Getting Warmer

by Alan Carter

  Mackenzie waggled her scalpel thoughtfully. ‘Six and two threes? The intracranial bleeding from the toothbrush would probably have led to death all by itself. But the stomping certainly sped things up and added a degree of certainty.’

  ‘I wouldn’t normally associate these guys with finesse and class,’ said Cato.

  ‘Ach, there’s no telling what a man can achieve when called forward in his hour of glory.’ Mackenzie’s assistant finished putting labelled bags of organs back inside the body ready for the closing sutures. ‘My report will be with you in due season, Inspector. Was there anything else, gentlemen?’

  Hutchens gave her a grumpy shake of the head. Cato lifted a finger.

  ‘If you’ve only got a margin of a minute or so to work with, is this the best way of killing somebody in this situation?’

  Mackenzie slipped off her butcher’s apron. ‘I’m not an expert in prison assassinations but I can think of at least half a dozen quicker, easier, and more reliable ways of killing somebody with limited time and means. A sharpened toothbrush through the eye to the brain isn’t high on my list.’ She ran her arms and hands under the tap and grabbed some paper towels. ‘But very theatrical, don’t you think?’

  Dieudonne’s prepaid phone turned out to be with Optus and it looked like any top-ups were cash transactions in Optus shops. Lara had put in a formal request for any CCTV from their outlets in the metro area corresponding with the top-up days and times. She also asked for a printout of all calls made and received along with the locations of those calls. If the printout duplicated the info they’d already taken from the SIM card then it would just be the one number calling him, or being called by him. That number was also being checked out and was probably a cash prepaid too. None of the clothes they’d taken from Dieudonne bore traces from any of the crime scenes he was associated with. For any decisive DNA or forensic evidence they needed to see if he left anything of himself on the victims or at the loci – that would take longer to trace. It would also help to have access to his current bolthole, but they hadn’t been cleared to talk to him yet.

  It was early afternoon. Lara had only had a few hours sleep once Dieudonne was removed from her apartment and the techs had finished with it. The earlier adrenalin rush had dissolved into a creeping fatigue. She called the hospital yet again and was advised that they could probably expect to get access to their man the next day, all things being equal. Lara zapped an email to that effect through to DI Hutchens and checked her in-box. Good news. All clear on the blood tests, she hadn’t picked up anything nasty from Dieudonne’s much-used knife: apart from a pain in the arm of course. She decided she’d earned the right to an early finish and a power nap before, hopefully, Colin Graham called around this evening. She had some pent-up emotional energy to use on him and wanted to be in good shape for it.

  Lara’s email pinged. There was a match on the mobile number Dieudonne kept getting calls from. Again Optus, prepaid, with cash top-ups. Registered seven months earlier in the name of a Leon Johnstone who gave an address in Rockingham. The ID proof had been in the form of a Medicare card and a driver’s licence number. Lara plugged the DL number into the system and found no match. It was fake. She sent a reply back seeking the precise location of the Optus outlet that had taken the registration and a request for any CCTV footage from that day. Lara put her power-nap plans on hold and set out for Little England.

  Leon Johnstone’s address was in a cluster of grim brick and tile units, two streets back from the Rockingham foreshore. Lara could see down the street through gaps between the units and the back of a real estate agency, a thin strip of Indian Ocean, startling blue to match the sky above. The turbo ute and Monaro in the adjacent carports spoke ‘bogan’ in mile-high capital letters – bold and underlined. Cigarette butts and empty packets skittered in the sweltering easterly. The wheelie bins were packed to bursting with empty stubbies, cans and pizza cartons. There was a sour and dusty quality to the air. Lara rapped on the front door of Unit 4. Heavy metal music thumped through the open window next door. No answer. Maybe Leon couldn’t hear because of the fucking Foo Fighters. Lara rapped again. Nothing.

  ‘Whatchawant?’

  The bearer of the gravelly voice was the neighbour, a woman of indeterminate age in a straining Cougar singlet. Lara flashed her ID. ‘And you are?’

  ‘Sheree.’ Sheree lit a cigarette and nodded her streaky locks in the direction of next door. ‘Nobody there, been empty for months.’ There was a flatness to the vowels, a distant memory of northern England.

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘I’m not stupid.’

  ‘Okay. Do you know who owns these places?’

  ‘Some dick up in Claremont. That mob on the corner manage it.’ She pointed at the real estate agency Lara had noticed earlier. ‘Manage my arse. They do fuck-all except take our money.’

  Lara handed Sheree a business card and asked her to get in touch if ever anybody did show up.

  ‘Filth, huh? Yeah, right.’ Sheree grunted and retreated back indoors.

  Lara rummaged through the designated letterbox for Unit 4 but there was only junk mail. She tried squinting in through the curtained windows but it was too dark to discern anything of consequence. Next stop, the real estate agent.

  ‘Yes,’ said Carl from Tudor Dreams Realty, checking his computer screen, ‘that unit is rented out to Mr Leon Johnstone.’

  The only contact details were the mobile number Lara already had. Carl wore golfing pastel shades and his accent was further south in England. The office overlooked Rockingham foreshore, the sandstone dolphin statue, the fake Tuscan architecture, the naval base shimmering over at Garden Island, and the Indian Ocean just beginning to ripple with the hint of a late sea breeze.

  ‘According to the next-door neighbour, nobody has lived there for months.’

  Carl shrugged: it multiplied his chins from three to five. ‘Mr Johnstone’s rent is up to date.’

  ‘Really? How’s it paid?’ Lara tried to lean over the counter and look at the screen.

  Carl tilted it away from her. ‘That has to be confidential at this stage unless you have a warrant.’

  Lara resisted the temptation to bury his face in the computer. ‘Is it a monthly cheque, or EFT deposit, or cash? You can tell me that surely. This is a serious crime we’re investigating here.’

  Carl thought for a moment. ‘It was paid six months in advance, cash.’

  ‘Is that usual for a place like that?’

  ‘A place like what?’

  How about bogan rathole? ‘The budget end of the market,’ said Lara.

  ‘None of my business as long as the rent is paid.’

  ‘Do you have spare keys for the property?’

  ‘Yes, but again I suggest a warrant.’

  ‘Of course, but I have reason to believe that Mr Johnstone may in fact be inside and seriously ill or even dead. As such I need to effect an entry as a matter of some urgency. I could just go and kick the door down but your cooperation and a key might be less damaging.’

  ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘Deadly,’ said Lara.

  ‘Ladies first.’

  Carl stepped to one side to allow Lara to cross the threshold of Unit 4. There was a musty, unlived-in smell and a fug of baked-in heat. If Leon Johnstone existed then he sure as hell didn’t live here now. Next door the Foo Fighters were at full throttle. Lara wanted to thump on the wall but suspected it would be to no avail. Carl looked a bit distressed.

  The place was furnished, cheaply, and had all the basics a transient boarder would need: crockery, cutlery, bedding, towels, et cetera. All appeared to be unused. There was an open plan kitchen and dining area, a lounge with a TV, two bedrooms, bathroom and laundry and a small courtyard at the rear with a couple of withered plants. Ex-geraniums. The general colour scheme was overwhelmingly beige.

  ‘Anything else I can assist you with?’ By the expression on Carl’s face he clearly hoped the answer was negative.

&nb
sp; ‘No.’ Lara handed him a business card. ‘If Mr Johnstone or anyone else shows up in connection with this place call me, please.’

  They parted company. Before she started the car, Lara phoned Leon Johnstone. She got a message telling her he was either turned off or out of mobile range. Chucking her phone onto the passenger seat, Lara relished the promise of an evening in the company of Colin Graham.

  After a late lunch topped up with another couple of painkillers (he was developing a taste for them), Cato cited his injury and took his work home. Once there, he opened his backpack and took out the Wellard papers he’d acquired that day. Witness statements, phone logs, visitors log, duty rosters, background files on inmates connected with the inquiry. He spread them out on the bed, flicking the fan down to one to keep the sheets from blowing away, and lay down for a read.

  Mercurio and his mate Kenny Lovett were in for firearms and drug possession offences, and a serious assault charge in Lovett’s case. Both were due for release in the second half of the year. Next item. The officer who was meant to be monitoring the CCTV screens but was summoned away for a conveniently timed phone call had an unblemished record and even a couple of commendations to his name. On paper he seemed clean. Maybe Cato was once again just chasing shadows and it was all as simple as Hutchens said. No conspiracy – what you see is what you get.

  Cato unfolded the visitor log printout for the two weeks preceding the murder and scanned the names. The bikies received visits from their wives, girlfriends, and known associates. No surprises. Wellard received visits from Cato and DI Hutchens in various permutations. Cato was dimly aware of a dull ache around his midriff and a wave of afternoon drowsiness. It would be nice to slip off to sleep.

  No chance. He was wide-awake now.

  Fourth from the top of page two: the afternoon of Friday 5th, four days before Wellard’s murder. A visit to Stephen Mazza, the kitchenhand who had found Wellard and dialled for help. The visitor was Ms Michelle Petkovic.

  26

  Cato felt brave enough to go for an early evening swim at South Beach. It was busier than he expected and certainly busier than he remembered from previous summers. Families had brought along picnics and fish and chips while the orange sun sank below a purple ocean, the surface brushed by a weak south-westerly. Kids raced in and out of the shorebreak, balls and frisbees floated through the air. Cato’s gut clenched in fear of accidental contact with the world. Physical vulnerability was a new sensation for him. He sank into the cool water and wondered how long it would take for those fears to subside. He scanned the silhouettes along the beach and heard the shouts and squeals of the children and the relaxed chatter of the adults. How long before he felt like them again?

  He’d phoned his boss and passed on the news about the prison visitor’s log.

  ‘Shellie Petkovic?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Fuck.’

  ‘Mmmm,’ said Cato.

  There’d been a pause and a flapping sound like flags in the wind. Nice, his boss had found time for a sunset sail. Maybe he was networking. ‘Go and see her in the morning. Be a bit sharper. Not so much of the social worker any more, Cato. Bring her in if you think it helps.’

  ‘Could be a perfectly reasonable explanation,’ offered Cato, unconvincingly.

  ‘Yeah, Danny and his mate could have been a couple of Florence Nightingales performing emergency brain surgery. Let me know how you go.’

  Cato dipped his head and dived down to grasp a handful of sand from the ocean floor. He let it slip through his fingers and filter back into the water. Surfacing, he did a few tentative freestyle strokes to test the elasticity of his stomach muscles. It all felt tight and tender but he could also feel that this was doing him good. He resolved to do more. Maybe he could come over here every morning before work, or every evening after, and do a few laps from one groyne to the other. Regain that balance he needed in his life. Cato pushed aside those negative thoughts of other failed resolutions. He ducked under one last time. A cool breeze swept across the surface of the water. He shivered and swam to shore.

  Lara’s bedroom window was open: the breeze lifted the curtains, and the subdued revelry of a Fremantle evening floated past. Lara and Colin lay cupped together. Beyond the Round House the ocean broke on the night sand. He kissed the back of her neck.

  ‘I’m worried about you.’

  She clutched his hand tighter to her breast. ‘Why?’

  ‘Why do you think? That madman coming into your home, he could have...’

  ‘I’m okay.’

  ‘Has he told you what he was doing there? I mean, why you? And how?’

  ‘We haven’t been able to speak to him yet. I nearly killed him apparently.’

  ‘Remind me not to surprise you with a knife.’

  ‘Yeah, pity about the wine though. I could go a drop now.’ She could feel him stirring again. He pressed into her. She reached behind to encourage it. ‘Now I know why they call you Dirty Harry.’

  ‘You and Cato been comparing notes?’

  ‘Yeah, he only gave you seven out of ten in bed.’

  ‘What about you?’

  ‘Oh, eight maybe?’

  He pressed her face down into the pillow, nuzzled against her nape, tugged at her hips. ‘I don’t know what I’d do without you.’

  There was a missed call on Cato’s mobile when he got home from the beach. Andy Crouch. Cato returned it and they exchanged the usual retiree-extended pleasantries before getting down to business.

  ‘Kevin Wellard drowned in Mundaring Dam, late 1996.’

  ‘That right?’ said Crouch.

  ‘No body recovered.’

  ‘It’s very deep, I believe.’

  ‘Given his history, I think Kevin was Hutchens’ informant. Gordy was just the messenger boy.’

  ‘I can see why you might think that, Philip.’

  ‘You knew, that’s why you nudged me in that direction.’

  A pause and a measuring of tone. ‘Your point?’

  ‘Kevin drowned in November, but according to the files the Squad was still getting good tip-offs for several months after that. Kevin didn’t die did he?’

  ‘Interesting theory.’

  ‘You guys hid him, gave him a new name, new life, new town. Were his mates getting suspicious? Where did you put him?’

  ‘Nothing to do with me, Philip.’

  ‘Who then?’

  ‘Remember the cryptic clue you solved for me?’

  ‘Achilles?’

  ‘That’s the one. Very apt. Maybe you should ask your boss about his weak spot.’

  27

  Thursday, February 11th.

  ‘You look nice in that shirt.’

  Not a bad opening gambit for a conspiracy-to-murder suspect. Shellie sipped a glass of iced water and gazed at Cato. They were sitting in her back courtyard. The sun hadn’t yet climbed high enough to pierce the shade. The space was no larger than a ping-pong table but it was cool and the freshly watered plants gave off an aura that was lush and sultry.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Cato.

  It reminded him of a previous occasion when she’d seemed transformed: just a few days after the T-probe incident. Bright, hypnotic. She’d put it down to a change of attitude. I’ve decided that arsehole isn’t going to run my life anymore. So did she start to put her plan into action a week or so later?

  ‘Shellie, why were you visiting Stephen Mazza at Casuarina last Friday?’

  She put her drink down on the glass table. ‘None of your business.’

  ‘Bullshit, Shellie, he was the one who found Wellard dead just a few days later. You’ve got motive, he’s got means and mates. How do you know him?’

  She paused, formulating her answer. ‘He’s an old boyfriend. We used to be close. I needed somebody to talk to.’

  Cato shook his head. ‘Gordon messes with your mind big-time at Beeliar. Next thing we know you’re calling on your old flame in Casuarina. Bingo – Wellard’s history.’

 
She stared at the foliage clinging to the Colorbond fence.

  ‘Then the night before his murder you show up at my door. Acting all ... strange, emotional.’

  ‘Heaven forbid.’ She laughed bitterly. ‘I was upset. I was trying to make you understand what it’s like.’ A tear rolled down her cheek. ‘I didn’t have the bastard killed, much as I might have wanted to. You can think what you like.’

  ‘It’s gone beyond what I think, Shellie. You’re officially a suspect now.’

  ‘So are you arresting me?’

  ‘No, not yet.’

  ‘You know the way out, then.’

  Back in the office, Cato reviewed the Wellard case files once again but now his focus was Stephen Anthony Mazza. Cato could see from the photo why Shellie might have once gone for him; he was not a bad-looking bloke. He didn’t look like your Casuarina stereotype – the inbred inmate covered in tatts, teeth like tombstones. Mazza had a firm jaw, strong face, mop of curly dark hair, eyes not too close together. Mazza looked like a sensitive new-age tradie who had strayed: calendar material, Mr April with a pipe wrench. This was the man Shellie said she poured her heart out to. Did she still carry a torch for him? Cato found himself feeling slightly jealous. Silly, but there it was.

  Mazza was serving four years for drunk driving which had resulted in a crash and death. He was due out at the end of the year. He didn’t seem an obvious candidate for a hardcore place like Casuarina, in with all the very bad boys. Cato wondered why Mazza wasn’t in a lower security pre-release joint like Woorooloo or Karnet. Was he a difficult prisoner? Had he upset somebody?

  Mazza’s statement. He was heading to the kitchen around 4.50 for a five o’clock start. Just as he arrived, he noticed two figures leaving but only saw them from the back and was unable to identify them. Big, they were. He found Wellard almost immediately and raised the alarm. End of story. It was all very neat; if that’s the way you wanted things. For Corrections and for Hutchens, each overstretched and under-resourced, it would be a temptation to accept it at face value and wrap it all up. For Hutchens, there would be the added danger of questions being raised about the Beeliar Park charade and the waste of time and resources on a manipulative dipstick like Wellard. No wonder he wanted to avoid Cato’s conspiracy theory and not look too closely at any suspicion of Corrections collusion. Would justice be served by seeking out the truth behind Wellard’s murder? In a strict philosophical sense, probably yes. In day-to-day reality, no. A shadow fell across Cato’s desk.