by Alan Carter
‘If he tries to contact you we want to know, right?’
Lara had nodded her assent to Hutchens but that wasn’t the same as a promise. With Colin Graham still out there, she wasn’t allowed to go home. She’d been booked into a hotel and could count on an armed guard at her door; not that it had meant much in the case of poor DC Murtagh.
33
Saturday, February 13th.
‘Where do I begin?’ The boss policeman had a thin file of papers in front of him on the desk. Dieudonne had expected it to be thicker given the number of people he had hurt or killed in the last few weeks. Maybe the file was some kind of prop, or trick, and the important thing was the camera up in the corner with its little red light. Dieudonne was wearing a paper suit as his clothes had been taken away for scientific testing. They had also taken blood and hair samples, swabs, and fingerprints. The suit made him itchy.
He was flanked by two women: Evonne the Translator was a big Kivu woman who reminded him of his mother: except that she seemed very afraid of him. He didn’t really need her to translate but she might be useful to hide behind if things turned difficult. The other was an Indian woman who was his lawyer. Her name was Amrita.
The policeman looked very happy to see her. ‘Miss Desai, weren’t you in Albany with Legal Aid?’
‘I transferred back.’ She flashed a big ring on her wedding finger. ‘And the name’s Gupta now.’
The other person in the room, apart from Mr Hutchens, was a fat man called Meldrum. Dieudonne wondered where Lara was: he expected her to be here. Maybe she was still hurt or too sad. He remembered her crying and begging just before the police raid: it wasn’t the first time somebody had begged him for their life but it was the first time it had affected him since his mother. Maybe he wasn’t the iron-willed soldier he thought he was. Maybe this country of sunshine and riches was turning him soft.
The boss policeman had said all of their names, where they were, time and day and the red light on the camera was blinking. Dieudonne put his hands on the desk and let it be known that the handcuffs were uncomfortable. The lawyer lady understood immediately.
‘Inspector, is this really necessary?’
‘I’m afraid so, Mrs Gupta, and if I were you I wouldn’t leave any pens lying around either.’
‘What precisely is the purpose of this interview? I assume you have sufficient evidence to go ahead with formal charges so we can adjourn to a more appropriate time and,’ she waved her red fingernails at the handcuffs, ‘more appropriate circumstances.’
‘You’re right, we do have enough evidence to charge but we’re also hoping your client can assist us with our urgent inquiries into an ongoing matter. His associate is still at large and we’d like to get him locked up too.’
‘If it was so urgent why didn’t you pursue the matter yesterday? You had my client in custody by late morning. You had an afternoon and evening to follow up your “urgent” inquiries.’
‘Paperwork, Mrs Gupta, sad but true: a policeman’s lot is not a happy one. And, to be fair, everybody was a bit knackered after driving around all night trying to find this cu–, your client.’ The boss policeman cleared his throat. ‘We also had to debrief from a life-threatening hostage situation and a number of my officers remain traumatised after the savage attack on their colleague on Thursday night. All in all...’
‘Let’s proceed then, shall we?’ The lawyer tapped her pen on her notepad impatiently.
The boss policeman looked like he wanted to kill her. ‘Yes, let’s.’
Cato was allowed to go home from the hospital by midmorning. The infection was on the way out and a box of antibiotics would fix what was left. Stepping out of the taxi in front of his house, the warm sun felt good on his shoulders. There was plenty to chase up from his little excursion to Myaree but he was content to leave that until office hours on Monday. For now, he had a weekend free. He’d heard on the cab radio the news that Dieudonne was now in custody and he’d had a text from DI Hutchens to the effect that he was busy right now but would be in touch, Lara was fine, and Cato should rest up.
He paid the cab driver, unlocked his front door and opened all the windows to let in some air and light. Cato had just filled a plunger of coffee when there was a knock on the flywire. It was his neighbour, Felix, and behind him stood Constable Quiet-and-Dangerous. Behind him, Madge the Jack Russell yapped and pissed on Cato’s geraniums, again. Cato aimed for Zen.
‘Morning,’ he said.
‘Morning, sir.’ Constable Q-and-D stepped out from behind Felix. The neighbour had a strange look on his face. ‘Do you have a moment?’ said Constable Q-and-D.
‘Sure.’ They all trooped back to Cato’s kitchen. All except Madge: Cato firmly closed the flywire on her and was rewarded with an annoyed yap. ‘Coffee?’
Constable Q-and-D gave the thumbs up. ‘Lovely, thanks, white and one.’
‘Is it fair-trade?’ said Felix.
‘No.’ Cato poured for two and looked at the constable. ‘Let’s have it.’
‘There’s been a development, sir.’
‘A DNA breakthrough? A witness has come forward? A copycat?’
‘Very amusing, sir.’
Cato handed the coffee over. ‘This is my day off, mate. I’m crook. I’ve been chasing mad axemen. What do you want?’
‘To apologise,’ said Felix with a sigh.
Constable Q-and-D explained. Apparently the poisonous substance found in Madge’s system wasn’t snail pellets or Ratsack. ‘Sea hares, sir.’
‘Come again?’
‘Sea hares. Those blubbery lumps that get washed up at the beach sometimes.’
‘Sea hares?’ said Cato.
‘There have been some recent cases of dogs eating them and getting sick later. They’re poisonous apparently. Neurotoxins.’
‘Really?’ said Cato.
Felix gave a shuddery breath. ‘Madge was at the beach that day. She got off the lead. Some of those things had been washed up. She must have...’ Felix folded his hands in on each other. ‘Sorry.’
Constable Q-and-D drained his coffee. ‘My apologies also, sir, but you understand I had a job to do.’ He tried to give Cato a meaningful brotherhood-type stare but Cato blanked it. ‘We won’t take up any more of your time, sir.’
Cato ushered them out of his house. Madge yapped at her master’s return. ‘Constable,’ said Cato.
‘Sir?’
‘Do me a favour and formally advise this gentleman of his obligations under the Dog Act of 1976. You are familiar with it, aren’t you?’
‘Yes. Sir.’
‘I’ll leave it with you, then.’ Cato smiled and closed the door on them. Sea hares. The near-perfect crime. Why hadn’t he thought of that?
They had Dieudonne on a long list of charges, some pending further forensic examination. Murders of Jeremy ‘Fagin’ Dixon, DC Santo Rosetti; attempted murders of DSCs Philip Kwong, Lara Sumich and DC Aidan Murtagh; assault and wounding charges, deprivation of liberty, kidnapping, resist arrest, escape custody, theft, overdue library books. He was a one-man crime wave. Hutchens studied the wiry young man on the other side of the desk. He seemed childlike both in physique and manner. The big brown eyes, the winning smile, thin wrists, nervous mannerisms. He looked like he needed mothering. Hutchens had seen his like before, many times: complete absence of remorse, no moral framework. Why would he? The poor bastard had been taught the finer points of butchery by the age of ten. But the people who harnessed that horror for their own profit: now that really was evil.
‘Tell me how you know Colin Graham.’
‘Who?’
‘Detective Sumich has already told us that you know each other, that you were both in the property in Rockingham yesterday morning, and we have mobile phone records linking you.’
‘Sorry.’ He looked at the translator, pretending he didn’t understand. The translator translated for him and sent a reply back on his behalf.
‘He says he does not know the name of the man
you talk about. He never met him before.’
Hutchens sniffed. ‘Have it your way. We’re going to lock you up for a very long time. At the end of that, if you’re still alive, we’ll most likely send you back where you came from. Protecting Colin Graham isn’t going to save you. He certainly won’t lift a finger to help you, sunshine.’
The translator relayed that to Dieudonne. ‘Sorry,’ he said again.
Amrita Gupta put the lid back on her expensive-looking biro. ‘Is that it for today, Inspector?’
‘You might want to have a chat with him about doing the right thing.’
Amrita looked at Hutchens like he was born yesterday.
Lara Sumich woke in a strange bed and took a moment to remember where she was: room 4-something-or-other, Esplanade Hotel, Fremantle. The room was standard Hotel Anywhere décor but comfy enough all the same. She checked the bedside clock, just after half-ten: she’d slept all the way through from yesterday to this morning. Her various facial injuries stung, and her head and re-set nose throbbed. Lara switched her mobile back on. She briefly pondered the notion of food and dismissed it, opting instead for bottled water from the mini-bar. Her mobile beeped. Messages from friends and family: some aware of what she’d been through in the last few days, others not. A text from Hutchens:
rest up c u monday.
A missed call and voice message from an unknown number. She dialled messagebank.
Hi Lara, we need to talk when you’ve got a moment. Let’s catch up soon.
The call had come through about an hour ago. It was Colin Graham, acting like they were still lovers.
Lara took a shaky sip from the water bottle and sat on the bed. He obviously had heard from news reports that she was still alive but did he know where she was? She went over to the door, opened it and peeped out through a two-centimetre gap. A fresh-faced uniform looked up from a jet-ski magazine.
‘Morning. Anything I can do for you?’
‘No, thanks. Just checking.’
‘No need to worry. We’re here.’
‘Right,’ she said and closed the door.
Colin Graham had seen her coming a mile off; knew she favoured bad boys. His confidence and whiff of danger was part of the turn-on but while she’d picked him early as a bit of a bastard she’d read him as no more than a dodgy cop who got results. Dirty Harry. Somebody like her but more experienced. Somebody she could learn from, aspire to, have fun with, fuck. Somebody she could use to advance her career. Somebody she could handle. She got that wrong. Lara knew she was urgent unfinished business but now, with Dieudonne locked up, was Colin Graham cold enough to do his own dirty work? Lara looked at the mobile sitting on her bedside table. She looked at it for a long time.
For a Saturday the office was busier than Cato had expected. Even though the manhunt had wound down, a number of officers were catching up on paperwork and reporting obligations, or milking what remained of the overtime allocation. Cato was on a roll. After the Dog Poisoning Task Force had left with their tails between their legs, Cato turned his attention back to the main game. He decided that Wellard’s murder and the various versions of whodunnit were a sideshow. The real victims here were Shellie and Bree. Cato’s priority was to find the last resting place of Briony Petkovic.
Cato spread out the relevant files on his desk and logged on to the system. He went back to the beginning. Who was where and when, on the day that fifteen year old Bree went missing? From his earlier reading of the files, nobody seemed to have mapped out a precise timeline for that day and nobody really took it seriously, until very recently. Bree was a troubled kid, Wellard was a low-life, and Shellie was his moll: they all deserved each other. That was the subtext of the care and attention lacking from this particular missing persons investigation.
Cato started comparing notes between Bree’s case and that of Caroline Penny. Drugs, alcohol, violence and abuse featured heavily in both. But Cato was looking for other kinds of patterns. On the day she disappeared, Bree had phoned her mum, Shellie, and during that last phone conversation she had mentioned that she was with Gordon Wellard but didn’t say where. She hadn’t seemed unduly upset or worried about anything. When later questioned by police, Wellard had admitted that he had seen her earlier that day but then she had gone off with some friends in the evening and he hadn’t seen her since.
Fast forward about three years. On the day Caroline Penny disappeared, she had phoned her mum back in Wales. That phone call had triggered alarm bells, firstly because it was late morning Perth time but still only middle-of-the-night Aberystwyth time. Secondly, according to her mum, Caroline certainly was upset and worried about everything. When later questioned by police, Wellard had admitted seeing Caroline earlier that day but that they had an argument and she had gone off with some friends that afternoon and he hadn’t seen her since. Same shonky story – gone off with friends, dunno where she is. But this time his story fell apart after the untimely discovery, two days later, of Caroline’s body by an early-morning walker out with the dog.
Caroline Penny had been found in a grave in Star Swamp not far from the unit she and Wellard were sharing in Scarborough. Cato brought up Google Maps on his screen and studied the route and distance from the unit to Star Swamp. Approximately eight kilometres, around ten to fifteen minutes drive in usual traffic conditions. Cato noticed there was a choice of other bush reserves in the general area, some of them nearer than Star Swamp. Why did he choose there? Privacy perhaps. Vehicle access. Or just plain chance? That also begged the question of why Wellard had chosen Beeliar Regional Park as the venue for his nasty mind games with Shellie. Cato was confident that Beeliar Park was not where Bree was. He had seen the look on Wellard’s face when the cadaver dog had signalled its find. Gordy was more surprised than anybody to see the nail-gunned pig. He wasn’t expecting them to find anything.
Cato stood amongst the gums, paperbarks and waist-high grasses of Star Swamp as flies droned listlessly in the late afternoon heat. The swamp was dried up at this time of year; in fact he doubted it had been swampy wet for a long, long time. Cato held the file map in front of him. X marked the spot where Caroline Penny’s body had been found. It was about two metres off the walk path through the bush. The path led to a small car park; one of several on the perimeter of Star Swamp but this particular one was at the quieter end of the street bordering the reserve. Wellard would have had to carry Caroline’s body approximately thirty metres from the car to her final resting place. If it hadn’t been for an inquisitive labrador he might even have got away with it.
According to the pathologist’s report, Caroline Penny had been dead for about thirty-six to forty-eight hours when discovered. A forensic entomologist had studied the maggots and other insect life to estimate that Caroline had been buried within about twelve hours of her murder. The timing of the phone call to her mum in Wales put the window of her passage from life to death at about two hours around lunchtime later that same day. Maybe Wellard was just driving around with a body in the boot waiting for nightfall, looking for a good place, and here it was. But if so, it made more sense to try the reserves nearer to home or go even further afield to the better-known dumpsites up in the Gnangara pine plantation or the hills of the Darling Range. No, the location of this dumpsite suggested a degree of premeditation and foreknowledge. Wellard had seen this place before and he had seen it through the eyes of somebody wanting to hide a dead body. So was Bree somewhere here too?
A young mum strolled past with her toddler: a little hand inside a big hand, a world of wonder, love and safety. She hurried on at the sight of Cato standing alone in the bushes just off the path, deep in thought. He couldn’t blame her.
34
Monday, February 15th.
‘Myaree? What the fuck they take you there for?’
Cato told him. They were in DI Hutchens’ office with the door closed.
‘So those dickheads think they can just abduct one of my officers off the streets and get away with it?’
‘We’ll see about that.’
Cato was used to Hutchens huffing and puffing. In the meantime he had some news to pass on to his boss. He outlined the Wellard end of the story first: the denial of Apache involvement in the actual toothbrushing.
‘They would say that, wouldn’t they?’
Cato shrugged. ‘Something about it rang true.’
‘Looked into their eyes did you? Saw into their souls?’
‘I’m passing on a message: what do you want to do about it?’
Hutchens did a Dickensian harrumph. ‘We need to revisit the forensic reports, focus on the toothbrush. My memory of it was that there were no traces of anybody on it: except Wellard of course. Then go and see Mazza again, put it to him.’
‘Will do.’ With everything else going on, Cato realised this probably wasn’t the best time to be raising the issue of Star Swamp, cadaver dogs, search teams and ground-penetrating radar. He didn’t imagine DI Hutchens would be too keen after the fiasco at Beeliar and the poor internal PR it had brought him. Nor did Cato want to put Shellie through any more false hope: he had to have more to base it on. ‘There was something else.’ He told Hutchens the story about the nail gun.
‘Fucking hell,’ said Hutchens. He looked out of his partition window onto the slowly filling detectives’ room. ‘Better get Lara in here.’
Lara was already sick of living out of a suitcase. She’d been to her apartment with an armed escort to pick up some clothes, toiletries, books, laptop and a few other essentials and returned to the hotel via a circuitous route. Colin Graham may or may not have been watching her place and may or may not have trailed her back to the hotel. He was certainly experienced enough to have done so without her knowing but she remained unmolested for the rest of the weekend and there had been no further messages from him. She was well rested now, ready to come back to work and keep her mind occupied. Easier said than done: her thoughts and reflexes felt dull, her head empty yet cluttered at the same time. Cato and Hutchens were looking at her expectantly.