Getting Warmer

by Alan Carter

  Cato shrugged and conceded some ground. ‘I suppose Beeliar’s the best lead we’ve had so far. So what are you going to do about it?’

  ‘Monday, get a couple of GPR teams out there covering the area from the drive-in track he mentioned, along to where we were on day one with Wellard.’

  Cato did the sums: at least a hundred long by God knows what wide. ‘That’s a big area.’

  ‘I’m also getting a survey plane to do a fly-over with one of those special whiz-bang cameras that shows up all that shit.’

  Cato raised an eyebrow. ‘Expensive.’ He decided to push his luck. ‘As you’re paying anyway, while they’re up there maybe they could swing round and take a few snaps over Star Swamp as well?’

  Hutchens twisted his mouth and nodded. ‘What price justice, Cato mate?’ Cato couldn’t argue with that. ‘Speaking of which.’ Hutchens chucked an envelope on the table between them. ‘Lab results on Stephen Mazza came through. You might find them interesting.’ Cato did a quick scan. They were. He looked up expectantly. The DI pointed at Cato’s ‘Waves not Walls’ T-shirt. ‘You might want to change the threads first, dude.’

  ‘And this man has admitted to it?’

  ‘Yes.’ Lara saw the old woman’s eyes cloud over. Mrs Papadakis was dressed in black, again. Maybe that was all she would wear now until she died. The back room of the Northbridge restaurant was unlit but there were thin slashes of sunlight through the blinds.

  ‘What will happen to him?’ Mrs Papadakis gazed at the floor, perhaps afraid of the answer.

  ‘He will probably spend the rest of his life in prison.’

  ‘Probably?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The old woman nodded. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘There is nothing to thank me for.’

  ‘I know.’

  Lara wondered if she should ask what Mrs Papadakis would do now but it seemed like such an inane question. Instead she stood to leave. ‘If there’s anything I can do.’

  ‘I think you’ve done enough. Goodbye.’

  As she drove back down the freeway Lara felt the tightness return to her chest. This was how it was now. The mechanics of the job were fine: the phone calls, the files, the meetings, even the encounters with occasional danger. She knew she was a capable officer, a very capable officer. Christ, she’d even saved Cato’s life last night. No. It was the stopping and the thinking and the trying to make sense of it all later. The unrelenting misery, stupidity and waste: that was just too hard to bear. The blood, the pain, the victims, those left behind: their worlds shattered into tiny sharp fragments of shrapnel that buried themselves too deep to dig out.

  Lara became aware of tears on her face. She’d slowed down to forty or fifty k and other cars on the freeway were flashing their lights, giving her the finger, honking their horns. She found a gap in the traffic and took the off-ramp at Canning Bridge, pulling into a petrol station near the Raffles Hotel. Lara took some deep breaths until her vision cleared and something like equilibrium returned. She reached for her mobile and keyed in a number.

  ‘Dr Kim?’

  ‘No need to be so formal, Melanie is fine. How are you, Lara?’ That question again. ‘Sounds like you’re ready for another appointment?’

  ‘Yes,’ she steadied her voice, ‘I am.’

  Stephen Mazza must have been waiting for this moment to arrive. There was something about his expression and his general poise: like a yoke had been shed, or a boil lanced. He’d had another run-in with the prison bikies and their friends: his face bore fresh bruises and scrapes. Cato tenderly fingered his own wounds: they could have swapped war stories. The DNA and other test results confirmed Mazza didn’t just come into incidental contact with the ISD – improvised stabbing device. The trace patterns on the toothbrush effectively showed that he was the one who shoved it through Wellard’s eye and into the brain.

  ‘So how come you knew how to do that?’ said Hutchens. ‘Precision brain surgery, bit specialised isn’t it?’

  ‘I shared a cell for about a year with a bad doctor. He taught me all kinds of stuff.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Hutchens. ‘The university of life.’

  And death, thought Cato.

  Hutchens pushed on. ‘Why all the bullshit? Why not just fess up? You must have known we’d get there eventually. You must have known the bikies weren’t going to put their hands up for your dirty work?’

  ‘That all suggests it was premeditated.’

  Hutchens sat back, hands behind head. ‘We’re all ears.’

  ‘When I found Wellard he was still alive. There was a half-chance he would survive. I only made the decision there and then to finish him.’

  ‘What, you just happened to have the weapon with you?’

  ‘This is Casuarina. It’s the way we live.’

  ‘Puts a whole new spin on “don’t forget your toothbrush”, doesn’t it?’ said Hutchens.

  ‘I knew Wellard was due for a kicking. I was there, right place, right time. The opportunity presented itself. I didn’t think about what would follow. I just wanted to try and get away with it for as long as possible.’

  ‘How did you know he was due for a kicking?’

  ‘Because I arranged it.’

  ‘We hear otherwise. Shellie told us she arranged it with a bikie mate.’

  ‘No. She’s making it up to protect me.’

  Neat, thought Cato. He gets Shellie out of the frame and the bikies off his back in one fell swoop.

  Hutchens had a humour-me look about him. ‘Okay, so you arranged it for Shellie?’

  ‘Not directly. She didn’t ask me. She told me about her unhappiness, her distress. I acted off my own bat.’

  ‘Bullshit.’

  Mazza shrugged. ‘Do you want to hear me or not?’ Hutchens waved his fingers obligingly. ‘I was due out within the next year or so. I hoped to get away with it. I was wrong. Nothing premeditated. Nobody knew about it except me.’

  Cato gave Hutchens a sideways look and was given nodded permission to have his two cents worth.

  ‘If it wasn’t premeditated how come you’ve been doing your damnedest to stay close to Wellard for at least the last year when you could have been in a cushy pre-release joint by now?’

  Mazza smiled. ‘Fair cop. But staying close because I wanted to do him doesn’t mean I ever got the nerve or the opportunity to carry it out.’

  ‘But you stayed patient anyway until your day came.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why?’

  Mazza tilted his head. ‘You know the answer already, I reckon.’

  ‘We need it for the tape,’ said Cato.

  Mazza sighed, his eyes drifted to a spot on the blank wall. ‘Briony is my daughter.’

  He was right; Cato did already know that. It was the other half of the requested lab results, a match with Briony’s DNA retrieved from samples from her hairbrush and toothbrush and filed away for any future body find.

  ‘So you killed Gordon Wellard because you believed him responsible for the death and disappearance of your daughter Briony Petkovic?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you insist that Shellie Petkovic was unaware of your intentions and she did not specifically attempt to persuade you or anyone else to harm Wellard?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  Hutchens turned to Cato. ‘You coaching him or what?’

  Cato felt oddly at peace. ‘Just trying to get the facts straight one last time, sir.’

  ‘You looking to get Shellie off the hook, then?’ Hutchens had a half-smile in place.

  They were on Rockingham Road driving past Phoenix Shopping Centre. It reminded Cato of something else he wanted to do before all this was over. ‘Whether she’s in it up to her neck or innocent and ignorant, the question has always been – is justice served by pursuing her?’

  ‘Thank you, Rumpole.’ Hutchens popped a mint and offered one to Cato who accepted. ‘That stuff should always be left to the judges, the juries, the prosecutors’ office an
d the pollies. It’s not our call.’

  ‘But we are in charge of compiling the prosecution brief. We have nothing to suggest conspiracy to murder or assault apart from a vague “woe is me” on Shellie’s part.’

  ‘Come on, it was more premeditated than that. What about those letters she fabricated?’

  ‘Wasting police time, perverting the course of justice. Products of a disturbed and distressed mind: a fine or suspended sentence at most I would have thought.’

  ‘Got it all worked out haven’t you?’

  ‘Just thinking of the paperwork and the PR, boss.’

  ‘Now you’re speaking my language.’ Hutchens reclined his seat, admired the view of the southern suburbs, and let out a soft chuckle. ‘Heard the latest on Safer Streets?’

  Uh-oh. ‘What?’

  ‘Last night: while you were sleeping. Riot squad gets called to a party in Mount Pleasant. Usual bullshit. Hundreds of dickheads, broken bottles, trampled begonias, et cetera.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Hosted by the Police Minister’s son.’ Hutchens barked out a laugh. ‘The government is reassessing its priorities as we speak. The Stiffies have been put on the backburner.’ He turned on the radio and found some old pop music. Simple Minds. ‘Promised You A Miracle’.

  It was going to be yet another warm day but the reception from Jane was frosty. She nodded over her shoulder.

  ‘He’s out the back, lying on the trampoline. Don’t be too long and don’t upset him.’

  Cato smiled through his face-ache and walked over the threshold, down the passageway through the East Fremantle house he used to share with Jane and Jake. Nothing much had changed. Same polished floorboards, smell of flowers and baking and air freshener. Simon the Boyfriend was sitting on a kitchen stool reading the weekend papers and sipping coffee.

  ‘Hi,’ he said raising his mug and smiling and trying to seem like totally relaxed and unthreatened and cool. Actually, to be fair, he seemed like an okay bloke. Jake was right though, he did look like the hillbilly hippy goat from Hoodwinked. Cato gave him the peace sign and continued out the back. When Jake looked up from the trampoline, Cato’s heart lurched. The boy’s face was raw and swollen and there was a red, ugly sutured weal running diagonally across his right cheek.

  ‘Dad?’ It was a confused look. Cato was on the wrong territory.

  ‘Mind if I join you?’ Jake shifted up and they both lay on the sagging canvas, springs squeaking with the adult intrusion. Cato lifted a finger to the cheek. ‘How’s it feeling?’

  ‘Sore. How about you?’

  ‘Yeah, sore as.’ Cato could see through the French windows, Jane standing beside Simon at the kitchen counter with a proprietorial arm around his neck, trying to be casual and not too interested in what was going on outside. He turned his attention back to Jake. ‘Sorry about all that, mate, it must have been pretty scary.’

  ‘It was a bit.’ Jake looked away and pulled distractedly at a loose thread on his T-shirt. ‘I thought you were going to die.’

  Cato’s chest was bursting. ‘Ditto.’ He searched Jake’s face for a clue to the answer to his next question. ‘You coming over next weekend then?’

  ‘Why wouldn’t I?’

  Cato mock-frowned. ‘Dunno, you might get a better offer.’

  ‘Yeah well, I’ll let you know if I do.’

  ‘Yeah well, I might be washing my hair that night anyway.’

  ‘Yeah, you need to.’

  ‘S’pose you reckon you’re gunna be a real chick magnet now with a scar on your cheek. Well just wait until I wash my hair.’

  ‘Yeah, polish your walking frame while you’re at it, grandad.’

  And so it went. A round of petty insults that signified all was well with the world. Jane and Simon looked out, bemused, at the two puerile squabbling boys and continued sipping their coffees.

  Another knock on another door and another frosty reception.

  ‘What do you want?’

  Felix wasn’t prepared to open the door further than about ten centimetres. Behind him, Madge yapped and Janice hovered.

  ‘I want to say thank you,’ said Cato. He had a warm humanitarian glow about him today. Jake was going to be okay. Everything was going to be okay. Fremantle was a great place to live and society wasn’t going to the dogs.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘What for?’ said Felix, looking for an ambush.

  ‘Can I come in?’

  ‘No.’

  Cato waggled his fingers in a wave and smiled. ‘Hi, Janice.’

  Her face lit up. ‘Open the door, pumpkin, he’s not going to hurt you.’

  ‘How do you know?’ Felix muttered back over his shoulder.

  ‘Open it,’ she growled.

  He did and Madge rushed out yapping and nipping around Cato’s ankles. Cato found another smile and held fast. ‘Just the girl I wanted to talk to.’ He crouched down and tried to pat Madge but the dog bared her teeth. Cato backed off and stood to face Felix and Janice. ‘Madge’s yapping saved my, and my son’s, life. If she hadn’t woken me up things might have turned out very different.’

  Felix beamed and scooped Madge up into his man-bosom. ‘Madgy sweetie, you’re a hero and you’ve made a new friend!’

  Let’s not get carried away, thought Cato. ‘So anyway, thanks, and forget that complaint notice I put in. I’ll tear it up.’

  Felix manfully put out his hand for shaking and Cato obliged. Janice pecked him on the cheek. Madge snarled and bared her teeth again.

  ‘Got a moment?’

  They were in DI Hutchens’ office, door closed. This was Lara’s decisive step towards a new start. She braced herself.

  ‘Yeah, what’s up?’ said Hutchens, half-tuning in.

  Lara handed him a piece of paper. ‘I need you to sign this.’

  Hutchens read it. ‘Major Crime want you seconded to them?’

  ‘Yes, boss. For a year. Starting next month.’

  ‘You’ll be keen to go then, I expect.’ The expression and voice were neutral but there was no disguising the bruise there.

  ‘It’s a great opportunity, boss.’ Lara’s eyes were shining with emotions she never expected to feel.

  ‘Of course.’ He scribbled his consent signature in the space provided. ‘Bit out of the blue?’

  ‘Yeah. Look, I really appreciate you giving me that second chance, after Hopetoun. I won’t ever forget that.’

  ‘No worries. You’re a good cop, Lara. Just remember to stay on the right side of that line. All shortcuts do is get you nowhere fast.’

  ‘Right, boss.’

  ‘And when you get to Major Crime, choose your friends carefully.’

  Colin Graham’s words as they shared a beer that first day in the Sail and Anchor.

  Lara left and closed the door behind her. Farmer John had delivered on his part of the bargain. Now, he was someone she really could learn a few tricks from. She scrolled through to his number and her thumb played over the keypad.

  Fancy a drink?

  50

  Tuesday, February 23rd.

  It was just before ten when they found the sneaker with the foot bones inside it. Mintie the cadaver dog had barked once and sat down to receive her reward. The photographs from the fly-over on the day before had picked up a couple of sites worth investigating and the GPR teams had been brought in early that morning. The circus was back in town, minus the jester this time. No Wellard, no sick games: this one was strictly by the book. Cato took a step closer, shading his eyes against the midmorning glare. Hutchens appraised him.

  ‘Looks like your Santa Claus trick with the big black sack paid off.’

  Hutchens was right. The science and the gadgets backed up Cato’s theory. The body was at Star Swamp, within the block of earth he’d guesstimated. Wellard had stuck with familiar ground for his burial sites. Basic animal instinct. Beeliar had been a charade. It might well have been a place he’d recce’d as a possibility but he’d st
uck with Star Swamp for Bree Petkovic and, later, Caroline Penny. This was Briony’s last resting place and, as the day progressed and the forensic team patiently sifted, more bones were added to the sad jigsaw.

  ‘Finders keepers,’ said Cato, wondering how he should break the news to Shellie.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Hutchens. ‘Losers fucking weepers.’

  Cato looked at his boss. ‘You know I can’t help feeling that if you’d done the right thing with Gordon Wellard way back then, we might not be here today.’

  ‘Way back when?’

  According to the files there was at least one more body out there somewhere from the time before he disappeared off the database. Was this where he also buried that much earlier nameless victim? Maybe some in Thailand too? Wellard wasn’t a serial thrill killer in the classic sense, more like a serial disregarder of human life. A man who valued no one and nothing but himself. And he made no real effort to hide what he was. He didn’t have to.

  ‘You’ve known he was a nasty piece of work for a couple of decades now. You protected him because he and his brother gave you titbits of information about armed robberies.’ Cato scuffed the dust with his heel. ‘The TABs, the banks, they’re all insured against loss. That’s more than you can say for those who crossed Gordy Wellard’s path.’

  Hutchens sighed. ‘I’ll have to live with that.’

  ‘Yeah, so will Shellie.’

  TWO WEEKS LATER

  Stephen Mazza sat stony-faced in his prison greens between two corrections officers. The funeral was at Fremantle Crematorium: discounting the police and prison officer contingent there were only two legitimate mourners.

  It wasn’t a religious service; Shellie had never been into that. Instead a calm and businesslike woman from the funeral directors spoke about the importance of living and loving and focusing on the good things about people and life. She spoke about seizing the moment because you never knew when it was going to get snatched away from you.

  Cato was seated next to Shellie, for a brief instant their shoulders had touched and she’d jolted away like she’d been burnt. She sat rigid: folding a hankie tight in her thin hands. The pain hadn’t ended when he’d told her about the discovery of the body. The autopsy on the remains had drawn an unsparing picture of the level of violence Bree had suffered at the hands of Gordon Francis Wellard and it had been Cato’s job to pass on the details. For Shellie there was no closing of books or finding of peace.