by Alan Carter
‘Lots of bodies, looks nasty, they’re a well-known family. It’s going to be bigger than Ben Hur.’
‘Talked to the boss about this?’ said Cato.
‘His phone’s turned off. I’ve been asked to start the ball rolling.’
Cato wasn’t surprised by the early move. She was right: it would be big but was it complex yet? Maybe all they had to do was bring in Matthew Tan and it would still be a three-day job. He could see no real harm in Lara attending the squad meeting later that day but he knew that his boss was as territorial as they come. He gave it a moment’s thought then invited her to the meeting. At worst he would suffer a bollocking from Hutchens and that wouldn’t be the first time.
‘Beauty,’ said Lara. ‘We’ll see you at five.’
Wind buffeted the car and the windscreen wipers struggled with the deluge. Power lines swayed and bits of trees bounced down the road. Cato’s mind returned to the call he’d taken just before he left the office: his sister, in tears, and all Cato could do was to promise he’d really try his best to be there.
Deb Hassan signalled a right off Leach Highway just before Shelley Bridge. A few minutes later they pulled up in front of a Louisiana plantation–style mansion with frontage to a black, storm-whipped Canning River. Cato and his colleague hurried up the path and rang the doorbell. It was only a few steps but still enough for them to get drenched. There was a yap and the door opened. Both poodle and girl had matching yellow bows. The girl was in a blue silk kimono and had a recently bedded look. According to the file, she was Lily Soong, a family friend, eighteen.
‘Yeah?’
Cato showed his ID. ‘Seen Matthew, Lily?’
She turned her head and yelled. ‘Matt!’ A grunt from up the stairs. ‘It’s the pigs. For you.’
3
Cato could recall exactly the moment he no longer wanted to be Matthew Tan’s godfather. It was a warm Sunday afternoon in late spring: the Swan River sparkled, boats rounded the spit at Point Walter, and Cato was already acutely aware of the difference in earning power between him and his old school buddy, Francis. They were drinking on the Tans’ back deck while the barbecue sizzled and the view dazzled. Jane was sticking to mineral water while six-month-old Jake nuzzled her breast. In those days her smiles and bright eyes were still for Cato. The Tan kids raced around the backyard: four-year-old Emily shepherding the chubby toddler Josh away from the careless exuberance of his big brother.
‘Matthew, darling, careful with your little brother, sweetie.’ The mother’s words floated past the boy unheard and unacknowledged. Genevieve Tan’s gaze had drifted back to the immediate company on the patio, resting briefly on Cato. It was an unsettling nanosecond of intimacy from days of yore. Uni days. A semester of unforgettable sex before Genevieve moved on and found her future husband. Francis, as usual, was in full flow about himself.
‘I was such a lazy bastard at school. If I ever got a mark back saying fifty-one percent I felt dudded, I’d obviously done one percent too much work.’ Francis fixed Cato with a sly grin. ‘Phil was the swotty arse; anything less than an A was an epic tragedy. He never went out anywhere.’ Francis swung his beam on Jane just as she was detaching the baby from her nipple. ‘Surprised he ever managed to get a girlfriend at all.’
Cato ignored Genevieve Tan’s mischievous half-smile while Jane excused herself and took baby Jake out to a shady spot under a fig tree. She side-footed a couple of steel bocce balls from their earlier game and sat in the cleared space, burping Jake over her shoulder, Matthew and his siblings circling mother and son like injuns around a wagon train.
‘Looks like you proved us all wrong, Franco.’ Cato gestured towards the multi-million-dollar river view. ‘You might not have done that well on trig but you know how to crunch the numbers.’
‘True, but I suspect that high-achieving brain of yours won’t be wasted in your new job, Detective.’ Francis lifted his glass in salute. ‘To us.’
There was a dull thud followed by a moment’s silence. It was shattered by a high-pitched wail from baby Jake.
Jane had a look of horror on her face. ‘Oh god,’ she said. ‘Oh god, oh god.’
Cato looked around, trying to catch up with what had happened, what he’d missed. A bright trickle of blood ran down the front of his baby son’s head. Sunlight glinted off a rolling bocce ball. Six-year-old Matthew Tan staring at the blood, fascinated.
The barbecue never happened. Cato remembered children crying. Excuses and admonishments. You didn’t mean to do that, did you, Matthew darling? Say you’re sorry. He remembered that feeling of cold dread on a warm sunny day, a dread he’d never known before becoming a parent. A blurred rush to the hospital with time standing still. The bewildered wailing of a baby introduced to real pain before it was time. Jane’s wet, red accusing eyes: your friends, their fucking psychotic child. Tests. No sign of concussion or brain damage: probably the fact that it had been a glancing blow and Jake’s baby skull was still soft, still forming, still pliable, was what saved him from serious damage. Keep an eye on him for the next few days, said the doctor. Cato remembered those snapshots from that day, clicking into focus like Dad’s old holiday slides on the carousel projector.
Say you’re sorry, Matthew.
He’s only six, for goodness sake.
Cato had known from that day that he no longer wanted to be godparent to his best friend’s first-born. They’d made the effort over subsequent months: a couple of dinner invitations on neutral ground in a restaurant, stalled conversations, taboo topics. Matthew never did say sorry; it seemed like a point of honour for him. Cato found himself in a succession of staring matches with the boy during those dwindling encounters. Willing him to give in, to acknowledge what he’d done, to do the right thing. They all ended with Matthew’s look of triumph. Then, last minute cancellations, work and that, or sick kids. Christmas cards, the odd short phone call, bi-annual email updates to a mass mailout. Within three years, if their paths crossed, it was usually by accident. No specific falling out, just continental drift. Ten years later, for Cato, the Tans were faded photos in an album he couldn’t bring himself to toss out. At least they were until this morning.
Matthew Tan seemed genuinely surprised to find the police waiting for him at the bottom of the stairs in his girlfriend’s house – or rather his girlfriend’s parents’ house. He finished buttoning his jeans and tugged his T-shirt out over the waistband. He’d let his hair grow since Cato had last encountered him, a chance meeting at a bowling alley. Jake would have been ten, Matthew fifteen or sixteen. He and his mates had the adjacent lane. After greetings and handshakes they’d got on with their own thing. Cato had noticed Matt talking to his mates, looking their way, sharing a laugh at their expense. Jake wondering why his dad’s mood had sunk, their evening poisoned. Now Matt had a Celtic-style band tattooed around his upper left arm. He still had traces of chub around his cheeks but he’d lost a lot of weight and what remained seemed harder.
‘Uncle Phil?’ Matthew stuck out his hand and Cato shook it. DC Hassan offered hers too but was ignored. If Hassan was surprised by her colleague’s apparent family relationship to the prime suspect, she kept it to herself.
Cato decided this was not the time to be pedantic about the true nature of their connection. ‘Matt, is there somewhere we can all sit down?’
‘Sure.’ Matt loaded himself up with a cigarette, dispatched Lily to make coffee, and they adjourned to the lounge room. ‘What’s up?’
Cato had done this sort of thing enough times in his career. It never got any easier, but this was the first time he’d ever had to do it with somebody he knew.
‘I’ve got some very bad news. Your mum and dad, Emily, Josh. They died this morning.’
Matt blinked rapidly, took a long shaky drag on his cigarette. ‘What? No! How?’
Cato told him. As Matt listened, tears rolled down his face and he kept wiping them away with the back of his wrists. Lily arrived with the coffees. She caught up with the ne
ws, sobbed and hugged Matt who seemed to stiffen and try to shrug her off. Cigarette smoke hung in the air. The coffees went cold. In the silences Cato studied the body language, looking for inconsistencies, for anything that didn’t fit. There was nothing.
‘We’ll need you to come and formally identify them, Matt.’
He nodded dully. ‘When?’
‘We’ll call you, probably a bit later today or this evening.’
‘Right.’ He gave them two mobile numbers, his and Lily’s.
‘So Matt,’ Cato glanced at DC Hassan who clicked her biro. ‘Could you tell us where you’ve been during the last twenty-four hours?’
The Hillsview Hostel hearing was adjourned until the following day. Hutchens had listened calmly and made occasional notes as Burke QC continued to probe David Mundine about the nature, extent, and frequency of the sex abuse at the grubby hands of the warden, Peter Sinclair. It wasn’t pleasant and there had been several breaks for drinks of water and wiping of tears. Mundine had failed to meet Hutchens’ eyes any more since the first pointing of the finger that morning but Burke QC hadn’t been so shy. The man was obviously relishing the upcoming confrontation over the next few days and the acres of media coverage that would ensue. Hutchens packed his papers into his briefcase and checked his mobile again. He had an hour to get back down to Fremantle for the squad meeting on the Tan case. He felt a presence at his shoulder.
‘You’re toast, mate.’
It was Andy Crouch, retired long-time colleague, sometime mentor, but never quite friend.
‘Crouchy, you old bastard. How’s it going?’
‘Fair to middling.’ Crouch nodded towards the departing Burke QC entourage. ‘Good day for a hanging.’
‘Surprised you didn’t bring your knitting.’ Hutchens’ mobile beeped with some waiting messages. ‘Let’s catch up soon if you’re going to be around. Beer or something.’ He waggled his phone. ‘Duty calls.’
Crouch smiled. ‘Yeah, good, sure. I’ll be around. Wouldn’t miss this for the world.’
‘He says he was in bed with his girlfriend.’
‘Bugger, thought for a moment there we might have had him.’ There were a few dutiful snorts and chuckles. Hutchens gave the floor back to Cato.
The Incident Room was full. It was bigger than the old one in the colonial-era building they’d recently abandoned after an asbestos scare. Now they were in a converted bank on High Street, with a bookshop a few doors down, a record shop over the road, more cafes than you could poke a stick at, and room enough to swing a cat burglar. But parking was a pain in the arse. Rain spattered the windows and daylight was long gone. Whiteboards marked up with names, circles, joining lines and grisly photos. A sea of faces watching Cato on his first major case as a sergeant: some possibly waiting and hoping for him to fall flat on his face, again. ‘We’ll bring Matthew in for the identification this evening. See how he reacts. Film it. Meantime maybe you can fill us in on some of the science, Duncan?’
Goldflam looked more tired and somehow less tall with every passing day. There were dark circles under his eyes and a grey tinge to his skin. He seemed to have finally had enough. ‘Size nine feet, right-handed, using a large spanner or pipe wrench or some such. Pretty angry, very thorough, probably alone but not necessarily, too early to say. No forced entry. Several messy and complicated crime scenes, a lot of trace to work through, we’ll keep you posted.’
‘Anything missing?’ It was Lara Sumich, accompanied by another Major Crime suit, male and older.
‘Too early,’ said Goldflam.
Lara’s eyes on Cato now. ‘Known associates, enemies, suspects – apart from the son?’
‘Too early,’ said Cato.
‘We have a few suggestions,’ said Lara.
‘Too early,’ said DI Hutchens.
It was nearly 9 p.m. by the time Cato landed at his sister’s front door, having been dropped off by DC Thornton. Cato’s old Volvo station wagon had failed to start and he’d abandoned it in the car park at Charlie Gairdner’s, leaving a terse note on the windscreen to ward off the zealous hospital parking rangers. The identification of victims in the morgue had been largely uneventful – Matthew Tan had cried in all the right places, more so when with his siblings. A body language expert would review the video footage in due course but so far the surviving Tan hadn’t put a foot wrong. Too early. Lara Sumich had tried to invite herself along to the mortuary but this had been stamped on by DI Hutchens. She had made thinly veiled threats about her superiors taking up the cudgel, but Hutchens had shrugged in a bring-it-on manner. He was obviously shaping up for a combative week. The door opened.
Cato looked up and found a smile for his big sister. ‘Mand.’
‘Took your time.’
‘Yeah, work, sorry.’
‘The Tans?’ she said. Cato nodded. ‘It was on the news, horrible.’
‘Very.’ He stamped his wet boots on the mat and Mandy shushed him. ‘Sorry. Kids in bed?’
She nodded and led him down the hall along polished jarrah floorboards and out into the open-plan kitchen and dining area. The committee was waiting: his younger sister, Susan, along with Mandy’s husband, Kenneth. They were gathered around the kitchen table nursing mugs of tea. Susan looked like she’d been crying. Cato gave her a hug.
‘Pip,’ said Susan.
‘Susie.’
‘Phil,’ said Kenneth.
Cato shook his hand. ‘Ken. How’s the orthodontics going, business good?’ A nod and a wink in reply. A plant pot blew over on the back patio, a plastic garden chair rolled against the French windows, the lights flickered.
‘Tea?’ said Mandy.
‘Great.’
They all sat and got down to business.
‘Dad?’ Cato blew on his tea.
‘Asleep,’ said Mandy. ‘Brain tumour. The doctor reckons three to six months.’
Cato felt like he’d been slapped. ‘That’s quick.’
Susan sniffled and welled up.
‘The Parkinson’s helped disguise the cancer symptoms until it was too late. There’s an inoperable lump and secondaries in the lymph glands.’ Mandy swallowed back some tears and Kenneth patted and rubbed her shoulder. ‘The best he can manage these days is a two-star Sudoku. And even that takes all day.’
And so it went around the table: preparations for a death in the family, the merits of home versus hospice. What ifs. Cato excused himself, ostensibly for a toilet visit, and went to his dad’s room. The door was ajar. He looked through the gap. The old man was dozing, the bedside lamp was on. He didn’t look any different, didn’t look like he only had a few months left. A lock of grey hair hung down over the lined forehead. Cato felt a tightness, a pounding in his ribs.
Susan stood behind Cato. Put her arms around him, hands on his chest, rested her head against his back, let her tears dampen his shirt. ‘What are we going to do without him, Pip?’
‘I don’t know, Susie.’
Cato realised he was crying too.
4
Tuesday, August 6th.
The power was out further south in parts of Bunbury and Busselton, and in some of the northern metro suburbs. Trees across roads, the roof lifted on a new school library in Palmyra, and flash flooding in low-lying areas. The SES had about three days to try to clean up the worst of it before the next front came through. A blown-over wheelie bin in nearby White Gum Valley had disgorged pizza cartons, cat cans, disposable nappies, and a large adjustable spanner covered in what appeared to be blood. The owner of the wheelie bin didn’t remember putting a bloody spanner in there and didn’t fancy getting the blame for anything, so he’d phoned it in. He had no criminal convictions but there was an outstanding speeding fine listed under his wife’s name. The spanner was now with the scientists.
For Cato it was a good start to the new day. Or it would have been except for the ticket on the windscreen when he’d retrieved his Volvo earlier from the mortuary car park. At least the car started this time so he decided
to try and be philosophical about it. Cato sipped on a takeaway coffee and glanced down the hill towards the Port Coogee marina as a strong breeze riffled the surface of the ocean and snapped at the crime scene tape. With the improvement in the weather, a shrine had appeared against the first tree outside the cordon on the corner of Leonidas Road: teddy bears, flowers, photos, messages of condolence. Leonidas, Cato recalled from his student days, had been king of the Spartans and sacrificial hero of the ‘300’ Battle of Thermopylae. And now here he was, immortalised in Port Coogee. Leonidas had drawn his stubborn line in the sand and been swept away by the relentless forces of history. Maybe that was the lesson of Port Coogee, mused Cato. Resistance is futile.
A temporary CCTV camera had been positioned to record those paying their respects, just in case one of them turned out to be the killer. Before he’d left the office, Cato’s attention had been drawn to a Facebook tribute page for the daughter, Emily. The tech geeks at HQ were watching that too. Cato could see by his expression that Duncan Goldflam had some news.
‘Duncan?’
‘We’re still wading through the soup: there’s blood, fibres, bodily fluids of at least half-a-dozen people sloshing around in there. It’s not going to be quick or easy.’
‘So?’
‘So I’m wondering why there are no significant traces around the spare bedroom.’
‘Show me.’
They went inside.
Matthew Tan’s old bedroom had been converted to a guest room but still carried echoes of his presence. The perceptible tang of old cigarettes not completely erased by opened windows or a spray of air freshener. A fist-shaped dent in the wall beside the door where his temper had got the better of him. A gouge on the paintwork of the skirting boards below the window and the initials MT carved there with something sharp.
‘No sign that the killer even bothered opening the door,’ said Goldflam. ‘No trail of footprints to the threshold. Nothing fresh on the handle.’