by Alan Carter
‘What about you?’ said Lara.
He nodded to the pews up front. ‘I’d like to pay my respects to the family.’
The church emptied onto Adelaide Street and the steady stream of Saturday shopping and tourist traffic. Cato made his way through the crowd of well-wishers and waited his turn to condole with the family. Matthew Tan’s handshake was limp and brief. He lit up a cigarette and eyed Cato through the smoke.
‘Any progress?’
‘We’re exploring a number of avenues.’
‘I’m not a fucking journalist, Uncle Phil. I’m the surviving son.’ Speaking of which, the media pack were muscling their way towards them. Henry Hurley and a couple of uncles moved in to shepherd them away.
‘Sorry Matt, it’s still too early. We’re doing our best.’
‘Sure.’ Lily leaned into Matt protectively.
Deb Hassan sidled up. As Family Liaison Officer it was her job to try to keep Matthew sweet. Given the distractions of the last few days, that wasn’t going too well.
‘We did have a couple of questions about somebody who was seen in the vicinity of your parents’ house around eleven p.m,’ said Cato. ‘We’d like to show you a photofit, see if you know them.’
‘Is this urgent?’
‘No, of course not. I’ll get Deb here to drop round at your convenience.’
Matthew turned his gaze onto Deb Hassan. ‘I’ll be at the Shelley place at five. Don’t be late. I’m going out at five thirty.’
‘No problem,’ said Hassan with all due respect.
Matthew and Lily headed for his Beemer behind a protective phalanx of uncles and cousins.
Cato felt a tap on his shoulder. ‘I don’t think we’ve been introduced.’
It was the red-haired eulogist. Cato stuck out a hand. ‘Philip.’
‘Des. Des O’Neill.’
‘Nice eulogy. You knew Francis well, I take it?’
‘Very. Friends and business partners for the last ten years or so. We spent a lot of time together. Holidays, fishing trips, business junkets, you name it.’ A woman of similar age to Des linked her arm into his. She was pale and gaunt and wore a scarf to cover her hair loss. Radio or chemotherapy, guessed Cato. Possibly both. ‘Our wives were thick as thieves as well. That right, Joyce?’ Joyce nodded sadly.
‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ said Cato, trying to picture Genevieve and Joyce as friends.
‘So how about you?’ said Des. ‘Rellie?’
‘Friend. We went to school and uni together.’
Des’s smile broadened. ‘You’re the cop. Phil the cop, is that right?’
‘That’s right.’
Des leaned in. ‘You make sure you catch the cunt that did this, you hear?’
‘I’ll try my best, Des.’
‘Good to hear.’ Des patted his wife’s arm and she dabbed her red eyes. He handed a business card to Cato. ‘Anything I can do, mate. Anything.’
Guido had changed into his winter woollies and had an electric fan heater blasting away at his feet beneath the cluttered desk. It was cosy but any moisture had been sucked out of the air and Cato was parched. On Guido’s wall there was a team photo of Juventus FC and a calendar featuring the leaning tower of Pisa. The office was cramped and smelled of cigarettes and men. Lara and James Blond had a chair each and Cato leaned against the wall. From down the hallway came the hiss of an espresso machine and the murmur of café patrons.
‘You guys need a drink of something?’
Cato nodded, over-eagerly, but Lara and James Blond declined. Guido hadn’t noticed Cato, so that was the end of that.
Lara took an iPad mini out of her jacket pocket and fired it up. ‘Mr Caletti do you know a Chinese national by the name of Li Tonggui or Tommy Li?’
‘Got any games on that?’ said Guido.
‘Just answer the questions, Guido,’ said James Blond, ‘and we can be on our way.’
‘Mr Caletti to you, son.’
Lara gave James a glare. ‘We appreciate you slotting us in today, Mr Caletti. We’ll try not to take up too much of your time.’
A grunt. ‘Li, you say?’
‘Yes.’ She repeated the full name for him.
‘Rings a bell, yeah. Tubby bloke, always smiling. Everybody’s grandad.’
‘That’s the one. How would you describe your relationship to him?’
‘Distant. He lives in China doesn’t he?’
‘Is it a business relationship?’
‘Was. We had a joint venture going a couple of years ago.’
‘What kind?’
‘That’s commercial, in confidence.’
‘In general terms?’
‘Property. He was interested in a new housing development in East Perth.’
‘And?’
‘And nothing. He pulled out. Found another partner, another block of flats somewhere.’
‘But you stayed in touch?’
‘Sure. Never close a door on any future opportunity, eh?’
‘When were you last in touch?’
‘Why? What’s he done?’
‘We’re just trying to build a picture, Mr Caletti.’
He nodded towards Cato. ‘Is that why he’s here? Crossword Man. Is he your China expert, then?’
‘When were you last in touch with Mr Li?’
‘Fuck knows. Last year, maybe?’
‘Our understanding is that it was more recent than that. Just over two weeks ago in fact.’
‘And where did you get your “understanding” from?’
‘Sorry, can’t say right now. So what was the call about?’
‘Sorry love, can’t say right now.’
‘Mr Caletti we’re investigating the brutal murders of four people, two of them just kids. We’d appreciate your help in this matter as an upstanding member of the community.’
‘If you think I’m so upstanding then why are you tapping my phone?’ He snorted. ‘Upstanding. Understanding. My arse.’
Lara shoved her iPad back into its cover. ‘Thanks for your time. We’ll be in touch.’
They were shown the door.
On his way back down the freeway, Cato took a call from Deb Hassan.
‘I called in on Matt. He doesn’t recognise Ocean’s mystery driver or have any ideas about who he may have been.’
‘Do you believe him?’
‘We haven’t got much choice right now. But I also showed him photofits of the guys who stomped Zac Harvey and that got more of a reaction.’
‘He knew them?’
‘Said not, but he was way twitchy. I don’t think he likes Zakkie-boy.’
‘Who would? His sister’s dead and this prick takes it on himself to rubbish her.’ Cato didn’t want to be drawn into this sideshow. ‘Pass it on to the Rockingham Ds, they can have it, we’ve got enough on our plates.’
‘Tell me about it.’
‘How’s it going with you? You okay?’
A shake in the voice. ‘Yeah, nothing a bottle of wine and a good root won’t fix.’
‘Chaz back from the mines is he?’
‘Tonight. I’m on my way to pick him up now.’
‘Have fun.’ Cato signed off.
Cato nearly missed the Canning Highway turn-off, his mind had been on going straight home via South Street. Then he remembered – Applecross, another summons from his sister Mandy. Wind whipped the river and grey clouds scudded over the distant Perth skyline as he crossed Canning Bridge. By the time he got to Applecross it was raining again. Judging by the sounds emerging from behind numerous closed doors around the house, Mandy’s kids were either practising piano or engrossed in computer games. Except for the youngest, Bao, a pudgy toddler who lived up to his family pet name – dumpling. He was absorbed in tormenting the family cat, grabbing handfuls of fur and tugging fiercely. The cat would occasionally swipe feebly at him with a paw and this would provoke gales of laughter and more tugging. It was a patient old tabby but Cato could see this ending in tears. Mandy poured them co
ffee from a fresh plunger and nodded towards the sofa where she could still keep half an eye on little Bao.
‘Where’s Dad?’ said Cato.
‘Asleep.’
‘Ken?’
‘Squash club.’
‘You wanted a word?’
Mandy frowned and sipped her coffee. ‘I don’t know whether it’s the tumour or what, but Dad’s obsessing about you, he talks about you all the time.’
That was the thing about Mandy. She never really coped with the idea that she might not always be the centre of her father’s universe. Any unseemly interest in her siblings must be down to his Parkinson’s or, in this case, the brain tumour. But then again, she was the one who was doing all the heavy lifting on the day-to-day caring stuff that really mattered. ‘Really?’ said Cato. ‘In what way?’
‘He keeps on talking about you, using your Chinese name. He’s never used it since you were Bao’s age.’
‘Chinese name?’
‘You don’t remember? It was Qian Ping. You’re Kwong Qian Ping.’ She spelt it for him.
Qian Ping. Something was drifting back to him now. Those half-formed pre-memories of early childhood. A ride on his father’s shoulders. Firecrackers and cymbals. A dancing dragon. Qian Ping. His father’s seemingly nonsense words to him a few nights ago. Champagne, champagne. Qian Ping.
A rustle, a hiss, and a wail arose – the inevitable had happened. The cat scarpered and Bao lifted his hand to examine an ugly red weal. Tears streamed into the folds in his chins. Mandy rushed over to comfort him.
Cato mustered a sympathetic uncle-type look and poured himself some more coffee. Eventually Bao’s tears subsided. ‘So what’s Dad saying about me?’
‘He wants me to warn you. He made me promise.’
‘Warn me?’
‘He doesn’t want you to go back there.’
‘Where?’
‘China. He thinks you’re going to die there. In China.’
‘Why would I go to China?’
‘I dunno. I tried to tell him that.’
‘China?’ said Cato.
‘I know. Silly old bugger. Must be the tumour.’
Hutchens wasn’t having a good weekend. He’d hardly slept on Friday night. The extra pint of Kilkenny had woken him around 2 a.m., bursting to escape his bladder. The night was cactus from then. Marjorie had tutted at his tossing and turning and bolted to the spare room. He’d finally drifted off just as the birds started squawking in the gum tree outside the bedroom window. Awaking mid-morning he’d found a terse note on the kitchen table informing him that his beloved would be out for the day and that while she understood he was under the hammer she really hoped he’d have lifted his game by the time she got back. The house was his. With their oldest daughter now moved in with her boyfriend in Subiaco and the youngest overseas on her gap year, the place seemed cavernous. He’d wandered through the weekend papers, aware that his juniors would be assembled at the Tan family memorial service. Had any of the guests acted strangely, it would be noted and followed up. But what was ‘strange’ behaviour anyway? What was normal? Cato had been offered a good steak and chose to eat chicken and mushroom penne for fuck’s sake.
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.
Thanks a bunch.
Three weeks out from Election Day, the newspapers were full of people pre-judging the guilt of others. The outgoing government – and there was little doubt that they were outgoing – couldn’t win a trick. Perhaps they didn’t deserve to after the infighting and dysfunction of recent years. But you know that when intellect, reason and compassion are dismissed as weak, yappy, and well, a bit gay, that the country is in trouble. Hutchens threw some cornflakes into a bowl and drowned them in milk. He was no different. Wasn’t that how he usually treated Cato’s intellect, reason and compassion? God forgive him. But for all his anti-intellectual bluster Hutchens had a soft spot for what he saw as old-time conviction politics. Left or right, he just wanted people to believe in something and stick their necks out for it. And Hutchens admired that in Cato. The bloke was something of an intellectual who did reason things through and sometimes took a fucking age about it, but the bastard knew exactly where his moral compass pointed. He knew what he believed in.
… you’re probably guilty and all you need to do is find the evidence…
Cato’s question – what had changed between telling that kid Mundine to bugger off and deciding that Peter Sinclair needed sorting out? Hutchens had said he didn’t remember but some neural pathway had unclogged at that point and a dribble of memory seeped through. David Mundine and his extended family had been a pain in the arse for years. Hutchens had come into contact with them early in his career while still in uniform. They were thieves, bullies, wife-beaters, druggies and drunks. Barely a week went by without some kind of call-out relating to them. When young David had walked through the door that day in the Mundaring nick it had been easy not to believe him. He was at Hillsview Hostel doing some anger-management-drug-rehabilitation wank, at the age of fourteen for fuck’s sake. That day Hutchens had enough on his plate, and a hangover like a second Hiroshima. Who wouldn’t have told the little tosser to take a walk? But later he had gone back through the files and taken a look at Peter Sinclair, anyway. The man had no record, not even a flag of interest. But something had rung a bell. What was it?
A suicide. Two years before that. Hutchens was still in Armed Robbery. The suicide was the teenage son of one of his regulars, an ex-army hard man who’d done a string of hold-ups out in the wheatbelt. He lived in Narrogin and that’s where the suicide happened. It solved one problem anyway: no more hold-ups, the boy’s father was a broken man after that – drinks all round in the Robbery Squad. The boy was thirteen and had just come back from a nine-month stint in a hostel in a neighbouring town. His dad was doing another spell in Casuarina and his mum had gone off somewhere. The hostel had been the idea of an over-stretched Child Protection Department. The warden was Peter Sinclair; he’d authored some welfare report on the boy. Dad was allowed out of prison for the day to attend his son’s funeral, in handcuffs and flanked by guards. Hutchens had been in attendance on behalf of the Robbery Squad. He’d recalled Peter Sinclair in the pew a few rows ahead across the aisle. He had a space either side of him. Maybe he gave off a smell. That’s what the office manager Carol Ransley had said at the Inquiry – he smelled funny.
So why hadn’t Hutchens come clean with Cato on this newly jogged memory? That’s what worried him. While Cato’s moral compass pointed true north, Hutchens often felt he was navigating by distant dim stars on a cloudy night.
12
Monday, August 12th.
Cato found out about the raid on Guido Caletti’s place when he got to work on Monday morning. Major Crime, backed up by TRG and other assorted uniforms, had raided five properties early that morning: Guido’s office and home and three other residences. Guido and two others were in custody for questioning. One was being examined at Royal Perth Hospital for a suspected broken nose, another for possible concussion and taser burns. Meanwhile Guido was ensconced with his lawyer. Hutchens was going ballistic at being kept out of the loop and was stalking around Freo cop shop with an angina spray lodged in his nostril. DI Pavlou radiated a Xena Warrior Princess aura as she summoned them all to a squad meeting. Lara Sumich would have been one of the main movers behind the raid – Thanks for your time. We’ll be in touch – yet she seemed unreadable, like she was somewhere else that was far more captivating. She caught him looking at her and squared her shoulders, the professional was back from her brief sabbatical in Faraway Bay. Outside the weather had cleared nicely. It was a sunny if blustery day and would remain that way for the rest of the week. The remainder of Saturday and Sunday had been, for Cato, a muted rondella of chores, reading, eating, and watching crap TV. He hadn’t expected Jake’s absence to leave such a hole in his weekend but it did. He
’d dwelled no further on the Qian Ping and China stuff.
With a teacherly clap of the hands, Pavlou brought the crowded room to attention.
‘As a result of intelligence from ACC plus some corroborating phone records we brought Guido Caletti and two of his associates, Minh Do and Bobby Huang, in for questioning. Minh and Bobby are back from the hospital and right as rain for those of you who had concerns about their welfare.’
An ugly titter ran through the room. Cato didn’t like it, especially when a few pairs of eyes slyly checked him out for a reaction. ‘What was the intelligence?’
The same eyes returned to him. How come the 2IC on the investigation wasn’t in the loop? Cato knew he probably should have kept quiet and saved face but he felt combative today, although buggered if he knew why. Maybe it was the smug grandstanding, or maybe it was his shit family life. Pavlou came back with the inevitable reply. Classified.
‘How about the corroborating phone records? What did they say?’
‘They say that there was phone traffic between Guido and Tommy Li in Shanghai, and between Guido and his friends, Minh and Bobby, in the forty-eight hours preceding the Tan murders and in the following twenty-four hours.’
‘From which you deduce…?’
A freezing smile from Pavlou. ‘From which I deduce nothing, Philip. But it’s worth having a chat with these blokes, you reckon?’
Of course it was. So why did he feel so aggro? He caught Lara looking at him, a hint of warning in her gaze. Maybe there was something much bigger going on here. Pavlou dished out the rations. She and Lara would take Guido, James Blond and his twin would have Minh, and another team would question Bobby. Nothing in there for Cato or his mob. Hutchens crooked his finger and invited him into a side office.
‘It’s a fucking circus.’
A rare meeting of minds. ‘Boss.’
‘We need to take back control.’
‘How?’
‘Don’t know yet. I’ll keep you posted.’
That sounded ominous. ‘Getting anywhere on your predicament?’
‘Nah.’ A shifty look. For a political operator with decades of workplace experience, Hutchens was a crap liar. ‘But you did give me food for thought.’