by Alan Carter
‘Good to have as much objective verification as possible,’ said John. ‘It does sound like they’re planning something more than a border skirmish though.’
‘Border skirmish?’ said Cato.
‘The tit for tat the last few weeks: tattoo-parlour arson, methlab explosions, home invasions, dealer bashings. Col and his Gangs mates have been busy stirring the pot.’ John grinned. ‘That’s one thing we will miss him for.’
‘Col set up the Willagee bashing?’ said Cato.
‘He was behind it but the Apaches did it. Kept the wheels turning. Good result.’
Cato went over to the window, looked out at the sunshine. ‘Does beating an innocent pregnant teenager into a miscarriage count as a good result these days then? Prick.’
John examined a bit of loose skin on his thumb. ‘I’ll let that pass, given the strain we’ve all been under.’
Hutchens gave Cato a warning glance. ‘So if they’re factoring in Kenny and Danny’s release dates that means it’s a good six to nine months away.’
A nod from John.
DI Hutchens yawned. ‘I think I might be washing my hair that night.’
Cato turned from the window. ‘Their chat with me in Myaree makes more sense now though, doesn’t it?’
‘Explain.’
‘Sure they can put the hard word direct on Shellie to help clear their boys inside, but we’re the ones with real clout. And we’re the ones who can do something about weakening the Trans by arresting Vincent. You generals can decide what to do with all that.’ Cato turned to leave Hutchens’ office. Farmer John stood aside to let him pass.
‘Cheers, Cato,’ he said.
Cato gave no reply.
They finally caught up with her late in the afternoon. She was watching TV: some really obese guy showing people how to cook a healthy dish; he somehow lacked authority. The phone trilled.
‘Lara! At last. It’s Melanie Kim.’ A pause. ‘Human Services? Stress Management Program?’
Lara mouthed an expletive. ‘Hi, Melanie.’
‘How are you doing?’
It was a simple and innocent enough question but Lara could feel the panic symptoms returning. For a while there earlier she’d thought it was all going to be okay. She’d held it together while they grilled her at the office. She held it together while she lied to the Rosettis about the usefulness of their son’s death. She had even begun to think that the meltdown in the supermarket was just a one-off and things were on the up again. But now big fat tears ran down her face and her voice cracked, ‘Good.’
‘It doesn’t sound like it. Look I’ve got an appointment pencilled in for you for Friday but maybe we’ll bring it forward to tomorrow. How does 9.30 suit?’
‘Fine.’
‘Okay, here’s the address, have you got a pen and paper handy to take this down?’
‘No.’
‘No problem, I’ll SMS it to you. We’ll see you tomorrow, okay?’
On TV the dish came out of the oven, it was a kind of pasta bake with vegetables, tuna, and low-fat cottage cheese. There was a close-up of the guy forking some into his mouth. Lara looked at the empty chocolate wrappers on the floor and the cold unfinished cup of instant coffee on the table. She got to the toilet just in time to spew. As she hunched over the bowl and tasted the bile in her throat she wondered bleakly if there would ever be a time when all of this would be over.
Back in the office in the communal kitchen, Cato flicked on the kettle. He wasn’t sure what to make of Farmer John. He might be a ruthless bastard but he didn’t think the man was corrupt. Then again, he’d never thought so of Colin Graham either. They were both involved in areas, Gangs and Intelligence, where there was perhaps more potential for temptation and conflicts of interest. Cato replayed in his mind the part of the conversation in the park that set him wondering.
I heard you were a funny cunt, a way with words.
Goatee’s description. He could have heard it from Col Graham or Farmer John. Col was in with the Apaches anyway and John no doubt had access to them, it was his job. But it was John who’d used that familiar term that first day they met in a Maccas on South Street.
You’ll have heard of the Trans and the Apaches?’
No, who are they?
Funny cunt.
Cato wasn’t a great believer in coincidences. Plus Cato’s dealings of late had been far more to do with John than Col Graham. So let’s take a cognitive leap and assume Farmer John is talking to the bikies. Did that make him corrupt or was he just using them to achieve certain ends? Cato could try asking him. There were a number of possible outcomes: if John was corrupt then Cato could end up dead, or if John was playing a strategic game with the bikies then he could just tell Cato to mind his own business. Or John might even make a clean breast of it. Cato reckoned it at fifty-fifty on options one and two and snowball’s on number three. He’d had worse odds. He left his tea untouched, went over to his boss’s office, knocked and entered.
DI Hutchens looked up, mildly irritated at the interruption. ‘Not now, Cato.’ He registered Cato’s determined expression. ‘What do you want, then?’
Cato nodded towards Farmer John in his usual chair. ‘I want John to tell us all what’s really going on. I want to know why he visited Lara yesterday evening and whether that had anything to do with her having a ready answer for all of our questions this morning. And while he’s on, maybe he could explain the nature of his relationship with the Apaches.’
Hutchens sat back in his chair and folded his arms. ‘John?’
John did come clean, up to a point. He admitted passing on the Capo D’Orlando rendezvous details to the Apaches. Lara had chosen to let him know of her plans and for him to be her backup. Interesting. She’d trusted him over Hutchens and Cato. John claimed he hadn’t anticipated them actually killing Graham but it didn’t bother him that they had.
Hutchens shook his head. ‘Couldn’t you have just organised for our mob to pick him up instead? Maybe land him a smack or two yourself if that was important?’
John looked semi-rueful. ‘It seemed more certain of a just outcome, more arm’s-length this way.’
‘Arm’s-length my arse. We’re implicated now. This is a crime, mate.’
John shook his head. ‘I wouldn’t worry about that too much.’ He then outlined his briefing to Lara and his tampering with CCTV evidence to help support the Graham suicide theory.
Cato repeated what was becoming his mantra. ‘The handcuffs?’
‘Lara was in the process of arresting Graham when the Apaches turned up. She was a witness, not a participant. But yes, it was her handcuffs that made sure Graham couldn’t get out of there once it all kicked off.’
‘No wonder she feels like shit,’ observed Hutchens. ‘So can you show good cause why I shouldn’t just do the right thing and pass all this on to a higher power?’
John laid his hands on the desk. ‘Busted. Two witnesses. Do whatever you need to do. But don’t you think I would have cleared it with someone further up the food chain first? I’m confident the higher powers would prefer you to stick to the suicide scenario. And the handcuffs? Well that just gets poor Lara into trouble, doesn’t it?’ He smirked. ‘The right thing? I hope both your careers are worth it.’
Hutchens was toying rather menacingly with a letter opener. Cato leaned forward. ‘Between these four walls, I’m inclined to agree with John, sir.’ The letter opener glinted in the late afternoon sun. ‘And I think there’s an opportunity for us here.’
Hutchens laid the sharp instrument back on the desk. ‘Well, well, Mr Truth and Justice, do go on.’
42
Thursday, February 18th.
The water at South Beach was flat and clear. The sun was not long up but already there were pods of swimmers cutting the surface fifty metres out in deeper water. Cato dipped his head for a look at what was going on below. A few herring skittered away to the deep and some seaweed floated past. Along the sandy bottom the contours created b
y the steady movement of waves and tides left a mesmerising pattern. It was so peaceful and other-worldly: the water lapping and ticking, rays of sunlight, flickering shadows. A sense of calm and of time slowed down. Cato lifted his head and took a breath. He really should do this more often.
They had moved swiftly on Cato’s suggestions. John had reluctantly conceded that, yes, the Capo D’Orlando CCTV footage apparently ‘out of order’ at the time of the Colin Graham killing could be magically resurrected if necessary. That – along with witness testimony from Lara – could put the Apaches into the kind of trouble they didn’t need when they were on a pre-war footing so it made for good leverage. The first priority was to get them to back off from their personal threats against Cato and to patiently await the outcome of the forensic tests on Mazza in relation to the Wellard murder. Tick, sorted.
Next, Irskine would still need to come in for questioning on the Shellie–Wellard matter. If he and his lawyer cooperated and volunteered for interview the likelihood was that it would turn into an inconclusive he said – she said. That was expected and, in relative terms, acceptable. The victim was Wellard, so who cared? But appearances still counted, Irskine needed to play the game.
The main agenda item was a bigger ask but it might just be timely. They would know by midmorning whether it was on. Cato dived down again, enjoying the feel of his arms and legs moving strongly underwater and a new looseness around the wound that signalled a return to wellbeing. Ahead of him a baby stingray, tan coloured and speckled with light blue spots, lifted from the sand and glided out into the shadows. Moments like this helped dissolve those dark thoughts about society going to the dogs. Life really was beautiful sometimes. Cato resurfaced – all was well with the universe. Then a stinger, transparent body no bigger than a thumbnail, wrapped its long tendrils around Cato’s upper arm and jolted him back into the real world.
There was a nice painting on the wall: an abstract mix of daubs and splashes in restful colours. Framed certificates too. The blinds were down but twisted to filter the morning sun in diffused horizontal lines. Polished jarrah floorboards with a large thick expensive rug in swirls of deep dark reds and ambers. A desk with obligatory laptop and a happy family photo. Finally, a filing cabinet and the two comfortable visitors armchairs separated by a low coffee table. Lara occupied one chair, Dr Melanie Kim the other.
‘I didn’t think it was actually you I’d be talking to, I thought you were just a ... the...’
‘Secretary?’ said Melanie, ‘I get that a lot.’ She was older than Lara had expected. The voice had sounded young on the phone: confident but young. In fact the shrink was nearer to forty. She looked like she went to the gym regularly and she filled out her casually expensive clothes with the kind of easy grace and poise that comes from a certain kind of upbringing. The same kind as Lara’s.
‘So what made you take on a job like this?’ said Dr Kim.
Lara tried to remember. ‘Partly a rebellion against my parents, I suppose.’
‘In what way?’
‘Privilege. Expectation. My mother would prefer me to do something nicer than police work. My dad has always seen me as ten percent less than the son he really wanted. Clever. Pretty. A bit of a try-hard. I think he had in mind for me a short, successful career in the arts. But really just biding my time until I churned out some children, hopefully a grandson as consolation. Cop?’ She shook her head. ‘Never.’
‘Bit harsh?’
‘You haven’t met him.’
‘I meant harsh on you. That’s a lot of pressure you’ve put yourself under.’ Kim tilted her head. ‘So is the rebellion working? Are you winning?’
‘The chip’s still on my shoulder but I do like the job.’
‘What do you like about it?’
‘I like beating the bad guys.’
Kim looked alarmed. ‘Beating?’
‘As in – getting the better of. Winning.’
‘Who are the bad guys?’
‘It changes. Sometimes it’s dickheads on the street, sometimes they’re in the office.’
‘You see your colleagues as the enemy?’
‘Not all. But I don’t entirely trust them.’
‘Why not?’
Lara shrugged. ‘It’s what I’ve been taught. In the end I’m Daddy’s little girl.’
It was on. Word came through half an hour ago: they had what they needed, on the dotted line. This time though it was intended to be low-key. DI Hutchens had baulked at another full-scale TRG raid after the first two failed to deliver the required results. Instead they were in unmarked Commodores parked in a couple of bays at Phoenix Shopping Centre on Rockingham Road. Cato and Hutchens in one, Farmer John and a burly associate in another, plus two more carloads cruising the nearby streets and waiting for orders. Two lock-up paddy wagons were also on standby. The Trans were under surveillance and were to be picked up at a time and location of Hutchens’ choosing.
Cato’s gamble had paid off. The idea was to use the leverage they had over the Apaches not only to get them to back off on their personal threats against him but also to tidy up the nail-gun murder of Christos Papadakis (along with a supplementary pig cruelty charge). Getting Goatee to tell his tale on record had been the big sticking point but now there was a new pragmatism to their Outlaw Code of non-cooperation. Brokered discreetly by Farmer John, the prospect of effectively taking the Trans out of the game without the need for an all-out war was win-win for everyone. Except the Trans of course. That morning Goatee, real name Titus Galsworthy – no wonder he went bad and became a bikie – had provided a signed statement and agreed he would submit to a medical examination at some unspecified future date.
‘Vinnie is toast.’
DI Hutchens couldn’t hide his glee that he was wrapping up a murder and, in effect, doing Gangs’ job for them. The notion that he was also getting into bed with one side – well, that was another matter. Cato was ambivalent: it was all his idea in the first place so he couldn’t complain about the moral niceties. He thought about Karina’s pregnant teenage daughter, held down and beaten with baseball bats by the very men they were doing deals with. Cato had that ugly tight feeling in his gut again: an unnerving sense that his karmic chickens would come home to roost. He’d had the feeling ever since he exited the water at South Beach earlier that morning with a stinger rash around his upper arm like a bogan tattoo waiting to be inked.
All the shopping centre entries and exits were covered. Everybody was armed and vested. The Tran brothers were being trailed inside by a couple of Farmer John’s UCs. The idea was for a quick walk-up, four to each man: outnumbered and outgunned, they were to be bundled into the vans and driven off, minimum fuss and drama. It seemed that on Thursdays the Trans always paid a visit to their semi-legitimate money laundering outlets in the southern suburbs.
‘Phoenix fucking Shopping Centre,’ said Hutchens, filling the silence.
Cato wasn’t sure whether his boss was seeking a reply.
‘Big fucking W,’ Hutchens muttered.
Was this the DI’s take on commerce and existentialism? Rather than be subjected to a long expletive-riddled list of local retail outlets, Cato decided to join the conversation. ‘Looks like it’s going to be another warm one, boss.’
‘No shit?’
The rising heat and the protective vest gave Cato the sweats, big-time. Hutchens too looked like he was suffering. Waiting, wondering, and sweating: life on the frontline of the fight between good and evil in Western Australia. Hutchens’ Hawaii-5-0 mobile throbbed.
‘Both of them?’ A pause. ‘Unaccompanied?’ Another pause. ‘You sure they’re unarmed?’ He covered the mouthpiece and turned to Cato. ‘Call everyone into position, surf’s up.’
Cato got onto his mobile and did as he was told. No radios in case they were being monitored. There was a sudden rise in testosterone, adrenalin and tension. Cato breathed deeply to steady his nerves. A series of texts came through to Cato’s and the DI’s phones simultaneously.
Everybody in place. Only now did Hutchens use the radio.
‘Let’s go,’ he said.
Afterwards, Cato wasn’t sure where it all started to go wrong. They caught up with Jimmy and Vincent just outside the newsagent’s on the main concourse. In retrospect everything assumed a dream-like quality: time playing tricks, stopping and starting, evaporating and re-forming.
A handful of punters queuing up for Slikpiks for the weekend lotto draw, a child of indeterminate sex wailing and straining against the straps keeping it in the pusher. The Trans in midconversation, Vincent laughing at something Jimmy just said. DI Hutchens stepping forward with his ID on display.
‘Morning Jimmy, Vincent, we’d like you to come with us. Nice and calm, mate, okay?’
Jimmy taking in the situation, mind clicking into gear, smile just holding. An old lady crossing his path, squinting at her shopping list.
Maybe this was where it started to go wrong.
Vincent Tran revealing that he isn’t actually unarmed. Producing a butterfly knife that he holds to the throat of the passing pensioner.
Cato pulling out his pistol, holding it two-handed, focusing on Jimmy while colleagues lock on Vincent. Somebody screaming and a scattering of footsteps as a space opens around them. The toddler still wailing. The pensioner with her eyes closed, Vincent’s arm around her throat and the knife blade pricking her cheek. She’s mouthing a prayer, Cato trying to read her lips at the same time as he watches over Jimmy. Hands in the crowd hold up mobiles to capture the moment. Hutchens shouting.
‘Drop the knife. Drop the knife. Now.’
Or was it when Jimmy scolded Vincent in their native tongue, provoking a look of deep hurt and an angry jab into the cheek of the old woman hostage? Is that when the sky began to fall in?
The pensioner’s yelp of pain and a vivid spurt of blood. Farmer John taking two steps closer to Vincent and levelling his Glock: trigger finger drawing back. Jimmy’s shake of the head. Another figure edging into Cato’s field of vision. A uniform. Reinforcements? No. The uniform is wrong; wrong colour. Who is he and why is he so close?