by Alan Carter
‘Sure?’
Hutchens looked doubtful. ‘That stuff’s never been my strong point.’
Cato was aware he had a meeting in half an hour with the new DI; acting, he had to keep reminding himself. He farewelled Hassan and extracted a promise from Hutchens not to leave the hospital without the doctor’s okay. A phone rang, this time it belonged to Hutchens. A typically terse conversation ensued. Hutchens’ contribution was two ‘yep’s and a ‘right’.
The call ended and Cato raised his eyebrows in query.
‘Pavlou wants to talk to me.’ He chucked his phone back on the bedside cabinet. ‘The bones in the bush are Peter Sinclair.’
‘How’s Mick?’
DI Jimmy Spittle was tall and lean with a greying buzz cut. He was the same vintage as Hutchens, pushing fifty, but looked ten years younger. A product of regular sport and careful diet. He was a genial enough bloke and didn’t seem to warrant Hutchens’ unkind assessment of ‘wanker’. Maybe that was Hutchens’ default position on humanity in general and why he was in so much trouble right now.
‘Bearing up,’ said Cato.
‘Good to hear. So what do you need from me?’
A helpful manager who showed concern for his colleagues. It was a good start.
‘We offloaded some jobs to Murdoch last week. Not a lot has come in since then. I think the bad weather helps.’
‘So?’
‘Some leeway on the reporting and stats timetable.’ If Hutchens’ crop of misfortunes served as an excuse to lift the administrative burden that dogged modern policing then it would all have been worthwhile.
‘No worries,’ said Spittle.
‘Can I speak to you in confidence, boss?’
‘Sure.’
Cato told him about Hutchens, the Inquiry, and about David Mundine. While it wasn’t exactly part of his caseload, he wanted to be able to do whatever it took to watch his boss’s back. A free-ish rein would be nice.
Spittle appraised him, resting his chin on steepled hands. ‘Keep me in the picture,’ he said. ‘If it becomes too much of a problem I’ll jerk your leash.’ Cato thanked him and stood to go. ‘Sandra Pavlou tells me she’s got her eye on you. I can see why, now. That kind of loyalty and honesty is in short supply these days.’
Cato found himself unaccountably blushing.
Spittle smiled. ‘Does Mick know you’re contemplating pastures new?’
David Mundine hadn’t driven in over a year. His mum’s Datsun stank of her cigarettes and old woman pong. It whined like a needy junkie whenever he put his foot down. At this rate he wouldn’t make Augusta before dark. Then he’d have fucking kangaroos to worry about. He’d avoided the freeway and Forrest Highway and stuck to the old coast road for as long as possible, figuring any police interest would focus first on the fastest road south. He was just past the Dawesville Cut, south of Canalsville, and he knew there was a roadhouse not far away. He remembered the first time he’d gone there. He was eight and his mum had gone to pay for the petrol and buy some Chiko rolls and choc milk. Paulie had snatched the opportunity while she was away to make David rub his dick. Mundine felt himself get hard at the memory. He’d learned to control his self-disgust.
He pulled into Dawesville roadhouse, in the same parking space they always used. The one Paulie liked, just around the corner out of sight. He didn’t need fuel, he’d filled up back in the metro area and was good now until at least Margaret River. He pulled the peak of his baseball cap down low, ducked his head and entered the shop. The place was empty, struggling for business with all the traffic now going down the new road. He knew where the cameras were, high on the wall, and made sure they wouldn’t get a good look at him. He bought a Chiko roll and a choc chill for old time’s sake and gave the old slapper a wink on the way out. His hard-on wouldn’t go away.
He went into the toilets and jerked it off.
By mid-afternoon they located Mundine’s scooter. It was parked near East Perth railway station. From there you could take buses or trains down south to Bunbury and then connections on to Augusta. Thornton and Hassan checked with the various ticket sellers and took a look at the CCTV footage. Two hours later they still had no fix on him. Colleagues down south had been alerted to wait at bus and train stops along the way to intercept arriving passengers or, if he’d already arrived earlier, to try and pick up his trail. The Augusta desk sergeant said that day’s bus had already arrived and the passengers dispersed. If Mundine was on it they weren’t any the wiser, so far. Cato asked them to park a car outside the Couchers’ home.
‘That’s not as simple as it sounds, mate.’
‘Why?’
‘They’re in East Augusta, over the river. The road in there is a big detour back through the bush. It’s a couple of hundred metres swim but we’re talking fifty-odd kilometres by road.’
‘So do it anyway,’ said Cato. ‘Please.’
‘Sure, but it’s bucketing down here. If your mate’s on public transport he’s going to have a long wet walk unless he knows somebody with a boat or can hitch a ride.’
‘I’m sure it wouldn’t be beyond him.’
The sergeant blew out a breath and said okay. ‘By the sound of it he’ll fit right in over in East Augusta. Real duelling banjos country, it is.’
Hutchens had checked out of hospital by noon and phoned a yachting mate. He still felt pretty shaky and was warned by the doctor to try to relax and avoid stress over the coming week ahead of further tests. The stents were still settling in and he was on heavy-duty blood-thinning medication to minimise the chance of clotting. Don’t bleed, they’d said. You might never stop.
‘Absolutely!’ He’d beamed at the specialist on his way out, feeling the weight of Deb Hassan’s Glock in his jacket pocket.
The yachting mate had more money than sense. He also had a Cessna. They were on the approach to the Augusta airstrip now, south of the town on the way to the Cape Leeuwin lighthouse. The weather was atrocious and the plane was bobbing around like a paper kite in the gale. It was a white-knuckle landing and Hutchens thought he felt his stents popping. Huge black clouds had robbed the place of any remaining daylight.
‘I owe you one, Baz.’ They shook hands and the plane taxied and took off again. By arrangement with another yachting mate who kept a holiday mansion down here at Flinders Bay, a car had been left at the airstrip for him. It was a Prado and the keys were in the ignition. It was that kind of town.
He tried phoning Marjorie but there was no answer. Odds on, she couldn’t get a signal. He also tried the landline but all he heard was crackles and hisses. The storm must have brought the lines down. Why did her bloody folks have to live on the wrong side of the river? And the wrong side of the century come to that. There was a missed call and a message from Cato. He ignored them. The rain was almost horizontal and the streets empty as he drove through town. On the far side of the Blackwood a few lights twinkled from the East Augusta settlement. Marjorie and Melanie were over there. Maybe Mundine was too.
Cato realised as soon as he got Chris Thornton’s update that things had just got a whole lot worse. A series of phone calls and emails had tracked down a name for the tutor on the ‘Let’s Get Digital!’ IT course that David Mundine signed up for back in 2003: Paul Scott Morrison, who had now firmed as the most likely candidate for Tricia Mundine’s abusive and predatory ex-boyfriend. The helpful course coordinator at Maylands community centre had even dug out the original brochure, with Morrison’s photo on it. The one David Mundine must have seen. Within eighteen months Morrison would die in a house fire in Bassendean, just up the road from Maylands. They now had the post-mortem report on that incident too. Morrison’s charred body showed signs of significant pre-fire injuries. It was evident that he had been tortured first.
Hutchens had discharged himself from hospital and wasn’t returning Cato’s calls. He wasn’t at home, they’d checked. All the signs were that he too, like Mundine, was headed south to Augusta. It was now early evening. The wind had
picked up. The weather from down south was coming this way. Cato feared the worst, and dealing with the worst was a significant resource issue. He phoned DI Spittle and brought him up to speed.
‘You’re thinking Tactical Response Group?’
Cato was.
‘Unless we put them on a plane now they’re not going to get down there for at least three hours, maybe four in these conditions.’
Cato didn’t fill the silence.
‘We’ll look like complete fuckwits if this is a false alarm.’
‘And worse if it isn’t,’ said Cato.
A few long moments more. ‘I’ll fix it,’ said Spittle. ‘Get this wrong and there’ll be no hiding place for you, not even Stock Squad.’ There was the sound of directives being issued behind a muffled mouthpiece. ‘I assume you’ll be hitching a ride with the Ninjas?’
Cato confirmed he would.
Mundine had seen the paddy wagon a mile off. The dozy bastard hadn’t made any attempt to be discrete, or maybe that was the point. He’d doused the Datsun headlights and rolled into the driveway of an empty holiday home a few hundred metres up the lane. Rain pounded the roof. He reclined the seat and watched and waited.
He checked his phone. No signal. No surprise, he was with fucking Vodaphone and they didn’t service Swampsville. Mundine rummaged through his backpack and felt the satisfying clank and weight of the tools. He disentangled the bottle of shiraz from the rope and dragged it out for a swig.
Some headlights appeared, turning off the main road and into the settlement. Mundine slid lower in his seat as the car, one of those big rich-dick 4WDs rocked past through the puddles. It rolled up to the police car and stopped. The driver got out. It was Mr H.
Mundine smiled. This was going to be even more fun than he thought.
Hutchens was relieved to see the paddy wagon parked outside. The occupant was a young bloke fresh out of the Academy, alert, awake, and keen. His name was Jason. After Jason had checked Hutchens’ ID they exchanged pleasantries and left each other to it. The neighbour’s dog barked at the rain; useless mongrel. Hutchens rapped lightly on the front door and went on in. Marjorie was pleased and puzzled to see him.
‘How did you get here? I thought you were in hospital?’
‘Baz brought me in his Cessna. The doctor gave me the all-clear.’ He went round everyone giving them hugs, except the old bloke, he was a handshakes only type. Melanie seemed cool. ‘Sorry about all this, love.’
‘No worries,’ she said. ‘Good to see Nanna and Pops again.’
‘Ryan out on a film?’
‘Bush south of Norseman, the life and times of a professional dog shooter. Some Serb ex-paramilitary.’
‘Lovely,’ said Hutchens. ‘SBS is it?’
‘Have you eaten, dear?’ said Nanna.
‘No Anne, I haven’t. What you got?’ He rustled up his hungry face, the one they all knew, like this was just another day.
She headed off to the kitchen to find something. Pops settled back into his favourite chair in front of the fire and resumed the crossword. He and Cato would get on well – they didn’t speak much, both lived in their heads. Wind and rain lashed the windows and a dog barked in the distance. Marjorie wrapped an arm around his waist.
‘Cato said you had a heart scare?’
‘Nothing love, all good.’ This wasn’t the time to go into detail.
‘Did they give you tablets or something?’
He patted his pocket reassuringly, feeling the weight of the Glock there. ‘Shake, rattle and roll.’
‘Do you really think this bloke is going to try something?’
Pops was listening in. His pen hovered over the cryptic. Hutchens noticed the .303 propped in the corner beside the firewood basket. ‘Not with Bill and me on the case, he won’t.’ He winked at Pops. ‘That right, Bill?’
‘Yep.’
The dog from a few doors down barked again. Louder this time.
Cato was climbing into the plane at Jandakot when his phone went. The ten-man Ninja team were already in their seats, hardware stowed. Two were snoozing, others checking their phones or listening to iPods. There was a spare seat beside their leader, a bloke called Dave who Cato had encountered before. Cato’s phone buzzed again.
‘That’ll be for you,’ said Dave, not looking up from his iPad.
It was a text from Thornton.
Call me
He did. ‘We need to make it quick, mate, the plane’s about to start up.’
‘Lisa Gangemi.’ Mundine’s former de facto who’d taken out a restraining order against him a few years back. ‘She skipped the state and went to Townsville not long after the VRO. Changed her name.’
‘How’d you find her?’
‘Ways and means. Thing is, she’s now a missing person in Queensland under her new name.’
‘Missing how long?’
‘Since about a year ago.’
The propellers started up. ‘Nothing?’
‘Not a trace.’
They finished the call.
‘Santa?’ TRG Dave’s nickname for Cato. One night, two years earlier, Dave had found Cato wandering in bushland with a sack over his shoulder. Cato had been doing some Method Detecting, searching for a missing body, the sack meant to replicate the weight of a corpse. Dave tapped the screen of his iPad which held the operational briefing. ‘This bloke dangerous, you reckon?’
Paul Scott Morrison. Peter Sinclair. Perhaps Lisa Gangemi too.
‘Yes,’ said Cato. ‘I think he is.’
Hutchens polished off a cheese toastie and a piece of carrot cake. They’d already eaten. Bill liked his dinner at 5.30. On the dot. They settled in to watch the seven o’clock news and Hutchens went around the house checking doors and windows. What was the likely outcome here? Fuckface comes through the door like Norman Bates on meth, and he and Bill mow the bastard down in a hail of gunfire? Sweet. That would solve a few problems. But was it really going to happen? Maybe Mundine had just sloped off to a mate’s to do a few bongs and jerk off and they were all getting excited about nothing. How long was he supposed to wait here to find out? Maybe they should all just pack up and hightail it back to Perth. Check into a hotel and put some guards on the door.
No.
That way the problem didn’t go away. Something told him that one way or another they were obliged to sit it out here in Footrot Flats until the bitter end.
The doors and windows all seemed secure enough. Bill was like that. Handy. Reliable. Always fixing things. Sometimes when they were in Perth on a visit Bill would pop around while Hutchens was at work and fix some tap that had been dripping for the last nine months and Marjorie would give him her disappointed look when he got home that night.
The dog down the road was going berko. They should bring it in out of the rain.
Then the lights went out.
27
Cato and the Ninjas landed in Augusta just after 8 p.m. The pilot had struggled to bring the twelve-seater in through bouncing gusts. Cato noticed a few seasoned hard men gripping their armrests on the way down. Two minibuses, commandeered from local schools, were waiting at the airstrip with their Augusta police drivers. The pilot was happy to decamp to the town motel until the weather passed and they were all ready to go home. The local OIC confirmed that he had a bloke in place at the property in East Augusta but hadn’t communicated directly with the occupants as the phone lines were down.
‘Jason popped his head around the door half an hour ago and everything seemed to be fine. He said your colleague Mr Hutchens has arrived.’ The OIC smiled reassuringly like that must have been good news and all part of the plan. Cato thanked him and they moved off.
The two-bus convoy was joined by a couple of extra paddy wagons from Margaret River and Nannup. All in all, a police contingent of eighteen including Cato – two more if you counted Hutchens and Jason, the solitary guard over in East Augusta. A cast of thousands. If this was just a false alarm then Cato’s job was on the line.
> Dave and half of his crew suited up in transit as the buses sped through the Augusta township, north up Bussell Highway then out east along Brockman Highway and around to East Augusta. Night-vision goggles slid into place and machine guns ratcheted. Meanwhile the other half of the TRG squad plus the four officers from Margaret River and Nannup drove down to the Augusta town jetty and took the short cut by boat across the river.
Cato tried both the Hutchens’ mobiles but there was no reply.
Hutchens took the Glock out of his jacket pocket and went into the sitting room. The fire was still alive in the grate and gave off its flickering orange glow. Bill had also located a couple of torches and drawn everyone into a huddle in the centre of the room, ever the boy scout, but on this occasion Hutchens could have hugged him.
‘Everyone okay?’ said Hutchens.
Melanie’s lower lip wobbled but she nodded.
‘It’s probably just the storm,’ said Bill. ‘It’s happened before, more than once.’
Hutchens flicked his eyes towards Bill’s .303 parked in the corner. Bill got the message and went to retrieve it.
‘I’ll pop out and check with Jason. See what he knows.’ Hutchens took a spare torch from Bill and ventured outside.
The rain was still driving hard and the wind tugged at his jacket. Twigs, dust and leaves flew through the air, stinging his exposed skin. It was black dark. The power was out on neighbouring properties. Perhaps Bill was right and it was a storm outage, nothing more. Hutchens swung the torch and its beam found the paddy wagon still in place with Jason in the driving seat, his head resting against the side window. The bastard was having a snooze. As Hutchens stepped forward, his foot sank into a pothole and his ankle twisted. Pain shot through his leg and he lost balance. He dropped the torch as he tried to right himself. The torch rolled into a water-filled ditch and the light died.
Jason would have one. Hutchens limped up to the driver’s window and tapped. He’d framed some choice expletives in his mind for the bollocking he was about to dish out. Jason didn’t respond. Hutchens grabbed the door handle and yanked. Jason fell out. Lifeless and limp. Despite the rain and blackness Hutchens could see that Jason’s shirt front was covered in dark liquid that could only have been blood. Hutchens heard a scrape behind him.
