by Alan Carter
‘So the ute left the scene and isn’t relevant?’ said Farmer John.
‘Possibly not,’ said Meldrum.
Lara took a sip of water.
‘That it?’ said Hutchens to Meldrum.
‘Yes. I’ve got uniforms and DCs ready for a doorknock kicking off in about half-an-hour.’
‘Better let you go then.’ Hutchens smiled encouragingly. ‘Solid work, Molly.’
Meldrum blushed and walked out of the room two centimetres taller. That left Cato, Farmer John, Lara and DI Hutchens. Cato was heartwarmed to see DS Meldrum get his moment in the spotlight but remained bemused by the choice of him on a job like this. The first he’d heard of Colin Graham’s spectacular demise was a 4.30a.m. phone call from Hutchens. As far as he could tell, Lara was in the same boat. They’d been sidelined: leaving Hutchens, Farmer John, Duncan Goldflam and Molly Meldrum in the know and acting on it since last night. Why?
‘Any thoughts?’ said the DI to no one in particular.
‘Suicide?’ said Farmer John.
‘Please explain,’ said Hutchens.
‘He’s been rumbled, his life has turned to shit, his hired African is locked up and about to dish the dirt. Writing on the wall. Petrol, match, whoosh.’
‘Handcuffs?’ said Cato.
‘Insurance, in case he bottled out and changed his mind. He did it himself and threw away the key.’
Hutchens looked thoughtful. ‘The ute?’
‘Distraction. Red herring.’
‘Nice and simple,’ observed Cato neutrally.
Hutchens nodded, noncommittal. ‘Lara? You’re very quiet.’
Lara’s eyes dulled and she shifted in her seat. ‘I think John’s probably on the money, sir.’
‘Go and get some rest, Lara.’
The DI’s office had been cleared. It was just the two of them. ‘Sir?’
‘You’re a wreck. You’re on the verge of cracking up. You need some professional help.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
Hutchens closed his laptop and swivelled in his chair to face her. ‘You’ve had to be rescued by TRG, you’ve been attacked in your home by Dieudonne, there’s the Papadakis thing, and you’ve witnessed the death of that dero.’
‘His name was Jeremy Dixon,’ she said.
‘Yeah. And now this.’ Hutchens shook his head. ‘You’re traumatised. You need time out.’
‘I’ll be fine, sir.’
‘I’m not advising you, Lara. I’m directing you. I’ll get Human Resources to contact you with a psych appointment or something.’
‘What about Dieudonne, and Vincent Tran and the nail-gun thing?’
‘We’ll take care of it; you take care of yourself.’
She didn’t have the strength or inclination to argue.
Next it was Cato’s turn in the DI’s office behind closed doors. He watched Lara gather her things and leave. That dark-eyed, hollowed-out look reminded him of Shellie Petkovic. Cato went in and shut the door behind him.
‘Coffee?’ Hutchens thumbed over his shoulder at a tray on top of a filing cabinet: half-filled plunger, cups and milk jug, even a plate of biscuits.
‘Don’t mind if I do.’ Cato grabbed a cup and an Anzac and sat down.
‘Thoughts, maestro?’
‘On Colin Graham?’
‘Anything else happened in the last few hours?’
‘Yeah, right.’ Cato took a sip: it wasn’t half bad. ‘Farmer John seems keen to keep it neat and tidy.’
‘What’s your point?’
Cato shrugged. ‘Bit early to be closing our minds to other possibilities.’
‘Go on.’
‘Murder? Maybe Graham’s associates got round to thinking he was more trouble than he was worth.’
‘Suicide is better PR.’
Cato munched on the biscuit. ‘In what way?’
‘Well the Commissioner’s got the choice of Rogue Cop Murdered by Bikie Pals or Veteran Cop Suicide Tragedy.’
‘Pithy. Ever thought you were in the wrong job, boss?’
‘Never.’
Cato flicked some crumbs off his lap. ‘Your call: PR is above my pay scale. So what now?’
‘As you say, let the spin doctors at HQ come up with the story. We’ll stick to collecting the evidence. Duncan can do his sifting and testing, Molly can do his asking and unless anything to the contrary comes in, we might let sleeping dogs lie, for now.’
That term again. You couldn’t move around here these days without tripping over sleeping dogs. ‘Okay,’ said Cato.
Hutchens glanced out of the window at nothing in particular. ‘Lara’s got the rest of the day off. Maybe longer.’
‘Good idea, she’s been through a lot lately.’
‘You up to absorbing a few of her jobs?’
‘Like?’
‘Vincent Tran and the nail gun; helping me with ongoing chats with Dieudonne?’
The idea of sitting in a chair opposite the man who’d pushed a knife into him didn’t really appeal. ‘DS Meldrum couldn’t help out there I suppose?’
‘Meldrum has important work to do, not finding any evidence that contradicts the suicide theory.’
Cato swallowed the last of his Anzac and pretended he hadn’t heard that.
Hutchens flipped open his laptop and looked busy. ‘We’ll head out to Hakea in an hour to see Dieudonne. Grab some brekky while you can.’
Lara lay in bed, her window open to the sounds of Fremantle. Her limbs felt dull and heavy: her chest tight from holding back the flood. She wanted to cry, she wanted to die, worst of all she wanted to quit the job. Hutchens and UC John obviously wanted to sweep Colin Graham under the mat as a suicide. It suited them and it kind of suited her too. It explained away the handcuffs she’d snapped on his wrist, closing off his escape and sealing his fate.
Lara had done as instructed by Goatee. She’d walked away with the flames crackling in her ears, the glow flicking her shadow skittishly on the bitumen, the low murmurs of Graham’s killers. And did she also hear, or just imagine, Colin’s groans from within the furnace? They’d passed her on the drive out, in their black low-slung Falcon ute, Goatee encouraging her to get a move on.
‘Fireys’ll be here soon. Don’t want them to catch you in the vicinity do you? Might need to do a bit of explaining.’
‘You can handcuff me any time you like, sweetheart.’ It was ‘Such is’ Dennis from the back seat.
A laugh and they were gone. Lara had crouched behind a wall as the fire engines and the first patrol car raced by. In her state, returning to the hotel was out of the question.
She’d gone home and showered to remove any odour traces of smoke or petrol and put her clothes and sneakers in the washing machine. She’d sat waiting for the inevitable callout to the scene. It never came and she fell asleep until an early morning summons from Hutchens.
On her way in she’d stopped by the hotel and collected her things. Events were moving too fast for her bodyguard on the door. He’d heard the manhunt was over and was still trying to work out why Lara wasn’t tucked up in her room. She didn’t bother to enlighten him.
Putting Meldrum on the case had been a clever move, ensuring the official version prevailed. Lara was content to play along. She’d seen the look on Cato’s face though; he’d be a different prospect altogether.
Lara knew what had really happened. The Apaches had been Graham’s insurance, or at least that’s what he believed, but they’d turned on him. The question was whether they’d thought of it all by themselves. Goatee had said something early in the encounter, a reference to the handcuffs on Graham. Nice touch. Maybe we weren’t needed after all. Both Hutchens and UC John seemed keen to whitewash the affair and that made her think that one or both of them were involved in some way. It had to be John: he was the one in the loop and he’d failed to respond to her emergency summons. Colin had been absolutely confident of the outcome and the chosen location because John, either directly or via the Apaches, had spoon-fed him
that confidence. Lara had been offered up to Colin as an apparent sacrifice and that’s why he never saw the double-cross coming. She had been UC John’s tethered goat. How was that for karma?
A crowded interview room at Hakea prison: guards, an African woman, a lawyer with her back turned as she rummaged in a briefcase, and of course Dieudonne. Across the table: Cato and DI Hutchens.
‘You guys have met, haven’t you?’
Hutchens – a laugh a minute. Cato wanted to shove a knife in his gut to see how funny it felt. ‘Very amusing, sir.’
‘I meant you and the lawyer.’
The lawyer stopped rummaging, turned and offered a hand. Cato remembered her: Amrita, from Legal Aid; she’d given him grief aplenty in the Great Southern. He stuck out his hand and played professional. ‘Miss Desai, keeping well?’
She shook it. ‘Yes thanks and it’s Mrs Gupta now.’
‘Congratulations.’
‘Thank you, Detective, Kwong wasn’t it?’
‘Still is.’
They took their seats with two corrections officers visible on the other side of the glass door. Dieudonne sat between Amrita Gupta and the large African woman who Cato assumed was the interpreter.
‘Evonne.’ She offered her hand for shaking too.
Dieudonne was in handcuffs and his prison-visit greys, his face alert and interested. The equipment was checked and names, dates, times, and places announced. Amrita Gupta took an early opportunity to record her continuing displeasure at Dieudonne’s handcuffs and DI Hutchens took an early opportunity to remind her that he was a dangerous fucking nutter.
‘Excuse the strong language, Mrs Gupta. It’s an expression of my state of unease.’
Amrita pursed her lips.
Cato felt Dieudonne’s eyes boring into him: there was no particular gloating or psyching going on, just an apparent curiosity. Do not struggle, my friend. Accept it.
Hutchens ahemmed his intent to proceed. ‘You’ll be glad to know we’ve located Mr Graham, Dieudonne.’
‘Mr Graham?’
‘Yes, he’s dead. Burnt to death in a car last night.’
Dieudonne’s eyes widened for a nanosecond, Amrita breathed sharply. ‘These shock tactics are outrageous and uncalled for.’
‘Sorry.’ Hutchens switched his attention back to Dieudonne. ‘Anyway mate, it looks like you’re on your own now.’
‘Own?’
‘Yes. So there’s nothing to stop you giving us a full statement regarding your involvement in all these matters.’ Hutchens waved a hand across his open file. ‘And it may even work in your favour in sentencing if the court is made aware of your cooperation.’
‘Cooperation.’
Hutchens looked at the interpreter. ‘Is he repeating everything I say because he doesn’t understand or because he’s trying to wind me up?’
‘I’ll ask him if you like,’ said Evonne. There followed a brief exchange. She turned back to face Hutchens. ‘He’s winding you up.’
‘Glad you’re having fun, mate. Are you going to help us out today or are we just going to leave you buried in here and get on with our lives?’ Hutchens flipped his file shut.
‘What do you want to know, Inspector?’ Dieudonne, in clear stentorian tones: like he was giving the valedictory for the Year 12s at Scotch.
‘Lovely.’ Hutchens re-opened his file and picked up a pen. ‘How about you start at the beginning and keep going until the end and we’ll see how we go?’
‘For that we need to go back to the day Commander Peter came to my village and ordered me to kill my mother.’
Hutchens groaned. ‘Fuck’s sake, go on then, let’s hear it.’
38
‘Like Lord of the fucking Flies on acid.’
‘Well put, boss.’
They were driving on Nicholson Road in Canning Vale: flat, bare paddocks and the occasional rusty car body. It was late morning by the time Dieudonne got to the point and by then DI Hutchens was beside himself with impatience. The oral storytelling tradition of Dieudonne’s forebears had a pace and rhythm that was a tad languid for Hutchens’ taste. The Congo had been a bloodfest: it made Dieudonne’s antics in Fremantle look like a visit to the petting zoo. The wonder of it was that he was not a complete gibbering basket case.
‘Papa was already dead and my baby brother was on the fire – neck broken, brains leaking into the flames. After the gang finished with my mother and sister, the leader handed me the machete and told me I must prove my loyalty to him.’
Hutchens grimaced. ‘And what was all that blather about tarantulas?’
‘Tantalum, sir.’
‘Yeah, that. He’s got a real bee in his bonnet about it.’
‘They mine it in the Congo. Rare earth, very valuable. It goes into our mobile phones. It’s part of the reason for the non-stop killing over there. Whoever controls that territory controls access and reaps the rewards.’
‘How do you know all this shit?’
‘Radio National.’
‘Fuck’s sake.’ Hutchens shook his head in disgust.
Cato had been transfixed by Dieudonne’s recounting of the Greek mythological tale of Tantalus; a mining magnate of his day, doomed to be forever dissatisfied, to have all his wants and needs just beyond reach. Dieudonne, espousing like a reclusive scholar.
‘Depending upon which story you read, his fate was either a punishment for greed, theft, betrayal, or for the atrocities of human sacrifice and infanticide. All of those things are very common in Kivu.’
Evonne the Translator had nodded sadly in agreement.
Colourful and tragic as Dieudonne’s early life had been, the story wasn’t really relevant for them until he arrived in Australia and was taken under the wing of DS Colin Graham at a police youth club in the northern suburbs.
‘PCYC a recruiting centre for assassins, would you believe it?’ said Hutchens.
‘Makes a change from ping-pong and basketball,’ said Cato.
Dieudonne was initially paid by Graham to do some debt-collecting and enforcing here and there but his obvious willingness to go the extra yard meant that he was destined for higher things.
‘What did you get out of it?’ Hutchens had asked. ‘Money? Drugs?’
‘A bit of money, for living only. No drugs. He offered me something far more valuable.’
‘Go on.’
‘Belief in myself. Like when I was with Commander Peter.’
‘Brilliant,’ muttered Hutchens, ‘the Poet Warrior meets the Floreat Maharishi. Bingo.’
Dieudonne had upgraded to official hit-man status with the Santo Rosetti killing. He’d followed Santo into the toilets and overheard the sexual encounter between Rosetti and Jimmy Tran from the adjoining cubicle. Once Jimmy had zipped himself up and made his exit, Santo had decided to stay there and pop some pills: to steady his nerves maybe. Dieudonne moved in. If the opportunity hadn’t presented itself there and then, he said, he would have trailed Rosetti out of the club and done it somewhere else.
‘And the business with the locked cubicle door was Colin’s idea to give us extra stuff to think about: ad-lib instructions over the mobile.’ Cato slowed for a stoplight. ‘Yet it was Colin who gave us the early tip-off about Santo being UC?’
‘Drip feed, mate. He would know questions would be asked if he didn’t deliver the basics. He fed us just enough to stay credible. But I’m wondering why Col seems to have kept Dieudonne a secret from his Apache associates if most of the work was on their behalf?’
‘Maybe he had future plans that didn’t include them.’
Hutchens snorted. ‘Got that wrong, didn’t he?’
‘All of that testimony on the record doesn’t help the HQ spin doctors with their “veteran cop suicide tragedy” stuff,’ observed Cato.
‘That’s their problem. I’m just an honest copper doing my job, Cato mate.’
Cato didn’t detect any irony; he kept his eyes on the road.
‘Sorry, Lara love, nothing personal. It’s jus
t that you’ve become too much of a fucking liability.’
Lara struggled to free herself but the handcuffs rattled against the steering wheel. She saw the match flare and the look of regret in Colin’s eyes. Beep-beep. Somebody was trying to send her a text but she couldn’t get to her phone because it was on the back seat of the car with her gun. Beep-beep. Lara woke up gulping for air. Her phone beeped and vibrated on the bedside table. A missed call and voice message.
Hi Lara, this is Melanie Kim. I’ve received a message from DI Hutchens to contact you about our Stress Management program. Can you call me back on...
Melanie Kim could wait. Stress management? There were a couple of bottles of Marlborough white in the fridge. No. Too cold and thin and probably a bit sharp. She needed warm, thick and sweet right now. Chocolate. She needed chocolate. Comfort food of the gods and her staple fallback in troubled times. She padded out to the kitchen and wrote CHOC!!! on the shopping list magnetised to her fridge. Then she double underlined it.
Stress management. Exactly how do you manage those dreams where you watch your ex-lover burst into flames? Over and over again. She could have done with a few handy tips for dealing with that tightness in your chest when you recall the lid of the car boot closing on you. Maybe there was a pill that exorcised that metallic smell of freshly sprayed blood from your nostrils.
She should have stopped them but she didn’t. And now she had to pay with the dreams and flashbacks of Colin Graham’s last agonies, trapped by her handcuffs. Even after what he’d done to her she couldn’t wish that on any man. Lara had meant to do the right thing: arrest him and have him face justice, the civilised way. Instead she’d hesitated and he lost his life.
Stress management? That implied a future in the job.
Cato arranged for the Dieudonne interview to be transcribed for the prosecution case notes and spent the remainder of the morning catching up on paperwork. The closing discussions with the African and his lawyer suggested an early guilty plea to expedite the process. Dieudonne was happy enough in prison: he had a sense of belonging to a community with rules and a pecking order and he had no fears for his own safety.
‘They will have to be very many, very fast, very tough, and very good to hurt me.’ He’d smiled and shrugged his narrow shoulders. ‘What is the worst that they can do? Kill me?’ There was an added bonus: access to books and education courses. Dieudonne could finally get to finish his schooling. ‘My mother had great expectations of me. That is why she named me her gift from god. She taught me to read. Now maybe I can finally repay her.’