by Alan Carter
Travis Grant’s ute pulled up by the nearest caravan. Cato and Fisher halted alongside. Grant hopped out and slipped his sunnies down to his eyes. He lit up a cigarette then opened his arms wide in mock welcome.
‘Home sweet home.’
Xi Xue stepped around from the passenger side smiling nervously.
‘How many live here?’ Cato’s question was addressed to Grant.
‘Eight ... usually.’
Cato took in the scene; the caravans were little, round, 1960s-vintage Sunbeam cruisers. They reminded him of childhood holidays and simpler, happier times. In their heyday they might have been comfortable for a couple, as long as they got on. Now, rusted, battered and propped up on bricks, they were each meant to be home for four men.
In the centre of the clearing were the smoking embers of a campfire surrounded by small boulders and bricks. Propped at an angle against the bricks, a fire-blackened hotplate. A collection of cheap plastic chairs and picnic benches were scattered around the fire’s perimeter and, just beyond them, a pile of mallee roots to fuel the fire. Under one chair, a plastic draining rack with plates, cutlery, mugs, and pans all neatly stacked and covered by a red-and-white chequered tea towel. The place might well have seemed rundown but the residents did have some pride in their Spartan domain. There was no rubbish anywhere.
‘Water?’ Greg Fisher asked, barely hiding his disgust at what he saw as Third World conditions.
Travis Grant thumbed over his shoulder towards the sheds and barn fifty metres back. ‘Tap over there.’
‘Toilets? Showers?’ Fisher pressed.
‘Dunny and a shower in one of them sheds and there’s showers on most of the worksites. This a union inspection or something?’
Cato leaned in close to Grant’s ear, keeping his voice low and steady. ‘Pull your head in and lose the backchat. Now show me Hai Chen’s van.’
Grant coloured slightly but recovered quickly. He turned to Xi Xue, speaking over-loudly in his cartoon pidgin.
‘Hai Chen, which van? Where he live?’
‘He lives in this one.’ Xi Xue gestured to the other side of the campfire.
They walked over, Cato wondering whether or not Xi’s use of the present tense was a language thing or a gentle rebuke of Grant and his patronising manners.
Mick Hutchens was back to square one. He’d let Justin Woodward walk, as ordered from above. So far he had nothing on him except a gut feeling that he was a slimy little bastard. Unfortunately the jury would need more than that. The fucker certainly had friends in high places. Even though this was a murder inquiry – on a cop for Christ’s sake – they’d been influential enough to get him released, very prematurely in Hutchens’ view. The lawyer, Henry Hurley, had buggered off back to Perth leaving Hutchens his card and a smug smile. Mick Hutchens knew it wouldn’t be the last time they’d meet. He intended to win the next round.
A squad meeting was scheduled for five that evening. By then everyone and everything should be in place. A media conference would be held at six providing a live feed to evening news bulletins. After a weekend of relying on news feeds from the stringers in regional, the city editors had swung into action. The glamourati had descended and were prowling around Hopetoun desperate for quotes and complaining about what the wind was doing to their hair. The motel was full, the caravan park was full, the demountable workers village was full. It was a media circus and Hutchens was the designated ringmaster.
The police mobile command post had arrived and now sat on the gravel outside the town hall. Until the IT nerds descended on the afternoon flight to plug everything in, it was about as useful as a chocolate fireguard. Some civilians and spare uniformed officers had been freed up from Esperance and would drive over this afternoon to take up the dogsbody stuff. And come to that, where the fuck was Cato Kwong? He’d expected him to be hanging around like a bad smell and nagging to get a piece of the investigative action. Sulking? It wouldn’t be the first time. Cato, Tess Maguire, and that Fisher kid represented spare hands that he could use right now and they’d all just disappeared like cockroaches with the light on. Hutchens made a note to himself to chase them down.
Lara Sumich and Mark McGowan were trawling through witness statements looking for patterns or inconsistencies. Some of the door-to-door interviews had thrown up a cock-and-bull story about an international drug sting, undercover cops, and the body on the beach. Wrong murder. Small towns and their rumours for fuck’s sake, Hutchens shook his head in disgust. That reminded him, he needed to get a grasp on what was happening with the headless torso now that Woodward had dropped off the boil. Another good reason to get Cato Kwong in here. He tried the mobile. A recorded message, switched off or out of range. Hutchens tossed his phone into the in-tray and looked daggers at it.
A couple of DCs from Major Crime were keeping Woodward and his girlfriend under none-too-subtle surveillance. They’d received a cheeky little wave from her and the finger from him. The happy couple had moved in with friends across the road until their house was back in order and their seized belongings returned. So far forensics had picked up nothing of immediate consequence from the murder scene, Jim Buckley’s motel room, or the Woodward house and car. However, clothes, shoes and the washing machine filter were being examined for blood traces, as was the Woodward wheelie bin. The coffee van was under guard in an enclosed courtyard at the rear of the town hall and undergoing the fine-toothcomb treatment. The van had been promised back to Woodward by the end of yesterday but Hutchens had drummed up an excuse to keep it overnight. The two things that had made Woodward twitch were Buckley’s phone call and his search of the coffee van.
The Forensics OIC Duncan Goldflam eased his six-foot bulk gingerly down into the flimsy folding chair in front of Hutchens’ desk. He looked glum.
‘Whatcha got?’ Hutchens muttered, already knowing the answer.
‘Nothing much.’
‘What’s that mean?’
‘Exactly that, boss, no traces of blood anywhere. Still a few things to check to see if they warrant further analysis. Then we’re done.’
‘What things?’
Goldflam shrugged, ‘Stuff from the coffee van. Kitchen gloves, some empty Tupperware boxes, the filter from the sink, a couple of unopened cartons of coffee.’
‘Who’s on it?’
‘Robertson and Hamlyn.’
They were two Perth scenes-of-crime officers with plenty of runs on the board. At that moment the younger of the two, Mark Hamlyn, sauntered through the door still dressed in his paper suit, overshoes, and facemask. He lowered the mask to reveal a mouth surrounded by nerdy acne but lit up by a big smile.
‘Got something for you, boss.’
The Sunbeam caravan was dingy and carried a sour smell of men’s sweat, unwashed clothes, cigarettes and fish sauce. No wonder they seemed to spend as much time as possible around the campfire. Every spare centimetre of space was used. Clothes, food, a TV, DVDs, CD player, a pack of cards, a chess set and some knick-knacks all competing for room that just wasn’t there. Xi Xue and Cato stooped in the dark, tiny, acrid space. Travis Grant and Greg Fisher had parked themselves outside. Normally they might have been passing banter about footy or town gossip; now they were uncomfortably silent, Fisher studying his team-mate with suspicion.
Inside the van, Cato gestured around him. ‘Hai Chen lived here?’
A nod from Xi Xue.
‘Anything here belong to him?’
A shake of the head, Xi led Cato back outside. He bent down and pulled a dusty and cram-packed holdall out from under the caravan. Obviously they hadn’t wasted time making use of available space. Cato snapped on some gloves, crouched down and started to go through the bag. Fisher spread out a sheet of plastic and readied variously sized evidence bags for itemising the contents. Grant sat himself on one of the plastic camp chairs, lit another cigarette, and made a big show of being disinterested. Xi hovered around the perimeter of Cato’s vision, a slightly sad look on his face.
Cato began to speak into Buckley’s digital recorder. The last entry was something about the head of a cow long, long ago and far, far away. He announced the time, date, location, and those present.
‘Work overalls – trousers and shirt – dark blue and fluoro yellow. Unwashed.’
He passed them to Fisher who labelled and bagged them. The list continued: footwear, socks, underwear, casual shirts, trousers, a jacket. Cato pulled out the next item.
‘Small black bag containing...’ he undid the zip, ‘toiletries – toothpaste, toothbrush, two razors, soap, nail clippers, shampoo, comb.’
From this Cato was confident they would get the DNA sample they needed to confirm or deny that Hai Chen was Flipper. He dug further into the holdall: a tattered, yellow A4 envelope. Cato removed the contents one by one.
‘A Chinese passport...’ he flicked through the pages, ‘in the name of Hai Chen. Date of birth, 1 st October, 1976.’
Thirty-two years old. Cato looked at the photo; it bore enough of a resemblance to the head he’d seen in the ranger’s fridge a few days ago. Also in the envelope, some letters and visa forms; he’d study them later. Remaining items, some photographs: one showed Chen with a woman standing beside him smiling, a toddler on his shoulders, a baby in her arms – a picnic somewhere in China. Greg Fisher labelled and bagged it.
DC Mark Hamlyn waved a Tupperware box at DI Hutchens.
‘Ice. Crystal meth,’ he added unnecessarily for Hutchens’ benefit.
Hutchens smiled. ‘Well, well, well.’
‘Minute dust traces only; a bag’s been in here, a leaky one.’
‘Lovely.’ Hutchens beamed.
Goldflam and Hamlyn joined him. They all beamed. It was a beamfest.
‘And there’s more.’ Mark Hamlyn pointed inside a cardboard box emitting a rich aroma of filter coffee. Tucked between two layers of coffee bags was a flat transparent envelope. ‘Ecstasy.’
An estimated two hundred tabs. Was this what Jim Buckley found during his search of Justin Woodward’s van? Was this what he chose to keep to himself? Was this what got him killed?
Hutchens’ eyes twinkled. ‘We’re on to you, you little prick and when we bring you in next time we’re going to have you fucking giftwrapped.’
Guan Yu’s caravan, across the other side of the campfire, was a carbon copy of Chen’s. There was the same dark, pungent claustrophobia, heightened perhaps because four people still occupied this one. If Guan had shared Chen’s home maybe that was motive enough for murder: a bit more elbow room, one too many farts or loud snores. But he didn’t live with Chen so it must have been something else. Still, the man seemed ready to confess all, so hopefully the full story would be known once the interpreter arrived. In the meantime, Guan Yu’s belongings were to be bagged to help with any forensics to support the confession.
A low rumble in the distance signalled a new arrival. A silver Prado four-wheel drive roared across the paddock, skidding to a halt alongside Greg Fisher’s paddy wagon. Keith Stevenson emerged, not happy.
‘What the fuck is all this about?’
Travis Grant jumped up out of his camp chair, trying hard to look purposeful. Xi Xue tried to be invisible. Greg Fisher was busy bagging some of Guan Yu’s clothes. Cato Kwong stood up slowly from his crouch over a battered suitcase that had served as Guan’s wardrobe.
‘Mr Stevenson, glad you could make it.’
Stevenson ignored Cato; he turned and addressed the uniformed Fisher. The snub was deliberate and provocative.
‘This is private property. I hope you have a warrant?’
Cato struggled to control himself. ‘This is a murder inquiry. We’d appreciate your cooperation, Mr Stevenson.’
Stevenson decided to pay Cato some attention. ‘Or else what?’
‘Or else I’ll have detectives all over this place, all over your office, your home, your accounts. We’ll turn you inside out and take our time about it.’
Stevenson snorted, ‘Good luck, Jackie Chan. You’ll need it.’ He turned his spittle and wrath on to Travis Grant. ‘Soon as he’s gone, close the place down. I want all these Chinks off the payroll and off my property. Send them back...’ He brushed past Cato on the way back to his car. ‘Every last one.’
‘You’ll have to wait until we’re good and ready, Mr Stevenson. I’m declaring this property a crime scene. Nothing comes or goes from here without my say-so.’
‘Well I came and I’m going. Be seeing you.’
Stevenson slammed his door and the engine roared into life. Cato gave him a wave.
‘Count on it,’ he murmured.
20
Monday, October 13th. Midafternoon.
‘Thanks for telling me.’
DI Hutchens wasn’t being sarcastic, he seemed strangely calm. Cato had been expecting an explosion. They were seated in the cramped confines of the Sea Rescue hut rather than the luxury of the town hall. Cato Kwong had wanted his bollocking to be as private as possible.
He’d been running the Flipper inquiry on the basis of seeming lack of interest from Hutchens rather than any given authority. He’d pissed off a local businessman and pillar of the community. He’d used personnel to conduct a search of the caravans without official sanction from his boss. He’d told Greg Fisher to take all the evidence bags from Paddy’s Field and unload them on to Hutchens’ forensic team; they were now waiting on word from the boss before touching said evidence with a barge pole. Cato had a man in custody facing a charge of murder. Finally, he’d summoned an interpreter from Perth at God knows what cost and without any authorisation. This was the first Hutchens was hearing any of this. Meanwhile the word was that the Buckley case was in trouble. All in all, Cato expected volcanics.
Tess Maguire had been called over to an incident at the primary school. She seemed subdued but Cato had also caught a half-mad gleam in her eye. He had too much on his own plate to give it any further thought. Coincidentally, behind Hutchens’ strange calm, Cato thought he detected a mad eye-gleam here too. Maybe there was something in the water. Maybe he should check a mirror in case he had a crazed glimmer of his own: it wouldn’t surprise him.
Cato had gone through it all behind the closed door of the Sea Rescue hut: the floating head in the cave, the Chinese connection, SaS Personnel aka Keith Stevenson and the granny director. Then there was Guan Yu putting his hand up for murder, Hai Chen, the caravans, the need for forensics to confirm that Chen really was Flipper. All through it Hutchens nodded, jotting notes here and there. Listening, not exploding.
Hutchens got on the mobile and gave a nod to Forensics to get to work on this new job as long as everything on the Buckley case was under control.
‘The interpreter, when’s he due?’
‘He’s a she. Afternoon flight.’
Ravensthorpe Airport was a runway, a shed, and a paddock. The flights were all Western Minerals fly-in fly-out charters with public access restricted – usually to fill out any spare capacity. These last few days the blue and orange–fluoro brigade was outnumbered by police, journalists, lawyers, and now interpreters. At this rate WMG were going to have to organise extra planes just to get their own workers to and from the mine. Hutchens let Cato know that he had already fielded one grumpy call from somebody in HR, whose cooperation was hanging by a thread.
‘Bit rude you authorising that ahead of me.’
Hutchens was trying to look surly but couldn’t quite pull it off. It was written all over his face, he was as happy as a pig in shit. It probably didn’t get any better than this. Two murders on his patch, one of them a cop: a good quick result on one and significant progress to report on the other and all in time for the evening news.
‘Sorry, boss. So, where to from here, sir?’ Cato’s feeble attempts at remorse and obedience were transparent but Hutchens clearly had other fish to fry. He looked at his watch, then at Cato.
‘You stick with the Chinaman. Do a first-run interview with him as soon as the interpreter is here. We’ll see how we go from th
ere.’
Cato failed to smother his pleasure.
Hutchens wasn’t giving it all away. ‘I want one of my crew in there with you.’ Cato nodded warily. ‘Mark McGowan’s not too busy. Take him.’
Cato forced a smile and a nod of thanks, too caught up in his own world to ask how it was going with the Jim Buckley case. Hutchens told him anyway. In another day or two he hoped to have enough to bring Justin Woodward back in and bury him. This was news to Cato.
‘Really? I thought he was off the hook?’
‘Released pending further inquiries. There’s a difference, remember?’
‘So what’s the progress?’
‘Forensics in the coffee van, drug traces.’
Cato nodded slowly, expression neutral. Hutchens looked him in the eye.
‘There’s a bullshit story going around town about an undercover drug sting, linking it to the carcass on the beach. Heard that one?’
Cato shook his head and shrugged.
Hutchens didn’t let up. ‘Stupid bumpkins got their murders mixed up. Buckley’s the one that has the drug connection. What’s his name, Flipper, nothing to do with it. That’s right isn’t it?’
Cato couldn’t stand it anymore, he wasn’t in the mood for cat and mouse games. ‘I started the rumour, a bit of tree-shaking. We didn’t have anything else at that point.’
Hutchens sat back and put his hands behind his head. ‘Get the result you were after?’
Cato averted his gaze, his eyes blurred, his chest tightened. But he held it all together, just. The thought he’d been trying to bury for the last few days was now jumping around in front of him waving its arms frantically.
‘Jim Buckley’s dead. I think I might have caused it.’ His breath shuddered. ‘I don’t know what to say or do about that.’
Hutchens sighed. ‘Neither do I, Cato mate.
According to the phone call, Jai Stevenson had been held back after school to have a chat about the cackling, the disruptive behaviour and the animal noises. Tess had nodded down the line like she knew exactly what Kate McLernon was talking about. Poor love, first she finds a headless torso on her morning run then she has a mad kid threatening self-harm. Don’t waste any money on a lottery ticket right now, Tess had joked, letting her know she was on her way.