevieve Tan.
It wasn’t enough. Cato couldn’t even begin to approach O’Neill without some concrete evidence of wrongdoing. First he would send Cato packing, second he would cover his tracks. As things stood, O’Neill may not have any idea that the police were interested in him and Cato intended to maintain that slight advantage. His phone went, it was Chris Thornton.
‘We have a lead on Matthew Tan.’
‘Go on.’
‘His ATM card was used this afternoon in Scarborough.’
‘By him?’
‘No, the CCTV says it was a woman. I saw the print out and I agree. She is.’
‘And?’
‘According to the database he’s got a friend, the girl kind, who lives up the road, just north of Trigg.’
‘Doorbusters?’
‘On the way, we’ll meet them there. I’ll pick you up out front in five.’
‘Have you told Hutchens?’
‘He’s out. Phone turned off. I left a message; but Pavlou’s in the loop.’
It was dark by the time they got there. Apartment 32 was on the third floor of a five-storey block just back from the beach with a view out over Mettam’s Pool and the Marmion Marine Park. Cato, Jane and Jake had come snorkelling here in happier times. It was a calming protective reef just offshore with all variety of fish. Jake had been so excited he’d tried talking through his snorkel and took a big swallow of seawater. Now it was dark and chopped up, froth foaming the surface. A handful of uniforms were waiting, decked out in protective gear and wielding a battering ram. But first they had to get through the downstairs lobby door and the entryphone system. Cato pressed the relevant button and announced himself to the female occupant.
‘What do you want?’
‘Just open the door please, madam, and we can state our business face to face.’
The door buzzed and clicked and they all filed in. The uniforms took the stairs. Cato and Thornton hopped in the lift.
The young woman at the entrance to number 32 was the spitting image of Lily Soong, minus the bruises.
‘Matilda,’ she said, peering at Cato’s ID and sniffing at the riot squad. ‘Matilda Soong. Lily’s sister,’ she added, in case anybody hadn’t worked it out yet.
‘Is Matt here?’ said Cato.
‘Matt who?’
‘Matthew Tan, the bloke who beat your sister up and put her in hospital.’
‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Him.’ She thumbed over her shoulder. ‘Back bedroom. Help yourself.’
Matthew Tan was out cold. He looked terrible and smelled worse. The room reeked of Jim Beam or some other bogan spirit. One of the riot squad waved a hand across her face in disgust. ‘Nobody light a match.’
‘He’s been a bit upset,’ said Matilda leaning against the door frame. ‘So how did you know to come here?’
‘You were on the video at the ATM using Matt’s card.’ Chris Thornton was finding it hard to tear his eyes away from Matilda’s décolletage.
‘Housekeeping. I needed some groceries.’
‘Do you know that harbouring a fugitive is an offence?’ said Thornton.
‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘Finished looking at my chest, yet?’
Cato sat on the edge of the bed and shook the prone figure. ‘Matt? Wake up.’
A grunt and expulsion of foul air from both ends.
Cato gestured to Thornton to help him bring Tan to a sitting position. ‘C’mon, Matt. Wakey, wakey.’
Matt finally opened an eye. A tear came out of it.
‘Do you know where you are, Matt?’
One of the uniforms brought a glass of water over. Cato held it to Tan’s lips. ‘Get this down, you’ll feel better.’
Matthew sipped. Then he spewed all over their feet.
Matilda swore and went to get a sponge.
David Mundine was viewing some violent online porn when his doorbell sounded. He was almost glad of the interruption; the storyline was doing nothing for him, it lacked bite. He zipped himself up and shuffled to the front door, uggs flapping where the sole had split from the upper. He opened the door to two men in hoods. He tried to close the door on them but failed. They were over the threshold, gloved hands covering his face and mouth, an arm around his neck. Then everything went black.
When he awoke he could feel that he was taped to a chair and the floor was hard under his feet. His head hurt and one of the fingers of his left hand throbbed, maybe broken or dislocated. Something warm, blood or snot maybe, dribbled from his nose. Tape had been wound around his eyes but he knew he was still in his own kitchen. He could smell the meal he’d cooked earlier, a mushroom omelette.
A voice said, ‘Davey you need to learn to stop bothering good people.’ High-pitched and nervy, like a two-pot screamer. ‘Stick to your own skanky circle.’
‘What? I think you’ve got the wrong person. This is all a mistake. I’ve done nothing.’
‘Where’s the money?’
‘What money?’
A slap around the back of the head. Oh, you bitch. That was so mean.
He put a shake in his voice. ‘What do you want? I don’t have money. I’m on a pension. My nerves.’
‘The money. Don’t fuck about.’
A drawer was opened followed by the sound of rummaging through the cutlery. ‘This should do it.’ The second voice was lower than the first. More manly. Must be the hubby.
‘What are you doing? What do you want from me?’
‘The money.’
‘I don’t have any money! Please stop.’ He lifted the volume a notch. ‘Jesus, somebody please. Help me!’
Tape went around his mou
th. That was good. He didn’t want them to see him laughing. That would ruin it. This was better than B-grade porn any day.
A more conciliatory tone from the deep-voiced hubby. ‘Look, mate. We know you’ve got a backpack with lots of money in it. Just tell us where it is and we’ll be out of here. Nobody gets hurt. Okay?’
Mundine shook his head, grunted into the gag.
A sharp pain in the top of his thigh. He squealed like a pig. He wondered what was being used. It didn’t feel like a knife. The corkscrew? He did the squeal again, to convince them they were getting somewhere.
Hot breath beside his ear, some spittle. It was the two-pot screamer again. ‘Your last chance, before things turn really bad.’
Delicious.
He nodded his head vigorously, he would tell them everything. Take the gag off. Release me from this terrible torment.
The tape gag came off, tugging at his hair and making it sting a bit. Ouch.
He took a steadying breath. Fixed them with a look. ‘Tell Mr H. I’ve been hurt by experts. Tell him I’m coming for him. Now fuck off out of my home.’ He couldn’t help himself. He started laughing.
They didn’t have the heart for it. He knew they didn’t. They had goodness at their core. They left.
22
Friday, August 23rd.
Matthew Tan was still under the weather but had recovered enough for a little chat, on the record and under caution. His lawyer, Henry Hurley, was in attendance, as were Cato and Chris Thornton. By the time Cato had arrived home mid-evening, he was dead on his feet. The previous night’s travel had well and truly caught up with him and the restless, raging energy that had fuelled his day had dissolved. He hadn’t bothered eating and he’d once again neglected to call those members of his family who needed his attention. He collapsed on the bed and didn’t wake until his alarm smacked him into submission.
Henry Hurley read out a statement. His client confessed to the assault on his girlfriend Lily Soong and he was genuinely remorseful for his actions. A domestic argument had got out of hand and, under the enormous mental strain of his recent bereavement, he had allowed his temper to get the better of him. Matthew was aware however that the slaughter of his family was no excuse for his atrocious behaviour and he was prepared to face whatever legal consequences may ensue. In addition, of his own volition, he would be signing up for the next available anger management program. Finally, his girlfriend, Ms Soong, had forgiven him, an email printout was appended as proof, and they hoped to be fully reconciled real soon.
‘If you were so remorseful why didn’t you come forward earlier? Why did we have to come and find you?’
‘My client has been under enormous emotional pressure of late. His actions, although erratic and, at times, reprehensible, can be attributed to his volatile mental state.’
Cato flicked his gaze away from the lawyer. ‘Is that right, Matthew?’
‘Yes.’
Time to move on. Cato placed two traffic and CCTV photos of Matthew’s car on the desk. ‘Can you identify these for me, please?’
Matthew confirmed it was him, driving his car, through those places, on the night of the murders. As per his previous statements.
Cato substituted two close-ups of the same images and prodded the blurry shadow of Matt’s passenger. ‘Who is this?’
Matt didn’t know. He seemed genuinely surprised to have had a stowaway. ‘Sorry, I haven’t a clue.’
‘You really weren’t aware of a presence in the back of your car?’
‘I was miles away. To be honest I might still have been a bit over the limit.’
‘You didn’t hear anything? Smell anything? Sense anything?’
‘Sorry.’
‘Any idea who it might be?’
‘My client has explained his bewilderment at this turn of events. It is not up to him to speculate. It’s up to you to do your job.’
‘Thanks,’ said Cato. ‘But help us out here anyway, Matt. No ideas?’
‘As I said, sorry, no.’
And that’s all they could do, for now. Matthew Tan was returned to the cells for a magistrate’s appearance later that morning on the assault and related charges. DI Pavlou would be pleased. It was shaping up nicely to load everything onto the conveniently deceased Yu Guangming and close the case. Cato put in a call to Hutchens to bring him up to date. Still no answer. He left a message.
Hutchens took the call from his special friend halfway through a breakfast of soft boiled eggs and toast soldiers.
‘I thought you said he was piss weak?’
‘Has to be,’ said Hutchens, taking a slurp of instant coffee. ‘He was Sinclair’s plaything in the hostel for two years. He’s been in and out of prison since and usually hooked on some shit or other. What happened?’
The friend told him.
‘And you didn’t hurt him anymore?’
‘I’m not a sadist. This was a favour. You asked us to scare him. He doesn’t scare. End of story.’
‘Fuck’s sake.’
‘He asked us to pass on a message.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Words to the effect of he’s been hurt by experts and he’s coming to get you.’
‘Thanks,’ Hutchens muttered. ‘I owe you one.’
‘On the house. Sorry about the money, we looked around but couldn’t find it. Watch yourself, Mick, this bloke is more than a bit troppo.’
So. He was ten grand down and he had a psycho stalker who knew no fear. He’d kept on taking Mundine for granted and getting him wrong. He needed to do his homework and he needed to start taking this seriously. Maybe the best thing was to get Marjorie and the kids out of town for a couple of weeks, hunker down and deal with whatever was coming. He poured himself another coffee and mooted the question with Mrs Hutchens.
‘Ten thousand bucks? What the fuck were you thinking, love?’
‘Right now the money is not so much of an issue, it’s the fact that he’s a nutter.’
‘It’s an issue for me, sweetie. Fucking hell.’
‘Marj, maybe you could go and stay with your folks in Augusta for a week or two until this blows over?’
‘What about my job? I’ve got half a dozen punters waiting for me to sort out their future nest eggs. Financial gurus don’t work teachers’ hours, Mick.’
‘Tell them it’s a personal family crisis. It’s the truth, they’ll understand.’
‘Can’t you just have the bastard killed?’
‘No, pumpkin. It’s not legal.’
‘Shit.’
‘Sorry.’
‘S’pose you want me to take Melanie as well, do you?’
‘If her bloke’s out bush making another one of his poncy documentaries, yeah, you’d better.’
She sniffed. ‘One week. Get it sorted.’ She pecked him grumpily on the cheek. ‘And take some more of your spray, you’re looking pink again.’
‘So do we have enough corroboration to sheet this over to the Yu fella and file it away?’
The question came from DI Pavlou. She’d called a Cabinet Meeting of the heads of various departments: Cato, Hutchens, forensics honcho Duncan Goldflam, Chris Thornton as data wrangler and statement checker, and Mystery Michael the ACC spook. And it seemed to Cato that Lara Sumich’s ghost also haunted the room, restless and demanding. Demanding what? The ghost of the old Lara would have been a vengeful one. Cato suspected the new Lara was less strident, but still insistent to be heard.
‘We can now put Yu’s DNA in the master bedroom and in one of the victims on the day of the murder,’ conceded Goldflam who was still smarting over the ACC and Pavlou holding back on him about the ID on the mystery traces.
‘I showed Yu’s photo to the graffiti girl, Ocean Mantra,’ Thornton added. ‘She’s pretty confident it’s the same guy she saw driving erratically near the scene that night.’
‘And you can confirm Yu’s admission to you of being on the premises that day?’ Pavlou was looking at Cato expectantly.
‘Ye
s. But we still haven’t cleared up the matter of Matthew Tan’s stowaway.’
‘This wouldn’t be the first case I’ve dealt with that’s had its little … anomalies.’
‘Not wrong,’ said Hutchens, half under his breath. But not half enough.
Pavlou turned to Hutchens. ‘Nor you for that matter, Mick.’ Back to Cato and the business at hand. ‘Philip, can you oversee the boxing off? Take care of the paperwork and send the finished product off to the archives. In the meantime, a summary report in my inbox by day’s end so I can give the top brass some good news. Doable?’
No, thought Cato. This is not right. ‘Sure,’ he said.
‘Chuck any “loose ends” into your concluding paragraph if that makes you feel better.’
‘Okay.’ Count on it.
They were dismissed. Michael the ACC man hadn’t said a single word in the whole meeting. Come to that he hadn’t said a single word since Cato had first glimpsed him a few weeks ago. What was the point of him? Cato’s inbox started to fill with the jigsaw of the Tans’ final hours. He dutifully set to piecing them together, ignoring any holes in the picture and crafting his conclusions to fit Pavlou’s needs. In effect, by day’s end she should be able to ship out back to the Major Crime suites up in Perth. He didn’t intend to hold her up.
Marjorie and Melanie would be en route to Augusta, three hundred or so kilometres south. Hutchens dragged Mundine’s name out of the system. Know thine enemy. He’d already done a cursory printout on the charge sheet to prepare himself for the Inquiry but he hadn’t realised then what he was dealing with. Now the matter certainly warranted closer inspection.
David Christopher Mundine was just past his twelfth birthday when he was sent to Hillsview Hostel late in 1995. His mother was in Bandyup on drugs and various dishonesty charges and his father was an unknown quantity. David was a troubled child, coming to the attention of successive juvenile justice teams for stealing, vandalism, drug, and alcohol offences. It was hoped that time away from his dropkick mother in an environment with rules might do him some good. The warden, Peter Sinclair, had a reputation for being ‘tough but fair’. There was very little recidivism on his watch – none of the kids ever wanted to go back for more.
