by Alan Carter
‘Stop now, Lara. Or I’ll do it here.’
She stopped. She felt a trembling consume her. Graham clamped the blue light onto the car roof and set it flashing.
‘When I tell you to, open your door and step out of the car.’
He pressed the button to release the lid of the boot. He got out, keeping his eye and the gun on her, then gave her the signal to move. There was still surprisingly little traffic around. Any attempt by her to get attention would be neutralised by the flashing blue light: cop business, butt out. He waited for a suitable gap in the traffic before lifting the boot lid and gesturing for her to climb in. She lay down as instructed. It felt like a coffin. He told her to roll over and face away from him. Lara took a last look at the sky, and at the face she’d once kissed hungrily. She rolled over, closed her eyes and waited for the shot.
Cato was left at the A&E doors at Fremantle Hospital just before seven. At the admissions counter he flashed his ID and explained his circumstances to the duty nurse. She buzzed him through and gave him a bed to lie on until the next doctor was free. While Cato waited he ignored the warning signs and used his mobile to phone DI Hutchens.
‘Cato, about time, you and Lara some kind of tag team?’
‘What?’
‘First you go walkabout, now her. She’s not answering my calls either. A bloke could start taking this personally you know.’
When Lara regained consciousness she had a blinding headache and the back of her head and her face felt sticky. Blood. There was a stuffy, oily smell: she was in the boot of Colin Graham’s Commodore and the car had stopped. It was stifling in there. Was that how she was going to die, suffocating like a dog in a car on a hot day? Shooting would be more humane. There was a lot of noise outside: the relentless thump of thrash music. It confirmed her theory of where she was being taken. It was the Foo Fighters and the volume had been turned up to eleven.
31
Cato was in a side ward, dosed up on antibiotics. The stab wound was infected and inflamed and he wasn’t going anywhere for at least the next twenty-four hours. He was attached to drips and monitors and he felt like he could sleep for a month. His mind wasn’t having any of it, though. Thoughts and emotions jostled for attention: all urgent, all compelling. One increasingly stood out from the rest: a nagging cold fear for the safety of Lara Sumich.
Dieudonne had still not been found, even with the assistance of broad daylight, massive resources and saturation media coverage. The longer he went unfound and the longer Lara remained out of contact, the more likely it was that the two situations were connected. Sure, Lara had shown herself to be resourceful in her last encounter with the African, but had her luck run out? DI Hutchens stood at the end of Cato’s hospital bed looking like a man caught in a rip without the energy to swim back to shore.
‘I’ll hear all about your adventures in Bikie Land later, mate. Just wanted to check you’re okay. It’s bloody madness out there.’
Cato nodded. ‘Add Lara to the news story. Get the Neighbourhood Watch busybodies looking out for her too. You’ve got nothing to lose. For all we know, if we find one we might find the other.’ Hutchens had lost his glazed look but Cato hadn’t finished. ‘Is Colin Graham dirty and, more importantly, is he dangerous?’
‘You finally coming round on that one then?’
Cato sighed. ‘This isn’t some white-anting office politics game anymore. We had an opportunity to warn Lara about him and we didn’t.’
‘Jesus, Cato, you don’t really think...’
‘I don’t know what to think but I fear the worst. Col invited me for a beer last night. He was trying to find out what we know and at the same time trying to muddy the waters. Colin’s dissembling: it’s what he’s always been good at. Tell Farmer John the time for being coy is over. We need to know what’s really going on.’
Hutchens’ gaze travelled over the tubes and wires and medical machinery and came to rest on Cato’s face. ‘How come you’re the one with all the bright ideas and you’re lying there, cactus, with all this spaghetti coming off you?’
Lara was curled up on the couch in Leon Johnstone’s grungy unit in Rockingham. Next door, the heavy metal was at full tilt; it didn’t do much for her thumping head. Her hands and feet were bound with plastic cable ties: arms pinned behind her back, numb from restricted circulation. Colin Graham sat in an armchair opposite her, a police Glock resting in his upturned palm. There were a couple of mobiles on the coffee table: one of them would be for his ‘Leon Johnstone’ alias, showing a missed call from Lara a couple of days ago. That’s what had tipped him off that she was closing in. Graham checked his watch for the fifth time in as many minutes.
‘Expecting somebody?’ said Lara.
No reply.
‘How long have you known Dieudonne?’
Still nothing. He was disengaging. That suggested he was mentally readying himself to kill her. It also suggested that this didn’t come easily or naturally to him. By contrast, Dieudonne could serve you a winning smile and sever your arteries in the flutter of an eyelash. Life and death were all the same to him. He’d grown up in the slaughterhouse of the Congo: it was the only existence he’d ever known. Nothing personal, no deceit or greed. Colin Graham? He’d grown up comfortable, well fed, safe: and he’d turned into a callous, self-absorbed sociopath. How might Dieudonne have turned out if he’d had Colin Graham’s chances in life? She recalled Santo Rosetti in the toilet cubicle in the Birdcage, Fagin in the house in Willagee, DC Murtagh’s blood in the hospital corridor. Lara’s new-found empathy and insight would come to nothing: she was going to die to the sound of the fucking Foo Fighters.
‘Santo was investigating you.’
Nothing.
‘You invited yourself into the murder investigation to make sure it pointed in the direction of the Trans.’
Nothing.
‘Is that why you fucked me?’
A half-smile. ‘That was a bonus.’
Not fully disengaged yet then. ‘So you’re in with the Apaches?’
‘For now.’
‘How does it work?’
‘The usual way: I provide information and influence and help bury the competition. In return I get paid, handsomely.’
‘Enough to cause all this bloodshed?’
‘Absolutely. But it’s more than that. I can influence and shape events, I get to be master of my own destiny instead of a cog in the machine.’
La-la-la, thought Lara. ‘Why didn’t you just have Dieudonne kill Jimmy Tran? Bit more direct surely?’
Graham shook his head. ‘Tit for tat, knock one Tran down and another stands up. And it didn’t get rid of the problem of Santo. The best thing was to take him out and blame the gooks – two birds, one stone.’
‘You can’t keep killing your way out of this.’
An apologetic smile. ‘You’re right, Lara. I’m running out of options, but I can’t think of any other way right now.’
The room was getting stuffy. Graham reached for the remote and zapped the air conditioner onto high. Lara heard a footfall and became aware of a shadow of movement in the corner of her eye. Dieudonne had appeared at the kitchen counter: once again he had a knife in his hand. Next door the thrash music stopped for a few seconds, there were some raised voices, and then the Foos started up again.
DI Hutchens had rediscovered his mojo. He’d reined in some of the wilder goose chases and redistributed the resources to follow up new leads on the plucky and photogenic missing police officer, DSC Lara Sumich. Hutchens also had a designated team trying to track down DS Colin Graham and his white Commodore and right now they were busy tearing apart the man’s home and private study much to the consternation of his pregnant wife.
With DC Murtagh in intensive care and a missing officer in peril, the Commissioner had made it clear that Hutchens had carte blanche, resource-wise, and had even offered him some superintendents and other top brass to help coordinate things. Hutchens had said thanks for the former but no than
ks to the latter.
Lara’s, Graham’s, and DC Murtagh’s mobile phones were all being monitored to try to get a location fix. At this stage all seemed to be switched off with SIM card and battery removed. Somebody knew what they were doing. The coincidence of them all being untraceable confirmed and exacerbated Hutchens’ fears, particularly as the last fix they had on all three phones was in Fremantle around dawn.
Hutchens could have done with the familiar face and the lateral brain of Cato Kwong right now. Kwong’s deduction about Graham had been on the money. Farmer John, as Cato called him, confirmed that they had been investigating Graham for over a year. A catalogue of botched raids, leaks, and large cash deposits into a family trust account suggested he was in with the Apaches.
‘They pretty much paid for the house in Floreat,’ said Farmer John.
‘Don’t suppose the fuckers fancy buying me a weekender in Yallingup do they?’ said Hutchens acidly.
‘Depends what you’re offering.’
Lastly, yes, Graham was considered to be dangerous. He was believed to be personally responsible for at least one hit for the Apaches two years back – to prove his credentials to them.
‘A raid in Marangaroo on an Eastern States–linked dealer.’ John said. ‘The way we heard it, Col effectively executed the guy but instead of sacking him the brass gave him a fucking commendation.’
Why UC thought it was okay to hold that kind of information close to their collective spook chests was anybody’s guess but Hutchens intended to have Farmer John strung up by his nuts when this was all over.
A message was handed to him relaying the transcribed contents of a phone call from somebody called Sheree in Rockingham who wouldn’t give her last name but told the operator to shut up and listen. Apparently the unit next door was meant to be unoccupied but the air conditioning was on and there was a car parked outside. So what? Yeah, but the point is that cop chick was here only a few days ago asking about this place. What cop chick? The one in the photo on the telly right now.
‘Do your job properly this time, please,’ Colin Graham said as he left.
Dieudonne smiled and fingered the stitches where the Marlborough sauv blanc had caught him. Graham hadn’t looked at Lara on his way out. Trussed up like the proverbial turkey, she had no chance of bettering Dieudonne this time. The only positive was that Dieudonne had shown no particular signs of being a sadist. All his work so far had been quick and effective even if it did entail redecorating everything within a five-metre radius.
‘How much does he pay you?’
A puzzled look.
Lara nodded in the direction of the departed Graham. ‘Your boss.’
Dieudonne shook his head. ‘Money is not the issue. I am a soldier. He is a commander. We understand each other.’
As a foundation for a relationship she’d heard worse. What had been the foundation of her relationship with Graham? Monkey and organ-grinder, maybe. Puppet and puppeteer, and all along she’d deluded herself that she’d been in control.
‘You know he’ll kill you too, don’t you?’ Lara said. ‘Once he no longer has any use for you.’ His bright wide smile said, ‘What’s your point?’ Lara knew there was no mileage to be had there. ‘Where did you get your name?’
A frown.
Lara wondered how long it was since he’d been asked to think about the time before his killing career started. ‘Gift from God. Your mother must have given you that name. Fathers tend to name after themselves as a way of showing proof of ownership.’ Lara wondered where she’d dug that up. Maybe she’d read it in a magazine in a waiting room somewhere. ‘Your mother must have been a stunning looking woman.’
‘Do not talk about my family, please. You know nothing of them.’
There was an edge of anger to his voice and she decided to abandon the Psychology 101. The volume on the Foo Fighters had dropped. Lara could yell out and attract the neighbour’s attention now and they might even hear her: after all, what was the worst that could happen? Dieudonne was going to slit her throat anyway. But if that was certain then it was also certain that he would do the same to Sheree and anyone else who got in his way.
Next door’s music had stopped altogether. It was mercifully quiet. Shadow and movement past the front window suggested Sheree and family were off out somewhere. Lara’s eyes teared up at the thought that these were her last minutes on earth. It seemed so unfair. She’d taken for granted that she would have a long life and at some point she might even have kids and get married: now, in the face of death, it suddenly seemed important. She wanted to take her never-to-be kids around to her parents’ place and have them call them nanna and grandad and remind the oldies of what family life could be. She wanted to go and see Mr and Mrs Rosetti and tell them some good things she’d found out about Santo. She wanted to deliver Dieudonne and Colin Graham to justice for Santo’s murder. She wanted to try to make amends to Mrs Papadakis for dragging her husband into this sorry mess. And Fagin. She wanted to call upon Jeremy Dixon’s father and make him pay for ruining his son’s life. It wouldn’t happen; she’d stuffed up and was about to pay the ultimate price. Tears were streaming down her face now at all the lost promises of her too-short and too-bitter life.
Dieudonne looked at her curiously. Maybe in his experience regret and grief had been irrelevant luxuries. Maybe it all just happened too quickly and they never had time to beg. He moved behind her, pulled her head back to expose her neck. He laid the blade against her throat.
‘Do not struggle. Just accept it.’
‘Please,’ she begged, through blinding tears and dribbling snot. The room was silent now. No music pounding through the walls. No air conditioning. No fridge hum even. ‘Please,’ she said, one last time.
32
When Cato woke he no longer felt feverish or nauseous and the pain from his infected wound had subsided. He checked the clock on the wall: early afternoon. He took a punt on it still being Friday. Hospitals could be like casinos and shopping malls; once inside you lost all sense of time, space and reality. Had Cato really been abducted by two bikies and taken to Myaree? Myaree. No, you don’t dream that kind of thing.
Where to start? The nail gun. Cato didn’t imagine those wounds in Goatee’s back but, according to him, it wasn’t the handiwork of Mickey Nguyen. Nguyen’s death in the bushfire with the nail-gunned Mr Papadakis in the boot of the car, and little in the way of forensic contradiction, had quickly wrapped up that nasty little case. Now, if Goatee was to be believed, the murder of Christos Papadakis had to be re-opened. The problem was that Goatee himself was never going to stand up in court as a witness; outlaws didn’t do justice that way. Cato believed the bikie’s story but proving it in court would be a different matter.
Item two. The prison bikies, Kenny and Danny, were happy to own up to kicking the crap out of Gordon Francis Wellard. They had no real choice given the CCTV corroboration but, according to Eyebrow Stud, they played no part in administering the fatal coup de grace. If the suggestion now was that somebody else did the toothbrushing then the obvious candidate was Stephen Mazza: he was the only one else on CCTV who came close to Wellard’s body. At the moment when Mazza was kneeling down and supposedly checking Wellard’s welfare, the victim had fallen below the frame of vision. So it was possible that Mazza seized his opportunity to finish him off.
The real nail-gun murderer had been offered up as a trade for a closer look at Wellard’s death and the roles of Kenny and Danny. It was win-win for the Apaches. They might get some sentence relief for their boys and, as a bonus, bring extra grief to their rivals. Their insistence on Cato’s cooperation on the matter had been reinforced with a tap on his knee with the nail gun: whether it was a real threat or just a melodramatic flourish, Cato wasn’t keen to find out.
Hopefully by the end of the weekend he’d be back in action and he could follow up on the Wellard killing. He could pass the Papadakis nail-gun tip on to Lara Sumich, as that was her case. That, of course, assumed Lara would
come out of this alive.
Three floors below, Lara Sumich lay in the emergency department. She was receiving attention to some of the facial cuts and the broken nose resulting from Colin Graham repeatedly mashing her face into the car dashboard. There was another nasty gash on the back of her head where he’d pistol-whipped her as she lay facing away from him in the boot of his Commodore. She had pleaded for her life and been given it back. Dieudonne was interrupted by explosions, shouting, and all hell breaking loose. When the smoke had cleared in the Rockingham unit, the first voice she heard was that of Dave the TRG man.
‘You all right there, Lara?’
Dieudonne was disarmed and facedown on the kitchen lino, four men-in-black kneeling on him with one repeatedly administering the taser. It was probably overkill but, at that precise moment, Dieudonne’s human rights weren’t a big issue for Lara. The front door was off its hinges and bright Rockingham sunlight streamed through the gap. She’d never seen anything so beautiful.
Now that they had Dieudonne in custody, the very public manhunt had been wound down. A more discreet one was still underway for Colin Graham. The notion of a rogue killer cop on the loose was just a bit too much for the faint hearts in the PR department at HQ so they were keeping it all hush-hush. This time, though, Dieudonne would get the full Hannibal Lecter treatment: handcuffs, straitjacket, padded cell, muzzle, sedation – whatever it took.
‘He can howl at the moon all he friggin’ likes,’ said Hutchens.
The DI had given Lara back her mobile. Confiscated by Graham, it had been left behind in the Rockingham unit in his rush to be gone. The techs had already downloaded all they needed from the SIM and confirmed Graham’s prints were on it.