by Alan Carter
‘No,’ she said, without rancour.
Hutchens grunted and closed his door behind him.
‘Did you issue a warning before you discharged your weapon?’
‘I believe we did, yes.’
‘Did you issue a warning before you discharged your weapon?’ The Inspector from Internals reminded Cato of the woman from H&R Block who did his tax every year. She seemed similarly single-minded.
‘I believe we did, yes.’
And so it went on like that for another twenty minutes. Thrust, parry, thrust, parry.
‘So in your professional judgement, both your life and the lives of your colleagues and members of the public were in immediate danger and you acted according to your training and within the prescribed guidelines?’
‘Pretty much.’
‘Is that a yes?’
‘Yes. Ma’am.’
The Accountant finished typing on her laptop. She pressed print and something rolled out of a nearby machine. ‘Read this and sign at the bottom. Three copies.’ Cato did as he was told. ‘One for me, one for you, one for your boss. That’s all for now. You’ll be hearing from us again.’
‘Look forward to it.’ Cato cleared his throat. ‘So am I suspended or what?’
‘Why would you be? You don’t appear to have done anything wrong, until and unless our investigations show otherwise. In the meantime your decision to work as normal or take stress leave or counselling is a matter for you and your supervisor to work out.’
‘Right. Thank you.’
‘Pleasure.’ She stuck out a firm hand for shaking. ‘Good luck.’ And then she left, whistling ‘Jingle Bells’.
Cato sauntered back into the detectives’ section and heard it again floating out over the partitions: a chorus of whistling from his colleagues. ‘Jingle Bells.’
‘Ho, ho, ho,’ he replied, mustering a smile.
On his desk, a stack of yellow post-it notes from his colleagues letting him know what they wanted for Christmas. He swept them into a bin, sat down and logged on. Should he take stress leave? It would be good timing with Jake coming over later today. He could have some quality time with his son and make a very long weekend of it. Cato glanced around the office. Banter and humour could be therapeutic at times like this. At others it could tip you over the edge. Those who hadn’t been whistling ‘Jingle Bells’ were casting furtive looks to see how close he was to post-traumatic crack-up. Some were no doubt taking bets: Cato first, or Lara? He caught Lara Sumich looking back at him.
‘Coffee?’ she said.
Was it a trap? ‘Sure, thanks.’
He wanted to follow up on the revelatory nugget he’d uncovered last night, just before he found himself face down with a TRG boot on his neck. Still, it wasn’t every day that Lara Sumich offered to make you a coffee. He joined her in the kitchen. The last time they’d shared this kind of enclosed space was in Hopetoun town hall when he’d embarrassingly got the notion that just because she’d had sex with him she might actually like him and want to spend some time with him. Huh.
‘Milk and sugar?’ she said.
‘Milk and none, thanks.’ Lara spooned some instant into a mug and added water. His coffee snobbery was being sorely tested of late. ‘You’re back,’ he said.
‘Yes.’ Lara sloshed some milk in and handed him the mug.
‘Is that a good idea?’
Lara’s face darkened. ‘That’s my business.’
‘Okay.’ Cato warily sniffed the coffee. ‘No sign of Vincent yet then?’
‘No. Our most promising lead turned out to be you.’
‘Yeah I know, we all look alike.’ He drank some; not quite as disgusting as he expected.
‘How was the Inquisition?’
Cato shrugged. ‘Pussycats. I get the impression it’s already been decided.’
‘There’s a lot of that going around lately.’
‘That’s fine as long as looking after us suits their purposes. It doesn’t always work that way.’
Lara sipped her tea and said nothing.
‘Thanks for the cuppa,’ said Cato. ‘Keep me posted if you find Vincent.’ He rinsed his cup out in the sink and left it to drain as instructed by the angry note on the cupboard door. He placed a hand on Lara’s shoulder and felt her flinch. ‘I’m sorry about how it all ended up with Colin.’
‘Yeah,’ she said flatly and rinsed her cup out too.
Cato found what he was looking for with a few clicks. It had come to him as he stood in the dark at Star Swamp bracing himself to pick up the dead weight of the bin bag and continue his walk through the bush. The files confirmed it. Caroline Penny had been a mere slip of a thing, weighing in at not much more than forty-five kilos. Bree, by contrast, was up nearer sixty-five. Was it a simple weight equation? Caroline was lighter and so could be carried further. Plus she was the second victim, so Wellard probably wanted to take her deeper into the bush and further off the path to minimise the chances of discovery. Except he’d been unlucky and a woman and her inquisitive dog had stumbled across Caroline’s remains anyway.
If Bree was the first and the heaviest did that suggest a shorter journey along the bush path, both because she was harder to carry and because Wellard was less experienced at identifying optimum dumpsites? Cato’s load had only been twenty kilos max and he’d felt the need for a break about fifteen metres along the path. From where Cato stopped to where Caroline was buried was about another fifteen metres – and the accessible area off the path into the bush before it got too dense was around two metres either side. That was a total area of perhaps sixty square metres. It was a simple, indeed overly simplistic, theory but it was more than anything else they had. And it helped narrow down the search site considerably. All he had to do now was persuade DI Hutchens that it was a really great idea.
‘Go home, Cato. You’re under a lot of stress.’
‘We’re only talking about sixty square metres.’
‘We’re only talking out of our arses. Go home.’
‘One GPR team could cover it in an hour or two.’
‘Do you know how much it costs for two blokes and a hoover?’
‘Sir, I...’
‘Cato.’ A warning growl. ‘Go home. That’s an order.’
It was nearly lunchtime. Jake would be dropped at his house around 6p.m. The decision on whether or not to take a longer weekend with his son had just been made for him. Cato grabbed his things and left.
From the back of the crammed meeting room Lara surveyed the glum, frustrated faces of the team behind the Vincent Tran manhunt. Up front, perched on the edge of a desk, DI Hutchens was the glummest and most frustrated of them all.
‘We’ve just had a report that he’s doing figure-of-eights down at Cockburn Ice Rink as we speak. Anybody want to check it out?’ There were a few bitter chuckles in reply. ‘Family, friends, known associates, we’ve knocked on all their doors more than once, some are under constant watch but so far not a peep. We’ve run down those on his mobile call list: again nothing. We’ve also tried GSM phone tracking but he’s savvy enough to only use it for a few seconds at a time then turns it off and keeps moving. He’s probably got a few spare unregistered prepaids anyway. So, any suggestions?’
A hand was raised. ‘Take hostages?’ It was Debbie Hassan, the surviving guard from Dieudonne’s hospital rampage.
Funnily enough nobody laughed; that’s how desperate things were.
‘Like who?’ said Hutchens. ‘This bloke’s a loner. The only one he cares about is big brother Jimmy and we’ve already got him.’
Another hand. ‘How about: come in now or we turn off Jimmy’s life support?’
Hutchens creased his brow. ‘How about we cut the funnies and get on with the job?’ That was the cue for the meeting to break up. Hutchens caught Lara’s eye and summoned her over. ‘Anything in the files?’
Lara shook her head. ‘As you say, he’s a loner. Everybody we’re looking at is really Jimmy’s circle and Vincent tagged along.
’
‘Definitely no crew of his own, then?’
‘No.’ A thought occurred to Lara, a stone left unturned. ‘The only time he was away from Jimmy in the last couple of years was when he was in prison. We could see if he made any lasting acquaintances there that we don’t know about.’
Hutchens nodded, unconvinced. ‘Get onto Corrections for a list of his cellmates over the years then run a crosscheck with his recent mobile phone records.’ The DI ran a hand through his grey fringe. ‘If we haven’t got any progress by the end of the day I might revisit that life support idea.’
46
‘Eat in or out?’
‘Can we have Missy Moos?’
‘Go on then, twist my arm.’
The gourmet burger joint on the corner was standing-room only so they placed their orders and wandered over to the beach to catch the last of the sunset. Cato suggested a swim and Jake readily agreed. They chucked off shirts, kicked off thongs and dived in as the sun flashed its farewell on the horizon. Tonight Jake seemed jittery and on edge: eager to please, needy, slightly manic. Kids. Parenting. Life. So precious yet so often taken for granted. That afternoon he’d phoned Karina Ford.
‘The attack on the kids wasn’t a drug debt. It was some bikies, Apaches, scoring a point against their rivals. Nothing personal. It’ll be hard to prove but I’ll try and see somebody charged for it.’
‘Any names?’
‘No.’
‘Don’t worry,’ said Karina. ‘I know people. We’ll ask around.’
‘These guys aren’t to be messed with, Karina. Leave it to us.’
‘Thanks anyway, mate. Hey, Cryssie’s up and about again. Little Brandon’s pleased to have her back.’
‘That’s great. Look after yourself, Karina.’
‘Oh, I will. Don’t worry.’
Cato allowed himself to be ducked by Jake. It seemed that after so many years of neglecting his son for the sake of the job, Cato’s wish to try to connect was badly timed. Cato’s problem was that he’d never got to know Jake well enough in the earlier years to be able to read the signs now for what his son did and didn’t need from him. Sometimes they felt like brothers, sometimes they were strangers, and Cato was still struggling to recognise what may or may not be the odd father-and-son moment. Maybe he should stop analysing everything and just get on with it. They ducked each other, splashed, and raced. Jake did backflips off Cato’s shoulders. They burnt energy and laughed and by the time they wandered, dripping, back into Missy Moos to pick up their orders, the sharp edges of Jake’s mood had softened.
Cato unwrapped the burgers at the back patio table and grabbed a Coke and a Coopers out of the fridge while Jake rinsed off the sand under the cold outdoor shower. Then they both attacked their food.
‘Whatcha been doing the last week?’ said Jake through a mouthful of fried mince and salad.
‘I shot somebody.’
Jake stopped chewing. ‘Serious?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Did they die?’
‘No. But they’re in pretty bad shape. Probably won’t walk again.’
‘Shit.’
‘Hmmm.’
‘Why did you shoot them? Were they gunna shoot you?’
‘No, it was an accident.’
‘Shit.’
‘Does your mum let you say that at home?’
‘Only if it’s important and in the right context; I’m not allowed to use it gratuitously.’
That was the thing about Fremantle kids: a smart answer for every bloody thing. ‘Fair enough,’ said Cato.
They chewed on in silence for a few minutes, taking occasional sips from their drinks as the evening closed in, the mozzies whined, and the Friday night South Terrace traffic rumbled.
‘How did it feel, shooting him?’ Jake looked over the top of his bulging burger with wide eyes both fearing and relishing the answer.
Cato thought about it for a short while. ‘Shit,’ he said.
Lara’s email beeped just as she was packing to leave the office. There were still people buzzing around the place following up increasingly bizarre leads on Vincent Tran as the phone traffic dwindled to the truly sad bastards. Anything of interest would be passed over to DS Meldrum, who was in charge of the night shift, and DI Hutchens was on call for any worthwhile developments.
She could have ignored the email until Monday morning but it might just be the one she was waiting for, from Corrections, with any possible leads on Vincent Tran’s old cellmates. It was. They’d sent through an Excel spreadsheet with dates, last recorded contact details, and notes as to whether they were still incarcerated, released, or ‘other’. A quick scan of ‘other’ suggested a depressing number were dead; usually from drug overdoses or drug or alcohol-related illnesses. She was about to forward the email to Meldrum for an overnight follow-up on those still alive when she noticed a familiar name amongst the list of ‘other’.
The good thing about Missy Moos, apart from the burgers, was the washing-up factor. Zero. Comfortably overfed and drowsy, Cato and Jake sat on the couch and watched a DVD: Hoodwinked, a postmodern animated take on Little Red Riding Hood.
Jake giggled at the banjo-playing, hippy, hillbilly goat and burrowed his head into Cato’s shoulder. ‘Reminds me of Simon.’
Cato was drifting, half-asleep. ‘Simon?’
‘Mum’s boyfriend.’
‘Oh yeah, right.’ Cato felt his third Coopers glide down his throat and numb his senses. ‘He still teaching you guitar?’
‘Yeah, sort of.’
‘Sort of?’
‘He’s a bit busy at the moment. Lots of gigs.’
‘Right. Cool.’
‘Yeah.’ Jake yawned. ‘What we doing tomorrow?’
‘Oh, I reckon a swim, and brekkie, and take it from there. Any ideas?’
There was no reply. Jake was asleep. Cato carried him to his room and put him to bed. The boy was heavy and Cato’s injury whinged at the effort. He toyed with the idea of hitting the sack too but Madge was yapping next door and he didn’t fancy trying to sleep with that going on. He returned to the lounge, put on a CD of the Pigram Brothers, lay on the couch and resumed his beer.
So the honeymoon period with Simon the new boyfriend was pretty much over as far as Jake was concerned. The guy wasn’t so cool and interesting any more. A bit busy. Aren’t we all? Cato tried to repress the schadenfreude but he couldn’t help himself. Things were no longer quite so rosy in Mum’s household, hence Jake’s earlier manic demeanour. Cato lifted his beer in mock salute. ‘Cheers and up yours, Simon.’ He belched, drained the bottle and fell asleep on the couch.
‘Are you the people after that Asian man on the TV?’
Here we go. DC Chris Thornton adjusted his headphones; they were making his ears sweat. He tweaked the mouthpiece, opened a new notes screen on his monitor, and clicked his biro in case the computers crashed again. He took down her name, address and phone number. ‘Yes, madam, how can I help you?’
‘What a lovely phone manner, I haven’t been called madam in years.’
His mum reckoned he had a lovely phone manner too. Told him he would go places with it. He’d love to be going places tonight. Friday night. You were meant to be out with your mates on the piss. No. He gets phone duty like he’s some schmuck selling something from a call centre in Delhi. When he was fresh out of the Academy he’d been warned you get all the shit work: the drunks, the domestics. Bring it on. Nobody had warned him about Safer Streets and Nanna Duty though.
‘Have you something to report, madam?’
There was a breathless kind of pigeon coo noise at the other end of the phone. ‘I’m pretty sure I’ve just seen him, I literally bumped into him when I was getting off the 532 bus.’
WTF? ‘Where was that, then?’ he said, keeping his voice as bright and interested as possible.
‘Well he was walking down Douro Road in South Fremantle and obviously not looking where he was going. Didn’t even apologise.’
&n
bsp; ‘Right, and did you notice what direction he was headed in?’
‘Yes of course, I followed him.’
Cool, I’m talking to Miss Marple. ‘So where did he go?’
‘I followed him down onto South Terrace as far as that noisy pub and then he turned right into that street.’
‘Which pub and which street is that, madam?’
‘The pub is the South Beach Hotel but I forget the name of the street. Silly me. But that’ll be on a map won’t it?’
‘Okay, so you didn’t follow him any further?’
‘Oh no, the street was too empty and dark and my cover would have been blown.’
‘Good decision, madam. Can you describe him, say what he was wearing?’
She told him and he made a few cursory notes on the computer screen before using his biro to doodle the word ‘nutter’ in big Crusty Demons-style letters while she wittered on. When she’d finished he said thank you madam and pinged the file note through to Detective Sergeant Jabba the Hutt.
Lara sat on her balcony and crunched an apple. She thought about that name on the Corrections list: the now deceased cellmate of Vincent Tran who’d shared close quarters with him during his stint for the Cottesloe assault. At the time both had been on remand in Hakea, awaiting sentencing. The cellmate was only familiar as a name to Lara but she knew Cato would find it particularly interesting that Vincent Tran had, for nearly three months, enjoyed the company of Gordon Francis Wellard. He was the one who’d led her colleagues on some wild-goose chase in bushland further south: the same bushland where they found the nail-gunned pig. Coincidence? Not any more.
Lara checked the clock: nearly nine-thirty. Was it urgent enough to bother Cato at home or was it something that could wait until Monday morning? Cato could make that decision but she would at least give him the information. Lara scrolled through her mobile and pressed call. No answer, straight to messagebank.
Hi Cato. It’s Lara. Sorry to be calling you so late at home but something came up you might want to know about. Can you give me a call? Cheers.