by Alan Carter
‘That you, Kwong?’
It took a moment to place the voice. ‘Karina?’
‘Did you set those animals on us?’
Karina Ford’s Willagee home hadn’t been particularly inviting last time Cato visited. Now it was utterly trashed with crime-scene tape still fluttering on the perimeter. The security door hung on one hinge, the wire mesh buckled and split. The flat screen TV that once graced her lounge with adventures in Springer-land lay smashed on the floor. There was glass everywhere. And splashes of blood. Cato found a seat and lowered himself into it with a grimace. He’d taken a taxi, not yet ready to drive or even move, but Karina’s pleas couldn’t be ignored. It was hers and Shellie’s that had been the missed calls on his mobile over the weekend.
‘You left me your card, you gonna help us or what?’
‘The police who attended, what did they say?’
‘Two smart-arses from Murdoch. Pommie blow-ins. Looked at me like I was the shit on their shoes. They said they’d get back to me. Keep me informed.’
‘So what happened?’
‘Friday night. I was out at a mate’s, getting pissed. Crystal and Tyson were home with little Brandon.’ The teenage parents and the toddler. Cato measured his breathing as a spasm passed through his gut. ‘What’s up with you?’ she said.
‘Been stabbed.’
‘Sorry to hear it. Appreciate you coming out, mate.’ It seemed genuine. Cato nodded for her to go on. ‘I got the story from Tyson before they took him away. Three big blokes with balaclavas, baseball bats and hammers. They took to Tyson first. Smashed his hands, ankles and knees. Busted his teeth. He doesn’t talk real good at the best of times.’
The throwaway story in yesterday’s paper: a couple assaulted in a home invasion. ‘The report mentioned a drug debt?’
Karina dragged on her ciggie. ‘Tyson’s a dealer and a dickhead but he’s not suicidal. He should know better than to owe money to those bastards.’
‘Which bastards? Do you know who he was working for?’
‘Some pricks up in Northbridge. If they’d left it at just him I probably would have thanked them. Never liked the little tosser anyway.’ Her face crumpled and her eyes filled. ‘They started on Crystal next. Hitting her on her pregnant belly over and over and making him watch.’
‘Christ.’ Then Cato remembered the toddler in the stroller. ‘Brandon, is he...?’
She nodded down the hall. ‘Asleep. They didn’t touch him but he saw it all.’
‘Did the attackers say anything, talk to each other?’
‘Dunno, I wasn’t there was I? Tyson’s jaw’s strapped up now but he never mentioned anything to me. Crystal’s in intensive. They reckon she might lose the baby.’ Karina stubbed the cigarette out and fumbled in her packet for a replacement. ‘Cryssie loves being a mum; she’s trying to do the right thing. It’s just that dickhead bloke of hers.’
Cato looked around the desolated room. ‘Where are you staying?’
‘Here. The mates I had faded away when they heard about this. Don’t want any of this shit round their doors as well. Who would?’
Cato summoned a taxi on his mobile. It was late afternoon and still hot, the street was empty. Karina escorted him to the door.
‘We don’t deserve this you know. Just because we live in state housing doesn’t mean we don’t have the right to feel safe. Those Murdoch pommie cops aren’t gonna do anything are they?’
The taxi pulled up, the driver peering warily at the smashed house, the limping Chinaman, and the hard-faced woman sucking on her cigarette.
‘I’ll look into it,’ said Cato.
‘Yeah, thanks.’
As the sun sank into the Indian Ocean, Lara Sumich sat on her balcony eating a tuna salad and swigging a stubby of Rogers. Down below, a mob of teenagers screeched and jostled in the Round House car park. A bottle smashed, followed by whoops and laughter. She thought about the student Samuel Ho, scarred for life and scared to seek redress. Lara went back inside, closed the French windows and flicked on the air conditioning. Colin Graham was playing family man again tonight but that was fine, she didn’t need him. The little plot he had concocted over lunch at Zorba’s may or may not work but it would almost certainly put the old man and his brood in harm’s way. She’d pointed this out to Graham on the drive back to Fremantle but he’d just smiled and reminded her that you can’t make an omelette without cracking a few eggs.
Madge the Jack Russell stopped howling at the moon when she heard the sounds of things dropping into her backyard. Bite-sized things. Things that smelled good. Worth eating. She ate one, then another, then one more.
14
Tuesday, February 2nd.
Cato was woken by a furious knocking. He started to roll out of bed in his usual way but was brought up short by the strain on his stitches. He moved gingerly, dressing slowly, as the knocking persisted.
‘You’ve poisoned her, you sick bastard.’
It was Felix, his face red with tears. Behind him: a stern young woman wearing a RSPCA shirt. Behind her were two uniform constables from Freo cop shop. Noelle and Norma, the octogenarian matriarchs of the street, hovered close by: hearing aids locked on target.
Cato ran his hand through his hair. ‘What seems to be the problem?’
‘As if you don’t know,’ hissed Felix.
Cato looked back at the uniforms to see if they could shed light on the matter. They shrugged, the younger one stifling a grin.
The RSPCA woman spoke up. ‘This gentleman’s pet dog became violently ill overnight. We have reason to believe it was deliberately poisoned and we understand that you have a history with the dog. Sir.’ The last part spat out like an unsavoury meatball. ‘We will be conducting tests and may need to speak to you again. I must warn you that we always prosecute in matters such as these. Sir.’
‘Is the dog dead?’ asked Cato, trying to keep the hope out of his voice.
‘No. No thanks to you,’ snarled Felix.
He left, along with the RSPCA woman. Noelle and Norma gave Cato a disappointed look and shuffled away. The uniforms remained.
‘You’d better come in,’ Cato said.
They did.
‘God’s gift? You found him yet?’
‘Not yet, no.’ Lara gave DI Hutchens a convincing look of grim determination. She’d been checking her emails: mainly circular drivel including a week-old one from Cato with an attachment of ten pages of local crime stats. She’d scanned it, recognising a name in one of Cato’s priority action recommendations. She knew his game, swamp them all with guff, and piss Hutchens off – she’d have done the same in his shoes. Delete.
‘You need to get out there and use a bit of shoe-leather, Lara. It’s not as if Freo’s crawling with mad, homicidal African ex-child soldiers.’
‘We’re on the case, boss.’
Hutchens must have heard the edge in her voice. ‘DS Graham isn’t still wasting your time on Jimmy Tran, is he?’
‘We’re exploring all options. Keeping an open mind.’
‘Don’t.’ He disappeared into his office.
Lara tapped her way into the network to check overnight incident logs for any traces of Dieudonne. It was already after nine: Colin Graham was late in today. The reports showed the usual: drunks, domestics, car theft, a suspected poisoning of a family pet, a king-hit outside a pub in Freo, vandalism. A meth lab explosion in Munster. She spotted something and smiled: could it be that simple?
A burglar interrupted in White Gum Valley. Description, twentyish, slightly built and dark-skinned. The attending officer asks: Aboriginal? No, blacker than that, the old man says. African for sure, he knew the difference. The bugger had waved a funny toy laser gun at him but the pensioner hadn’t been fooled. He’d summoned his wife from the kitchen to call the cops. The would-be burglar must have decided two pensioners was more grief than he needed and took off. Was the burglar in a car? No, on foot.
Lara double-checked the existing records for Dieudonne. No,
he didn’t seem to have a driver’s licence. That didn’t mean much when most weeks they were picking up twelve year old kids for grand theft auto. But maybe in this case it was simple and it was true, Dieudonne didn’t drive and he’d just been spotted in White Gum Valley. The clincher was the ‘funny toy laser gun’: odds-on it was her missing taser. Why didn’t he use it? Maybe there was a conscience in there somewhere: old people were one step beyond. Lara brought up a map of Fremantle and surrounding suburbs on her screen. So how does being on foot or public transport affect Dieudonne’s rampage through society? Cato’s Safer Streets email had just given her an idea. She grabbed her car keys and headed out the door.
Cato could see that his visitors wanted to believe him. He was one of their own after all, and a bloody hero at that. A stabbed bloody hero. He played it up, sitting forward in the chair, wincing. The gist of it was that Madge had been found slumped against the back fence, twitching, whining, with smelly liquid at either end of her. As far as Felix was concerned, Cato was prime suspect so his was the first door they’d knocked on.
‘I’m not going to deny the dog pisses me off with the bloody yapping,’ Cato said. ‘But it’s a much longer stretch to trying to poison it. More than my job’s worth.’ He opened his arms in supplication. ‘Feel free to search the place for incriminating evidence.’
The younger uniform ummed sympathetically. ‘No need for that, mate.’ But the older, quieter colleague lifted his hand and they exchanged a glance. ‘Well, maybe a quick once-over might be good, if you don’t mind.’
‘Be my guest.’ Cato nodded and made a mental note of the name and number of the older transgressor. He hadn’t come across him yet; maybe he was new to Freo cop shop. They checked the cupboards and fridge but they were pretty much bare. ‘No meatballs there,’ said Cato.
‘Who mentioned meatballs?’ said the quieter more dangerous one.
Cato ignored the comment and reminded them that he hadn’t had the time or inclination to shop since his stint in hospital. ‘Eggs, sour milk, tomatoes with black spots: more chance of poisoning myself,’ he joked, closing the fridge door. They smiled on cue. Cato made a show of limping in bravely suppressed pain as he continued the tour. He waved them out to the backyard. ‘Help yourselves to the shed. You’ll probably find some snail pellets there but I’ve heard they’re not so reliable.’
‘Maybe that’s why poor little Madgie survived,’ said danger man.
Their rummage of the shed produced no smoking gun and they left with a promise to keep him informed of developments. It was midmorning and Cato hadn’t even started on his TO DO list. He checked his reflection in the mirror, sniffed an armpit and decided he needed a shower. His mobile chirped.
Hutchens. ‘What you been up to, Cato?’
‘Boss?’
‘You’re on the overnight log. Dog poisoning. I thought you were meant to be an invalid?’
‘I am.’
‘Was it you?’
‘Course not.’
‘Good. No time for silly buggers. When you due back?’
Cato put some stiff upper lip into his voice. ‘Soon as possible, boss.’
‘A week? Two?’
‘Difficult to say.’
‘You putting in a claim? Talked to the union yet?’
‘Hadn’t given it any thought.’
‘Better had, could be worth a bob or two, mate.’
‘Will do. Thanks.’
‘Look after yourself. We’ll see you when we see you.’
End of conversation. DI Hutchens coming over all attentive and caring? Cato looked at the screen: call duration, thirty-eight seconds.
It didn’t take Lara long to find him. He was the only grown-up among a cluster of teens sitting in a cloud of cigarette smoke on the low brick wall of Wilson’s Car Park in Cantonment Street. The Fagin of Fremantle – Lara’s favourite snitch, now that Santo was dead. He was whispering in the ear of a greasy-haired girl who must have been all of thirteen.
‘Got a moment?’ said Lara.
He turned and gave her a cheesy – not a good look with so many teeth missing. ‘Detective Sumich, how you going?’ He sauntered over and bent his head to the car window.
Lara nodded back towards the teenager jealously scowling in their direction. ‘Let me guess: you were just encouraging her to go back to school, complete her education and lead a good life.’
‘Good as.’ He climbed in, bringing with him his BO and the sour smell of something vaguely ammonic. ‘Where are we going?’
‘You’ll see.’ Lara pulled away from the kerb. Fagin, real name Jeremy Dixon, wound his window down a crack and pushed the seat back to accommodate his long, white, spotty legs. ‘Boardies don’t really suit you, mate,’ said Lara.
‘Yeah, right. Noted.’
‘Did you know you and your little oompa-loompas are on our radar?’
‘Why’s that then?’
‘Somebody’s been looking at the local crime stats. You’re an anomaly.’
‘Yeah?’ He seemed quite impressed with himself.
‘You might want to pull your head in for a while.’
‘Ta, for that.’
Lara headed along past the port, under the old traffic bridge, the river glistening on their left as the big white cabin cruisers glided downriver for a day at Rotto. She could see out of the corner of her eye Fagin wondering, waiting for an explanation. She didn’t help him out. They passed the Swan Yacht Club: millions of dollars sitting idle on multi-storey boat racks. Then up to Preston Point Road, past the mansions overlooking the river and the hazy heat shimmer of Point Walter spit.
‘Miss it, Jezza?’
‘No.’
‘So you don’t get home much, to see the folks?’
‘What do you want, Detective? Only, I’ve got a bit on today.’
‘I know, I saw her. Thirteen? Fourteen? There’s a law against that you know, Jez. Of course you do, Daddy being a judge and all.’
Fagin’s eyelids fluttered and then suddenly there it was, the long-repressed western suburbs drawl. ‘Is there a point to this?’
Lara opened the glove box and flicked the file photo onto his lap. ‘Seen this guy anywhere?’
‘Yeah, it’s Tupac. Can I go now?’
‘His name’s Dieudonne. He hangs out somewhere on your patch: White Gum, Hilton, Hammy Hill maybe. Get your artful dodgers to keep their eyes out.’
‘What’s in it for me?’
‘A nice warm feeling that you’re doing something good for your community?’
‘Lovely. Got it. What else?’
‘A tip-off before the next raid.’
‘Make it the next three.’
‘Deal.’
They were back out on Canning Highway. Lara pulled into the car park at the Leopold Hotel and let him out. He leaned down into the passenger window and smiled wistfully, expensive orthodontics a distant memory.
‘Why can’t you just leave me alone, Lara? You’ve had your pound of flesh ten times over.’
‘I remember you at primary school, Jez. Showing me your willy in the toilets. Telling me about your dad and what he was doing to you. I’ll never forget that: even if you want to. She winked, a genuine connecting friendly one. ‘La lotta continua, eh mate?’
Cato had intended to take a stroll along South Beach, to keep moving and try to speed up the recovery. It was less than a five-minute walk from his house but by the time he reached a bench overlooking the water he felt exhausted. He’d phoned Murdoch Detectives to try to find out more about Karina’s home invasion. The attending officer was a Liverpudlian called Des who’d arrived during the Great Pommie Recruitment Drive of 2006. They were acquainted.
‘Cato, mate, up and about already? Can’t keep a good man down, eh.’
Pleasantries exchanged, Cato asked his questions and Des quickly lost interest.
‘Did you look into the kid’s supplier?’
‘Mate, a skanky druggie bashing’s not high on me list, you know? Too much
paperwork and too little reward. Anyway I’m flyin’ home next month. It’s too hot here, too many flies, and you can only ever watch the football in the middle of the bastard night. I’ve had it.’
‘Bon voyage,’ said Cato.
It was early afternoon and only a handful remained outdoors. They were probably European backpackers, soaking the UV rays into their bare bodies as if melanomas were what other people got. A few were cooling off in the water, although, by the winces and arm rubbing, it was evident that the stingers were out in force. Oily black-brown blobs glistened at the shoreline, sea hares: he’d read about them in an old Australian Geographic at the hospital. A sunhatted toddler bent down and prodded one with her plastic spade. Beached as.
Cato shielded his eyes against the glare and looked out to sea where a huge section of oil rig was being towed into port. After the hiccup of the global financial meltdown, the boom was back and it wasn’t just about red dust this time. The dwindling, trouble-prone world energy supplies had sent shivers down the spines of the gasguzzlers. Luckily it seemed that wherever you poked a stick in WA you were likely to strike oil or gas or both. Deliverance. Exploration licences were being handed out like Minties on Australia Day. Pristine world-heritage-listed coral reefs, ancient dinosaur trackways, Margaret River vineyards, prime farmlands. No sacred places or sacred cows anymore. The only areas you couldn’t dig were the affluent western suburbs where the politicians and leaders of industry lived. Even that could turn out to be negotiable. Cato shifted in his seat. Gas. Would the country whose success once rode on the sheep’s back base its future prosperity on the methane from a sheep’s fart? So what if it meant sacrificing all that you loved to the gods of the bottom line? When something is there for the taking you’d be a fool to leave it for anyone else.
He fingered his knife wound tentatively. The boom in amoral ultra-violence was harder to grasp. Too often now, petty slights concluded with some poor bastard in intensive care, or the morgue. Over-reaction had replaced walking away. Turn the other cheek and you were likely to have a stubby buried in it. But maybe it wasn’t so hard to fathom after all: the role models were hyperventilating politicians and shock jocks, dummy-spitting mining magnates, tantie-chucking sports stars, and cops who surrounded an unarmed Aboriginal man and tasered him repeatedly to show who was boss. Everybody needed to take a deep breath and count to ten.