by Alan Carter
‘Reckon?’
‘Have to be. Nothing normal about teasing some woman about her dead kid is there?’
‘S’pose not.’ Wellard tilted his head. ‘So why are you here?’
‘I want to know about you and my boss. Apparently you go way back.’
Wellard glanced up at the winking red light on the wall. ‘This official?’
‘What do you think?’
‘I think you might be straying from the path. Wandering in the wilderness.’
‘Why’s that Gordon?’
‘You tell me. Why are you going off on your lonesome?’
‘Okay. I think you know something about my boss and you’re holding it over him.’
Wellard seemed to like that idea. ‘Really? What makes you think that?’
‘The thing is, I watch you and the DI together and it’s not like your usual master–servant relationship. He’s meant to be in charge but you don’t act like it. See what I’m getting at?’
A frown. ‘No, you’ve got it wrong,’ said Wellard. ‘I’d never be a servant.’
‘What are you then? Equal partner? Colleague? Or is it you that’s in charge?’
‘If I’m in charge, how come I’m in here?’
Good point.
‘I haven’t worked that out yet. Maybe you thought you’d become untouchable but you got it all wrong.’ Cato smacked his forehead. ‘Eureka! Is that it? You’re just an idiot like all the rest?’
Wellard yawned. Exaggerated. He was no longer enjoying himself. He was twitchy. Score one.
‘What’s wrong, mate? Have I touched a nerve?’
Wellard closed his eyes for a moment, like he was gathering in his frayed edges, folding them over, tucking them under. ‘I can see now why Shellie likes you.’
Wellard had reverted to the old game plan. Running out of ideas already? ‘I like her too, Gordy. She’s pretty special.’
A blink at the word ‘Gordy’; he didn’t like it. Score two?
‘I think Shellie appreciates that you have the gift of empathy,’ said Wellard. ‘You’re a parent too. You can imagine what it would be like to lose a child.’
‘Is that meant to be a threat, Gordy?’ Another flinch. Cato recalled his conversations with Andy Crouch, he’d called him Gordy too, comparing him with his big brother. ‘While we’re on the subject of family, you must miss your brother. Kevin was it? I read it in the paper.’ This time it was Cato who curled his fingers mockingly in inverted commas. ‘We’ll meet again. Miss you mate. Gordon.’
Wellard slammed his hand on the table. ‘Back off, chink.’
Score three. ‘Quite a temper you’ve got there, Gordy. You need a cool head to prevail in a man’s world, though. Kev never really took you seriously, did he?’ Cato shook his head. ‘Short fuse like that. You’d be a liability in a tight corner.’
Wellard looked up at the camera. ‘I’d like to go back to my room now. I’m finished here.’
‘What was it that triggered you on your honeymoon with Shellie? Eggs too runny? Air conditioning on the blink? No sugar in your tea?’
‘I said I’m finished here.’
‘You’re not as special as you think, Gordy. Gatecrashing vulnerable people’s minds isn’t an art; it’s bullying and cowardly. You’re no different from all the other dickheads in here who have no perspective or self-control. If you think this is all a game, then it’s one you’ve already lost. You’re in here and you’re never coming out alive, Gordy.’
Wellard’s hand lashed out and smacked Cato hard across the left cheek.
Cato returned the favour, opening up Wellard’s lip. Wellard lunged across the table, fury and blood on his face, spittle around his mouth. Cato stood and stepped back out of his reach.
‘Cool it, Gordy. Nothing personal, mate.’
The door opened and in walked Superintendent Scott with a broad smile, an outstretched hand, and two burly guards. ‘Detective Kwong, your boss is worried about you. He reckons you should still be at home in your bed.’ An arm went around Cato’s shoulder and he was guided towards the door.
‘He attacked me. I want to press charges.’ Wellard dabbed some blood from his lip. Fury quashed, replaced by fear, hurt, and victimhood. Impressive. ‘It’s all on camera.’
‘Yes, Mr Wellard, it is,’ said Scott. ‘And you started it.’
‘Still want to make a complaint.’
‘No worries, we’ll get you a form.’
Cato caught Wellard’s eye as he was shepherded away by the two guards. ‘Maybe you can tell me all about your big brother next time. Real tough nut, I hear. Staunch. See you soon, Gordy.’
Wellard failed to hold Cato’s gaze. It felt good to have got under the bastard’s skin. It felt good to win.
‘Forty-two of them, eighty-five millimetres long, fired into the back of the head and along the spine at point blank range from a standard cordless, gas-charged nail gun.’ Professor Mackenzie wiped some grime from her spectacles. ‘Widely available for sale or hire: Bunnings, Mitre 10, Home Builders, you name it. My hubbie’s got one, never uses the bugger though.’
‘Fucking animals.’ Hutchens shook his head.
‘And I suspect Mr Papadakis was probably alive for most of the ordeal.’
Lara felt like throwing up. The charred carcass lay curled on the steel table, foetal in its final agony. Melted body fat had congealed in the creases and crevices. Organs, tissue and other samples glistened in bowls and bags on a nearby bench. The nails were lined up and numbered on a sheet of plastic. Photographs had been taken to show where a certain numbered nail had been positioned in Christos’s body. The smell of blood, offal and over-cooked meat was overpowering.
Hutchens glanced her way. ‘You okay there, Lara?’
She straightened up. ‘Fine, sir.’
‘Nasty one this, eh?’
‘Yes, boss.’
‘Whoever’s responsible, we’re going to make them pay. Right?’
‘Right.’
‘Which brings us around to the other corpse,’ said Professor Mackenzie.
‘Mickey Nguyen,’ said Hutchens. ‘Deep fried.’
They turned to the second table and the shrivelled remains of the Tran henchman.
‘Was that what killed him?’ said Lara. ‘The fire?’
Hutchens gave her a glance as if to say, duh.
‘As far as we can tell, so far, yes. There don’t appear to be any other wounds or inconsistencies.’
‘So the Trans torture and kill Mr Papadakis. Somewhere offsite we presume, as a police raid that morning found no sign of him or Mickey at the compound.’ Hutchens strolled around looking thoughtful like a TV detective. ‘Then later that day, after the police depart, and with an approaching bushfire, Mickey is ordered to dispose of the body. Tragically, he is caught by the speed of the fire and trapped in the vehicle. Perishing in the inferno.’
‘That’s your department, Inspector.’ Mackenzie squinted in the harsh light. ‘I’m getting a wee headache from all...’ she waved a hand at the bodies, ‘this.’
Hutchens turned to Lara. ‘Is that your reading of it, Lara?’
‘The fire moves so quickly he doesn’t even have time to drive out of the shed?’
‘Not unheard of. Read the Black Saturday Report.’
Lara turned to Mackenzie. ‘Any drugs or alcohol in his system?’
‘No traces so far but, particularly in the case of alcohol, the heat could have evaporated it.’
Lara back to Hutchens. ‘Do we bring the Trans in yet, sir?’
‘May as well,’ he sighed. ‘Although I suspect that until we get any other evidence, Jimmy Tran is going to flick-pass all the blame to Meltdown Mickey.’
That’s exactly what he did, accompanied once again by his well-heeled young lawyer, Damien.
‘Mickey, he’s mad as. Gets a bit Freddy Krueger you know? A real loose cannon. Terrible way to die though, eh?’
Hutchens flicked through the skimpy file in front of him. ‘And what
did you and your brother Vincent do between the time our officers visited you, and the fire coming through? A period of approximately four and a half hours.’
Jimmy furrowed his brow. ‘We were a bit shaken to tell the truth. Those TRG guys can be pretty rough and scary. We sat around and had a few beers to settle our nerves then we packed our valuables and evacuated as instructed by the fire authorities. We were out of there by early afternoon.’
‘And Mickey?’
‘As we told your officers yesterday morning.’ A yellowy gaptoothed smile towards Lara. ‘We hadn’t seen Mickey since the previous day.’
‘When was that?’
‘Last thing Tuesday night.’
‘After your meeting in Zorba’s with Mr Papadakis?’
‘Oh, how do you know about that?’
‘You were being followed. The meeting was recorded.’
Tran turned to his lawyer, seemingly perturbed. ‘Is that legal, Damien?’
‘Probably best to just answer the question for now, Mr Tran,’ said Damien.
‘Yeah, what he said,’ said Hutchens.
‘Mickey said he was heading off to the snooker hall in Northbridge. See some mates.’ Tran tried to look sad for a moment. ‘Last time we ever saw him.’
‘Until he turns up in the Prado in your shed.’
‘That’s right.’
‘And the elaborate security system, CCTV, et cetera you’ve got round your place. That’ll confirm all that, right?’
Damien the Lawyer leaned forward. ‘It’s not up to my client to prove his account, Inspector. It’s up to you to prove yours.’
‘Thanks for reminding me what my job is, son.’
‘Pleasure.’
Hutchens switched tack. ‘What about Mr Papadakis, when was the last time you saw him?’
Tran smiled. ‘If you were following me around and recording me I assume you already know.’
Damien intervened. ‘As a matter of disclosure, Inspector, I assume you’ll be providing us with copies of your surveillance material?’
‘Assume what you like. Your client hasn’t been charged with anything yet.’ Hutchens shifted his menace back onto Tran. ‘The question?’
‘The last time I saw the old man was in the Greek restaurant.’
‘When?’
‘When our meeting finished. Seven o’clock or something.’
‘You were very angry with him,’ said Lara.
‘Was I? I don’t recall.’
‘During the conversation with Mr Papadakis he mentioned to you that Santo was on his way to meet you.’
Tran shifted in his seat. ‘Did he?’
‘You know he did, that’s when you got angry with him. You asked the old man if he was trying to provoke you. What was Santo coming to talk to you about and why did mention of it annoy you, Jimmy?’
‘I don’t recall. Maybe if I get to listen to your recordings it might trigger a memory.’ His amusement had worn thin. ‘Are you sure you’re not just imagining it, Lara?’
‘Detective or Officer Sumich will do fine.’
‘So will Mister Tran, Officer.’ Lara could see now the man beneath the jovial mask. The man who could screw a bottle into a student’s face, who could chop the hands and feet off a traitor, slit the throat of an enemy. ‘Respect is a two-way street, madam. Don’t you think?’
And then the smile returned and so it went on. Jimmy knew nothing about what happened to Papadakis. Mickey must have done it. Bit mad and all that. Why? Dunno. Jimmy and Damien looked ready to leave.
‘Just one more thing,’ said Hutchens.
‘Yes.’ The lawyer rolled his eyes.
‘Mr Tran, have you had any previous dealings with DS Graham?’
Lara studied a distant spot on the wall. Tran looked at his lawyer.
‘What does this have to do with your inquiry, Inspector?’ said Damien.
‘It’s a question for your client. Is he going to answer it or not?’
‘What do you mean by dealings?’ Tran’s mind visibly ticking over.
‘Arrests, social gatherings, squash ladders, book club. You tell me.’
Tran smirked. ‘He’s not my type.’
‘So have you had previous dealings with DS Graham or not?’
‘Surely all that would be a matter of record, Inspector?’ said the lawyer.
‘The formal stuff would. Arrests, interviews, et cetera.’
Tran shook his head. ‘I think you’re barking up the wrong tree, mate.’
‘How do you mean, Jimmy?’
‘Woof, woof.’
They left. But Lara had discovered some things along the way. Her question about the planned meeting with Santo had rattled the cage and provoked a tetchy squawk out of Jimmy Tran. And the DI, for some reason, was interested in Colin Graham’s dealings with the Trans. What was that about?
Cato took the call from DI Hutchens as he was passing Adventure World on his way back from Casuarina.
‘What the fuck were you doing out there?’
‘Hello, sir.’
‘Answer. Now.’
‘I’m feeling a lot better, sir. Reckon I’ll be back in the office on Monday.’
‘Not if you’re suspended you won’t. Answer the question.’
‘I’ve had time to think during my time off. Been developing a few theories about the Wellard thing.’
‘What “thing” is that then?’
‘He knows more than he’s telling us.’
‘No shit, Sherlock.’
‘That’s why I want to get back to work. Follow up a few lines of inquiry.’
‘No need, I’ve got the Wellard “thing” all in hand. But you can sit at your desk and put together a Safer Streets Action Plan if you like.’
‘Now you’re talking. Tomorrow okay?’
‘You’re taking the piss again aren’t you? Don’t stretch my patience, mate.’
‘What’s happening?’
It was Colin Graham on the phone. He sounded remarkably chirpy for someone on the cusp of disciplinary action. Lara looked up to see if DI Hutchens was in earshot. No, his door was closed. ‘We interviewed Tran and let him go.’
‘Let me guess, Mad Mickey dunnit?’
‘Pretty much.’
‘Are you home this evening?’
‘Why?’
‘I thought I might drop round.’
The voice dripped the promise of sex as if nothing had changed in the last few days. Now was the time to tell him where to go and to get back her life.
‘Yes, I’m home,’ said Lara.
‘Look forward to it. See you then.’
The phone died. Lara looked at the screen like it would somehow provide her with a clue as to why she’d had a sudden rush of blood to her head. But then again it wasn’t her head where it had rushed to. Saying no to Colin Graham couldn’t be that hard could it? She wondered how different she really was from those pathetic women who always seemed able to give their bad bastard just one more chance. Anyway it was a win-win: they could review those matters that had triggered the strong reaction in Jimmy Tran. Maybe there was still hope yet for nailing him and emerging from this looking good. And maybe they’d have some great sex.
Her phone buzzed again. No caller ID.
‘Detective Sumich?’
‘Yes?’
‘Jeremy.’ Fagin, she hadn’t recognised his voice.
‘Yes?’
‘I think we’ve found Tupac.’
She gripped the phone tighter. ‘Where is he?’
‘There’s a boarded-up Homeswest house in Willagee. I’m over the road from it now.’
19
There was an amber haze over Willagee when Lara pulled into the car park in the grim shopping strip. The street was full of young Noongars: kicking a footy, arguing, laughing, jumping the footpath on BMXs, or just sitting and staring. The sun floated low, the heat hanging in the air. A mob of teenagers lounged against the wall outside the deli, sharing hot chips. Across the road, ibises prod
ded the grass in the graffiti-sprayed primary school. Across the road the other way, a Homeswest house was ringed by a temporary builders’ fence. One front window was boarded up; on the other window the board was hanging loose. Beer cans and other rubbish carpeted the front yard, and the spray-painted writing on the wall let everybody know that Lance was a fucken dog.
So where was Fagin? Lara looked up and down the shopping strip but could see no trace of the tall, awkward figure. He would stand out on these streets like an ailing flamingo among pit bulls. Maybe he was in one of the shops buying smokes or selling drugs to some kids. Perhaps he was recruiting a few more Artful Dodgers. She glanced at the teenagers; they met her look and started snorting at each other like pigs. She couldn’t imagine any dodgers more artful than these. She suspected they’d send a rank amateur like Fagin on his way quick sharp. She tried phoning him and was put through to message bank.
‘I’m here. Where are you?’
The light was fading fast. Was Dieudonne home in that abandoned house with the wooden curtains? Given his track record, she should really call in the TRG but she’d had too many false starts lately and couldn’t afford another cock-up. Besides she didn’t have the authority to summon them even if she wanted to. Still, an extra backup body, even one as ineffectual as Fagin, would be better than nothing. He wouldn’t have gone in there alone would he? No, she dismissed the idea. Then she thought she saw a flicker of movement at the window where the board was hanging loose.
She tried phoning DI Hutchens but he wasn’t answering either. She sent him a text giving the time and location: she could always explain it away later if nothing came of it. There was another flash of movement, a glint of light in the dark eye of the window. Lara grabbed a torch from the back seat of her car and walked towards the house, keeping her gun holstered for the time being. A street commotion was the last thing she needed right now. She felt the eyes of half a dozen teenagers boring into her back.
Lara pushed a section of the builders’ fence aside and walked through. The sun was gone and the afterglow receding, leaving only shadows and silhouettes over Willagee. The noise level in the street seemed to have suddenly dropped. The front door was securely boarded up and the only apparent way in was either through the loose board on the window or possibly a side or rear entrance. She decided to try the latter first. Now she had her gun out and cocked.