by Alan Carter
The passivity of the situation was getting to Cato. He needed to be out hunting Mundine down, not waiting here for something that may or may not happen.
Hutchens stirred, opening one eye then the other. ‘Every time I look up it’s a new face. Is this a test or something?’
Cato smiled. It was a relief to hear shades of the old Hutchens. He offered him a drink of water.
‘I don’t think there’s any need for this.’
‘The water?’ said Cato.
‘The guardian-angel thing. That’s not the way Mundine works. This is too public, too direct.’
‘Better safe than sorry.’
‘Yeah, thanks, but there’s an office to run.’
‘We’ve got it covered. And they’re sending a relief DI to cover from tomorrow.’
‘Who? Not Pavlou?’
‘No, she’s a bit busy.’ On the body in John Forrest park, no doubt. ‘A bloke from Midland. Jimmy Spittle?’
‘Wanker,’ said Hutchens.
‘I don’t know him,’ shrugged Cato.
‘What’s the latest on the body?’
‘Digging it up as we speak. I think Pavlou’s hoping to have all the bits in place by day’s end and then they’ll start running the tests.’ Cato lifted his chin at Hutchens and the beeping machines. ‘Have the doctors spoken to you yet?’
‘Yeah, they’ll keep me in for a day or two more, gradually wean me off the jungle juice and send me home with some tablets and an appointment to get some plumbing done on the arteries.’
‘We’ve tried contacting Marjorie and the kids but we couldn’t find the numbers.’
‘They’ve been changed.’
Cato told him about the text message that he believed had been from Marjorie and was in fact from Mundine. ‘And he probably sent those flowers.’ Cato waved at the daffodils.
‘Bin them.’
Cato did. Hutchens located his wallet and dug out a slip of paper. ‘Marjorie’s number. Tell her I’m okay and to stay where she is.’
‘Where is she?’
‘Augusta, with her folks. Melanie’s there as well.’
Cato tried to remember the name of the other daughter. Hutchens saved him the trouble. ‘Don’t worry. She’s in Europe on her gap year. Not due back for months.’
Cato told him about the calls from Bandyup, about Tricia’s old boyfriend Paul Morrison.
‘And?’
‘I’ve got Thornton looking at it.’
‘How’s everything else?’
‘In hand,’ said Cato.
Hutchens’ lower lip trembled. ‘You’re a good bloke, you know that?’ He took a shaky sip of water. ‘Times like this, you really need someone to rely on.’
Deb Hassan resumed the seat late afternoon as the sun dropped, clouds gathered, and a wicked wind kicked in. Heading back to the office, bracing against sudden strong gusts, Cato phoned Marjorie Hutchens. She took some convincing not to drop everything and drive right back to Fremantle that instant.
‘Was that you trying to ring earlier?’ she asked.
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Never mind. My mum said someone called and would ring back later.’
‘On this number? The mobile?’
‘No, the landline.’ A pause. ‘Why? Do you think it could be that weirdo?’
Cato sought to reassure her. ‘I can’t see how he would have got the number. It’s probably nothing.’
‘Well if it is that bastard, he’d better be fucking sure of himself, my dad’s got a .303 and he’ll use it on the arsehole.’
They say that if you live with someone long enough you begin to take on their characteristics. It was certainly so with Mrs Hutchens. He wished her well and rang off.
Thornton had done a trawl on dead Paul Morrisons and left the results in Cato’s inbox. There were three: two in the metro area and one in Albany on the south coast. The first was a one-punch killing in a brawl in Leederville twelve years earlier. The victim, twenty-nine, cracked his skull when he landed on the footpath. Cato did the maths and decided he was probably too young. The second was a Paul Scott Morrison, aged forty-nine, who’d died in a suspected arson attack in Bassendean nine years ago. Finally Paul Joseph Morrison, fifty-three, had been beaten to death in his caravan at a semi-permanent site on the outskirts of Albany four years earlier. The last two showed promise, in terms of age group and timing and the nastiness of their deaths. Cato asked for more on each. There was nothing so far on Mundine’s or Peter Sinclair’s respective histories. That would have to wait until tomorrow.
He made a call to Deb Hassan. ‘How’s he looking?’
‘He’s eating his dinner, giving the nurse a hard time, and not far from his old self.’ Some words exchanged over a hand-muffled phone. ‘He wants to speak to you.’
The phone was passed over to Hutchens.
‘Let the poor woman go home to her family, Cato. This is a waste of time.’
They discussed it further for a minute or two then Cato relented. ‘Put me back on to Deb.’
‘Yeah?’ she said after the rustling.
‘Go home. The boss is right, we can’t sustain this.’
‘Are you sure? It’s no problem at all for me to stay. I’ve already made arrangements on the domestics.’
‘It’s fine. But leave him your gun just in case.’
‘Is that allowed?’
‘Do we care?’
Cato felt a presence at his shoulder. Hot breath in his ear. ‘Well hello,’ the voice said.
‘Geez, you’re jumpy,’ said Rory Driscoll.
He was right, Cato’s pulse was taking a while to steady. ‘How did you get past reception?’
‘Winning smile and a get-into-jail free card. Any chance of a coffee?’
Driscoll looked different. He’d swapped the Hawaiian shirt and boardies for smart winter casual and had a haircut and a shave. They adjourned to the departmental kitchen. It was less poky than the one in the old offices, this place did once belong to a bank after all. Cato put the kettle on. ‘So, any news?’
‘Our friend Yu and your friend Des were involved in a luxury housing development near Shanghai.’
‘Yep, near a place called Songjiang, an extension of Thames Town, I knew that already.’
‘The site they chose was not part of the original Thames Town.’
‘Right.’ Cato couldn’t hide his impatience. ‘Cambridge Gardens.’
‘Sounds classy, doesn’t it? Saw the photos on the website.’
‘The reality was somewhat less shiny.’
‘Did you know a fair chunk of the surrounding area had been bought up by Thomas Li?’
‘Yes, he pointed it out to me. He was having trouble with a bunch of stubborn residents whose homes were being demolished. They brought some thugs in to move them on. A few people got badly hurt. The son of one of those victims killed Lara.’
‘You’re better informed than I thought. Sharon kept you in the loop, did she?’
‘Until I left Shanghai.’ Cato dished out the coffee.
Driscoll took a thoughtful sip from his mug. ‘Stubborn residents weren’t Li’s only problem. Cambridge Gardens got in the way of Li’s grand plans for a major development: a mini city, homes for something like half a million people. All spoilt by Yu’s little enclave.’
‘And?’
‘Yu and O’Neill were set to make a killing. Li had agreed to their hugely inflated buy-out price. We’re talking gazillions here. But the deal stalled.’
‘Why?’
‘Don’t know yet. But if your mate Tan was involved it might be worth murdering for.’
That evening Cato popped around to his sister’s in the hope of catching the old man. He’d taken a quick detour along the coast and dropped Driscoll at a house in Cottesloe. Ocean views and the stench of money. And it didn’t look like it had been lived in for a long time.
‘Yours?’ said Cato.
‘Friend. Thanks for the lift. Catchya later.’
; The ocean foamed and the usual evidence of shipping lights, the navigation channels, and the Rottnest lighthouses had disappeared behind a curtain of rain. Once again he found himself stamping his feet on Mandy’s welcome mat to shake off the excess drops.
‘Dad’s asleep.’
‘At seven?’
‘He’s a free spirit, not constrained by the same things that hold us fast.’
‘How’s that creative writing course of yours going?’
‘Piss off. Want some wine?’
They adjourned to the kitchen where Kenneth was trying to supervise the children’s chores. It seemed even putting stuff in the dishwasher was way too much effort for their pre-pubescent oldest boy. The girl was showing unusually great interest in world events on ABC news while little Bao bashed an upturned pan with a wooden spoon. Kenneth mimed shooting himself in the temple and took a swig of wine.
Mand led Cato over to a less chaotic sitting area and handed him a shiraz.
‘How was China?’
Cato told her about Lara.
‘That job of yours. I don’t know how you do it.’ She touched his still bruised face. ‘Are you okay?’
‘On the mend.’ He took a sip of wine. ‘Any developments with Dad?’
‘I had him at the doctor’s yesterday. He wanted to know whether we’d made any decisions about keeping him at home or putting him in a hospice.’
‘We didn’t really settle anything on that, did we?’
‘No. Any strong views?’
Cato shook his head. ‘I suppose I’d want him to be close to family. But I know that in reality that means business as usual for you. What do you think?’
‘Same. I want him here. Kenneth is with us on that.’ She raised her glass and blew a kiss in his direction. ‘That right, love?’
Kenneth was lying on the kitchen floor playing with Bao. A momentary lapse of concentration while he responded to Mandy cost him his wine as Bao’s wooden spoon found its target. The explosion of glass was loud but luckily no casualties. Kenneth plopped a tearful Bao on Mandy’s lap, smiled, and went off to get the dustpan and brush.
‘It’s settled then,’ said Mand, chuckling Bao’s chins.
‘What about Susie?’ said Cato.
‘She’ll think what we tell her.’
As Mand refocused her formidable determination back onto her immediate brood Cato felt a pang of pity for Susie. He could see why she sometimes kept her distance. The yin and yang of family. Strength and support one day, claustrophobia and control the next.
26
Wednesday, August 28th.
Cato got to the office early, parking down near the Roundhouse a few hundred metres away and hurrying back through the drizzle. Chris Thornton was already there and directed him to his email inbox.
‘The gen on Mundine and Sinclair.’ He grimaced. ‘Not pretty.’
Cato grabbed himself a mug of tea and logged on. In fact a few other emails had crept ahead of the queue. DI James Spittle would be joining them from mid-morning following a briefing with Area Command at HQ and with DI Pavlou about the current shared caseload. He then wanted a meeting with Cato at 10.30. Cato let him know he’d be there.
He checked into the overnight incident log to make sure there were no surprises ahead of the meeting with the new DI. Luckily the rain had kept people indoors. There were fewer street incidents but an increase in domestics and a couple of burglaries, nothing out of the ordinary. He returned to his emails. Another from Pavlou asking if he’d seen the Major Crime vacancy list: there were two now with Lara gone and James Maloney not coming back. The deadline for an expression of interest was a week Friday. Cato studied the email. She was pushy. So why hadn’t he already turned her down? He was fine where he was. He didn’t need the politics and compromises that would come with such a job. His boss was in a hospital bed, he’d come close to death. Loyalty had to still count for something.
Times like this, you really need someone to rely on.
Cato closed the email. But he didn’t delete it.
Chris Thornton’s homework.
Peter Sinclair first. Sinclair was a cleanskin. No criminal record or police interest right up to and including the Hillsview Hostel scandal. No red flags from any social workers. The allegations at Hillsview were appalling: rape, torture, degradation. His victims as young as nine and as old as fifteen. Control had been maintained with tried and trusted methods: violence, threats and intimidation on the one hand, alcohol and drugs on the other. Some boys, now men, requiring a colostomy bag as a result of the anal tearing. There were six known victims who had lodged complaints – all ignored at the time – and were now appearing before the Inquiry. Among them was David Mundine.
As Cato had already gleaned, David Mundine had a troubled childhood. It can’t have been easy growing up with Tricia Mundine as your mother. Chris Thornton, courtesy of a mole in the Child Protection Department, had pieced together what he could of the Mundine jigsaw. After he left Hillsview Hostel to return to the bosom of his family, David had continued petty offending, mixing drugs and alcohol to destructive effect. He’d had a couple of spells in the mental hospital at Graylands and at the Alma Street psych unit attached to Freo Hospital. He hadn’t managed to hold down any jobs or education and was now claiming some kind of invalid pension after persuading a succession of doctors and psychs to sign the appropriate paperwork. A de facto, Lisa Gangemi, had taken a restraining order out on him a few years previously. She’d disappeared but Chris Thornton was following her up.
On paper, Mundine was the classic victim and the typical screw-up. Society was rife with such people, dysfunctional families crossing paths with dysfunctional organisations and each in the line of sight of determined predators. Result: yet another lost generation. Some folded up, turning the destruction wrought on them inwards. And some, like Mundine, turned the rage outwards wreaking new havoc. Somehow Mundine had bested Mick Hutchens, a seasoned police veteran with a tough reputation. How come? Where did he acquire the social and people skills and the street smarts to pull all this off? Maybe Hutchens was simply past it. Cato didn’t think so. He reread Mundine’s career highlights. After Hillsview he never returned to school, segueing seamlessly onto unemployment benefit and a whole bunch of life skills courses that he failed to turn up to. Except one: an IT course where he hung in there for the full week and was even issued a certificate of attendance. There was a scan of it attached. The signature on the certificate was an illegible scrawl with no printed name included. The course was called ‘Let’s Get Digital!’ and had been held at a community centre in Maylands early in 2003 by which time David would have been about twenty. There were no further details but obviously it was enough to light a spark in Mundine. Completing the course was a rare upward blip in his curriculum vitae of ongoing failure. Cato tapped out a note to Thornton to see if he could find out more. A year or so later, he’d had another success. Mundine managed to pass his driving test. After that he pretty much reverted to character.
Deb Hassan stood in his doorway.
‘Busy?’
‘What is it?’
‘One of the burglaries in the overnight log?’
Cato lifted his head and didn’t like the look on Hassan’s face.
‘The boss’s house.’
Cato and Hassan did a walk through. There was very little damage; indeed Cato got the distinct impression the burglar had actually tidied up. The place was cleaner than his own home.
‘A neighbour found the back door ajar. She’s used to going down the side if nobody hears her. Saw the damage around the lock and called us.’
‘Anything obviously missing?’
‘There’s no laptops anywhere.’ She pointed at the flashing box beside the landline phone. ‘But there’s a wireless modem.’ She led him to the kitchen table, to the small stack of opened mail. ‘And there’s this. The postmark is yesterday, when the boss was in hospital.’ And his family already in Augusta, thought Cato. ‘Otherwise plenty of valuables
, jewellery et cetera, even some cash, all untouched.’
‘Mundine.’
‘Do we tell the boss?’
Cato was torn. The bloke didn’t need the added stress but he did need to know that Mundine had been through his house and may have found whatever it was he was looking for.
‘I’ll do it.’
She nodded. ‘One more thing.’ She led him into a bedroom off the hallway that seemed to serve more as a temporary storage room. In a walk-in wardrobe some clothes hung on hangars. A cupboard drawer was left open. It contained underwear, untidily rummaged through and hanging half out of the drawer. A pair of panties lay on the carpet.
Hutchens wanted to unplug himself there and then and hit the streets. Cato persuaded him to wait for the all-clear from the specialist due later that morning.
‘I’ve sent Deb Hassan and a couple of cars round to that Jolimont address you gave me. We’ve got enough to bring him in, now.’
Hutchens eyed Deb Hassan’s Glock on his bedside cabinet. ‘Not good enough. He has to be stopped.’
Cato laid a reassuring hand on Hutchens shoulder. ‘We’re on it, boss.’
Cato took a call on his mobile from Deb Hassan.
‘He’s not there. A neighbour saw him go off on his scooter a couple of hours ago.’
‘Put out an alert,’ said Cato.
‘Do we have grounds? According to Duncan Goldflam he left no significant traces at the burglary. Maybe some drool on the undies but it’s low on the lab priority list. If it is him we’ll probably not know until next month.’
Cato cut her off. ‘If I’m wrong, I’ll wear it.’
‘No worries. There is one positive. We found a laptop in his wheelie bin. Could be the boss’s.’
Cato passed it on.
‘What make?’ said Hutchens.
A short delay and a rustle. ‘Toshiba.’
‘That’s Marjorie’s. He must still have mine. An HP.’
‘Anything on there to worry about?’ asked Cato.
‘It’s not got a password, they give me the shits. But I did clear off anything about Augusta or about Marjorie’s contact details.’
