by Alan Carter
‘Okay.’ A nervous smile drifted across his face. They locked on the screen again.
‘It’s a girl, isn’t it?’ Lara felt she might crush John’s big hand.
‘Yes,’ said the technician.
‘Our little girl.’ Lara smiled through her tears. ‘Our beautiful baby.’
Cato woke with a hangover. He’d sulked his way through a full bottle of Shiraz before falling into bed and dreaming he and Jane were still together and about to have a baby. He’d woken up happy for a moment or two before he realised. He doused himself under the shower and padded to the kitchen to make a plunger of coffee and some toast. On the way he stubbed his toe on the piano. No wonder, it was so long since he’d played it, why would he remember it was still there? There was the half-done Guido crossword left over from earlier in the week. Match token. Seven and four. Wedding ring. Very funny.
Cato smeared some vegemite onto his toast and chewed without enthusiasm, flicking on the radio to distract him from his evil self-centred thoughts. The Tan family massacre was still up there but getting vaguer by the day; police were following various leads and appealing for anybody who knew anything to come forward. On the hustings, the politicians had taken a break from bashing asylum seekers and finding black holes in each other’s costings to ruminate on whether selling the ailing family farm to the Chinese was really in the national interest. Nothing meant by it, you understand, just a thought. Dog-whistle politics, almost subtle compared to the baying three-word slogans dominating the rest of the election campaign. His phone rang, he silenced the radio.
‘We’ve found our Port Coogee vandal.’ Chris Thornton’s voice had risen in pitch. He could barely contain himself.
‘Where is he now?’
‘She. Her name is Ocean Mantra. Freo girl. Walked in off the street to volunteer her services. She’s in reception jangling her piercings. Ready when you are.’
The name seemed familiar but Cato couldn’t think why. ‘Be there in fifteen.’
Ocean Mantra took a seat in the interview room and declined the offer of a hot beverage. Her outfit was a baggy mix of ex-army cast offs and tie-dye, topped off with piercings and blonde dreadlocks. Underneath the metal was the pixie face of a twelve year old and a heart-melting smile. She’d got word that people were asking after her, knew about the murders from the news, and joined the dots. She identified herself. Her full name was Ocean Mantra Davies, she was twenty, and studying Architecture at UWA. Cato recognised her from a poster he’d seen one time in X-Wray Café, she was a singer-songwriter he seemed to recall.
‘Not anymore. I gave up on all that whale song shit last year. I’m into direct action now.’
Bless her rainbow cotton socks. ‘The night of Sunday, August fourth. Do you remember where you were?’ Cato had cautioned her that she might be incriminating herself in relation to the vandalism but it didn’t seem to be a problem.
‘Writing “wanker” on a jet ski in Port Coogee.’
‘Address? Time?’ Ocean couldn’t remember the exact address but her description matched the one round the corner from the murder scene. She reckoned it was around 11 p.m.
‘How do you know?’
‘My girlfriend rang me just as I was finishing. I noticed the time on the mobile.’
‘Describe how you got there and left again, and what you noticed.’
She’d kayaked around from Coogee Jetty and pulled up in the marina like she always did. Hence the lack of trace of her on CCTV cameras elsewhere on the estate. She’d noticed nothing unusual on her way in – apart from the ridiculous cabin cruisers and some stupid boxy houses.
‘And when you were leaving?’
That brilliant smile again. ‘A car came round the corner, really fast, nearly ran me over.’
Cato checked which corner. It was coming from the direction of the murder scene. ‘Can you describe it?’
‘The headlights were off. It was probably going about seventy or eighty. Dark. Saloon. Good condition. Not a shitheap.’
Cato would get a minion to go through the car ID pics with her when they’d finished. ‘Did you get a look at the driver?’
She nodded. She’d been giving him the finger as the car passed under a streetlight. The driver had returned the gesture. ‘Looked a bit like you but maybe younger.’
‘Chinese?’ said Cato. A nod. ‘How much younger do you reckon?’
She shrugged. ‘Hard to say. You look anything from thirty to fifty. This guy? Maybe nearer thirty? Younger?’ Another smile and shrug. ‘Sorry.’
He’d link her up with the e-fit artist to see if they could get a better fix on the look of the guy. ‘Where did he go?’
‘He headed off north towards the old power station. There’s a back road along there, Robb Road, so you don’t have to go out onto the main drag. I bike it down there sometimes.’
They finished. ‘You know I’m obliged to arrest and charge you for the vandalism don’t you?’ said Cato regretfully.
She held out her wrists in a cuff-me gesture and beamed. ‘Great. I’m looking forward to my day in court.’
DI Hutchens was waiting for Cato. It was now mid-morning and the wind was whipping up again. Another front was forecast to hit tonight. Hutchens and Pavlou were hot-desking like everyone else, all part of the efficiency dividend. Pavlou had been summoned away mysteriously so he’d installed himself back behind his desk and reinstated Frau Hutchens to the front of the filing cabinet. He asked for an update on Ocean Mantra and Cato gave him one.
‘Chinese? Matthew you reckon?’
‘I don’t think so. He has alibis for the time between leaving his parents at nine p.m. and around midnight when he and Lily left the pub and said goodbye to their mates.’
‘They could all be lying.’
‘He’s also on the pub CCTV purchasing a round just before ten forty-five p.m.’
‘Bugger. So who is it then? Does he have Chinese mates who fit the bill?’
‘Haven’t a clue, we’ll be following it up. After going through the pics and jogging her memory, the witness has identified the car as a Mitsubishi Magna, black or dark blue. It had WA plates but she doesn’t remember the number. We’ll add it to the inquiry list and see where that gets us. We’ll also go through the regos.’
Hutchens flicked open his laptop, a prelude to closing their meeting. ‘There’s a memorial service for the family tomorrow. You going?’
‘Of course. We’ll be out in numbers.’
‘When are the bodies due for release?’
‘No time soon. Too many loose ends. The actual funerals could be a few weeks off yet.’
‘I’ll let you get back to it then.’ A few taps on the keyboard and Hutchens raised his head again, looking strangely vulnerable. ‘We still on for tonight? That steak?’
‘Sure,’ said Cato, backing out with an encouraging smile on his face. He turned around to find Deb Hassan grabbing car keys from her desk and summoning him as she broke into a run for the door.
‘Zac Harvey,’ she said, zapping the pool Commodore locks as they hit the street. ‘Somebody’s just beaten the crap out of him.’
It mightn’t have started too well but the day was picking up nicely.
Zac Harvey was in Rockingham General Hospital. He’d been attacked at Rockingham foreshore. Local police were in attendance but when Cato and Deb explained their interest they were, after a phone call or two, cleared for access. Zac was a sorry sight. It looked like his face had been in a blender, his neck was in a brace, and both his hands were heavily bandaged. Cato turned to one of the uniforms guarding the patient. He had ginger hair and a certain territorialism about him. The name badge said Burns.
‘What happened?’ said Cato.
‘He was found under the dolphin statue. Two blokes in broad daylight jumped out of a car, stomped him, and drove away.’
‘Descriptions? Regos?’
‘Whatever there is, the local Ds will have it. Ask them.’
‘I’m asking you.’<
br />
Burns bristled. ‘Asian. Dunno where from. Young, in their twenties maybe. Driving a Holden ute, white and fast. That’s all we have so far.’
Cato nodded at the patient. ‘Has he said anything?’
‘Asked for his mum.’ Burns smirked. ‘That looks like her coming now.’
The door flew open and Mrs Harvey stormed in.
‘What have you done to him, you animals!’
Deb Hassan lifted her hands placatingly. ‘Calm down, Mrs Harvey, nobody here has done anything to your son.’
‘Don’t fucking tell me what to do, wog.’
‘Calm yourself or I’ll have you removed. We’re looking into the matter and this isn’t helping anybody.’
‘Fuck off.’ Mrs Harvey pushed past Hassan on her way to her son’s bedside. ‘Sweetie, what happened. Tell me.’
There was a certain inevitability about what happened next. The Red Mist had descended on Deb Hassan but she was horribly calm as she unclipped her taser, marched up and stuck it into Mrs Harvey’s shoulder.
‘Mind your manners, bitch.’
By late afternoon there was an evil light in the sky. Out on High Street awnings flapped on shop fronts, signs toppled, cans and other debris rolled along the footpath. It didn’t look like the sun-drenched historic port city of the tourist brochures, it was more like some Gothic rendition worthy of Bram Stoker. Cato returned his thoughts to the meeting. DI Pavlou had resumed her place behind the desk. Frau Hutchens was once again at the back of the filing cabinet and the Von Trapps were out front. DI Hutchens glowered in the only other spare chair while Cato and Lara stood beside their chosen bosses. Lara seemed to have a flushed frisson about her; Cato put it down to some exciting development on the case. First on the agenda, Pavlou wanted an update on Mrs Harvey.
‘She’s up and about again,’ said Cato as brightly as he could muster.
‘Official complaint likely?’
‘Probably.’
An irritated shake of the head. ‘What did Hassan think she was doing?’
‘You probably need to ask her, boss.’
‘I will, you first.’
‘Mrs Harvey was being verbally and physically aggressive. She jostled Deb and ignored our warnings to calm down or be removed from the scene.’
‘Jostled?’
‘Jostled.’ Cato looked suitably serious.
‘Good enough for me,’ said Pavlou. ‘Jostling an officer of the law. Not on. Tell me about the boy.’
‘Rockingham Ds are on the case. Witnesses say two “Asian” blokes jumped out of a ute, did the business and drove off. We’re following up on the vehicle, we’ve half a rego to go on. Hope to have some news later today.’
Cato filled everybody in on Ocean Mantra’s news too. It seemed to brighten Pavlou’s day. ‘So we’ve got lots of Asians in fast cars being either dangerous or violent in connection with the various threads of this case.’
‘Nicely summarised, boss,’ said Cato, grimly.
‘Which plays into the latest intelligence from ACC.’ Pavlou clicked on an email, squinted at it for a moment, then moved her head in and out until she found the right focal length. ‘Li Tonggui – let’s call him Tommy like his friends do – has apparently had previous connections with Guido Caletti.’
‘No offence, Sandra,’ said DI Hutchens, ‘but I think you might find Guido is an Italian name.’
‘Well spotted, Mick. But Guido also hoovered up the remnants of the Tran gang after they broke up.’ She glanced up at Cato. ‘Remember them?’
Of course he did, he was the one who shot Jimmy Tran into quadriplegia. And it was Jimmy’s little brother Vincent who’d tried to kill Cato, and Cato’s son, with a nail gun. ‘So your theory is?’ he said.
‘Guido could have used his boys to do a favour for Tommy Li. Maybe we should be looking at them for the Tan murders.’
‘Evidence?’
Pavlou smiled. ‘I was hoping you and Lara might go and find some for me.’
Lightning flashed and the clouds opened. The storm was imminent.
‘Do you get the impression she’s making it up as she goes along?’
‘Wouldn’t be the first time.’ Hutchens stabbed his scotch fillet and Cato picked at his chicken and mushroom penne. Hutchens had shaken his head in disgust at Cato’s order. They were in the back room of the South Beach Hotel, or ‘The Dav’ as locals stubbornly still called it. The fire was on, so was the Friday night footy. Outside it was bucketing and blowing a gale. The smokers huddled grimly just outside the door. Cato was reminded of poor Bernice, the Harvey dog, scratching pitifully at the French windows.
‘How do you mean?’
Hutchens finished a mouthful of chips and took a sip of Kilkenny. ‘It’s what Major Crime do all the time.’
That seemed rich, coming from him. It wasn’t that long ago that they’d both been disciplined for fitting up a bloke on a high-profile murder case. And come close to doing it again down in Hopetoun. Cato didn’t need another Hutchens rant about Major Crime. He’d follow up on the Guido ‘lead’ tomorrow with Lara. ‘So was there anything specific you wanted to catch up about?’
Hutchens looked pained. ‘Steak with a mate, isn’t that enough?’ He flicked some salad out of the way and speared a few more chips. ‘But now you mention it.’
He told Cato all about the hostel inquiry, the allegations of abuse against the warden Peter Sinclair, his disappearance, and the subsequent discovery of his burnt-out car in Guildford. Then there was Andy Crouch’s diary. Cato had to smile, it sounded like the Crouch he’d got to know too.
‘And you don’t remember a thing?’
‘Not a peep, Cato mate. I was looking at the world through the bottom of a whisky glass in those days.’ He finished off the last of his dinner, salad notwithstanding. ‘So, any suggestions?’
Cato took a gulp of Fifty Lashes. All these new beers with their funky hipster names increasingly tasted the same to him; he may as well be knocking back some cheap wallop. What advice could he possibly offer on a fifteen year old crime and a case of convenient drunken amnesia? ‘Do you think you did it?’
‘Killed Peter Sinclair?’ Hutchens’ voice had risen enough to attract the attention of neighbouring tables.
Cato nodded.
Hutchens eyes went glassy. ‘I could have. I was capable of it back then. Once I knew what he’d done.’
‘How did you know?’
‘What?’
‘You’ve told me the evidence at the inquiry is that you told everybody to forget it. So what changed between you not taking it seriously and you wanting to kill him?’
A slurp of Kilkenny. ‘I don’t remember that either.’ He caught the expression on Cato’s face. ‘You don’t believe me?’
‘No.’
‘Thanks.’
‘If you were outside, looking in on this, what would you be thinking?’
‘I’m guilty as sin and full of shit. Not to be trusted for a second.’
Cato lifted his glass in salute. ‘Now we’re on the same page.’
Hutchens’ eyes narrowed. ‘You’re enjoying this a bit too much.’
‘Perks of the job. Maybe you should start looking at this whole thing from the perspective that you’re probably guilty and all you need to do is find the evidence.’
‘The Major Crime approach?’
‘If you like.’
‘That’s what I get in return for a sumptuous steak dinner?’
‘I had the penne.’
‘Yeah, I noticed. No wonder you don’t make friends easily.’
11
Saturday, August 10th.
St Patrick’s Basilica was about three-quarters full. Outside, the media contingent was healthy considering all the overnight storm damage news. It was a blustery day, a blue sky patterned with fluffy but still threatening white-grey cumulus. Propped on easels in front of the altar were large framed individual photographs of the deceased along with the family five-shot portrait from the staircase.
In the front pews sat Matthew Tan with his girlfriend Lily, his lawyer Henry Hurley, and some people that Cato recognised as Matthew’s uncles and aunts. There would be no grandparents. Genevieve’s folks had died in a car accident when she was still in her twenties. Franco’s mother was in an old people’s home in East Fremantle, completely gaga. Today that would have been some kind of blessing. His father had died of throat cancer six years earlier. In the rows following there were more family, business associates, friends, a couple of politicians, friends and teachers of the children, and a smattering of police. Cato’s own sisters were also there with their partners. Mandy signalled a need to talk to him when he had a moment.
It hadn’t occurred to Cato that either Francis or Genevieve Tan were Catholic but now that he thought about it he recalled Genevieve sometimes wearing a crucifix and, let’s face it, their given names were Catholic as. A man was giving the eulogy; he was stocky and middle-aged with a shock of red hair greying at the temples. His face was a mess of freckles and his nose had the hallmarks of a youth of rough sport, fighting and drinking.
Cato heard all sorts of new stuff he hadn’t known about Francis. His support for country sports clubs, his charity work, how proud he was of all his children, how good a friend he could be. This version must have materialised in the ten years since they’d drifted apart. Cato felt vaguely regretful that he’d missed seeing his friend grow into this less cynical, seemingly softer and perhaps more mature Francis. Lara slid into the pew beside him.
‘Dodgy gangster at eight o’clock,’ she whispered.
Cato glanced over his left shoulder a couple of rows back and across the aisle. It was Guido Caletti and a young tattooed woman who looked sex-kittenish in a chunky roller derby kind of way. Both of them really suited black. Guido nodded gravely at Cato while the sex kitten curled up closer and fiddled with her nose stud. A few hymns and chants later and the goodbye music was playing, people were crying, reaching for cigarettes and phones, proceedings were drawing to a close.
‘You intercept Guido, make an appointment for a chat.’