Getting Warmer

by Alan Carter

  ‘What happened with Shellie?’ Speak of the devil.

  ‘She said Mazza is an old boyfriend. She needed a heart to heart. The rest is none of our business.’

  ‘My arse,’ said Hutchens. ‘Bring her in.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘What do you mean, why? We want to know if she arranged to have Wellard topped. You losing the plot, Cato? Gone soft?’

  ‘You said yourself, Wellard was a prick. Who cares?’

  Hutchens tutted. ‘It’s our job, Cato mate. We can’t let our emotions or personal agendas get in the way of our professional duty.’

  That was rich, coming from him. ‘So you’re happy to bring in Shellie and put her through the wringer to find out what happened but if it touches Corrections we lay off? To hell with that, you either want the truth or you don’t.’

  ‘Who the hell do you think you’re talking to?’

  Should he apologise or stand his ground? ‘Sorry. Sir.’

  ‘Fucking right you are. I’d appreciate it if you did what you were told for a change.’

  ‘So you want me to bring Shellie in?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Fagin’s body had been released by the pathologist and he was to be dispatched from this world via Fremantle Crematorium. The sendoff was attended by a handful of street people. The greasy-haired thirteen year old, who may or may not have been his girlfriend, picked at a scab on her wrist while the duty priest talked about lost sheep. Outside, gum trees blistered in the late morning heat. Lara swept her gaze across the congregation: she recognised a few faces, people she’d busted along the way for petty theft and drug offences. These were Fagin’s family: just as well, for there were no signs of his actual relatives. He had been comprehensively disowned and erased from their comfortable Cottesloe lives. Every time the priest referred to him by his proper name, Jeremy, the Artful Dodgers nudged each other and giggled. This ‘Jeremy’ was not the bloke they knew. Clarrie, a long-limbed Noongar didge busker, played for a few minutes in final tribute and then Fagin’s casket rolled through the red velvet curtain and everyone filed out. Lara wanted to be as far away as possible.

  ‘You caught that cunt?’ It was the thirteen year old. She lit a cigarette and blew the smoke out quickly like she was still learning how to do it. She offered a hand, awkwardly formal. ‘Chelsey.’

  Lara shook it. ‘Lara.’

  ‘I know, Jez told me your name. So, you got him? I saw it in the papers. The African, is that him?’

  Him. Dieudonne: the smiling assassin. ‘We are questioning somebody, yes. But it’s early days.’

  ‘What’s that mean? He going to prison or not?’

  ‘I hope so.’

  Chelsey shook her head, unconvinced. ‘You think we’re shit. You won’t do nuthin’.’

  Lara felt the need to make this skanky little no-hoper believe her. ‘I will.’

  ‘Yeah, right,’ said Chelsey.

  Lara checked her phone and found a message from Hutchens.

  DD is awake and receiving visitors

  Dieudonne had a room all to himself in Fremantle Hospital. He also had two armed and very alert police officers at his door. Lara was once again struck by how slight he seemed. The doctor in charge had refused DI Hutchens’ earlier request to have the prisoner handcuffed to the bed. At the time the DI had tried his best to be diplomatic and persuasive.

  ‘Mate, you’re a fucking idiot. If you knew what this guy was capable of, you’d have him strapped to the gurney with a Hannibal Lecter mask on.’

  The doctor was Sri Lankan; he didn’t seem to get the cultural reference and anyway had indicated he’d already seen enough of this ‘heavy-handed police repression’ where he came from. Handcuffs, he said, could interfere with emergency medical procedures and the armed guards should suffice. He also insisted on staying in the room to observe the ‘interrogation’ as he called it. Dieudonne was hooked up to the usual drips and monitors but apart from bloodshot eyes and some suturing on his head, he didn’t seem in too bad a shape. There was a library book on his bedside table: Tim Winton, Cloudstreet. DI Hutchens pulled up a visitor’s chair on one side of the bed and Lara stood on the other.

  ‘How you feeling?’ Hutchens enunciated a little too loudly, as if Dieudonne was deaf as well as African.

  ‘Very good, thank you sir.’ The voice was soft, polite and respectful and accompanied by a smile.

  Hutchens dropped the decibel level and pointed at the book. ‘Keeping up the reading, I see.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Goodonya. Missed out on school a bit, yeah? Making up for lost time.’

  An affirmative nod from Dieudonne, ‘The hairy hand of God, sir.’

  Hutchens was none the wiser. ‘Do you know why you’re here?’

  Dieudonne lifted his hand and pointed. ‘My head.’ He looked at Lara and smiled again. ‘She hit me.’

  The Sri Lankan doctor stiffened and glared at Lara. She decided to put him straight; she wagged a finger at Dieudonne. ‘You shouldn’t have tried to stab me, mate.’

  Dieudonne gave a little laugh.

  DI Hutchens opened a file on his knee. ‘There’s a number of matters we need to talk to you about, Dieudonne. Is that how you pronounce it?’

  He nodded. ‘Very good.’

  Lara hoped the DI wasn’t going to attempt a long interview under these conditions. When Hutchens closed his file again she realised he wasn’t.

  ‘But in the meantime I’m formally arresting you on suspicion of the murder of Jeremy Dixon and Santo Rosetti and the attempted murder of Detective Senior Constable Philip Kwong.’

  ‘Don’t forget the assaults on me, sir, at X-Wray Cafe and in my home.’

  ‘Yeah. Her too,’ said Hutchens. He turned to the doctor. ‘Can we have him now?’

  The doctor shook his head. ‘He is not in any condition to be released to you yet. We have to do more tests to confirm that there is no brain damage and to make sure his condition has stabilised.’

  ‘When then?’ said Hutchens.

  ‘I’ll give you an update tomorrow, Inspector.’ The doctor left.

  Hutchens muttered something undiplomatic under his breath and turned back to Dieudonne. ‘There are armed police stationed at your door and around the hospital. They have authority to shoot you if you present a danger to them. We’ll be back to see you tomorrow, mate.’

  ‘Very good,’ said Dieudonne through that dazzling smile of his.

  ‘Am I under arrest?’ Shellie Petkovic’s question was to DI Hutchens who was leading the interview, but her eyes were on Cato.

  ‘Not at all, we’re just having a chat. Trying to clear a few things up.’ Hutchens smiled reassuringly. ‘So, tell me why you were visiting Stephen Mazza, Shellie.’

  Hutchens was enjoying being in the thick of things: it had to be better than budget meetings and Safer Streets strategising. The interview room was the same colour as the decor in the detectives’ office: baby-shit yellow according to one of the baggier-eyed constables trying to juggle work and new parenthood. Even without air conditioning, the thick stone convict-built walls held a chill of their own. Shellie shivered in her thin cotton T-shirt. ‘He’s an old friend. I wanted to talk to him about stuff I was feeling.’

  ‘What stuff was that, Shellie?’

  She shrugged. ‘Wellard. Bree. The business out in the bush.’

  ‘Do you mean down at Beeliar Park?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What were you feeling?’

  Her eyes flashed. ‘What do you think?’

  Hutchens leaned forward. Father figure. ‘Shellie, I’m sorry. I know it’s not easy but it’s our job to find out what happened. I need to understand the nature of your talk with Mazza.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because it’s our job to find out who killed Gordon Wellard and why.’

  ‘Like it’s your job to find out who killed Bree, and why, and where she is?’

  ‘It’s not that simple, Shellie.’

  ‘It is t
o me.’

  ‘The sooner you answer the questions, the sooner you can go.’

  Her shoulders slumped in resignation. ‘I was feeling like shit. I wished Wellard was dead. I was sick of everything. Is that what you’re after?’

  ‘What was Mazza’s response?’

  ‘He said I needed to let go.’

  ‘That it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You were in there for an hour and that’s all he said?’

  ‘We talked about other things. Old times. News and gossip.’

  ‘Did you ask him to kill Gordon Wellard?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did he offer to take care of Wellard for you anyway?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘This doesn’t look good you know, Shellie.’

  ‘Are we finished?’

  Cato was sent back to Casuarina to have a chat with Stephen Mazza.

  ‘Shellie and you go back a long way, then?’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Mazza.

  The tradie-gone-bad image was accentuated by a five o’clock shadow. He looked like he was managing to keep himself in reasonable shape inside. It could go either way: some came out lean and mean and others came out looking like Kung Fu Panda. Cato sucked his stomach in.

  ‘So what did you talk about when Shellie came to see you?’

  ‘Old times, where she was at, stuff she was going through.’ He opened his palms. ‘Life in here.’

  ‘Specifically.’

  ‘Word for word?’

  ‘As best you can.’

  ‘She asked how I was going. I said not bad, considering. I asked how she was going. She said fucking awful. She told me all about that bullshit with Wellard in the park. Whose brilliant idea was that?’

  ‘Not mine,’ said Cato. ‘Go on.’

  ‘You lot, messing with people’s lives. It’s not on.’

  Cato cleared his throat. ‘What did you say to her when she told you about that?’

  ‘What I just said then: it’s not on.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Wellard’s a piece of shit. She needed to try to forget him and move on. He was never going to give her what she wanted. He liked having that power over her.’

  ‘Did you offer to sort him out for her?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did she ask you to kill him?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did you arrange to kill him anyway?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘The morning you found Wellard, tell me what happened.’

  ‘It’s in the statement. I started work in the kitchen around ten to five. I saw two blokes leaving as I arrived but I couldn’t identify them because they had their backs to me. I found Wellard. Raised the alarm. That’s it.’

  ‘How far away from you were those two blokes?’

  ‘Fifteen, twenty metres maybe?’

  ‘Hair colour, height?’

  ‘Dark. Big.’

  ‘What dealings had you had with Wellard prior to that?’

  ‘None.’

  ‘He was on duty in the kitchen too. Same roster. You must have had some contact.’

  ‘You can work with people without talking to them or being their mate.’

  He wasn’t wrong there, that pretty well summed up Cato’s professional life. Mazza went on. ‘He was a cocky, sleazy little prick. Nobody liked him. Nobody talked to him. You want a list of suspects? Try everybody in here.’

  Cato was aware of the guard shuffling by the door.

  Mazza looked down at his hands. ‘I didn’t have anything to do with it. Are we finished now?’

  Superintendent Scott personally escorted Cato to the exit.

  ‘How’d it go?’ he said thumbing back in the general direction of Stephen Mazza.

  ‘Sticking pretty much to his statement. His story matches with Ms Petkovic’s. They’re old friends. She needed a shoulder to cry on. Nothing more.’

  Scott shook his head. ‘That was an ugly business out at Beeliar. Poor woman. We did advise your boss against it.’

  Cato glanced sideways at his companion. ‘Win some, lose some. I’m sure DI Hutchens had her best interests at heart.’

  ‘Undoubtedly.’ They were at reception. A flunkey passed a package to Scott which he then offered to Cato. ‘The CCTV disks from the outside cameras – you only have the interior stuff, so far. Thought it might be useful.’

  The man was a regular customer service guru, thought Cato, maybe he’d once worked at Bunnings. Scott offered his hand for shaking. ‘If there’s anything else I can help with, don’t hesitate.’

  Cato had plenty of questions for Superintendent Scott but, according to orders, they were off-limits. ‘There is one thing that puzzles me.’

  ‘Fire away.’

  ‘Mazza. Given the nature of his crime and the closeness to his release date, I would have expected him to be in a lower security facility by now.’

  Scott nodded. ‘You’re right, he should be. Most people would be busting a gut for a transfer out of here. Staff included.’ He smiled, only joking, really.

  ‘But Mazza?’ prompted Cato.

  ‘Every time it looked like he was due to ship out, he arked up. Trashed his cell, assaulted somebody, disobedient to staff. He’s spent a lot of time out the back in Chokey.’ The punishment block. ‘It’s like he had a particular reason for wanting to stay here.’

  28

  The shrubs lining the freeway were parched and weary. Cato turned the air con up a notch and flicked on the radio for some distraction. He settled on a golden oldies station: Billy Fury was only Halfway to Paradise. So near yet so far away. Fury, paradise, dissatisfaction: it reminded Cato of the terms of reference for the Stiffies task force. He shuddered at how close he’d come to being lumbered with that.

  Every time Cato felt on the verge of grasping some insight into the Wellard case it crumbled like a dried flower in a sudden gust. As he took the off-ramp at South Street his phone trilled. ID blocked.

  ‘Kwong?’

  ‘Who’s this?’

  ‘John.’

  ‘I know a few Johns. Which one are you?’

  ‘You called me. About Santo.’ The number Hutchens had given him, Santo’s handler.

  ‘Oh, right.’

  ‘You want to meet?’

  ‘Sure. Where and when?’

  ‘How about now, that Maccas coming up on the right?’

  Cato looked in his rear-view and saw a bloke in a ute talking on a mobile. The bloke lifted his finger from the wheel in a country salute. ‘Cute trick,’ said Cato. ‘See you in there.’

  John returned to the table with two Quarter Pounder meal deals. ‘My shout.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Cato. John had the build and ruddy complexion of a farmer and his ute had out-of-town plates: Dardanup. Cato pointed his chin at John’s grubby Elders polo shirt. ‘You in disguise, then?’

  ‘No, I’m on leave. Helping out at the family farm.’

  ‘And you took time out to follow me around. I’m honoured.’

  Farmer John dipped his head. ‘It’s my job.’

  They both picked at their burgers and fries, slurped on their Cokes. Cato realised he was becoming overly dependent on other people’s air conditioning. He could have sat there all day eating processed food and tuning out the hyped-up kids and their snarling mums. ‘Santo?’

  John glanced furtively around the joint. ‘What about him?’

  ‘What was his job?’

  ‘Cop. Intelligence. UC.’

  Cato had another fry and waited.

  ‘Specifically, you mean?’ said John, after a rattle of ice.

  Cato nodded.

  ‘Drugs. He was mixing it with the major suppliers in Perth. You’ll have heard of the Trans and the Apaches?’

  ‘No, who are they?’

  ‘Funny cunt.’

  Cato swallowed another couple of fries. ‘We’ve been looking at the Trans for his murder but lately it’s shifted over to this African bloke.’

 
‘Dieudonne.’

  ‘How come I’m not surprised that you already knew?’

  ‘Intelligence. It’s what we do.’

  ‘How about instead of me telling you what we all already know, you tell me something I don’t?’

  John chomped the last of his burger and dabbed at his mouth with a napkin. ‘Bad apples.’

  ‘Dirty cops?’

  A terse nod in reply.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘That would be an infringement of the rules of natural justice and grounds for an unfair dismissal claim.’

  Code for ‘getting warmer’. Cato took the hint. ‘Was Santo getting close?’

  ‘He seemed to think so.’

  ‘How many people knew what he was doing?’

  ‘At least one too many.’

  ‘Colin Graham was in the loop. He was the one who told me Santo was UC.’

  Farmer John flicked a fly away from his face and said nothing.

  ‘Graham and Santo had a run-in a few months ago: a botched raid or something. What was that about?’

  John scraped some dirt from his fingernails.

  ‘Was Santo looking at Graham?’ said Cato, exasperation creeping into his voice.

  ‘To the best of our knowledge, DS Colin Graham is an outstanding officer with an exemplary record.’

  ‘I’ll take that as a yes, then.’

  When Cato got back to the office he found an email from Hutchens. The boss was out at some strategy meeting up at Adelaide Terrace HQ but wanted to meet with Cato later on – nothing specific, for a general ‘update’, he said. Sounded ominous. His phone buzzed.

  ‘Cato?’ It was Colin Graham. Spooky timing.

  ‘Col. What can I do for you, mate?’

  ‘Fancy catching up for a beer?’

  ‘Sure. When?’

  ‘Tonight? The Seaview? Eight-ish?