by Alan Carter
It wasn’t until Cato rolled home from the wake, late afternoon and a little tipsy, that he switched on his phone and was reminded of his three missed calls from last night plus a couple of new ones. Of the three from last night, two had been from Driscoll. The last had been from Sharon Wang.
‘Bummer. You’re not there. Hope you got the emails. I’m not sure what you’re up to but the office seems extra tense all of a sudden. I had my hearing. Ugly. They pass sentence later in the week. I’ll let you know how I go.’
The new ones were from Thornton. He’d dug up a bit more on Des O’Neill if he was interested, then ending up on an apology; he’d forgotten about the funeral. And Bandyup had called. Tricia Mundine wanted to speak to him. That could wait. You could only take so much of dropkick parents and their homicidal offspring. Speaking of which, he wondered if Phoebe had landed yet.
Cato dozed off. It was mid-evening when he woke. The drinks at the wake, on top of his late night with Driscoll, on top of a bottle of Shiraz before that, all in all, not a good look. But at least he hadn’t been garrotted yet. He downed a large glass of water and called Driscoll.
‘Any news?’
‘They’re staying at the Duxton. Phoebe’s got a river-view suite and the henchmen are across the corridor, facing the city. They’ve had dinner, steak for Phoebe, bloody and rare. The boys had fish.’
‘How do you get to know this shit?’
‘I was with them, I had the pasta. They want to meet.’
‘When?’ Cato said, wearily.
‘Now. You up for it?’
The Lobby Bar at the Duxton was furnished in retro green and purple stripes and flock patterned armchairs. For such an apparently classy place it was an assault on the eyes, particularly after Cato’s recent indulgences. Phoebe unfolded her long legs and stood to greet him with a warm smile.
‘Philip. So glad you could join us.’
Skin Moisturiser was there too. Cato was pleased to see he still carried faint traces of the bruising he’d given him in Thames Town. The handshake was brief. No warm smile. Finally the lawyer.
‘Peter Tien, very pleased to meet you.’
Cato figured if the garrotte was going to come from anywhere it would be from Skin Moisturiser. He gave himself some space in the seating arrangements.
‘Driscoll?’ he enquired.
‘Had to make a few phone calls. He’ll be back soon.’ Phoebe summoned a waiter and asked Cato what he wanted to drink.
Mineral water would be fine. Yes, bubbles would be nice too.
‘I feel I owe you an explanation, Philip. And perhaps an apology.’
For having Lara killed? For bugging his laptop and threatening his family? Or for slaughtering the Tans? ‘I’m all ears.’
She explained that her less than hospitable, perhaps even hostile, behaviour during his recent visit to Shanghai was regrettable and she apologised. She could sometimes be overzealous in her protectiveness towards her father. ‘I strive to be a loyal daughter,’ she smiled.
Xiaodao: filial daughter, little knife.
‘Did you pay Zhou’s son to murder Lara Sumich?’
‘Heavens, no!’ Her hand clutched her chest, what a terrible thing to suggest. ‘The boy apparently took offence at something one of your colleagues said when you all met in that expat bar. Chinese male pride can be deadly.’
Skin Moisturiser nodded in agreement. So his English was passable.
‘Your visit to the family to offer them money?’
‘Was purely coincidental. My father wanted to make reparation for the injuries Mr Zhou received during the evictions. Mr and Mrs Zhou will attest that there was no inducement.’
I’m sure they will, thought Cato.
‘And your partnership with Yu Guangming and Des O’Neill on the Cambridge Gardens venture. How does that sit with your father?’
The perfect brows knitted together in a frown. ‘There is no partnership. Any such suggestion is insulting and defamatory.’ She took Peter Tien’s hand in hers and for the first time Cato noticed the engagement ring. ‘My reputation is paramount.’
At this point Peter the Lawyer handed Cato a sheet of paper.
‘What’s this?’
‘We’ve been consulting with a local law firm. They have agreed to act on our behalf. This is a letter instructing you to cease and desist your allegations and enquiries into Ms Li.’ His finger prodded a dotted line at the bottom of the page. ‘You need to sign there.’
Cato studied the letter for a moment. Defamation, slander, libel, harassment, blah, blah. The threat was to take him to the cleaners if he didn’t pull his head in. He crumpled the paper into a ball and bounced it off Peter Tien’s nose. Skin Moisturiser stood up and leaned over Cato.
Driscoll returned with a middie. ‘Jeez, the price of a fucking beer in this place, makes you weep.’ He gifted them a grin. ‘So how’s it going with you mob? All good?’
34
Thursday, September 5th.
‘I don’t think they like you,’ said Driscoll.
Cato had to agree. It was only a matter of time before they came for him. Phoebe’s snarl of fury last night said it all.
‘You will regret that.’
Skin Moisturiser looked happy. Game on. Return bout.
So Driscoll had elected to stay at Cato’s overnight. He’d bedded down on the couch but the night was uneventful and, for Cato, sleep came surprisingly easy. Now they were sat at the kitchen table over a breakfast of coffee and toast.
‘Like Ma and Pa Kettle,’ Driscoll observed.
The radio was on. Two days out from Election Day and nothing had changed. Thought-bubbles, three-word slogans, squabbles over budget black holes, and the consensus: oblivion for the government and a new world order come Sunday. The opposition leader was giving out last-minute reassurances. The sky was not going to fall in if they gave him power. Promise.
‘How can you work for that mob?’ said Cato.
Driscoll smeared some marmalade on his toast. ‘Who says I do?’
‘A little bird tells me you’re headed for the pointy end.’
Driscoll crunched and wiped some crumbs off his shirt. ‘I have no problem with stopping the boats, mate. Shoulda done it two hundred years ago.’
If Cato had an argument for that he couldn’t think of one right now. ‘So you’re a secret agent. ASIS? ASIO? Who?’
‘Freelance.’
‘Freelance?’
‘Like Jim’s Mowing – no job too big or small.’ He took a mouthful of coffee. ‘So what’s your plans for today?’ he asked, like it was a choice between visiting a winery or doing a swim.
‘Thought I might buy one of those neck braces you were talking about.’
‘Maybe a nice day at the office is the safest place to be?’
‘Probably right. Pity I can’t just arrest them.’
‘For what?’
‘Mmm,’ said Cato. ‘What about you?’
‘Consider me your guardian angel, watching in the wings so to speak.’
‘Why? Haven’t you got a proper job to go to?’
‘I have a strong sense of duty and obligation.’ He poured himself more coffee from the plunger. ‘And you’re it. Until Sunday anyway.’
Cato received the post-funeral good wishes and condolences of his colleagues. The office was struck numb. Everyone’s thoughts would be drifting towards Hutchens and the life support mechanisms anchoring him in this world. DI Spittle invited Cato in for a chat.
‘How are you?’
‘Hanging in there.’
‘Good send-off?’
‘Yeah,’ said Cato. ‘It was.’
‘I’ve had some rumblings from above.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Some Chinese nationals. Highly influential. They claim you’re running some kind of campaign of harassment and defamation. What’s that about?’
Cato told him. ‘You might want to take notes. It can get a bit convoluted.’
‘You’re not kidd
ing,’ said Spittle at the end. ‘So you suspect them of involvement in the Caletti homicide?’
‘Yes.’
‘Don’t you think it’s worth mentioning this to Pavlou?’
‘It’s a bit loose, evidentially.’
‘Not wrong. The whole story’s a bit loose evidentially.’ Cato conceded that it was.
‘I’ll keep the top brass at bay. Maybe you need a break, somewhere nice and warm and far away. Let this all blow over. Recharge the batteries. What do you reckon?’
Cato said he’d give it some thought.
Back at his desk he found Chris Thornton and Deb Hassan hovering. All good, he reassured them. No, he hadn’t been to see Hutchens, yet. He’d probably drop by later today.
‘There was another call from Bandyup,’ said Thornton. ‘The mum’s really keen to talk to you. Threatening self-harm if it doesn’t happen soon.’
‘Is that a problem?’ said Cato.
‘Your call, sarge.’
‘Anything else I need to know?’
Hassan sniffed. ‘I did a conciliation meeting with Mrs Harvey, yesterday.’ Zac’s mum, the one Deb tasered.
‘How’d it go?’
‘Terrible. I just can’t bring myself to say sorry to the bitch.’
‘What was the outcome?’
‘She’s considering her options. A civil action could be on the cards.’
‘Sorry might not be the hardest word if she tries taking your house off you.’ Cato thought of the letter from the Perth law firm threatening the very same to him. Physician, heal thyself.
‘She did say something that made me think.’
‘Yeah?’ Cato felt his concentration slip its moorings.
‘Yeah, her precise words were, “Zakkie was right. You lot can’t see what’s in front of your own noses”. Unquote.’
‘What do you think she meant?’
‘Don’t know. Maybe we should ask her?’
Taking Deb along to see Mrs Harvey might not have been the best idea but the antipathy between the two women could also prove creative. The suburb still didn’t feature on the UBD or satnav. Deb had tried typing in Trollsville, WA but nothing came up.
‘That Wikileaks bloke could hide out here,’ she said. ‘They’d never find him.’
Endeavour Boulevard was as bleak and windswept as ever and the doorbell still went ding-dong. Zakkie answered.
‘What d’you want?’ He was rugged up in a hoodie and trackies and uggs and seemed to have a sniffle. Something buzzed in Cato’s rear cortex, probably a wine ricochet.
‘Just the man,’ said Deb, brightly. ‘Can we come in?’
‘No.’ He twisted his head. ‘Mum!’
There was the swish and static of lycra striding down a synthetic carpet. ‘You have a nerve.’
Cato stepped forward. ‘Mrs Harvey, I’d like a word with you and your son.’
‘Piss off.’
Cato knew now what had tugged at his memory. Zakkie’s hoodie. Same shade of green. The servo CCTV, a blurry figure hopping out of Matthew Tan’s car and disappearing into the shadows.
Cato insisted on a word.
They settled in the kitchen. No nice cuppas on offer. Bernice the tan staffie was outside again, eyeing them morosely from the shelter of a rusty bike. Mrs Harvey was late for the gym and not happy.
‘Do you know how much a personal trainer costs?’ she snapped.
‘Sounds like we’d best get a move on,’ said Cato. He turned to Zac. ‘What were you doing in Matthew Tan’s car on the night of the murders?’
The boy went very pale. ‘What?’
‘We’ve got you on CCTV. It is you, isn’t it?’
‘But you’re not sure,’ said Mrs Harvey.
‘We will be when we link the green fibres we found in the car with Zac’s hoodie,’ lied Cato. ‘So, Zac?’
‘Maybe we should have our lawyer present,’ said Mum.
‘No.’ Zac grabbed a box of tissues from the kitchen bench and blew his nose. ‘Let’s get on with it.’
Deb Hassan gave him the formal caution, took out her notebook and clicked her iPhone on to record. She announced the preliminaries and Cato repeated the question.
‘I’d called around to see Em.’ The Tan daughter, pregnant with his child. ‘It was around ten-ish.’ He knew the time because he’d received a text from her ten minutes earlier. He’d been waiting in the bus shelter up on Cockburn Road. The coast was clear, said the text.
‘Why were you there if the relationship had finished some days earlier?’
His head went down. ‘I was trying to get her back. I didn’t want it to be over.’
‘So you went in the house?’
‘Yeah, the folks were still up. Clearing up and stuff.’
‘What did “the coast is clear” mean then?’
‘Matt was gone, he hates my guts.’
‘Where did you and Emily go to talk?’
‘Her bedroom. Her folks were cool with that.’
‘And did you talk?’
‘Yeah, for a while.’
‘How long?’
A shrug. ‘Half an hour? An hour?’
‘Then what?’
A smirk. ‘We went to the bathroom.’
‘What for?’
‘Really is this necessary?’ said Mrs Harvey.
‘Yes,’ said Cato. ‘What for?’
‘A farewell fuck.’
The bathroom. Hence fewer traces of him than might otherwise have been. A goodbye shag, very accommodating.
‘Farewell. She didn’t want you back?’
‘No.’
‘Didn’t that make you angry? Want to show her who was boss? The folks too? The kid brother?’
‘No. She was trying to be nice. Wanted us to stay friends and that.’
‘The coast is clear. Why did you wipe that text from your phone?’
‘Because of what happened after.’
They’d never found Emily’s phone. ‘What did you do with her phone? It would have had that message on. Incriminated you.’
The boy looked scared. ‘I never took it. I never.’
‘Let’s assume, for the moment, you’re not lying. You and Em had your final encounter. What then? You left?’ A nod. ‘What time was that?’
‘Eleven-ish.’
‘Matthew didn’t come back for his car until after midnight. What did you do until then?’
‘I was pissed off. I wanted to do some damage to his BMW. There was a set of keys in a basket by the door. I took them. I was just going to scratch the paintwork.’
‘Go on.’
‘The zapper worked. I opened the car up, had a look inside. Thought there might be something I could rob.’
‘Was there?’
More discomfort. ‘Some pills. I tried one.’
‘Oh, Zakkie.’ Mum tutted.
‘What happened?’
‘Don’t remember much. Felt good at first then all sorts of weird shit: lights, screams, doors slamming, cars revving. Powerful stuff. I climbed in the back and fell asleep. When I woke up Matt was walking towards the car, his chick had just dropped him off. He had another set of keys with him and zapped the locks.’
‘He didn’t notice you?’
‘Bit pissed, I reckon, he smelled it for sure.’
‘But you didn’t let him know you were there?’
‘You joking? He would have killed me.’
The rest of the story fitted the CCTV. He’d risked a look out the window to see where they were going. That had been caught by the Hampton Road camera. He’d taken his chance when Matt pulled into the servo on Leach Highway.
‘So,’ said Cato turning to Mrs Harvey. ‘What did you mean by your words yesterday to Ms Hassan, quote, you can’t see what’s under your noses?’
A look of disgust from Zac. ‘Oh, Mum. Did you have to?’
When the white Pajero made its third circuit Driscoll decided it was no longer a coincidence. He was parked in someone’s driveway just up the street fro
m the house Cato and his colleague were visiting. He’d been trailing them all morning, with or without Cato’s knowledge, it didn’t matter. Now the Pajero had turned up. It had heavily tinted windows so he wasn’t sure how many were inside. He couldn’t imagine Phoebe demeaning herself in such a way, or for that matter putting herself at such risk. But she was becoming less predictable by the day.
The Pajero parked up in the dusty windswept bays of a half-built primary school directly opposite Driscoll. Nobody got out. The driver’s window was half-open and cigarette smoke drifted through the gap. Driscoll slid across to the passenger side of his Honda and slipped out the blind side. He reached the Pajero in a dozen strides and yanked open the passenger door.
‘Mind if I join you?’ Phoebe’s bodyguard was alone. Driscoll switched to Mandarin. ‘Feng, isn’t it?’
‘Feng Xilai.’ He offered a drooping hand for a desultory shake.
‘Mind if I open this window too? Double Happiness make me choke.’
‘What do you want?’
‘I want to know why you are following Kwong.’
‘I was told to. It’s my job.’
‘Where are your companions?’
‘That is none of your business.’
‘Do you intend to hurt Kwong?’
‘If I am asked to, I will do my job.’
‘Do they pay you well?’
‘Yes.’
‘What if someone pays you more?’
‘That would test my loyalty. The Li family does not like disloyalty.’
‘They were happy to let you work with Yu Guangming?’
‘It was Old Man’s idea.’
‘You have an obligation to him?’
‘Yes.’
Driscoll took out a business card. A different one from those he had dispensed last night in the Duxton. ‘We can pay you more. Call me if you are interested.’
Feng barely spared it a glance. He chucked it onto the dashboard. ‘And if I don’t?’
Driscoll switched back to English. ‘No problem, my friend.’ He went back to his Honda.
‘So what is it we’re missing? What’s under our noses?’
Zac shook his head. He didn’t want to play.
‘Go on, tell him,’ urged Mrs Harvey.
‘Na.’
Cato didn’t attempt to fill the silence. Mrs Harvey couldn’t contain herself.
