by Alan Carter
‘She’ll be missed.’
It was DI Pavlou, eyes red-rimmed. Cato wasn’t expecting emotion from her. ‘Yeah,’ he said.
‘It’s good that you nailed the bastard responsible.’
‘The kid? The locals took care of him.’
‘Yu Guangming. He was behind it wasn’t he? You and that Driscoll fella sorted him.’
Cato shook his head. ‘Odds on it came from Thomas Li, or at least his daughter. We’ll probably never know.’
‘Unfinished business for you, then?’
‘Story of my life,’ said Cato. ‘But I think Lara’s death has to mean more than a bit of spin for the Commissioner.’ Over Pavlou’s shoulder, Cato could see Farmer John being gently led away by rellies. The man was an absolute wreck. ‘Lara deserves to rest in peace, not be swept under the carpet.’ Cato wondered if he’d gone too far.
Pavlou appraised him. ‘You’re a good man, Philip, and a good cop. We all know that. But you need to learn to let go of things. Not rock the boat.’ She drew a pack of ciggies from her bag and offered him one. He declined. She lit up and blew a plume of smoke towards the heavens. ‘Major Crime needs some balance, maybe an injection of integrity and heart. Not too much of course.’ She spared him a wry smile. ‘The careerists are taking over, they cut corners, give us a bad reputation.’ She nodded towards the grave and the mourners drifting away. ‘There’s a vacancy. Think about it.’
Cato got home, changed back into civvies, and drove around to Jane’s house in East Fremantle, the house they’d shared when they were still married. It was a large airy old place in King Street with polished wood, open-plan kitchen, lots of natural light. Tasteful art and photographs on the walls and expensive ethnic rugs. He’d dropped Jake there on his way to the funeral and agreed a catch-up time with Jane to discuss their wayward son. Simon, it was agreed, might exacerbate things and would be encouraged to head off to the Men’s Shed for an hour or two to make some more cigar-box guitars.
Jane pecked him on the cheek and offered him a coffee. He felt her expanding bump brush his pelvis as she’d leaned into him.
‘How was it?’ she said.
‘Grandiose.’
‘You looked good in your uniform when you were dropping Jake.’ A mischievous smile, like old times. ‘Specially with your macho bruises.’
Cato enjoyed the rare intimacy. ‘So, where is he?’
‘In his room, sulking, playing some video massacre game, writing soulful poems. Who knows?’
They decided to ground him until the end of term, about four weeks, and confiscate his phone and laptop. No pocket money either.
‘What about the parents of the other kids?’ said Jane.
‘Do you know them? Are you in touch?’
‘I see them sometimes at basketball. Maybe I should have a quiet word?’
‘Your call, but in the end their kids are their problem. We’ll deal with ours, our way.’
‘He won’t like it.’
‘He’s not meant to.’
‘What if he doesn’t stick to it?’
Cato gave it some thought. ‘Fingers crossed, he will. We’ll cross that bridge if and when.’ They discussed Jake’s wish to live with Cato and agreed it was a bad idea, he’d be under even less supervision with Cato’s erratic hours. But they’d both do their best to pay him a bit more attention. They summoned Jake from his room and gave him the news. He nodded and grunted and went back to his pit when they’d finished.
‘Well, that went well,’ said Cato.
David Mundine’s yellow motor scooter was parked outside Hutchens’ house when he returned from the funeral. The man himself was sitting on the verandah, messing with his phone.
‘Mr H.! Nice threads.’
‘You need to leave my property, now.’
‘Or?’
‘Or I’ll make you.’
He wiggled his hands in mock fear. ‘Oooh. Scary. Where’s your mates today, then?’
‘Which mates?’
‘The ones you sent round to talk to me.’
‘Dunno what you’re on about.’ Hutchens thumbed over his shoulder. ‘Now piss off.’
‘Nah. Happy here.’
Hutchens grabbed him by the throat and hauled him to his feet. Mundine went limp, became a dead weight. Hutchens found himself straining, brought in his other hand to share the burden. And felt a claw grip his crotch, digging in deep and twisting. He’d never experienced pain like it.
‘Breathe through it, Mr H. Slow and steady. One, two, like that.’
Hutchens was blacking out. He could feel it. The hold he’d had on Mundine changed to a grasp for support.
‘That money you sent over has already been banked. You won’t find it.’ Another twist. Another jolt of agony. ‘I’ll want more but you need to understand it’s not the main game anymore.’
A slight easing of the pressure.
‘Do you know what it’s like to be alone in the world, Mr H.? To know that nobody is going to help you?’ The grip turned into a caress of his groin. ‘To come to love your tormentor because he’s the only one who really understands you?’ Mundine leaned into Hutchens and breathed in his ear. ‘You will.’
Cato found himself daydreaming about Sharon Wang. He’d been pottering around: tidying up, doing chores, chopping wood for the pot-belly as the clear skies sent the night-time temperatures tumbling. He’d tried playing the piano but wasn’t in the mood. It was the weight of Jane’s pregnant bump against him that had triggered the thoughts. He missed, and craved, some physical intimacy. There was a kaleidoscope of emotions: at Lara’s funeral he’d recalled their brief encounter in a Hopetoun motel room. Then Jane’s casual pressing of her weight against him and her musk of motherhood and sexuality. Or was it just him? Dateless and desperate? Either way, it all came back to Sharon Wang.
They hadn’t spoken since he’d left China. But that last day, dancing in the park, the lingering kiss. It was like they were already lovers. But they weren’t. They were thousands of kilometres apart with no plans to reconnect. They led separate lives. So what was the point of thinking about her?
What was she doing now?
He lifted his mobile, scrolled through and found her number. His thumb hovered over the keypad. He dialled.
‘Philip? You okay?’
‘Yeah, I just wondered how you were going?’
A brief and, to Cato, awkward silence. ‘Good, yeah. You?’
‘It was Lara’s funeral today.’
‘How’d it go?’
‘Oh, you know.’
‘Yeah.’ There were voices in the background. She had company. ‘You okay?’
‘Pretty much.’ Cato heard the murmur of a male voice nearby, saying her name.
‘Look, I’m sorry I have to go. You take care, right?’
‘Sure,’ said Cato. ‘You too.’
Hutchens was losing it. He was old, fat, out of condition. Past it. And Mundine wasn’t going to go away. The bastard had done nothing that warranted official intervention. Nobody was going to solve Hutchens’ problem for him.
Do you know what it’s like to be alone in the world, Mr H.? To know that nobody is going to help you?
His options were limited. He could take his family with him and run away. But where to? And what was to stop the mad fucker coming back into their lives sometime down the track? Or he could kill Mundine and accept the consequences: the rest of his life in jail. But at least his family would be safe.
The pain in his chest was getting worse. It was almost constant now. Neither the angina spray nor the tablets could stop it. He was weak, he was useless. He couldn’t rid himself of the sour taste of self-loathing.
He went to the bedroom, crawled under the doona and lay there staring at the wall. Gasping at the thin air.
24
Monday, August 26th.
Unfinished business. The Tan murders might have been consigned to the archives but Cato wasn’t going to let go. As far as he was concerned the remaining mat
ters were not loose threads or anomalies, they were valid questions that required an answer.
Top of the list: did Des O’Neill’s partnership with Yu Guangming have anything to do with the Tan murders? He’d retained a copy of the ACC profile on Francis Tan’s finances but while O’Neill’s business entity warranted passing mention, his and Yu’s dealings were not part of the picture. Wongan Holdings and Suzhou Dragon. Cato googled Wongan first, figuring much of the info on Yu’s company would be on Chinese websites and probably in Mandarin.
Wongan Holdings.
Proprietors: Desmond John and Joyce Therese O’Neill. Registered office in Attadale, care of the accountant. No company website. It figured, Des didn’t seem the type. News reports. Des shaking hands with cockies and sealing deals to save the family farm. Des with visiting Chinese delegations, one with Francis Tan incorrectly captioned as a potential foreign buyer. Des winning a rural business award. All good news. No sign of anything dodgy, so far.
On the sixth page of the google search it got a shade darker. A family tragedy in the Great Southern. Three years earlier a fourth-generation sheep farmer near Lake Grace, depressed by mounting debts and imminent foreclosure to the banks, had shot his wife and then himself. They left behind a twelve year old son who’d been away at boarding school at the time. Long-time family friend and respected rural businessman Des O’Neill had expressed his horror at the loss and would be administering the estate to ensure the best possible future for the little boy. Was this the same story Des had told him about Francis getting involved personally in a farmer’s sorry tale and selling his own house to help fund the bailout? At the time Des had mentioned nothing about his personal link to the family or the scale of the tragedy – a murder-suicide, an orphaned child.
Nothing further. Cato switched over to Suzhou Dragon Enterprises. What little he found on English-language websites was, on the face of it, non-controversial and showed no hint that CEO Yu Guangming was in fact a violent and ruthless gangster. No surprise. The development projects linked to Suzhou Dragon meant nothing to Cato. Who knew what might have happened behind the business headlines? So still nothing from either search that pointed towards the Tan murders.
The next idea was a real forehead-slapper. Why hadn’t he already thought of this? He made the call.
‘Driscoll.’
‘Philip Kwong. WA Police. Remember me?’
‘Sure, mate. What can I do for you?’
‘Where are you?’
‘It’s a secret. Why?’
‘I was just wondering.’
‘Oh, that’s okay then. I’m in Canberra talking to some gubbas in suits.’
Best not to know, thought Cato. ‘I need your help.’
‘Go on.’
‘Yu Guangming ran a company called Suzhou Dragon.’
‘That’s Soo-joe, not Soo-zoo, just so you know.’
‘Thanks.’ He laid out his interest in Yu Guangming’s dealings, business partnerships, the type of projects plus any associated dirt, and anything on Wongan Holdings. ‘That’s Won-gan,’ said Cato. ‘Just so you know.’
‘I’m a bit busy, mate. Can’t your mate Sharon help you out on this?’
‘She’s got enough on her plate and it sounds like she’s already in trouble because of me. I don’t want to get her into more.’
‘How sweet,’ said Driscoll.
‘Look Yu’s dead, he was a bastard who probably slaughtered a whole family here. I’m not after any state secrets. I don’t need any of your spook records unless you judge it to be germane. And you owe me.’
‘Do I?’
‘Deep inside, you know you do.’
A pause. Maybe he was searching for his conscience, must have left it somewhere. ‘I’ll get back to you.’
Hutchens was on the stand at the Inquiry. He and Joan Peters, the Police Union brief, had been summoned early morning before the retired judge to double-check they were ready for this. They were. Peters had gone first, leading Hutchens down the long and winding road of schtum and no recall. It hadn’t taken too long. No, he had no recollection of making such a call to Andy Crouch late that night and no he couldn’t explain why Crouch had a record of it in his diary. Maybe to spice up his memoirs which nobody seemed to be interested in? No, he did not know the whereabouts of Peter Sinclair. So, Joan Peters asked, why had Hutchens dismissed David Mundine’s allegations?
‘It was a different era. These things were often overlooked to our collective shame.’ Hutchens lowered his eyes. ‘If I knew then what I know now, of course I would have acted differently. As it was, I was an overworked and stressed-out cop with too much on my plate. David was a troubled kid.’ He shot a glance towards Mundine in the public gallery. The young man had reverted to quivering victim mode – a remarkable piece of theatre. Hutchens added a little cameo of his own, he allowed his lower lip to tremble. ‘I’m sorry.’
He thought he caught the ghost of a smile from Mundine. In the row behind, Crouchie was miming silent applause.
Joan Peters cast her eyes around the room, a throw-net trawling for sympathy and common sense.
Then she handed the floor over to Andrew Burke QC.
‘You’re a busy and important man, Detective Inspector. I think we all appreciate the demanding job of frontline policing.’
Hutchens didn’t respond.
‘But if you could bear with us for a while longer I’d like to go through the sequence of events leading up to that night in October nineteen ninety-seven.’
‘Be my guest.’
So they trekked once again through the territory already covered by the testimony of David Mundine, the hostel office manager Carol Ransley, and retired police officer Andy Crouch. They were all there in the public gallery, they wouldn’t miss this for the world.
‘And you have no recollection of your whereabouts that evening of October twenty-first, nineteen ninety-seven?’
‘The record shows that I attended a call-out to a disturbance at the Mundaring Weir Hotel but I have no personal recollection of that. I’ve attended lots of call-outs to pub fights over the years.’
‘And you have no recollection of making that phone call to Mr Crouch?’
‘No.’
‘He indicated that he believed you might have been intoxicated at the time.’
‘That’s what he says in his journal, yes.’
‘Did you have a problem with alcohol during that period?’
‘I was a younger man, an occasional heavy drinker, in those days it went with the job.’ Hutchens shrugged. ‘We all get older, we grow up, leave behind the misdemeanours of youth.’
‘Of course we do.’ Burke checked his paperwork. ‘And you must have been particularly motivated to do so, having received two cautions and a reprimand over the course of the preceding six months?’
‘That’s right,’ said Hutchens.
‘Your superiors have noted, on the record, quote, “that while DS Hutchens has an excellent track record for getting results, of late his excessive alcohol consumption has increasingly impaired his professionalism”. Unquote. What did they mean by that?’
‘Probably what it says. But if you’re after details you’ll need to ask them. To my knowledge there are no further such cautions or reprimands on my record.’
‘Apart from the Beaton problem.’
He should have seen that coming, really. The wrongful conviction of a man for murder which had seen him transferred to Albany and Cato demoted into Stock Squad. For the benefit of the Inquiry and the public gallery and, of course, the news media, Burke replayed it in all its sordid detail.
Hutchens squared his shoulders. ‘My recollection of the internal inquiry at the time noted a general cultural and systemic problem which contributed to the inappropriate procedures and processes. Problems which have since been addressed.’
‘And you were at the heart of those cultural and systemic problems, were you not?’
At this point Joan Peters stood up and asked how relevant any
of this was to the matter of an inquiry into sexual abuse at the Hillsview Hostel during the late 1990s.
The Inquiry chair concurred and asked Burke to get to the point.
‘My point is that there was an officer with an ongoing record of alcoholism, unprofessionalism, and corrupt practices at the heart of both the inaction on the abuse allegations and the subsequent disappearance of Peter Sinclair.’
‘That’s a bit harsh,’ said Hutchens. But he sensed victory, of sorts. It was all fluff and mudslinging but, without a body, they were fucked. They had nothing. He exchanged a look with Joan Peters. She knew it too, the twinkle said it all.
While he waited for Driscoll to get back to him, Cato delegated some jobs out to the minions. The weekend had thrown up the usual assaults, drug charges, thefts, and such – the volume crime that never went away and remained the essence of his job. Deb Hassan was back on duty, duly counselled about her people skills and awaiting the result of a professional standards inquiry into her tasering of Zac Harvey’s mum. The likely outcome would be an official reprimand and if that didn’t suit Mrs Harvey, she’d have to take civil action to remedy the matter. Cato had a job for Deb.
‘Can you line up the Soong sisters, Lily and Matilda? Separately. I’d like to hear precisely what triggered Matthew’s recent hissy fit.’ He brought her up to date with developments. ‘Maybe it was just soggy toast or lukewarm coffee. Maybe there’s something worth a look.’
‘You haven’t given up on him, then?’
‘No, not yet. If they’re wondering, just tell them we’re tidying up the paperwork. Take Chris Thornton with you. Just in case.’
‘Just in case what?’
‘Occ Health and Safety. It’s a toss-up. Matthew might hit you with a spanner or you might zap him with your ray gun. Just covering my back, I don’t need the paperwork.’
‘Thanks, sarge,’ she muttered on the way out.
His desk phone went.
‘Is there a guy called Kwong there?’ The caller sounded about thirteen.
