by Alan Carter
Detective Sergeant Meldrum had just binned his Hungry Jack’s wrappers when his email beeped with a new list of call summaries. Of the six, four were not actionable because they were either too vague or several hours too late – I saw a bloke riding a quad bike through the bush in Yanchep yesterday arvo. No I don’t know what he looked like ’cause he had a helmet on but he was going way too fast and gave me the finger when I told him to be more careful – the remaining two were worth a flick to a mobile patrol for checking just to keep his arse covered. The first, a possible sighting up in Maylands in a block of units flagged as having Tran connections. Imagine having those nasty bastards as landlords. That looked promising and was probably worth bringing the DI back in for. The second was local, an old lady in Fremantle who’d literally just bumped into Tran down at South Beach. Yeah right. He gave Hutchens a call about the Maylands prospect.
Cato woke up to the furious yapping of Madge. He felt fuzzy, thickheaded and his neck didn’t want to work. Vengeance coursed through his veins; Madge was not long for this world. There was another sound: a creak. Maybe it was Jake going to the toilet. This was an old house with a life of its own and he’d grown used to the noises it made over the years. Still, he did have precious cargo on board: it wouldn’t hurt to go and check. He stood up from the couch, stretched and ironed out the kinks in his back.
He picked up the Coopers stubby for depositing in the recycling bin in the kitchen, flicked off the lounge room light and headed down the hall. Jake’s bedroom door was closed. Cato was sure he’d left it ajar but then most of the windows in the house were open and a breeze could have swung the door shut. He gently turned the handle but as he did so the stubby slipped from his grasp and he ducked to try to catch it before it hit the floor and woke up Jake.
That’s probably what saved him.
There was a thwap sound and something thudded into the wall behind. The light from the hallway showed Jake in bed, wide-eyed, an arm around his throat. The arm belonged to Vincent Tran. In his free hand, Tran held a nail gun. He stopped pointing it at Cato and placed it against Jake’s temple, about a centimetre away from his right eye.
47
DI Hutchens had moved quickly to dispatch a TRG team up to the Maylands address along with two carloads of detectives and any spare patrols in support. He was snapping on a Kevlar to head there himself when Meldrum remembered the arse-covering aspect of his job and mentioned the other report in case they should action that too.
‘Show it to me,’ snapped Hutchens, in a hurry to get away.
Meldrum brought it up on the screen and Hutchens bent down for a squint. ‘Waste of time, boss?’
‘Shit.’
‘Boss?’
‘That road beside the pub where she said he walked up?’
‘Yeah?’
‘That’s where Cato lives. Remember him? The one who shot Vincent Tran’s brother?’
‘Vincent.’
Cato crouched down to eye-level. He tried to present as calm and non-threatening. His throat was dry, his heart was pounding.
‘I forgot your name, sorry,’ said Vincent.
‘Philip, Phil, or most of my workmates call me Cato.’
‘I like that. Like the kung-fu guy in The Green Hornet, right?’
‘He’s Kato with a K, mine’s a C.’
‘Whatever. Reminds you that you’re one of us anyway.’ He tapped the nail gun lightly against Jake’s eye socket. ‘What’s his name?’
‘Jake.’ Cato resisted the temptation to dive over there and kill Vincent. He couldn’t do that until the time was right. The balance of probabilities just now was against him, against Jake.
‘Jake.’ Vincent turned his face to the boy. ‘Do you know what your dad did yesterday, Jake?’ A widening of the boy’s eyes. ‘He shot my big brother. He didn’t kill him but I still don’t know how he is.’ He turned back to Cato. ‘How is he, Cato with a C? He gunna live?’
‘He’ll live but he’ll probably need some help getting around. He’ll need you.’
Vincent sang a line from the song ‘He Ain’t Heavy, He’s My Brother’. His voice was remarkably clear and tuneful. ‘In some ways you probably did me a favour.’
‘How come?’
‘Jimmy’s a bit of a control freak. Always had to be centre of attention. Always had to have everything, first. Even my friends, he had to own them too.’
‘So if I did you a favour, what are you doing here? What’s this all about?’
‘Love, hate, love, hate. That’s brothers for you, eh? Jimmy looked after me on the boat, you see. He looked after me in the camp in Malaysia – kept the dirty old men at bay. He took it up the arse to protect me. How’s that for staunch? He’s looked after me ever since. Family.’ He nodded, enough said.
‘What do you want from me, Vincent?’
His eyes filled. ‘I don’t know. I’m screwed either way. But somebody has to pay.’ His arm tightened around Jake’s neck, his finger tensed on the nail-gun trigger. Jake squeezed his eyes shut.
Cato launched himself across the room, hearing another thwap and Jake’s agonised squeal. He was on Vincent and clawing blindly to try to get the nail gun off him. They struggled on the bed then rolled onto the floor, gouging, punching, scraping, butting, tearing. At some point a knee or an elbow went hard and deep into Cato’s knife wound and he thought he might die from the fire engulfing him. Then Vincent was on top, pinning Cato’s arms with his legs and raining punches into his face. Cato knew he was losing.
The punches ceased and Cato breathed again. Then he realised it was only because Vincent was scrabbling for the dropped nail gun. Cato struggled but he was weakened, he couldn’t unpin his arms. Vincent wiped a smear of blood from his face and ratcheted the gun. He pressed the muzzle against Cato’s nostril.
‘Drop it.’ Lara Sumich stood in the doorway, silhouetted by the hall light, her gun levelled at Vincent. ‘Now.’
Vincent was clearly weighing up his options: a life inside, a crippled brother, suicide by cop. Cato felt the muzzle pushing harder against his nose. He smelled the metal, the plastic and paint, a hint of oil: pictured a nail travelling up through his face and into his brain. Jake was outside his field of vision. Was he still alive?
Lara’s trigger finger curled tighter. ‘Do it.’
Madge yapped at phantoms. A breeze crept through the window.
Vincent nodded to himself like he’d just made up his mind.
48
Hutchens, Meldrum, and the TRG turned up about five minutes too late. They found Cato kneeling on the floor of his bedroom cradling his son, tears streaming down his face. They found Lara Sumich bestride Vincent Tran, the latter facedown and deadly still. They found lots of blood.
‘Christ,’ said Hutchens.
Two ambulances arrived a further five minutes later. Even though the hospital was just down the road it had been another busy Friday night. It turned out they only needed the one. Jake was taken away and Cato went with him. The boy would require several stitches in his cheek where the misdirected nail had sliced across the fleshy surface after the gun had been knocked from Vincent’s hand. Vincent himself was, apart from the results of the vicious hand-to-hand with Cato, relatively unscathed. His decision had been to surrender to Lara and go quietly. Either something about the look in her eye told him she meant business – or something about a life locked up had its appeal. Maybe it was the chance to step out of his big brother’s shadow and to be his own man. He was cuffed, stood up, and taken away by the ninjas. Lara re-holstered her Glock.
‘What are you doing here?’ said Hutchens.
‘Good question.’
‘So answer it.’
‘Women’s intuition?’
‘No such thing.’
She weighed that one up and decided it didn’t deserve a response. ‘Okay, how about diligent police work? I had some information for Cato. Thought it might be urgent. I was twiddling my thumbs and going mad at home. Needed to get out.’
&nbs
p; ‘That’s better,’ said Hutchens.
In some small part, Lara still credited women’s intuition. Call it what you will, she’d had a strong sense of unease or urgency that she should deliver the message personally.
‘So what was the information?’ said Hutchens.
Lara told him about the prison links between Vincent Tran and Gordon Francis Wellard.
‘Fuck me,’ he said, impressed and thoughtful.
‘How did you know where he lived?’
It wasn’t yet midnight but they decided to strike while the iron was hot, as they say. Vincent Tran himself wasn’t kicking up any fuss and was content to proceed. An air of calm resignation seemed to have settled over him. That could be good news or bad, Lara wasn’t sure yet. Tran’s injuries had been checked and patched up where necessary. He wore a paper suit, his clothes confiscated for forensic testing. While on the run he’d had a number three buzz cut to try to alter his appearance. He ran his hand through like he was still getting used to it. The recording equipment was on, Vincent had declined a lawyer, Hutchens led and Lara was along for the ride.
‘Vincent? You with us?’ Hutchens tapped on the tabletop to get his attention. Vincent’s eyes refocused and he returned from wherever he’d been. ‘How’d you find Detective Kwong?’
Vincent smiled. ‘I followed him home from the police station. Clever, huh?’
‘You mean we’ve been looking all over the metro area for you for the last forty-eight hours and you’re sitting outside the front door of the cop shop?’
‘Over the road, yeah. The multi-storey, we’ve got a long-term parking bay reserved on level two. Overlooks you guys.’
Hutchens shook his head in disgust. They dotted the i’s and crossed the t’s on how and why Vincent went after Cato, and then got down to what Hutchens called brass tacks.
‘The nail gun. Was it you that killed Christos Papadakis?’
‘Yep.’
Hutchens got him to repeat it more formally for the record. ‘Why?’
A shrug. ‘Because I could.’
Lara noticed Hutchens’ fists clench and unclench. They went through the details of how and when.
‘So Mickey Nguyen didn’t do it?’
‘No, Mickey was set up for it. He’d become unreliable.’
‘In what way?’
‘He lacked hundred percent loyalty.’
‘So whose idea was it to kill Mickey, yours or Jimmy’s?’
‘Mine.’ The answer came too quickly.
‘How did you do it?’
‘Poured a bottle of vodka down his throat: voluntarily at first, then with help from me to finish it off. He passed out. I put the old man in the boot of the car, sat Mickey in the front, and torched it. The bushfire coming through must’ve helped confuse things.’
‘Must’ve,’ agreed Hutchens grimly.
More finessing of details for the record. Lara glanced at the clock on the wall behind Vincent: it was heading for one in the morning yet nobody seemed sleepy. Tran wanted to lay all his cards on the table and offer himself up. She knew why. The aim was to keep big brother Jimmy out of the frame: confined to a wheelchair for the rest of his natural, he had enough on his plate.
‘So why this nasty little fetish for nail-gunning people?’ said Hutchens.
A rustle of the paper suit as Vincent leaned forward. ‘I saw it in a film. Looked cool.’
‘Lovely. And Jimmy was up for letting you do all that creepy stuff? Doesn’t seem like very smart business practice to me.’
‘Jimmy didn’t know anything about it.’
‘Do you expect me to believe that?’
‘Yes.’ It came out as a challenge: take what I’m offering and lay off him.
‘So there’s nothing deep and meaningful about the nail gun? No childhood traumas you’re working through?’
‘No, it’s a tool, plain and simple.’
‘What about the pig?’
Vincent rolled his eyes. ‘Fair cop. I confess. I also killed the pig.’
‘Why?’
‘It gave me a funny look.’ So did Hutchens. Tran explained. ‘Pigs are a good substitute for humans when testing stuff like that. They use them to train forensics people.’
‘How do you know this shit?’
‘The internet.’
‘Where did you get the pig from?’
‘Market.’ Another funny look from Hutchens. ‘A farmer, out Wickepin way.’
‘Why did you bury him down at Beeliar?’
‘The farmer or the pig?’
Hutchens looked alarmed. ‘You tell me.’
Vincent was enjoying himself. ‘The pig was a her. She was a bit old so we couldn’t have cooked her up, too tough, and it would have been a bugger pulling all those nails out.’
Hutchens leaned forward. Lara noticed pearls of sweat around his temples and the look of a man who’s just felt a tug on a long-dead line.
‘Yeah, but why Beeliar?’
49
Saturday, February 20th.
When Cato woke he couldn’t move. The sun blazed through the window onto his pillow. He’d forgotten to close the curtains. He tried twisting his head to look at the bedside alarm clock but his neck was locked. He used an arm to lever himself over and his whole body complained. It was still only just past six. He’d had about four hours sleep.
Cato couldn’t go home: his house was a crime scene and Duncan Goldflam and his crew wouldn’t be releasing it for a while yet. Jake had been stitched, dosed up with as many painkillers as his little body would allow, and sent home with his mum. He may or may not be scarred for life, time would tell. Words couldn’t describe the look Jane had given Cato and he wouldn’t be surprised if it developed into a Family Court matter. A room had been booked for him down at The Esplanade hotel. The receptionist had taken a look at his bruised and battered face and his bloodstained clothes and summoned security. Things ran smoother once he’d flashed his police ID and quoted the reservation number he’d been texted.
Cato pulled the sheet over his head and slowly and painfully turned away from the sun. He needed more sleep. His mobile went. Caller ID: Hutchens.
‘You awake?’
‘No.’
‘Good. How you feeling?’
‘Shit.’
‘Shame. Got some interesting news for you. Up for a coffee?’
‘Is it important?’
‘Wouldn’t disturb you if it wasn’t, mate.’
‘Where are you?’
‘Down at Reception. See you in five?’
‘Beeliar?’
‘That’s what he reckons.’ Hutchens took a sip of his flat white and licked his lips appreciatively.
Even though it was Saturday morning, the DI was dressed formally for another working day and he’d been unable to hide his frown when Cato showed up in T-shirt and shorts. Somebody had the wherewithal to arrange for an overnight bag to be left for Cato at the hotel last night. He was obliged to wear whatever had been packed for him. They’d left the hotel and strolled, or in Cato’s case limped, a hundred metres up Essex Street to the X-Wray Cafe. The place still carried disturbing memories of an earlier encounter with Dieudonne but you couldn’t fault the coffee. Hutchens had gone to the counter to do the ordering: Cato’s battered face was likely to put people off their breakfasts.
‘I don’t buy it.’
‘Why not?’
‘I saw the look on Wellard’s face when the cadaver dog started barking. Gordy wasn’t expecting anything because it was a deliberate wild-goose chase as far as he was concerned.’
‘Maybe he wasn’t expecting anything to be found in that particular spot where he took us.’
Cato pinched the bridge of his nose and squinted against the glare of the early morning sun. ‘Sorry, I’m not a hundred percent right now. Take me through it again.’
‘No worries, mate.’ Hutchens was unnervingly good-natured today. With Colin Graham dead and Dieudonne and Vincent Tran in custody, the DI’s clear-up rate mu
st have gone through the roof. Between them the trio had been responsible for most of the major crime in the metro area for the last month. Hutchens was a one-man Safer Streets success story. ‘Vincent shared a remand cell in Hakea with our good friend Wellard. Two psycho soul mates they were: swapping tips and recipes, the best dumpsites, bargains on nail guns, effective choke holds, that kind of thing.’
Cato was getting depressed. Or rather, even more depressed.
‘He reckons Wellard recommended Beeliar to him. Told him about a car access track through the back of someone’s property, about a hundred metres away from the main public gate.’
Cato was taking notice now. One of the things that hadn’t gelled that day was how they’d all had to troop through a turnstile to get in there and just how the hell were you meant to get a body through that? This private vehicle track was a lot nearer than the others they knew about. Now the area Wellard took them to was a lot more viable. ‘Go on.’
‘You’re thinking about the turnstile, right?’
‘Yeah?’
‘I thought it was a bit funny at the time, too, but let him lead us his merry dance. As agreed, Wellard was setting the agenda that day and he always was a bit of a joker.’
‘Yeah, Shellie reckons he was a laugh a minute.’
Hutchens frowned. ‘Poor Shell, maybe she’ll get her answer now after all these years.’ He brightened again. ‘Anyway Tranny reckons Wellard knew so much about that spot that the body has to be there and we’ve just got to get the diggers and radar in and Bob’s your proverbial.’
Cato recalled his son’s history lesson: Fremantle, part of the ancient Aboriginal district of Beeliar, a place of crying, a place for funerals. Maybe Wellard’s game was to take them to the right place but the wrong spot? ‘So Wellard didn’t draw him a mud map?’
‘Not as such, no.’
‘Did Vincent mention Star Swamp?’
‘Yeah, he said Wellard told him he’d buried another one up there.’ Hutchens seemed a little hurt and disappointed. ‘You’re not convinced it’s Beeliar, you’re still hanging on to your Star Swamp theory?’