by Alan Carter
‘That’s me, who wants to know?’
Her name was Tracey and she was in fact a senior corrections officer from Bandyup. She’d gone through the visitors log and tracked him down. ‘Patricia Mundine, one of our clients, remembered talking to some Chinese bloke last week, that’d be you I guess, and she wanted us to pass on a message.’ All of Tracey’s sentences ended on an upward questioning inflection.
‘Go on.’
‘She said the bloke’s name was Paul.’
‘Which bloke?’
‘The old boyfriend. She said you’d know. Something to do with the son?’
‘Paul what?’
‘Just Paul.’
He thanked her, gave her his mobile contact as an alternative, and ended the call. One day another synapse might spark and Tricia would remember Paul’s surname. Or maybe not. Cato got on with his life.
Hutchens had a celebratory lunch with Joan Peters. They found a Thai place in the city and got stuck into the massaman and the green chicken. He even stumped up for two glasses of SSB from Marlborough.
‘Cheers,’ he said.
‘Cheers, dear.’ They clinked.
‘You were right. They had nothing.’
‘I don’t think you’re out of the woods yet. They could still bring out an adverse finding against you.’
He grunted and forked some beef. ‘Least of my worries.’
Peters looked concerned. ‘Why’s that, dear?’
Hutchens smiled reassuringly. ‘Nothing. I think I’m on the home straight now.’
She didn’t seem convinced. ‘Maybe you should take a few days leave? You’ve been through a lot of stress lately.’
‘I’ve been thinking the same thing myself,’ he beamed. ‘Few days in the country, do me the world of good.’
Peters lifted her glass again. ‘I’ll drink to that.’
Their phones buzzed simultaneously. They took their respective calls.
‘Fuck,’ said Hutchens after a moment.
‘Shit,’ said Peters, round about the same time.
Driscoll got back to Cato way earlier than expected.
‘Nothing.’
‘Nothing?’
‘Yup.’
Cato didn’t believe it and he told him so.
‘Don’t blame you, mate. I don’t believe it either.’
‘There has to be something, however banal or innocuous.’
‘I know.’
‘So?’
‘It’s piqued my interest. I’ve seen this kind of thing before. There’s a black PR company based in Shanghai. Its name translated means something like “Born Free”.’
Driscoll explained. Black PR companies offered a service probably only possible somewhere like China. Officials fearing an impending corruption inquiry could pay to have themselves deleted from the internet, to clear up their reputations and be reborn, free. But it wasn’t cheap. Money was required to bribe webpage editors and if it happened to be a government site the fee would of course be higher. Censorship notices, real or fake, could be issued to give the deletion an official-seeming imprimatur. All for a hefty price. It could only work in a regime where there was strict control over the internet and over the population. Beautifully Orwellian. The Ministry of Truth. Turning yourself into an unperson. Neat.
‘So you think Suzhou Dragon has had itself whitewashed?’
‘I have my suspicions.’
‘You’d have to be pretty worried about something to go to those lengths.’
‘Yep.’
‘Anything we can do to find out what?’
‘Leave it with me. Are you around for a while? Not going away anywhere?’
‘No. Why?’
‘I’ve got to be in Perth by tomorrow night. A training course with the SAS at Swanbourne Barracks.’
‘I won’t ask.’
‘Best not.’ He severed the connection.
Cato felt the first stirrings of hope that he might finally be getting closer to the truth behind the Tan murders.
It was on the radio news as Hutchens headed back down the freeway. As a result of recent publicity surrounding the Hillsview Hostel Inquiry, police had received an anonymous tip-off in connection to a related missing persons case dating back to 1997. They were now scouring bushland in an area of John Forrest National Park near Mundaring.
‘Mundine. Has to be,’ he muttered to himself.
His phone buzzed. A text from the devil himself.
good show 2day
Hutchens didn’t reply. Another followed.
wheres the family?
He didn’t bite.
X marks the spot
So he did know what became of Sinclair. He hadn’t been bluffing.
catch you later then
The bastard must be on one of those unlimited SMS plans. He resisted the temptation to text back – get a fucking life, weirdo. The way things were going, Mundine might just do that.
Things moved quickly after that. Within an hour of getting back to Fremantle he got a call from Major Crime. DI Pavlou no less.
‘There’s signs of old earth disturbance at the spot the tip-off gave us. We’ll be bringing in the cadaver dogs and GPR.’ Ground penetrating radar. He detected genuine sympathy in Pavlou’s voice. ‘We’ll probably want to speak to you soon, Mick. Maybe tomorrow, on the record, to set the ball rolling.’
‘No worries,’ he said.
He felt the first jolt just after he put the phone down. He’d thought it might be static or something. Or indigestion from the Thai lunch. Another across his chest, his arm and shoulders numb, everything tight. He felt hot. Nauseous. He sank to his knees. Jesus, he thought. This is it.
25
Tuesday, August 27th.
Cato had heard the commotion from his office across the corridor. A uniform was giving Hutchens CPR while another yelled down the phone for an ambulance. All the time Cato was thinking that this was inevitable, he’d seen it coming and he’d done nothing about it. All attempts to contact Hutchens’ wife and family had so far come to nothing. His boss had removed them from his phone and email contacts. What was that about? A falling out? The bloke had been under huge pressure lately so family tensions were not an impossibility. Cato suspected something else. Like the clients of Born Free, the black PR company in Shanghai, had Hutchens erased his family from the record? He feared something, and that something was very probably David Mundine.
Hutchens had tried to convince him that he could handle Mundine, and that everything was under control. But all he ever did was get pinker and tighter and shinier until he burst.
Hutchens was now in intensive care on the fifth floor of Fremantle Hospital. In the absence of family it was Cato who’d stayed at his bedside all night. According to the cardiologist, Hutchens had been lucky. What he’d had was a warning, something that could be mitigated with medication, stents and, down the track, a bypass operation. Hutchens’ phone had buzzed in the small hours of the morning.
Why aren’t you at home?
Cato had assumed it was Mrs Hutchens or one of the daughters. He’d tried to phone the number but nobody had answered. So he’d texted instead.
In hospital. Heart scare
The reply. LOL
Mundine.
Cato now had a new project.
By breakfast time he was exhausted. Sleep in the armchair next to Hutchens’ bed had been fitful at best. He grabbed a coffee and a chocolate bar from the machine along the hall and made some calls. According to the GPR results, DI Pavlou definitely had some human remains on her hands up at John Forrest so she was naturally sceptical about the turn of events and wondering if Hutchens was just trying it on. Cato put her straight, he tried explaining about the threats against Hutchens and his family. She definitely wasn’t buying into that and saw no need to increase security at the hospital. They couldn’t spare the manpower.
‘Where’s the evidence against Mundine? This is a victim of child sexual abuse. Do you realise what you’re saying here? He’s also a weedy
little bloke who happens to be testifying against Hutchens at the Inquiry.’ Pavlou was resolute. ‘It’s not a good look, mate. No way.’
Cato had to let it go.
Her parting shot. ‘This might be a sign, Philip. I can’t see Mick getting back to work any time soon. Maybe this is your opportunity to move on?’
That was another thing. They were left with a serious hole in the leadership team at Freo Detectives. Ordinarily Cato himself should have stepped into the breach but he might be the only thing standing between Mundine and the patient along the hall. He’d have to organise a protection roster – himself, Hassan and Thornton – and he’d need to juggle a few balls in the air to keep the office functioning. He was almost tempted to let Mundine get through and do his worst. Maybe that would convince the powers that be to take this seriously.
When he returned to the room there was a new vase of flowers. Daffodils. And a card with a message: Get Well Soon, Mr H.
David Mundine checked the fridge and found some cold meats, mustard and posh heart-tick marge. There was half a loaf of sliced wholegrain in the bread box. He got himself a plate and knife and put together a few ham sandwiches, flicking the kettle on while he worked. He settled at the kitchen table, dragging out a second chair to rest his feet, and sorted through Hutchens’ mail.
The marigold gloves made the letter opening a bit fumbly. First, the credit card statement. He took a note of the details, number, expiry, et cetera. The list of purchases was pretty mundane: restaurants, weekly groceries, wine delivery, Bunnings. Boring. A letter from the Salvos asking for a donation for ‘at risk’ youth. Mundine felt generous. He gave them a thousand bucks, filled out Hutchens’ credit card details and shoved the slip in the reply paid. He’d post it on his way home. Gas bill. Phone bill. He made a note of the second mobile, Mrs H.’s no doubt. He also noted some of the more commonly called numbers. Maybe one of them would be the lovely Melanie. He looked at her photo on the fridge door. Very tasty. No address book next to the phone like you usually see. Maybe Mr H. was being clever. Next to the photo of Melanie there was one of Mrs H. and some oldies, her folks no doubt. It was by a river. He recognised the place, it was the mouth of the Blackwood down at Augusta. Lovely spot. He’d been there a few times and always meant to go back.
He went through to the bedrooms. Nothing of real interest in the grown-ups’ room. A glass on the bedside table. He sniffed it. Whisky. Mr H.’s nightcap. He checked the other rooms. A study for Mrs H., the ghost of some strong perfume. He wrinkled his nose. Next, Melanie’s old bedroom perhaps, or the other younger daughter, some clothes still in the walk-in. And some undies in a drawer. He pressed them to his face. Contemplated a wank but decided against it. DNA.
Mundine returned to the kitchen, washed the dishes and stacked them. Wiped down a few surfaces. He put Mr and Mrs H.’s laptops in his backpack and left. Then he had a thought. He doubled back, found the box of wine deliveries in the laundry and selected a nice shiraz.
Deb Hassan took over from Cato by late morning. She updated him on the Soong sisters along the way.
‘Lily’s not giving us anything. She’s too scared of Matt, she has to keep living with him.’
‘Why? She could just leave him.’
‘For some women it’s not that simple. Anyway, whatever her reasons, she’s saying she doesn’t remember anything. Matilda’s a bit more interesting, though.’
‘Yeah?’
‘By the way have you seen those two in the same room together? Creepy. Like Dolly the Sheep.’
Cato was desperate for some sleep. He needed brevity. Hassan caught the look in his eyes.
‘So, Matilda, yeah. She reckons Matt was running off at the mouth when he was drinking himself senseless at her place.’
Cato yawned. ‘And?’
‘He hates Lily. He wants to leave her, can’t stand her materialism and neediness, apparently.’
‘This is the same guy who drives a new BMW at the age of nineteen, doesn’t seem to have a job, and bullies his mum for more money?’
‘That’s him. Matilda reckons little sister has a bit of a coke habit and Matthew is covering her debts. That’s why he’s getting into deeper shit.’
‘So why doesn’t he cast her adrift?’
‘Matilda reckons he’s too much of a softie.’
‘Do I detect an agenda with Matilda?’
‘Yeah, she’s screwing Matt too. On an as-needs basis.’
‘Keep me posted,’ said Cato stifling another yawn. He gestured back at Hutchens, still out for the count. ‘Nobody gets in here unless they’re a doctor or a nurse.’
‘What about the tea lady and the cleaners?’
‘Check their IDs first.’
‘Do we have any pictures of this Mundine character?’
‘I’m working on it.’
Hassan checked her Glock and took a seat by the bed. ‘Gives me the willies being back here, like this.’
Cato sympathised. Two years earlier Hassan had been one of two guards on a suspect requiring medical attention. A brief lapse in concentration and a visit to the coffee machine along the hall had allowed the suspect to escape. But not before doing enough damage to Hassan’s colleague to see him invalided out of the job.
‘Two hours and I’ll be back.’
She gave him a reassuring smile. ‘Take longer, Chris Thornton’s all set for the next shift.’
Cato left. He felt anxious, he felt guilty, he felt very tired.
His mobile woke him. He felt like he’d only had about five minutes sleep but when he checked the time he realised it was a couple of hours. The number didn’t register.
‘Is that Kwong?’
‘Yes.’
‘It’s Tracey from Bandyup.’
They exchanged brief pleasantries and Tracey got to the point.
‘Patricia remembered the rest of that name. Morrison. Paul Morrison.’
‘That’s it?’
‘No, mate, she’s excelled herself. It’s those healthy lifestyle classes we’re putting on. She’s detoxed and dynamite, today, bouncing around like the Duracell Bunny.’
‘Go on,’ said Cato, trying to mirror her positivity.
‘Well,’ she said, as if settling in for a long story. ‘Tricia reckons this Morrison bloke died a nasty death.’
‘Any details? When? Where?’
Tracey tutted. ‘One day at a time, mate.’
David Mundine checked the news websites on Hutchens’ laptop when he got home. Mrs H.’s was password-protected so he’d chucked hers in the bin. Breaking news on the ABC was that human remains had been confirmed at the John Forrest National Park and that the area was now a crime scene.
Of course it was.
Nothing in the news about Mr H. and his heart problems.
He opened up the desktop mail application. The emails were personal non-work stuff. Hutchens must keep all that in the office, a good sign of a healthy work–life balance, although that must have got out of kilter a bit lately. The emails were between him and various family members, some mates in the yacht club arranging a weekend out on the water, the wine website sending him special offers. The ones between family were all dated at least a month earlier, nothing since. Everything since then had been yachties and wine and other boring stuff. Mr H. had been tidying up after himself. He must have foreseen something like this, a loss of control over his personal life, his destiny. One way or another it comes to us all eventually. He was trying to shield his family from exposure to danger. So the more recent ones he’d deleted must have had useful information in them, like contact details, possible whereabouts. But people of Mr H.’s generation always make mistakes, too old and stupid to fully understand computers, the internet and stuff. Too lazy to completely cover their tracks. Too arrogant to believe anyone could bring them down.
Mundine found it not long after. An email chain between Hutchens and an old school friend of Mrs H. about a surprise birthday bash for his wife six months ago. The old friend expressin
g wonder at the passage of time and how the girl they’d all known as Marjorie Coucher had weathered the years well. Now that he had a maiden name, he ran a White Pages search and located a number and address for the Couchers in Augusta. He rang it. A woman answered.
‘Marjorie?’ he said.
‘No, this is her mother. She’s out at the moment. Can I take a message?’
‘No worries. I’ll call again, later.’ He put the phone down.
Cato took over from Chris Thornton mid-afternoon. Nothing to report, he’d said, apart from the fact that he might have fallen in love with one of the nurses on the afternoon shift. Keisha from Warnbro.
Cato didn’t encourage him. ‘Any sign of life from the boss?’
‘He woke up an hour or so ago, gave me a funny look and went back to sleep. Deb said he’d had some food and liquid late morning and they changed his drip. Seems to be zonked out on something or other.’
Before they parted company Cato asked Thornton to run a check on any murder, manslaughter, or otherwise suspicious death cases involving a Paul Morrison.
‘How far back and where?’
‘Let’s assume metro area for now and widen it if nothing turns up.’ He did some mental arithmetic and plumped for the last fifteen years.
‘That’s quite a stretch. What’s it related to?’
Cato told him. ‘And we need a discrete look at Mundine himself. Not just his charge sheet but also his movements over the same period: jobs, education, training et cetera. But we’ve got to be careful. So far he’s done nothing, so us digging dirt on him on the boss’s behalf won’t look good at the Inquiry.’
‘I’ll see what I can do.’
‘Finally,’ Cato held up a finger. ‘Peter Sinclair: a résumé of his misdeeds.’
‘The hostel pervo?’ Cato confirmed as much. ‘Anything else?’
‘Not for now.’
With Thornton gone Cato settled into the bedside chair. His boss’s face had changed over the last forty-eight hours. The pink tightness had been replaced by grey slackness. Hutchens looked old. Cato wondered if his boss would return to work after an ordeal like this – assuming the issues of the Inquiry and Mundine were successfully resolved.
